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Force and Fury Member

Actually kind of mellow

STATUS: Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/… 2 yrs ago
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2 yrs ago
Current Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
2 yrs ago
Don't mind me. Just shilling a thread: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
2 yrs ago
So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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2 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
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2 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio

Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?

Stay awesome, people.

Most Recent Posts

In O R I F L A M M E → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Chapter One: If We Burn, You Burn with Us______ __ _ _




White cliffs divided a sea of water from a sea of grass, and it was across the latter that a single white horse made its way towards a single black one. They stopped and swirled about each other, their riders stabbing back and forth with suspicious eyes and imperious pulls of the reins. It was a windy day, and the hair of two kings joined the field in lashing waves. "You think you have won because your little town still flies your flag," mocked Hrothgar. "I will ravage your land and break your people so that mine may have this place."

"Then you are a fool and a murderer, for you will do neither and anyone is free to come live in Parrence so long as they keep the law and the Gods."

"So then they are not truly free. You speak from both sides of your mouth, young king."

"I tire of this," replied Arcel shortly. "We are here to discuss the exchange of prisoners."

Hrothgar wheeled his horse about, taking in the land surrounding them for a moment. "I will accept terms, you know: cede the Vitroux and I will take my soldiers off of this land. Else it will burn."

Arcel waited, statuelike. It was clear that he would not even consider the matter. "Alright, so be it. You want to discuss prisoners."

"I do not wish to speak with you for a moment more than I must, so I will dispense with the bargaining. One for one: a straight exchange, with any left over to be exchanged for gold."

Hrothgar shook his head adamantly. "Ah, but that favours you, boy king."

"I cannot take all of the credit for my people being better fighters. That belongs to our lord Echeran-Sept."

"Better at looking to their purses, perhaps," snarled Hrothgar. "We are here now." He spread his arms. "You failed to stop us. We won the fight and we will win many more."

Arcel tilted his head dubiously to one side and smiled knowingly. "Thus it is said: the more that they want for strength, the more that they shall boast of it." He looked down his nose at the elder king. "You lost near half of your force and no more are coming to save you. You have no supply lines and no escape. Your boats are black timbers outside Relouse. You are not fooling anyone. You shall die in Parrence, your majesty."

"Perhaps." the Eskandr pressed his lips together and nodded slowly, sagely. "But then I shall make certain that Parrence dies with me. Be careful what you wish for, boy."

"So, you shall not accept my offer of one for one?"

"I shall not."

"Then, as a gesture of mercy and good faith, I am willing to trade all those that I have for all those that you have. You will not receive better."

Hrothgar's face became cold and analytical. He studied Arcel and then scowled out across the plain. "You will pay me five Parencs per head." He pursed his lips and nodded. "Then we will have terms." He made himself tall in his saddle.

"That is an insult and you know it," spat Arcel. "I negotiated in good faith."

"I did not. Yet, here we are." Hrothgar paused for a moment. "The truth is that, unlike you, I am unhurried to have them returned. They are hardy people and willing to sacrifice, else they would not have come here. Besides, boy, I know that your soft, weak greenlander gods would not allow you to visit harm upon my brothers and sisters you have taken." His grin was toothy and superior. "So I shall allow you the privilege of feeding and sheltering them while my army burns your farmsteads, rapes your women, and puts your children to the sword. Or," he offered, "You can pay the price."

For a moment, Arcel closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and his shoulders seemed to tremble. A gust of wind caused both of their cloaks to flap for a moment. Then, he reared his head back and looked up at the sky. What emerged from his throat was a sound most unexpected: a laugh. "You are," he admitted, "truly irredeemable. Truly evil. I pity you for what you will never know." He shook his head and brought his horse around until he was perhaps a foot from Hrothgar. The two animals snuffed and snorted at each other. "Mercy is not weakness," he replied. "It is goodness. His eyes burned at his fellow king. "Goodness is not a failing. It is what allows us to thrive."

"I grow tired of-"

"I am not finished, you heathen." Arcel snarled. "Unlike yours, our gods do not require or revel in human suffering. We do not want it and we gain no favour from it, but make no mistake: The people of Parrence will never bow to you. We will not tolerate your injustices and depravities, as we would not those of Avince." He was glaring now, inches from his counterpart. "You'd do well to remember that, for all of their efforts, it was not your ancestors who brought down the empire: it was mine." He pulled back a bit and shook his head tightly. "But I do not wish for the innocent people of Eskand to suffer as mine have. In that spirit, I offer you one final warning: turn back from this path now or I promise you that any further violence visited upon us shall be returned tenfold. If we burn, you burn with us." With that, the King of the Parrench snapped his horse's reins, wheeled around, and galloped away.

"Ha!" laughed Hrothgar after a pause. "Hahaha! Now that you are finished your tantrum, little boy, I shall see you on the battlefield." He regarded the young man's back for a moment. "I will kill you, there, Arcel! I will sit your throne, bed your wife, and rest your crown upon my head. Your body shall go to the wolves, your lords shall pledge their loyalty to me, and your people call out the names of my gods! I will savage you, boy! You should've taken my offer!"

That same day, an Eskandr force struck inland from the coast. It ransacked five villages and put them to the torch. The die was cast.

Arcel had known the truth that his enemy had carefully hidden, however: while the Battle of Relouse had been a tactical victory of sorts for the Eskandr, it was a Pyrrhic one. They could not meet the Grande Armee again in pitched battle, not unless Hrothgar was able to convince the jarls and underkings back home to send yet more of their young men and women to fight. They were stranded in this place, forced to march southwest or southeast to friendlier lands through hostile ones.

Many had made land here before, but these had been coastal raids. They'd been left only with the sense that Parrence was soft and green, that its people kept different gods, and that it was a place of long, warm summers and great abundance. Now, as the army splintered and spread into raiding parties, for even such a rich place struggled to produce enough for a force of their size, they saw it for what it truly was: blue skies and puffy white clouds, endless fields, brooks, and dells, cicadas humming in the tall grass as crops sprouted with enviable ease from deep, loamy soil.

But most of those crops were not ready, and would not be for months to come, so the Eskandr brought only more death to this place. If they could not make use of its bounty, then neither would the Parrench. Like the fingers of a great, ungodly hand splaying out across the map, the five armies of Eskand carved their way across it, and fields of cabbage, wheat, and rye became fields of fire instead.

To the west, under the command of Gudrid Fangtooth, an army rounded the Baie des Baleines, sweeping south towards Kressia and its ostensibly friendly forces. A second forded the Asquelle within sight of Loriindton, using bridges that the yasoi had built, but was under strict orders to do nothing further to antagonize the nominally neutral party. One, under Bjorn Coldfist and Brunhilde of Hegelo, traveled south to reinforce the tenuous Eskandr holdings to the west of the Vitroux, and Hrothgar himself struck Eastward with the largest force for the near-undefended city of Chamonix, in a bid to cripple the Parrench East and annex it.

It was the final and second-greatest of these fingers that carved the widest swath, perhaps. Led by Sweyn Thunderspear, with the Nashorn, Hildr the Red, and newly-minted Æresvaktr Ulfhild of Ulven under his command, it hugged the coast to Port Morilles, before preparing to hook north, towards the vast arid plains known as Tourarre.

Against these forces, Arcel had set his best generals and fighters. While Gaston de Boullieres pursued Fangtooth's forces around the Baie, Guy de Montcalm and Isabeau la Sournoise shadowed those headed for Vitroux, hoping to force a popular rebellion against the recently-established Eskandr rule. Jean du Soleil Invaincu harried the Asquelle force relentlessly and, following a late start, Arcel himself led the effort against his royal adversary, eager to relieve the soon-to-be beleaguered defenders of Chamonix. To his beloved Queen, Eleanor, and her brother, Sir Perceval de Perpignan, he entrusted the task of tracking down and destroying Sweyn's elusive army. It was one that demanded success, for the crown's relations were always... complex with the Tourarre at the best of times, and even more so now following the capture and ransom of the Baron of Hierbamonte at Relouse.

First, however lay Port Morilles: hometown of Camille de la Saumarre, the young maid blessed of Dami who had distinguished herself on the battlefield at Relouse. The king's banner yet flew from Castle Espadon: its grim grey walls standing sentry over the once-bustling fishing town, its keep filled to brimming with those residents who were unable to flee elsewhere or take shelter in the seaside caves.

For three days, it held firm against the fury of the southmen, warding off attacks magical and mundane alike. In the face of Sweyn Thunderspear's shattering attacks and the inhuman might of The Nashorn, its valiant defenders repelled thrust after thrust, sealed breaches in the walls, and toppled siege towers. In Orpahe, Echeran, and Dami, they placed their faith. For deliverance by the Queen's army, they fervently prayed.

On the fourth day, the Eskandr broke through and the gods left the defenders to their fate. Like blood pooling from what had seemed a small wound, raiders spread out across the castle grounds with inhuman ferocity. The smoke could be seen spiraling into the sky from miles distant, and the mounted portions of the Armée de la Reine detached from the rest and rushed ahead in a desperate bid to meet the enemy and dislodge them from their savagery.

They were met instead by screams and the sight of hundreds of women, children, and elders fleeing the burning castle and ravaged town. "The cliffs!" shouted one dressed in what had been fine garments a few days previous. "They undermined the cliffs! If they fall, everyone sheltering in the caves is dead! The town shall vanish into the sea!"

Another shook her head adamantly. "The fire!" she insisted. "The fire first!"

"Foolish girls," huffed an old man, red-faced and clutching his chest as he ran. "You know nothing of battle." He shook his head and pointed north by northeast. "The town is lost and the people in the caves are not stupid." He posted his hands on his knees, struggling. "The Eskandr are headed that way." He pointed, weakly, again. 'Twas the threat of your advance that scared them off. They have perhaps an hour's lead on you. You might catch them yet and avenge Port Morilles."

Eleanor brought her horse to a stop and gazed down sternly at the elder who seemed so certain of the course of action she should take. "I would know your name," she commanded.

The old man sunk to one knee. "Sir Reginald de Bournaise," he rumbled. "Late of his majesty Rouis' service. My queen, it is an honour."

"We do not have our full force, Sir Reginald. We have ridden out ahead of the others and it appears to have saved lives. For this, we must thank Oraphe."

"Praise be," said one of the women standing close to him. "Praise be," murmured the other, bowing her head. The Queen was little interested in the theatrics of prerogative and status. She glanced about her. On hand, she had some two hundred cavalry, included in their number were Sirs Maerec and Caelum, the maid Camille, the Drudgunzean Arsene, and Arcel's executioner: Arnaud. Percy had been left in command of the main force and was doing his best to motivate them, or so she hoped. Eleanor nodded. "For three minutes," she announced. "I shall take counsel. Be concise. Then we shall have our course of action."

Then, an intrusive voice: "My Queen!" It shouted. It belonged to a young soldier. He knelt before her, hand clenched over his heart."My Queen, I am sorry to interrupt, but we have captured an Eskandr. He is lucid as those beasts ever are and my captain believes we may learn something from him."

