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Vieri

“This is it? Vieri, you’ve been gone for so long, practically vanished on me, and this is all you have to offer me when you get back? I was expecting better.”

Lord Montaigne, if he really was a Lord, was a potential patron Vieri had been courting, an art collector and enjoyer of fine things. The third one Vieri had visitted today. He was the nicest.

The objects of grievance were set up on easels. Three paintings.

He steepled his hands, brows arching to mirror them, “Is everything alright Vieri?”

“Yes, it’s just-”

“Just what?”

They suppressed a shrug, “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy? Busy? Vieri, you make time for me. Not the other way round. If your classes are too much, you fall behind, if boys and girls are turning your pretty head, disappoint them. It should be simple. And to think I was considering taking you under my patronage.” He shook his head, and left.

“Well fuck you too.”

Lord Montaigne spun on his heels, incredulity spilling across his face like milk. Then he burst out laughing.

“This is why I like you Vieri. You have attitude, fire… passion. Just show it with more nuance than, well, those… things. Maybe I will give you another chance.”

Here it was. Just another way of whoring themselves out. But they needed the money. The other venture had not gone so well.

“Would you like this?”

Fuck. You. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you can prove it when you bring your next offering then, hmm?”

Vieri nodded, if only because they did not trust their tongue.


Four glasses of red down, oils on palette, and one canvas halfway ruined.

The other three paintings were tatters in a corner of their student room, knife glinting in the pile. This one would soon be joining it.

Was this really how they’d deal with it? By making abstract and angry art?

Yes, yes it was. Cheers to that, and on with the fifth glass.

Vieri had been hiding. From a set of people, fellow students, heroes. They would dodge them in the hallways or streets, and get lost down so many corridors of drink that even their own thoughts couldn’t find their way. This is because Vieri was a coward. Vieri had hid then and Vieri was hiding now.

They might not be able to hide much longer. Money was in short supply these days. Gods knew why. They swirled their glass, aromas heady and rich. Rich indeed.

“To Lord Montaigne,” Vieri toasted the empty room, “Fuck you.” A swig. “Fuck me.”


As Vieri lay half off their bed, room spinning faster and faster, brain floating in its own pickled juices, a thought bobbed to the surface.

This had to stop. No more. No more. I will stop this. I will face them. I will.

Tomorrow, came the answer, perhaps mumbled, perhaps thought, perhaps both. Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow.
Calitan
Tall Trees, Long Shadows II
Loriindton
Interactions: Lyen @Tackytaff and Dyric


Murder. It fell into their laps, a Parrence-allied Yasoi caught with blood-red on their hands, except…

The mette'stiroi, Loriindton itself even, hit Calitan with a brick of emotions. They were mostly positive.

Calitan drank, he gambled, bartered with what little he had. He gave stories of the fighting to those who he thought might value it (surprisingly few), and for the story about the frog who jumped into the water to get back his voice that the fish stole, but ended up tearing it in half, which is why the frog talks without moving its mouth and the fish moves it mouth without words, he got a nice meal.

But even Calitan knew where’d he end up. Everything else was just him circling it, flirting. Mez’Qadurat, an old love.

He hadn’t meant to fight. He was here with another purpose, or two, depending on who you asked. Yet somehow he had found himself in the ring that climbed all the way skywards, soft dust and hard rock underfoot. This was the trouble when you had such an ugly face: people tended to recognise you as an old champion.

Blood was iron on his tongue, sweat salt. He added an ear to his collection. And then another. Perhaps there would have been another again, if not for the hornmaster, singalling the mockery. Mockeries were always fun, and two of the Vyshta possibilities would be there.

Then… murder, it fell into their laps, a Parrence-allied Yasoi caught with blood-red on their hands, except she was innocent.

Calitan had been paying attention. Adrenaline still rushed, his senses read the mess of magic around him almost instinctively. So when the woman from the rhyming game the night previous, a non-ally, spoke, he sensed, focussed on this not-stranger. When she touched Merit he didn’t notice anything. It took him a second to process: that was wrong. There should have been some draw, some trace. There was nothing.

What a golden opportunity this was for Eskandr.

But she was innocent.

“It was not her,” Calitan shouted, as much to Dyric as the crowd, essence amplifying his words, as he shoved through to her side, “she did not draw, did you not notice?”

He had no idea if his words were useful, but maybe the support of an opposed Yasoi would stop the crowd becoming a mob. Those had a way of resolving things rather suddenly. Not that this worried Calitan; he had probably just earned himself a knife in the back anyway.

