ERode

[HIGH CASUAL] ► Her Majesty's Spirit

@LionheartedHeyo, can you tell me specifics about how the Baldori practice their religion? Any special prayers or days to observe?

[HIGH CASUAL] ► Her Majesty's Spirit

Nariman, Baldori raised in Thelan

Nariman

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N A M E

Nariman

T I T L E

The Coal-Handed Aspirant

N A T I O N A L I T Y

Baldori

A G E

24

G E N D E R

Male

A P P E A R A N C E

Short, black curls and skin the color of leather marks him out as a Baldori, and that’s what most people end up noticing about Nariman. He’s rather average otherwise, after all, a 5’7 man with languid, dark brown eyes that seem at odds with his animated, almost over-exaggerated behavior. There’s still a babyish roundness to his face, and his build is similarly indistinct, rather undefined and flabby until he exerts himself. Not that anyone can see it over the gambeson and chainmail he wears, of course. His hands are the only obvious sign of his experience as a warrior: callused and scarred, they are like the ruined hands of a musician, holding a slender shape with none of the elegance or grace.

I N T E R E S T S

Heroic Ballads, Juggling, Watching Others Fight, Whittling, Wagon Rides, Solitude, Sundried Foods

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Nariman models his behavior after the heroes of yore, but does so through force of will rather than natural inclination. He laughs boldly at jokes that aren’t actually funny, tears through slabs of meat when he’d really just like some potatoes and bread, and pretends to drink far more than he actually does. The generosity he displays freely is neither rooted in altruism nor religious belief, and his showboating is meant for others, not for himself. The only thing that does come naturally for him is his sense of justice, biding him to rise to the defense of weak and wanting, but considering the rest of his pretensions, Nariman finds himself wondering if that sense is simply one of his better lies.

What is genuine, however, is his ability to endure. He feeds himself with a gross mixture of self-pity, anger, and disgust, black coals burning in his stomach when nothing else fills it. Nariman powers through everything. Fighting’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. Graciously accepting a pittance of a reward’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. Sleeping in a ditch with a blanket made of pine branches’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. He stores every slight, holds onto every grudge, relishes every bitter thought, and continues on, a heavy mask fixed over it all.

Nariman’s not a fun person to be with. But no one’s really talking to Nariman, now are they?

H I S T O R Y

Nariman doesn’t know who his father is, but it never mattered to him much, not when his mother gave him more than enough love to compensate. As a child of a brothel worker off on one of Thelan’s agricultural centers, he spent his days washing sheets and his nights listening to minstrels in the tavern, humming along with ballads of indomitable shieldbearers and fervent wardukes, of clever swashbucklers and bold axemen. The Thelan Hero-Kings, brandishing their blades against supernatural heresy, and the Moore Vikings, daring to laugh in the face of the unknown. But for all that was sung, all that was said, there was not a single tale of the Baldori people.

His mother did what she could to amend that, of course. She spoke of their self-sacrificing nature, their destiny as ones called to believe, the gratitude and life-debt owed to the kingdom that gave them refuge. But Nariman still burned, and as years crawled on, he questioned this life-debt that turned them all into grateful slaves of a nation that gave them nothing but scraps. Should they sell their daughters to bastards desired by no Thelan woman, because they were allowed to live on a lifeless wasteland? Should they offer up their sons to be grinded into meat upon a battlefield that wasn’t theirs, because they were granted work that no one else wanted? Where were the Baldori heroes in their history and their mythos, the men and women who were more than just a footstool for the folk of other nations?

They were nowhere. He did not find them on the lips of the Thelan minstrels and he did not find them in the scriptures of the Baldori priests. When he ventured to the Baldori Dominion for his indoctrination into the faith proper, he didn’t find the same reverence in his heart for the temples and sculptures.

When he returned, he learned that he had a young sister now, a darling babe that, in another thirteen years, would be auctioned off the same way as any other Baldori girl of age. And Nariman, Nariman decided that he would not stand for it. In absence of a dead hero, he would strive to become a living one, gaining respect through the only way he knew how: martial ability. With a stick first, then a kitchen knife, then a dagger he stole from a drunk soldier, the youth practiced what he could, skipping out on work to watch the training drills of the garrison. His mother lamented his wayward decisions, of course, reminding him daily that it was more honorable to be the source of comfort than the cause of suffering, but Nariman couldn’t accept that.

He was a self-professed bouncer at the brothel first, pulling out patrons too drunk to pay for a fuck. Then he became a proper guard in the garrison, equipped with standard-issue steels. Switched over to guarding caravans after days of staring at the horizon became dull. Learned to sell his sword as his reputation for hard work and low prices spread. A cheap Baldori mercenary, was what the people in the frontier towns thought of him. Someone who they could throw a couple coins at to do dirty, dangerous work. But Nariman fought on, picking up more tricks, more skills with every passing year, waiting for an opportunity to truly do something worthy of a song, worthy of the respect denied to his self-sacrificing people.

When Queen Anice disappeared, Nariman was ecstatic. Twelve years, and finally, a chance!

