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In Lethe: The Inalienable Dreamless → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
M i m r i n
“You haven’t changed, no one has–you’ve just lost everything that made you great, and now you’re…this.”



Character Name
Mimrin of Draethir

Age
Early Twenties

Gender
Female

Archetype
Agile Duelist

Physical Description
Mimrin isn’t an entirely imposing person. She is of average height, but lean and boyish, lacking bulk. Her hair has faded to a pallid white, with only the faintest wash of pink dye remaining in a handful of strands, suggesting a more bombastic life. Her eyes are a burning emerald, miraculously untouched by the resurrection.

The mark of her death is fairly evident: from the ugly scar running the whole of her neck, it’s fair to assume she was decapitated, and not cleanly.

Personality Traits
There are two sides to Mimrin. The one who awoke would have been considered a disgrace to her warmongering homeland. She is reserved, timid, and shies from violence out of fear. Her Draethir blood has cooled, congealed, and left her with a worried, caring attitude. Some might even say Mimrin is friendly.

Then there is Mimrin, the Undying.

Most of those brought back from the grave may feel within them a tug towards their old ways. They may fight urges or give into impulses reflecting who they once were. True to the title once bestowed upon her, the Mimrin of old did not truly die. This past self still lurks in the depths of her mind, not a mere collection of impulses and memories, but a personality all its own. This Mimrin is vile, sadistic, hungry for violence and revels in coaxing the worst out of her compatriots.

And so the Mimrins, Redeemed and Undying, remain in constant struggle. While the former enjoys more frequent and complete control, as they say, old habits die hard. When backed into a corner, like any animal, instincts take over.

Attributes
The Undying
Nothing in Draethir was given lightly, Mimrin tore this title from the hearts and throats and guts of her victims, and its blood-soaked meaning endured in her memories, even after death. It was the duty of Draethir assassins to hunt down valuable targets on the battlefield and dispatch them with vicious efficiency. Often they were considered suicide soldiers, engaging commanders, chieftains and archons, individuals they knew to be highly-trained. Mimrin survived though, on the back of exceptionally quick reflexes and a savage mastery in the art of fighting one-on-one. It stands to reason that these skills do not transfer well when out-numbered, however.

Squeamish Sadist
Redeemed, Mimrin is generally concerned for the well-being of others and tends to shy away from conflict or violence. She’s even adopted a fear of blood since awakening. Mimrin the Undying however, was and is a sadist. She delights in the pain of others, sometimes just delighting in pain itself. Though plenty might find this detestable, at the end of the day if someone needs to be hurt, brought to the very brink of their tolerance for agony, she’s the person to go to.

She Who Fights and Runs Away…
There’s glory in a bloody death, but there’s more glory in living to kill again. Redeemed, Mimrin sees her natural agility and affinity for speed as a godsend to someone who fears and has no talent for violence. In truth however, these skills were developed out of necessity long ago, and Mimrin the Undying much prefers utilizing them to skirt about her enemies, often closer than is necessary.

The Real You
Mimrin lost her memories in the redemption, like all of the redeemed. However, with her past self enduring still, Mimrin the Undying is more aware than most just how changed they can be. If she herself can be reduced to a trembling coward, than the others brought back as well would surely wretch to see what they had become. She looks for signs, for slips back towards her compatriots’ more ruthless natures, and tirelessly attempts to urge them back to their old ways.

Inventory & Equipment
Wrappings of the Draethir Assassins
A tattered mix of dark leathers and iron, one would be hard-pressed to call what remains of this ensemble “armor.” As well, besides the faded black-and-red colors, the only claim it holds to Draethir is Mimrin’s memory.

The Tyrant’s Claws
Gifted during her service, these daggers were the only things buried with Mimrin. While once they may have been beautiful weapons, time has rendered their value almost entirely sentimental. Their conditions are poor, with the better of the two missing its tip and bearing chips along its inward-curved edge, and the worse snapped off entirely an inch or so off the guard.

Gift of Rebirth
Duality/Assimilation:
In addition to being initially unaware of the gift in general, it comes with a secondary caveat–it can only be used by her former personality. This Gift is a supplementary to Mimrin’s fighting style. Conceptually it is a form of sustain, with which she can recover damages done to herself by inflicting damage upon others. In reality what this equates to is a violent, horrid exchange of flesh. By carving into another, the viscera produced replaces what Mimrin has lost in a whirl of scarlet veins. The extent of this reparative Gift’s uses is thus far limited to healing external wounds.
In Mol's CS Thing → 6 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets


_______________________________________________




Physical Details ◢
Mox is an unassuming person of average height. Though slight at a glance, an incredibly strict and rigorous training regiment, which she still maintains, has left her with a fair amount of muscle and excellent physical health.

It’s rare to find her without a smile on her face, or that same smile in her step, and just about every aspect of her demeanor. She has a tendency to dance as she walks, as if moving in time to some unheard music—or very much heard, if she’s wearing her headphones.

She prefers simple, comfortable clothes, but likes branching out to be a bit more fashionable when means allow—which, considering her new life as a freelancer, isn’t very often.

Background Information ◢
Personal log of Ecclesia Agent █████████,████████████████,Designation: Gabriel.






Polaris Shift ◢
Some might view Mox’s Shift as a mercy, others as a boon. After having lived with it for most of her life, she would, unequivocally, consider it a curse.

When she was younger, full-synching with her NC would cause her to lose memories upon disconnecting. These began small, and isolated, but over time expanded to include larger and more crucial bits of information, such as her own name, and could cover anything from singular moments, to entire days.

After a decade of intense and consistent work, the Shift now occurs whenever she disconnects, full-sync or not. Blessedly, these standard losses are often innocuous and easily remedied with a reminder. But ultimately the lottery of her mind is random, and while full-synch’s still carry a significant price, there’s always the chance that she’ll lose something important anyway.

