Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

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♫

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There had been a feast, of sorts. Everyone had attended. Classa was, unsurprisingly, one of the stars, for the little centaur girl had charmed all by her plucky precociousness and, later, her levelheaded maturity. She was showered with gifts and well-wishes, and she thanked everyone sincerely, but there was a soberness about her now that one would not expect from a child. She was happy that they'd won, but she was also uncanny, in a sense, and... she knew it.

“I think, after all this,” she admitted to Tku and Zarina, “I'd kinda just like to be... a kid, again.” She shrugged awkwardly. “I'll be a grownup someday and I'll have years for that, but I'll never be a kid again. It was a condition I put on my wish before. I hope it can go back.”

A good number of hearts were broken by the admission. Classa had, in a sense, sacrificed her childhood so that An Zenui might stand. Among them was Jascuan, and he sat mostly in silence, his ears flicking, once in a while, as he took in his surroundings and the warmth of them, drifting in and out of sleep. In truth, at his advanced age, the happenings of the past few days had taken almost everything out of him, but all was... if not exactly right, then at least far better than it had been in his lifetime. There was genuine hope that things might change. The city had been damaged but not destroyed. Hundreds had died, but tens of thousands had lived. Here, in the winter of his life, the great fight he had prepared a lifetime for had finally happened and, if he had not played the starring role, he had at least played his part.

Fiske, promising if fractious young man that he was, had played a role too and, during one of Jascuan's brief moments of wakefulness, the pair exchanged some teasing words. “I am too old and tired,” he replied. “You would win.” He reached out and handed the boy a small, folded paper. On it was a unique insignia: one Fiske may have seen before in passing, but not quite recognized. “On the night of five moons, go to the shelter on the Tip. Show this to the person you will meet there and your training might continue.”

Soon after, he drifted off once again. He was at peace with it: with al of it. The stuzets were finally free, the corruption at least partly purged from society, and justice of the blade delivered to those who had done evil. He had no fight left and it was just as well that none was needed anymore. His children were safe and happy, their futures secured. His eldest would be taking over the farm in good order. His youngest was a woman grown and would be heading to the great school across the ocean with her new friends. Josca would go with her for a time to help with the adjustment. It was, he thought, feeling the warm rays of the setting sun on his skin, a happy ending.

Benedetto, too, was something of a removed figure, until Ayla came to speak with him, fresh off of a conversation with Samaxi and her elder brothers. To her surprise, perhaps, he hugged her back, and tightly. "Thank you, Ayla, for your help and..." He trailed off for a second. "Never stop being good, okay?" the separated. "Never stop being a light for other people. You have more power that way than you ever will by destroying. It took me ten years in the wilderness of the past to learn that, but you got me started on that path." He swallowed and his face became pinched. His eyes shone and he took a couple of deep breaths. "Fuck.... this wasn't supposed to be hard. I wasn't supposed to care."

Then, Fiske was apologizing to him. Benny shook his head. "Fiskel, you little shit." He sighed. "I've done worse - way worse, for reasons less pure." He shrugged. "Whatever's in your past that makes you angry, I hope you get to the bottom of it. I hope you figure it out." Benny squeezed his shoulder, perhaps fondly, but always a little too hard.

Desmond had struggled with his own goodbyes, and Benedetto knew it well. The sun was turning fat and golden as it edged toward the horizon, and it began to strike everyone that this was it: this was goodbye. Stuzéts - now calling themselves sirui hé - had gathered first by the tens, and then by the hundreds. Nearly all who had called An Zenui home had decided to depart. The seven children of Sazan-Betai and Stela-Zomé were among them, old enough to understand what was happening but too young to comprehend it. Desmond took a moment with their parents, and both embraced him with firm handshakes and greatful thank yous, for the distant past that they were headed towards was a strange and uncertain place, and his gifts would surely help them survive. From behind her mother, Loci gazed up at him evaluatively, eyes flicking towards the burrito and the shotgun, before she decided to scamper away.

Cazelui hugged him deeply. "I will... remember to turn the safety off before shooting," she laugh-cried. "And I will never forget you. Thank you for... showing us: for saving us." Poto-Mits came to embrace him as well, and the three sirrahi Desmond and Tku had taken the fall for earlier come to thank him and, really, all of the others. They had freed themselves, but these eight foreigners had been the spark for it all. Finally, came Egosto-Alguo, and he settled the hat atop his head. He had said nothing during his interrogation. He had remained silent. Now, he had the hat. He nodded a thanks and gave Desmond his word that this was how it was always meant to be.

Then, as the sun sat atop the horizon like a great, overripe peach, there came a portal. It sparkled and swirled. Benedetto stood beside it. He had already said his goodbyes to Zarina, to Ayla, to Marceline, Fiske, Yansee, and Evander. He and Desmond eyed each other for a moment, for they were both old friends and old rivals at this point: more similar than either would ever have wanted to admit. "Keep fighting the fight, Desmond." It was all he could manage. He was, even now, having his doubts about the necessity of the course he had chosen. "Read about me in your history books, okay?"

He turned to the sirui hé. "You all know what comes next," he announced. Their goodbyes were finished. Many took last, anxious looks back out at their home: the only one they'd ever known. Final, rushed goodbyes were spared for the humans and cazenax they would be leaving behind. "It's time for us to go." But, then there came something unexpected. Evander stepped forward. "I think I'm going to go with you, actually: just for a little. Just for a year, to help you get settled." He shook his head. "Can't leave you with just Benny here, can I?"

At least a couple others tried to dissuade him, but most accepted it. He was implacable, as he had always been. Instead, they said unexpected goodbyes. In theory, he would return. In practice, who could say? Life is the experience of the unexpected, after all. One by one, they disappeared: Egosto-Alguo, leading them through, Poto-Mits and Cazelui, Stela and Sazan shepherding the kids along. Then, finally, Evander and Benedetto. All at once, the portal wavered and winked out of existence and it was dark and cooling. Zarina began to feel her expanded form deflating. Marceline and Tennaxi wrapped shivering arms around themselves.

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♫

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Then, a new portal appeared. From it emerged Karan Harrachora, Arch-Zeno of Ersand'Enise. He regarded them for a moment, evaluatively, before nodding. "In one week, you did more good for the world than most people do in a lifetime," he said simply, a mysterious pouch hanging from his hip. The Cazenax watched warily before easing. Classa eyed the strange man with suspicion, her more childlike nature seeming to have returned, as if the effects of her wish had worn off now that its paramount lesson was learned. "Come with me now, back home." He smiled in faint satisfaction, taking a deep breath of the desert air through his nostrils. His gaze fell upon Tennaxi, Samaxi, and Yansee. "Oh, and you too, or... you three," he joked. "You show much promise: far too much to be anywhere else but at Ersand'Enise."

The portal yawned open. Classa hugged Zarina and Tku one last time before Zox picked her up and held her as if she was a little doll. He bid farewells of his own: brief but meaningful, while Naxos chattered on, dabbing tears with a kerchief. Josca, Buinats, Cozoban, and Cozezast did not have anything too longing to say. They would be there in a couple of weeks for the Trials. Jascuan, the old man who had started it all, slept peacefully as they said goodbye.

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Primitive, Act Four: Fin.

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The Hourglass Order

Extra post. Ignore... for now.

The Hourglass Order

New NPCs

Ciro Volta

C I R O V O L T A

“Love shows itself more in adversity than in prosperity; as light does, which shines most where the place is darkest.”
17 | Male | Human | Revidia | Merchant | RAS: 7.95 (Manas: 126) | Worldbinder

P E R S O N A L

❖ [ Pronouns ] - He / Him
❖ [ Honorifics: ] - Biro, Master, Mister.
❖ [ Nicknames: ] - "Acco" or "Accorto"
❖ [ Titles: ] - Biro of the Ersand'Enise Academy of Thaumaturgy.
❖ [ Relationship Status: ] - Yes.
❖ [ Character Alignment ] - Lawful Neutral.
❖ [ Brief Introduction: ]

♫ "My boy: flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,
You enter our world this day: a small, red, crying thing.
It is a place of hardship and want; of struggle and peril.
Yet, I promise you that it is also beautiful.
I promise that your mother and I would not have brought you here
If there was not wonder and love and opportunity for you to find.
You are no king, my little one. You bear no title before your name: Ciro.
It means 'sun', for that is what you are to us.
Your ancestors achieved no great glory in battle, flew no flags, slew no dragons.
They were farmers. They were cloth sellers. They went to markets. They conquered oceans and
They built an empire, Ciro: an empire of their own, spanning the globe over,
And they did it without bloodshed. They were clever. They were shrewd. But they were good.
This is the legacy that has passed to me and, someday, it will pass to you.
I love you, my son, even though I will not often say it as you grow,
For a man must be hard. He must provide and protect. He must venture and he must seek
And he may show no weakness, except in these rare moments, ones like this.
Then, I think, it is alright.
I will be there, ever at your back, I promise, to hold you up when you stumble,
To catch you when you fall. Until, one day, it will be your turn to catch me.
Your mother and I: we are so excited. We can't wait to see what you become."