"Ideas, people," Eleanor commanded. "Ideas now." Whatever their course or courses of action would be, the decision would need to be made promptly. Then, as if placed there by the Gods themselves as guidance, a wisp of smoke billowed into the sky from the north: the sure mark of an Eskandr raid.




Sweyn knew what his duty was. His continued leadership of the Æresvaktr, after Thorunn's rise during the battle, was contingent upon his success but, more importantly, perhaps the success of this entire endeavour was. He was not here to bleed men and resources on a pitched battle with the Parrench. He was here to pull a great ruse and a trading of roles, and to hit them where it hurt most and was expected least. As his sixth bolt of lightning struck the distant collection of huts and pens that constituted a village, he wheeled his horse about and returned in the direction of his army.


Because he did not speak, many believed The Nashorn a dumb brute. Yet, was it not he who had saved Hrothgar from death at the hands of Arcel? Who had captured the Tourrare that was burning their ships? Was he not now laying waste to this enemy village of 'Clairvogne' without the use of smoke or fire? He stood near the altar of its church, the bodies of village men and monks surrounding him. The gold. Churches always had gold: chalices and such. It was usually kept in a lockbox behind the altar but, when they had time to prepare, it was often in a secret compartment beneath.

The monster of a man bent over, then, and ripped up the rug, looking for the customary trapdoor, salivating over the gold that was to be his. How he loved gold: the shine of it, the rich colour, all of the pretty patterns carved into it, how he could run his fingers over its smooth surface and feel where the soft metal had been worn down by human hands and where it had not. He wondered what colour and what alloy it would be and if there would be any gemstones set in it. With great eagerness, he searched.

There was no secret door, however. He tore up more and tossed the scraps aside with a snarl, casting his gaze to the rafters. Perhaps it was there, he decided. Then, however, a voice: "Looking for something?" it mocked, and he turned to see a boy, perhaps twelve years of age, standing in the doorway. "You won't find it, and even if you do, you won't get it!" The anger overcame The Nashorn, like it often did in situations like this, and he picked the boy up in a fist of Force. Stalking forward into the open, he smacked him into the wall: hard enough to send a message, but not enough to break him, and pointed angrily into the church. The child's bravado was gone. He shook his head, crying. The Nashorn smacked him again into the wall and he let out a scream. All that this stupid kid had to do was give him an answer. Why did people just have to make his life harder? It was much easier to obey, and yet they never did, eager to die for silly abstract things. The Eskandr pointed again, more vigorously, at the church, but then he felt something in his head: a dizziness that caused his world to blur and sway: essence magic! Dropping the boy unceremoniously, he fought it off, countering the effects with magic of his own, for he was not a dumb brute as they said he was.

Casting about with his sixth sense, The Nashorn felt a collection of energies out in one of the fields and he stalked towards it. A colossal wave of Force flattened crops just beginning to lengthen under the late Stresia sun and he seized upon a human shape that was dragging itself free of a wagon reduced to splinters. There, he beheld a young woman, dressed in a long white robe that he only now noticed was similar to the boy's. She was slight but pretty, with curtains of hair the colour of gold. Splinters stuck out of her left leg and blood stained her clothes. The Nashorn shrugged off a couple of weak Force attacks and grabbed her by the hair. "You idiot!" she wailed, her hands pounding and clawing at his armour ineffectually. "Let me go!" Let me go or -" He tossed her into the muddy ground and she coughed and sputtered. Crouching in front of her, he grabbed her by the neckline and pointed emphatically at the church. "You wish to find the Gods?" she snarled, "You will soon enough. You've doomed us all." She shook her head bitterly.

Tearing his helmet off, he glowered at her and grabbed a handful of her hair, pointing again at the church, a noise of frustration escaping him. All of this for no gold. Ulfhild was somewhere in the village as well, destroying and plundering what she could. The Drudgunzean, Hildr, was supposed to be doing the same, but he didn't trust her. If they knew of old and did not tell him, or if they stole what was always his, he would crush them. "I know what you want, you animal," hissed the pretty woman. "You won't get it." She shook her head. "It's up on the mountain, under his protection."

The Nashorn twisted to regard Mont Errante, wary of a trick. Whose protection? he wondered. Others had screamed that 'he' was coming and pronounced doom upon the Eskandr the same as themselves. At first, the Æresvaktr had dismissed it as the mewling of the weak invoking the wrath of their gods, but there was now a place attached to these pronouncements of doom. Who was it that these villagers so feared? Some mountain warlock? A local deity, held over from before these lands had gone Quentic? A ruthless lord? He turned back to the woman and motioned with his arms for her to rise, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "I am lame, you heathen, so you will either have to carry me or kill me." She threw her arms out to the side. "I do not care in the slightest. You have ruined that which sustains and pacifies him." She took in the village: houses collapsed, people killed, livestock butchered or set loose and fields flattened. It had been important that there be no smoke, The Nashorn knew, no fire. "I doubt even I could placate him now." She laughed bitterly. "We are all going to diiieeeaaaah!" Her words ended in a scream as he grabbed her by the hair once more.

Something was not right with this village. He sensed it was not just the usual threats and superstitious. This cripple would have to be his gold for now. She would have to be made to speak. She hammered and thrashed at him with hands and the Gift alike and, when he lifted her by the hair so that she dangled, eye-to-eye with him, she hollered insults at him and spat. The glob of saliva missed his eyes and landed just below the right one, causing him to blink. He drew back his free fist and smashed it into her. The woman's head snapped back and she went limp, but he did not strike her again. She was so small and golden and she looked peaceful, finally, with her eyes closed and her bloodied nose. She would sleep for now, he decided, and when she woke, hopefully the Thunderspear would be returned. If not, then perhaps Ulfhild or Hildr. Then, they could get the answers out of her.



In O R I F L A M M E → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Chapter One: Favoured of Móður_________ __ __ _ _



It was a cool, foggy morning when the five longships slid out to sea from their makeshift port. The sheer chalky cliffs of La Baie de l'Éperon offered few landing places outside of Relouse, Megeron, and Port Morilles and scant shelter from ocean waves. The vessels hove to momentarily as they rounded a makeshift breakwater and set their sails, laden with those handchosen by the king to deliver his message and prisoners who would bring the best ransoms. Then, they were on their way south: specks against an endless grey blue canvas.

The Navelin Sea rolled and undulated lazily: its waves like the hills of Parrence. After two days, the seagulls were behind them. Two more, and they were skimming over the Sargasso Beds just East of Sturmreef. Then, on the fifth, the sea bared its teeth. The hills became mountains, and the Eskandr were forced to seek shelter on a small island with naught but an empty fishing camp, some caves, and altogether too many birds. For a day and a night they hunkered down, prisoners lashed to the masts of their ships, beatings for their most hated one suspended as Father, in his wrath, did the job instead. Thunder rippled across the heavens - hoofbeats of his great horse, Sortorden - and streaks of lightning lit up the night. In those brief flashes, where a limitless expanse of thrashing, whipping water was illuminated, some swore that the island was haunted. Some claimed that it was the Sea People, beloved of Móður. Others claimed to have seen a trio of longships lashed to the rocks in another small cove: ghosts or else pirates who had refrained from attacking only because Kol's ship flew the royal banner of Sturmreef.

Regardless, there were those who found sleep anyways in their caves and, when they rolled over in the morning, the wind was gone and all that remained of the rain was a sticky grey drizzle that coated every surface in sight. This did not include the 'ghost ships' or the 'sea people' from the night before. Both were gone as the five ships set off again, or perhaps they had never been there at all. Three more days passed at sea, in the open waters that few but the Eskandr dared to navigate. They did so by the winds, the currents, and the stars at night. The sky turned blue and the breeze bracing. Any time that had been lost was quickly regained. Spurred onward by liberal use of The Gift, the five long, low drakkars raced toward Meldheim.

On the fourth day, as eyes turned to the skies in the hope of sighting seagulls or the waves in hope of finding fish, something else was sighted instead. A trio of longships - some claimed the same ones they'd seen sheltering from the storm - cut holes from the horizon's canvas. The five tries to signal the three but had little luck before the blue skies gave way to a fog bank and the quarry was lost. The sun set and rose again to the bleating of birds and the slapping of fat fish against the longships' oars. "Not long now, boys," rumbled the tillerman, but eyes still watched for the mystery ships. A couple claimed to have spotted them shortly before land itself was sighted, skewing east. Some supposed they were headed down the windward coast to Vigholm. It was hard to say, but made fodder for idle speculation in between discussions on the gold they would spend, the friends and loved ones they would see, or the portside whores they would fuck.

It was dark when they made landfall, coasting into Meldheim's forest of piers. Five moons glowed softly in various shapes and shades and hundreds of torches and fires twinkled under the stars, tracing crooked lines up the hills from which the Grøntempel and the Kongesalan watched over the city. In the distance loomed the hulking black shape of the Eldfjall, its molten fury placated today and for the past hundred-thirty years.

Standing on the docks was a woman surrounded by men. Some secured the lines and made fast. Others leapt aboard the longships to remove treasures and prisoners alike. There were as yet more, though, who waited to receive the king of Sturmreef and to hear his words and those of Vali the Twice Born. Beneath the formality of greeting burned an eagerness to hear news of the battle. Had they met with victory or defeat? What of this person or that? The strangely dressed one who spoke with an accent: were he and those with him the Kressian delegation? Had they proven themselves in war? Finally, and most pressingly, they asked: would there be land in Parrence to settle soon so that one might make something of him or herself?

Then, once most everyone was ashore, and prisoners were being hauled away to the havnefængsel, where they would be both jailed and put to work, it was the woman's turn. She had waited so patiently, and yet she was none other than Queen Astrid, with Snorri, Ulf, and Inga clustered round her. "What news?" she commanded. "What news from my husband, and what else has he not said?"




Chapter One: Thieves in the Night_________ __ __ _ _



It had been on their second day at sea that they had sensed the presence of five other ships. The Eskandr were strung out over about three miles, their great drakkars heavily laden with prisoners and plunder. The enemy did not sense the trio of Parrench interlopers, and it was just as well, for the latter were outnumbered and would have stood little chance in a pitched battle on the open ocean.

So it was that, for three days, they shadowed the Southmen, fourteen-year-old Maud - an Kressian-Eskandr convert both afflicted and blessed with the tethering - forced to call out rough distances every hour or so. On the third, as they left the sargasso fields of Sturmreef behind, the sky turned grey and the clouds crackled. "Echeran spare us," the girl mouthed. Huddled up beside Nettle - the only other member of the party close to her in both age and sex - she made the sign of the Pentad repeatedly. "They will be looking for an island, to shelter in the leeward side," remarked Lazy-Eye Jacques. A grizzled fisherman turned pirate turned captain of the crown, he was nominally in charge of the seabound portion of the expedition, though many aboard outranked him. In practice, he deferred about half of the time to Svend, the second of their three Eskandr converts, who knew these seas well as a former raider and tillerman.

