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In NCQ — Polaris → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@ColouredCyan Have at it!
In NCQ — Polaris → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@DruSM157 All clear bud, toss it on over to the character tab!
In Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
♚ E Z R A N ♚

Accompanied by Ser Mara

♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚


All things considered, things seemed to be going well. At least, Ezran thought so. The boy –Brendan, he now knew– was every shade of polite he’d ever seen, and some he hadn’t. Every noble encounter he’d had before was tacked with an obligation to create meaningless small talk, ask about provinces he was hardly aware of, and be regaled with a flurry of information on nameless marriages, scandals, and the like. To meet someone so…accommodating was strange, to say the least. Even Mara seemed a tad surprised, smirk tugging stronger for a moment, like she was trying not to laugh at a joke.

To be honest, paired with his first outreach to another, he wasn’t as drawn to the prospect of continued silence as he was prior. Talking to a Darkthrone noble who’s conversational interests barred on how close the king was and if he could hear them was another matter, but Brendan was not nearly as abrasive.

He still let the silence hang a moment, on reflex alone testing to see if indeed he didn’t prefer it. Perhaps it was just a momentary urge, or he was confusing a desire to socialize with a panic to run away. But, the moments passed and still he found himself at least wanting to listen to the other boy speak. He had a pleasant voice, and in only a few sentences had introduced a story promising plenty of intrigue.

Finally: “I’ve not heard of you,” the words were blunt, an affirmation to Brendan’s query rather than a demeaning statement. “Never met a rogue prince, interesting title. Did you earn it?”

The more he spoke the less confident in his words he was. Was he being too forward? Was there an insult buried in subtext that he wasn’t aware of? He’d never been to Tromania, perhaps there was some custom against curt replies. It would be a lie to say making an offense now would pain him, it was doubtlessly the most effort he’d put into a conversation in months.

Another fact he saw was apparent to Mara, who gave a subtle thumbs-up under her folded arms, then ushered him to continue on.

@Polaris North
In NCQ — Polaris → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@ADParis Looks good, toss it on over to the Character Tab!
In NCQ — Polaris → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Elizabeth “Eli” Jackspar

"It's a knife, it doesn't have a story."
(Art courtesy of @ADParis)


[ ⛨ ] C A L L S I G N
Blur

[ ⛨ ] N C O R I G I N
Smith’s Rest (Now called New Anchorage)

[ ⛨ ] D.O.B.
May 1st 2656 (21)

[ ⛨ ] G E N D E R
Female

[ ⛨ ] A P P E A R A N C E
Eli is pale as a ghost, chalky from hair to toe, most wouldn’t hesitate to describe her as “haunting”. However, what people tend to notice first about her are her eyes. Icy, both in color and gaze, she always appears to be judging her surroundings, be they people or otherwise, and it’s rare that they hold even a glimmer of levity in public view. Rarer still are smiles, laughs, slouches, but an attentive eye wouldn’t struggle to spot wayward twitches, restless legs, and tapping fingers.

Her attire leans towards casual however, often wearing hooded jackets and rarely caught without a scarf worn high up her chin. Beneath everything is the pilot suit, worn near constantly. She’d claim this as common sense, practical for quick response, but she’s as attached to the piece as her own skin.

[ ⛨ ] P E R S O N A L I T Y
Cold and dismissive to all but her superiors, but unerringly dutiful and devoted to the protection of New Anchorage. Elizabeth is a good soldier, a great soldier even, but little else. Growing up in what was essentially a broken down building full of books, and rarely being permitted to leave, shaped Eli at a young age less like a person and more like a lump of clay. She feels no sense of loss for any would-be social life, no sorrow for being deprived a childhood, only a sense of duty, and a longing for the fulfillment of that duty.

The protection of New Anchorage is without a doubt the most important thing to Eli, and anything that could be perceived as a threat to the people of her home should not be tolerated. It didn’t matter that she’d met none of them, it didn’t matter that until she stepped into her mech next to no one even knew she existed, what mattered was defending her home from all threats, foreign and domestic.