Calitan
Tall Trees, Long Shadows I
Loriindton Forest - Night's Camp

There are tales that are told many times.

Tales of which mushrooms are safe to eat, which frog will stop a heart if you touch its poison skin. Cautionary tales for the the children, the tribe.

There are those raucous tales that braggarts so enjoy, about such manly things as muscles and where the prize always seemed to be some poor soul’s maidenhood. There were the subtle stories mothers told.

And there were the tales everyone knew, about the rock that jumped, or the first fire, or how six gods became five.

All these would be told at the mette-stiroi. As they had been told many times before.

Calitan had now killed for stories, caught up in one, a side apparently chosen for him by circumstance. The Yanni had been novel, gone now, as had Lyen, when she had spoken at all. He knew what stories would be told, yet Calitan went for that special chance of a new story, one told only once.

Thus he sat there in the hollow bough of a tree, silent as the game was played around him. He would only lisp with his scarred lips, so saved himself the mockery as the drink soured in his stomach.

Then there was the lady, Talit. Yes, there had been tales of her. Calitan nodded his greetings, let the drink wag the other’s tongues because it had taken his legs. Perhaps he mumbled his name.

Vieri

Vieri hated crows. When a crow came with a letter one day, Vieri actually had reason to. (See collab with Pirouette and Tackytaff)

The heat was not the most oppressive thing in the refuge. That came forth in the quiet spaces, when you could hear the ghosts.

Jo seemed in control, old beyond her years. Vieri was seen to their room. It only took half an hour to make everything as it should be. Getting the angle of the bed right was hardest, as always, but as a final groaning nudge aligned it, the room became a place Vieri could relax.

So of course the mealtime bell called them away.
A Blank Canvas
A collab with @Ti featuring Ayla and Vieri
In which there are misunderstandings, the past is spoken of, a good excuse is found to paint, and Ayla is tempted by a Dockhand at the end


Quiet Reading
A collab with @YummyYummy featuring Zarina and Vieri
In which all debts are pardoned, limits are exceeded, the Royal Sand Worm's demise is made certain, a Chupacabra is slain in the library by children


Tortured Artists
A collab with @Wolfieh featuring Kaspar and Vieri
In which lessons are learned, lessons are offered, an assumption does not have its toes trodden on, and home is missed



It was worse at night. It was always worse at night.

An oil lamp made an island in the clotted shadows: a bed, Vieri, kneeling on bunched sheets.

Before Vieri, a book and a knife, sharp enough to cut like submerging your head in icy water. If they had noticed that on the knife was a rust-brown fleck they would have cleaned it off, oiled the knife with a rag, made it shine until even the memory of the filth was scrubbed clean, and that ritual might have replaced the one that happened instead.

Eyes shut, hands clasped together so that the fingertips went white, Vieri mouthed their prayers.

Have I been good enough? Was I right to make friends with a heretic? Am I really helping, or just hiding?

And the question they always prayed.

They knew the answers to all but the last, and when they finally lay down to sleep, they felt like they had submerged their head in icy water.

@jdh97 Overall, I like him and he works. Your prose is as evocative as ever and he holds some nice nuance. A few little nitpicks below:

1) There's no 'K' in the transliteration of yasoi to the Avincian alphabet.

2) Have a look at some of the yasoi names in discoveries on the discord for some idea of the sound of them and maybe try to carry these through to the cognomen and surname. Triple consonants are rare except when necessary to make at least two different sounds that could not be made a simpler way.

3) Just be a bit wary of how you frame Vyshta. She's not so much a war goddess as one of fortune: luck, essentially.

4) Anything else about how he uses the Gift? And favoured moves, proclivities, or quirks? Feelings toward it?


1 and 2) Think I've changed these to something acceptable?

3) Shuffled things about so it's more in line with lore.

4) Added two paragraphs. Would you like more/different focus?

3) Be aware that, in Quentic Constantian society, there is room for quite a bit in terms of hetero/homosexuality and even polygamy in some interpretations. However, a gender binary nonetheless exists and is strongly normative, as reflected in each of the gods having two aspects: male and female. A character who doesn't clearly fit either acknowledged gender may either simply have their gender and sex assumed or, in some cases, be a point of scrutiny. Overall, we're not dealing with modern western or indigenous conceptions of gender here and I want these interactions to be played out authentically or not at all.