Personal Mission ◢
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat.
In • 葉隱 • → 7 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
M i m i c h i

Mimichi did most of her dreaming in the morning, it had come to be her most anticipated time of the day. When she opened her eyes, while the blurry world hurried into focus, she found she could catch full glimpses of the things that fleeted from her in the day. Some mornings she would see her home, nestled into the Lorro’s crux with naught but the torches to light it in the dark, early morning. Others, the grain in her eyes would fool her into seeing the valley proper, long and tapered like a delta of fertile land. Those were the nice mornings, the pleasant ones whose memories brought less pain than warmth. Some–bittersweetly few–were less kind. In the waking blur she would, on occasion, see her old friends. She would see the other Serpents, strolling the small roads or practicing in the field outside of the manor. She would see her brother, Sazo, sometimes happy, sometimes bearing the look of hatred and betrayal he’d worn the last time she saw him. Yuna, too, would appear on the drearier mornings. She was small, and still had hair down to her shoulders. Sometimes she would smile, sometimes she would cry.

These were the difficult mornings, where the nostalgia weighed so heavy her breath would catch and her eyes would sting. It hurt to see, but it hurt worse for the moments to pass. For every bit of agony, she would not trade them for the world.

This time she saw Hiroyuki lying beside her. His face was abnormally touched by the blur, but she could tell his eyes were shut, and he was smiling. By the way his side rose and fell, it was clear that this time he was sleeping.

A sting caught her eye, and when she blinked the world was focused, Hiroyuki was gone.

Mimichi rolled onto her back and groaned through a series of stretches. She reminded herself, 'this is not the valley,' when she was done and got to her feet. It wasn’t, these were forest trees, much taller and more densely packed than the trees of Lorro. The south was its own kind of lush, one she was not used to, but certainly welcomed. Forests were hard to track through and easy to hide in. Trading in a comfortable night’s sleep on the bed of an inn for the relative safety beneath the towering shadows was something she’d become long accustomed to.

She buried the remains of her cooking fire and pulled her bag down from the branches she’d hid it in. With dismay, she saw one of the flaps had opened, and some of her vials had come open. A misting had passed through earlier, the ground was heavily dewed, her blanket damp. Worst, the moisture had crept into her bag and turned a monkshood paste to slush, which had then seeped into a smaller satchel of raw ingredients.

Frustrated, she dumped the contents of the satchel, then buried the thing itself. It wasn’t exactly rare for ingredients to leak, but where she’d once just pick the replacements herself, her position and disposition made that difficult. She was near a small town, but during festivals even small towns were usually diligent about harvesting the most obvious herbs. What she had left–mostly odds and ends additives, and nearly empty vials of ingredients snagged from the valley–wouldn’t make much without the more basic components. She’d comb with careful eyes along the way, but it was becoming clear to her that she’d need to visit the town to restock what she could. A glance into the pocket holding her money told her it would not be much if she planned to eat.

‘There’ll be work,’ she thought with some level of certainty. Big events, big crowds, these things tended to spark conflicts, and conflicts–at least the way she implemented herself into them–brought coin. Even if nothing needed doing that day, she was confident the next days would see plenty of people in search of aid of one kind or another. Investing in the materials would be worth it. She could likely find cheap food during the festival anyway.

This time she made sure the bag was entirely shut, and all its contents were secure, before slinging it around her shoulder. Last, she hooked the two halves of her weapon to her belt, bound in cloth to keep them from clacking together as much as to hide what they were. She might have called the thing a naginata, if she’d ever seen any respectable form of the weapon come apart at the middle, and require a ridiculous twisting mechanism and pin to keep from breaking at the slightest motion. Even the blade was more a ruined spear than a glaive, which was due more to the shoddy quality of the metal than the shape itself. But it had been cheap, and, to her surprise, had endured crossing a bandit’s sword–though the edge was now severely chipped.

The town, of which she didn’t know the name, wasn’t far. With the traffic, she even felt she could follow the road without trouble. Indeed, festivals, crowds, excitement, they had their merits, and part of her wondered if she might find some enjoyment in the events herself. A small part, though, and one she didn’t give much mind to once she was on her way.
In • 葉隱 • → 7 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
M i m i c h i


Name:
    Kuromizu Mimichi (formerly Kitamura Mimichi), Serpent of the Valley

黒-"Kuro" meaning "black" and 水-"Mizu" meaning "water."
海-"Mi" meaning "sea" and 道-"Michi" meaning "path."

Age:
    35


Totem:
    Snake


Appearance:
    Mimichi has always possessed a sort of youthful androgeny. She is too sharp in the joints to be considered strictly feminine, and too rounded elsewise to be called a man. Her face–unadorned–gives no hint either way. Long hair would have once given her away, but wild foxtails and messy buns are not uncommon among fighting men, nor are they with her.

    She stands at average height for her age, with the kind of lean muscle expected of a woman training since youth. Though she lacks bulk, one could almost tell from her posture alone--straight, with a shell of former pride to it--that she'd spent her life in service to a lord.

    Her attire could be described as “formally practical” or perhaps “ceremonially dutiful.” Toughened yet flowing cloth laid under cured guards about her limbs, never clunky or restrictive but never quite casual either.

Personality
    Once, Mimichi was a brash, hot-headed girl fueled by a competitive nature and an eagerness to serve the ruling family of her home. Later, through a dutiful friendship and eventual marriage to the heir, these fires were tempered by the virtues of combat and second-hand politics.

    Patience, key to the philosophies of the Serpents and the court alike, is engrained into her. Though no longer given to meditation, Mimichi boasts a level of self-control one might expect of a monk. As such, her approach to most things on and off the battlefield is steady and tactical.

