Lugubrious

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artemisia

Merchant Row, Garleton

The rush of battle got Artemisia's blood pumping, and things began to feel very clear. Her bow-wielding foe spotted her spell taking shape and called in backup before knowing another arrow. Neither seemed especially composed, talented, or well-equipped. Bandits, then. Not even the advance wave of the enemy force. In a way she felt disappointed, insulted even. At least this would be easy. All the same, she did not feel comfortable taking the initiative, but it came in the form of a new arrival to the fight. Oh, he's here too. Followed me I'll bet. Trace appeared from behind Artemisia and her new knight friend, which made her realize that a third bandit could have stolen up on her with a back-stabber in hand just as easily. The spearman, however, was a welcome arrival, and he charged to clash with the axefighter head-on. Their bout could be decided in a split second; if Trace thrust just right, he could pierce the vagabond's heart before he got close enough to swing. If he missed that pivotal chance, however, the brute power of the axe could easily split his lance's shaft in twain, followed shortly by the boring man's head. Artemisia, who knew none of these weapon-based intricacies, at the very least wished that Trace fought more adeptly than he conversed. Primarily, she wished that the both of them would get out of her way. Unlike arrows, weightless magic projectiles arced barely if at all, which meant she needed a clear shot at the archer to take him out. With the melee in the middle there wasn't much of a chance of that, and it would reflect poorly on her if she went with her first instinct to hurl her Flux at Trace and the bandit both. Just a moment passed before the answer came to her. Artemisia thrust her hand outward, throwing the Flux at the ground to the left of the melee fighters. With a deep tone followed by caustic sputters, it burst into purple waves and large black particles. Into the haze Artemisia rushed, using it as cover while she prepared a second. When in position she raised her hand above her head and hurled the Flux at the archer, crying, “To pieces!” She aimed for the ground between his feet to catch him in the blast. Such a target made hitting almost guaranteed, though it'd be a miracle if it did lethal damage. With a little luck, though, it could cripple his ability to fight, and Artemisia liked the odds.