♫ Ciro was born in the city of Cantativa into the Volta family: among Revidia's most prominent merchants and, more recently, bankers. As the eldest of three children, he was destined to inherit the family concern and a position of significant power and authority within Revidian society. His mother, Vittoria, was a fourth daughter from the noble house of Aldebrandi and, from her, he inherited substantial power in the Gift.

His early years were simple and idyllic, no different from those of any other wealthy young heir of a major merchant concern: His education entrusted to some of the brightest minds in the nation, long idyllic dorrads and rezains in the vineyards and olive groves of the family villa at Montignano, playing hide and seek with his sisters and his dog Grasso. His father, Cosimo Volta, tended to the family's flourishing business along with his brothers and cousins and, increasingly, affairs of state. Ciro is too young to remember the dark days of conflict during the Joruban Revolution. He grew up in its aftermath, as a newly assertive Revidia sought to stake for itself a greater place on the world stage and the policies of Prospero Malatesta l'Anguilla increasingly shaped its society. His father went from supporter to opponent of the Malatesta regime after the infamous 'Betrayal at Sant'Albertino' where he ultimately took the part of the nobility in continuing to bar members of the merchant class for ascending to the position of Doge.

Yet, political setbacks aside, the family continued to flourish and, even more so, Revidia. Ciro manifested his first magic and, if he was not quite a prodigy, he was good: better than his parents had dared hope for. Soon, his sisters Selena and Lucrezia followed him and he began spending his afternoons, when he was not being tutored rigorously in arithmetic, the natural sciences, oration, linguistics, or the thaumaturgical arts, with his father, familiarizing himself with the globe-spanning concern that he was one day to head.

At first, it was daunting: decisions that affected so many lives in the hands of one person. It did not seem a good thing. It did not seem... right. And yet, someone had to do it. That responsibility fell to the merchant class. It fell to him, and to do it with greater care and godliness than the uninformed might. This was his place in society, as designed by Shune, the Learner, and Dami, the Judge. He settled into the role with the grace and poise his family had known he would. His father took him aside and it was here that he embraced his son and handed to a fourteen-year-old Ciro the note he had written on the day of the boy's birth. All was well. It was smooth sailing on a calm sea.

Yet, the currents of state move quickly in Revidia and, often, they are treacherous. Within the halls of government, Cosimo was being groomed as a rival to the doge himself. He was not so important as to be the only one, but nonetheless, it was true. As his time investment in the company necessarily decreased, his cousin Jacopo stepped into many of the positions he had held. While he continued to take Ciro through his weekly rounds, grooming him for the position he was to inherit, they were now accompanied by his own sons.

Then, one day, his father simply didn't return home from a voyage to Civitalunga. His ship, the grand galleon Impressa d'Oro had foundered in a storm off of Punto di San Michele. Yet, the Impressa was a sturdy ship and the storm had, by all reports, not been that bad. Ciro was no fool. His father: that lion of a man, who had spoken truth to power, who had always kept the Gods, who had conducted his business with decency and compassion... he had been murdered, either by the doge or by Jacopo. Why not both? For one hour, he locked himself in his room and he wept bitterly, clutching the note he had been given to his heart and swearing to do right by it. Then, he emerged, two years short of his majority, and made peace with his father's killers. It sickened him deep down where he would show nobody, for a man must be hard, but this was the Revidian way. He embraced cousin Jacopo and kissed him on both cheeks. He took his father's place in the Assembly of the Illustrious Republic and shook hands with l'Anguilla, assuring the doge of his continuing loyalty and support.

Ciro was not idle, however. He used what power he had to place Jacopo in direct charge of their textile business. It had once been their mainstay and was, in theory, an immensely influential position, but it was not profitable. His sons Antonio and Lorenzo were sent to distant ports as regional heads and, when the time came, suitable accidents arranged for them. Business withers if it is conducted only with coin, however, and he had learned this well. He enrolled in Ersand'Enise and, when he received the summons back home, for the funeral of his cousins, he had his servant, Gordo, bring him a bitter glass of wine. He sipped it in silence and darkness before setting his affairs in order and departing the next morning.

He took old Jacopo in his arms and consoled him, for the man had loved his sons almost as much as he had loved himself. Then, he let him fall into his cups and continue ruining the family's textile business. He sent the Dieci Volti some money to enhance the process.

During the cold, bitter hundri of DZ55, a meeting of the directors of the Compagnia de la Volta was convened and a vote was held. Ciro traveled not by portal, for a year at the academy had taught him that there was something peculiar about his manas: they resisted magics of space and time. They closed off the hungering VOID. He told nobody, for it was a useful if inconvenient power and he was already honing his use of it. He merely booked passage on one ship and then embarked upon another. The first one sank. The second did not. It was only late and he arrived to find Jacopo delivering something of a teary-eyed eulogy for that 'poor, cursed family'. Ciro said nothing, for nothing strengthens authority so much as silence. Instead, Jacopo was removed from his position. Cosimo's loyalists still held a bare majority and Ciro had treated Jacopo's people well enough that they would rather the business flourish under someone who was not 'their man' than one who was both inept and treacherous. Prospero Malatesta sent him a personal letter of congratulations and was eager to talk business with him when he arrived in Avincia. They spent two hours in a rosebush-filled courtyard - two circling mongooses - feeling each other out before parting with something of an understanding. Ciro returned to Montignano to a meal of calamari, pheasant, and fine breads from his mother. He, she, and his sisters sat by candlelight in the villa and made plans for the future.

It wasn't for very long, however. Ciro needed to return to the academy of thaumaturgy, where many interesting people were doing interesting things. There are four months left until he reaches his majority and formally takes control of the Compagnia. Tell me: are you someone interesting? He would love to know.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

❖ [ Eyes: ] - Blue-Green.
❖ [ Hair: ] - Black, Wavy
❖ [ Skin Tone: ] - Fitzpatrick type II.
❖ [ Height: ] - 5ft 9in / 177cm.
❖ [ Weight: ] - 150lb / 68kg.
❖ [ Physique: ] - Athletic.
❖ [ Facial Features: ] - Sharp features, substantial brows
❖ [ Physical Quirks: ] - None.
❖ [ Distinctive Features: ] - Birthmark on his left forearm shaped a bit like a Pentact.
❖ [ Apparel & Accessories: ] - A fine pocketwatch with a hidden compartment, a copy of the note his father left him.

Ciro dresses well, but never ostentatiously. He takes pride in his appearance and makes no attempts at false humility over his success and his station. His clothing is functional and always tailored to fit the situation and, while he has people to dress him, he has studied fashions and styles to the point where he can make his own decisions and, more importantly, will know if they're misleading him.

Beyond clothing, Ciro is a handsome young man, with bright, keen green-blue (or is blue-green?) eyes, wavy black hair kept at a respectable length, and sharp features. He is lean and athletic, with visible muscular definition but nothing overstated. Magic, at the end of the day, is his weapon of choice, and his body - healthy and well cared for - an instrument to deliver it.

T H E G I F T

❖ [ Magnetic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Arcane: Pyromancy, Illusion ] – [ IV. Journeyman ]
❖ [ Binding: Healing, Creation ] – [ III. Adept ]
❖ [ Chemical: Deceptive, Disruptive ] – [ IV. Journeyman ]
❖ [ Kinetic: Enhancement, Gravitational ] – [ IV. Journeyman ]

❖ [ Atomic Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Blood Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Temporal Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Dark Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Command: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Primordial: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]

Hex Codes: colour=FFE4C4

Johann Steinbauer

J O H A N N S T E I N B A U E R

V O N O S T E R M A R K - K A R N H O L D T

"Discovery is the spice of life."

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19 | Male | Kerreman | Noble | 8.75

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ A F F A B L E ] _{dispassionate}
❖ [ H U M O R O U S ] _secretive
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ] _utilitarian
❖ [ G E N E R O U S ] _selfish
❖ [ E A S Y G O I N G ] _twisted

Everybody loves Johann - at least, anyone who's not a complete stick in the mud. This rather portly Kerreman lad is famous for frequenting the bars, pool halls, study halls, and biergärtens of Ersand'Enise. He can often be found at the library, collaborating academically with his fellow students, at the bank, managing his family's business ventures, or at the auction house, bidding on seemingly random items of interest. Whatever he might be up to, however, Johann never forgets his friends, classmates, acquaintances, and... well, just about anybody. One can be certain that, whatever he purchases, most of it will be for others, for it is Johann's foremost philosophy that something enjoyed alone is not truly enjoyed. So, he is always the one to buy an extra round for everyone in the bar, to organize the study session, to share his notes, to pay for dinner. He has the money, after all, and spending it on others is an investment in their happiness. Nothing makes him happier than being around people who want to be around him in return. The most basic litmus test for many biros on whether someone is a decent friend or not is whether they like Johann. Anyone who doesn't, clearly has no appreciation for what makes someone good.