    However, beneath Mimichi’s subdued nature is an eroded sense of duty, an understanding reached during the treacherous collapse of the Lorro Valley: loyalty–true loyalty–is without bounds. Sometimes, for the sake of what and who you love, heinous sacrifices must be made and retribution must be forgotten.

Strengths

    Serpent of the Lorro Valley:
    Hailing from a long line of retainers loyal to the daimyo of the Lorro Valley, known as the Serpents of Lorro, Mimichi is a viciously weathered and experienced warrior. Her weapon of choice, the naginata, has long been among the Serpents’ icons, and as such she wields it like an extension of herself. The Serpents utilized an outwardly simple combative style, utilizing the naginata's reach to keep enemies at bay and retaliate with swift pokes or cuts, but they have always molded to a single combat philosophy: Patience. As such, she is a keen observer, able to weave nimbly around opponents, studying their movements until faced with the opportunity to go on the offensive.

    Venomous:
    Aside the naginata, the Serpents’ namesake also derives from their affinity for poisons, and habit for coating their weapons with them. The Lorro, being a lush and plentiful valley, lent its resources to the study of toxicology, which became a founding block of the Serpents’ teachings. Mimichi is able to concoct a variety of elixirs–few of which bear any properties beneficial to long-term health–as well as trace poison through things like smell, taste, and symptoms.

    Motherly Disposition:
    Though separated from her daughter for over a year since they fled the ruined valley, Mimichi raised the girl almost entirely on her own. She understands children, but she also understands what it means to teach, how to nurture, and how to convey meaningful things in simple ways.

    Politically Minded:
    She saw little of her husband in the last years of their marriage, but her years as his body guard taught her many things extending beyond combat. She accompanied him to court, met many nobles, and learned how to navigate the political landscape as she would any other battlefield. Later, when her daughter was poised to become Lady of the valley, she was prepared for the brutal cruelty that would befall her. Now branded a traitor to the empire, Mimichi cannot–and truly never did–consider herself a politician, but she’s taken measures to ensure she would not be so easily ensnared in the many traps the field holds.

Weaknesses

    Wanted Woman:
    Mimichi finds herself entangled in the conspiracy surrounding the fall of the Lorro Valley. Blamed for the murder of her husband, the former daimyo Hiroyuki Kitamura, as well as the kidnapping of her daughter, Yuna, there was a brief time following the siege’s conclusion that Mimichi could hardly step into a town without being assailed by imperial soldiers and headhunters. Though the pressure to bring her in has since slackened, and though the young heiress herself–now living with her uncle–attests that her mother in fact saved her from the siege, the warrant and price on Mimichi remains.

    Honorless:
    The carnage of the siege and the shame brought by Mimichi’s conviction utterly ruined the Serpents of Lorro Valley. The guilt of the bloody swathe she carved in her escape with Yuna combined, weighed heavy enough to break many of her virtues. None would trust a woman condemned of such crimes, and perhaps that is rightly so. The codes of honor, the vows to protect those in need, and the loyalty to her allies, these things have all gone from her. She acts in her own interests, and even in the company of others, one can never be sure if her plans and suggestions truly consider everyone’s wellbeing.

    Nostalgic:
    Mimichi is haunted by the loss of her old life. Often she will see her husband still in the edges of her waking vision, or hear him call out to her in the peaking bustle of a busy street. The greatest ache, though, is that for her daughter, Yuna. The heiress resides with Mimichi’s brother, and a daimyo more powerful than Hiroyuki had ever been, she is still gone under the protection of the Empire. There is little, if nothing, Mimichi would not do to see her daughter again, she is her crux. As well, while she may not consider herself as loyal to the emperor any longer, she always keeps an ear to the ground for news of Yuna’s new home, and any threats that may be encroaching upon it.

    Venomless:
    A wide understanding and skill in toxicology is wonderful when surrounded by a variety of plant life. However, it is currently difficult for Mimichi to obtain the ingredients needed for the more potent poisons of the Serpents. Being a wanted criminal makes navigating more renowned markets difficult, and the smaller farms rarely carry the herbs she requires. As a result, her current collection consists mostly of petty toxins, unfit to adorn her weapon, if prime for meager tasks.
In • 葉隱 • → 7 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Will also have my CS up today.


In Mol's CS Thing → 7 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets


________________________________________
Renault Allard
Male | 26 | Doumerc
Scion of Lightning
_______________________________________________
"He doesn't smile right. I don't know. Like when a dog shows you its teeth, it's not happy—it's gonna bite."
________________________________________
"It's so very good to be back."

Holy Sigil Location
On the palm of his right hand.

Appearance
Renault strikes a distinctive figure. He stands just over six feet, and has been described as ‘gangly’ by the less than generous, though they aren’t far off. An avalanche of red hair falls well down his back, and bright, almost lupine eyes sit behind a pair of sleek glasses. Most people, however, notice the smile first. He wears it often, even when it might be inappropriate, and to hear it said it makes him frustratingly difficult to read. Perhaps that's the point.

Though a sharp dresser, he doesn’t bother adapting to new trends. Renault has a small but trusty wardrobe of dress shirts, button-ups, vests and coats that he’s worn since he first stepped foot onto the aristocratic scene. He favors dark colors, and smart cuts that don't cross the line into flashy, but still command elegance on the right shoulders.

Personality
When it comes to appearing like your stereotypical aristocrat, Renault does his level best to fit the bill. Polite, well-spoken, and measured, he enjoys conversation and is always eager to meet new people. An avid reader with a taste for arcane academia, he isn’t a scholar but he has a passion for magic that’s stuck with him since childhood, and is always out to learn more than he knows, regardless of the subject.

Most see past the smile quickly, but coming from politics he’s used to distrust. Having supported Nadine Lucienne’s stances for most of his career, he makes no secret of his relative distaste for the Church’s conduct. He believes Incepta chose her Scions for a reason, seeing in them the potential to be more than pretty figureheads.