It did not become apparent until her teenage years that Eli had developed identity issues, though any outward eyes could have foreseen it. This is only heightened by a high sync-rate, something the girl is silently but immensely thankful for. When connected to her mech, and only then, does Eli feel certain of herself, like she’s stepped out of her constricting, ill-fitting skin. No doubts, no twitches, no shakes, only a unification of mind and body. And so, the inevitable disconnection never fails to leave her mentally ajar, a fact that would be unmistakably evident were she not so good at hiding it.

[ ⛨ ] S K I L L S E T
CQC: Both in and out of the mech, this is Elizabeth’s strongest skill. Growing up without the means to practice with firearms, she learned quick and learned well to trust her two hands and what she could swing with them. Eventually this translated much more elegantly into a form of swordplay in anticipation of a melee-oriented NC piloting career, and so her prowess with most things what can be held and cut with is highly refined. Unfortunately, if not predictably, she is untrained and unskilled with guns, having only operated a firearm outside of her mech, and in the context of a test.

Reflexive: Elizabeth is quick, both in body and mind. While this doesn’t necessarily equate to a proficiency in tactics, she is able to form appropriate reactions in combat, and in prolonged engagements –especially in close quarters– is able to begin analyzing offensive and defensive patterns in her opponent.

Driven: Perhaps not explicitly a skill, but doubtless one of her most notable traits. Elizabeth does not shy from completing a mission or fulfilling an order, be it in combat or otherwise. Her fierce loyalty combined turn many scenarios to “do or die” in her mind, something that, while sometimes advantageous, can be equally dangerous.

[ ⛨ ] B A C K S T O R Y
”Eli”

Eli was eight years old when she learned her name was short for “Elizabeth”. Her mother, the librarian recluse Celina Jackspar, had used it once, the first time she’d cried during her training.

”Get up, Elizabeth. Now. And never cry in front of me again.” And she never did.

The Jackspars might have been lepers for how little they interacted with the world. Confined to a modestly sized “library” nestled in the corner of what was then “Smith’s Rest”, few ever visited, and fewer were actually aware the spindly woman had a child. With little to their name aside from cases and piles of books, collected from far and unspoken edges, it would not have been unreasonable to assume the family would contribute nothing great to the world. They would exist quietly amidst a sea of old knowledge, and overtime the Jackspar name would peter out.

Celina would not allow such an outcome.

The training began early, and never slackened. Eli learned from a young age what she was, and would be, that the good majority of her life would be spent inside the cockpit of a mechanical behemoth. She did not attend school, she did not socialize with peers, she rarely left the library at all. Her life was dedication, she had to let go of the urges to want, and focus entirely on the future.

”Up.” And she got up.

The Jackspars could afford no firearms, and so forewent practicing them. Instead it was decided that Eli would master the art of melee combat in their absence. Lyosha Voloshyna, a carpenter and one of the family’s only “friends”, happily supplied them with wooden models of various swords, ranging from the typical and familiar, to the foreign and unique.

Eli was made to train with them day in and day out. They would not be weapons held, they would be extensions of her own body, or she would fall short. Countless other prospective pilots had the advantage of proper training, they could afford to be merely “adequate” so long as they rounded out a checklist and passed the neural exam.

”I don’t want you on-par, I want you better. Keep going.” And she would.

Hour after hour Eli practiced, submitting herself to the forms and tests of balance. By the time she was in her middle teens, picking up a sword felt like raising her hand, swinging felt like punching. Her threshold for pain was pushed further each day, and every time she kept her mouth shut, kept her face calm, she would catch the ghost of a smirk flicker over her mother’s face. Moving had become a dance, and she was the prima.

When she was fifteen, a practice sword broke in her hand, splintering midway down the blade. It was old, nothing unexpected, and the shattering caused her no physical harm. All the same Eli froze, wide eyes fixated on the broken blade, and her arm, then the girl collapsed in a fit of agony.

Celina watched, shocked.

”Get up.” But she didn’t. ”Elizabeth, get. Up.” But she couldn’t. It took all of her strength not to cry.

It was her first major incident, and the only one Celina ever saw. It took a few years to realize they weren’t going to stop, and seeking professional psychiatric help would murder Eli’s chances at becoming a pilot, so Celina resolved to handle the situation in her own way.