__________________________ Status: Attacking Class: Occultist Inv: Vulnerary, Book of Secrets

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artemisia

Army Encampment to Merchant Row, Garleton

True to Artemisia's prediction, Trace took her up on her offer, and within short order the pair embedded themselves in a local eatery to pass some time. In the period that followed, they broached a number of subjects, but seldom got deeper than the surface. While at the dark mage's prompting Trace gave up a couple stories about his mercenary past, which seemed fairly standard fair as far as Artemisia was concerned, he did not open up about anything further back or more interesting. That was fair, though, since neither did Artemisia. Whenever asked, she demonstrated a decisive refusal to share any details of her origins or goals, though that only seemed to pique Trace's curiosity. She did, however, opt to tell him that she sought someone with an incurable sickness and pink eyes. That reveal gradually led to Trace making a new offer, which Artemisia understood as a futile attempt to convince her to rethink mercenary work with him, but one that she accepted nonetheless: to spend the remainder of the evening among the armed forces, with Trace as her guide, to look for and inquire about her VIP. That led to a less-than-pleasant romp through the army's turf over the course of the whole afternoon. While not always threatened, Artemisia managed to feel out of place the whole time, and even with Trace helping progress came slowly. Nobody seemed to know who she sought, nor did any soldier or squire bear the characteristics she watched for. She ended up in the castle barracks by the time Prince Alnard himself opted to give the recruits a rousing speech, thanks to Trace, who as an independent mercenary answered to that noble alone. The prince's word's rolled off her back like water across duck feathers. She harbored no intention whatsoever of fighting alongside him, let along dying with him. Important things remained for her to attend to—besides, she rather liked being alive, her comrades within the Coven, and most of all her dear father. As the mercenaries were dismissed, Artemisia found herself wondering where Solomon was now. The Wyvern Courier traveled far and wide, the breadth and beauty of the whole continent beneath him. With a smile, the dark mage remembered the last time he'd taken her up with him on that surly old drake of his. Flight was a glorious thing. If she'd been born in a city rather than the swamp, Artemisia wondered if she might have followed in his footsteps as a pegasus rider. Things would have been so much less complicated. A short time later, as Artemisia put the finishing touches on a new entry in her Book of Secrets, the hairs on the back of her neck began to tingle. The air felt...charged. As in moments before a thunderstorm burst. Galvanized into action, she jotted down another line, snapped the diary shut, and stood up from where she sat against the outside of Trace's tent. Her baby blues scanned the night sky. Two seconds passed. Three. Four. The silver-haired woman furrowed her brow. Had she been imagining things...? Then the starry heavens lit up with flame, and the entirety of Garleton shuddered like a stuck pig. “Whoa.” Artemisia steadied herself, watching as her vision filled with brilliant, hungry orange. The town was burning. She thought of jostling the tent and telling Trace to come out, but surely he heard and felt the blast for himself. The same thought scalded itself onto everyone's minds: they were under attack. All around, chaos had erupted. There weren't many citizens in this particular area to flat-out panic, but not all the soldiers kept their heads. For her part, Artemisia surveyed the tempest coolly, looking for an exit. “Resonant flames,” she explained to Trace with nonchalance. “The work of a large mage circle. I must confess myself impressed, though not so much that I shall hesitate in my withdrawal. Thank you for your help, Mr. Trace, but I believe it is time to depart.” That proved easier said than done, however. Orders came in, as best she could tell, for the soldiers to help evacuate the citizens via the castle. Since evacuation sounded pretty good to Artemisia, and running willy-nilly through the city could very well lead her into the enemy force responsible for the fire strike, she allowed herself to be swept up by the current. That, however, turned out to be a bad idea. With her lack of size and athleticism, as well as her robes, keeping up with the stampeding civilians ended up being both difficult and hazardous. As the stream of humans rounded a corner to head up the main thoroughfare to the castle, Artemisia took a hard shove, tripped over the edge of her gown, and stumbled out of the crowd. She hit an abandoned horse cart head-on and dropped like a sack of flour. After rolling a couple times, she came to a stop, clutching her head as unbidden tears filled her eyes. “Ow ow ow, Gwyn damn it.” Despite her arching noggin she struggled to her feet, lurching in the wrong direction a short way before falling to her knees. One of the soldiers tasked with evacuating noticed and left the crowd to jog her way down Merchant Row. “Miss? You alright? You're going the wrong way.” The man, with long blonde hair in a ponytail, wielded gauntlets and wore a concerned expression. With his green eyes on Artemisia he didn't notice the arrow sailing his way until it was too late. “Gah!” It sunk into his right thigh, provoking an agonized grunt. He staggered but avoided falling over as a few marauders came into view. Gritting his teeth, he raised his gauntlets into a ready stance, only to wince again as Artemisia used him for support to stand up again. In grim silence the woman held up her hands, surrounding them in purple energy and black particles. Whether he appreciated it or not, this fistfighter would be backed up by a practitioner of the dark arts. Whoever these aggressors were, they had no idea what they were in for.

__________________________ Status: Dazed, small, and ready to brawl Class: Occultist Inv: Vulnerary, Book of Secrets New entry This afternoon I spent perusing the area's armed forces. I expect ordinary soldiers would be loathe to have someone such as I in their midst, but I had the fortune of being vouched for and guided around by my new acquaintance, Trace. While our conversation at lunch did precious little to endear himself to me in terms of intrigue, the fellow is certainly proving himself obliging and useful. All the same, I fear today's end will mark the termination of our cooperation. I did manage to behold the prince himself, whose striking features have inspired me to learn more about his exploits come the next opportunity. Perhaps it is construable as indulgent, but I am sure time spent learning the tale of the royal family is not time misspent. As I write now, I find certain sensations gnawing at me. A lick of magic haunts the air, tingling the mind and body. I am sure that something interesting is soon to happen.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artemisia