Of course, most of this is a complete fabrication. Beneath his affable surface, Johann is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Driven by an obsessive need to discern the secrets of the human and humanoid body and develop complete mastery over it, he regularly engages in the most inhumane and sordid of experimentation. This is a strictly-kept secret, with even the school authorities unaware of either the experiments or their originator. Johann, meanwhile, has little use for social convention, tradition, or politics. They are merely tools that he employs and levers that he pulls to further his ends. Skillfully, he uses his money, raw magical power, and burgeoning reputation as insurance to guarantee that nobody could possibly believe the truth were someone to ever leak it. Someday, he knows, he will change the world, and a glorious day it will be. For the time being, sacrifices must be made - just not his.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

An absolutely enormous young man, in both height and especially heft, Johann is notable for his bright red hair, sharp little beard, and jolly face, which often wears a mischievous smirk. There are times when something else seems to flash through his smiling brown eyes, but it must just be a trick of the light. He is friendly to a fault.

His clothing is all custom-tailored, a necessity for one of his size and wealth, and reflects the latter with its fine materials and cut in addition to a colourful, adventurous palette that reflects his open, fun, and gregarious nature. This young Kerreman is very self-aware and definitely the sort to lean into his reputation and appearance. If he isn't the handsome leading man, then he's the funny friendly fat guy who everyone likes. Things are easier that way anyhow: many more surface friendships and few of the deeper entanglements that can be so problematic.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ K E R R E M A N ] natively
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] fluently
❖ [ H U U L I S C H ] fluently
❖ [ P E R R E N C H ] fluently
❖ [ R E V I D I A N ] semi-fluently
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] basically

T H E G I F T

Blueblood, Copycat

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 4 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 0 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 4
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] 3 ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] ?
❖ [ C H E M I C A L ] 5 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Johann is, ultimately, a terrifying force of nature with the Gift, and his manas' ability to copy spells renders him even more potent. However, his greatest weapon is his mind and his ability to manipulate people. Unsurprisingly, his magic is tailored to fit this skillset. While he can certainly heal competently, he focuses more on fleshcrafting, generation, and regeneration. His use of Chemical and Magnetic magics is specialized in their biomanipulative aspects with some competency in illusion, corrosives, toxins, and energy. For the most part, however, he passes himself off as a healer, transmuter, lightning mage, and explosive chemist, perfectly competent, but not exceptional.

Finally, his massive size proves a boon with magic, giving him a capacity well in excess of most other people. In a pinch, he can liquidate his own energy-rich fat reserves for a sudden burst of power. This is only a last resort, as is - to some extent - combat itself. The best way to win is to never have to fight, or at least to never have to fight anyone who has a chance against you. When nobody's looking, Johann is rather good at punching down.

B A C K G R O U N D

He should’ve been born a first son. Alas, he was not. While his eldest sister Sybille is now Duchess of Lindermetz and in line to be queen consort, and his elder brother Klaus stands to inherit the duchy upon their father’s passing, little but a name and some share of his family’s substantial wealth is left to Johann, the pudgy little second son. The less that is spoken of his pompous godly younger brother Wilhelm and simpleminded sister Ulrike, the better.

From the time that he was old enough to understand that he was the spare and not the heir, Johann alternated between bitterness and some misplaced desperation to prove himself. Alas, for all that he was warm and kind - qualities uncharacteristic of high Kerreman nobility - Markgraf Klaus was a man of rules and principles, and his dictated that, while Johann was to be loved and provided for, he was not to inherit unless some calamity befell his brother. The ancient rules and the ancient line of Ostermark-Thandau were not to be disturbed or altered in any manner.

Yet, even warmth and care can only extend so far when he who has taken it upon himself to provide them is rarely present. The duties of Klaus - the elder Klaus, that was - kept him away from the family estate for months on end and, if he was a welcome presence to his wife and children, he was also set apart from them. Johann was left, by and large, to his tutors and his own devices.

While Sybille grew into a graceful and intelligent young woman, strong in body, mind, and magic, Klaus spent most of his time outdoors, hunting, riding, playing sports and wargames. Johann preferred books. He was too small to keep up with his vigorous older brother, and so he ate and he ate. Wilhelm was always his mother’s creature, much concerned with following her around, going to worship, and doting on feebleminded Ulrike. Before long, as his siblings went off to Ersand’Enise, the second son was left master of the house, at least in theory. In practice, he was given the small town of Thandau to administer as he saw fit.

His Gift had begun to manifest itself and, by the age of twelve, clever and intelligent Johann was finding ways to use it around the estate and the town. When he was not eating - for it had become a custom of his and his appetite was great - he was studying or at work on some new scheme to improve irrigation in the orchards, reorganize the tax records, reduce livestock loss, or incentivize the peasants to train at arms or send their sons and daughters to school. He shuddered to think that so many were illiterate and most showed little interest in reading or learning. A life without books was an unthinkable thing to him.

Around this time, he also began to develop the usual urges that a young man might at such an age. There was Katherine, daughter of one of the junkers. She was pretty and how he liked to look at her sometimes, but she was dumb. There was Alena, of Kurlich-Karnholdt, who was smart and friendly, but homely and oh-so traditional. Then, there were the many pretty girls about town, like Wilma, Verena, Therese, and Zoe. They fluttered around in their dorrad dresses, always leaning into each other, whispering and giggling as they carried baskets or sacks.

Finally, there was Margerethe, the miller’s daughter, but he knew to avoid her for the difference in their station. This, too, he found paradoxical. Perhaps the body of society needed to be organized, with each part serving its purpose, but there were some people who were clearly ill-suited for their stations or better suited for others. She was bright and beautiful and witty and would just as easily have made a duchess as a miller’s daughter. Johann learned when her father was there and when he was not and he made a point of bringing grain down or running an inspection or some other errand whenever he could. She always seemed to have a grin or a blush when he came around and he began dressing better. Whenever he saw her with the other girls, she would glance his way quickly before turning to them and whispering in hushed, excited tones. He knew that he was not handsome, but Klaus had told him well enough what it meant when girls did that.

Over the course of that dorrad and early rezain, Johann redoubled his studies and the work that he undertook on his family’s behalf. While Klaus was busy drinking and bedding women and casting fireballs at Ersand’Enise, Johann was actively bettering the duchy of Ostermark-Thandau. Often, he would come by Margerethe’s house and bring some book to share with her. He had extra food prepared and would carry it over in a basket so that she might eat like the duchess she should’ve been. Over the warm months, they spent a great many hours together. She confided in him that he was her dearest friend. He learned every bit of gossip about town and her opinions on everyone. Her magic was not so great, but he taught her how to use what she had.

Finally, he received news that, two days hence, his father was to return from an absence of some six months, and with momentous news. Johann burned with indecision. He could make his stand here: appeal to his father’s sense of fairness and desire to better the duchy’s position, and present himself as the clear heir, or he could embrace his insignificance and ask that he might be able to court Margerethe after all, as he was only a second son. It was late in rezain and the leaves were falling in earnest when he went to her to ask for her counsel and confess his feelings. He had taken care to make the moment special: a picnic in a field beneath a great oak tree, her favourite book, cake, and candles.

He left the picnic with cake on his face, having fallen forward when she flinched away from his kiss. He was a friend, a dear friend, she’d insisted, but it was foolish for them to be together. He’d suggested the elope, cheeks burning with shame and anxiety as he’d wiped the icing away, but then she’d been honest: she didn’t love him. She didn’t want to lie to him and use him for his money or station, but she felt no stirring inside of her. Johann had left her with the picnic, left her to clean it up, and walked away. It seemed that his course had been set. He was not beautiful, but he knew, at least, that he was effective.

He met his father on the road, having commandeered one of the grain wagons for the job, as he was not a good rider. There, he regaled the elder Steinbauer with the many great things he had achieved during those six months. He built up towards his case for inheriting the estate, for how much good he could do, and the evidence was all around them as they made their way through Thandau.

It was no longer theirs. Markgraf Klaus had been away arranging the marriage of Sybille to Prince Freidrich and Thandau was part of the dowry. He had, further, arranged for Klaus’ marriage to homely Alena and acquired Karnholdt in the deal. Johann’s work had been for nothing: a waste of resources better spent elsewhere. Furthermore, he had been busy stuffing his face, embarrassing himself about town, and being seen scandalously with a local girl. One who doesn’t even love me, the boy had thought. He was to attend Ersand’Enise himself in three years time, he was to learn, to make social connections, and to bring no further disrepute upon his family. Then, he was to take his place. He could see the wavering in his father’s bearing, hear it - ever so slightly - in his voice. There was none from Johann. He accepted the rebuke in humble good humour and vowed to do better. If he became a bit dissolute afterwards, a bit of a merry, feckless drinker and jolly do-nothing, it was only what was expected of him anyhow. He must never outshine his brother. He must never aspire to more.

Yet, he does.

M O T I V A T I O N

Johann's motivations are simple: make friends, have a good time, and make the world a better place. He is altruistic sometimes to a fault: there are those among his 'friends' who appear to just use him for the money, status, or academic benefits. However, unless they reciprocate in at least some fashion, they never seem to hang around for long.

He also has his research interests, of course, and he dedicates plenty of time to these, often locking himself in the Grand Library's solitary study rooms or disappearing into the laboratory that occupies the tower of his townhouse. These are basically the only times that he isn't out and about and being social.