Eli knew Eli. Celina knew Elizabeth.

”Stop shaking.” And she would.

The final years leading up to application were smooth by Celina’s standards. Her daughter was sharp, fast, resilient, and above all, obedient. She would protect Smith’s Rest, she would protect its people, and she would do so under the instruction of whosoever commanded the forces.

Second to her, of course.

[ ⛨ ] T H E M E C H

The Blur is a lightweight NC that mirrors many of its pilot’s features. Stark white with only a few wayward cerulean lights and the bright azures of its jets to stand out, of standard height but slight of frame and thinly armored. It is clear at a glance that Blur is not built to receive much punishment, which is just fine by Eli.

Blur is an embodiment of the “high-risk-high-reward” philosophy. With its primary function being the melee engagement of high-priority targets, many of its maneuvers, both combative and evasive, necessitate a near-reflexive sync rate, and even then it’s rare for the NC to emerge from solo engagements unharmed. In reality, Blur is designed to work alongside a team and is often even dependent on one, despite that the pilot may deny it. Its standard armaments are as follows:

  • NA01 Energy Sword: Blur’s primary weapon, the blade is projected from the handle. A contingency, physical blade, carried onboard, can be attached as well with edges able to sustain similar heat.

  • Deployable Claws: Blurs fingers are overlaid by sharp attachments designed to latch on and stay on. Can be activated and retracted.

  • Explosive Charges: For breach scenarios and other situations that require the close-proximity planting of explosives. Housed in two separate pieces to prevent accidental detonations due to trauma/weapon fire.


Its notable equipment is as follows:

  • OMNI Propulsion System: Blur's key assets are speed and maneuverability and these owe largely to the propulsion system which served as the foundation for the NC's design. Four powerful engines on Blur's back act as the central piece, sleek and jutting like stagnant wings. Firing at once they allow for rapid acceleration and a tremendous peak-speed. As well, each can adjust direction independently, which, in addition to the thrusters at the base of Blur's legs, grant the NC fantastic directional control.


  • Flare Cache: Typical of any evasive NC, but nonetheless crucial, Blur houses a small volley of deployable flares.

[ ⛨ ] R E L A T I O N S





In Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
♚ E Z R A N ♚

Accompanied by Ser Mara

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By the time Ezran noticed the Tromani boy and his companion, a quick glance showed that Mara had spotted them first. Nothing overt, no narrowed eyes thoroughly searching for weapons, no skepticism to be displayed in any shift of posture, only a subtle change in her attention, a cocked brow, then her head rested back against the wall. Safe, he knew, but an illogical doubt simmered in his gut all the same.

For a few moments it seemed fruitless, like the two had only come for a quick respite from an exhausting series of “such a pleasure to see you again” and “how fares your kingdom”. Ezran was happy enough to share the space, even felt a sense of pride in knowing the other boy would be allowed uninterrupted peace while he stayed –uninterrupted at least by him. A sort of silent solidarity, like the kind held among the Darkthrone soldiers before battle. Mara had told him of the quiet nights, shadowy figures hunched around a fire, or tucked in a cave, with naught but errant eyes and the sounds of whet stones on steel to betray life and intrigue. He wondered, briefly, if such an unspoken language could be taught, or if it was simply learned through trial.

But it was only brief, as it turned out the boy was not invested in silence. The question was nonchalant, and Ezran was admittedly envious of how easily he could ask himself into a conversation with a stranger. Mara was the same way, one of the few he’d ever heard speak so casually to his uncle, not to mention the Darkthrone king. But where hers was a more rustic offhandedness, the Tromani boy was distinctly regal, and Ezran found himself caught in an embarrassingly quiet few moments, mouth open as though meant to form words with no air. Then, as though his body acted of its own will to spare his dignity, he shook his head and bought the time to work up an answer.

”No.”

And that was that, just as quickly he turned his eyes back to the floor and folded his arms tight beneath either edge of his cloak, as if the room had suddenly been sucked of its heat. The familiar awkwardness that accompanied most of the things he said had long since lost its bite, and he’d have been plenty content to simply stand there in maintained quiet. However, another glance to Mara changed his mind.

