FetzenWhy not combine two and have a cloak that allows him to turn into a crow?
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It was worth it.
One by one those who answered the emperor’s call were announced as they entered the throne room, until the final pair. Shrinking towards the back of the room, Kean watched them with a carefully blank face, and took special notice of their names. Names were important. Some he even recognised, though Zina Withervine was… different to how he had imagined her. Still, she was an impressive figure, looming over most others. But that was the trouble, looks could often tell lies and half-truths, fickle things as they were, and so far, that was all he had to go on, really. That, and the assumption that the people here were summoned for good reason, likely based on rumour and reputation. Yet even with a trail that obvious, the messengers must have been truly tenacious to even try and seek out some of these. How many had failed? How many had never got their summons? How many had refused? Regardless, it meant they probably didn’t know who he was, way back when he was using his given name, if it was based off the news and repute of his current exploits. Probably.
Kean found himself staring into the eyeless void of the lapdog’s visor. He was a statue. An indoctrinated idol of the Emperor's will. How much do you know? He mused.
When the Emperor spoke, there was a reverent hush, and his voice seemed to fill the hard room. He had been cordial and pleasant during their greetings, even to Kean, but now his tone seemed somewhat sombre. The news of Westgate falling was a genuine shock to Kean; he had spent too long on the fringes, helping those abandoned by the empire, too far and few to be worth the investment. Gathering prolific figures from the lands inside and out the empire’s reach was starting to make more sense in these dire times. Somewhat mollified, Kean glanced from the emperor to the others, his stony features ground softer. The weight of it all was setting in. It was crushing. Were they really a last-ditch attempt? The only hope to stop the Scorned? Maybe. A gaping chasm fell downwards in the pit of his stomach. Kean blinked hard.
However, then the Templar was announced as their leader and Kean barked a laugh. Immediately he shoved a clenched fist over his mouth and forced his eyes to the floor. Already having pushed his luck, Kean did not want to test it too far, not now he had seen the calibre of his peers. He felt somewhat outclassed. Redundant. Best not to see if that were true.
With no questions of his own springing to mind, Kean would stay towards the back of the room still, watching, waiting for the others to ask, hoping to gleam some insight into what the people he could very well die next to were thinking.
He rubbed the bags under his eyes.
Kean found himself staring into the eyeless void of the lapdog’s visor. He was a statue. An indoctrinated idol of the Emperor's will. How much do you know? He mused.
When the Emperor spoke, there was a reverent hush, and his voice seemed to fill the hard room. He had been cordial and pleasant during their greetings, even to Kean, but now his tone seemed somewhat sombre. The news of Westgate falling was a genuine shock to Kean; he had spent too long on the fringes, helping those abandoned by the empire, too far and few to be worth the investment. Gathering prolific figures from the lands inside and out the empire’s reach was starting to make more sense in these dire times. Somewhat mollified, Kean glanced from the emperor to the others, his stony features ground softer. The weight of it all was setting in. It was crushing. Were they really a last-ditch attempt? The only hope to stop the Scorned? Maybe. A gaping chasm fell downwards in the pit of his stomach. Kean blinked hard.
However, then the Templar was announced as their leader and Kean barked a laugh. Immediately he shoved a clenched fist over his mouth and forced his eyes to the floor. Already having pushed his luck, Kean did not want to test it too far, not now he had seen the calibre of his peers. He felt somewhat outclassed. Redundant. Best not to see if that were true.
With no questions of his own springing to mind, Kean would stay towards the back of the room still, watching, waiting for the others to ask, hoping to gleam some insight into what the people he could very well die next to were thinking.
He rubbed the bags under his eyes.
Elodea "Ellie" Verdantweed
Age: 60
Gender: Female
Race: Sea Elf
Job: Apothecary and Navigator's Assistant
Personality: Ellie is a peaceful soul, if somewhat skittish, who will avoid partaking in acts of violence by any means necessary. Often, that means simply removing herself from the situation, and for that, some may call her a coward. Likewise, she hates confrontations or upsetting people, so is subservient, never giving orders to another; she merely suggests or puts them forward as questions. Though at first she might seem furtive, if one takes the time to get to know her they will find she is very open and honest, enjoying pleasant company as much as she enjoys listening to the wind and waves. There is a certain naivety in her world views, but she is slowly learning from the crew, her “family”, that the world may not live up to all her hopes.
History
Born the later in a set of non-identical twins, Elodea and her brother Densa were the children of Zostera and Thalassia Verdantweed, husband and wife. Growing up in Lytheria was a rich experience and the tides never failed to bring all manner of wonderful travellers and trinkets from the exotic lands above the water. Their father was a rather successful tradesman, specialising in glow globes, glass spheres that enhanced the natural capabilities of bioluminescent algae (teeny tiny plants that spoke in the barest of whispers) to provide a submersible and reliable light source for diving expeditions, as well as other supplies needed for such ventures. As such, both children got a better exposure to the Folk From Above than most others their age. Whilst Ellie was amazed by the people and how funny they looked and the odd foods they brought, it was the stories that seized Densa, and he would always try and gleam whatever he could from the foreigners, ever-curious about what lay beyond the surface.
