Windward Island Port Harbor, The Sunken Shephard @SunsetWanderer
Solia had managed to busy herself for a while simply observing the docks. An instinct deep within beckoned for her to abandon her seat and offer help to those few ships struggling to dock. Doubtless a strong arm to hold down ropes would have gone a long way, but in her hesitation, others much closer and likely less-prone to causing panic, stepped forth.
‘So pleasantly curious, these people,’ Solia thought as she watched them come together. On Maelstrom, the residents had relied mostly on the angels for such tasks, but here and many of the places she’d been over the weeks, these displays of comradery had become common. Together, they did not need help.
That thought, while at first inspiring, echoed deep within her.
She was nearly embarrassed when the stranger’s approach caught her off-guard. Solia lacked the faculties to jolt, or yelp, but if she had lungs, she imagined she would have gasped.
It was a man sat with her. He was, to her approximation, average of age amongst the other divers present, but with a broadness indicative of those borne of the harsh, northern seas. To her he radiated experience, and yet he posed her a question.
Solia turned to him and smiled, happy to help.
“Not this harbor, no.” Solia spoke with him as she did with everyone, be they man, woman or child. She was gentle, measured, and considered each word. “And by the size of the dock, and the enthusiasm of the local populace, I assume all of them would agree with you. Many of us have come in response to Windward Island’s request for help. Is that not what brings you here?”
A small fleet had amassed in the crystal waters around Windward Island. To a place of more commercial repute, this would not have been so exciting, and in fact a more refined port might have found itself vexingly inconvenienced.
None who had come did so in gilded galleons and warships, rather, the ports bulged with a ramshackle collection of schooners and the odd caravel of a small-fortuned merchant. Many who disembarked onto the docks, were just reflections of their crafts. Their hulls were gnarled and beaten by Mother Ocean’s ire, and some who had clearly rotted past the point of restoration were easy to pick out. They hobbled on patched boots, or wooden legs, and wouldn’t last. Others though, were made of more resilient stuff. Their bodies had weathered hurricane winds, clashed against the scaly hides of dangerous beasts, and survived. Their demeanors were grizzled and jaded, but intrinsic to their personal brine was hope for the people of Windward. Hope that some among the newcomers could help them.
This was what had drawn Solia here. The message Windward had sent out was not a cry for help in the way she most often encountered them, but it was one nonetheless. Something troubled the people who lived there, something they didn’t understand, with the potential to bring them harm. If there was something she could do to stop it, or help them in anyway, she had to try. She always had to try.
As she stepped onto the dock, the boards whined and bent beneath her. She would have to be careful here. Windward was not some buoy-port cobbled of driftwood and hope, but even still, if she wasn’t delicate, or at least mindful of her actions, she might step right through the wood, and be plunged into the waters beneath the isle.
As the most eager adventurers stormed from the docks, her slower pace spared her from the brunt of the islanders’ attention. She had donned more layers than perhaps was necessary for the climate, but stone did not sweat. Only weeks ago, the sight of her broken face and grainy chips had nearly driven a crew to toss her overboard. Now she favored discretion, to an extent.
She was not ashamed of her being, as of late it did perplex her, but she would never deny what she was to anyone. Father had built them to be proud of their elegant forms; she was a masterwork, a creation unlike any Maelstrom had ever produced, unlike anything Aruth had ever produced. Some of the Spire’s own residents were chary of calling upon their aid, or even approaching them. Such was the way of new and strange things.
There were children among the crowds of onlookers, that brought a smile to her. Maelstrom had few children for its prodigious size, but they’d been among her favorite. Minds, untethered with reason or tragedy, conjured the most fantastical tales, and these stories often passed about the ranks of her siblings, shared in their off-time. As she watched Windward’s children gather and gawk, she wondered, briefly, where the children of Maelstrom were. Briefly, because she knew the answer already.
Not keen on frightening them, she keep her head low, and her face shaded beneath the hood of her cloak. Her clothes were damp and salted from the weeks of travel, but the bandages wrapped ‘round her head and arm were still fresh, and firm. Undamaged she could pass for pale at a glance, but such was not the case. As it was, the clear skies did her no favors, and she sought out a place less bare.
An open tavern caught her eye, “The Sunken Shephard,” and she hesitated. Shelter it was, but sure as the tides would rise, sailors would flood a bar. Perhaps it was best to avoid company until companionship was unavoidable, until they were out at Gullspire and protests could not stop her from being there. This was the logical decision. Solia chose to ignore it.
Beneath the pavilion, she found a small table, small enough that she was confident the others would fill before anyone thought to join her, if they did. This decision, she decided, was close enough to reason. Runner-up. It granted her the discretion she desired, but also allowed her to keep an eye on the dock’s proceedings. Skiffs making ground at the shores, more divers and adventurers embracing the awed welcomes of the islanders. It was a pleasant sight, and she settled into it. Solia had been used to stillness, spent many hours on Maelstrom as a statuesque sentinel. The tavern was comfortable, at least, and for the most part empty.
Among the patrons, she spied a few who might be divers, and one about whom she had no doubts. Short, pink-haired, very proper, but this was not what stuck out most about her, not to Solia. What struck her most about the woman was her uniform. Clean, sharp, and above all undeniably, unmistakably Imperial.
If she had breath, it would have caught. What she had instead was a spark, an impulse, to do something. Exactly what, she didn’t know, and that itself was curious. She thought, gravely, that she wanted to hurt this girl. It was not a difficult thought to repress, the impulse just as easily smothered. She sat, quietly, and watched her for a time until she was certain that if their eyes met, there would be trouble.
To think of terrible things now, just before the call to action, would not do. So she returned her attention to the ships and crews, then further on, the sea and the distance Gullspire rock, and tried to busy her mind with more pleasant things.