Before long, the rolling seas had become mountainous and waves crashed over the bow. The three longships grouped up as closely as they could and Jacques was ever yelling at Maud and she yelling back over the wind and the lashing rains. Somehow or another, with copious use of The Gift, they took advantage of a small lull in the storm and coasted in on the leeward side of an island. There, in the burgeoning dark and the pouring rain, they lashed their ships to some rocks and avoided the shore where they could see figures moving and the faint, distant twinkle of fires in caves.

When night fell, it was a sleepless affair, and those versed in the Gift of Essence did tireless work filling their allies with energy. Yet, in this ungodly place, paranoia and hallucination sunk their claws into people nonetheless. Dark figures could be seen racing through the night, picking through the detritus of the sea, staring back at the ships from all directions with glowing eyes the colours of gold, red, and orange. They were no mere illusions, some of those strong in the Gift insisted. Whatever they were, they were there. "Demons," whispered some, though Svend muttered that they were the 'Sea People' and were known to him. "Harmless," he insisted, "So long as they know you're stronger than them or more useful alive than dead."

They didn't wait for morning. The storm was ebbing and it would not do to be too close to the Eskandr. The Parrench were well on their way by sunrise, maintaining a safe distance but for one brief incident where a couple of longships perched ominously on the horizon behind them for a few hours.

Upon sighting the Doggr Isle, Trygve, their third convert and a onetime local, took the lead. Others were encouraged to hide or part with any articles they carried that might not look the part of Eskandr. The three ships - looking no different from any number of other Southern vessels - skewed eastward, aiming for the fishing village of Rigevand. There was a place, their guide insisted, so sleepy and isolated, so buried in its work of existing, that few would dare ask questions. There, then, was the place where they landed, some five miles out from the capital, but still in the shadow of the great Eldfjall, its silhouette towering ominously above them as the sun died.

As they neared, the only person at the pier was an old man who ambled out from a hut upon their approach, but this changed once they docked. It had been agreed upon that Svend, Trygve, and Gerard would play the role of captains, Maud would be Gerard's daughter, and the three actual Eskandr, who didn't speak with an accent, would do most of the talking. A young boy came galloping down the dock. "Are you back from fighting the Parrench?" he demanded, wide-eyed and excited. A handful of other children tumbled after him. "Did we win!?"
"Did you slay many?"
"Are we all gonna get farms in Parrence!?
"Were they tough?"
"Do you know anyone named Olaf? He's my Grandfather. He's a great Shaman! He's in the Æresvaktr!
"I bet you got to see the Nashorn!" enthused one, his intonation a bit odd. "He's my hero!"
"Yeah, Knud never used to talk, but now he does!"

"Shoo!" shouted the dock's owner, a grumpy old sort. "Go play somewhere else and stop bugging my patrons! They come here to not be questioned." He turned a knowing smile their way as the kids scampered away. "I suppose you did well, huh?" He started helping those still on the ships tie them fast to the dock. "Something valuable you don't wanna split?" He raised his eyebrows. "Came back before you were supposed to?" He grinned conspiratorially. "Dodging someone in the city? His eyes scanned the ships, seeming to take in every detail. "Not trying to extort you or anything, by the way. I wouldn't have lasted in the business if I did, you know. Just get curious is all. Helps me lie better on your behalf too if I ever need to." He hooked his thumbs into his belt and his eyes did a sweep of the area. "Dami's cleared 'em all out," he said quietly, his demeanour changing slightly. There was a long pause and Svend scowled. "It appears so, brother. We can speak in confidence here?"

The dockman nodded. He reached into a hidden pocket in his sleeve and pulled out a Pentact before quickly tucking it back in. "Name's Birger," he said. His eyes roved over the sizable group filtering out onto his dock. "I take it you're all converts?" he asked.

Svend nodded. "Yes, all of us follow the Pentad," he replied cautiously, and Birger smiled. He clapped the taller man on the back. "Then welcome!" he crowed, "Welcome back home! We will spread the light yet."

"We shall," agreed Svend. "We just... need to be careful."

It was dark, they had slept poorly on their voyage, and Birger advised them that there were sometimes rats in the walls. They decided to spend the night in the village, but it was decided first that they would filter out to a cave their host had told them was in the mountainside. They would bring the 'valuable plunder' Arcel had provided them with so as to confirm, in the minds of anyone with a mind to notice them, that they were no worse than simple pirates or brigands trying to keep their personal loot out of the public pool. There, before sleep, they would make their plans for the morrow. They would have to carry the girl up, but they would have Maud sweep the city with her tethered range and see if they could learn anything.




Other Stories: See Below_________ __ __ _ _

In The Hourglass Order → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
I N T O T H E D E P T H S

"There is a risssk inherent in every action," said Nine, taking in and releasing a deep breath. "But continuing from here leaves more variables in our hands than ressstarting would."

"More variables," echoed Five and and Seven. "In our hands," added Ten.

It took a moment for her eyes to settle on Ingrid's. "We will... manage, she assured the human. "And now there is no running from our actions. Our research will ssspark much-needed change in our society or elssse they will have revealed themselves to be fools."

"Much needed change," Five repeated.

"We will have to make it ssso," agreed Ten. "Our backs are against the wall."

"Yesss," said Seven, "but I fear the time for discussion has passssed. We have perhaps twenty minutes before the anomaly is detected." All three of her siblings affirmed these words and she regarded the humans and yasoi. "You should follow me. We are headed for the transport room. Ten," she barked, "Move ahead. Prep. We will choose the destination as we arrive."

"Move ahead," repeated Ten, "Prep." She nodded and glanced at the half-dozen non-sirrahi. "I will see you soon." Then, the youngest sister leaned forward until her upper body was near-parallel with the ground and took off at what must've been a run for a sirrahi.

The others hurried through the doorway, the remaining three reptilians leaning forward as well, the faster that they went. There were other doors, and Seven used a little card like the one they'd seen before to open these. A couple of rooms flashed by similar to their own and they realized that they could still access their magic when Ismette used it to enhance her sprint. She seemed... increasingly out of sorts in the narrow, dim hallway, and eager to get out.

Penny, struggling at the back, pulled liberally on the Gift to catch up, though she was red-faced. The underground base seemed like an endless labyrinth of rooms, tunnels, laboratories, and things that served the same purpose as staircases, but were not. The sirrahi slithered up and down them, the humans took them cautiously, and the one yasoi in the group leapt them. It was... mostly a blur, but Nine, talkative by nature as she was, explained what she could of the purpose of their research. "We are supposed to fail," she said, nearly breathless, "Or succeed, from a certain point of view." Thirty seconds passed in silence. "We lied to you about a lot, but the debate between factions was truth... of a sort."

"Of a sort," confirmed Five.

"We were... skeptical," she admitted, "about your peoples, about your violence, about many things." She paused as they descended another set of sirrahi 'stairs'. "As a university field research team, we were expected to find evidence to support our professor's hypothesis."

"Expected to find it," Seven repeated absently, whipping around a balustrade.

"Though they may simulate otherwise, empathetic behaviour in humans and yasoi decreases rapidly as potential recipient species become more evolutionarily distant."

"Our data shows only a weak correlation, though it is admittedly anecdotal," added Five.

"And not everything is quantifiable data," Nine countered. "Not everything has hard, objective conclusionsss." She glanced Ingrid's way. "What, even is love? What is empathy? Prosssocial behaviours? Adaptive ones?" She shook her head. "It is not adaptive to do many of the things we do in the name of emotion, and yet we do them." Momentarily, she drew a finger to her lips. Surely, we cannot pathologize these all. Feeling mussst have a place alongside thinking. Love must -"

Seven held a hand up and they came to a stop at a door. "Ssstirring, sissster, she said shortly. "But from my experience... She held her card up to the lock mechanism of a heavy set of double doors, and then punched in a series of numbers on a keypad. "Simple reward is still the best predictor of behaviour, and the best incentive toward desired ones." Like the smaller door in their room, these ones slid into the walls to either side, automatically, with nobody to work them. Only, this time, the students could feel the energies around them: kinetic, a strange form of magnetic, chemical, and arcane. There were... almost veins of energy that stretched behind the walls.

That was not what drew the attention of many. It was a vast storage room, full of shelving, that they were in. A series of long, tubular lamps... or not really lamps so much as sterile white glowing tubes lit up, one by one along the ceiling. Some shelves contained books, others, apparatus. There were those stocked with cables, screens, weapons, laboratory equipment, clothing and bags. Off to one side were large devices with wheels, a couple with belts around their wheels, and those that seemed almost like dragonflies, with odd, narrow blades folded above them. At the far end was a ramp leading to a raised platform. There were a pair of wide rectangular shapes. Their construction seemed markedly different from the other things in the room: both more technologically advances and... somehow more ancient. Ten waved from that direction, hurrying over. "You were quick!" she exclaimed. "I barely had time to set up, but we're ready to run: ten seconds at full power. I don't wanna risk anymore."

Seven had a wristwatch. She checked it. "Not that quick," she corrected, but then she softened at Nine's disapproving look. "And, um, thank you for running ahead. You must be winded."

"Ya don't say," teased Ten.

"Sister," began Nine, voice gentle and accommodating.

"Sister," Seven replied.

"Sister."

"Sister." It was almost good-naturedly mocking.

"In keeping with your findings, I would like to provide these people with a reward." She gestured towards the six. "I think, as well, we owe them some compensation from an ethical standpoint. You know what an abyss this whole operation has become by that metric."

"Abyss."

"By that metric."

Seven pursed her lips, eyes flicking about the others. She straightened and checked her watch again. "You have precisely four minutes," she allowed, "and no tech that would break the first protocol."

Nine saluted.

"Wait!" yelped Ten, cutting in. "Before you start, I need to know where you'll be going! I have to input the coordinates."

Ismette had little idea of what the sirrahi meant by 'inputting coordinates', but she understood that they needed a location. It was she and Wvysen who had been entrusted with the keys to their extraction, and now only the yasoi remained. Hugo had said something about meeting up with the other groups at a place in the Torragonese High Desert called San Agustin. "Right," she said. "I have that information." She nodded at the others. "I can come with you to wherever you need to... input coordinates. As for a reward," she decided, half-twisting. She shrugged. "I have long been on a journey to learn Temporal Magic. I will take any resources you have on the subject: anything that might help me cure my people if it isn't too much trouble."

"Do you judge her trustworthy?" asked Seven, eyes narrowing in Nine's direction.

The slightly younger sister glanced at the six mammals. She nodded, while making an odd gesture with her fingers. "I trust... all of them, in fact."

"Good, agreed Seven, eyes finding the group. "Then that can be... arranged." With a nod, Ismette pivoted on her heel and hurried off with Ten towards the raised section at the end of the warehouse. Meanwhile, Ingrid, Desmond, Trypano, Benny, and Penny were left to make their requests and retrieve their items. Five, Seven, and Nine accompanied them.

There was not much time, but Nine made a point of accompanying first Desmond, and then Ingrid, while Seven took Trypano and Penny, and Five was left with Benedetto.