It came as no surprise then that when they entered education, both magically gifted, Densa chose to pursue the magic and spells that humans often sought out. Elodea’s magic manifested itself more naturally, attuning herself further with the elements, she found herself able to talk to the sea creatures and plants, and even listen to the tides and eventually understand their moods. Many hours would be lost in idle conversation with shoals of friendlier animals in the reefs and harbours around the city.
As their education progressed, Densa began to distinguish himself as a student, and began spending vast amounts of time working in the Dry Rooms. Ellie was proud as ever, having always looked up to her brother. Gradually, she began to see less and less of him.
Her own magic had bloomed too, and she could now identify most plants and ascertain their uses, under the tutelage of the professors in the Alchemical and Apothecarial Arts that urged her to study under them. She accrued favours but also lengthened her list of those she owed during this time.
Then came the day that her brother was to leave with a crew from Laxen, a human crew. He urged her to come with him, but Ellie was content under the waves; he clearly got all the ambition and drive in the womb. Yet Densa understood, for he loved his sister deeply, and so left her a necklace, a simple, charmed thing that was a proof of concept and part of a thesis required for his advancement. He explained it would act as a concentrated searchlight when activated, so long as she never damaged it, so she could keep a piece of him with her, and that she was always welcome in case she ever changed her mind. Their parting was pleasant, if steeped ambivalence.
Years passed until she would hear of her brother again. Part of her wished she didn’t. The ship he had been sailing on was reported missing, and then, found beneath the sea. She was not worried; he could not drown. Yet the circumstances surrounding the sinking of the vessel were veiled in mystery and gossip. There was no crew found aboard the wreckage, or anywhere nearby, and no land for them to have found sanctuary. Some believed the ship was scuppered, some that the beasts of less passive inclination had consumed all the corpses, others that pirates had captured the crew and sunk the ship, yet oddly a vast number of valuable goods were recovered from the wreckage by rescue crews.
Elodea, having visited the wreckage herself and gleaming nothing, decided to set of for the surface, alone, unsure what else to do; needing only to find her brother. Maybe she’d find him by simply looking, or maybe embracing his lifestyle would clue her in on what exactly happened, and she could inquire about the case with those who sailed so often. Regardless, she was adrift.
After many months of observing crews, and even travelling with a few to different shores, the Great Aquarius came in to harbour. She knew something was special about it. Eventually she was able to convince herself more a boon than a burden and was brought on as a member of the crew. That was two years ago.
Not particularly suited to manual labour, Ellie will often reside herself to swabbing the deck, shrinking away from other crew members, never wanting to be in their way. Her magic allows her to be a great help with navigation, and her skills with plants mean she can stave of most ailments when the supplies are there. Sometimes when rations are low she can scavenge edible plants from under the waves, preferring not to hunt for fish, since they aren’t willing to be eaten quite so often, and can prepare meals if it is called of her.
Though the trail to her brother is cold, and those around may have come to their grim conclusions, she still maintains the belief that she’ll find her brother, someday.
Magic
Ellie’s magic attunes her with nature. She can communicate with animals, if they are willing, though her understanding of plants is deeper, and she can gleam much from simple conversations and observations. She cannot alter or assert her will over any of these beyond the affect her words will have. On a more basic level she can listen to the tides and, she found out, the winds, and understand their temperament; useful for plotting courses and predicting weather patterns. Though it is not infallible, it is reasonably accurate.
Other: A large portion of the time her entire form will be damp; she likes to take dips in the water when there’s a lull in activity. Though she believes in all the gods, the Glowing Maiden is who she prays to most.
Sure thing, I don't have time right now, but later.
Edit: Let me know if this is short too or whatever.
The Glowing Maiden, a deity of light and the life it brings. Worshipped once in the sacred groves, she was revered for protecting the forests and nurturing them and all that dwelt within, and for bringing the sunrise every morning. When much of the world was lost beneath the waves, where the sunlight’s reach is pitiable, The Glowing Maiden’s role shifted to fit her children’s new paradigm. She is now worshipped as the mistress of Hope, a beacon in the depths. Many say it was she who put the spark of light in the glowing creatures so that her children may find their way. Similarly, she is said to lead the souls of her deceased followers back to the submerged and ancient groves. Thus, she is often called the Mother of the Lost. Depicted as a hooded and haloed woman, her symbol is an encircled torch.
Edit: Let me know if this is short too or whatever.
The Glowing Maiden, a deity of light and the life it brings. Worshipped once in the sacred groves, she was revered for protecting the forests and nurturing them and all that dwelt within, and for bringing the sunrise every morning. When much of the world was lost beneath the waves, where the sunlight’s reach is pitiable, The Glowing Maiden’s role shifted to fit her children’s new paradigm. She is now worshipped as the mistress of Hope, a beacon in the depths. Many say it was she who put the spark of light in the glowing creatures so that her children may find their way. Similarly, she is said to lead the souls of her deceased followers back to the submerged and ancient groves. Thus, she is often called the Mother of the Lost. Depicted as a hooded and haloed woman, her symbol is an encircled torch.