"No mistake more grievous than inaction. No drive greater than the want for purpose.”
Name Solia, Maelstrom’s Elegy
Age 30 (static appearance in mid-twenties)
Gender Female
Home Sea The Ancient Sea
Aether Sign Sun
Aether Abilities
A form of Aether-magic associated with the manipulation of wind and air, Aether Wings are a staple of Maelstrom Spire’s angels. The wings themselves are more symbolic than physical. Though there is a vaguely wing-shaped distortion about their shoulders when they utilize this magic, they are fairly static, or at least do not mimic the movement of natural wings when they are visible.
Simply put, this magic allows Solia to fly. However, with her Aether Engine currently damaged, she may glide, but cannot outright fly high or long without risk of plummeting from the sky.
A form of Aether-magic involving the manipulation of the air and sound, this magic was developed for the angels of Maelstrom Spire only a century or so ago. While their wings allowed them to scale the spire with relative ease, the angels could not be expected to see every winding, rising corner.
This enchantment enhanced their hearing, but very specifically. It allowed them to pick up sounds of distress, namely calls for help. Despite the logical nature of the spire’s residents, many came to view this as a kind of prayer. Whether they were called for more mundane tasks, or to protect someone from danger, whenever “help” was uttered in sincerity, it was never done lightly.
Currently, Solia still has access to this enchantment, but possesses the ability to silence it with focus.
Personality As a construct created to protect Maelstrom Spire, Solia is generally amicable. She exudes sympathy and concern for the wellbeing of others, and is especially responsive towards those in need, rarely turning down a request for help.
This is not necessarily Solia’s nature, but rather the nature of her kind by and large. When she isn’t busied in body and mind assisting others, one might assume her to be a more reclusive sort. In reality, Solia tends to do a lot of thinking, which is something she did not do a lot of at the Spire. In the days leading up to and ever since its collapse, she and a sizable number of Maelstrom’s angels began to think much more independently. It wasn’t that they were mere automatons before, but duty had always been at the forefront of their minds, and informed all their actions.
Now, in addition to the guilt of her own survival and failure, Solia struggles with the independence imposed upon her. As a result, she tends to second-guess herself in most situations when presented with a choice, and in her travelling, has gone to great lengths to avoid isolation whenever possible.
History
Maelstrom Spire is one of Aruth’s oldest structures. Once nothing more than a humble bump of dirt and rock jutting up from the flood, survivors from the old world raised it into a port. Their skills as builders ensured that it was not only stable against the settling waves, but generously sized. So fervently did the builders work, and so readily did those who came to Maelstrom learn their craft, that, when the rest of the world was only beginning to stabilize itself, the port had grown to the width of a small town, and had several stories to it.
Centuries passed this way; visitors who decided to stay in Maelstrom would end up building upon it. Eventually, when they could go no higher for fear of the winds and the thinness of the air, the residents deemed their port a proper spire.
Once Maelstrom ceased to grow physically, it began to grow intellectually. Its reputation for building morphed over the following years into a reputation for general invention. Welcoming to all who wished to further their knowledge of old-world technology, or to pioneer newer creations, the Maelstrom turned away no ambitions, so long as they caused no harm.
Since the Maelstrom’s focus shifted towards peaceful invention, there was a silent understanding that, if the citizens were not going to defend themselves, then they would need to be defended. At first this simply meant hiring mercenaries to patrol their waters, but unlike the works created within the Maelstrom’s halls, people were fickle. They were tricky, and unreliable.
Then, the Chief-Architect at the time, Baelia Somni, astounded her fellow inventors with her new creation: the Aether Golem. Powered by the same magical engines found in ships, these golems were able to man vessels, keep watch, and¬—if needed—even defend the Spire. Able to wield Aether weaponry with inhuman might and precision, it was not long until the Maelstrom entered an era of intellectual prosperity behind the shield of Baelia’s golems. She passed before the peak of this time, but was then also spared the eventual fall of her creations.
Over time pirates grew braver, bolder, and smarter. They knew that while the golems were strong, they lacked the most crucial aspect of a living thing. They did not think, they merely did. Armed with vicious, cunning, and thoroughly human ingenuity, a band of pirates larger than had ever collectively attacked Maelstrom before, nearly brought it to ruin.
Faced with a terrible darkness, it was Baelia’s protégé and grandson, Rom Somni who stepped forward to protect the Spire with his new invention. Similar in concept to the Aether Golems, Rom’s creations were more sophisticated and pointedly more human. Unlike their predecessors, who were massive and blocky, these new beings had wiry frames like alabaster, pallid and stony. They lacked the same overwhelming strength, but they could be gentle, and nimble, and swift. Their Aether Engines were much more like actual hearts, pumping the magical essence through them as blood would flow through a human. They could listen and speak, they could act outside of a predetermined routine. To a hazily-defined extent they could think. To many, Rom included, they were alive.
He called them Angels.
As with all Aether Constructs of the time, their creator’s death meant their own as well. So, with the success of his inventions, it became tradition that each new Chief-Architect would learn Rom’s process and, when their time came to lead, they would create their own band of angels.
It was not until only fifty years ago that the last Chief-Architect Maelstrom Spire would ever have, discovered a way to improve upon Rom Somni's mysterious designs.
Mordin Ori’s angels were independent.
Solia was made during a time of relative peace. She saw no terrible devastation until the Spire’s fall, and enjoyed a cycle of residents who, unlike some past, enjoyed the presence of angels. She spent many of her days fluttering through the levels, assisting inventors with casual labor, patrolling the docks, or simply resting in the company of her brothers and sisters.