The elder sister kept matters professional. "I am here, as well, should you have a final question or, perhaps, two." She folded her hands behind her back. "I would like to impress upon you that what we are entrusting you with could lead to calamity should it fall into the wrong hands. Use it well, wisely, and sparingly."

The younger, however, was another matter altogether. "Goodbye, Violence Stick!" Unbidden, she threw her arms around Desmond, and began coiling too. "I will miss you dearly," she wept, "And your ironically wonderful food." She squeezed a bit harder. "I am so so so so sssooo sorry for my deceit, but I really do like you, and..." She uncoiled, partially, wiping away a few snakey tears and raising a backpack strapped to some of her lower clothing up to arm level. She unzipped it and took a book out, to add to the one she had already given him. It was titled, Elsen's Encyclopedia of the Human World, and she thumped its cover gently as she pressed it into his hands. "I hope that you will always be as happy in life as you are in your picture here." She sniffed. "Promise me you will open it after you go, for a war feeling and a good memory." She backed up a little. "Goodbye, my friend, and thank you for teaching me much more than I taught you."

Then, she was with Ingrid, and she reached out and took the tall, pretty girl's hand as they found what she was looking for. "I do not think time is uniform, Ingrid." Arms around the human, she rested her chin on Ingrid's shoulder. "It seemed so ssslow before, when we spent time together, like it would never end." She squeezed her eyelids shut, tears trickling down her cheeks. "But now it ssseems all so fast." She sniffed. "Perhaps that is a form of temporal magic." It was a sad, weak laugh. "Thank you, she breathed, "for changing me: for making me better. And sorry," she continued, "for the dissshonest circumstances we met under." There was a pause. "It was real, though: all of the rest of it."

When Ingrid tried to address her as 'Nine', she backed up slightly and shook her head. "That is a more formal name, and one for my sssiblings. You can call me Sileen." She smiled: a small, uncertain one that did not open her jaw in the way that had so unnerved her guests at first. A blush came to her strange, reptilian cheeks and her hands did not yet leave Ingrid's shoulders.

Meanwhile, Seven was guiding Tyrpano and Penny back out of the shelves, each laden with items of their choosing and the former receiving a caution not ignore the psychological, emotional, and ethical impacts of her future research. It was only as good as the positive impact that it would have, weighed against the benefits, and was only as applicable as it was well-received. Those were lessons hard-learned. Then, her watch let out a strange... beeping noise of the variety that the humans and yasoi had come to expect. She held it up. "That is all the time we have," she announced, twisting on the spot and rising up to look down on the others. "Any more is a risk we can't afford." She motioned in the direction of the great rectangles, and, as people came to a stop, still holing their weapons and gear, she explained to them that they would be stepping through.

"It looks terrifying when they're on," said Nine, "but it's safe, I promise. I've traveled through them dozens of times."

"You um... you need to line up in front of the one on the left and be ready to go," cautioned Ten. "Once I give it power, you have only ten seconds to step through." She paused and blinked. "I know I haven't become as... close with you as my sister," she admitted, "But it was a pleasure, a learning experience, and... honestly pretty fun at times. Be safe," she wished, "and be well."

"Best of luck," said Five, simply. He nodded and crossed his arms. "It was real or... er... you know what I mean."

"From my experience, there is no such thing as 'luck'," sneered Seven, "only probability. Be smart," she wished, "maximize your odds."

"From my experience..." mimicked Five, voice mocking, but then Ten cut in. "Yeah, nope. That's enough of that." She rolled her eyes and pulled a lever. "Way to spoil the sendoff, dingus!"

One of the rectangles lit up: a hissing, swirling vortex of energetic waves and static. The sheer amount of power going into and bleeding out from it was phenomenal: almost overwhelming. "Through!" called Ten, "Go through, quickly!"

But Sileen was on the platform with them, as the time counted down past eight and then seven. Ismette hesitated, until Benny shoved her through with a certain glee, and he leaped in after. The sirrahi grabbed Ingrid, though. She grabbed her and kissed her with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as the timer passed four, three, and two. Then, they separated suddenly, Sileen pushing her through. The last thing that the human saw was the sirrahi's wink. She blinked and she was on the other side.






In The Hourglass Order → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

♪

He was on the early watch, Marceline with him, sweeping the desert with those tethered senses of hers. Manuel put knife to wood, scraping thoughtfully along its surface. Flakes fell away. “Tio Manuel?” the teen inquired, eyes flicking away from the slowly brightening sands.

“What is it?” he asked, words if not tone brusque. He did not take his eyes off the carving.

“Who is this ‘duque’ who is supposed to be coming?” she asked anxiously. “Have you met him before?”

For another few seconds, Escarra worked the wood, his eyes narrowing in concentration, and then as they glanced out over the sands, where the first sliver of sun had just crested the dunes. “You ask me who the Duque is?” he began, tucking the knife back into his belt. “Hm.” His gaze moved between the desert and his granddaughter. “All of us here: we are creatures of the desert: shrews, coyotes, scorpions, halassa. Even the mighty froabas. We each have our roles. We live and die by its rules.”

He thought better of his idleness and reached for a packet of chicle. Marci looked at him expectantly, as her mother had some sixteen years ago. “But there is one - the one who is coming. He is not a creature like the rest of us. No, mi vida, he is the sun and we all thrive or fail at his word.” His face was earnest when he regarded her. “That is Huarcan Frannemas. You must not forget this.” After a moment, he held out the chicle and she quietly took a piece. “Gracias, Tio Manuel.”

“Of course, my precious.” In that moment, sitting there on the parapets beside him, her dark hair shoulder-length in a bob, chewing on a piece of gum, she looked so much like her mother that it built in his chest not to say something. She rolled her eyes and cringed at the fatherly address. “Tiiiooo,” she whined, “I’m not ten anymore, you know.” The teen blushed. “Shit’s embarrassing.”

His hand came for her swiftly: faster than even her young reflexes could counter. It caught her on the ear and pinched. “Oww!” the girl hollered. “What the fuck!?” He lifted a little bit and she batted at his arm before he let her go. “That kind of language.” He shook his head. “Your mother and I taught you to speak better.”

She rubbed at her reddened ear. “Agh… godsdammit.”

He shot her a look. “I mean, not-godsdammit,” she hastily corrected. “and besides, mom curses like a sailor. I’ve heard her.”

Manuel pursed his lips. “Yes, well, she’s older, and…”

“And…” Marci added, face unamused, arms crossed expectantly.

“You should do as she says, not as she does.”

“I never knew you were such a gymnast, Tio,” the teen teased, but the grizzled ranger merely furrowed his brow. “A mental gymnast.” She rolled her eyes.

He shook his head, wondering what expression kids would come up with next. “Learn that from your outside friends?” he asked, and Marci nodded. They sat there for some time longer, picking up the first few sounds starting to travel across the refuge. The sun was actually almost above the horizon now and both no longer looked there directly. A couple of times, the girl looked like she wanted to get up and pace, but thought better of it, so he did it instead, even though it was against his nature. An elder ranger had once said he was like a lizard in that he could remain motionless for hours. Still, young people needed their space sometimes.

Then, with a push of magic and determination, Marceline heaved herself to her feet and grabbed her crutches. “I’m… not mad at you or anything, you know.” She made her way over and he could see that she barely used her knees anymore. In perhaps a year, she would be finished with walking, for all practical intents. “You don’t have to stay away.”

To be honest, the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just been giving her space to think. The approaching arrival of Duque Frannemas and the hovering threat of the Wyrm had a lot of them on edge, a lot of them considering things that they would normally push to the side. Manuel was no different. He’d wanted to say it for years now, but Amanda had persuaded him not to, for the girl’s safety. What did safety matter now, though? “Ah, then I will not,” he responded, coming up next to her. Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, she was so young and beautiful and, yet, he would probably outlive her should Oraff and Eshiran smile upon their cause in the next little while. The unfairness of it sunk him. The girl glances his way, perhaps unnerved by his intensity. “I am not your uncle,” he blurted, pained. “I am sorry. It was for your safety. I am -”

“My grandfather?” She twisted to look his way, coming to a stop. Marci tilted her head. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Was it so obvious?”

She snorted. “You have many talents… abuelo, but theatre is not one of them.”

He begun to feel a weight that he hadn’t known was there lift from his chest and, as he opened his mouth to speak, Marcelina pre-empted him. “You know,” she said, “I think I’ve -” Then, she paused, stalk still, suddenly. A look of alarm and concentration took over her features.

“What is it?” he prodded, grandfather turning back into ranger.

She looked at him, nervousness bleeding from her into the still-warming air. “I…” She bit her lip nervously. “I’ve been feeling something hovering at the edge of my range for a couple of minutes, now, but things are fuzzy there, so I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it.” She shook her head in no uncertain terms. “But it’s real, it’s big, and it’s headed this way.”


At first, it was believed that Marceline had sensed the wyrm’s approach, but this misattribution lived only a short life before the true nature of the disturbance was discovered: an army of some two thousand men-at-arms. After only a handful of minutes, a small group detached itself from the rest, riding up towards the gate. Abdel, Laelle, Luisa, and some of the others were dispatched, posthaste, to awaken all of the Afortunado, the students, and anyone of import and call them together for a hasty meeting in the plaza by the Great Bath.

San Agustin came to life swiftly, after that, and it was Escarra and Amanda who met the duke’s couriers at the gates. “You are Tavio Ortega?” said one, after dismounting. The other four formed a loose perimeter around him, eyes darting about and eager to peer through the small gap behind their hosts. He walked up to Escarra, not so much as acknowledging Amanda’s presence. “Warden Ortega is… indisposed,” the head ranger said simply.

“Then we shall wait,” said the courier. He was a knight and his tone and body language made it clear that he viewed this duty as beneath him.

“You may find yourselves waiting for some time, and the sun will only grow hotter,” Amanda offered, but they did not flinch.

“Perhaps you can hand me that message you’re carrying.” Manuel added, and they turned to him. “And you are?” demanded the knight. “I am head ranger here: Manuel Escarra. It is my duty to receive guests and correspondence outside of normal waking hours, unless I am on expedition,” he lied. “Clearly I am not, and so you see…” he tilted his head slightly, “this is the proper procedure.”

If Amanda wanted to glance his way, she did a good job of hiding it. “I have been a resident here for over twenty years, and it is as he says.”

A couple of the other guards looked her way, but not the knight.

“I also believe it is proper procedure to introduce yourself,” the ranger prodded, “and who you’re representing.” He did not like these men and he liked even less to use their language, but it was his best bid at the moment. Much as Marci had insisted that her friend Jocasta could fight off anyone alive bar Hugo Hunghorasz, and he had witnessed the young woman’s awesome strength, he was not convinced that even the paradigm could stand up to El Patron and his dread children.

“We are here on behalf of his Grace, Huarcan Frannemas, Duke of Spadina-Vergonia, Albecides, and Rio Merraraporra. He has pressing business with the warden of this refuge, which is incorporated as a fief under his domain. We have orders to speak only with the warden himself.”