Her expression said what she didn’t. ‘You turn around and make nice or I swear on Gaea’s hairy ass…’

Ezran cleared his throat, looking back to the Tromani boy. He gave a nod and extended a hand out, heedless to its rough leather-bound glove. There was much less of a delay in his next reply, as though spurred on by the holes Mara’s eyes burned into the back of his neck.

”Ezran…ah…Taake.”

@Polaris North
In Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Polaris North Sorry for the delayed response, will have one out tonight o/
In Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
♚ E Z R A N ♚

Accompanied by Yvoddan Taake and Ser Mara

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Prince Ezran Selran Taake had never met half or even half-of-half as many peers as were sharing the room. Though the overwhelming majority of faces were unfamiliar, it did not take introductions to tell that they were largely taller, stronger, and better composed than he –perhaps not a great feat, but one he marked as important all the same.

He was unnerved, which came to him as no surprise, but still managed to maintain an outward calm. To his left, Ser Mara stood bearing the same expression she held during his father’s speeches, one of dutiful boredom. As well expected, but it was a rare welcomed familiarity that eased his anxiety, and he felt himself relax vicariously. She leaned against the wall, unceremonious even at an age where one might expect grace, helmet gone, perhaps not even packed at all. However, he couldn’t help but notice the details of her rest, one hand propped at her hip, just at the blade sheathed there. Her thumb hung absently over the U-shaped guard, like a hook poised to yank the sword free and ready at only a moment’s alert. Her other hand held lazily onto the cusp of her gorget, but he knew well how quickly it could fly to the dagger sheathed at the small of her back. Another welcomed, albeit grim, familiarity.

To his right was a figure much more imposing, and one he was glad to have a bar between himself and the rest of the crowd. His uncle Yvoddan –though it had been many years before Ezran’s birth that anyone but his father had called him that– was like a cemetery statue, unmoving, even his breaths masked by the layers of furs his coat bore, with eyes transfixed upon the Grand Keeper. Perhaps it was the way his attire, from regal fur hat to well-tailored boots, expressed macabre royalty, or perhaps it was the way he seemed to be far more interested in Eadbeoth’s speech, but Ezran felt more like the convoy standing beside him.

”Look alive,” Vodd’s low, scratchy command sent an attentive shiver down Ezran’s spine. The moment they were invited to leave the Auditorium, his uncle began for the exit.

On impulse Ezran started to follow, but found his feet anchored for a moment. He looked around the room, only a few passes, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Indeed he recognized few of the princes and princesses present. His cousin was among the crowd, Edgar, he believed the boy’s name was, though by who specifically their relation was tied, Ezran was uncertain. He looked young, younger than most attending, and he wondered if the boy had come voluntarily. In fact, how many of the young men and women slowly making their way out of the auditorium were here of their own accord? Plenty, for sure.

Then there was Princess Anareliea, a face teetering on the edge of “acquaintance” and “stranger”. There was a seed of guilt sown in their one encounter, and standing in the vicinity with her again he remembered with a degree of embarrassment how he’d done little to make an impression of any sort. Perhaps the circumstances would allow him a chance to at least apologize, but he would much rather maintain their more or less harmless status than unintentionally create an enemy. Especially an enemy like her.

One of the last faces he recognized was Princess Rhelissa’s, and he was glad to see she was attending. He wasn’t hesitant to call her friend, and surrounded by strangers, a presence like hers was appreciated. For a moment he considered branching off, at least briefly, to extend a greeting or wave hello, but she was approached first by another girl whom Ezran did not recognize. Looking back, he saw Vodd had not slowed, and Mara cocked a brow at him, expectant. He promised to attempt speaking with her later, even if he didn’t quite believe it, and followed after his uncle.

♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚


— Yvoddan Taake’s Quarters/Halls, The Conclave —


They came to a sudden stop outside of the door, and Ezran bumped into Mara’s arm.

”Hold up,” she said, and, hand at her hip entered the room.