Biography
Renault never saw House Allard at its weakest, before Nadine Lucienne became Scion and rose it from the aristocratic squalor it wallowed in, but he has seen it at its most pathetic. When things were low, House Allard sprawled to survive; it sired bastards, it married down, it branched shallow, but wide. Falling out of relevance had the unique effect of liberating them from the expectations of a higher House, while simultaneously shaming them for it. In the distant reaches of the family, this shame turned inward, gnawing at each new generation that failed to rise above their station.

As a member of one of the House’s most far-flung branches, Renault’s prospects were meager. He and his sister Coralie grew up in a modest home in the Racine suburbs, unable to afford a place in the city’s heart. Coralie was a sickly girl who spent many of her early years bedridden, though she blossomed to be wildly sociable when she became a little healthier. Renault, however, was a bit of a recluse. He was magically gifted, but hopeless when it came to strangers. Often Coralie was his only company, and he spent many days in her room, reading and talking, and entertaining her with paltry spells when she couldn’t muster herself out of bed.

Eventually in their teenage years, the duty of their crumbling House fell upon them. Coralie, still withered but only in body, began to pursue a career in Doumercene politics. She was personable, diligent, and driven by an admiration for the savior of House Allard: Her Holiness Nadine Lucienne. She began to shadow the Scion of Lightning, and spent many high school summers interning with Nadine’s party. Even if her role was minor, it was a meaningful step to her.

Renault, for his part, was torn. His affinity for magic was growing, taking to the arcane like it was his mother tongue. He wrote runes as deftly as his own name, could speak spells with the linguistic precision of a scholar, and may very well have found himself with an early, full ride in one of Doumerc’s legendary universities. But, he didn’t want to abandon Coralie, who despite having grown popular by the time she graduated, was surrounded by people who manipulated and deceived for a living. It was too late for him to join her on the political stage, at least, not I the same capacity. He wanted to stay close.

At sixteen he found a low-level politician tangentially related to Madam Lucienne’s party in need of interns. Renault’s social skills had improved somewhat from his proximity to his sister, but he was still politically fresh, and he’d learned well that the Allard name, especially when it belonged to such an outlier, held little weight despite Nadine’s position. So he was surprised to be invited onboard so readily. Until he actually met the man.

He wasn’t a politician, more of a white collar grifter, and Renault had not been brought on because of his name, or initiative, but because of his magical aptitude. A good number of the interns were magically inclined, others weren’t kids at all, just adults who looked like they had no place in a noble’s court. Which made sense; none of them were going to be spending time there.

Renault learned his first lesson in politics: Dirt leaves stains—keep your hands clean.

Lobbying, bribery, blackmail and, occasionally, threats. Everything the grifter couldn’t do in the open, he delegated to the interns. Charms and illusions did wonders for minor-league espionage, and where backroom diplomacy failed, the more physically inclined of the bunch took charge. Renault broke more laws in a week than he had his whole life, which was not a high bar, but one that weighed on him nonetheless as those weeks turned to months.

Was this Coralie’s life, too? He couldn’t believe if it was; she was always smiling, always looking so eager towards tomorrow, and Renault hardly wanted to see the next moment. By happenstance, it turned out that one of the people his grifter had pressured was in opposition to Nadine. His folding made things easier on the whole party—and by extension, Coralie.

As can happen to anyone, the grifter’s luck eventually ran out. Whether he was outmaneuvered, or pushed the wrong person, or simply got sloppy, his crimes went public and his office collapsed. It was nothing short of divine luck that Renault wasn’t buried too, and had he been wiser, he might have taken the opportunity to start clean and refocus himself on his studies.

Not so.

He found another ambitious aristocrat, and this time when things went south he would make sure it wasn’t luck that spared him. Bringing along what remained of his former employer’s portfolio, Renault found himself a step above the other nameless, unpaid and unrecognized interns. When it came time to do his job, he remembered his lesson. He delegated, he used aliases, he kept his nose clean where he could and wore a mask where he couldn’t. Things moved slower, but he learned that was the proper way of things. Collapses like the grifter’s were rare, and were usually a sign that somewhere along the chain of diplomatic pressure, someone had failed to navigate gently enough. The people being blackmailed often wanted their secrets revealed as much as the people blackmailing them.

This went on for a few years more. Renault would flit between internships, proving himself both effective and discrete, and found the means to continue his arcane studies. When he graduated, there was no shortage of candidates eager to have him on their campaign teams. This moved him out of the shadows and onto the stage of political theater, where he was finally able to talk face to face with the sorts of people whose careers he had helped stabilized and unstabilize.

They were the worst.

It was all fake, which he’d known perfectly well already, but having to interact with them was different. They were all arrogant or obsequious, dishonest by default, and they all absolutely hated each other. Even people representing the same parties, the same teams, smiled and shook hands with daggers behind their backs.

Once again he couldn’t believe his sister thrived in a place like this. He searched, subtly, for dirt anyone might have had on her, anxious that she might have been as twisted as her company, but ultimately found nothing. In a way, that was worse. It would be devastating to learn she was never who he thought she was, but she was, and that made it all the more terrifying. Did she not know? Was Nadine’s party really some bastion of ethics? The Church certainly didn’t think so. How could someone like Coralie, who’d never worn a disingenuous smile in her life, survive in a place like this?

It turned out she couldn’t. After years of good health, her illness returned suddenly, fiercely, and in the end, fatally. She was gone in the day it took Renault to rush home. The fall was inexplicable—even the doctors were stunned. There’d been no warning, no symptoms, she had been happy and healthy one moment, and the next she’d collapsed in the middle of a donor social. There was a brief and half-hearted investigation that fizzled from disinterest as quickly as it started. She was chronic, after all, it was just nature. Who would want to waste their time?

Renault would.

