Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

A hollow grew in Dahlia’s stomach. Not just for the fear and panic in Quinn’s voice, but for the fear and panic she felt herself. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out what was going on; small town, big celebration, the water. For being countless miles away, every inch of Cantimine must have looked exactly like Hovvi. When she closed her eyes, she must have been able to see the fires, hear the skittering of monsters, feel the quake of the modir as they trampled her home into dust.

That’s how it was for her, at least. And that was with the benefit of being high above Illun, away from it all—though that left her with its own gnawing anxieties. There wasn’t a single day, sometimes a single hour, that went by when she didn’t think about her home. In the darkest and quietest hours of the night sometimes she opened her eyes to her father’s cold face, to Safie’s. The soft nest of blankets became the lining of a body bag, and she would watch in paralyzed silence as the zipper came up, closing over her, and only in the dark would she find the will to scream and jolt awake.

What could she say? What comfort could she ever offer someone in her position? Platitudes were balm, and lost their soothing touch the more they were used, and the last thing she wanted to hear from anyone these days was that what happened wasn’t her fault, or that she was strong, and brave. She didn’t want to be brave, she wanted her dad back. She wanted who she was before she knew how much she had to lose. Or at least, before she lost it.

Besca would tell her a story. She was good at that. She always had one, no matter what the situation was. There were times that Dahlia thought she was some kind of mystical being who had lived a hundred lives, was a thousand years old and that was why she always knew what to say, always knew how to empathize.

Dahlia wasn’t a thousand years old. She was barely an adult, and felt like less of one each day. She didn’t have stories, and it felt like she never knew what to say. All she had was herself, and the promise she’d made. She would never lie to Quinn.

“I don’t either,” she said, as much as it hurt to admit. “I…I wish I did. I really, really wish I did. It hurts enough waking up most days, I…don’t know how you do it.”

She slumped against the sim pod, the strength leaking out of her, leaving her with only a whisper. “You didn’t choose this life, but I did. You shouldn’t be the one down there, it isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But Illun doesn’t care, the modir don’t care. Whether we can do it or not, everything just…keeps going.”

A sigh worked its way up her throat, shaky and pitiful, but she didn’t try to hide it. No lying. “I miss you. I need you to stay safe. Please. I know it’s selfish, I wish there was more I could do for you from here but…but there’s not. I love you, me and Besca both love you. One day this’ll be over, and you’ll come back to us, and it’ll be better. But until then, just…” she clenched her fist, forced herself to stay composed. “I’ll always want to talk, even if I can’t help. Just to hear you’re alive. Nothing is too much as long as you’re still alive, Quinn.”

Amygdala Circuit

An orbit away, the Aerie was as silent as Cantimine was loud. Down to a single pilot, there truthfully wasn’t much for most of the staff to do; those whose job it was to monitor for singularities were, of course, working around the clock, and every brain in PR was hard at work spinning Quinn’s absence into positive news, but otherwise…

Well, Dahlia had a lot of time to train. And she had, extensively—excessively, according to Besca—but she knew there was no such thing as being too prepared. Frankly, sometimes she doubted she was prepared at all. Complacency was poison to pilots, but so too was doubt, and for a time Dahlia thought she had found a comfortable balance between them. But then the attack had happened, and whenever she stepped into a sim, or connected to Dragon, all she could think about were the six Modir who had come to kill Quinn.

She thought of it now, too, when she heard her voice. Always when she heard her voice. Panic, as sharp as the first time she’d stepped into the cockpit, squeezing her heart like a fist. It pushed her, gave her the drive she needed to rebuild, but sometimes it made her dull, made her glaze over details she shouldn’t miss. Like the tremble in Quinn’s voice. The relief was too much, mingled too excitedly with the fear, that she barely even heard the words.

“Great!” she said, the response automatic as the rest of her caught up. “I wasn’t expecting you to call—I mean, I’m glad, I just didn’t know you could. Things are great here! Not because you’re gone or anything. Actually I guess in that way they’re kinda awful, but other than that we’re good! We’re great. We miss you a lot. Besca’s still working all the time but she misses you. She’s in a meeting right now, I think, but I can message her if you want, I know she’d…”

It hit her hard, suddenly, that Quinn was calling her. She was alive, yes, but Quinn had proven so far that she was pretty good at staying alive. It was the living part that gave her trouble. There was a big festival happening in Cantimine, and Quinn was calling her. And there was, if she thought hard, a definite hitch in her voice. Something was wrong, and Dahlia could feel the brief moment of relief wither inside her throat. She sat down against the sim pod.