Vodd was silent, only briefly pulling his eyes from the doorway when Ezran glanced up at him, like he could sense it. The boy went rigid, attention to the floor, the strange temptation to apologize for an imagined slight thankfully caught in his throat.

Back home, the crypt of a man had been a beacon of safety, one of within a hand count in the whole of Darkthrone that would regularly tolerate him, and moreover, protect him from the ire of those who would not. Ezran was still certain the residents of the Conclave would come to dislike him in time as well, but for the time being, in the lulls between necessity, he remembered who his uncle was, what he’d done, and why being so close so often without consequence was more towards a miracle than a blessing.

At length Mara reemerged, no worse for ware and carrying what Ezran recognized as easily as he would his own arm, his sword.

”S’all clear, Vodd,” she said, stepping aside as the elder man started in. ”I’m gonna bring Ezran back, get the lay of the land.”

Vodd didn’t bother replying, offering only a dismissive wave before shutting the door behind him, and leaving the both of them to the quiet, empty hall.

Mara whistled sharp but low, and Ezran only just turned in time to catch the sword tossed to him. Immediately his sense of urgency began to wane, his lost weight returned, and he fit the blade to his hip with ease. He rested his hand upon the pommel much like Mara did, a gesture he’d only on occasion taken notice of, and recognized as a learnt habit. His thumb hooked much more easily around the crossguard, and the leather-wrapped hilt on his palm felt as velvet.

In tandem steps they walked back down the hall.

”Well that was boring as all hell. Hope the crusty bastard’s not gonna be teaching anything.”

The edges of Ezran’s lips twitched upwards, and he knew from the corner of his eye that she saw it. Mara cleared her throat, never one to shy from pushing reactions out of him, and set her sights back to the auditorium.

”Try to stay relaxed, ah? No one’s out for blood today. Might be tomorrow, every day after that, but for right now just take it easy. Might actually make some friends.”

He gave her a mocking scowl, but she only smirked and shrugged. It didn’t take long from then to return, where they found the great hall very much alive. That said, Ezran wasn’t about to throw himself into socializing with strangers, it was more than enough for him to sit back and observe. He could remember faces well, voices too though there was poor chance of catching any through the waves of noise.

Mara in tow, he found a nice spot along the wall, far enough from the window so that the heat didn’t boil him in his furs. She reared up a ways beside him, leaned back, and he could tell her eyes swept the crowd far more critically than his, even if they were half-open. It was comforting enough for him to let his guard down, slide his hand from the pommel and simply rest his elbow on the hilt.

Ezran watched the grand exchange with intrigue, quiet and content. As Mara had said, tomorrow could be wretched, but for now, there were smiles and greetings, and no one to glare. This would do.
In Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Ezran


"Look alive."

[ ♚ ] N A M E
Prince Ezran Selran Taake of Darkthrone

[ ♚ ] A G E
16

[ ♚ ] G E N D E R
Male

[ ♚ ] I D E N T I T Y
Aladori

[ ♚ ] A P P E A R A N C E
Like most of his house, Ezran is a grim figure. Pale, lithe, with hair the color of his long shadow and eyes like burnt gold, his regality is easily recognized. His clothes are a mixed of sharp, dark finewear, draped over in furs, heavy black pelts shorn from the hides of great beasts, to accommodate the north-eastern chill, as well as lend an imposing air.

Though most Taake men tend to grow thick, wiry beards, Ezran is yet bald-faced, with features leaning him more towards femininity than his family might have hoped.

On tradition, all of the Taake family, as well as many of the most revered nobles of their court, carry beautifully crafted blades as signs of status. Ezran is no exception, and he carries a bastard sword at his hip. The blade is stained nearly white, the hilt wrapped in tight black leather with a round pommel at its base. Doubtless the least embellished sword in the Taake family, but no less a respectable work, its proven to hold its own and present a fair challenge in combat.

[ ♚ ] P E R S O N A L I T Y
The Darkthrone people are, by and large, a mirror of the land they inhabit. Harsh, unforgiving, and cold. This is exemplified by their royalty, the Taake family, who have long governed with a hard, yet just, regime. The Taake’s command respect from their people through strength and unbreakable will.