Mordin had made twenty-five of them, the smallest number to date, but he had also insisted on undertaking the entire process himself. With no help the creation took much longer, but he was almost manically obsessed with keeping the nuances of his “recipe” a secret. In fact, from the time he began until he was finished, he was utterly unreachable. Mordin put much more care into them than his predecessors had. He sculpted them individual faces, threaded hair into their scalps and etched tiny imperfections into their eyes. Each angel was entirely unique in appearance, with similarities designed to appear familial.
Solia was among the last to take her first “breath.” Like all angels, she was fully aware of herself, what she was, what her purpose was; everything that Mordin deigned they should know, they knew. He referred to them as his “children” and they knew to call him “father.”
The oddities did not end with their appearances, though. Mordin’s angels also acted dissimilarly to the ones who had come before. Their thoughts and actions were mechanical, but their decisions often weren’t. They did things on impulse, without always knowing why. One of Solia’s brothers would spend much of his free time whittling driftwood into fantastical art, another of her sisters could choose not to hear requests for help. Some of her siblings gained reputations for their peculiar behaviors. Solia herself was given to these strange impulses as well. Whenever the Spire did face danger, and she came to blows with pirates, rogue adventurers and imperial deserters, she never left the survivors to drown. In armfuls she would pluck the thrashing crews from the brine and drop them on the Spire’s docks to be hauled off into jail cells. Those she could not save, she left, and this plagued her with the beginnings of guilt.
By and by the residents came to know her as the “Maelstrom’s Mercy.” She found the title pleasant, and father seemed proud of her. Tentatively speaking, all was well. For a time.
Eventually the day of reckoning came. A fleet of rogue ships, united but bearing no flags, set upon Maelstrom Spire with unprecedented fury. Solia and her siblings swarmed them, weapons alight with Aether magic, ready to unleash the full might of the Spire’s angelic guard. But the fleet was prepared.
The ships and every crewman responded with weaponry unbefitting a seasoned adventurer, let alone a vagabond cluster of ships. Only Imperial research and Imperial coin could have supplied such equipment. Aether light arced across the sky, crashing against the angels’ stony bodies and sending them shattering into the waves. Those who managed to land upon the ships found themselves overwhelmed by war-hammers and guns much more advanced than anything they had faced before, wielded by men and women with the combative prowess to match the angels’ strength and speed.
Solia landed heavily on the leading ship’s deck, wings fizzled and engine damaged. She and two of her siblings managed to stave off much of the crew, until the captain appeared. Amidst the rain and lightning, she never figured if they were man, woman, or unholy beast. They said nothing, only roared with horrible fury as they smashed both of her siblings apart.
Alone with naught but her spear, Solia and the captain clashed in a flurry of Aether sparks and vicious strikes. As they fought, it became clear there would be no victory for Maelstrom. Before them the Spire’s frame shuddered and leaned under the constant barrage of cannon fire. People fell from its highest levels, whole chunks of beautiful, ancient architecture crumbled away. The inevitable end was coming.
In a masterstroke, the captain’s hammer caught Solia across the face, smashing away one of her eyes, and they shoved her overboard. In the brief moments she spent tangled in the side-roping, she saw Maelstrom Spire start to collapse, saw her father’s station explode in Aether fire. Then the captain cut her free, and she was plunged into the deep.
Solia came to a rest on the sea floor, surrounded by wreckage, and the debris-remains of her siblings. With her engine damaged, she could not raise herself back to the surface and so had only one option—she began to walk. At first she rushed, hoping to find some means of returning to the fight, but quickly she realized there was nothing, and nothing she could do about it.
Weeks passed this way, until eventually she came to a reef near enough to the surface that, when a ship passed by, she latched onto its hull like a barnacle and was carried with it. The crew was bewildered and frightened, though they had heard of Maelstrom Spire.
She was far from it now, but word had travelled fast. Even people who hadn’t known of the Spire knew of the attack, it was a leveled wreck now. Those who had survived were either captured, or rescued in the following weeks by passing ships. Nothing was left.
The crew took her to another port, but no further, and she continued to travel this way. She covered her more apparent damage under rags and bandages, passing for human when it was necessary and the inspection wasn’t too thorough. Not that she wanted to hide.
Gear Aether Engine: Similar to the types of engines found in ships, Maelstrom’s angels ran on a more condensed, refined machine that would be comparable to a heart. Cycling Aether through the body allows Solia to function perpetually in a normal state with only miniscule energy decay over large periods of time. However, when utilizing Aether for abilities such as flight, the Aether is drained similarly to how it is in humans. The effects of using magic are equally as apparent, and continuous usage requires time to “recharge” or a source of Aether to draw from.
Overexertion often leads to damage to the Aether Engine. Since the angels existed exclusively at Maelstrom Spire, this wasn’t a concern as the Chief Architect would simply repair them as-needed. Now however, with the secrets to their construction lost, rare is the Aether mechanic who might successfully tinker with them.
Currently, Solia’s Aether Engine is damaged.
Harpoon: Once, Solia wielded a masterfully crafted, Aether-infused spear that crackled with lightning. Like all angels she was created with the combative prowess necessary to defend Maelstrom Spire, and handled her weapon with strength and grace.
That spear now lies in pieces in the rubble of the Spire’s wreckage.
Though her home is gone and her purpose lost, Solia cannot help but answer those in need. The harpoon she carries is practically driftwood, gnarled with a jagged tip and rusted edge. As a replacement it is almost a mockery, but it serves well enough.
Body of Stone: Though Mordin went to great lengths to make his "children" appear human, at the end of the day the angels of Maelstrom Spire were, like even the most ancient Aether Golems, made from inanimate objects. In Solia and her siblings' cases, this was a pristine, alabaster-like stone.