Garleton

As the stranger leaped into his response, more than making up for his silence before, Artemisia listened with her brow furrowed and mouth just slightly open. All of a sudden, the man -Trace, it seemed- just wouldn't stop rambling on, and was he ever forthright. Not only did he appear unduly concerned with her wellbeing, but he made no bones about a potential arrangement being for his benefit, too. Artemisa appreciated honesty, but this Trace wasn't making a good case for himself. Of course the roads and towns would be perilous with a war brewing, but Wayfarers could handle themselves, even one not long down the path. In fact, Trace offered exactly the opposite of what the dark mage wanted—she needed to keep her distance from armies and battlefields, sticking to the shadows as she hunted her quarry in safety. Sure, travel meant new places, and the one she sought could be among the ranks of the Prince's army, but sticking with a company meant losing her agency. They would decide where she went, and if her target did not serve in the corps, leaving to continue her search would mean branding as a traitor. That was, if her status as dark mage or witch didn't get her stoned first. Running over these considerations in her head, Artemisia came to a decision. As much as she wanted to pay back Trace's kindness, not a single definitive positive swam among the murky sea of negatives. The dark mage, now with something to build off of, gave her answer with confidence and finality. “I am unable to acquiesce. My prerogative is to remain as far from the armed forces as I'm able while I pursue my own endeavors. To be certain there are risks, but I assure you I am more than capable.” She reached up to remove her monocle, which she slipped into a discreet pocket. An opportunity lay before her, and a subtle air of mischief entered her eyes. “However, since we seem to be very forward today, I would not mind joining you for lunch as recompense for your aid.” She looked at him sideways, a smile on her face. “Having labored in the medical ward for a while, I am less-than-ideally informed about recent happenings, and could use some conversation as well as sustenance. Furthermore, this plaza...” she eyed the crowd, watching a few interesting figures near the dancer, “Is fit to burst. If you remain eager to offer me protection, you can save me another round of bustling brutes and thieving fingers with a meal in a nearby tavern.” Surely this fellow harbored experiences more interesting than his looks, and while she took her mind off the melancholy of the clinic with someone's story, she could also comb him for potential leads. As a loner herself, she figured that this Trace, quite possibly attention-starved given his nervousness and obvious discomfort talking to a woman, wouldn't possibly decline.

__________________________ Status: Decisive Class: Occultist Inv: Vulnerary, Book of Secrets

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

I was planning on waiting for Flood to post before posting again. But, I have this feeling that I might not get the chance to escape the awkward moment... or even make it worse, if I don't post in the next day or so.

Any thoughts?

@Haeo

I myself would advise posting sooner rather than later. There's a decent amount of conversation that could happen and a move-on from Sho could come any time following the arrival of the person he's waiting on.

World of Light

Nero

Location: Charnal Lane, Dead Zone

It took only a glance for Nero to come to a conclusion. “That's a can of worms we don't need to open,” he told Nico, and with a nod of agreement the woman began to back up. A few feet in front of the van lay the edge of a giant crater, caused perhaps by some incredible underground collapse. A whole block of cityscape had sunk down into the earth, about eight stories at the very center up to three or four near the edges. Enormous roots, their branches adorned with blood-red leaves, grew from the cracks to snake through the air. Their presence, plus the warm, red glow of bio-luminescence, made it a pretty scene, but this rose boasted more than its fair share of thorns. Zombies utterly swarmed the area, more than likely trapped by the terrain. Going in there would be extremely hazardous, provided the team could get their vehicles back out. Unlike the streets, where one's vision served one well and some semblance of order could be had, deadly foes full to burst with infection could come from any angle in that tangle. Better, thought Nero, to take a detour.

On the other side of the deadwood crater rose the spires of a noble cathedral, and higher still towered one of the Qliphoth's roots. Left, further along the street Nico led the way down, lay a path around the crater and the office buildings that bordered it: the charnel lane. Along the ruined city's left edge lay a strip of land that traced the edge where world ended and Empty Space begin, home to a solemn park bearing countless gravestones, monuments, and mausoleums. Nico's van burst through the wrought-iron gates and jostled down the steps. Turning northward, the party proceeded through the graveyard. A number of zombies wandered about, joined by a new variety, dry and lethargically slow. Nero, walking at a brisk pace in front of the car, cleaved one as it turned to lurch at him. As its bisected halves hit the ground, they turned to ash and sank in, only for the ground to roil a moment later and bring forth a new corpse. Already having moved on, Nero shook his head in bemusement. “Damn things don't wanna stay in the ground.”