“How…” she started, coughed, tried again. “How, uhm, how are you?”

Amygdala Circuit

Cantimine moved in tides, its crowds ebbing here, flowing there, and keeping mainly to the shores. Paparazzi had set up shop outside of the CSC’s military zone, but for the most part the citizens and tourists were far too wrapped up in the celebrations to bother. After all, why rush? There was plenty of time before the duel, and either way, that was the event most of them had come to see. Perhaps they were waiting, not wanting to invest themselves too heavily into a pilot that might be dead in a few days’ time. Afterwards, one there was a victor, there would likely be a surge in people wanting pictures, and autographs, and to scream that they knew the winner would win, because it was obvious, and they never doubted.

At least for the locals that was not the case. Camille exited the zone to a fanfare of camera clicks and cheering, like some returning hero. Among the posters and signs of her, and Foudre, there were people wearing jerseys with her name on them, and the crest of the Cantimine high school, where evidently her fencing legend had begun. She met the crowd with expected temperance, but not unkindness. She spoke little, but signed and nodded and expressed quiet thanks to those who met her eyes.

The twins saw a smaller but still excited welcome, and as Quinn stepped into view there was the beginnings of a roar of appreciation for her as well. Then, suddenly, a surge of excitement, and all attentions and cameras and pointed fingers went skyward. The Saviors were coming down on the lifts. It was a brief but effective window, and Quinn was able to slip out of the zone without a crowd following after her.

Northwest. Neighborhoods. Parks. Cantimine was not terribly difficult to navigate, and even staying clear of the main roads, she was able to find that suburban delta where township trickled into residence. People were scarce, and those she passed hardly noticed her, likely thinking she was a local herself, or just out on a walk for some peace and quiet. The roads began to wind between roads of houses, narrowing and forking, looping, but distant trees towering over rooftops led the way.

Some of the parks were plain. Empty fields with one or two benches, designed more for pets than people. Others were playgrounds for children, who didn’t care much for the crowds of strangers and the loud noises. Eventually she found one empty, an amalgam of an open grove and the remnants of a metal jungle gym, with a small basketball court grafted onto it, a rainbow carousel, a pair of swings near a duck pond.

Save for the occasional quacking, and the distant festive rumble of the town, it was quiet. A whole space to herself, for as long as that would last. A moment to breathe. Rare. Cherished.

Amygdala Circuit

Camille huffed, lips twisting into an ephemeral sneer, a rueful shadow in her eyes, before she was statuesque again. She shook her head, and for a moment it seemed like she would simply turn and leave. This wasn’t her duty, after all. Keeping Loughvein alive was her lot, but stopping her from shaming herself was a challenge for the psychologists, and one that was seeming more and more unconquerable.

But, she didn’t, yet. She met Loughvein’s hollow eye with a hard, indifferent stare. She’d seen looks like this, the sort of blankness she’d come to associate with people who would become statistics in this field. She’d killed no small number of pilots with looks like this, but she could not kill Loughvein. The girl was not her enemy.

“Apologizing for a mistake means nothing if you make it again,” she said coldly. She sighed, her voice lowered. “People think pilots don’t make mistakes, and pilots think they can make as many as they want. The truth is a union. We make mistakes, like everyone else, and they build. Not just mistakes in the cockpit, though those matter, but everywhere. Here, in this shade, you have made a mistake. They are stones on a pile, added one atop another. Some people’s piles grow tall, and vast, some stout. All, eventually, fall.

“You will never know when. Never know which stone will be the one you can’t afford to place, or perhaps which one, deep in the pile, will shift after who-knows-how-long, and topple over on you even when you’ve not added one in a long time. We are not our mistakes, Loughvein, but we are beholden to them, and we do, inevitably, feel their consequences. Pilots only feel them once.”