This means that Solia is rather tough, and especially resistant to edged weaponry. However, this also means she is quite heavy, requiring more effort to utilize her wings--a tax she cannot pay so freely any longer. As well she is especially vulnerable to blunt weaponry, and awkward landings could risk shattering her. Thankfully injuries like these can be healed through lunar-magic just as it would effect flesh, but Solia herself has no aptitude for it.
Currently Solia is damaged. Her left eye has been smashed away, and there are several chips and cracks along her left arm. She hides these wounds under bandages and cloaks.
"No mistake more grievous than inaction. No drive greater than the want for purpose.”
Name Solia, Maelstrom’s Elegy
Age 30 (static appearance in mid-twenties)
Gender Female
Home Sea The Ancient Sea
Aether Sign Sun
Aether Abilities
A form of Aether-magic associated with the manipulation of wind and air, Aether Wings are a staple of Maelstrom Spire’s angels. The wings themselves are more symbolic than physical. Though there is a vaguely wing-shaped distortion about their shoulders when they utilize this magic, they are fairly static, or at least do not mimic the movement of natural wings when they are visible.
Simply put, this magic allows Solia to fly. However, with her Aether Engine currently damaged, she may glide, but cannot outright fly high or long without risk of plummeting from the sky.
A form of Aether-magic involving the manipulation of the air and sound, this magic was developed for the angels of Maelstrom Spire only a century or so ago. While their wings allowed them to scale the spire with relative ease, the angels could not be expected to see every winding, rising corner.
This enchantment enhanced their hearing, but very specifically. It allowed them to pick up sounds of distress, namely calls for help. Despite the logical nature of the spire’s residents, many came to view this as a kind of prayer. Whether they were called for more mundane tasks, or to protect someone from danger, whenever “help” was uttered in sincerity, it was never done lightly.
Currently, Solia still has access to this enchantment, but possesses the ability to silence it with focus.
Personality As a construct created to protect Maelstrom Spire, Solia is generally amicable. She exudes sympathy and concern for the wellbeing of others, and is especially responsive towards those in need, rarely turning down a request for help.
This is not necessarily Solia’s nature, but rather the nature of her kind by and large. When she isn’t busied in body and mind assisting others, one might assume her to be a more reclusive sort. In reality, Solia tends to do a lot of thinking, which is something she did not do a lot of at the Spire. In the days leading up to and ever since its collapse, she and a sizable number of Maelstrom’s angels began to think much more independently. It wasn’t that they were mere automatons before, but duty had always been at the forefront of their minds, and informed all their actions.
Now, in addition to the guilt of her own survival and failure, Solia struggles with the independence imposed upon her. As a result, she tends to second-guess herself in most situations when presented with a choice, and in her travelling, has gone to great lengths to avoid isolation whenever possible.
History
Maelstrom Spire is one of Aruth’s oldest structures. Once nothing more than a humble bump of dirt and rock jutting up from the flood, survivors from the old world raised it into a port. Their skills as builders ensured that it was not only stable against the settling waves, but generously sized. So fervently did the builders work, and so readily did those who came to Maelstrom learn their craft, that, when the rest of the world was only beginning to stabilize itself, the port had grown to the width of a small town, and had several stories to it.
Centuries passed this way; visitors who decided to stay in Maelstrom would end up building upon it. Eventually, when they could go no higher for fear of the winds and the thinness of the air, the residents deemed their port a proper spire.
Once Maelstrom ceased to grow physically, it began to grow intellectually. Its reputation for building morphed over the following years into a reputation for general invention. Welcoming to all who wished to further their knowledge of old-world technology, or to pioneer newer creations, the Maelstrom turned away no ambitions, so long as they caused no harm.
Since the Maelstrom’s focus shifted towards peaceful invention, there was a silent understanding that, if the citizens were not going to defend themselves, then they would need to be defended. At first this simply meant hiring mercenaries to patrol their waters, but unlike the works created within the Maelstrom’s halls, people were fickle. They were tricky, and unreliable.
Then, the Chief-Architect at the time, Baelia Somni, astounded her fellow inventors with her new creation: the Aether Golem. Powered by the same magical engines found in ships, these golems were able to man vessels, keep watch, and¬—if needed—even defend the Spire. Able to wield Aether weaponry with inhuman might and precision, it was not long until the Maelstrom entered an era of intellectual prosperity behind the shield of Baelia’s golems. She passed before the peak of this time, but was then also spared the eventual fall of her creations.
Over time pirates grew braver, bolder, and smarter. They knew that while the golems were strong, they lacked the most crucial aspect of a living thing. They did not think, they merely did. Armed with vicious, cunning, and thoroughly human ingenuity, a band of pirates larger than had ever collectively attacked Maelstrom before, nearly brought it to ruin.
Faced with a terrible darkness, it was Baelia’s protégé and grandson, Rom Somni who stepped forward to protect the Spire with his new invention. Similar in concept to the Aether Golems, Rom’s creations were more sophisticated and pointedly more human. Unlike their predecessors, who were massive and blocky, these new beings had wiry frames like alabaster, pallid and stony. They lacked the same overwhelming strength, but they could be gentle, and nimble, and swift. Their Aether Engines were much more like actual hearts, pumping the magical essence through them as blood would flow through a human. They could listen and speak, they could act outside of a predetermined routine. To a hazily-defined extent they could think. To many, Rom included, they were alive.
He called them Angels.
As with all Aether Constructs of the time, their creator’s death meant their own as well. So, with the success of his inventions, it became tradition that each new Chief-Architect would learn Rom’s process and, when their time came to lead, they would create their own band of angels.
It was not until only fifty years ago that the last Chief-Architect Maelstrom Spire would ever have, discovered a way to improve upon Rom Somni's mysterious designs.
Mordin Ori’s angels were independent.