_{Of course, there's a whole other side.}

I N V E N T O R Y

Johann dresses as one might expect of someone of his pedigree, but he will almost never be seen carrying any visible weapon or obvious magical paraphernalia or focus. He will always have a few sacks of money on his person, in various denominations, as well as a handful of reagents and an imbued wand. Almost all of his items are, in fact, imbued in some way, though none is of particular note on its own.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ [ C H A R I S M A T I C ]
❖ [ V E R S A T I L E ]
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ]
❖ [ S C I E N T I F I C A L L Y K N O W L E D G E A B L E ]
❖ [ W E L L C O N N E C T E D ]

Johann is extremely bright, superficially charming and likeable, and is excellent at adapting to unexpected situations and seizing opportunities. He has social and business connections one would not expect of someone his age and will throw his weight around for friends and even acquaintances though, beneath the facade, this is very much a calculated thing. His knowledge of cutting-edge science is nearly unparalleled and he regularly employs it in his studies and everyday life. Finally, he is immensely physically strong, though he rarely makes use of this strength, at the cost of physical endurance. He weighs slightly over 400 lbs, after all.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ [ O U T O F S H A P E ]
❖ [ C O W A R D L Y ]
❖ [ D E C E I T F U L ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ A R T I F I C I A L]

All of Johann’s charm is skin-deep, or perhaps just a bit more than that, but not much. Beneath the surface, he is a bitter and detached individual with a colossal superiority complex fed, deep down, by a lack of self-esteem. He will make a show of bravery when required but, if there is genuine danger or risk, he will almost always try to weasel his way out of it. Finally, his level of fitness, while improved recently, still leaves much to be desired. For anything requiring stamina, he leans heavily upon his abilities with the Gift.

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Colour Code: Goldenrod

Seviin'delaan'taxoiya

S E V I I N ' D E L A A N ' T A X O I Y A

"Father Damy has blessed you with the right to be wrong."

---

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16 | Female | Yandese | Clergy | 8.24

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ P R I N C I P L E D ]
❖ [ E X A C T I N G ]
❖ [ A L O O F ]
❖ [ C A R I N G ]
❖ [ C O N F L I C T E D ]

Seviin is a young woman - still half a girl - very much playing at being more mature, competent, and certain about life than she truly is. A tyro priestess of Oirase, she has dedicated herself to the cultivation and preservation of life at all costs, including that of her own. This dedication is, for the most part, genuine. It is also, however, her method of coping with the darker things in her life. Precisely what those are, she withholds to the point that most would not even guess at them. Most every action that this young Yandese takes is completed with either a light, noncommittal smile or a look of mild (and perhaps smug) disapproval, directed down her nose at those who fall short of her exacting ethical thresholds. She will help you and heal you, but she will judge you and you will know that you have been found wanting. Her ambivalence towards animals - the assiduous avoidance of most contrasted with her clear understanding and empathy towards them - is a further mystery. Yet, beneath this guarded and morally superior facade, she is capable of moments of sweetness, caring, mirth, and unexpected earnestness.

Ultimately, despite appearances, Seviin is a kind soul and will do everything in her power to ensure the survival and (physical) flourishing of her allies and - well, a priestess of her ilk does not necessarily keep friends. However, she will absolutely not, under any circumstances, act to harm another sentient being and, if possible, a living creature. She will not eat meat. She will find a use for all that she owns and all that she takes from the land and she will not - directly - say a cruel word to anyone. Certainly, she will never curse either. It is her job to nourish, to save, and to do good works, regardless of the wickedness that thrives around her. This moral code is one that she rigorously adheres to. It is her shield for the weak, the innocent, the preyed-upon, and... for herself.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

Tall, slim, and graceful, Seviin is the very picture of youthful yasoi beauty though, by Tarlonese standards, she dresses quite modestly. Long sandy-coloured hair falls in curtains to either side of her face, which is unmarked by the Tetsoi so favoured by southern yasoi. Red lips stand out against pale skin and vivid cerulean eyes. Her clothing is invariably white, sometimes accented with pastel colours in the habit of her holy order and often loose and flowing. To some, it may appear impractical. To a binder of her calibre, its maintenance - while simple - is symbolic and deeply meaningful.

On her person, Seviin carries neither weapon nor armour, though she does have a staff - Aloi'alar, the Mother's Mercy - passed down from her great grandmother, who was a healer of some repute. Any pouches and belts she may have are well hidden or incorporated seamlessly into her outfit. This is, in theory, a rather conservative set of garments but, in practice, there is always just enough skin left showing to pry loose the intentions of those with whom she interacts. When she can get away with it, she prefers to go barefoot, though she will never admit it, of course.

Perhaps the only discordant element of her appearance is the single large fang hanging from her left ear, turned into a piece of jewellery. Nobody but her is quite certain why she wears it or what it stands for, but she is never seen without it.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ Y A N D E S E ] natively
❖ [ T A N T I A N ] natively
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] fluently
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] near-fluently
❖ [ R E T A N E S E ] semi-fluently

T H E G I F T

{unknown), Solocaster

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 2 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 5
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] (5) ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] 3
❖ C H E M I C A L ] 4 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 2 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Seviin is trained in the Gift as are all young yasoi and is extremely capable in its use, having completed her first year of studies at Tantas'iilwash Academy. However, she absolutely refuses to use it in a capacity that will harm other sapient beings, and prefers not to harm any living thing at all. All of her spellcraft is dedicated to this pursuit, with her abilities in Arcane used to create light, warmth, and cauterize wounds, her Chemical abilities to invigorate, empower, and transmute, and her Temporal to reverse negative effects, buy allies more time, and facilitate movement. In Tarlonese culture, no distinction is made between Binding and Blood magics, and these are used, of course, to heal and protect.

Of course, there is more - there is the thing that disturbs her so, but it is not something that she will ever talk about, as if she might someday disperse it into oblivion through sheer force of will.

B A C K G R O U N D

There is much to say about Seviin's origins and how she came to be here. It was as a seeker of asylum, however, for she could not countenance her people's horrid war against the humans of Ai Medda and their own kin in Constantia. Before that, she was a priestess, and much loved and celebrated by her family and community, if not seen as a touch odd and overzealous, perhaps. Maybe she wasn't always so rigid, so awkward, and so defensively sanctimonious. Maybe she's running from something else. Her past is not something that she speaks very much about, and so it shall not be spoken of here.

M O T I V A T I O N

"A healer should do no harm."

Seviin is someone who lives by an absolute moral code and will not contravene it for anything. As Tantiac moved to effectively annex her country and the entirety of Tarlon, sometimes by outright force, she found herself called upon to act as an instrument of the empire in an expansionist war that she did not agree with. Hence, with the Trials beginning, she volunteered to represent her school before promptly defecting and seeking asylum. In the end, she is someone who clings to her moral code, who clings to a fairly narrow and easily definable idea of being 'good' in an uncertain world where the terrain shifts constantly around her and such broad concepts as 'right' and 'wrong' aren't necessarily so clearly evident.

I N V E N T O R Y

Seviin carries her robes, her staff: Aloi'alan, pouches of reagents, and some local currency on her. As a refugee, she does not own very much. Most of her food and necessities, she synthesizes using blood magic.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ [ I M M U N E T O D I S R U P T I O N ]
❖ [ A G I L E ]
❖ [ B R A V E ]
❖ [ L E A R N E D ]
❖ [ R E S O U R C E F U L ]

Seviin is, despite all of her purposeful lightness and elegance, someone who knows how to handle herself when it really comes down to it. She possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the humanoid body, materials science, and basic physics, and will come to the aid of any ally in need regardless of her personal feelings. She is excellent at compartmentalizing, retaining a professional distance, and will not hesitate to speak truth to power.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ [ R I G I D ]
❖ [ S A N C T I M O N I O U S ]
❖ [ P A C I F I S T I C ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ I M M U N E T O M A N A I N T E R A C T I O N S ]

With her attitude, Seviin is unlikely to make any friends and she tells herself that it's alright, that it doesn't matter and that she doesn't need them. As with many matters, she is lying to herself. Her entire identity is an unstable thing now, built upon pillars of sand. Her refusal to do any direct harm, while commendable in some respects, can make her a liability when it comes to outright combat.

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Colour Code: F0FFF0

The Hourglass Order

@Force and Fury
Hey. This seems to be about the only fantasy-genre RP that isn't anime, and I want to play a dwarf. Which... I think this has? There is just a lot to go through with no breakdown of races. 'Course you might not be accepting new players right now. I would just like to state my tentative interest.

@Grimnir

Hi!

We're actually starting a new arc and we're tentatively open to new players, so now is a good time to jump in. In this world, hegelans are our closest analog to dwarves and are mostly the same thing. One of our co-GMs is going to invite you to the discord and it'll be easier to answer any questions that you have there. Just be warned ahead of time that this is a pretty high-committment RPG with a great deal of existing lore and a good deal of discord use so, if that's not your cup of tea, it may not be for you. As long as we can pass those hurdles, then you might be a good fit and we're always happy to roleplay with interesting new people. In that case, let's talk!

- Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

Johann

J O H A N N S T E I N B A U E R

V O N O S T E R M A R K - K A R N H O L D T

"Discover is the spice of life."

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19 | Male | Kerreman | Noble | 8.75

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ A F F A B L E ] _{dispassionate}
❖ [ H U M O R O U S ] _secretive
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ] _utilitarian
❖ [ G E N E R O U S ] _selfish
❖ [ E A S Y G O I N G ] _twisted

Everybody loves Johann - at least, anyone who's not a complete stick in the mud. This rather portly Kerreman lad is famous for frequenting the bars, pool halls, study halls, and biergärtens of Ersand'Enise. He can often be found at the library, collaborating academically with his fellow students, at the bank, managing his family's business ventures, or at the auction house, bidding on seemingly random items of interest. Whatever he might be up to, however, Johann never forgets his friends, classmates, acquaintances, and... well, just about anybody. One can be certain that, whatever he purchases, most of it will be for others, for it is Johann's foremost philosophy that something enjoyed alone is not truly enjoyed. So, he is always the one to buy an extra round for everyone in the bar, to organize the study session, to share his notes, to pay for dinner. He has the money, after all, and spending it on others is an investment in their happiness. Nothing makes him happier than being around people who want to be around him in return. The most basic litmus test for many biros on whether someone is a decent friend or not is whether they like Johann. Anyone who doesn't, clearly has no appreciation for what makes someone good.

Of course, most of this is a complete fabrication. Beneath his affable surface, Johann is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Driven by an obsessive need to discern the secrets of the human and humanoid body and develop complete mastery over it, he regularly engages in the most inhumane and sordid of experimentation. This is a strictly-kept secret, with even the school authorities unaware of either the experiments or their originator. Johann, meanwhile, has little use for social convention, tradition, or politics. They are merely tools that he employs and levers that he pulls to further his ends. Skillfully, he uses his money, raw magical power, and burgeoning reputation as insurance to guarantee that nobody could possibly believe the truth were someone to ever leak it. Someday, he knows, he will change the world, and a glorious day it will be. For the time being, sacrifices must be made - just not his.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

An absolutely enormous young man, in both height and especially heft, Johann is notable for his bright red hair, sharp little beard, and jolly face, which often wears a mischievous smirk. There are times when something else seems to flash through his smiling brown eyes, but it must just be a trick of the light. He is friendly to a fault.

His clothing is all custom-tailored, a necessity for one of his size and wealth, and reflects the latter with its fine materials and cut in addition to a colourful, adventurous palette that reflects his open, fun, and gregarious nature. This young Kerreman is very self-aware and definitely the sort to lean into his reputation and appearance. If he isn't the handsome leading man, then he's the funny friendly fat guy who everyone likes. Things are easier that way anyhow: many more surface friendships and few of the deeper entanglements that can be so problematic.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ K E R R E M A N ] natively
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] fluently
❖ [ H U U L I S C H ] fluently
❖ [ P E R R E N C H ] fluently
❖ [ R E V I D I A N ] semi-fluently
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] basically

T H E G I F T

Blueblood, Copycat

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 4 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 0 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 4
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] 3 ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] ?
❖ [ C H E M I C A L ] 5 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Johann is, ultimately, a terrifying force of nature with the Gift, and his manas' ability to copy spells renders him even more potent. However, his greatest weapon is his mind and his ability to manipulate people. Unsurprisingly, his magic is tailored to fit this skillset. While he can certainly heal competently, he focuses more on fleshcrafting, generation, and regeneration. His use of Chemical and Magnetic magics is specialized in their biomanipulative aspects with some competency in illusion, corrosives, toxins, and energy. For the most part, however, he passes himself off as a healer, transmuter, lightning mage, and explosive chemist, perfectly competent, but not exceptional.

Finally, his massive size proves a boon with magic, giving him a capacity well in excess of most other people. In a pinch, he can liquidate his own energy-rich fat reserves for a sudden burst of power. This is only a last resort, as is - to some extent - combat itself. The best way to win is to never have to fight, or at least to never have to fight anyone who has a chance against you. When nobody's looking, Johann is rather good at punching down.

B A C K G R O U N D

He should’ve been born a first son. Alas, he was not. While his eldest sister Sybille is now Duchess of Lindermetz and in line to be queen consort, and his elder brother Klaus stands to inherit the duchy upon their father’s passing, little but a name and some share of his family’s substantial wealth is left to Johann, the pudgy little second son. The less that is spoken of his pompous godly younger brother Wilhelm and simpleminded sister Ulrike, the better.

From the time that he was old enough to understand that he was the spare and not the heir, Johann alternated between bitterness and some misplaced desperation to prove himself. Alas, for all that he was warm and kind - qualities uncharacteristic of high Kerreman nobility - Markgraf Klaus was a man of rules and principles, and his dictated that, while Johann was to be loved and provided for, he was not to inherit unless some calamity befell his brother. The ancient rules and the ancient line of Ostermark-Thandau were not to be disturbed or altered in any manner.

Yet, even warmth and care can only extend so far when he who has taken it upon himself to provide them is rarely present. The duties of Klaus - the elder Klaus, that was - kept him away from the family estate for months on end and, if he was a welcome presence to his wife and children, he was also set apart from them. Johann was left, by and large, to his tutors and his own devices.

While Sybille grew into a graceful and intelligent young woman, strong in body, mind, and magic, Klaus spent most of his time outdoors, hunting, riding, playing sports and wargames. Johann preferred books. He was too small to keep up with his vigorous older brother, and so he ate and he ate. Wilhelm was always his mother’s creature, much concerned with following her around, going to worship, and doting on feebleminded Ulrike. Before long, as his siblings went off to Ersand’Enise, the second son was left master of the house, at least in theory. In practice, he was given the small town of Thandau to administer as he saw fit.

His Gift had begun to manifest itself and, by the age of twelve, clever and intelligent Johann was finding ways to use it around the estate and the town. When he was not eating - for it had become a custom of his and his appetite was great - he was studying or at work on some new scheme to improve irrigation in the orchards, reorganize the tax records, reduce livestock loss, or incentivize the peasants to train at arms or send their sons and daughters to school. He shuddered to think that so many were illiterate and most showed little interest in reading or learning. A life without books was an unthinkable thing to him.

Around this time, he also began to develop the usual urges that a young man might at such an age. There was Katherine, daughter of one of the junkers. She was pretty and how he liked to look at her sometimes, but she was dumb. There was Alena, of Kurlich-Karnholdt, who was smart and friendly, but homely and oh-so traditional. Then, there were the many pretty girls about town, like Wilma, Verena, Therese, and Zoe. They fluttered around in their dorrad dresses, always leaning into each other, whispering and giggling as they carried baskets or sacks.

Finally, there was Margerethe, the miller’s daughter, but he knew to avoid her for the difference in their station. This, too, he found paradoxical. Perhaps the body of society needed to be organized, with each part serving its purpose, but there were some people who were clearly ill-suited for their stations or better suited for others. She was bright and beautiful and witty and would just as easily have made a duchess as a miller’s daughter. Johann learned when her father was there and when he was not and he made a point of bringing grain down or running an inspection or some other errand whenever he could. She always seemed to have a grin or a blush when he came around and he began dressing better. Whenever he saw her with the other girls, she would glance his way quickly before turning to them and whispering in hushed, excited tones. He knew that he was not handsome, but Klaus had told him well enough what it meant when girls did that.

Over the course of that dorrad and early rezain, Johann redoubled his studies and the work that he undertook on his family’s behalf. While Klaus was busy drinking and bedding women and casting fireballs at Ersand’Enise, Johann was actively bettering the duchy of Ostermark-Thandau. Often, he would come by Margerethe’s house and bring some book to share with her. He had extra food prepared and would carry it over in a basket so that she might eat like the duchess she should’ve been. Over the warm months, they spent a great many hours together. She confided in him that he was her dearest friend. He learned every bit of gossip about town and her opinions on everyone. Her magic was not so great, but he taught her how to use what she had.

Finally, he received news that, two days hence, his father was to return from an absence of some six months, and with momentous news. Johann burned with indecision. He could make his stand here: appeal to his father’s sense of fairness and desire to better the duchy’s position, and present himself as the clear heir, or he could embrace his insignificance and ask that he might be able to court Margerethe after all, as he was only a second son. It was late in rezain and the leaves were falling in earnest when he went to her to ask for her counsel and confess his feelings. He had taken care to make the moment special: a picnic in a field beneath a great oak tree, her favourite book, cake, and candles.

He left the picnic with cake on his face, having fallen forward when she flinched away from his kiss. He was a friend, a dear friend, she’d insisted, but it was foolish for them to be together. He’d suggested the elope, cheeks burning with shame and anxiety as he’d wiped the icing away, but then she’d been honest: she didn’t love him. She didn’t want to lie to him and use him for his money or station, but she felt no stirring inside of her. Johann had left her with the picnic, left her to clean it up, and walked away. It seemed that his course had been set. He was not beautiful, but he knew, at least, that he was effective.