Like Coralie’s death, Renault’s turn was sudden. His current employer’s campaign crumbled when it was revealed he’d been embezzling from his own charities for a decade. Tragic and disgusting, good riddance. Then the CEO of a premier magitech company was ousted when her affair with a competitor’s bookkeeper became public. A high-profile House was thrown into chaos when it came to light they’d bribed a judge to dismiss a lawsuit against one of their own. Scandal after scandal hit the public, and it didn’t stop at Doumerc. A Rodion general who poisoned his opponent before the duel that helped secured his position. A beloved Rosarian author who’d been using ghost writers his whole career. A Lorenzian art collector dealing in counterfeits. Every week, for months, someone had their skeletons thrown out of their closet and into the open daylight. When it did eventually end, a slew of once-public-faces had simply vanished, and Renault returned to the political stage with a smile on his face.

His involvement in the ordeal was an open secret; the result of his own efforts at finding the truth behind his sister’s death, culminating in a wanton divulgence of some of his portfolio. Some, he stressed giddily, but not all. He’d followed many threads, and found nothing, but was undeterred. Why rush?

Renault was now a campaign manager, freelance. Few sought out his services, wary or outright fearful, but as the years went by people learned to answer when he knocked. He came to enjoy the façades, the nervousness in their smiles, the clamminess in their handshakes. Everyone hated each other, yes, but it felt good to cut a swathe through the aristocracy’s tangled hierarchy. His name never made the nightly news, but when someone’s career imploded, the nobles' eyes turned to him, and he smiled back.

He kept clear of Nadine’s party, for the most part, though he did make efforts to cripple her opposition where he could. That they shared a family was already risk enough; she didn’t need someone with his reputation tied to her. Not when she so frequently butted heads with the Church.

Renault’s view of the High Cardinal and her ilk only soured over time. As his leads dried up, he found himself more and more believing the Church had been involved in Coralie’s death. He’d made no small number of enemies, but no one as powerful as the Mother’s eyes and hands. She was herself a small fish compared to Nadine, but she’d done a lot for the Scion’s party.

He was still undeterred, but knew that if he was going to take on the Church, he would need more than scandals. Sometimes there was no substitute for raw power. Renault was no soldier, he was a poor shot and had no talent for swordplay. What he did have was magic—but so did the Church, in much larger quantity and much stronger quality. So he turned his focus to the one thing they didn’t have. He went after the Curses.

It did not end well. He was caught attempting to unravel the arcane lock set by Duchess Flores, and was promptly thrown in prison with little process. The Doumercene aristocracy collectively exhaled, and life went on. For about a year.

Renault’s ascension to Scionhood was nothing less than divine comedy. How could the Mother choose someone like him? What purpose could he possibly serve in her designs? Renault didn’t know—he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that he was free, and that now he had all the time, and power, he needed.

Weapon of Choice
Renault isn't much for weapons. He's hopeless with a gun and hasn't held a sword for anything more than ceremony. If a confrontation is unavoidable and magic isn't an option, he keeps an old pair of knuckle dusters handy, a memento from his earliest days in politics.

Misc.
  • Theme tbd
  • Renault is quite a talented dancer, especially with a partner.
  • Has a passable singing voice but can't play an instrument to save his life.
In 葉隠聞書 → 7 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
Droppin' hella interest in this
In NCQuest -- To Be Rebooted → 7 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
V e r a
• Convention Center, Smith's Rest •


It was still cold, Vera wasn’t sure what she’d expected. She wasn’t so flustered as to try and dunk her head into the fluff again, but a nervous boiling had begun to bubble up back in the bar, and she was thankful for the little twists and drifts of icy air that wormed their way between the fabrics of her coat. Of course, as soon as they led to shivers, their presence would no longer be as welcomed. So, to stave that off for as long as possible, she stuffed her hands into her pockets and trotted off at a leisurely pace.

Soon enough that too was interrupted.

“Stop. I’d like a word with you.”

Vera jumped and swiveled around, surprised to see how quickly a woman she hadn’t so much as heard had snuck up on her. She didn’t look particularly official–then again few people besides her mother did–and she didn’t have a badge or anything of the like, but there was something else. Something in the woman’s face, her expression, how everything seemed to be off to her like she was coping with a bout of vertigo, it made Vera afraid, deeply. They were hard eyes staring back at her. Disciplined eyes. Eyes of authority.

“Oh gosh, are you in with the convention?” she stumbled over every word. It couldn’t be that their first day back in town they’d already gotten into trouble, it just couldn’t be. “Is it the noise? You guys probably heard us from the canteen. I’m so sorry, I think–really just one of my friends, a pilot, I think he’s just had a little too much to drink, you know? We’re not trying to make a racket, I promise.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Oh," Vera said, relieved though now just as much confused. “Well uh, what's up? Everything alright?"

Before Vera had a chance to react she found her shoulder grabbed by the cold hands of her pursuer. She saw it coming, Graham’s training had conditioned her just the same but between the surgeries and being disoriented it caught her off guard. It didn’t help the woman was stronger and faster, not unlike a soldier. Without much of a struggle, she was quickly backed into the adjacent wall.

“Don’t. Trust. Ingram. Kalfox.”

Vera stared at the woman like she had headlights for eyes. One hand had, on freshly-forged instinct, come up and grabbed the invading arm by the wrist, but she was small, pinned. Her other hand covered her face, expecting some kind of blow, but nothing came. Nothing but the unnaturally cold warning.

“Wh-huh? What? What do you mean?" she asked, more sputtered, actually. She tried to press herself away, feet up trying to bar the woman's legs from shoving her further, but she kept an iron grip on the sleeve.

“Ingram Kalfox is not your friend. He is not your ally. He is not a saint. Do not trust him.” She spoke again in the same militant tone. Her cold, faded green eyes invoked a sense of seriousness and rage.