Solia was made during a time of relative peace. She saw no terrible devastation until the Spire’s fall, and enjoyed a cycle of residents who, unlike some past, enjoyed the presence of angels. She spent many of her days fluttering through the levels, assisting inventors with casual labor, patrolling the docks, or simply resting in the company of her brothers and sisters.
Mordin had made twenty-five of them, the smallest number to date, but he had also insisted on undertaking the entire process himself. With no help the creation took much longer, but he was almost manically obsessed with keeping the nuances of his “recipe” a secret. In fact, from the time he began until he was finished, he was utterly unreachable. Mordin put much more care into them than his predecessors had. He sculpted them individual faces, threaded hair into their scalps and etched tiny imperfections into their eyes. Each angel was entirely unique in appearance, with similarities designed to appear familial.
Solia was among the last to take her first “breath.” Like all angels, she was fully aware of herself, what she was, what her purpose was; everything that Mordin deigned they should know, they knew. He referred to them as his “children” and they knew to call him “father.”
The oddities did not end with their appearances, though. Mordin’s angels also acted dissimilarly to the ones who had come before. Their thoughts and actions were mechanical, but their decisions often weren’t. They did things on impulse, without always knowing why. One of Solia’s brothers would spend much of his free time whittling driftwood into fantastical art, another of her sisters could choose not to hear requests for help. Some of her siblings gained reputations for their peculiar behaviors. Solia herself was given to these strange impulses as well. Whenever the Spire did face danger, and she came to blows with pirates, rogue adventurers and imperial deserters, she never left the survivors to drown. In armfuls she would pluck the thrashing crews from the brine and drop them on the Spire’s docks to be hauled off into jail cells. Those she could not save, she left, and this plagued her with the beginnings of guilt.
By and by the residents came to know her as the “Maelstrom’s Mercy.” She found the title pleasant, and father seemed proud of her. Tentatively speaking, all was well. For a time.
Eventually the day of reckoning came. A fleet of rogue ships, united but bearing no flags, set upon Maelstrom Spire with unprecedented fury. Solia and her siblings swarmed them, weapons alight with Aether magic, ready to unleash the full might of the Spire’s angelic guard. But the fleet was prepared.
The ships and every crewman responded with weaponry unbefitting a seasoned adventurer, let alone a vagabond cluster of ships. Only Imperial research and Imperial coin could have supplied such equipment. Aether light arced across the sky, crashing against the angels’ stony bodies and sending them shattering into the waves. Those who managed to land upon the ships found themselves overwhelmed by war-hammers and guns much more advanced than anything they had faced before, wielded by men and women with the combative prowess to match the angels’ strength and speed.
Solia landed heavily on the leading ship’s deck, wings fizzled and engine damaged. She and two of her siblings managed to stave off much of the crew, until the captain appeared. Amidst the rain and lightning, she never figured if they were man, woman, or unholy beast. They said nothing, only roared with horrible fury as they smashed both of her siblings apart.
Alone with naught but her spear, Solia and the captain clashed in a flurry of Aether sparks and vicious strikes. As they fought, it became clear there would be no victory for Maelstrom. Before them the Spire’s frame shuddered and leaned under the constant barrage of cannon fire. People fell from its highest levels, whole chunks of beautiful, ancient architecture crumbled away. The inevitable end was coming.
In a masterstroke, the captain’s hammer caught Solia across the face, smashing away one of her eyes, and they shoved her overboard. In the brief moments she spent tangled in the side-roping, she saw Maelstrom Spire start to collapse, saw her father’s station explode in Aether fire. Then the captain cut her free, and she was plunged into the deep.
Solia came to a rest on the sea floor, surrounded by wreckage, and the debris-remains of her siblings. With her engine damaged, she could not raise herself back to the surface and so had only one option—she began to walk. At first she rushed, hoping to find some means of returning to the fight, but quickly she realized there was nothing, and nothing she could do about it.
Weeks passed this way, until eventually she came to a reef near enough to the surface that, when a ship passed by, she latched onto its hull like a barnacle and was carried with it. The crew was bewildered and frightened, though they had heard of Maelstrom Spire.
She was far from it now, but word had travelled fast. Even people who hadn’t known of the Spire knew of the attack, it was a leveled wreck now. Those who had survived were either captured, or rescued in the following weeks by passing ships. Nothing was left.
The crew took her to another port, but no further, and she continued to travel this way. She covered her more apparent damage under rags and bandages, passing for human when it was necessary and the inspection wasn’t too thorough. Not that she wanted to hide.
Gear Aether Engine: Similar to the types of engines found in ships, Maelstrom’s angels ran on a more condensed, refined machine that would be comparable to a heart. Cycling Aether through the body allows Solia to function perpetually in a normal state with only miniscule energy decay over large periods of time. However, when utilizing Aether for abilities such as flight, the Aether is drained similarly to how it is in humans. The effects of using magic are equally as apparent, and continuous usage requires time to “recharge” or a source of Aether to draw from.
Overexertion often leads to damage to the Aether Engine. Since the angels existed exclusively at Maelstrom Spire, this wasn’t a concern as the Chief Architect would simply repair them as-needed. Now however, with the secrets to their construction lost, rare is the Aether mechanic who might successfully tinker with them.
Currently, Solia’s Aether Engine is damaged.
Harpoon: Once, Solia wielded a masterfully crafted, Aether-infused spear that crackled with lightning. Like all angels she was created with the combative prowess necessary to defend Maelstrom Spire, and handled her weapon with strength and grace.
That spear now lies in pieces in the rubble of the Spire’s wreckage.
Though her home is gone and her purpose lost, Solia cannot help but answer those in need. The harpoon she carries is practically driftwood, gnarled with a jagged tip and rusted edge. As a replacement it is almost a mockery, but it serves well enough.