He met his father on the road, having commandeered one of the grain wagons for the job, as he was not a good rider. There, he regaled the elder Steinbauer with the many great things he had achieved during those six months. He built up towards his case for inheriting the estate, for how much good he could do, and the evidence was all around them as they made their way through Thandau.

It was no longer theirs. Markgraf Klaus had been away arranging the marriage of Sybille to Prince Freidrich and Thandau was part of the dowry. He had, further, arranged for Klaus’ marriage to homely Alena and acquired Karnholdt in the deal. Johann’s work had been for nothing: a waste of resources better spent elsewhere. Furthermore, he had been busy stuffing his face, embarrassing himself about town, and being seen scandalously with a local girl. One who doesn’t even love me, the boy had thought. He was to attend Ersand’Enise himself in three years time, he was to learn, to make social connections, and to bring no further disrepute upon his family. Then, he was to take his place. He could see the wavering in his father’s bearing, hear it - ever so slightly - in his voice. There was none from Johann. He accepted the rebuke in humble good humour and vowed to do better. If he became a bit dissolute afterwards, a bit of a merry, feckless drinker and jolly do-nothing, it was only what was expected of him anyhow. He must never outshine his brother. He must never aspire to more.

Yet, he does.

M O T I V A T I O N

Johann's motivations are simple: make friends, have a good time, and make the world a better place. He is altruistic sometimes to a fault: there are those among his 'friends' who appear to just use him for the money, status, or academic benefits. However, unless they reciprocate in at least some fashion, they never seem to hang around for long.

He also has his research interests, of course, and he dedicates plenty of time to these, often locking himself in the Grand Library's solitary study rooms or disappearing into the laboratory that occupies the tower of his townhouse. These are basically the only times that he isn't out and about and being social.

I N V E N T O R Y

Johann dresses as one might expect of someone of his pedigree, but he will almost never be seen carrying any visible weapon or obvious magical paraphernalia or focus. He will always have a few sacks of money on his person, in various denominations, as well as a handful of reagents and an imbued wand. Almost all of his items are, in fact, imbued in some way, though none is of particular note on its own.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ [ C H A R I S M A T I C ]
❖ [ V E R S A T I L E ]
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ]
❖ [ S C I E N T I F I C A L L Y K N O W L E D G E A B L E ]
❖ [ W E L L C O N N E C T E D ]

Johann is extremely bright, superficially charming and likeable, and is excellent at adapting to unexpected situations and seizing opportunities. He has social and business connections one would not expect of someone his age and will throw his weight around for friends and even acquaintances though, beneath the facade, this is very much a calculated thing. His knowledge of cutting-edge science is nearly unparalleled and he regularly employs it in his studies and everyday life. Finally, he is immensely physically strong, though he rarely makes use of this strength, at the cost of physical endurance. He weighs slightly over 400 lbs, after all.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ [ O U T O F S H A P E ]
❖ [ C O W A R D L Y ]
❖ [ D E C E I T F U L ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ A R T I F I C I A L]

All of Johann’s charm is skin-deep, or perhaps just a bit more than that, but not much. Beneath the surface, he is a bitter and detached individual with a colossal superiority complex fed, deep down, by a lack of self-esteem. He will make a show of bravery when required but, if there is genuine danger or risk, he will almost always try to weasel his way out of it. Finally, his level of fitness, while improved recently, still leaves much to be desired. For anything requiring stamina, he leans heavily upon his abilities with the Gift.

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Colour Code: Goldenrod

The Hourglass Order

@Fallenreaper Mahal is approved. I imagine you'll be expanding further on just why her father is so utterly awful to her in the future and I look forward to seeing that done well. In the meantime, feel free to move her over to the character tab. Let's welcome her aboard!

The Hourglass Order

@BlackRoseSiren Lunara is approved, though I do wonder:Who is the friend that you referenced being the only one who didn't 'show odd qualities'? I'd appreciate if you expanded on that a bit and clarified. otherwise, well done. I look forward to seeing her in this roleplay. When you've addressed those concerns, please repost her in the character tab.

The Hourglass Order

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Don't Lay Your Weapons Down: ♫

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---

There had been a point in her life when Jocasta had hated the world and everything in it. She had first been a victim: bitter, helpless and frightened. Then, she had found her strength but lost none of her hatred. She did not, by and large, know the faces of most of her victims. She never would. She had been told that they were bad people and hadn't cared enough at the time to question those who seemed - to her warped and damaged teenage mind - to be good.

Then, San Agustin happened. Zarina happened, and Ayla, and Kaspar and Abdel and Marceline... and Yalen. Jocasta had come to understand that the world could be a bad place, full of awful people and awful things, but there was good in it too! There were things worth keeping in her life: protecting and having and loving!

It was late and she could not sleep. Yalen, thankfully, had managed the trick, but his loving wife paced anxiously about the living room, hands both heavy and light on her wheels. Finally, she pulled on a light shawl and eased herself out of the front door into the cool night air. Crickets chirped and stars shone overhead, peering shyly through the hazy bands of clouds. In a nearby alleyway, two or more cats were fighting and, presently, a dog started barking and drew out three more or its kind to join in the howl.

Jocasta rolled along the flagstones, working up a bit of speed on the flat ground and coasting, feeling the comforting little bumps and jostles beneath her wheels, the sharp wind on her nose and ears. Her golden hair trailed like a series of ghostly ribbons behind her, but her breath did not come out in little wisps as it had in Retan. It was too late in Stresia for that and Ersand'Enise was too warm anyhow.

Retan: it was still with her. What she'd witnessed and been a part of had rendered itself indelible in her mind's eye. Elder sanguiniares, she thought. Sapient dragons, Arcel of Perrence reborn, and that... tentacled titan. The crushing enormity of the threat facing... everyone was, honestly, too much for her to fully wrap her head around, insignificant girl that she was.

But it was not all that bothered her. There had been no missing the looks of reproach: Maura, some rich merchant's daughter whose venomous smile and barbed words had split the group of students, who had twice denied Jocasta land of her own so that the rich might grow richer, who looked relentlessly for advantage with her silver tongue and false earnestness; Abdel, who had rendered judgment upon others with his beasts; Ingrid, who had used her strength to intimidate Yalen into giving up his land - their land - and the security of their shared future. It was another bauble in a growing empire to her. It was everything to Jocasta. She'd had to grit her teeth and bear it for the sake of decorum, because of her position.

The further on that she went, the more that Jocasta thought. Something had surfaced after that, though. She had taken, for herself, three items of value to make up for the loss, ignoring Maura's judgmental glares. How quick she was to turn bitter and righteous when it was her on the losing end of things. Go cry into your stacks of money, you spoiled bitch. Then, there were bullies, like Ingrid and, now, possibly Abdel. The latter at least did so out of some sense of moral superiority and it made him dangerous but not bad. The former, however, the more that Jocasta thought about it, was simply a bully, through and through: eager to threaten with her superior strength and - usually - quick to back down if she sensed that she could not win or felt, in their glares and mutterings, the burning resentment that people held towards her actions.

And that was when Jocasta knew it: she had strength of her own and talent in magic that far outstripped theirs. She had people that she cared for and that she wanted to protect, because they were what made a bleak life in a bleak world... something better: something 'worth it'. But there would always be Mauras and Ingrids. There would always be people who sought relentless advantage for themselves and were either too blind to see how awful they were, too callous to care, or too weak to change. And, as long as there were people like that, there would be a need for Jocasta. There would be a need to protect herself from their aggressions, whether with words or force. There would be a need to protect Yalen and Ayla and Zarina and Marci and Kaspar. The best way to do that was to be strong. There was some good in the world, but it was a place of predators. She could not show weakness. Every testing word by Maura was a sniff for blood in the water, so that she might force and subject her prey into either agreeing with her or being cast as villains. Every too-firm hand on the shoulder, warning draw of energy, or buyout of some auction was Ingrid's attempt to place herself above others and then help them - on her terms - from on high. They were all so power hungry and all so relentless, and...

Jocasta, quite frankly, did not care about any of that. She'd have been perfectly happy to live and let live. Yet, the closer that she let people like that get to her level, the stronger they became in comparison to her, the greater the chance of it happening again: they would step on her. They would humiliate her and crush her underfoot and leave her loved ones vulnerable. She would not be left counting on their dubious goodwill. That was not a mistake she would ever make again. The refuge had used and abused her. The Volti had shown some care - true - but they had used her as well, in their own way. The school, certainly, was using her at this very moment.

She came to a stop, eventually, at the edge of the arboretum, and the cool brisk wind was making her eyes water. She wiped them clean with the back of her sleeve and turned on the spot, blinking and looking about. Not anymore, she promised herself. In truth, she could kill them. She could kill almost anyone. If she were an animal, like Benedetto, she might. It would be so easy and so... What? Satisfying? It wouldn't, though. It would just make her a murderer. It would get rid of a few run-of-the-mill bad people who might, someday, even see the error of their ways. No. Jocasta would have to drink this poison. She'd been living the past nine months in a fantasy world - a kneejerk escape from her more customary misanthropy - where she could simply be nice to people and have them be nice in return. They weren't, though, and the tethered was reminded that she was not a nice person either. She took and released a couple of long breaths, rolling to the foot of the gazebo before turning back. She had her immense magic. She had her position of authority at this school. She had her wits. It was time to use them: no apologies or pretense. It was time to take the offensive.