He had hoped to hide it until he might speak with Huarcan himself, but this was clearly not to be. He caught Amanda’s eyes upon him. ‘The paper’, she quickly mouthed. As casually as he could, Escarra opened his palm where it was hidden. He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the knight, taking a moment to rehearse it in his head. “The warden has been… deposed, for gross crimes against his charges and his lord. In the face of existential danger, he chose to appeal to Ersand’enise instead of his liege, and they sent six students to deal with the problem, who he attempted to have murdered so that he could petition the school for Zenos instead. He and his co-conspirators deliberately withheld their petition and all information.”

The eyes of the knight who would not give his name widened, despite what appeared to be efforts to prevent this, but Amanda’s motioned for her father to continue. “At this very moment, we have them locked in the dungeon beneath the Red Tower, awaiting the Duke’s justice. As the interim warden of this refuge, I beg of him that he come dispense it.”

Silence built for a moment. Then, cautious, almost accusatory words. “And what of the warden? Where is he?”

“He…” Manuel had murdered him, in truth: a justified one, committed out of anger, but murder nonetheless. Explaining it would be - “He resisted arrest, became unreasonable and violent, and threatened the lives of other staff and residents. I regret to inform you that he was killed in the struggle.” She bowed her head.

The messenger’s eyes flicked her way and he scowled, returning them to Escarra. “How very convenient," he hissed. "And why is this here?” He gestured at her with his chin, and the ranger bristled. It had not gone unnoticed how they had treated his daughter as subhuman. Ill, she may have been, but no less deserving of basic dignity and decency. He felt a tickle along the back of his hand that he knew was her signal to stay calm. How he hated politics and these ‘civil’ men who made war with words. Yet, he knew she was right. The Duke was impossibly strong and, with the family that he had created, would surely not be alone in that strength. Not even escape was an option. “This,” he grated, “Is Amanda:” blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, and a hundred times the person you will ever be, Torraro. Her body may be frail but, even now, she could crush you like the insect you are. “One of our longtime residents. She was witness to what happened. I thought she might be of use.”

Finally given permission by necessity, the knight looked her up and down briefly, distastefully. “I see,” he remarked, attention back on the ranger. “Well, should her testimony prove necessary, then we will use her. The duke will hear about everything you have done here." It was... almost a threat. "You may step forward.” He held out an envelope pressed shut with the seal of House Frannemas.

At war with the growing heat in his veins, Manuel Escarra took a few steps and held his own hand out to receive it, going not quite as far as he needed to and forcing the other man to move. The exchange was completed. “His Grace will arrive within the hour. His requirements are contained within.”

“Understood.”

The messenger and his four escorts remounted as one, heraldry flapping disinterestedly in the light breeze. They turned and, with a great trail of dust, were gone.


“We can’t just bow to this… duke and give up everything we’ve worked for!” insisted Marceline, suddenly a firebrand. “We’re strong, and there are a lot of us. Besides, we have Jocasta! She’s like… practically a member of the Pentad, wherever she is…”

Yalen and a couple of others quickly made the Sign of the Pentad, but the tethered girl blushed only slightly. They were about fifteen minutes into a meeting. Others were busy preparing the auditorium for Huarcan Frannemas, water for his animals, and food and quarters for those of his people he’d be bringing inside. They’d been told to prepare for fifty, and the kitchen and supply rooms were hives of activity. All of the unused bedrooms, guest quarters, and even some of the sitting rooms had to be pressed into service. It seemed a rather unreasonable request, but perhaps he was aware of the potential power of his hosts and did not want to be left at their mercy. Besides, to refuse or fail would have been to demonstrate ill will before negotiations had even begun. Thus, many of the caretakers and even some of the students and tethered were hard at work. Jocasta and Ayla were not among those, but nor were they present to either support or deny Marci’s assertion. Once a general course of negotiations had been decided, they had hurried off to consult about something secretly, much to the annoyance of some.

Felix shook his head. “We don’t have time for this,” Felix interjected, glancing Kaspar’s and Luisa’s way. “We decided on honey over vinegar and, for what it’s worth, I think it was the right choice.” He was chewing a sizable wad of chicle, fingers drumming on the grips of his crutches. “The Duke is a pragmatic man. He would prefer to do this without a fight. Besides, as strong as Jocasta is, she is not just some weapon we can use as we please.”

“Also, many will be hurt or killed if it comes down to a fight.” Luisa glanced down at her lap and shuddered. “I have worked for Duque Frannemas. You underestimate his strength..” The eyes that she turned on the others made no secret of her anxiety.

Just then, Abdel hustled up. “The auditorium,” he panted, all eyes on him, “She is clear. You can move in there.”

"And the rooms?" prodded Isabella, her twin ponytails bouncing with urgency.

The young teen shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. He could not run so well anymore, and it drained him. “We’re working on them. I have Laelle and a lot of the kids there, helping.” He let out an ironically mirthful snort. “They’re treating it like some kind of game.”

“Good,” said Felix. “Better that than understanding how fucked up everything is.”

“They know where to run and hide, Luisa added, “right?” Abdel nodded. “Okay then,” she decided, setting hands to wheels. “Thanks, Abdel. Now, we should get inside.” The boy hurried off, her eyes swept the others, and Isabella was already on her way.

“I uh, like your attitude,” interjected Zarina, towering over virtually everyone else assembled. She winked. “But we should discuss where everyone’s going before we’re all inside, no?” She tilted her head and smiled, much less anxious than one might expect her to be, given the circumstances. “Probably easier that way.”

“Shit,” said Luisa, skidding to a stop, “You’re right. Where do we have to cover?” She turned and looked about.

“We still need someone on lookout for the Wyrm,” her boyfriend mentioned.

“And someone to look after the little ones.” added Yalen.

“The stables,” said Zarina, pivoting partway on a heel.

“We probably shouldn’t leave the prison unguarded.” It was Kaspar, and Felix nodded in agreement. “It’d be the perfect time for them to try something.”

“I think we should, um… still try to have a lot of people in the auditorium,” Marci added uncertainly, feeling chastised by the older people earlier. “Just in case, you know, things don’t go as planned. We wanna have numbers.”

A couple of people glanced at the meeting’s youngest member with annoyance, but then Oscar spoke. “She isn’t wrong. Besides, something like this needs witnesses.”

“Needs negotiators too,” Marci grumbled, hobbling up beside Zarina. “Speaking of which: where in the five hells are Jo and Ayla?”

“Need-to-know basis,” replied Felix, “and, right now, you don’t need to know. The less who do, the better.”

A handful of others turned to him expectantly and he held his hands up, resting his weight on his crutches under his armpits. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” he insisted. “It was Ayla’s big idea. Jo is… a reluctant passenger.”

“Right then, concluded Casii, bouncing antsily on the balls of her feet. “Anythin’ else? I reckon we more’r less got it all, huh?”

“The children, the stables, the dungeon,” began Isabella, ticking them off on her fingers. “We’ll need a few there for sure. Preferably those on three or four.” She’d shifted close to Yalen, whose patient but relentless instruction had shaped her into something almost like a magic user in the span of two days. “Lookout for the wyrm, enough in the big room for safety’s sake, and…” She paused, face pensive. She had been one of the apprentice secretaries before and was good at planning for eventualities. “We should probably keep one or two back, ready to respond, in case something doesn’t go to plan, because things never go to plan.” She took a deep breath and blinked. “I think that’s all.”

“Does everyone remember the signal?” Oscar prodded.

“Mhm, a tickle on the back of the hand,” replied Silas. “Left for ‘need your help,’ Vieri added, "right for ‘watch out’, both for ‘problem solved’.”

People nodded. Then, Zarina clapped her hands together, twice, just like the warden always had. “Alright,” she said. “That settles that. Now, pick your poison and let’s move.”


It was late in the Hours of Shune and dust shimmered above a bed of sand. The thunder of horses' hooves could be heard now from the refuge, and the horizon glimmered with the hard sheen of silvery metal. Gradually, they hove into view: a massive host of some two thousand or more soldiers, most all of them mounted, most all of the armoured: a purposeful show of force that the wayward refuge could not hope to match.

The guards at their posts watched as it resolved itself from a mass to a series of individuals. At the head rode a septet of individuals, and Escarra, up on the wall beside one of the gates, took out his spyglass and trained it on the lead rider. "Huarcan," he mouthed, letting it drift from his eye for a moment. Some of the other six, he did not know well, though he recognized what had to be the two sons and daughter of the duke, arrogant little prats that they likely were. Having seen enough, he rushed over to the ladder and slid down. "Two minutes," he warned, "Open the gates."

"Papa, you're getting your nice clothes dirty!" Amanda scolded, and he rolled his eyes and took a moment to brush them off, standing straight as the gates opened. A few years ago, she'd have done it herself, but that was a pain he didn't have time for right now. "Where in this green hell is Jocasta?" he muttered, and his daughter glanced over her shoulder. "Don't worry," she assured him, "She'll be here."

The seven were now clearly visible without the aid of a spyglass, and the rangers and guards that could be spared began to flank the entrance in an honour guard. Fists clenching an unclenching without the aid of his chicle, Manuel shot a glance back just as a golden-haired young woman came gliding up beside him, finally: Jocasta with far more gift for words and far less for violence. For a moment, he was aware of her fiddling with her brakes in his peripheral, but then the riders were unbearably near.

There were three women and four men and even Escarra could feel the energy boiling off of them as they kept the dust and heat at bay with their magic. One of the women, young and with sandy-blonde hair, rode sidesaddle, her dress and riding cloak incongruously spotless and resplendent against her arid backdrop. To the other side of the lead rider was a young man: tall, square-jawed, and proud. He had all the fine muscle, clothing, and breeding of a duke's son, but he rode with his nose in the air: a braggart, Escarra knew. Beside him, on the far left, was a tall man in dark armour, his face hidden: an enforcer and a magic user, for none other would've dressed that way in the desert. To the right of the woman was another: middle-aged, dark-haired, and severe. Her deep crimson robes were fine, but everything else about her meant business. Finally, at the very back, lay a smaller woman, young and mousy-looking, with a pleasant and unassuming face. As she rode awkwardly, struggling to keep up, he recognized her for tethered. So, the duke has one of his own.

The remaining two were the ones that mattered: the handsome, bored-looking youth in the middle, with his piles of curly hair, golden armour, and shoulder cloak. He was Augusto, the second and greater son. In the lead was Duque Huarcan himself: a man who tamed the heat of the desert with the cold aura of his presence. Unassuming and professional in the saddle, he rode as Escarra would expect his rangers to ride, though the similarities ended there. Then, he had arrived.