Body of Stone: Though Mordin went to great lengths to make his "children" appear human, at the end of the day the angels of Maelstrom Spire were, like even the most ancient Aether Golems, made from inanimate objects. In Solia and her siblings' cases, this was a pristine, alabaster-like stone.
This means that Solia is rather tough, and especially resistant to edged weaponry. However, this also means she is quite heavy, requiring more effort to utilize her wings--a tax she cannot pay so freely any longer. As well she is especially vulnerable to blunt weaponry, and awkward landings could risk shattering her. Thankfully injuries like these can be healed through lunar-magic just as it would effect flesh, but Solia herself has no aptitude for it.
Currently Solia is damaged. Her left eye has been smashed away, and there are several chips and cracks along her left arm. She hides these wounds under bandages and cloaks.
Full Name – Dot "Dorothy" Mummer Age - 14 Gender - Female Heritage – Alexandrian, with ancestral ties to Grayle. Magical Affinity - Light
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
My Song is Fury There was a time when Dot saw the world as her mother did: a shining sprawl of adventure, filled to bursting with wonderful sights and friends waiting to be made. She gave her smiles freely and often, and saw the best in those she met, even when they didn’t deserve it.
That time has passed.
The girl that left Alexandria sees the world differently now. Sprawling, still, but like a corpse, filled not with promise but festering with the maggots of aristocracy. What was once a starry-eyed thirst for glory and adventure has soured into a bitter cynicism. Her smiles are guarded behind a cold wall of distrust, and she has a bad habit of assuming the worst in just about everyone she meets—especially those she perceives as nobility.
Short-tempered, driven, and loathe to let go of a grudge, Dot is likely not what Grayle expected of the Heir of Light.
That suits her just fine.
My Dance is Justice Dot is not angry without reason—at least, not in her mind—and certainly not without purpose. In the nations of Grayle and Alexandria, where the strong do what they can and the weak endure what they must, she sees nothing but megalomaniacal beasts clawing over one another for the privilege of tormenting those beneath them. To them everything is a game, and every person a piece to be weighed, judged for its value, and then discarded. No heed is given to the lives they ruin, the suffering they mete out, or the fear they’ve sown so deeply into the populace that no one would even consider standing against them.
Nothing would please Dot more than to remind the nobles of Grayle how human they are. How human she is, despite the heap of ancient glory she acquired by virtue of being born. Where once her undue gifts repulsed her, she now sees the potential to bring an overdue balance to the country’s elite.
For the Light no longer serves a country, it serves a people.
My Love is Honor The downside to laying immense responsibility and expectation upon a child is that, no matter their capabilities, at the end of the day you’re still laying immense responsibility and expectation upon a child.
Dot is fourteen. She’s spent half her life locked in a tower, training for the day she might get to affect real change on the world. But the truth is that it’s been so long since she was actually in that world, and as much as the systems that govern it disgust her, she still missed it. Beneath the angry veneer is a girl longing for the wonderment of a lost childhood; companionship, adventure, the safety of trust. She's forgotten the sound of her own laughter, or what it feels like to confide in someone.
Yet she can’t reconcile these desires with her own, self-imposed duty. If she can’t put herself aside for the greater good, then what’s the point? What separates her from the people she despises?
Fidelity to her cause has seeded guilt deep within her, and Dot struggles constantly with her own morality. Is she really ready to bear the consequences of making so many enemies? And if she is, can she really do that alone?
She doesn’t want to be alone.
S K I L L S E T
The Heir in Cold Light The successor of Arbert Grayle, born to a vagabond in Alexandria. There’s an irony there lost entirely upon Dot, who could hardly be more disgusted with her gift than she already is. Having spent only a year performing menial infusions for the Sages’ research, once Verite allowed her other avenues to train, she scarcely ever summoned her aura again.
However, hearing how so many of Grayle’s elite harbor powerful magics of their own has her reconsidering. If the stories are true, and the Light can be harnessed for the purposes of negation, then perhaps she can yet turn the curse of her legacy towards a better cause.
There is, of course, a long way to go. She is effectively starting from nothing—over the years she’s lost her touch with even the meager feats she performed as a child. The idea of learning from the very people she seeks to unseat twists her stomach, but in the end, she knows, it will be worth it.
Balletic Grace As Dot’s memories of Lerenna begin to fade, what remains is her mother’s spirit. She danced them across Alexandria, with enthralling grace born from her time as a warrior. When she finally achieved some measure of freedom in the Sages’ Tower, learning to dance was the first thing she thought of. Verite spared no expense. He brought in tutors from every corner of Alexandria, Valefor and beyond, and she met their instruction with an almost innate talent.
Fast, nimble, with the balance and coordination of a cat, at fourteen Dot already bears Lerenna’s grace in full. Be it in simple clothes or lightweight, piecemeal armor, her movements are fluid and unencumbered.
Alone her dances are sharp and captivating, but her brand of performance prefers a partner.
Mummer's Waltz In learning swordplay, Dot had several obstacles to overcome; chief among them was the fact that she had decided upon a greatsword as her weapon of choice. Training with lighter wasters served well enough to develop her foundation, but the next issue arose when she met her tutors.
She could not, or perhaps simply refused to, divorce her dancing from her swordsmanship. Waster in hand, she would twirl, and dip, and leap, and every time she fell, or tripped, or threw herself off balance, she got right back up. Her tutors were baffled and incensed, demanding she use proper form. Fighting, they said, was ugly, brutal, and above all, practical.
But Verite saw differently, and much like how he had fostered her anger, he chose to nurture her peculiar style into something wonderful. He dismissed her tutors, and took up the role of teacher himself. Much to Dot’s surprise, he was incredibly well-versed, matching and surpassing both the tutor’s skills and her own elegance, as though he’d been fighting and dancing his whole life.