Nico opened her mouth to reply only to be cut off by a deafening howl. She and her friend tensed, looking in every direction to anticipate an attack. The sound resounded from everywhere at once, and the heroes weren't the only ones it provoked a reaction from. All around them, the eyes of the wandering undead lit up a foul, unholy greenish-yellow. Together they turned to face the heroes and began to advance.

A moment later, a rumble came from the entrance of a nearby mausoleum, which already appeared to be in shambles. From its mouth burst a huge monster, four-armed and wreathed in skulls, with a large corpse in its hand. Nero sized it up, snickering. “Now that's a demon.” He watched as it chomped on the cadaver, only to frown as a green glow overtook it. Bony protrusions emerged from its flesh, becoming weapons and armor, and when the monster released it the thing barreled at Nero faster than any zombie he'd ever seen. In plenty of time he brought up his right arm and unleashed it, creating a booming shockwave that launched him up and backward onto the roof of Nico's van. He landed, pulled out the Blue Rose, and watched as everything went to hell.

With a thunderous howl, a second Suffering exploded from the wall of the office building on the graveyard's right, bringing all four fists down onto the top of the van. A mighty CLANG rang out, but miraculously the incredible vehicle held firm. Confused and angry, the beast simply thrust its hands beneath and flipped the van over. Nero went flying, and with a terrible racket the van rolled toward the cliff's edge. He watched, helpless, as it barreled straight for certain doom. “Nico!”

“Here!” From inside, the plucky woman hurled another arm. Nero detonated his instantly and sent out his wire to snatch the buster arm and reel it into place. Using his sword's flames, Nero spiraled toward the ground, and ran forward just as the van went over. With a cry, he extended his new arm, blue energy surrounding it as it expanded into a larger, clawed hand. Its talons sunk into the van's siding, Nero dug his feet in, and with a colossal effort he slid to a stop.

It took all of his strength to hold the van there, growling through gritted teeth, but the Sufferings weren't about to let him off the hook. The forward one howled, rallying its undead around it to engage the heroes, and the one in back began snapping up corpses to add to its obedient Swarm.

Forested Canyon

Location: the Land of Adventure

The forest, neither too high nor too dense, contained a wealth of life and beauty. Birds sand, squirrels leaped through the trees, and all sorts of vibrant plantlife filled the underbrush. What chiefly concerned Bowser's party, however, did not take long to find. A small herd of baurun grazed the low-lying plants, evidently not partial to ordinary grass. They munched on roots, herbs, and berries happily, some of those herbs also on Mina's list. No bean bushes could be seen however; no doubt 'king' beans grew somewhere a little more remarkable in this forest.

Only one fully-grown bull appeared among the ranks of baurun, but the females -while lacking horns- looked almost as fierce and sizable. Although without Geralt, Linkle, the Courier, or Din, Bowser and his entourage could still take these beasts on if they used their wits and some caution, but those who remained didn't exactly steal the show in terms of precision. Whether or not they could acquire much meat was the question that hung in the still, cool air.

A few hundred feet farther on, the giant crevasse purported to dominate this area began. Roots and vines curtained its sides, but it nevertheless posed a potential hazard any hunters and gathers would need to be aware of. From within, the distant but remarkably frequent sound of explosives could be heard.