M I S C

Nariman still does his morning and evening prayer rituals, though he’s no longer certain why he does it.

Every fortnight without fail, Nariman sends a letter back to his mother and his sister. With his eminent venture into the Northern Mountains, it looks as if he’s going to have to get creative.

Though he’s adequate enough with the sword to hold his own, Nariman’s true talent lies in the accuracy of his throwing arm, whether it be javelins, knives, rocks, or just a clump of horseshit.

_{Kabru | FF6347}

Cardinal Rift

Aelious woke up, chest heaving.

Something still burned in the back of his vision, and his entire body thrummed with an unpleasant, foreign energy. His heart pounded out of control, his entrails felt like they were scrambling in all directions. Nausea? No, it wasn’t even as bad as a hangover. Slowly, he pushed himself off the ground, only to sway to the side, feet not meeting the stained carpets in the right fashion. The whole Grand Hall was tilted to the side, and the entirety of the fine buffet was splattered upon the prohibitively expensive carpets they had rolled out for the noble reception. The Aureolin Heir grimaced, clutching his skull. All he could remember was a flash and then…

Stonge, had Harrow’s Tower been bombed?

No one was missing limbs, and all he felt was a steadily intensifying buzz in his mana reserves, the atmosphere itself building up around him. Althein had collapsed to one side, a cake smeared against his face, and Ruel, the one he had been chatting with, was half-submerged in the champagne tower that had fallen. Scrambling down the slope, Aelious crouched beside his half-brother and shook him awake, a gust of wind magic blowing shards of glass away from Ruel as well. “C’mon Lord,” he said, whole body jittery with anxiety and anticipation, “Get up and work!”

“Magnolia, darling, be a bit mo-”

Aelious narrowed his eyes. He didn’t have time for this half-asleep drivel. “Asleine’s pregnant.”

“By the stonging tomes!” Althein immediately sat up, almost headbutting Aelious in the process. “What the hell do you mean, brother? Asleine is what?! I mean, Asleine is with who?”

“No, that’s a lie, but this is way worse. We got bombed. Don’t know how, and I don’t know why. Going to go find out what I can. Wake the others up.” Already, Aelious was standing up, flicking droplets of wine from his cloak.

Althein cast one glance over at Ruel, unconscious despite the shallow wounds on his boyish frame, then towards the others as well. Servants, Monks, Heirs, and Lords, all brought low by an all-encompassing light. He felt the thrumming of his own mana as well, and tendrils of winter wind whisked through the room, the bitter cold shocking others awake. With one deep breath, the young Lord Aureolin was back, wiping frosting off the side of his face and standing up onto his two feet. “Well, this certainly wasn’t the drama I was expecting,” he remarked, kicking his cane up in his hand.

“Yeah, but it’ll make for a great story if we survive it.”

The two shared a grin, and then Aelious was off, kicking open a window before leaping down the side of the Grand Hall. With another burst of hot wind, he landed gently, mismatched eyes scanning the area all around. The entirety of the keep was distorted, architecture forced into impossible angles by some magic unbeknownst to them all. All around the populated streets, people laid upon the ground, some spewing vomit unconsciously, others collapsed under chaotically reformed buildings. Drawing out a whistle, Aelious blew into it, sending an inaudible signal to the wyvern pit on the very edge of the keep. If Harrow’s Keep had been populated with a panicked populace, the signal would have been lost in the white noise, but in this silence…

Powerful wingbeats broke the silence, a silver wyvern shooting through the oppressive sky. Leaping up to meet him, Aelious snatched onto the outstretched talons of Freecloud as the beast swooped by. He scrambled up onto his beloved steed’s back, and from there, the two shot up towards the very peak of the bubble.

It was definitely a barrier, some construct working to push something out. But the bomb itself had burst from inside the tower. As Freecloud hovered in the air, Aelious took a deep breath and tentatively touched the barrier. It bent, but that was all. Pliable, but not easily broken, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted to try either. He narrowed his eyes too, trying to force his own magic outside the barrier, to generate a gate beyond that gossamer boundary, but nothing happened. Landlines then?

Nudging his wyvern into a dive for the Aureolin Communications Outpost, Aelious practically hopped off his steed before they even landed, the urgency of the situation causing him to blast his way into the building with magical force. He landed in a roll, hopped onto his feet, and instantly was assailed by a putrid sight.

More than half the people inside, employees that he had chatted with, drank with, worked with, were dead. Some had been crushed underneath heavy machinery. Others had bled internally. Still more choked upon their own vomit. House Aureolin prided itself in hiring low magic individuals and giving them the training to do work beyond simple labour and agriculture, and for all that, this was the result. It was clear now, what the buzzing sensation in his skin had been: artificially induced mana sickness, fatal towards Southern commoners and Northern individuals without well-developed magical lineages.