Then she let go of Vera’s shoulder, as if affirming that she was not here to hurt her but something entirely different. Nonetheless Vera quaked, and for a few moments kept hanging onto the sleeve. When she realized of course, she let go, but couldn't take her eyes away. Didn't. She yielded gaze, but watched the woman's face. It was strong but weathered, and anger seeped through its cracks, almost desperate. She didn't know this woman, but she knew that look, faces like it, she'd seen it almost every day in Lizzy, sometimes even in mom.

“Okay," Vera said, nodding gently, putting her hands up, as if she even needed to surrender against someone like her. “Something's wrong, I get it, and it's stressing you out. But try and sit in my shoes, this is weird, right? I'm not saying I don't trust you I'm saying this is weird. I'm not gonna call for anyone, okay? You could explain it to me, help me and I'll help you."

“I can’t explain it, Vera. It’s probably better that I don’t. Ingram Kalfox will seek to ruin you and if you let him, he will. Everyone who has ever known him knows this. If you are alone with him, your childhood will be over. Just like Ana’s.” She paused, as if the woman realized something and didn’t like it. Before Vera could speak out with any more questions a gloved hand covered her mouth. “Don’t ignore what I am saying. Always have a gun in your pocket.”

As Vera reached for the woman’s hand for a second time she released her grip and turned as she began to hear footsteps and took off in the opposite direction. Vera wanted to shout 'wait!' or 'stop!' or anything, but when she tried, she coughed, and by then the woman was gone. Still, she scrambled after for a few feet, trying to spy her among the people walking this way and that, but it was hopeless. A few passersby shot her odd looks, but otherwise, it was all as if nothing had happened.

But that wasn't true, something had happened. A stranger had just warned her at force about Stein's dad, and Ana, and she found herself reeling. What had happened to Ana? Was she in trouble? Stein had never mentioned much about her dad, but everyone seemed to get on well enough with him. Everyone except Percy, anyway.

“Oh god," she said, spooking herself. What if Ana was in trouble? She didn't have the clear head or the time to try and work out how, or why, but if there was even "if", then she was wasting time. Wildly, she oriented herself back towards the canteen, and sprinted off to find Percy.
In NCQuest -- To Be Rebooted → 7 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
V e r a
• Convention Center, Smith's Rest •


“Oh no,” Vera mumbled, as she watched Percy’s drunken show from the counter. She wasn’t alone, his antics garnered attention from most of the handful of patrons there were, including–most attentively, it seemed–the pumpkin-haired girl beside her. Ryn watched with unbroken fascination, wearing the sort of smile Vera had come to associate with cartoonish villains.

Madison came along at last, and showed herself to be a rather surprising voice of reason. Not that Percy was in much of a state to be reached by reason, as he stumbled along, guided by the smaller pilot. They were speaking, but she could really make out much, and what she could came more from Percy’s own drunkenly-escalated voice. She thought, ‘Poor Madi. She’s had a rough enough day.’

Eventually Percy broke away again. “Uh oh,” the barkeep grumbled. He sighed, and started collecting empty glasses from the counter. “I warned him.”

“Sorry about this,” Vera offered.

“No need to be sorry until he breaks or throws up on something.”

She tried to laugh, but it came out more awkward and nervous than sincere, so she returned to the sight. Percy had veered off-course, if he’d even had one, and landed squarely if painfully at the table with Alan and, 'Oh, there’s Lizzy.'

In any other circumstance, Vera would have rejoiced to see her sister surrounded by her fellow pilots. However, given how strung-up everyone was, and how well Lizzy had taken Percy’s last outburst in the facility, she worried. Though she still could only understand–and even then hardly–Percy, she watched her sister’s response closely. Lizzy looked him up and down like she’d check a document for spelling errors, listened quietly, then nodded and mouthed a few words back, probably just returning the greeting. No flash of anger, no anxiety in her eyes or nervous fidgeting, her sister was calm and collected.

Ryn was giggling, quietly, held-back, but they were beside each other and it was hard to mistake. At first she, guiltily, felt a bit indignant; was this really the time for laughing, while their friend was making a scene? Vera glanced back to Percy and the others, and wondered if she was perhaps taking things a little seriously. Maybe Ryn had the right idea, maybe it was funny, but something told her the other girl was finding humor in it for all the wrong reasons. After all, it wasn’t exactly a secret that she and Percy didn’t get along.

“Oof, kinda hard to watch,” Vera said, and it was–for her. She liked Percy, she wanted him to be okay. No one seemed to like him much, and she hoped someday he’d prove them all wrong. But it certainly didn’t seem like it was going to be today.

Hopping off of the stool, she zipped up her coat. “Think I’m gonna go for another walk, try and kill some time before they let Graham go. Been feelin’ kinda homesick anyway.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, she was feeling homesick and she did want to kill time. She just also didn’t want to do so watching Percy make a fool of himself, and worse, see people tear at him for it, however well-deserved it might be. So, adjusting her ushanka, she made for the door–careful to give Percy and her sister’s table a wide berth–and prepared for the cold.
In Mol's CS Thing → 7 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets



5'1" | 110lbs | Icy Blue / Bright Blue | Black / Deep Blue

"Oh, the stories I could tell about you."


Appearance:
Short and spindly, there’s undoubtedly halfling in Lilann’s blood, just not enough to matter. Tainted is what you see, from the blue skin and curved horns, to the bright eyes and tail. Her parents could have been Gnomes, she’d still be cursed—and shorter.

So she’s gone out of her way to ensure the first thing people notice about her is something else. She wears a hat many times too big for her head, and often dons a thin, painted mask when performing. Her coat is thickly furred and its layers are manifold. The blue hair, which falls in abundance down her back and about her shoulders like a drape, also grabs attention as a sign of aetherborn abnormality.