And so, a meek child, who strays towards anxiousness, constant indecision, and self-doubt, would represent the antithesis to their family’s idea of a proper heir. Ezran would be hard-pressed to disagree, and yet the description fits him perfectly, a fact he is made constantly and consistently aware of.

Because of this, Ezran came to understand that he best served his House in silence. He had no knack for speaking to the vicious whirlpool that was the Darkthrone nobility, every word from his mouth only promising further condemnation. This habit has stuck with him through his childhood, and to this day he remains a young man of few, albeit carefully chosen, words, preferring to listen.

At least in one area crucial to his role he was not a failure. Ezran took to the sword young, and he took to it well. His father spotted this eagerly, quick to ensure that his son’s as-yet one redeeming talent would be fostered properly. And thus swordplay became as therapy to the boy, rousing his mind in the mornings and easing it of troubles at night. He could trust a blade in his hand, another limb, practically, and perhaps the truest way for him to feel “safe” in a home that, for all he could see and hear, did not want him there.

[ ♚ ] C H I L D H O O D
Since the first of their name, Taake kings, queens, princes and princesses have all been figures of strength and terror. They suffered no cowards, no insults, no weakness, their house was stronger for it. A common tale among the Darkthrone people is that Taake infants are born silent, and nursed in the cold of their lofty keep.

Then came Ezran. Despite his father’s best efforts, he could do little to quell the rumors that spread within the confines of his court. In hush they’d say Ezran wailed so loudly at birth the queen’s ears bled. They’d say he could not bear the cold as the Taake’s did, and that when he crawled onto his father’s throne as a child, it had struck him ill out of spite.

Though little of this slander reaches the common folk, few among the Darkthrone nobility believe Ezran a capable ruler, now or ever. Some call him “Ezran the Coward”, others, “Ezran the Cursed”. Either way, the fact that King Taake has all but ceased attempting to silence such venom and the noblemen spreading it speaks, even in silence, to his stance on the matter.

Ezran did much of his growing up around his uncle, Yvoddan –or as he came to be known, “Vodd”–, a man Taake to the marrow. He found no warmth in Vodd, but a frigid care and protection. Alone Ezran would enter a room to narrowed eyes and sneers, but trailing his uncle’s thick coat, all eyes would be down, all expressions statuesque.

In addition to Vodd, the boy spent an equal amount of time in lessons with his father’s First Knight, Ser Mara. Warmer than Vodd, but tough enough to assert that she was his teacher before she was his friend, Ezran was always eager to train with her, to spend hours learning and hours later practicing. It was through her he gained his proficiency with a blade, and towards his departure for the academy, his first shred of self-confidence.

In the lulls between lessons and accompanying his uncle about his duties, Ezran spent much of his time holed away in his room, avoiding the harsh eyes that lurked throughout Darkthrone Keep.

[ ♚ ] M O T I V E S
A myriad of reasons led to Ezran attending the academy. Some regarding a need to learn the intricacies of ruling, the ins and outs of diplomacy and the talents required of a presentable, noble king. Others leaned towards his lack of confidence, something he’d heard his father once call “a death wish for Taake’s.” Initially initial hurt, he agreed.

And yet, despite a sound case for departure, there was, concealed from him, darker stirrings. The king’s complacency for his son’s shortcomings was at first merely the topic of gossip, but as Ezran grew from a frightened child to a poor heir, this gossip, some say, began to blossom into a much more malicious form.

Perhaps safety played a role in this decision as well.

[ ♚ ] C R E D E N T I A L S
Diplomacy: As stated, Ezran only tends to speak casually around close company, and is reserved in most other situations. Understandably, this leaves his knowledge in the art insofar as politics are concerned, rather slim.

Faith: Neither overtly devout nor heinously sacrilegious, the Taake’s faith has diminished over the rule of the current king. Ezran grew up with only basic knowledge of Gaea, and came to understand that his family had begun putting more stock in the self than what he’d heard any a time called “a silent god”.

Intrigue: Ezran learned over the years that his uncle was feared for many reasons, one of which being his cunning nature. He learned from Vodd a great many sly things that some might consider sinister, even if he seems naïve to their underhanded nature.