The few that had survived the reap were in bad shape too, splotchy bruises blooming underneath their pale skin, their lips flecked with spittle and bile. They stared at Aelious and he stared back, expression twisting into a mixture of regret and anger. But such expressions never lasted long on him, and soon, a reassuring smile emerged. “It’s fine,” he said, confidence brimming, “the worst of it is over. Listen, I need you all the act immediately, understand? Expel as much magic as you can in a safe manner, while waking up anyone who can be woken up, and have them do the same. Go on wyverns after, and alert the rest of the town, informing them of all this.”

They stared still, and for a moment, Aelious wished he had some of the ice that flowed in his half-brother’s veins. In lieu of that, though, he looked at them all in the eye, voice steady and clear. “Repeat after me. Expel mana safely. Wake everyone up. Instruct them to do the same.”

“Expel mana safely. Wake everyone up. Instruct them to do the same.”
“Again.”

“Expel mana safely, wake everyone up, instruct them to do the same.”
“Again!”

“Expel mana safely! Wake everyone up! Instruct them to do the same!”

“Again!”

“Expelmanasafely! Wakeeveryoneup! Instructthemtodothesame!”

“Good! Now get to work; we’ve got lives to save and people to inform!”

Aelious turned on that note, a hot wind scouring the distorted outpost of its vile stench. Outside, Freecloud awaited him, and he hopped on once more. For a moment, he wondered what Aster saw, from all the way up on the mountains.

And then, he was airborne once more, flying low as he allowed his wind magic to carry his voice far, hoping to rouse as many townsfolk as possible.

Mortalion Academy: How to Slay a Demon

The Ash-Shrouded Fiend

Name: Askefye
Race: Fiend
Gender: Female
Age: 15
Discipline: Magus
Element: Fire/Lightning
Spells
Firebolt

_{With the splaying of her hand, Askefye can manifest an orb of flame in her palm, before launching it towards a target within her visual range. Upon impact, the flame orb explodes, setting the targeted individual on fire. Though lacking in front-loaded destructive force, Firebolt has a homing quality, enabling it to chase down its targets so long as Askefye can keep an eye on them.}

Thundercrack

_{With a flick of her wrist, Askefye can whip out a tendril of lightning from her index finger, firing it off towards a target of her choosing in a 120 meter radius. Highly accurate, this bolt causes a concussive blast upon impact, followed by a paralytic numbing upon the affected area, and is most effective when used to target weapons. Quick to cast, Thundercrack is primarily used to disarm enemies before the melee fighters come in for the kill.}

Racial Abilities
Desire For Destruction

_{No matter what profane, taboo acts they witness or are subject to, the hearts of Fiends will not be moved to fear, disgust, or despair. Violence excites or angers them, but will not cow them. After all, what do monsters have to fear of monstrous acts?}

Infernal Blood

_{Birthed in the fires of hell, there exists no fiend so pathetic as to fear what made them. Their bodies are resistant to flame, and their body temperature can rise to feverish heights without any affect upon their organs or cognition.}

Arcane Immolation

_{As creatures predominantly made of magic enables fiends to empower the destructive potential of their spells with their blood. Wreathed in self-immolating flames that sear out from their veins, they rain unmatched destruction upon the battlefield.}

Passive Abilities
Scribe

_{The arcane arts are obtained not through talent or instinct, but through persevering study. New spells can be gained through the analysis of magical scripts.}

Archfiend’s Successor

_{The blood of the Archfiend runs thickly through Askefye’s veins, and her inheritance grants her might enough to overcome mortal death. Upon being slain, she enters her final form, her body burning incandescent as her clothing and weapons disintegrate from the year. Assuming the form of a fiery elemental, Askefye regains a portion of her lost magical power and will burn anything that she physically comes in contact with. After she has vanquished all enemies or five minutes has elapsed, she will revert back to her physical form, unconscious and comatose for one day, and will be unable to trigger her final form until a week has passed.}

Appearance 1 | 2

Askefye stands at 5'5 and her weight is a secret. Her fluffy ears can swivel in any direction, and are remarkably silky to the touch. Though her expressions are often benevolent and charming, she stands naturally with an air of superiority. It appears to be a subconscious posture, however; when asked about this, Askefye's rather confused as to what they're even talking about.

Personality

Askefye is, despite being completely at ease with violence, a rather caring individual. She speaks in a soft, gentle tone and is very physically intimate, the type of person who would stroke someone’s head or give them a spontaneous hug, regardless of who they are. Whether it’s listening to people vent about their terrible day or celebrate their niche interests, Askefye is always willing to make time for them, offering a shoulder to cry on or a fist to bump with. The Fiend, for all her destructive instincts, loves to socialize and discover what exactly makes other people tick, viewing the differences between individuals as something much more interesting than any other form of entertainment. But all this kindness, all this virtue, is founded upon a twisted core: Askefye doesn’t see anyone as equal to herself. To her, they are all either pets or pests, and though it’s no good to treat them cruelly, that’s only out of fear of punishment from brutish pests more powerful than herself, not out of moral obligation. After all, she may enjoy pain, both onto others and onto herself, but sleeping on a cold floor and having to clean toilets? That's not painful, that's just unpleasant.