For six years this was her morning noon and night. Hard training as well as the exercise to ensure she could wield her sword as gracefully as she danced. Though she never managed to best Verite in their spars, he did invite other youthful trainees to measure her against. There, her unorthodox style and swordsmanship granted her a taste of victory.
It was addictingly sweet, and by the time she left for Grayle, she was eager to taste it again.
Physical Description
Despite her best efforts, Dot does not strike an imposing figure. She’s short, and still carries a youthful countenance even when she’s glowering. When she must begrudgingly don the long dresses and frilled skirts of nobility, her pale-gray hair and glassy eyes lend her a doll-like appearance. Normally, she can be found wearing simple clothes, plain and well-fitting from shirt to boots, save for the addition of waist or shoulder cloaks.
She moves with incredible grace, calm and measured even when her emotions are high. While not exactly stealthy, her height and the ghostly ease with which she navigates can take her in and out of a room before she’s so much as noticed.
As a result of all this, seeing her heft such a mighty weapon might come as a surprise. Part of her strength undoubtedly comes from her aura, but the majority of it is borne from years of rigorous training. Dot’s stature belies a form of hardened muscle, maintained through determination and routine conditioning, as well as the agile flexibility required of a dancer.
Character Conceptualization
Two elegant, curved swords once wielded by the nomad Lerenna. Red ribbons are fastened to each pommel, meant to be twirled and spun as part of a performance, but their fabric is shorn short and faded by the sun.
A woman of no nation, they say Lerenna fought on a hundred fronts in her youth, but eventually grew weary of battle and sought a more colorful life. After her adventures in Grayle, she traveled the roads of Alexandria as a roving entertainer with a new name, and a new daughter.
It is said that when she visited Ferrous Shore, Baron Auferrum was so taken by her performance that he offered her board in his own keep so that she might dance for his court.
“Listen close, daughter-mine. To truly live in this world you must do three things: Sing loudly, dance boldly, and love bravely.”
A cracked emblem depicting a star crossing over the dull gray sands of the Ferrous Shore, once the symbol of House Auferrum.
The evening Dot Mummer’s aura manifested, Baron Auferrum was the first to act. He confined his guests to their quarters, permitting none to leave his keep save only for Lerenna, who he had named traitor, and banished. With the Heir of Light in his custody, he sought to elevate his House, and his own station, by demanding the Sages’ Tower reinstate him.
Instead, they had him murdered, and Dot was seized from the Ferrous Shore. Without its head, House Auferrum quickly collapsed, its territories picked apart by rival neighbors. Now its legacy shines as brightly as its sands.
A broken, silvery shard carved with a latticework of markings. Embers of pale light still glint upon its surface.
Dot was seven when she was brought to the Sages’ Tower, where her confusion and tearful pleas for her mother were met by the Sages’ deaf ambitions. Tutored by a man named Verite, she was put to work immediately. Day in and day out, she channeled her light into all manner of objects, while the scholars studied her.
These stones were her greatest challenge, drinking greedily from her aura, but breaking like glass when they grew too full. It took nearly a year to infuse one properly. Dot grew embittered, not only with the Tower, but with herself. The wonderment of magic soured, and she began to view her divine heirdom for what it truly was: a leash.
It is said that by the time she was only eight, the golden brilliance of her magic had withered to a cold, lunic white.
Solid and heavy, the blade is weathered from years of practice. At first, Dot could not so much as lift this sword off the ground, but that did not deter her—she was determined to make it her dance partner.
Though his excursion was brief, Verite returned from Grayle a different man. Upon reuniting with Dot, he threw himself down and inexplicably begged forgiveness for her treatment. He confided in her a deep resentment for the Sages’ cruelty and the confinements of the Tower. Though he could not free her, he asked her what she would study had she the choice.
Dot told him she wanted to dance. Then she told him she wanted to fight. He agreed to teach her both.
A letter sealed in golden wax, hand-delivered to Dot at the Sages’ Tower. Though sweetly worded, the invitation’s undertones are clear: ‘return the heir to her proper home, or face severe consequences.’
Dot loathed to go, though not for any love of Alexandria. By her fourteenth year she had developed a conspiratorial camaraderie with her mentor, who had nurtured her desire for revenge upon the aristocracy. His stories of Grayle were plenty, and painted a horrid picture of a land ruled by people every bit as corrupt as the Sages.
When she received the summons, Dot was said to have ripped it in half right in front of the courier. However, she did not refuse them. Instead, she asserted that if she was to go to Grayle, she would earn her keep in the way afforded even to the peasantry: by becoming a knight.
A simple document confirming Dot’s identity, though her parentage is incomplete. While it lists her name as ‘Dorothy Mummer’, she insists that her mother never called her that.
By the time she left Alexandria, Dot had come to consider Verite as her true father. On the eve of her departure, he entrusted her with a plan.
The thought of meeting the man responsible for her curse enraged her, but even as she entered Grayle, no one in the royal family had stepped forward to claim her. Content to let them hide, Dot set her sites on knighthood. They could not avoid her forever, and as the heir of Light, she would shine down on every shadow until she found them.
Then, as so many things that lurk in shadows do, they would burn.
Other Information
Questions of Dot's parentage travel briefly up the chain of command before being stonewalled. Though her roots in the Grayle bloodline are undeniable, it would seem someone is protecting the identity of her father—or perhaps, protecting themselves.
More people were rising, and Mimrin found herself backing away from them instinctively, towards the rosy girl. She wasn’t sure why, considering the girl was armed as well, and there wasn’t much reason to trust her over any of the others.