Magic: Perhaps the subject in which Ezran is the least knowledgeable. The Taake court was home to few magically-gifted, and fewer who would voluntarily educate the prince. When Ezran showed early interest in the blade, king Taake all but forgot any need to teach his child the arts of magic.

Martial: Over the years, swordplay has become Ezran’s truest source of comfort. Trained by the king’s most trusted knight from his earliest interest, his proficiency for combat, both physically and mentally, is doubtless his greatest strength.

Stewardship: Ezran doesn’t pretend to be a mathematician, or to understand the economy of his land. However, he’s forged at least a modestly logical mind from his uncle.

[ ♚ ] C O M P A N I O N S
Yvoddan Taake: Ezran’s uncle, and without a doubt, the most feared man in Darkthrone Keep, if not the region as a whole. A warrior in his early years, now gray and boney yet no less intimidating, Vodd is a shrewd diplomat that has not ceased to leave dismay in his wake, despite having long since put away his violent past.

He stands at around five foot seven, with a face of sharp edges ending in a thick, tapering beard. Though age has turned once proud scars ugly, one feature that has not changed from his youth are his eyes. Violent emeralds deep enough to invite caution to those that meet them, yet sharp enough to stand out in a crowd. If Vodd turns his eyes upon someone, they are generally aware.

He travels as well with a relic of his past years, a flamberge nearly as old as himself, only in far better condition. Around Darkthrone keep, he'd often carry it in ceremony, and while some of the quietest whispers doubt his ability to wield it any longer, none have dared to question him openly.

Ser Mara: Not a royal, not even a noble, but King Taake’s First Knight nonetheless. At Ezran’s behest, Mara regaled the young prince with many a story of how she clawed her way to Darkthrone Keep. A fierce warrior, even now at fifty years, she insisted on accompanying Ezran to The Conclave. Allegedly Vodd had a hand in convincing the king in allowing this, but he allowed it all the same.

Not quite as tall as Vodd, but still an imposing woman of muscle beneath black plate and fur lining. Her armor includes a helmet, but she tends to forgo it outside of large-scale battle, preferring the allowance of vision. As far as armaments go, she carries a longsword at one hip, and a curved dagger at the other, her combative style generally utilizing both at once.

The sword, engraved as "Blind", is seldom drawn in public; the Taake Court has even adopted a saying for the white-steel blade. "Noble Mara draws it for two reasons, once to clean it, and again to bloody it."

[ ♚ ] R E L A T I O N S
Princess Anareliea Ayelet Hulevia: Ezran met the young lady of the Imperium only once, and while he marks the encounter as at least being relatively harmless, he found himself off put by her all the same. The Taake's have slipped from devout faith, a fact he feared was starkly apparent. He bears no ill-will towards the girl for her arguably zealous beliefs, and can even respect such devotion. That said, he isn't eager to debate theology with her, or even voice his own views, uninformed as they may be.

Princess Rhelissa Sevareviel Fel: Ezran did not meet many members of royalty from outside of Darkthrone, less at his own will than his father's. Visitors were like breaths of fresh air, even if he didn't always interact with them, their presence was appreciated. Rhelissa he remembers well, and fondly all things considered. Cold but lacking his family's directed harshness, younger yet incredibly knowledgeable, and, importantly, interesting to listen to. She had once mentioned to him a suspicion of a plot between their parents, a union of houses in marriage, and he was quick to voice his doubt. Perhaps in hindsight there was credit to her theory, but he maintains, at least in his mind, that his father would sooner throw himself from the keep before marrying him off as he was.

Prince Ydrian Kareth Hawkheart: Having never met the prince of Kalcia, Ezran has only the words of his uncle to form his opinion upon. They share similarities in age and a practice for swordplay, which he finds somewhat worrying, as he's heard customs often favor establishing oneself through duels, a prospect Ezran is none too keen on.

Prince Edgar Kazimir Marlowe:
In Avalon Academy: The Confines of the Crown → 8 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
I think I've gotten everything I meant to, gonna go ahead and repost finished CS for review.

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