He brought no servants. They were riding up behind the lead group now, but they would be too late to play a role in the initial meeting. As one, six of the seven riders dismounted, leaving only the tethered. Huarcan Frannemas strode forward, eyes not bothering to sweep their surroundings. He already knew what threats lurked and he had judged them inconsequential. His mouth was a firm line, his skin soft like a noble's but somehow sandy and leathery, and his thinning grey hair swept back without pretense. His armour, very functional, was nonetheless inlaid with gemstones worth more than an entire lifetime of wages for a Head Ranger. He stopped in front of the group of three and chose Escarra as their leader. His trio of children halted behind him, the wind stirring their trio of cloaks with the exception of August's. The Duke held out his right hand and Manuel kissed the ring on it. "Your Grace," he rumbled, trying unsuccessfully to remove the natural roughness from his tone. "Escarra," came the reply, in a voice all-too familiar.



In The Hourglass Order → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
1) Religious Lore: The Afterlife, Angels and Demons, and The Goddess Who is Not added. Additional information added to Religious Orders.

2) School Lore: The first two events of The Trials have been added.

3) World Lore: Sirrahi and Eeaiko names added to naming customs.
In The Hourglass Order → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Manfred______ __ __ _ _

Manfred searched. It was all he could do, but such was the chaos and its energy that picking out two mages not actively engaged in using the Gift was a mountain of a task. In truth, the blind man beside him saw more. "You focus," the Kerreman assured him. "I'll keep guard."

More than once, people tried to interfere, often through panic and ignorance instead of malice, but there were a couple who'd meant intentional violence. One ate the but of Manfred's rifle. A second had an arm broken, courtesy of a Kastang hold. The third was put down by the powergazer, whose name his uneasy ally had already forgotten.

Then, out of nowhere, welcome words: "I have them: near the galley, rummaging through a hidden storeroom."

"Excellent," replied the youth, "then we should make haste."

The shorter man caught him by the arm and Manfred's gaze shot towards the offending hand. He belayed the instinct to strike out immediately. "They are not alone," the powergazer warned. "There is... something very large down there with them. I fear..."

Ice took over Manfred's stomach, for he knew that, in these environs, it could be only one thing: "That beast is known as the Schluckodil, and it is a maneater." He shook his head. "We will be hard-pressed to take it down, only us two. Its skin is like armour, and een its eyes. It has a protective membrane. It has something of mana as well, though only so that it cannot be attacked internally."

"So what do you propose?"

"There are a couple, perhaps three of my teammates who may be of assistance. We might stop it with enough power, tempt it outside, or else, we can bait it into opening its mouth and then my rifle may be of use, with the help of the Gift."

The blind man did not look at him, but rather through him. "This isn't some ploy to have me outnumbered?" he half-asked, half-accused.

"There are easier ways," Manfred replied, "were that my goal."

His response seemed to have satisfied his partner, and he announced that he had found at least two of them. The unlikely pair jogged once again through he chaos, though it seemed to be lessening. Still, with a forty foot beast like that thrashing about inside the Lorentine Queen, how long could things truly remain calm? How long until some less-responsible mob tried to kill it and punched a hole in the ship's side if the animal itself did not? They made all possible haste until they had reached the others. "There you are!" Manfred explained, panting and doubling partway over, hands momentarily on his knees. "We have a schluckodil in the boat. It's cornering our two Arcane mages." He shook his head. "It needs killing and it needs more than two people, or else maybe we can trick it. I do not know. I am out of ideas."
In O R I F L A M M E → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Act One: The Defense of Relouse____ __ _ _

Chapter Five: Pyrrhic_________ __ __ _ _


𝅘𝅥𝅮 Relouse, Parrence

They fought down to the very bitter end: two immense armies relentlessly throwing bodies against each other until the gates of Relouse closed, the last few defenders were left to die for their nation, and powerful magics came down to form an impenetrable protective shell around the town's walls.

For every Kol that pounded at the stone with fire, force, and fury, there was an Eleanor on the other side. For every Hrothgar, an Arcel, for every Sweyn, a Talit. Relouse stood firm in the face of the onslaught. From their redoubt, the defenders hammered back at the Eskandr horde and the King's banner was raised that night from the steeple of Notre Dame de la Liberté. Try as they might, the Southmen could not prize it forth nor set it ablaze.

Terror stalked the night for hours yet, people killing and dying for ideas: Parrence, Eskand, friendship, hatred, vengeance, faith. Nerves frayed and bodies wearied. The Gift was called upon to shore up flagging strength and rebuild broken flesh. Every time ground was given, it was taken. Sleep found no purchase where it could very well lead to death, and the making of war continued.

It was during the later hours of Ipté, by Parrench reckoning, that the King of Kings called upon his army to step back from the walls. They gathered what they could from their ships and began to move inland, first trickling and then streaming past the towers and parapets of Relouse. Some were bloody and sullen. Some sang as they marched: paeans to their gods, bawdy war songs, promises to return. If the city still stood, so too did the Eskandr on Parrench land, and they were not to be easily rooted out.

As the first rays of the sun stretched their hazy golden fingers across the dew-covered ground, banners hung limp and wet from flagposts and ramparts. Knights slept sitting propped against walls. People walked the streets, eyes wandering, necks craning, gazing up at their changed home and hoping that the fireballs, lightning bolts, and boulders of their enemies had not struck the small places within that they called their own.

Yet, as the final wisps of smoke petered out within the confines of Relouse or were torn to ribbons by the persistent drizzle that had replaced the night's furious storm, fire hungered elsewhere in earnest. Work of Tourarre horsemen, Hrothgar would later claim, four hundred longships burned on the beach, black smoke from their deaths billowing over the city: symbol of some kind of victory.

Among the first to step out from the protection of the walls was Arcel, his arm linked with that of his beloved. If the Queen was a radiant dawn, her golden hair and silver armour glowing against her grim backdrop, the king was a solemn dusk, walking with the deaths of thousands stacked upon his young shoulders.

Casualties lay about the killing fields of Relouse, scattered, dessicated, piled in great stinking mounds that reeked of blood, burnt flesh, and feces. As the drizzle faded and droplets clung to them, slowly drying as another day began, the flies, newly hatched at this time of year, came upon a feast. Crows and dogs picked at the bodies, tearing at these things that had once been sons and daughters, that had once held hopes, fears, and dreams, that had laughed, loved, and wondered at the world, until they no longer looked like the people they had been. Still, there were so very many that the animals would gorge themselves for weeks and the poppies would grow thick for years to come.

Arcel did not flinch from his duty. He walked his path as king and only his beloved felt the tightening of his grip around her fingers or the quiver in his voice. He stood by the ocean, staring out into its greyish-blue bulk for a moment before turning and giving his address to the people who would bring news of the battle back to Solenne. Behind him fires guttered among the blackened skeletons of the Eskandr fleet. Somewhere beyond the low-lying hills and the forest on the horizon lay the men and women who had come here to kill his people.

Art by saltytowel

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Four Miles Northwest

It was barely six kilometers away that the Eskandr made their camp, near the coast on the way to Port Morilles. The force was vast but ragged. In the early morning sky, behind and around them, rose tails of smoke that spiraled up from ransacked farmsteads. Some ate greedily from their provisions or their plunder, others teetered on their feet, standing guard. Still others dozed where they could, collapsing and lying on the ground now that the rain had abated.

Yet, spreading out from this epicentre, foraging and raiding parties hacked down trees, looted and burned homes, and hunted game. This land was not theirs but it was not so different and they now had no choice but to make it a temporary home, perhaps in preparation for something more permanent for their children and their children's children. They could only hope, for Eskand, cold and bitter, both made them and constrained them.

Between their tents and bedrolls, by their bonfires and stewing pots paced Hrothgar: a tireless presence the entire day amongst their ranks. He joined them in mourning or celebration, offered words of praise and encouragement, assured them that this fight was now there to be won and that the gods were with them. Why, even now, he could feel Mother warming their fires, Father mending and crafting, Sister's light and laughter in the camp, and Brother's strength and daring in the parties that ventured out. These visits from their king filled the cups of rank and file and nobility alike, buoying their spirits and imbuing them with energy and vigour.

It was all the Gift of Essence and the minds of young men and women who wanted to believe. In truth, Hrothgar did not know if the Gods were with them. He did not even know if the Gods were real. But they had to be. There was no other choice: they had to be because his people needed them. His people were hurling their lives at the feet of the Gods so that it was not on his account that they threw themselves into the fire.

It weighed on him - it would not be a lie to say so - the sacrifice demanded of this generation. Children, half of them, still boys and girls in mind and spirit if no longer in body, and part of him recoiled at the barbarity of the task he had set before them, at the way that their religion not only justified but glorified it. And yet, his guilt did not cut long or deeply. Their lives were the stones that paved tomorrow's road, that gave the Eskandr a chance to remain what they were. The Parrench were as blades of grass and, where you mowed one down, more would spring up to take his place. That they would crawl like ants over this continent, that they would seduce his people, coerce them, convert them until there was no more Eskand: of this he was certain.

Unless something was done.

Unless something was done, the Greenlanders would not stop. They were too many, too greedy, and they did not know how. Their lands afforded them advantages that his people did not have, and avarices. Extinguished would be the flame of his culture, his people, their names: fallen by the wayside of time, something to read about in dusty old scrolls. The excitement of gathering for the Althing on a sharp sommer's day when the bugs hummed thick in the air would be no more, the childhood games of Thistles and Neskals among the birch and pines, the hiss and snap of the Yule log and warmth of its fire as one gathered with his family in the dead of vinter. He could not bear for these things to be lost: not to a soulless people who did not respect his. And so he had burned his own fleet at anchor and blamed it on the Tourrare. Now, the Eskandr could not retreat, and he would shovel more of their lives into the fire like coals to be consumed. If it was his fate to be named 'villain' by those living a thousand years hence, then it was a crown that he would accept if it meant that his people endured.

When he returned to his tent, Hrothgar had nothing left to give. All day, he had been lending his Gift to his allies and countrymen. There were some who counted only dubiously among their number who wanted to see him: yasoi. He had called for them, and so held himself upright through their meeting, muddled mind outlining his plan as best he could. That these Red Thorns were enemies in allied dress, he was under no illusions about, but they could be useful until they no longer were. More awaited him yet: some of his finest, faces that he would've wanted to see under almost any other circumstance, and so the king met with them too. By the coast, where the seas churned against boulders, sheltered a handful of knorrs in a small cove. How he ached to be leaving upon one: to see his wife and children again, but it was his job to lead and he would not let them near the fighting. He would send some of his most trusted people - those now before him - to Meldheim in his stead. They knew their lines. He had been scribing their talking points all day as he'd made his rounds: first in his head and then onto parchment. Eskand had given much. It had taxed itself to its limit. He needed still more.

The man himself had given his everything, however. He had nearly died many times over against the young monster known as Arcel of Parrence: the Blessed. Hrothgar, called 'the Black', for both his armour and his disposition, remained steady on his feet until he pulled his curtain closed and collapsed into the welcome nothing of sleep.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 The Yasoi Lady

That they loved the same man was the tragedy that lay between Eleanor and Talit. It lay open between them like a festering wound and infected the words that they spoke and the time that they spent around each other. It could not be helped. Right now, however, the two women knelt side by side, drawing upon the same Gift. One prayed as she did so, under her breath. The other bit back the bile rising in her throat and hummed silent hymns of Loriindton to distract herself.