For now, Askefye settles for unleashing her suppressed instincts upon monsters and demons, alongside the occasional training dummy and misfortunate boulder.

History

Askefye was born to be the next Archfiend within the realm of Ainzolf, the child of the Inferno Aflame and the Sunset Conflagration. She would be heir to the Hellhordes, and she would be the one to finally vanquish the Citylords of Geradia, ushering in a new era upon the continent. With such expectations placed upon her, Askefye probably would have had a very unfulfilling, suppressed childhood, if it wasn’t for the fact that, as a three year old child playing hide-and-seek with her pet hellhound, Askefye accidently walked into a rift in space and time, got stretched out like pizza dough, and was summarily dropped into the world of Runix. Alone, terrified, and literally just a toddler, the little girl stumbled around the dark, gloomy forest she was in, crashed into a tree, tripped over a rock, fell off a cliff, and subsequently plopped into a river, cracking her head open on the riverbed stones.

Thus, she died. Thus, she entered her final form.

When villagers from Norden came to investigate the pillar of steam they saw rising from one of the rivers that irrigated their fields, they came across a small, naked child instead, with strange ears popping out from her head. This being Runix, famed for such occurrences as strange children showing up in strange places, the villagers followed protocol: they fished the child out of the river, pushed the water out of her lungs, tended to her injuries, and nursed her back to health. Askefye, of course, still had no idea what was going on, and didn’t know all the way until she found herself living in an orphanage in the capital of Norden. The food wasn’t too good, and she always got in trouble for punching, biting, clawing, or otherwise being physically unpleasant to people who were verbally unpleasant to her, but as the fiend grew up, she began to stabilize as an individual, learning that violence wasn’t the answer to everything. She no longer remembered much of anything from her life in Ainzolf, only fragments of warmth and parental affection, and when she does, Askefye buries it deep within her heart. Heroes pass into Runix, but they rarely pass out of it.

When proctors from Mortalion Academy came over to test the children for Discipline potential during one auspicious autumn, Askefye was one of the ones who passed, and was subsequently offered a spot in the Academy.

She accepted, of course. The orphanage was a nice place, and she did like having a big family, but gosh, there was something about the living conditions in orphanage that she simply couldn’t agree with. It was a sad winter for all involved, but by the time spring arrived and Askefye was striding through the great halls of Mortalion Academy, she was pretty damn happy.

Meat every day and no chores, what a novelty!

Inventory

Armor: Crimson Robes
Weapons: Ashen Staff & Ritual Dagger
Misc. Items: A small flask of alcohol.

Darkest Before the Dawn: A CYOA Magical Girl Roleplay [Completed]

^{@Ariamis@Asuras@Shifter_Master@Majoras End@BrokenPromise}

Was it coincidence, or planned? Even as more magical girls flooded the stage, Anaya’s magical assistance enabled the natural vocals and instrumentals of the Endsinger to be amplified, ringing brightly through the ruinous environment. As she synchronized with the music, the doll master felt an electrifying thrill, as if she were on the verge of awakening to a new, once-unknown dimension of artistry, and around her, the angry mob of verbally abusive ghosts nodded, shifting away to enjoy the concert once more.

Or, they tried to, if not for the fact that they were brutally eviscerated mere moments later, one of Feral’s clones lunging out from the spectral clouds in search of a heart that beat, of flesh that was still warm. The two tumbled into the concrete, but monstrously mighty as the beast was, they’d yet to sink their fangs or claws into Anaya, giving Celia an opportunity to intervene.

Upon Endsinger’s stage, chaos ran rampant too. Though the teamwork of the Ascendancy was perfect, even the most well-oiled gears could be disrupted by a wrench thrown from an outside source. In this case, of course, that wrench was a beaker filled with corrupted reinforcement magic. As Viva fired her magic bullets, causing a spray of magically-corrosive fluids, Fanfan descended, her mechanical gauntlets hyper-extending through that spray and subsequently being coated in it. The magical acid worked quickly, chewing into the metal, and the force of Fanfan’s landing was the hammer that shattered the birdcage’s integrity; mere moments after they struck the ground, the extended fingers broke. Fanfan fell, and what easier targets existed than one airborne and distracted? A pair of Ferals lunged for her, as the other three beasts converged upon the inverted bubble that Leena, Dawn and Endsinger was in.

Surrounded by blades and hostile intent, the lich grinned with predatory panache, her guitar-halberd flourishing as she sang on, strummed on. Even with her magic nullified, her own voice carried through, pitch-perfect and damn badass. Her eyes burned with soulfire, her voice caused banshees to quit, her focus was more singular than revenging revenants. And even in the face of the Ascendancy’s wrath, she simply added that to her performance too.

“Not a witch, girl,” the lich said, tossing her hair in Dawn’s direction, “a fucking star.”

And in that moment, Leena ran her through, drilling swords tearing a hole into Endsinger’s chest. Like a blender, putrefied flesh splattered everywhere, coating the mountain of rubble black and red. But there was no despair, no anger from the audience. After all, what was the point of a heart, for a being that had already died?