---

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The Hourglass Order

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Present: Ayla Arslan @Ti, Evander Fino Synesti @RezonanceV, Tku Pictor @dragonpiece, Fiske Flachstrauch @jasbraq, Zarina Al-Nader @YummyYummy, Desmond Catulus @Th3King0fChaos, and Yansee Keelee Kensen-loon @CaliforniaState

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Marceline did not realize that she had fallen asleep. She’d ended up talking to Fiske the previous night, in their shared misery and then… the next thing that she knew, she found herself woken by a cat. It was a large, fluffy orange one, very much like Kurbis, and she thought that it was him for a moment. The teenager rolled over lazily in bed. She may have slept but it had clearly not been all that much. “Oh hello, little fellow,” she yawned, reaching out to ruffle his ample fur. Yet, her unexpected visitor was rather insistent, unleashing a stream of rather eloquent meows and yowls, pawing at her, and design away towards the door, shooting expectant glances back in her direction. He was trying to tell her something, and that got her attention.

“Miauw,” he prodded, and she rose to a sitting position, wriggling and stretching out her toes. “Prrauw! Brrt!” She could feel pins and needles in them - the unwelcome tingling of dying nerves - and took a moment to stretch them out. It was ever a battle and she would need to find another grey aberration soon, or even a white if she was desperate. “ME.OW.” She regarded the creature dimly for a moment before sighing. “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.”

“Mew.” He seemed satisfied with that, pacing around the door as she stood and stretched. She’d fallen abed in her day clothes, so there was no need of a change and, as she looked about the room, her eyes fell on Fiske, who had similarly fallen asleep in a corner on some cushions. Her cheeks flushed. To have fallen asleep in the same room as a boy - one who she was… she shook her head. It was scandalous, but nobody here would know or much care, she imagined. The cat - she had been thinking of him as Kurbis in her head, though he was not - was now pawing at Fiske, and he, too, snapped awake.

In the proceeding few minutes, both were led cautiously outside, through the slowly-stirring streets. Morning had taken hold of An Zenui and the surrounding environs, and it was already a hot and vicious thing. Sand from the previous day’s storm still lay about the place; the Stuzé-Upets and other assorted slaves had been hard at work, but they had not yet cleared it all. Not-Kurbis hurried out ahead of them, his little head glancing back, letting out the occasional “meow” of anxious encouragement as he assiduously avoided the areas where it clung to surfaces or had piled up in small drifts. For much of their walk, moments of stillness prevailed. The arms of the sun reached deeper into the shadows of the canyon in which much of the city lay, but it was, as always, the rich who enjoyed first light.

It broke over a clearing by the cliffs and there was already a small crowd of curious onlookers gathered. Fiske shielded his eyes with magic from the glare while Marci used more traditional methods. Both took in a gasp. From a scraggly tree hung a body, swaddled in ornate silks and flowing veils. It took them both a moment to recognize who it was.

“Ayla.” Marceline darted forward, her voice a terrified squeak, and she bade Fiske to follow. The cazenax and sirrahi who had gathered swirled back at her sudden approach, jabbering rapidly amongst themselves in their foreign tongue at the arrival of the two humans. Marci paid them little and less attention. She reached out with her senses and felt the energies in Ayla’s body. To her immense relief, the girl was alive, but her breathing was shallow and her heartbeat irregular. Fiske, of course, could’ve already told her as much, for such were his gifts as a sensemaster.

Together, they brought their friend gently to the ground, pushing back the nascent crowd, and trying to figure out just what had happened. It was Fiske who sensed it first. “Poison,” he said grimly. He’d been grim ever since last night. She had too, but there was no time for self-loathing at the moment. “It’s a paralytic.” She was not good enough with chemical magic to have sensed it, but he clearly did. “Look for those places,” he directed, “Where the muscles seem colder.” Arcane was a language she spoke at least a little, and she found them after a short interval. The damage was near-terminal, but binding was a language that Marci spoke considerably better, and she set to work. If she could not neutralize the foreign chemicals, she could remove them entirely, and heal the harm they’d done. The entire time, Not-Kurbis paced around protectively, and she began to grow suspicious that there was something special about that cat.

Ayla was jarred from her near-death reverie quite suddenly, and opened her eyes to the sight of Marci and the cat - Benny - leaning over her. Fiske hovered nearby, holding off a growing crowd, and they did not have long to linger. Within a minute, she was on her feet and they were on their way. Perhaps they might’ve headed back to their underground bolt-hole beneath the cliffs, but the city had become an oppressive-feeling place, full of hidden enemies, where they’d be instantly recognized and surrounded by crowds. If they’d found a handful of sympathetic faces, like Pan’s, they were, at best, a curiosity here. To some of those in power, however, they were a threat, and it was Ayla’s recommendation that they reconvene at the 4S sweetwater farmstead.

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Zarina’s journey there had been of a different sort. Her vigor and ambition to catch this Wesca - this puppetmaster behind the attack on the stead and perhaps other happenings - had collapsed against an onrushing wall of profound exhaustion. Yansee had not betrayed her, either. Against all odds, the renegade eeaiko had seen her safely to the farmhouse and, after a slightly tense encounter with Zox, to bed. Persevering through mumbled half-coherent resistance, she laid the Virangishwoman to sleep.

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The city still held its poisons, however, and they festered under the fuming midday sun. Naxos and Tku had decided to leave An Zenui for the time being, heading back to the stead, and they had retrieved Desmond - none too popular a figure even if innocent - from his cell only to find him sleeping.

It helped with Tku’s cover story, at least, for Naxos had advised him to avoid Desmond’s wrath with a little white lie about how Benedetto had learned the truth. Why, even now, forces were roving about the city, searching for him, and the threat of mob justice loomed. They also, after a fashion, decided to make their return to the farmstead, away from prying eyes, crowds, and the ever-hovering danger of what was starting to be revealed as a far-reaching conspiracy.

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It was into this cauldron that Tennaxi and Classa inadvertently walked, or, at least the latter did. Zarina had sped off in another direction unexpectedly during the early hours, and the ambiguously undead eeaiko who they were not certain they could trust had disappeared in a crowd. Now, they found themselves alone in the city. The clamour for Nyax-Acan was all about them, but there was no going unnoticed for very long. If centaurs were not a common sight, they warranted little more than a second glance, and Classa was generally a sponge for attention, prancing about, talking to people, and putting on a show. Tennaxi had never been noteworthy or different in any way that she could remember, and the stares and points quickly began to force a retreat. “Is it just me,” she whispered to the junior accomplice upon whose back she rode, “or are they… kinda hostile?” A handful, at different junctures, had already darted off in some other direction, seeming in a hurry to get there.

“They seem a lil’ weird,” the girl agreed warily.

“This isn’t how things usually are for… sorry, what was her name again?”

“Samaxi,” came a pointed reply. “And umm, no. They’re not.”

Then came a shout. “That’s him!” and another: “Her! It’s a her!”

“Fuckin’ excuse you!” Tennaxi retorted.

“It’s Potes-Palix!”

“IPotes-Palix.”

“It is!”

“He’s gotta be crazy.”

“Or ‘she’!”

“Didya think what disguise could fool us!?” shouted one boldly.

“The fuckin’ nerve!” cried another.

Tennaxi’s heart was hammering and, beneath her, she could feel Classa tensing up. The little centaur was about ready to bolt. “Classa,” she whispered, “What the hell did Samaxi get into?” but the girl only shook her head fearfully, as the first shout of “assassin!” leapt forth from the crowd. “I… I dunno!” came the high-pitched reply. “She just sold sweetwater.” She shook her head. “And she’s still here somewhere, or else…”

“They fu-” She paused and tempered her language in front of the child. “They got her or she’s in trouble.”

“Or maybe she’s dead!” wailed Classa, and she broke into a quick trot, the milling mass of people surrounding them jogging or running to keep pace.

Tennaxi tried to give her a reassuring squeeze. Riding was a harrowing thing without legs, she was learning. “I think she’s just lying low,” she tried, not sure if she believed it herself. One of their unwanted escorts tried to reach out for Classa’s tail and Samaxi summoned what she could of magic to bash him away, lest the centaur kick. That was it, then. It was on. A second one came, and then a third. Kinetic shoves and slams tried to hurl them off course and Tennaxi found that her capacity - always high by the standards of her people - was a good deal less now that there was a good deal less of her. “Run, Classa! Run!” The horse-girl took off and she was, indeed, fast. Wind rushed through Tennaxi’s and Classa’s hair alike, and the twin streamers rippled behind them. The crowds began to part. The gate hove into view. In the distance, Classa even thought she might’ve seen Tku and… some other human guy.

That was when there was pain: pain and sudden nothingness. When she came to once more, she was in a large room with stern-looking men and Tennaxi was nowhere to be seen.