By the work of their hands, bodies repaired themselves. Burns turned to healed pinkish skin. Hair regrew itself, wounds filled with flesh, and pus dissolved under the push of Binding magic. From one to the next they moved in near silence, issuing occasional thanks, pardons, and necessary comments. By some unspoken agreement or out of simple familiarity, they stuck beside each other. Yet, Tali was convinced that they each had a different effect on those who they healed. There were many who would make full recoveries: whose bodies were battered but whole. There were also many whose newfound pain the yasoi remembered stingingly well. Each bowman short an arm, huntress short a leg, knight rendered an invalid, or child whose eyes had been popped like grapes by Sweyn Thunderspear's evil lightning: she presented herself before them, rendering something more concrete than the personal care of an awesome glowing figure of queenly majesty. Talit simply was, and she was recognized. It was as clear as the couple inches of stump that hung, soft and limp, from her right hip, and yet she was in a position to walk among them as a healer and protector. She could not offer anything so trite as verbal encouragement or platitudes of strength, so her mere presence would have to suffice.

Then, after four hours, she needed to be present elsewhere. She bade Eleanor a quiet, polite goodbye and made her way out of the church that they had been using as a hospital. Nearly all were healed or as healed as they could be. Aches and pains that the battle had hidden were back. Joints grated in pain. Muscles stabbed and stiffened with the exhaustion of an entire night's worth of struggle for survival and a day without so much as eating or resting. Tali leaned against a wall, not trusting herself to sit, lest she be unable to stand back up. Her limbs were nearly numb, her senses buzzing indistinctly, hazily. She let her head back, setting it against the cool rough stonework behind her. Oirase, I know that I am not you, as I once thought, but thank you for forgiving my childhood arrogance and sparing me. Thank you for allowing me more of this adventure called life.

The young woman made a mistake out of breathing through her keen yasoi nose, and vomit burbled up in her throat. She strained and blinked it back, eyes watering. She left them closed for some time longer, just being, just feeling: the cool drying sweat in her hair, the chirp of birds, the inconsequential aches and scrapes on her knee and elbows, the damp scratchy wall against her back. Old Grandma Merit had been twenty-three when the empire had fallen, and Tali was now that age herself, now renowned herself. She, too, would witness the fall of an empire, so long as her heart remained beating. She lifted a hand to her chest, feeling the weight of one crutch swaying gently from its cuff.

She had stayed with her people. She had protected them and they had won in the Witch Wood. The legend of Talit'yrash'osmax would only grow. Other legends would have the chance to grow as well. There were less dead yasoi than there would've been without her. Three deep breaths, Tali took. She pushed off of the wall and opened her eyes. Calling upon the Gift to dull herself to pain, she began to walk in a way that she just couldn't help, searching for Arcel and asking those she ran into of his whereabouts. She could not very well ask Eleanor. It was part of their wordless agreement.

The mounds of bodies were... otherworldly. It overwhelmed her to think of it, and so she tried to imagine them as hillocks, stone hedges, old cairns. Just not people: humans and yasoi, for they were so the same as much as they held themselves apart. They had fought together on this battlefield and died together as Parrench. Tali was Parrench, just as she was yasoi, and did not see why those two things should not be combined. She had even encountered Eskandr yasoi who had hissed at her in their odd dialect about fighting in a human war. Meanwhile, they were doing the same.

Tali wandered, eyes roving this way and that, stopping and talking to people, taking in the sensory overload, staring up - every so often - at the crows circling in the sky. It was late afternoon before she found Arcel. He was lying beneath an apple tree at the edge of the woods, his personal guard some ways back. They recognized her and let her pass. His head turned languidly her way and he pressed his eyelids shut for a moment, before turning to stare back up at the branches and their sweet-smelling blossoms. "Tali. Thank Oraphe."

"Beardless." She sat on the damp grass, feeling it through her hose and then her shirt as she lay down beside him. Their hands found each other and held fast. "Did we win?" she asked, not taking her eyes off of the branches. "We didn't lose," he answered, grip tightening momentarily on her hand. Talit went silent and so did Arcel. When she turned his way, loath to be idle any longer, she was surprised to find a tear rolling down his near cheek. The last time that she had seen him cry, he'd been fourteen and leaving Loriindton to return home. She had wiped his tears away even as she'd wept too. It was not her place to wipe them anymore, however.

"I failed them, Tal. I failed my people."

She watched his face in profile. "Relouse still stands," she offered lamely.

"Thousands of people. I can't look at their faces." He turned to her suddenly, eyes red-rimmed and searching. "Every one was just like us until a few hours ago. Then, I sent them to die: gone. They don't get to finish their lives."

She didn't have anything good. Tali felt things in her own way, but not like Arcel. Besides, she was not one to inspire with words. "You did your job as king. We can't very well let the Eskandr butcher our people and take our land."

"Our land..." he echoed softly. "Is it?"

The yasoi propped herself up on her elbows. "Well, it isn't theirs."

"Is it yours too?" he inquired. "Do the yasoi think this was worth it?"

"The yasoi are a free people. I don't command them. If they came here, they came of their own will."

He propped himself up beside her, twisting slightly to meet her eyes. "Are things going to be okay for you? I know you put a lot on the line. I know the... damage my father did still hasn't totally healed." He glanced away.

Tali sat up, pulling her knee in and sitting cross-legged. Well, not exactly, she knew. You can't cross your legs if you only have one. She thought for a moment, tucking some hair behind an ear, and shrugged. "I probably need to go back and see. I shall leave on the morrow." She was sore and exhausted, not looking forward to days in the saddle, but she could rest among the trees of Loriindton. "Without a resounding victory," she continued, "Dyric will be stirring things up. We caught a Tar'ithan agent in the lower town a week before I came here. More will be active."

"I'm sorry, Tal."

His apologies were starting to vex. "Don't be sorry. Be a king. Do better next time. I know you can. I've seen you at your most brilliant."

He let out a snort that trailed off into a sigh. "We had them too. I was just so busy with Hrothgar, so focused on taking the head off the snake that I didn't see it for the distraction it was. Then, Montblaise panicked and I wasn't there to allay him." Arcel sat up beside her, and they were two children, cross-legged in the shade of a tree again.

"I believe in you," Tali said softly, and she meant it. He had always been the warm, strong hand that guided and protected. He would find a way again. She couldn’t imagine otherwise, "You will find a way. The gods will stand behind you. We will be free of this war, to live and move across this land as we desire."

"I love you." It came after a long, steadying pause.

"I love you too." Yet, she knew that the love that each referred to was of a different species.

𝅘𝅥𝅮 Evening Prayer

They knelt beside each other: husband and wife. "In nomini Ipte, Chune, Oraphe, Echeran, et Dami, Amen."

“Oh heavenly Pentad,” they recited, the mere ritual of prayer one that centered Eleanor, “who hath crafted the heavens, the sea, and the earth beneath our feet, who hath brought life, love, learning, and laughter to us, who destroy so that we may be renewed, who give us choice, magic, and freedom, for the day that has passed and for these things we give thee thanks:”

"Ipte," began Arcel, and it was hard not to reach out to him, but he ever forbade it during prayer. "We give thee thanks for keeping the fire of love burning in our hearts, so that we found the will to protect the things that we cared about and that we remembered the gift of beauty even as we stood amid carnage."

"Chune," Eleanor said, and she did not know if his eyes were upon her. "We thank you for your wisdom: for revealing to us the enemy's trap so that we maintained our forces on the beach. Without that quick thought and action, the city would have been lost."

"Oraphe," continued her husband, but then he paused, and a silence built where they both knelt. Eleanor opened her eyes and looked his way. His left eye twitched and his hands were clenched so tightly around his prayer beads that the knuckles were white. "Why didn't you save more of them?" His teeth were clenched as well. "Why couldn't I?" he was breathing heavily, rapidly. "We pray to you every day! We are ever loyal. We defend your lands and your people against those who would kill them. I do not understand! What have we done for you to desert us this way?"

Just as surely as Eleanor was horrified by his words, her heart went out to him. The death that she had witnessed - the bodies - she had never seen anything like it and she was shaken. Yet, she knew that, perhaps, it should've shaken her more. She had passed by the faces of a thousand dead people: Parrench and Eskandr alike. She had witnessed human suffering on a scale she had not imagined possible over the past twenty-five hours. Yet, all that hovered inside of her, aside from those moments when she forced herself to truly think, was the dull sense that it was a horrific thing and that she should've felt something more strongly, done something or said something more. That her husband had always felt more deeply than most was one of his greater qualities: one of those that made him a good king as opposed to simply another greedy man on a throne. Now, it was breaking him, though. "My love -" she began, and his eyes snapped to her, red-rimmed. "And Echeran," he grated, "why does he empower the swords of those butchers, those murderous heathen against us? Why are they our equals: they who give him nothing while we give him everything!?" His mouth formed a hard bitter line. "Dami, how were we so stupid? Truly, it was our doing. You took no hand here." He shook his head. "For years, you haven't. For years, we've been stupid."

"Arcel, my king, please." She reached out to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder. It rested there, cold and alone for some time, while he stared up at those five benevolent faces that gazed down from the woodwork in this little alcove of their chambers. Eleanor glanced their way too, an anxiety building in her chest. Then, his hand reached up and enfolded hers. His eyes turned her way as he brought it to his lips and kissed it. His voice was calm and steady and he looked her in the eyes. "The gods will not favour us," he said softly. "They created all people: those who recognize them and those who don't."

"This is true," she confirmed, and he nodded at her response.

"The Gods will not save us," he said. "They have given us the tools to do that ourselves, and we will fail or succeed on our own merits."

"They may yet intercede, my love." She had to believe it. She had seen it during the fight, after all, with Arnaud, with Camille, in her own fight against Sweyn. "There remains -"

"We cannot rely on that," he said firmly. "We cannot beat swords and magic with trust and prayer, just as we cannot crush or inspire the minds of men with mere force alone."

Absently, Eleanor made the Sign of the Pentad. Arcel followed her after a moment and they rose. "So what is it that you propose?" she asked as they walked, both intrigued and concerned.

He stood there in profile on the other side of the bed that they shared. Eleanor bent down to peel back the covers and found his eyes upon her once more. "On the morrow, I will have my best gathered in the Archbishop's residence. If we cannot put the love of the Gods into these Eskandr, then we shall instead instill the fear."

𝅘𝅥𝅮 The Red Table, Notre Dame de la Liberté

Last night, they had burned as many of the bodies as they could. The raspy smell of smoke and the sweet stench of cooking flesh had filled the senses of all those who stayed within Relouse. Flames had danced in the darkness and shadows against the city walls, yet Arcel had found sleep despite it.

Talit and some of her yasoi had left with the dawn, hoping to reach the next town by nightfall. Sir Rodric of Lindermetz, who had been such a force of nature during the fighting, was also preparing to depart, and so he was not present. Otherwise, the group that now gathered around the enormous red table in the Archbishop's residence was perhaps the greatest collection of storied warriors to gather in a single place since the collapse of the empire a century and half ago.