The dual-wielding swordswoman had driven her blades hilt deep into Endsinger’s torso, and now, the lich pushed the swords in even further, until Leena’s very arms were buried inside Endsinger’s body. A pleasant coolness spread through Leena’s arms, none of the grotesqueness of visceral violence seeping from ruined flesh. And perhaps that was certainly the case, because, with a daredevil smirk, Endsinger grabbed the back of her head, pulled her close, tore her mask off with her teeth and kissed her deep. The passion of a woman loved for centuries in the underworld. The exaltation of a performer who finally resolved to bring her music into the light. Endsinger bent her backwards, swords still sticking out the lich’s back, and with an almost too-casual movement, raised her guitar up as well.

There was no ring of clanging steel as Dawn’s greatsword smashed against it. Rather, it had been aligned at just the right angle for the blade to snag against the strings, unleashing an epic riff that sent the spectral fanclub wild.

It wasn’t monstrous strength, undead resilience, or ancient magics that they should have feared.

It was her utter disregard for anything that they wanted.

Cardinal Rift

Toasts to Piracy

^{[Aelious + Aster, feat. a bottle of wine]}

Aster was lying on the grass, an open space a few blocks from the market. No pesky nobles in sight, no Towers or naggy carriage drivers, just the night sky. It still brought her peace, despite seeming to twinkle less brightly here. The work of the Northern-style streetlights here, no doubt.

She idly lifted the toy wyvern overhead, her long arm making it soar and swoop through the limited sky as she whistled a tune to herself.

Soon, the tune was joined by another, lower whistle. It almost harmonized with her whistling, but was ever-so-slightly off. With a bit of a saunter and a bit of a sway, Aelious plopped down onto the grass a couple meters away from the merchant-noble, his complexion slightly flushed from the bottle of wine held between two of his fingers. Letting out a ghost of a breath, the Aureolin Heir leaned back, enjoying the night breeze and the wisping music.

It was a nostalgic one, after all, one of the popular tunes that any traveller in Croania would know.

'This is not a duet,' Aster remarked silently, still whistling. She craned her neck to see--goddess above, really? Two in one day?

Her melody took a more staccato quality, as if she was just shoving out the notes now. She made sure to finish the song, for the nobleman's sake. It seemed the polite thing to do, even if she had her eyes narrowed at him the whole time.

"Lord Aureolin," she greeted him.

"Lady Nols," he responded, with a dip of his head. "Suppose I disturbed your solitude?"

Yes. "No, no, I was just... surprised." She stowed the toy wyvern into her shoulder bag. "You, uh, just looking around?"

"Thought I'd clear my head a bit before calling it a night. And you?"

"Enjoying the start of my vacation." She turned her gaze back to the sky.

"A rare occurrence for sure," Aelious replied. He tilted his bottle of wine in the caravan leader's direction. "Like a drink?"

She shook her head. For one thing, he was a Lord of much higher repute. For another, he was listed the most eligible bachelor on the continent. By a paper owned by his family but Aster digressed.

"Surely the Tower would offer better drink," she said. "Better company too."

"Higher bred perhaps, but better? Debatable." A shrug. He uncorked the bottle, did a small toast in Aster's direction, before taking a swig. "A real shame, not being able to go into the talks drunk."

Aster couldn't suppress a guffaw. "Perhaps if you brought enough the whole table. I'm sure Lady Esme--I'm sure a good handful of them would get a kick out of it."

"Something to consider for a more relaxed meeting." Though by Aelious's own estimations, Esmeralda was more likely to spit in the wine than drink it. "Still, enough of the obligations of the nobles. Have you planned anything particularly delightful for your own break?"

"Gorging on everything I can find in the market." She seemed almost proud of it. "Maybe explore the mountain range if I got the time but who knows how long the talks'll go."

"Gonna be mountaineering, are you?" Aelious rolled his eyes up skywards, drawing up on past memories. "Talks should only take a couple of days or so, least based off the past ones. Suppose you're gonna wanna hit the markets running then?"

She gestured a relaxed hand forward. "Full speed ahead. What about you? Any holidays for a second heir?"

Aelious laughed, shaking his head. "Work never ends, but at least it's never the same."

"I like the sameness." She shrugged. "It's easy."

"To each their own. Wouldn't have remained an Heir myself, if I liked routines."

"All the prestige but only half the responsibility. You're happy in your position?"

"Feel like being the most eligible bachelor in Croania's a pretty comfortable position," Aelious grinned cheesily, "But I could be wrong. How's life on the road for you?"

Aster returned with a wry smile of her own. "It's all I need. There's no shortage of jobs, still plenty of places to go. All open and endless. People say I ought to be asking for more but... why would I, y'know?"

"Everyone has different values, yeah. The problems only start popping up when they don't recognize that fact." The Aureolin Heir leaned back against the grassy slope, cradling his head behind his back. "Suppose if things go well, you'll be one of the first to to take a step in Nolore, eh Aster?"