She turned away, not to leave but to look, across the military zone and over the opposite border, to the town and the bay. “If you wish to avoid people, you should steer clear of the harbor. They set up carnivals there, every year, they’ll be doing it now too. Likewise, the community center, main street, and Henn road, where all the expensive restaurants are. There are parks in the neighborhoods to the northwest, which ought to be quite empty for the next few days. There is a nature trail as well, which will be tour-guided, but sparse—most people want to explore the town, not the forest. Eat here, if you must. The food will be cheap and packaged, but you will be left alone inside the barrier.”

Perhaps she had more to say. She was precipitously silent for a moment, teetering on the edge of something. Eventually, however, she simply muttered, “Dismissed,” and walked away, back onto the thoroughfare and out, into the town.

Amygdala Circuit

Cantimine was gorgeous, in a way which was at once distinctly Casobani, and distinctly unCasobani. Distant tree-topped hills swayed with gentle colors; the ocean shimmered and shifted on the breeze; the air was cool and welcoming. Built into a small bay, the town itself stretched like a broken ring into the flanking reaches of land. Buildings in the nouveau-assembled style of Euseran cities, blocky and bubbled and asymmetrical, retro of a time period that never was, rose in a haphazard skyline and, shirking the architectural origins that would have left them unpainted and bearing their bolts and parts-barcodes to the world, instead were drenched in clashing colors and ornamentation. It looked like a town painted by synesthesia, to the tune of something grungy, futuristic, and beautiful. Bubble-chic. Culturepunk. Two countries melded imperfectly, violently together.

Ships listed, drifting in the bay or bobbing in the harbor. More trickled in from the ocean waters, here a family catamaran, there a repurposed fishing trawler, a flag-laden pontoon, a cruise ship bristling with excitement and seasickness.

The noise was an undeniable testament to the sheer size of the visiting parties. A far cry from the quiet hum of the Ange’s dorms. The closer she drew to the barriers, the thicker the air grew with it. Like hands reaching out to her head, to her throat, to plug her ears and eye and drag her. The sparse crowd of personnel split around her as she stumbled, choked on her words, and summoned only meager sounds for her effort.

She bumped backwards, hit something, someone. A hand took her by the scruff of her jacket, hauled her upright. “Walk,” came the hushed, grumbled command. She was being push-carry-pulled away, out of the CSC zone’s thoroughfare and off, sidelong behind the pop-up buildings and supply tents, to the barrier wall.

The air shed its layers of clamor, they found shade and the sort of solitude that permitted the occasional, momentary rubberneck. The grip on Quinn eased but did not let go. It held her still, not steady, and kept her facing the blank, dry-concrete gray of the barrier.

“Control yourself,” Camille snapped behind her. “Stare at the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it.”

The captain’s shadow overtook hers on the wall, she was blocking them from the views between the makeshift alleyways. Camille’s silhouette was sharp, armored, longsword at her hip. She did not let go, did not raise her voice any higher.

“This is your duty—lament it if you must, but do it here. You bear more than your own dignity now, so control yourself. If not for you, for them. For Casoban. For Runa. You cannot break.”

Amygdala Circuit

The Ange was in motion. Days passed, things moved quickly; there was a tumult in command bleeding through the glass floors, permeating the station air with uncertainty, anxiety. They anchored their orbit to the nation’s coast, poised above the pastel deltas like a needle. Still there was silence, not strictly of confidence, but also abound was an uneasiness, an unwillingness to admit what they were doing there. Toussaint was scarce and unresponsive, save for the most brusque of responses, and the mild assurances that everything was well in hand and things were being discussed. Everyone would be informed in due time.

Ironically enough, he was right, they were informed—by Eusero.

Less than a week after the unprecedented ‘coincidence’, the Euseran media underwent an indignant conniption. In tandem step, nearly every news station began to report on Casoban’s treachery. The headlines, in amalgam, all distilled into a common sentiment:

In an act of supreme ungratefulness, Casoban has not only rebuffed Eusero’s diplomatic negotiations, but now insists on trudging up a settled, century-old territorial dispute over the province and town of Cantimine.

Naturally, rightfully, the denizens of the Ange didn’t believe a word of it. They came again to Toussaint and asked, in concerned unison, what the hell was actually going on. A week ago their relationship with Eusero was arguably better than it had ever been, and while no one had expected that to last, neither had they expected to fall into the nation’s political crosshairs with such vigor. One thing they knew for certain: if Eusero claimed this was a land dispute, then it was absolutely anything but a land despite.