6) lo (place name) type names would very much mark one out as common as opposed to being among the merchant or noble classes and would close some doors. This is something that your character and their parents would be aware of, having grown up in this world.

3) I suspected this might have been the case, and saw it as what could be a good point of conflict for the character. If you or anyone else have problems with the way this plays out, I will rework the character without any grudge.

6) I was under the impression this would have shown Joruban heritage, my mistake. Could you suggest a fitting Joruban surname in that case?
Calitan’Viszar’Telrontelios__ _ _ _ _


46 | Male | Yasoi | Force and Essence | Dervish__ _ _ _ _


C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _

What is seen in silver waters?
A scar puckers from forehead to jaw bone, a trench of red-raw flesh that shortens the left side of his mouth and drags it upwards in a perpetual sneer. Where the wound crosses the left eye, Tetsoi circle its absence in praise. These cover lots of his skin, point out smaller scars, tell a story.

If it is important to you, the remaining eye is orange.

Apart from this, Visz is a typical Yasoi. Perhaps his hair is longer, perhaps the odd way he tilts his head is a quirk of having only one eye, but he also does this at listening parties, when eyes should be shut.

Chains and leather thongs and strips and straps cover pseudo-armour that is much more a weapon, designed to come apart. Browns and greens. The uniform of a Dervish. Around his neck he wears a necklace of pointed ear tips. Count them. There are thirty and four.

What moonlight comes through the leaves to show a path unique?
To collect. To trade. In story and song, Visz wishes to unveil prophecies concerning the return of Vyshta and trade them for the hand and bond of his saviour. And where there is war, stories are valuable, and songs old and new are sung.

That is all. Until a new focus comes.

Do your boughs creak?
Confident and foolhardy, Visz might at times seem a caricature. When it comes to his focus, that is when earnest interest comes forth, and he is most like the him inside his head. Patient, generous, covetous. He likes to listen and recite, but the cheapest way to collect stories is to live them.

B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _

Father died on a mushroom binge. Mother was too busy. Lots of time spent running with other children, climbing, stealing from the humans, tipping their cows and sheep, running from them.

Next came his calling: fight until dead or too old to fight. Then would come training children to do the same. Would he make them eat bark and crawl along thorns like his own Ithi’Naa, his mentor? Sometimes he wonders.

Then death at last.

A champion of Mez’Qaddurat*, Visz never lost a combat. Perhaps he should have seen the writing on the wall, the calling of a new focus, but he did not. In restlessness, complacency grew. It cost him an eye, but his opponent their life. (*a bloodsport where you trade blows and collect ears from your opponents, often taking place at Mette'stiroi)

The festering wound healed and Visz’s life saved by Imri’Tah’Imri, a healer. Their chemistry was instant. It could have been the addled state of his mind, but one night Visz promised the where and when of Vyshta’s return for Imri’s bond. It could have been the addled state of his mind, but he did not back down from these words the next night, nor any night since.

It was, after all, an experience.

I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _

A pole with blades and a length of leather and chain at both ends. There are weights and blades upon the chains, and the leather marks break-points, offering a focal point for the Gift if the lengths get tangled and need to be broken.

Slender chains that wrap around his forearms and shins, with a pointed weight upon the end. Whistling knives. Various whips of leather can unravel from the outfit.

The outfit.

A vielle and harp to recite to. They were painted with bioluminescent inks, but they have all but chipped off from years on the road.

The necklace of ears.

Coins. Humans covet these. Actual things can practically be stolen with them.

A journal.

Mixtures for ailments various.

A promise seed to be planted upon the fulfilment of the promise.

T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _

A dervish, he favours Force and Essence, used for explosive offense. A Yasoi, all can be called upon.

In combat their use is forward in the mind, focussed with chanted prayers of Luck to Vyshta. Force to strike blink-quick, to throw knives and make them scream, to become a dervish. Essence to quicken the mind and body, panic others. Arcane might make a strike appear to come a second early, or a second late, or not at all.

In life, it is not so clear. It can craft counter melodies to song and carry his voice, it can nudge emotions, it can heighten and deaden. When stalking he makes no sound at all. How many times has it staved off sleep, or multiplied drink? So many times it is unconscious, as much a part of him as breathing.

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

❖ A memory and mind for story and song
❖ Iron will
❖ Not opposed to the idea of humans entirely
❖ Survival

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

❖ Unempathetic when empathy does not stand to gain. At that point it is fifty-fifty
❖ Single-Minded
❖ Delusions of Grandeur
❖ Depth Perception
Anything to revise?

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