"Only if Seler's fleet goes up in flames," she smirked.

"No plans on pulling a Drakus and just taking part of their fleet as your own?"

"I'd have to be part of the family first. And Verity doesn't seem the type to be easily seduced."

"Mmm, and I suppose your parentage is too clear-cut for you to suddenly reveal that you're Vector's bastard daughter."

"Aye. Alas, it seems piracy is the only option."

"I'll drink to that," Aelious laughed, "so long as you don't poach my wyverns."

"Fair," Aster toasted an invisible glass, "I'll have to just lease one."

The drink stayed put but the chatter flowed freely. Like she was shooting the breeze with one of her workmen rather than an heir. It was strange, for sure. She never dropped her guard but the company was certainly appreciated.

They talked well into the night.

Cardinal Rift

Royal Scandal

^{[Aelious + Elise, with a dash of Leras]}

Damn was it loud.

The evening had just begun settling in, and the smell of profit was in the air, spiced meats and simmered soups drowning out the stench of unwashed bodies and sweating beasts. After a hard day of work, miners and labourers flooded the streets, following their habits and their senses to whatever open-air restaurant caught their eye. And damn, were there lots of them. Merchants peddled exotic wares, yes, but others had to feed those merchants with their exotic tastes, and a wonderful cultural of cuisine burst to life every night at Harrow’s Keep. Though Freecloud could be satisfied with a bloody chunk of fatty meat, and though other nobility were perfectly comfortable with their home chefs’ artful delights, Aelious strode through the streets looking for something more...interesting.

He had heard, after all, of curious delicacies such as roasted lamb arranged upon a vertical spit and slow-roasted from the side. Of simple potatoes, transformed into beautifully fried spirals laden with spices. Of colorfully layered vegetable preserves, jams and sauces chilled until they had a bite to them. And oh, the sheer breadth of alcohol available! From earthy beers to bright bubblies to seasoned wines, from all corners of the world. Though the bespectacled Heir was no glutton or alcoholic, the prospect of a new discovery, a new flavour, still excited him.

A more boring person could have simply ordered all those things and had it shipped to their estate, of course, but that’d ruin the fun of it, wouldn’t it? A more vain person could have come to the market and demanded all the best, deigning the act of shopping beneath him, but that’d make Aelious puke. It was one thing to put up a dashing posture from afar, quite another to live the reality of being a spoiled prick. He had dressed down for the occasion instead, his ornate cloak swapped with something of similar quality, though lacking in fine embroidery, and he wore a simple collared shirt and suspender trousers underneath. Still a tier above what the working class had, but he’d pass for an affluent merchant, one with a taste for a fine saber. And in the amber glow of night, it’d take a perceptive fellow to see past his gleaming glasses into the heterochromatic eyes beneath.

Feeling secure in his anonymity and perhaps even slightly eager for some trouble, Aelious strode through the scented streets, seeking something interesting to break his evening fast with.

There was an awful lot of choice. It soon became apparent that Aelious was not the only person searching for a nice place to eat. A little behind him, for some time, was a pair of bickering women that were gradually becoming louder and louder. It was beginning to become something of a shouting match.

“No, we can’t go there. I’ve heard too much seafood is bad for you, Elise.”

“Northern propaganda! I shall eat all the oysters I like, and you cannot stop me.”

“Heard seafood was a good alternative to meat myself,” Aelious said, passing by them. “High in protein, low in fat, and naturally seasoned with salted water.” He broke into a lopsided grin towards Lady Dalris and her sword-bearing retainer. “Suppose they spread such propaganda in hopes of keeping such miracle-food to themselves, don’t you think, Lady Dalris?”

Leras blinked, staring at the strange man who had just intruded in their conversation. It took her a minute before she was actually able to identify him, while her lady’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, Mister Aelious,” she gasped. “What a surprise! You look fantastic. Leras, say hello.”

She didn’t.

“Well, I’ll deal with you later,” Elise said. “Honestly, I’ve been surrounded by commoners all day! Now, it isn’t as if I dislike commoners, but they truly are filthy.” She turned to walk alongside Aelious, taking Leras with her. “It really is a pleasure.”

“Indeed it is,” Aelious rumbled, ducking under the flaps of the stall. “Quite a shame that we’ve yet to make plumbing affordable for all the small folk of our domains; with proper hygiene, I’d reckon that these markets would be so much more pleasant to be in.”

As he spoke, he flicked the brass bell hanging from the side of the stall, catching the owner’s attention. Pointing towards one particularly delectable set of grilled oysters, the meat simmering in its own juices, the heir ordered two for himself, before turning back to his lady companion. “Suppose you’re sampling for that food review publication I’ve been hearing about recently? Or just for personal pleasure?”

“Just because I can, really,” Elise said. “Leras, get… four for me, and then anything you want for yourself.” The guard nodded, obeying the orders. She was keeping her distance from the two, but she still watched Aelious with eyes like a hawk. “Why, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t gone out for food in months. Though, since it’s my birthday next week, I suppose I could spare some time for that.” She clicked her tongue, expression brightening. “Enough about me. It’s been some time, isn’t it? I want to know how you are. Come on, come on! What has the heir to House Aureolin been getting up to lately?”