Name:
Lilann Storyborn (Formerly Livean Shol)


Age:
18


Gender:
Female


Classification (Aetherborn Only):
Genesian, Alteration


Abnormality:
Lilann’s abnormality presents as a sort of localized bioluminescence. When exposed directly to light, she seems to absorb and diffuse it to her hair and her eyes. Her hair, normally a soft black, takes on a bold, deep blue hue, and her dim, icy eyes become azure lamps. She does appear to exhibit some level of control over this, able to burn through the stored light quickly, usually to ensure she isn’t disturbing others at night. As well, wearing her hat cuts back on the absorption significantly.


Personality:
Despite being a storyteller, Lilann is just as adept a listener as she is a speaker—it’s other people’s stories she’s telling, after all. She is insatiably curious and fiendishly persistent, but not impolite. She maneuvers through most conversations with fair amounts of charm and wit, and enjoys studying the people she meets, scrutinizing them as if they might be the subject of her next tale. If she weren’t a Tainted she would be called “charismatic,” and might have eventually found herself neck deep in the intrigue of the noble courts, whispering into the ears of the rich and powerful.

Beneath the generally friendly demeanor is a bitter, cunning cynicism. For all the work she’s done forging people into heroes, she still expects them to fail, not just in their duties but in their actions as well. She expects them to fail as people, because the truth is that Lilann does not believe in heroes, only heroism, and heroism is fleeting. In a way her stories are games, and they’re rigged, because no matter the length, no matter the path, no matter the triumphs, the endings are always disappointing.

She makes sure of it.


Bio:
The question is always, “Where to begin?” Finnagund is much too early, but to pick up in Dranir would be missing the point. Better instead that we start in that liminal space where warm plains become cold stone, and blue skies become gray. Where given names shed themselves to become names chosen. Where endings become beginnings.

Yes, we’ll leave young miss Livean out of this, for all sakes. Her story was brief, and would make for poor conversation.

Lilann’s began at the age of eleven, in a cart bound for Dragon Rock. She was a pitiful thing, without coin or direction, shivering in clothes unfit for Dranirian weather. The other passengers were little better—transients leaving Finnagund, ironically, in search of greener pastures. The fact that these pastures lay in the inhospitable mountains of a land wracked by civil war should tell you plenty about their circumstances. Among them was a man named Oranwulf, who had been hired on as the sole protector. His armor was dented, his sword poorly cared for, and the first words out of his mouth were lies about the scars on his face, which were numerous but unflattering, though they could hardly make him uglier than he already was. Not a famed, seasoned knight by any means, but then, you get what you pay for.

Those of you that frequent taverns in southern Dranir might recognize that name—we were getting to that, but perhaps it’s best if we skip the part you already know, and jump to the truth. The truth is that, when the pair of giants attacked, Oranwulf hid in the cart, and became trapped beneath it when it was flipped over, along with our own Tainted girl. Twelve passengers were reduced to five before one of the giants fell, entirely by accident, over the side of the cliff chasing after the survivors. While the remaining giant picked through the carnage , Lilann had what we could call a, “growing moment.” Still a young and inexperienced aetherborn, she only managed to infuse the wreckage with a sliver of her own aether. Blessedly, that was enough. The cart didn’t fly off into the air, or explode, or turn into dust, but it did lighten enough for Oranwulf to create a gap—which he would have dropped right back onto her had she not scrambled out ahead of him. Under cover of the fog, they ran for Dragon Rock.

And that was that. No, Oranwulf the Brave did not push one of the giants off the cliff and face the other alone, nor did he catch its blade with a single hand, and cleave its head from its shoulders. He was not a man of “peerless valor and mettle,” and the Fated Empress did not “weave a stitch in her pattern to accommodate his honorable path.” The first thing he did at Dragon Rock was threaten to break Lilann’s neck if she ever told anyone what had happened. The second thing he did was beat the snot out of her to ensure she knew he was serious. Then he went and got terribly drunk.

“But that’s not his name—” Shh. We’re getting there.

The reality is that Oranwulf’s story didn’t truly begin until almost a week later. Lilann had found work in a tavern sweeping floors and running drinks, and one day she saw a familiar face. It was one of the other passengers who had fled early into the attack. When they pressed her for answers, Lilann, fearing retribution from Oranwulf, lied.

No, the story of Oranwulf the Brave did not spring to life from the words of an eleven-year-old. Lilann Storyborn is good, but she didn’t start out that good. She told the survivor that Oranwulf had not hidden, but rather, he had tried to protect her. One of the giants had fallen, and while the other was distracted, Oranwulf struck it down. It was vague enough to be believable, at least to the drunken ears listening, and she figured that would be the end of it. Not so. Days later she heard that same story spill from the mouth of a complete stranger to a tableful of his friends, only the details were different. Oranwulf had not simply saved a little Tainted whelp, but all of the survivors as well. He hadn’t snuck up on the giant, he had challenged it boldly, and parried its blows as though they had been swung with the strength of a halfling. A nearby patron, overhearing this, chided the man for fudging the details, and corrected that Oranwulf had not parried, but blocked the strikes outright, matching the giant muscle for muscle—he had heard this from his friend, who had allegedly been on that fated cart, and whose words were thus beyond reproach.

This fascinated Lilann, who even then could see that a hero’s legend was budding right before her eyes, from a seed sewn by her own hands. Over the next weeks Oranwulf’s story continued to morph, and all the while she listened, learning which embellishments were more readily believed and which were waved off and discarded, seeing how far the truth could be stretched before it passed into bold-faced fable, and then, which fables sunk and which fables were met with toasts and hearty laughter.