Nevertheless, one of the risen—an older man—was shouting, and it frightened her. She held her own dagger, or what remained of it, close, but tried not to appear as though she was brandishing it at any of them. Maybe she couldn’t trust any of them yet, but it seemed worse to her to threaten the only other living souls around.
“Hello,” she tried for the old man, who seemed the least composed of those she could see. It was hard to keep a steady voice, harder to will it into a gentle, comforting tone, but she managed. “It’s okay. I don’t think any of us are going to hurt you.”
A taller woman approached, now speaking quietly to herself, followed by a man carrying the remnants of a sword. He proposed they leave, or at least expressed a desire to be out of this awful place—a sentiment she could get behind. But as she looked beyond their gathering group, a niggling worry came over her.
“I agree with you, we should make haste to leave,” she said to the sword-wielding man, then turned her attention back to the corpses. “Only…if we’ve come-to, then there might be others about. Others like us, I mean—alive.”
She felt a sudden, nauseous lurch inside of her. Perhaps it was the thought of spending any more time amongst the dead that plagued her, or perhaps she was afraid that the next person to rise would be a violent sort. Regardless, Mimrin felt compelled to check, even beyond her fear, and started back off onto the deathly mounds.
“We should be sure, before we go. It would be a terrible thing to abandon someone down here...”
Mimrin returned in a flash of agony. Her eyes opened so suddenly she might have caught a glimpse into her own skull. She drank in fetid air that clung to her throat and burned her nose, only to hack it all back out. Every muscle clenched and twitched, she dug her hands through the dirt until she’d squeezed a fist beneath the surface, and tried to rise to no avail.
“Ugh…” Her voice was a wreck. Meek and quiet and—she reeled—shaking. How disgusting.
She felt around, first to her neck on a strange impulse, then to the rotten ground around her. Her daggers, she needed her daggers, that much was certain. Her vision was blurry, but she could hear well enough the sounds of life around her, struggling for bearing just as she was, only she would not be caught off-guard.
At last her fingers found the round of a hilt, and she yanked it close. She expected the umbral sheen of Draethir steel, dark and sharper than any other land could ever hope to forge, but when she could finally see clearly, it was no master-craft she held. The dagger was hardly recognizable as such; its leather binding was old beyond old, the guard bent, and the blade—Warlord’s breath, the blade—it was snapped off only four or five inches high. The blackish metal was overtaken in rust that mocked the bloody-red color she remembered had lined its fuller. With no small amount of horror she realized that the dagger had not been destroyed in combat, but rather time had eaten it into a worthless husk of a once-renowned weapon.
Upon closer inspection she saw that her armor was in a similar state, and further off the hilt of her other dagger jutted from the muck. It was no better off.
This was not where she had died.
“What the hell.” She mumbled. Or rather, she thought she had. When she opened her mouth though, she said nothing. No, she wasn’t even opening her mouth. She wasn’t doing anything, just sitting there on her hands and knees, staring dumbly at her ruined dagger. Again she tried to speak, and said nothing. She tried to rise, but would not budge. “Get up!”
When she did, it was not of her own accord. She got to her feet quivering like a newborn fawn, clutching the dagger close to her chest. Unwilled, her eyes darted about the decrepit pit, jolting at the other gasps, and even her own. She thought, ‘Run!’ but did nothing. She did nothing.
“H-hello?” she asked.
Something gripped Mimrin then, as she heard herself speak words she had not thought. As she moved without permission. It was not fear, it was something beyond fear. It was the realization that she was not in control of her own body. And if she wasn’t, then who was?
--
Mimrin saw something move out of the corner of her eye, and yelped, only to cover her mouth an instant later. It was another person, a girl with rosy hair, holding as sword as she retreated from the putrid mound they’d awoken on.
Her instincts told her to run, but she was frozen stiff. Only the idea that this person might be, like her, confused and afraid, pushed her to move again. Not quite an approach, Mimi kept her distance, but still drew close enough to make herself heard.
“Hello?” she repeated. “Who are you? Do…do you know where we are?”
Smith's Rest, New Anchorage | HQ Mess Hall March 27th, 2677
It had been a rough morning for Vera. She’d woken up sore, having rolled over in her sleep and disturbed the skin still healing around her plug. Lofgren had made it very clear the thing was anchored to her, but she still worried it might somehow get displaced. Then she’d found Lizzy showering in her clothes, entirely absent—evidently it had been a rough morning for her as well. She wasn’t around now, but it was early, she was probably talking to mom.
On top of everything else, there was a mission going on. Stein, Percy and Alan were all gonna be off doing who knew what in Falcon’s Reach, for who knew how long. She was worried, less for Stein and Alan than Percy, but she worried about them too. Ana probably didn’t even know her dad was going off, or maybe Percy had gotten word to Zach. Either way, him being gone, especially with what had happened at the convention, made her nervous.
Suddenly reminded, she looked around for Stein’s father. Mr. Kalfox was supposed to have been her first order of business, but between the poor sleep and Lizzy, she’d forgotten. He wasn’t about now, or at least she couldn’t spot him if he was, and she resigned to go by his office after breakfast instead.
Someone else was around though. They greeted her from behind while she waited her turn for food, and she struggled for only a moment through the morning fog to pull a name from her memory.
“Josh!” she greeted, cheerily. “Hey, yeah, no this stuff? It’s great. I mean, it’s alright. Honestly you should have seen what my mom used to make, I’m happy enough this food is hot.”
As if on cue, the man behind the counter dropped a bowl of steaming oatmeal onto her tray. She smiled thankfully to him, and scooched down.
Lemons
Master EffeX
Alby47
Obscene Symphony
Asura
Nallore
Kuro
Abstract Proxy
Stern Algorithm
