The ride down was quick, quiet. Rarely was her presence in the hangar a good omen, but then, perhaps the recent days of her new habit were enough to help her forget that. Perhaps they weren’t. As the doors opened, she was given the chance to find out; Ablaze had been moved, and when Quinn exited the lift’s hallway, passing by the pilots’ locker room, she found her Savior standing directly across from her on the other side of the hangar.
From here it looked fine, which was to say, it looked like a monster. An array of braces, like shackles, helped keep it upright, and even, even with the light in its singular eye out, the beast radiated malice. Every person that passed below, every vehicle beeping by its feet, it regarded them all with the same hungry, flayed rictus. To see it in such stark light was an equally stark reminder that these things were not dead, only subdued.
Subdued, and angry.
Less malevolent were the smiles and waves she received on her way over. The crew’s numbers had been greatly reduced from the incident at Hovvi, and the river of applicants had been dammed until Quinn’s duel against Roaki. Only in the past week was the Aerie really beginning to restore its personnel, and even then there weren’t many in the hangar to begin with.
She saw familiar faces; this shift was small, and most of the people moving through the hangar weren’t technicians. Those present seemed glad to see her, and throughout the tumultuous weeks that had not changed. True, there were some among the security staff, and in administration whose opinions of the girl were more mixed than they once were, but here, in the hangar, Quinn was still the rookie hero, out to change Illun for the better.
As she drew closer to Ablaze, Quinn would notice something…odd. A figure was crouched by its foot, lab coat bunched up into a puddle. They were scraping the steel carapace of the Savior’s organic greaves with some kind of tool, and collecting the shavings onto the plate of another device. It beeped, sharp and loud, overshadowed only by the person’s own bubbly giggling. Eventually they noticed Quinn approaching, and as though they’d been shocked, they jumped to their feet so abruptly, they nearly fumbled the—presumably expensive—equipment onto the ground.
“Quinn! Quinnlash!”
In a mad dash, they made their way over, and Quinn could see that it was a young woman. Tall, even hunched, and lanky, with her hair pulled back into a messy tail that still left strands hanging over her face. Wide eyes behind wider, round glasses stared down at Quinn with frankly alarming intensity, though it was somewhat disarmed by the enthusiastic smile.
“Quinnl—uhm! Ms. Loughvein! P-pilot Loughvein! Hi! Wow, you—oh!” Awkwardly shifting the equipment against her chest with one hand, she struck the other out. “Hello! I’m Tillie Tomm, I’m, uhm! I’m the new intern! W-well, I mean, sorry, I’m a new intern, not the new—nevermind. Sorry! Wow, gosh. Look at you! I’m actually talking to you!”
The elevator opened one floor early, the doors parted for Aldous Follen.
Besca sighed.
“Good morning, Commander,” he greeted, stepping in beside her. It was only the two of them, and this lift was quite a ways from medical. He’d come all the way across to find her here, and she half expected him to hit the emergency stop once the doors closed again. Instead he said nothing, only smiled blankly ahead. Somehow she still felt as though they’d been speaking for hours.
“What?”
“Hm?”
“What do you want, Follen?”
He feigned offense, poorly—couldn’t even hide the grin. “I can’t check up on my friend?”
“Checking up on your friend.”
“My friend,” he insisted. “Who is very clearly struggling to bear the weight of her honorary diplomatic duties.”
Besca sighed again, as involuntarily as the first. “You heard.”
“Saw, more like. Every news channel in Illun is abuzz about it. Casobani dignitaries flying into Eusero; I think even high school newspapers can tell what’s going on there. The imminent erosion of Runa’s union with Casoban, laid at the feet of RISC’s amateur commander, and her uncontrollable pilot.”
“They did not call her ‘uncontrollable’.”
“They will. Even our own people. Once Casoban falls in with Eusero, they’re going to blame Quinnlash’s actions at the duel—and you for allowing them.”
The elevator dinged and opened again. Besca walked briskly like she didn’t want to be followed, and Follen followed. “So what, then? Come to offer some grand solution?”
“I already did that, if I recall, you and yours just haven’t been able to deliver. No, I’m here because your theatrics with the Tormont girl are beginning to interfere with my department.”
“What, you didn’t consider getting manhandled as interference?” she scoffed.
“I considered it a part of those theatrics, but now things are moving backstage," he said. "The Board may not want to squeeze you right now, but they’ve certainly made their displeasure known to me. Our supplies are low, some of our men are sick and being prescribed band-aids. This morning I received an email giving me reason to believe medical’s payroll could be held until this situation is handled.”
“They can’t—”
“They could, and any public backlash they might face would be forgotten the moment you crack and they get to parade an enemy pilot to her execution. My guess is they’ll give her to Casoban, force us to work together against the inevitable retaliations from Helburke. Doubt it’ll work, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Thank you for your suggestions.”
“I’m not making suggestions, he said, stopping. She paused begrudgingly. “I’m telling you to do your job.”
Besca couldn’t help the bristle that made her fists clench; she had to fight the urge not to grab him by the collar and show him what real interference looked like. But she took a deep breath instead, lips curling into a sneer. “That sounded awful close to frustration, Aldous. If you’re not careful you might accidentally feel something.”
Of course then he grinned again, which was enough to remind her how impossible that really was. “Good luck, Commander,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Part of her missed being colleagues—it didn’t look so bad when she yelled at him then. These days she did all her screaming on the inside.