“Oh, just the same as always,” Aelious grinned. “Slaying dragons, saving princesses, and riding off into the sunset. With the occasional drudgery of moving around Althein’s paperwork and all.” He paused for comedic effect, before saying with mock secrecy, “And I have it on pretty good authority that Lady Nols still hates me, if you could believe that. Don’t suppose your guard there is her in disguise?”

Elise squinted at Leras. She looked serious. “Hmm. I... don’t think so. Though I wouldn’t put it past Miss Esmerelda - if a woman was ever a snake in disguise, it would be her. The sheer amount of paperwork and numbers that get sent our way! You’d think a house like that would be able to deal with its own problems.” She huffed. “And don’t even get me started on the rest of House Nols.”

“I’m sure it’s the nature of their work that bides them to act in such manner, Lady Dalris,” Aelious replied. “We’re all products of our professions, after all. Just that some have more difficulty than others separating their personalities from their responsibilities.” As he spoke, the stall owner began plating the oysters, drizzling lemon juice and pinches of seasoning on top of the meat. The Heir let out a low whistle at the aroma.

“We’ll both have plenty of time to gripe about our Nols-based grievances tomorrow, Lady Dalris. For now, let’s just enjoy the food, shall we?”

“Oh, but I haven’t even gotten started on that man... Miss Esmerelda’s husband, whatever his name is. There’s so much that really, it’s difficult not to talk about,” Elise whined. She watched the oysters out of the corner of her eye with delight. “But I will say, I am hungry.”

“Wester,” Aelious supplied, before going on to supply plates of oyster to Elise as well. Taking his own share, the man pierced it with the toothpick and watched as the glistening juices flowed out. Delightful, truly. He raised the plate to Elise as a small toast, before going right at it.

…

Damn, that was some fine seafood. Eternal youth may not be so difficult to achieve after all.

Elise passed the plates off to Leras as soon as she got them, leaving the poor bodyguard to juggle her lady’s other three plates as well as her own. “You ought to be nicer, Miss Dalris. You never know when it’ll come back to bite you,” she grumbled, but didn’t protest.

As for Elise herself, she wasted no time in eating the oysters. For such a refined woman, the look in her eyes was oddly primal. “Oh, these are good,” she muttered, pouring the liquid in the shell down her throat. “Oh, these are good! I haven’t had oysters in too long.” She piled the empty shells up on one of the plates Leras was holding. “I’ll go off on a whim and say you like seafood too, then?”

Aelious polished off his own oysters with enthusiastic gusto. The broth may have actually been better than the meat itself, and he wished he had some fresh bread to dip it in. Techniques to apply for another day though. “Seafood’s quite a staple in House Aureolin’s lands. With my usual forays in the interior territories, I don’t have as many chances as I’d like to enjoy it.” A pause, then a grin. “So I suppose I do quite like it.”

As he spoke, he nonchalantly whisked a couple empty plates from Leras’s arms, stacking them on top of his own. “Where’s our next stop, Lady Dalris? Have another hidden gem in mind?”

The guard dipped her head in gratitude. “House Dalris is rather good for seafood as well. A pity I never have the time for it.” Elise gestured at the door, starting to make her exit. “I was planning to pick up a few gifts, and perhaps stop off for a little more food along the way. I’d be delighted if you accompanied me, if it would please you.”

“Tis the duty of any gentleman to escort a lady as lovely as you through such vulgar streets,” Aelious responded, tongue-in-cheek. “Though I’d do so even as a wayward scoundrel, if only for the pleasure of your company.”

“Ever the charmer, aren’t you?” Elise said, batting her eyelashes. “Ah, a real shame. Two more years… oh, but don’t mind that. Come now, you’d better be keeping me safe from any ruffians that care to follow us.”

“Rest assured, m’lady, though I’d imagine that even the keenest blades will be insufficient for thwarting what scandals we leave in our wake.”

[HIGH CASUAL] ► Her Majesty's Spirit

Sorta blasted this out in the last four hours or so. The general idea is that of a Baldori kiddo who was suffused with Thelan culture and is now pissed af that his own nation is treated so poorly, so wants to make a big name for himself and make other fellows reconsider what Baldoris are. If there's any tips y'all have to make it fit the rest of the world better, I'm basically all ears. But now I sleep.

Nariman, Baldori raised in Thelan

Nariman

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N A M E

Nariman

T I T L E

The Coal-Handed Aspirant

N A T I O N A L I T Y

Baldori

A G E

24

G E N D E R

Male

A P P E A R A N C E

Short, black curls and skin the color of leather marks him out as a Baldori, and that’s what most people end up noticing about Nariman. He’s rather average otherwise, after all, a 5’7 man with languid, dark brown eyes that seem at odds with his animated, almost over-exaggerated behavior. There’s still a babyish roundness to his face, and his build is similarly indistinct, rather undefined and flabby until he exerts himself. Not that anyone can see it over the gambeson and chainmail he wears, of course. His hands are the only obvious sign of his experience as a warrior: callused and scarred, they are like the ruined hands of a musician, holding a slender shape with none of the elegance or grace.