The next time Lilann wove Oranwulf’s story, it was from the golden threads plucked from a hundred different iterations. The giants struck on the back of an icy morning fog, slaughtering the driver and all four of the mercenary protectors. While the passengers scattered, Oranwulf took up a fallen blade, sliced a giant’s ankle and sent it hurtling over the cliff. The last charged him, roaring with bloody fury, but Oranwulf stood strong. He was a man of unshakable faith, so confident in the will of the Fated Empress that he held up only his hand for protection. As the cleaver came down, it was stopped upon his palm by the fateful strings of Lady Azaiza herself, and with a single swing, Oranwulf severed the giant’s head. In the aftermath, he pulled an Elven girl of five from the wreckage, who to this day lives happily with her mother in Relfin.

It landed. Beautifully. Lilann’s story was received so well that she found patrons calling her over when their friends would mess it up. “Where’s the little imp?” they’d say. “Bring her over, she tells it best."

She only ever saw Oranwulf again on his way out of Dragon Rock three years later. He was a knight then; his armor was splendid and there was a ruby in the pommel of his very expensive sword. He was on his way to Cloud Hold, answering a prestigious summons for his heroism. Of course, he never made it. He died in an altercation with a single Gnomish bandit, falling from his own horse, accidentally castrating himself with his fancy sword, and bleeding to death on the side of the road clutching his own severed cock. This is why you and most people instead remember him as Oranwulf the Gelded.

See? We got there.

Much like his legacy, this too was a lie. But by then Lilann had learned a valuable lesson about storytelling: the only thing people enjoyed hearing more than a hero’s rise to glory, was their fall from it. She had bruises to repay, and nothing bruised as easily or as lastingly as reputation.

This isn’t about Oranwulf, but telling his story was necessary because Lilann created it, beginning and end. That, you see, is her story. She didn’t stop with him; even after Oranwulf’s tale fell out of fashion she kept her ear to the dirty ground of every tavern, listening for the signs of burgeoning heroes. She stayed in Dragon Rock until she was fourteen, and by then she had crafted no less than two dozen other stories, ranging from the triumphs of unassuming adventurers, to the frightening attacks of bandits and giants. Once or twice she tried her hand at retelling the legends of old, but found her interest waned when faced with the annals of history. She didn’t want to recite legends, she wanted to make them—and sometimes, break them.

When she left Dragon Rock, she donned a hat to hide her horns, a mask to hide her face, and long, flowing coats for her tail and skin. People were more receptive to her stories when she made it easy for them to ignore that she was a Tainted. She found great success in the taverns and streets of various cave-towns, and a plethora of stories on the journeys between them. She spun yarns for merchants and mercenaries, and once or twice even for bandits. Travelers who saw her in their carts knew they would not want for entertainment.

At sixteen she came to Norn Thul, having decided against trying business in Cloud Hold—even she knew better than to push her luck in such a spiritual place. It did not take long to establish herself, even in taverns where no one knew the name Lilann Storyborn. Her bardic skills aside, she had done careful practice with her aetherborn abilities, and began implementing them into her work. Her talents were still minimal, she could float one or two small props, or make her lyre play a few tender, ambient chords while she spoke, but theatrics went a long way with crowds who were used to getting their stories from poems and drunks. Nothing could ever truly compensate for her heritage, but she kept patrons drinking and eating, and that was usually enough to prevent her getting the boot if her tail happened to slip from beneath her coat.

Two more years she spent with Norn Thul as her nest, venturing out with slummy trade caravans and vendors desperate enough to take coin from a Tainted. Once or twice she dipped down into Relfin, to Buscon, where the fairer attitudes and close-knit community of Tainted nearly tempted her into staying, but not quite. Whenever she returned to Norn Thul, it was always with new stories to build.

Valan, the Gnomian Wolf. Sedrica Half-Hymn. The Man Who Was Kindling. Drang, Who Climbed Dragon’s Demise. The Secret Concubine of Rhogar Sadaar. The Seven-Headed Beast Behind Galken’s Door. The Fey Pirate King. Some of these names you know, others you don’t yet, but will. All were woven by the words of Lilann Storyborn, true in degrees often varying from “hardly at all” to “not even a little bit.” That doesn’t stop them from being heard, or, importantly, spread. Some become distorted, or claimed by other bards. Some have made their heroes into Oranwulf the Brave, others into Oranwulf the Gelded. More than once has she been threatened to stop, more than once she has been bribed to continue. Neither mattered much to her. After all, whatever one’s reputation, all it takes is the right story to set things moving the other way.

With the next Great War looming on the horizon, Lilann’s interests have naturally been drawn to the Bounty Houses established by the enigmatic diplomats of Veraz Althma. Oh, the stories to be born from the sorts collecting there, the triumph and tragedy awaiting them, the legends in making. But if she was going to uproot herself again it would not be for some glorified bounty board. Word of Lord Mystralath’s own venture reached even to Norn Thul, and she knew instantly that she would go there.

There was hesitation, of course. The gods had cursed her with a long and lucid memory, and though she had been Lilann Storyborn for many years, Livean Shol still paled at the idea of stepping foot in her homeland again. She would have rather stayed in Dranir, and lived out the rest of her days quietly.

But Livean’s story was over, and Lilann would not let that end hers, too.


Likes:
  • Interesting people
  • Uninteresting people (a challenge!)
  • Good tippers
  • Mysteries
  • Long travels

Dislikes:
  • When the sun is too bright
  • Captive audiences (no challenge!)
  • Any fish
  • Out-of-tune instruments
  • Knights

Habits:
When deep in thought, Lilann has a tendency to unknowingly burn through the light stored up by her abnormality, making her hair and eyes an occasional giveaway that something is on her mind.


Inventory:
  • Lilann’s attire (big hat, wooden mask, longcoat)
  • Lyre (cheap, but well cared-after)
  • Satchel (contains a variety of small, handmade props, wooden bricks, and a whittling knife)
  • Journal (filled with pages written in incomprehensible shorthand)
  • Longsword (simple, but seems a bit too wieldy for someone her size)
  • Money (tbd)

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