Still reading the Int. Check and the OOC, loving the premise. Just to check, before I get oh-so invested, is there still space?
I'll try and get a CS up today or tomorrow.
The sun was setting in the courtyard, a hazy blot above the thatched roof. Underneath a purple and red sky, children clapped and stomped. Some danced. Some adults joined in with them. Chickens clucked and pecked at the dirt. A young woman with a lute weaved a melody growing ever faster as Kean juggled more and more eggs, and stones, and even a knife. The arc grew until his hands became a blur. The song swelled. Feet became thunder.
And then a man in royal colours stepped into the courtyard.
For a moment, one off-beat, Kean faltered. That was all it took. It all came tumbling down. Eggs smashed, stones flew off into the distance. The knife clattered at Kean’s feet. Children screamed and squealed, covering their heads. All that, from one tiny moment of hesitation, one minute mistake.
At the time, Kean had been furious, and apologised to the crowd, mostly refugees he had escorted to a host family that could take care of them until something else was arranged further from the conflict’s front. But then again, at the time Kean didn’t know why the courier was there. The letter was a huge relief; he’d have hated to have to kill another man. In fact, the letter was more than just a relief, it was an omen, a calling; he’d been praying for an end to all this, and it had just been shown to him.
And so here he was: hobbling down halls that disappeared upwards to a lofty ceiling, flanked by two guards.
Getting to the palace had taken a week of hard riding from that remote farm, and it was hard; he’d gone through three horses and every muscle ached for much forgone rest. Entering the city was agony. It felt like he was sticking his hand in a hornet’s nest. For so long he had been careful to avoid bastions of imperial fervour, and now here he was going willingly and unhidden into one. Nobody seemed to recognise him, and he supposed that was fair; he had been using a different name back then, and he was much younger, and the last attempt to bring him in was over two years ago, but even still, he was on edge. The size of it all left him in awe, but the familiarities: soothsayers and beggars, they kept him grounded in reality.
The letter bore the Emperor’s seal, as the courier had told him, and waving it at the guards had granted him an escort directly to the palace. Rather lucky they recognised it, since he reeked, and must have appeared like one of the homeless.
But yes, the now. The guards opened a door and eased him forward at the shoulder.
Kean almost keeled over, disgusted. He bit back the bile surging up his throat. The blatant excess that decorated the throne room could feed all the starving in Dramon and beyond. A dark grimace painted itself over Kean’s features as the guards announced his arrival and fell to their knees. He limped further in, stopping in front of the throne.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Kean said, with an exaggerated bow, ending it with another unnecessary flourish. He looked around the room, his eyes sliding over the lapdog Templar. “Am I the first?” He asked, holding a finger to his chest.
And then a man in royal colours stepped into the courtyard.
For a moment, one off-beat, Kean faltered. That was all it took. It all came tumbling down. Eggs smashed, stones flew off into the distance. The knife clattered at Kean’s feet. Children screamed and squealed, covering their heads. All that, from one tiny moment of hesitation, one minute mistake.
At the time, Kean had been furious, and apologised to the crowd, mostly refugees he had escorted to a host family that could take care of them until something else was arranged further from the conflict’s front. But then again, at the time Kean didn’t know why the courier was there. The letter was a huge relief; he’d have hated to have to kill another man. In fact, the letter was more than just a relief, it was an omen, a calling; he’d been praying for an end to all this, and it had just been shown to him.
And so here he was: hobbling down halls that disappeared upwards to a lofty ceiling, flanked by two guards.
Getting to the palace had taken a week of hard riding from that remote farm, and it was hard; he’d gone through three horses and every muscle ached for much forgone rest. Entering the city was agony. It felt like he was sticking his hand in a hornet’s nest. For so long he had been careful to avoid bastions of imperial fervour, and now here he was going willingly and unhidden into one. Nobody seemed to recognise him, and he supposed that was fair; he had been using a different name back then, and he was much younger, and the last attempt to bring him in was over two years ago, but even still, he was on edge. The size of it all left him in awe, but the familiarities: soothsayers and beggars, they kept him grounded in reality.
The letter bore the Emperor’s seal, as the courier had told him, and waving it at the guards had granted him an escort directly to the palace. Rather lucky they recognised it, since he reeked, and must have appeared like one of the homeless.
But yes, the now. The guards opened a door and eased him forward at the shoulder.
Kean almost keeled over, disgusted. He bit back the bile surging up his throat. The blatant excess that decorated the throne room could feed all the starving in Dramon and beyond. A dark grimace painted itself over Kean’s features as the guards announced his arrival and fell to their knees. He limped further in, stopping in front of the throne.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Kean said, with an exaggerated bow, ending it with another unnecessary flourish. He looked around the room, his eyes sliding over the lapdog Templar. “Am I the first?” He asked, holding a finger to his chest.
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