World of Light

@Gentlemanvaultboy @Stern Algorithm, what do you two say to your characters (who are planning to head down to the Forest Temple for the missing persons quest) getting diverted by the giant ape monster Territorial Rotbart on the way south and end up closer to the lake, where Pelagics are attacking? There's nobody currently on that quest minus Phoenix Wright (this was decided via PMs) and the Forest Temple would be overstaffed were anyone else to go there.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

I'll take you up on that. Yeah, I'd never seen these weird sidepanels used before, so I had some trouble getting one to look good.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artemisia

Garleton

Intent on the mesmerizing spectacle offered by the lady dancer, Artemisia remained wholly ignorant of her surroundings. A practiced eye might have caught discreet repositionings or vague momentum, but the dark mage either didn't notice or didn't look in the first place, which to a sharp observer no doubt suggested inexperience. Her blithe unawareness allowed an unseen sneakthief, having identified her as a likely mark, to draw nearer and nearer, until the viper was poised to strike. Before he could, however, Trace made his move, walloping the vagabond with his spear's solid shaft. Startled, Artemisia jerked away, thinking for a moment that he'd meant to hit her, but instead of an assailant she found a scrawny kid on the ground, struggling to get air back into his lungs. She watched him scurry away for a moment before giving her full, albeit dubious attention to the lancer. For someone who'd just assaulted a man in broad daylight, Trace seemed incredibly casual. He greeted her with nonchalance before looking away, simply placing his back against the wall where he stood and resuming his observation of the dancer. Baffled by his manner, Artemisia stared for a moment before looking back down at her book. In the pregnant silence that followed, she awkwardly entered another few lines in her journal to describe what happened, putting together something to say at the same time. She didn't like talking to people for no reason, particularly people who looked as boring as Trace did, but unless she missed her guess he'd just saved her from a pickpocket. That warranted some kind of gratitude, but why did he act so indifferently? It wasn't like she was gregarious to begin with, and it put her off. “Good...morning,” Artemisia greeted after way too many seconds, her voice stilted and just as flat as Trace's. Whether or not it was still morning was the least of her concerns. “Um. Thank you very much. That fellow...slipped my peripherals. I was fortunate...to be under your vigilance.” Perhaps, she reasoned, she had better get moving. The dance had to be just about over, after all. Yet, fleeing right now would be more than a little impolite after this stranger just helped her. “Is...is there something that I may do for you in recompense?” Forcing herself to look at the uninteresting-looking man, she gave her best smile. His helmet's shadow obscured his eye color somewhat, but they sure weren't pink.

__________________________ Status: Awkward Class: Occultist Inv: Vulnerary, Book of Secrets New entry I just witnessed a bizarre occurrence. A stranger approached whilst I, spellbound, absorbed a gorgeous dancer's performance, and attacked some miscreant sidling up behind me. Then, rather than initiate normal conversation, he just stiffly bids me well and stands there, not even looking at me. Was what just happened not unusual? His demeanor is so freakishly casual given the abnormality that just transpired. I would say something if I could, but this silence is rock-hard. I fear I must try anyway.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artemisia