I N T E R E S T S

Heroic Ballads, Juggling, Watching Others Fight, Whittling, Wagon Rides, Solitude, Sundried Foods

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Nariman models his behavior after the heroes of yore, but does so through force of will rather than natural inclination. He laughs boldly at jokes that aren’t actually funny, tears through slabs of meat when he’d really just like some potatoes and bread, and pretends to drink far more than he actually does. The generosity he displays freely is neither rooted in altruism nor religious belief, and his showboating is meant for others, not for himself. The only thing that does come naturally for him is his sense of justice, biding him to rise to the defense of weak and wanting, but considering the rest of his pretensions, Nariman finds himself wondering if that sense is simply one of his better lies.

What is genuine, however, is his ability to endure. He feeds himself with a gross mixture of self-pity, anger, and disgust, black coals burning in his stomach when nothing else fills it. Nariman powers through everything. Fighting’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. Graciously accepting a pittance of a reward’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. Sleeping in a ditch with a blanket made of pine branches’s not fun, but he’ll do it anyways. He stores every slight, holds onto every grudge, relishes every bitter thought, and continues on, a heavy mask fixed over it all.

Nariman’s not a fun person to be with. But no one’s really talking to Nariman, now are they?

H I S T O R Y

Nariman doesn’t know who his father is, but it never mattered to him much, not when his mother gave him more than enough love to compensate. As a child of a brothel worker off on one of Thelan’s agricultural centers, he spent his days washing sheets and his nights listening to minstrels in the tavern, humming along with ballads of indomitable shieldbearers and fervent wardukes, of clever swashbucklers and bold axemen. The Thelan Hero-Kings, brandishing their blades against supernatural heresy, and the Moore Vikings, daring to laugh in the face of the unknown. But for all that was sung, all that was said, there was not a single tale of the Baldori people.

His mother did what she could to amend that, of course. She spoke of their self-sacrificing nature, their destiny as ones called to believe, the gratitude and life-debt owed to the kingdom that gave them refuge. But Nariman still burned, and as years crawled on, he questioned this life-debt that turned them all into grateful slaves of a nation that gave them nothing but scraps. Should they sell their daughters to bastards desired by no Thelan woman, because they were allowed to live on a lifeless wasteland? Should they offer up their sons to be grinded into meat upon a battlefield that wasn’t theirs, because they were granted work that no one else wanted? Where were the Baldori heroes in their history and their mythos, the men and women who were more than just a footstool for the folk of other nations?

They were nowhere. He did not find them on the lips of the Thelan minstrels and he did not find them in the scriptures of the Baldori priests. When he ventured to the Baldori Dominion for his indoctrination into the faith proper, he didn’t find the same reverence in his heart for the temples and sculptures.

When he returned, he learned that he had a young sister now, a darling babe that, in another thirteen years, would be auctioned off the same way as any other Baldori girl of age. And Nariman, Nariman decided that he would not stand for it. In absence of a dead hero, he would strive to become a living one, gaining respect through the only way he knew how: martial ability. With a stick first, then a kitchen knife, then a dagger he stole from a drunk soldier, the youth practiced what he could, skipping out on work to watch the training drills of the garrison. His mother lamented his wayward decisions, of course, reminding him daily that it was more honorable to be the source of comfort than the cause of suffering, but Nariman couldn’t accept that.

He was a self-professed bouncer at the brothel first, pulling out patrons too drunk to pay for a fuck. Then he became a proper guard in the garrison, equipped with standard-issue steels. Switched over to guarding caravans after days of staring at the horizon became dull. Learned to sell his sword as his reputation for hard work and low prices spread. A cheap Baldori mercenary, was what the people in the frontier towns thought of him. Someone who they could throw a couple coins at to do dirty, dangerous work. But Nariman fought on, picking up more tricks, more skills with every passing year, waiting for an opportunity to truly do something worthy of a song, worthy of the respect denied to his self-sacrificing people.

When Queen Anice disappeared, Nariman was ecstatic. Twelve years, and finally, a chance!

M I S C

Nariman still does his morning and evening prayer rituals, though he’s no longer certain why he does it.

Every fortnight without fail, Nariman sends a letter back to his mother and his sister. With his eminent venture into the Northern Mountains, it looks as if he’s going to have to get creative.

Though he’s adequate enough with the sword to hold his own, Nariman’s true talent lies in the accuracy of his throwing arm, whether it be javelins, knives, rocks, or just a clump of horseshit.

_{Kabru | FF6347}

[HIGH CASUAL] ► Her Majesty's Spirit

New Years is gonna banish me into the mountains for a couple of days, so it'll probably take until next week for me to get a character sheet in. I've more or less read everything there is to read though.

[HIGH CASUAL] ► Her Majesty's Spirit

There still spots open?