And Toussaint said: “It’s a land dispute.”

Casoban and Eusero were officially engaged in Accord-sanctioned quarrel. Over a provincial zone not terribly bigger than Hovvi. There would be ostensible negotiations which would, of course, go nowhere, leading into another media frenzy, during which the area of Cantimine would become inundated with political tourism and Savior enthusiasts, because, inevitably, there would be a duel.

A blurred day and night, a few lip-service phone calls, and then Selen Dane and Olivier Moroux took to their respective airwaves.

“Since the fall of Aridea, the proud and beautiful territory of Cantimine has flown the Euseran flag,” they agreed. And then they stopped agreeing.

“Eusero liberated it from the Empire’s tyranny, protected it; we planted seeds here, of people, of progress, of a future, while Casoban was still a thrall.”

“Eusero took from us when we were at our weakest, and has since demanded we thank them for the privilege. These days, there seems to be no end to such demands.”

And so on, and so forth. They never debated, never took stock of their nations’ moods, and yet with apparent ease they whipped their populaces into a furor over a dispute most had only learned about in the preceding days. Such was the nature of the beast. There had never been the option for peaceful resolution, but, even if there were, Illun surged and cried out for justice.

So there the Ange hovered, Eusero’s station not far apart, while the town of Cantimine swelled with celebration and anticipation. Casoban, as the challenger, was to announce its champion first, and there was buzz throughout the station, as Quinn made her way to the bridge along with the rest of the pilots for their debriefing, that she would be taking her first, true steps into the shoes of a Casobani hero.

“Camille,” Toussaint said. “You’re up.”

There was a collective sigh in the room. Of disappointment from Cyril, of relief from Sybil, and of resignation from Camille.

“It’s your home, anyway,” he went on. “Makes the most sense.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, as if pretending she and everyone else in the room hadn’t known they’d choose her from the start. The twins were too inexperienced—if half eager—and Quinn was…on probation, of sorts. Camille presented the best odds; there were few pilots in Eusero’s roster with an even chance at her. Few, but not none.

“You’ll all be going down,” he said. “Cantimine may be Euseran territory now, but its people live in Casoban, and there’s a near-majority support for us among the citizens. Eusero will run its junkets, invite celebrities, but we’re going to be there on the ground, showing people why we’re better for them.” Fingers flicked across his tablet, beeps sounded from the pilots’ phones. “Preliminary schedules. Cyril, you’re due for an appearance at the town’s community theatre. I’m told the director there modeled his run of ‘L’intervention’ after your performance. Sybil, you’re donating three pieces to the town’s center for the arts, and you’ll be first judge for a portrait competition tomorrow evening. Camille, Casoban’s premiere fencing league is flying in—you’ll be giving them a demonstration. Light sparring. You’re teaching, not fighting—no injuries, and don’t get injured.”

A round of nods, duties assigned.

“Quinnlash,” Toussaint said, turning to her. “You are…tricky. Our PR team has determined that, given the current strain between Eusero and Runa, putting you front and center might push support among the locals away from us. We want you there, still, visible, but I’ve scheduled no events for you. You are, in a sense, free to do as you wish, within reason and under supervision. If you’d like, I can send you a list of places that would welcome your appearance, or you can feel out the area for yourself.”

He stood, and the other pilots stood as well, sensing the meeting coming to a close.

“You’ll depart this afternoon, make what preparations you will. The CSC will be occupying one of the local hotels, you’ll all have the floor to yourselves, just like here. Dismissed.”

And with that, Toussaint left. Camille joined him, and the two disappeared together down the hall. The twins remained. Sybil slouched back in her seat, while Cyril stretched, and an excited smile spread across his face.

“What a drag,” Sybil muttered.

“What? C’mon, this’ll be great!” Cyril said, looking over to Quinn. “I mean, it’s a little weird, but, a break’s a break!”

“She gets a break, not us. You and I have work.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “At a theatre, and a painting contest. Oh, the woes and struggles are ceaseless. Quinn! You’re excited, right? I mean, I’m sure you could use the fresh air after, ah, well…it’ll be good for you! You finally get to see the sights!”