Arcel took his place at the table as they gathered - not at the head, for it was round - and stood. "I thank all of you for attending, as I thank the almighty Pentad for sparing you in the terrible clash of two days prior. I was... greatly relieved to find your names among the register of the living." His eyes scanned the room, meeting everyone else's, one by one, and he leaned forward, posting his hands on the tabletop which was covered with maps and models. "You are here because each of you possesses skills that have proven hugely useful in the fight so far and I know will continue to prove useful in the fight to come." He paused to let his words sink in. "Relouse yet stands, and I thank the Gods for that, but this is no complete victory. We must fight the Eskandr now, on our own soil, and I pray for Echeran's blessings upon us all. Yet, it occurs to me," he continued, standing and clasping his hands behind his back, "that we cannot merely defend. These Eskandr are brutes. They refuse to be led into the light through peaceful means, they seek relentlessly after our land on their own terms and are more than willing to kill our people for it. What is the one thing that we can count on such savages to understand?"

"Force," Eleanor offered quietly, from opposite him. Arcel nodded. "We must not remain solely on the defensive. Certainly, we shall dispatch forces, under our ablest commanders" - Comte de Montblaise was conspicuously absent - "to hunt down the forces that, even now, I have been told, are splitting apart and ravaging the countryside. But we shall do more." He leaned forward again, gaze steely and unrelenting. "It is with a heavy heart that I say this, for it was always my hope that this war could be conducted in a way that would not draw the ire of Oraphe, but that has proven a fool's dream. The fear, the suffering, and the deprivation visited upon our people, we must return to our enemies. We must strike at them as a great beast when struck and harried enough by a lesser one. You twenty-five are gathered here this day because I believe that you are the right people to lead such efforts." The blood red shadow of Aun-Ipte's rose fell upon him from the great stained glass window behind. "We shall stab into the very heart of Eskand and deal them a blow to break their spirit."






Act One: Fin.____ __ _ _

- next -
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds_________ __ __ _ _
Served Cold // Tall Trees and Long Shadows // Fields of Fire

In O R I F L A M M E → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Just a brief notice that, following today's first voice chat, we're holding a revote. Please vote here.
In O R I F L A M M E → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _

Potential Storylines_________ __ __ _ _

With our fifth and final chapter of the opening act, The Defense of Relouse, the first engagement of the Parrench-Eskandr War will come to a close. Next up, the cast that we brought together will spread out to the seven winds as numerous subplots unfold. Welcome to Act Two, Scattered to the Winds! Sadly, we won't be able to play through every single significant event that'll take place. As a result, three or potentially four of these plotlines and locations will be chosen for active storytelling involving our characters. The remainder will happen 'off screen', so to speak. Please vote for your favourites using the google form at the bottom of this post and feel free to let me know and discuss matters in the chat below or on discord.


1) War Upon the Sea: With much of Eskand's seaborne forces beached in Parrence, La Marine Royale strikes against Eskandr and Kressian shipping, fishing, and trade, hoping to cripple their economy, food supply, and reduce morale on the home front. The Eskandr gather what forces they can in a desperate bid to fight back. However, their conflict may end up stirring the interest of a third faction from neutrality.

2) Best Served Cold: Handpicked elements of La Grande Armée undertake a dangerous and secretive mission into the very heart of Eskand: a lightning raid upon the capital of Meldheim itself. Their targets: the Kongesalan (Hall of Kings) and the Grøntempel (Green Temple). If Parrence bleeds red, Eskand shall bleed with them. Of course, the Eskandr will be busy with plans of their own and the selection of new members of the Æresvaktr.

3) Tall Trees and Long Shadows: Hoping to flip some of the Parrench yasoi, or at least incentivize them to remain neutral, the Eskandr send their yasoi agents to the largest of yasoi settlements in the region, Loriindton, to spy, meet up with sympathizers, and stir the pot. The Parrench send theirs to stop this group.

4) Uncertain Allies: Wishing to take Lindermetz out of the war and install King Otto's pagan cousin Alfric on the throne, the Eskandr have asked their Kressian allies to send a diplomatic mission. In truth, this will act as cover for a team of assassins. The Parrench and Lindermen, however, have their suspicions and have prepared a clandestine force of their own.

5) Fields of Fire: The Great Heathen Army has split into five separate forces, and these now raid and pillage across southern Parrence. Elements of the Grande Armée pursue, but the Eskandr are not eager to engage. Finally, however, by the Convent of Sainte Genevieve près du Lac, the Parrench spring their trap. But is it truly they who have been trapped instead?

6) The Star Chamber: Back in the capital of Solenne, the less than stellar performance of the Grande Armée is much discussed and political unrest and intrigue waits in the wings. How will the nation hold itself together and rally behind its king? As a member of that court or the delegation from the front, that's entirely up to you.

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In The Hourglass Order → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

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The clock struck five and, across San Agustín de las Arenas, it happened. Four of the six Internal Guards, called 'owls' by the residents, collapsed where they stood: two rendered unconscious by internal chemical spells, one by a hard knock to the head, and another - notorious for his abuses of the Tethered - by having his neck slit. The remaining two slept in their rooms, off shift and having been made asleep for... much longer than was natural.

Cardinals at their posts found themselves overwhelmed by lesser Afortunado - half-trained boys and girls - but overwhelmed nonetheless, for such is the powerful advantage bestowed by the Gift. A couple tried to fight and were subdued. One took flight through the hedgerows and flowerbeds of the gardens and was unceremoniously knocked out mere feet from the Side Gate. Others protested with words, recognizing resistance as futile. Many were, in fact, already loyal to Don Escarra and this was mere formality. They nodded to the Tethered and continued to guard, in some cases turning their attention on those less cooperative.


When he returned, the kids appeared to be occupied with whatever new game Ayla came up with to distract them. Ayla and Jocasta were whispering worriedly to each other, leading him to approach the two and squeeze into the conversation.

When Ayla mentioned the others, Yalen looked at Jocasta and spoke in a hushed tone. "That magic you use. The... space-time stuff? Can you use it to observe people remotely?"

Jocasta blinked. "We... can, in theory. I haven't really mastered the art of it, though." She turned to Ayla. "And I suppose we could try to check in on the others with it." She rolled off to the side, then, a bit away from the swimming area, and furrowed her brow in concentration. Around her moved the fabric of space and time. Jocasta reached out for it, finding some of its threads, and started to reel them in. People, long gone, and even glimmers of those yet to come flashed past too quickly to make sense of them. Stone smoothed and cracked with age and wear. Trees grew, sands shifted, voices came and went.

Then, she was in the present and searching. Dully, it occurred to her that she'd forgotten to ask 'who' Yalen had wanted to observe, and she could not do it now, so intense was her concentration. She tried focusing in on the various places visually, without tearing a hole in the fabric so that she could move through to them, but it was hard, and she lost it after a moment. Jocasta blinked and shook her head, taking in and releasing a deep breath. "I fear it is not easy to look without opening a physical path and, in any case, I forgot to ask you who you'd intended to look in upon." She shrugged in apology. "We can always just reach out and sense their energies, too."

It bothered the Djamantese, though, that she could not do it. That was a skill that she would have to practice: practice until she could master it.

Yalen scratched his head nervously. "Ah, the thought merely occurred to me since Ayla showed concern for Zarina and Kaspar. We can indeed check to see if they're still alive from here, but I see there is no way to gauge the success of their mission without going there in person..."

The young priest did not have much of a respite, however. No sooner had he started to turn away than Rita was there. "Mistuh Yawen?" she prodded, tugging on his sleeve. "That wasn't juss a show, was it?" Her face was earnest and implacable. At his momentary discomfiture, she decided to provide more evidence. "Caretaker Manazes nevuh does shows fow us." She shook her head adamantly. Almost as if to underscore the loss of innocence, the sky chose that moment to open up, and the rain went quickly from a few stray drops to a downpour.

Yet, for all that Yalen found himself having to offer a mea culpa or a very convincing lie, things had come together everywhere else. The old regime fell as surely as the rain did, though precisely what shape its replacement would take remained as yet undetermined. For now, Head Ranger Escarra took Warden Ortega's place in the big chair. That he had killed Tavio was revealed only to a select few, and with mixed reactions. The remainder believed him locked in the securest part of the dungeon beneath the Red Tower. Nonetheless, Escarra remained nominally in charge.

There was much to do. All evidence of the uprising was removed, aside from its organizational results: blood scrubbed from tiles, clothes laundered, wounds bound, and the bodies of three staff who had died for various reasons sent to the crematorium along with that of one 'zero' who had breathed his last as the revolution succeeded in freeing his people.

The Tethered who had formerly assisted in bookkeeping now took over the posts of those who they'd worked for. Many of the guards who remained found little change aside from the hovering threat of the Royal Sand Wyrm, maddened by an aberration, lurking somewhere in the desert. The residents swept the endless wastes, in every direction, for hours each day with the Gift. Patrols were sent out. Yet, while it entered their senses from time to time, at the edge of their range, it had not yet approached the Refuge. The place remained true to its name, for the time being, for once.

Two days passed like this, but they were not idle ones. A portal was opened on the first to Ersand'Enise and, with Hugo's silent approval, Ysilla, fallen strangely ill, went home. Three new faces replaced her, and then more familiar ones. The recent arrivals were brought up to speed quickly and then the majority of the students set about training the Tethered to use the mana in their blood and not just to suffer from it. They lived, slept, and worked amongst them under the desert sun. The wyrm would come, sooner more likely than later, and they would need to be ready.

The third day of freedom at San Agustín de las Arenas dawned cool and windy, but it dawned with news. "Jocasta! Jocasta!" shouted Laëlle, hammering on her door. The older girl rolled over in bed and hoisted herself out of it with the Gift. "What is it?" she demanded, "to be waking me up as Ipte is barely over!" She floated over to the door and opened it.

The lord of this region, and solidly a quarter of all Torragon, was on his way. His messenger was nearing the gate and a host of some four thousand soldiers would soon follow: an apparition from the sands, but one all too real. The night guards, ebbing in energy and attention at this hour, had sensed them. This, then, must be Duque Huarcan Frannemas - El Patrón - who they had received furtive warnings about. Yet for all of these, his agenda and his purpose remained variables that they could not truly account for. He would likely not be pleased.

Still worn out from two days of using the full extent of her magic to physically restructure every aspect of the Refuge that created barriers for the non-ambulant, Jocasta stretched and rolled her neck. This was it, then: the reckoning, or at least one of two. "Go tell the others, Laëlle: students, Afortunado, Escarra, and Amanda." She was already getting herself ready, mind racing with scenarios and ideas. "Tell them to be on the staff patio overlooking the Great Bath by... 1:00 Shune, no exceptions." She was already in her day dress. Jocasta allowed herself to settle into her wheeled-chair. "I will meet them there. Time is of the essence."

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