Garleton

With a heavy sigh, Artemisia placed the stack of scrawled-on papers back inside the drawer they came from and slid it shut. Disappointing. While unsure if these documents even existed, she'd put all her efforts into chatting up anyone in the treatment ward with the lung capacity to do so, but now that she got her hands on these records they substantiated what her investigation suggested. Nobody bearing pink eyes and any sort of illness came through this place within the last few months. That meant another week of her time wasted, and her search no closer to its end. Worse, Artemisia hadn't the slightest clue where to look next this time. Before she could pay any mind to her next destination, however, came the hardest part of her time at this one: saying goodbye. A few minutes later, Artemisia poked her head around the corner of a doorway leading to the main ward. In front of her and unaware of her guest, the Sister appeared to be changing the wrappings of a man Artemisia knew to be suffering from gangrene. In his lucid moments -'lucid' being a quaint term for 'so stuffed full of painkillers as to be delirious- he'd told Artemisia about the battle that left him lying in a ditch, his flesh rotting while he still clung to life. It had been a dispute between two minor lords, with one catching wind of an assassination plot and sending his keenest ranger to take the assassin out, only for that bowman to fall victim himself. As part of her infiltration here, Artemisia helped to debride the dead tissue and wrap the sites to prevent infection, but the Sister knew the art of healing far, far better. Still, places like this never turned down help, which was the only reason why the dark mage's method of searching worked at all. As Artemisia watched now, the Sister wrapped a layer of soft, salve-soaked wrappings around the man's leg, then covered that with a thicker, dry layer of coarse bandage for sealing. Without looking up from her work, the blue-haired woman murmured, “You're not scheduled to come in for another few hours. I applaud your dedication, but I must wonder why.” Artemisia flinched. Sheepishly coming out from behind the corner, she took her hat into her hands and held it flat across her chest. “Y-your senses remain startlingly potent, ma'am. Well, since you inquire with exactitude, I have no alternative but to oblige your requested candor. Regrettably, given your choice of words, this must contain a barb of irony, but I...I am afraid that I must depart posthaste.” Whirling around, the Sister affixed Artemisia with stern, gray-green eyes. The winestain birthmark across her face gave her a mildly menacing visage, but those eyes held no wrath. Only disappointment. “You're leaving?” A genuine sorrow commanded Artemisia's features, but she did not avert her gaze. “That is...accurate. I am pointedly aware of your clinic's urgent need for additional healers, and my heart does pang for the ill and afflicted, but I cannot remain. My ultimate duty is inescapable.” Knowing flitted through the Sister's eyes. She said nothing, but she knew thanks to her proximity to Artemisia that she harbored an overriding devotion to her deity—a deity she suspected was not her own. Realizing this, Artemisia wanted to crumple in on herself. The Sister, so dedicated to her faith, tolerated the presence of an outsider without question? The urge to say something rose within her. “You have my deepest sympathies, ma'am, but I cannot stay. It was never my choice to make.” For the first time, the knowledge that she was doing the right thing wasn't enough, and Artemisia faltered. Looking at her feet, she muttered, “Hate me if you must.” She didn't realize what was coming until it was too late. Out of nowhere, white-robed arms wrapped around her, and the Sister pulled the shocked mage into an embrace. “Never. We all have our duty. Thank you for helping us here, child. Someday I hope you will return.” Something bit at Artemisia's heart. It caused a bubbling sensation in her throat, and water pooled in her eyes. She was a charlatan. She didn't deserve this love or forgiveness. Every ounce of help she'd provided came under the sole pretext of gaining access to information that might help her find her target. Hadn't it? Another few minutes passed, and Artemisia emerged from the ward onto a street lit by the noonday sun. After dabbing at her eyes, she replaced her hat on her head and glanced around. It looked like a very busy day, which meant getting ready to travel again would be difficult and tiresome. She took a few steps, then turned to look back at the entrance to the ward. What would become of its patients without her? Would the Sister, worked ragged when she first arrived, be able to take care of them without running herself into the ground? Artemisia forced herself to look away. “I cannot afford to let myself get attached to each stop on this journey,” she said aloud, trying to convince herself. “The show must go on.” With that, she stepped into the street. Avoiding the biggest crowds for fear of being jostled or otherwise put upon added to her travel time, but before long the dark mage reached the plaza. She meant only to cut across it on her way to the market, but something caught her gaze. A strangely-dressed woman danced to music, her rhythmic motions wholly unfamiliar and fairly enchanting. Fascinated, Artemisia stopped to watch from a distance, making sure to place her back against a wall so nobody could come up behind her.

__________________________ Status: Melancholy Class: Occultist Inv: Vulnerary, Book of Secrets New entry The investigation in Garleton is concluded. No hint of my target, and no leads. Yet, I have gleaned more about non-magical healing, and something besides: the Sister is an unequivocally wonderful individual. A true commoner, unremarkable in anything save her spirit, yet surely kinder and tougher than the most revered cardinal. She deserves to be remembered. I wish I could stay, but my mission beckons me indisputably onward. Still, I am determined that time will not stain her face from my recollection. One day, when my mission is done, I will return.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artimisia, Cordial Cultist

Name: Artemisia
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Personality:

Artemesia's character combines a number of traits that would typically be seen as diametrically opposed. She's usually quiet and can be reclusive, lazy, and withdrawn, but never surly or defensive, and in moments where her passions shine through she can become a completely different person, enthusiastic and talkative to a fault. Though empathetic and considerate, Artemisia tends to also be spiteful, vengeful, and short-tempered if wronged. Her passions include knowledge -trivia in particular-, stories, and drama, and it's no surprise that those plus her good memory and quick wit incline her towards large words, formal speech, occasional babbling, theatrical behavior, and interesting people. Eloquence plus her notable wits allows for some persuasiveness when she wants, but she's surprisingly naive about normal things. She's a believer in karmic justice, including paying violence against violence, but more than that she's a believer in Gwynism, the rare but ardent faith in the ancient King of Night's Blaze that idolizes him as a deity. As such, she is rather Machiavellian. In short, while she might seem like a passive, silent shut-in, she often exhibits intense bouts of enthusiasm or violence, as the situation calls.

Backstory:

The strongest fires leaves lasting embers.

In a remote valley between the misty mountains of the Lothian Empire's northern border lies Charna Bog, a perennially overcast mire of mud, water, plantlife, and cruelty. Few venture to such a inhospitable, nigh-malicious land, but deep within that dark, damp shroud a certain bowl of embers has blazed for centuries. Known to myth and rumor as the Charnail Coven, the society buried deep within the swamp claims to be descended from Gwyn, the infamous tyrant known to history as the King of Night's Blaze. Though insular and isolated, its appointed Wayfarers often travel abroad, gathering information, developments, magical knowledge and artifacts from the outside world before returning. Nevertheless, the Coven is a community steeped in decadence, its cult feverishly devout to their legendary ancestor, revered as a god of cleansing flame. It was into the Charnail Coven's domain, elevated above the swamp on trees and stilts and sustained by mad fervor, that Artemisia was born.

From her early years, in the manner of all children whose gifts in magic were identified by the village elders, she was trained in sorcery. Like the others, her parents raised her as a wholehearted follower of Gwyn, adored savior of flame. Yet, she received something the others didn't thanks to her father, and outsider who 'converted' to Gwynism following his own salvation at the hands of the woman who'd go on to become Artemisia's mother, who had plied her talent for White Magic to save his life. A wyvern rider of a nearby kingdom, Solomon could visit the village and his daughter regularly, bringing goods to trade to endear himself to the locals while keeping up the guise of being a devoted Gwynist. He helped reel her back from sinking too deep into the cult, and once in a while managed to sneak her out of the swamp to visit civilization. Her love for knowledge and drama bloomed during this time, and she longed to learn more of the outside world. As a result, she grew more worldly than her peers, so it came naturally that when she came of age Artemisia would be given the duty as one of the Coven's Wayfarers. Big things were brewing—for some time now, the prophecies of the elders foretold the existence of eight extraordinary individuals in the world, descendants of the Eight Heroes, who are necessary catalysts for the ceremony that would supposedly revive Gwyn from his age-long slumber.

Artemisia joined the seven other Wayfarers on their hunt for the children of prophecy, taking the chance to leave the Charna Bog behind. Even as she's begun truly exploring the outside world, however, she struggles with the duty she's been given and her misgivings about both the Coven and Gwynism itself. Yet, the mark of the swamp has never left her, burned into her mind to deep to be ignored. Her primary goal in her travels is to identify her mark and bring him or her back to the swamp (she only knows that her target has pink eyes and some kind of illness), but she doesn't mind dawdling a little to experience what the world has to offer on the way. After all, Gwyn's slept so long already; surely he can wait just a little longer.

Class: Occultist
Affinity: Umbral
Inventory:

Vulnerary, Book of Secrets (a journal containing interesting stuff she reads or witnesses and writes about to not forget)

Abilities:
Personal: Eye for an Eye – if struck, Artemisia's next attack increases in potency.

Spells/Weapon Arts:

Flux, Miasma

Stats

END: E
STR: E
MAG: C
DEX: E
SPD: D
DEF: E
RES: D
LCK: C

Talents: Dark Magic
Experience: 50
Support:

None