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

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Atutania was a paradoxical city. There was, without doubt, nowhere else in Lacorron quite like it; nowhere was grand in the same idyllic way, as tempered and bountiful in equal measure, as poised and peaceful. And yet, at the same time—and at especially this time—everywhere in Lacorron was exactly like it. Or, rather, Atutania was exactly like everywhere else. After all, a shield to the world, welcoming all behind it, could not help but reflect the peoples it protected. And so, on the Day of Heroes, Atutania was also Giellnal, Hahral, Ienarich, Itenaire and, perhaps, just a little bit, Viridian. City and Kingdom and Confederacy all at once, like everywhere and nowhere else.

Had Ionna not grown up on its streets, she might have gotten lost in the strangeness and clamor. The roads bristled with eager, uncertain traffic, carts and wagons and palanquins moved in staggered lines, carried by all manner of hoofed things. Guards ferried powdered nobility, merchant lords, eyed each other with mixtures of respect and unspoken challenge. Impromptu markets sprung up in the byways, parks became rest stops and meeting and greeting grounds. Confederate salesmen bartered with pelts and crude but unimpeachably sturdy tools; Hahral vendors hocked oils, wooden toys, beautiful paintings of places lost to the sands between the cities; Itenaire bravos offered expensive but assuredly crucial last-minute training to nervous initiates avoiding the trial grounds; here and there, street magicians wearing Giellnal colors drew small crowds to fill their hats with coin. Some, Ionna recognized, were Atutanian natives, but what did that really matter in the face of good fun?

And, she thought, good food.

The air was overwhelmed with foreign aromas, with smoke, fish, honeyed pork and roasting beef, with boiling oil, candied apples, chocolate and salt-and-caramel. In some places the tangle was so thick and unplaceable it could spoil the appetite, but from where Ionna walked, all she could smell was nostalgia.

She’d had almost all these foods once or twice, if not during the Day of Heroes, then in the lands of their origins, served at host tables or shared around communal, roadside campfires with other travelers. She thought of stories, and songs, and dances she’d learned. It was all she could do not to take a plate of curried chicken or steaming pilaf with her, but she couldn’t indulge yet. Today her meal had been quite utilitarian, and while she’d given herself time to wander and take in the quasi-familiar sights of her home, she still had a duty to fulfill.

So, dutifully, she bought only one modestly-sized packet of Hahral hard candy, and then pried herself from the cultural collage to follow a stream of hopefuls anxiously moving towards the proving grounds. The city officials were making good time processing them all, but by now Atutania had the Day down to a science, and the line hardly stalled enough to stand still in. Before long, she was ushered towards one of the sign-in desks, to an attendant who didn’t even bat an eye when she teasingly told him her name was ‘Ionathan’, but who suddenly found his sense of humor when he saw the Rielle crest on her shoulder-cloak.

“Will you be needing an explanation, milady?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m sure I can figure out a way to embarrass myself,” she said, and placed one of the candies on his ledger, before heading onto the grounds.

She popped another into her mouth as she walked, smiling at the memories its sweetness brought her. The trials were only just beginning, but already the range, the dummies, and the ring were teeming with competition. Ionna wasn’t averse to it, but by the end of the day there would be no shortage of bruised egos and broken dreams, people who had come from far and wide that wouldn’t make the cut, and would have to carry themselves home, hoping their drive would survive until the next Day of Heroes. That was the underside to all this celebration, the sobering realization that not everyone could be a hero.

But, Ionna liked to think, many people could—even those who doubted themselves. Especially those who doubted themselves.

For now Ionna wandered, observing the various trials, cheering on the meekest contestants, giving enthusiastic congratulations to the winners and rallying consolations to those who lesser performed. She offered candy to anyone who happened to make prolonged eye-contact with her, or who lingered too long within candy-offering range. Some accepted happily, others declined like she might have been offering them poison. She went on mingling anyway.

There would be time enough for trials, but in the back of her mind, Liura reminded her that she should never miss an opportunity to make some friends.