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If she was lost to Classa for now, virtually all of the others were eager to be out of sight as well. Amid swirling crowds and increasing scrutiny, they made a desperate flight towards Jascuan and the sirrahi’s bolt hole from two directions. Time after time, by trickery, stealth, intimidation, and cajolery, they escaped those who paid them extra attention. They drew close, their goal within sight, their pursuers evaded, and Tku, Desmond, Naxos, Ayla, Fiske, and Marceline dared hope that they might’ve pulled it off. They could slip in unnoticed and leave their hideaway safely anonymous.

Then, towering before them, out of nowhere, came a Seeker: a demon of the fourth tier. It filled most of the alley that it emerged from and there was no way that it could fail to draw the attention of anyone watching. From two angles, they laid waste to it, but it took all six of them and every ounce of power that they had. It drew exactly the unwanted attention they had feared, forcing them to assault and knock out two more interlopers There should never have been such a monster moving about in broad daylight in the middle of the city and, if it had been summoned in so precisely in their path, its summoner had been someone who possessed both great power and knowledge of who they were, where they were, and what they were doing.

They scrambled into their hole in the ground, some unexpected mirth and desperate camaraderie along the way, to find that Jascuan and Samaxi had preceded them. Five long hours of travel down a tunnel and an emergence in the desert as the shadows began to grow long saw them battle profound exhaustion, delirium, and claustrophobia. In the home stretch, they overtook Jascuan and Samaxi, making their way forward only with the help of magic. By the time that the expanded group straggled in through the archway of the farmhouse, Pauppaup was there with Yansee to greet them and Zarina was still in a land of blissful dreams. There were strangers in the house, prisoners in the shed, Classa and Tennaxi missing, and…

None of it mattered. Tku passed out on the spot. Desmond staggered and seated himself ungracefully on a sofa. Marceline, Fiske, and Ayla followed, finding whatever space looked comfortable. Mostlike, they did not even register the absence of their two allies, else they might’ve been stirred to action against their better judgement. The home was left to Zox, Yansee, and Pauppaup, exceptional trust placed in the latter two only by dint of circumstance.

Afternoon gave way to night and night to morning. Zarina was the first to rise, and Samaxi a few minutes later. The latter brewed an invigorating sweetwater drink and, soon, they were all up and present, but for their questionable eeaiko allies and - now they noticed for certain - Classa and Tennaxi. Surely, something had gone wrong. Surely, nobody would stoop so low as to harm an innocent child. There was so much to say - so much to be exchanged - but how much time did the group have? They needed a plan and they needed it quickly.

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The Hourglass Order

Some yasoi girl who's gonna piss half of you off. Enjoy.

Seviin

S E V I I N ' D E L A A N ' T A X O I Y A

"A healer should do no harm."

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16 | Female | Yandese | Clergy | 8.24

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ P R I N C I P L E D ]
❖ [ E X A C T I N G ]
❖ [ A L O O F ]
❖ [ C A R I N G ]
❖ [ C O N F L I C T E D ]

Seviin is a young woman - still half a girl - very much playing at being more mature, competent, and certain about life than she truly is. A tyro priestess of Oirase, she has dedicated herself to the cultivation and preservation of life at all costs, including that of her own. This dedication is, for the most part, genuine. It is also, however, her method of coping with the darker things in her life. Precisely what those are, she withholds to the point that most would not even guess at them. Most every action that this young Yandese takes is completed with either a light, noncommittal smile or a look of mild (and perhaps smug) disapproval, directed down her nose at those who fall short of her exacting ethical thresholds. She will help you and heal you, but she will judge you and you will know that you have been found wanting. Her ambivalence towards animals - the assiduous avoidance of most contrasted with her clear understanding and empathy towards them - is a further mystery. Yet, beneath this guarded and morally superior facade, she is capable of moments of sweetness, caring, mirth, and unexpected earnestness.

Ultimately, despite appearances, Seviin is a kind soul and will do everything in her power to ensure the survival and (physical) flourishing of her allies and - well, a priestess of her ilk does not necessarily keep friends. However, she will absolutely not, under any circumstances, act to harm another sentient being and, if possible, a living creature. She will not eat meat. She will find a use for all that she owns and all that she takes from the land and she will not - directly - say a cruel word to anyone. Certainly, she will never curse either. It is her job to nourish, to save, and to do good works, regardless of the wickedness that thrives around her. This moral code is one that she rigorously adheres to. It is her shield for the weak, the innocent, the preyed-upon, and... for herself.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

Tall, slim, and graceful, Seviin is the very picture of youthful yasoi beauty though, by Tarlonese standards, she dresses quite modestly. Long sandy-coloured hair falls in curtains to either side of her face, which is unmarked by the Tetsoi so favoured by southern yasoi. Red lips stand out against pale skin and vivid cerulean eyes. Her clothing is invariably white, sometimes accented with pastel colours in the habit of her holy order and often loose and flowing. To some, it may appear impractical. To a binder of her calibre, its maintenance - while simple - is symbolic and deeply meaningful.

On her person, Seviin carries neither weapon nor armour, though she does have a staff - Aloi'alar, the Mother's Mercy - passed down from her great grandmother, who was a healer of some repute. Any pouches and belts she may have are well hidden or incorporated seamlessly into her outfit. This is, in theory, a rather conservative set of garments but, in practice, there is always just enough skin left showing to pry loose the intentions of those with whom she interacts. When she can get away with it, she prefers to go barefoot, though she will never admit it, of course.

Perhaps the only discordant element of her appearance is the single large fang hanging from her left ear, turned into a piece of jewellery. Nobody but her is quite certain why she wears it or what it stands for, but she is never seen without it.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ Y A N D E S E ] natively
❖ [ T A N T I A N ] natively
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] fluently
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] semi-fluently
❖ [ R E T A N E S E ] semi-fluently

T H E G I F T

{unknown), Solocaster

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 2 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 5
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] (5) ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] 3
❖ C H E M I C A L ] 4 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 2 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Seviin is trained in the Gift as are all young yasoi and is extremely capable in its use, having completed her first year of studies at Tantas'iilwash Academy. However, she absolutely refuses to use it in a capacity that will harm other sapient beings, and prefers not to harm any living thing at all. All of her spellcraft is dedicated to this pursuit, with her abilities in Arcane used to create light, warmth, and cauterize wounds, her Chemical abilities to invigorate, empower, and transmute, and her Temporal to reverse negative effects, buy allies more time, and facilitate movement. In Tarlonese culture, no distinction is made between Binding and Blood magics, and these are used, of course, to heal and protect.

Of course, there is more - there is the thing that disturbs her so, but it is not something that she will ever talk about, as if she might someday disperse it into oblivion through sheer force of will.

B A C K G R O U N D

There is much to say about Seviin's origins and how she came to be here. It was as a seeker of asylum, however, for she could not countenance her people's horrid war against the humans of Ai Medda and their own kin in Constantia. Before that, she was a priestess, and much loved and celebrated by her family and community, if not seen as a touch odd and overzealous, perhaps. Maybe she wasn't always so rigid, so awkward, and so defensively sanctimonious. Maybe she's running from something else. Her past is not something that she speaks very much about, and so it shall not be spoken of here.

M O T I V A T I O N

Seviin is someone who lives by an absolute moral code and will not contravene it for anything. As Tantiac moved to effectively annex her country and the entirety of Tarlon, sometimes by outright force, she found herself called upon to act as an instrument of the empire in an expansionist war that she did not agree with. Hence, with the Trials beginning, she volunteered to represent her school before promptly defecting and seeking asylum. In the end, she is someone who clings to her moral code, who clings to a fairly narrow and easily definable idea of being 'good' in an uncertain world where the terrain shifts constantly around her and such broad concepts as 'right' and 'wrong' aren't necessarily so clearly evident.

I N V E N T O R Y

Seviin carries her robes, her staff: Aloi'alan, pouches of reagents, and some local currency on her. As a refugee, she does not own very much. Most of her food and necessities, she synthesizes using blood magic.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ [ I M M U N E T O D I S R U P T I O N ]
❖ [ A G I L E ]
❖ [ B R A V E ]
❖ [ L E A R N E D ]
❖ [ R E S O U R C E F U L ]

Seviin is, despite all of her purposeful lightness and elegance, someone who knows how to handle herself when it really comes down to it. She possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the humanoid body, materials science, and basic physics, and will come to the aid of any ally in need regardless of her personal feelings. She is excellent at compartmentalizing, retaining a professional distance, and will not hesitate to speak truth to power.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ [ R I G I D ]
❖ [ S A N C T I M O N I O U S ]
❖ [ P A C I F I S T I C ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ I M M U N E T O M A N A I N T E R A C T I O N S ]

With her attitude, Seviin is unlikely to make any friends and she tells herself that it's alright, that it doesn't matter and that she doesn't need them. As with many matters, she is lying to herself. Her entire identity is an unstable thing now, built upon pillars of sand. Her refusal to do any direct harm, while commendable in some respects, can make her a liability when it comes to outright combat.

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Colour Code: F0FFF0