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

I O N N A
I O N N A

^{“Nothing that can't be fixed with a hot meal and some trust exercises!”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ionna Rielle is a hopeful up-and-comer hailing from a family long embedded within the Order of the Glade. Raised on the compassionate teachings of her older sister, Ionna believes wholeheartedly in the chivalric ideals of knighthood; unity, companionship, selflessness, and the drive to protect those in need. Perhaps there is a place for her in the Lacorron of today, or perhaps she's spent her life lashed to antiquated codes and fanciful stories, hoping beyond hope that people like her can do good in the world. Compassion, after all, is nothing without forgiveness. Age: 19 Race: Human Nationality: Atutanian Weapon of Choice: Longsword Elemental Affinity: Thunder Spiritual Affinity: Dark

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military accolades, diplomatic achievements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, lauded for their swordsmanship, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations. Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themselves, having developed a style of swordplay over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor. Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the youths of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck. When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her familial squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way. Ionna tried that. As was the way of Rielle squires, she was gradually allowed to engage in the negotiations, and quickly found that she did not have her sister's social prowess. Attachment, empathy, these things did not come so naturally to her, and early on she found herself—with Liura's permission—having to answer for her faux pas with duels. It was frustrating. She could win disputes at the end of a sword without trouble, but more and more she found herself wishing she could disarm her opponents in Liura's way, making allies of them before they even knew they ought to have been enemies. Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends and heard stories, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. With almost two decades behind her, only now did she finally feel she was beginning to learn again. Her social slips were fewer and fewer, and when they passed familiar places, people occasionally remembered her with a similar fondness as her sister. Understanding and connecting with those they met became easier, more fulfilling. Liura was right, and she did make more friends. Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself. In her eighteenth year, Ionna returned to Atutania alone, with her sister's sword and her affinity awakened. Liura was dead, killed on the road from Itenaire. She had died heroically, and been avenged, but when her grief-stricken parents pressed, Ionna said nothing more. For a long time there was bitter silence within their branch. She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight. Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Convivial ⬗ Dense ⬗ Driven ⬗ Empathetic ⬗ Optimistic ⬗ Trusting A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—it fostered prodigy. Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and squirely disputes, to diplomatic duels, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a large-scale battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades. Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her. Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some bolting steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her grip on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.

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Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Ionna

I O N N A
I O N N A

^{“Nothing that can't be fixed with a hot meal and some trust exercises!”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ionna Rielle is a hopeful up-and-comer hailing from a family long embedded within the Order of the Glade. Raised on the compassionate teachings of her older sister, Ionna believes wholeheartedly in the chivalric ideals of knighthood; unity, companionship, selflessness, and the drive to protect those in need. Perhaps there is a place for her in the Lacorron of today, or perhaps she's spent her life lashed to antiquated codes and fanciful stories, hoping beyond hope that people like her can do good in the world. Compassion, after all, is nothing without forgiveness. Age: 19 Race: Human Nationality: Atutanian Weapon of Choice: Longsword Elemental Affinity: Thunder Spiritual Affinity: Dark

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military accolades, diplomatic achievements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, lauded for their swordsmanship, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations. Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themselves, having developed a style of swordplay over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor. Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the youths of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck. When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her familial squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way. Ionna tried that. As was the way of Rielle squires, she was gradually allowed to engage in the negotiations, and quickly found that she did not have her sister's social prowess. Attachment, empathy, these things did not come so naturally to her, and early on she found herself—with Liura's permission—having to answer for her faux pas with duels. It was frustrating. She could win disputes at the end of a sword without trouble, but more and more she found herself wishing she could disarm her opponents in Liura's way, making allies of them before they even knew they ought to have been enemies. Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends and heard stories, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. With almost two decades behind her, only now did she finally feel she was beginning to learn again. Her social slips were fewer and fewer, and when they passed familiar places, people occasionally remembered her with a similar fondness as her sister. Understanding and connecting with those they met became easier, more fulfilling. Liura was right, and she did make more friends. Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself. In her eighteenth year, Ionna returned to Atutania alone, with her sister's sword and her affinity awakened. Liura was dead, killed on the road from Itenaire. She had died heroically, and been avenged, but when her grief-stricken parents pressed, Ionna said nothing more. For a long time there was bitter silence within their branch. She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight. Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Convivial ⬗ Dense ⬗ Driven ⬗ Empathetic ⬗ Optimistic ⬗ Trusting A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—it fostered prodigy. Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and squirely disputes, to diplomatic duels, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a large-scale battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades. Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her. Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some bolting steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her grip on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.

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Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

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