She found Deelie in the sims. The monitors were off, but the readings came through normal at a glance. There was only one supervisor on shift, and, without anything to watch or any need for direction on the comms, there wasn’t much for them to do. So, when Besca came through the doors, they hastily took their feet of the desk, and wiped the drool from their mouth.
“Commander!” they started, but Besca waved them at ease.
“How long’s she been in there?”
“Uh, well,” they checked the terminal, blinking the sleep from their eyes. “She was in before my shift.”
Besca balked. “Since last night?”
“Since…uh…yesterday afternoon.”
She’d sent Deelie a text reminding her to get something to eat before she came back to the dorms. Now she knew why she’d never gotten a reply. “Cut the sim.”
“But,” the supervisor started, but a sharp glance told them Besca’s generosity was waning. “Yes ma’am.”
She made her way out to the row of pods as one opened, and Deelie sat up. The girl seemed a bit bewildered, but mainly she just looked exhausted. When she saw Besca, a little life returned to her and she waved happily.
“Heya,” she said blearily. “Where’s Quinn?”
“Asleep, because it’s six.”
“In the…?”
“Morning, Deelie.” She helped the girl out, and held her steady while she shook the feeling back into her legs. “Seriously, you had two slices of toast yesterday, and this is the third day this week you haven’t slept.”
“Mmh. Gotta.”
“No, you gotta go back to the dorms, lie down, and sleep. I’ll make it an order if I have to.”
Deelie looked at her, the haze clearing in her eyes just long enough for Besca to see how anxious they were. “Have to be ready,” she said.
“You have to be functional. The sims will still be here in twelve hours—which is when you’re allowed back in. Go.”
“‘Kay. Sorry.”
“Not mad at you, hun,” she said, running a hand through Deelie’s fraying hair. “Just…worried.”
Deelie nodded mechanically. The hours were starting to catch up to her. “Me too, she said, and walked away.
In her waking moments, as the warmth of her dream sloughed away, Quinn would feel a sharp chill pass over her. It slunk in through her cracked-open door, and moved across her bed as though she had no sheets at all. It touched her to the bone, not cruelly, but intently, as if to say: ‘Alright, time to get up.’
Distantly, she might have heard something she could easily have mistaken for hoofbeats. A shadow passed by her room, large and antlered, and then it was gone—or perhaps it hadn’t been there at all.
Her door opened wide, and standing there was not some ghostly beast, but the silhouetted form of her sister. Dahlia wobbled at the threshold, but eventually found her bearings and made her way in, step by shaky step until she nearly tripped into Quinn’s bed. This wasn’t the first time Dahlia had come to sleep here, and in fact, since they’d found out about Dammerung, it seemed she spent more nights here than in her own room. It was like she’d grown afraid to leave Quinn alone; then again, she had also been holing herself up in sims most days.
“G’night…” she mumbled, absently patting Quinn on the head. Moments later she was fast asleep.
Dahlia’s day had ended, but Quinn’s week had just begun.
A spike of laughter and chiding caught Dot’s attention, and she glanced over to see another quadrant of the arena had been occupied. In it stood a Valeforian boy, tall but not particularly imposing—neither by build nor demeanor. He was wiry like the blond kid, but markedly more nervous; he held his sword like he was afraid of it, like it might decide to turn on him.
His opponent entered soon after. He was announced as Carrot, or Cheros, or something of the like, and though he was shorter than the Valeforian, he was sturdier, and completely unfazed. Eager, even.
But Dot’s eyes went to the heckling crowd, and was disappointed to see that the lion’s share of jeering came from other lowborns. In a way, she understood; not all of them would move on to fight the nobles, and those that did would probably face some sort of disadvantage or another. Getting an easy opponent early just meant that they’d save more energy for the real challenge.
But still, where was the sympathy? The camaraderie? The Solidarity? For every ounce of enjoyment they got out of the poor kid’s distress, she could be sure the nobles got a pound. What did they gain now that wouldn't be lost by the end of the day?
She made a silent wish for the Valeforian’s victory as her own opponent stepped up.
“Oh fuck’s sake…”
The boy was an inch or two taller than she was, but couldn’t have been older. He had the awkward hunch of someone growing, and a face utterly wrecked by the forces of puberty and poor hygiene. Big eyes poked out beneath a greasy mop of hair, and his mouth was pinched shut. He held his wooden short sword with both hands and still it managed to shake like the blade was made of paper.
She didn’t hear his name, but when the call to begin came, he startled and held the sword up. He wouldn’t look at her directly. Had she been found out? Dot glanced up at the spectator box with a scowl. No, couldn’t be, not already. She wouldn’t be up here with blondie and sticks if she had. This was just...well, bad luck.
Dot shrugged the sword from her shoulder and held it level. She stood up straight, legs together, feet crossed in an altered third-position, ready. Waiting.
And waiting.
Someone shouted: “Do something already!”
The boy would not move. Would not look at her. Would not stop shaking. Fuck, if this was all the opposition Grayle’s nobility faced, it was no wonder things were as bad as Verite said. What was there to be afraid of? What reason was there to change anything when no one could demand it with more than their words? It wasn’t just baffling, it was frustrating. It was maddening.
And it wasn’t his fault.
Dot sighed, dropped her stance, and really looked at her opponent. He didn’t seem happy to be here, but perhaps that was because he wasn’t prepared to be here. Just because he was afraid didn’t mean he didn’t deserve better, and beating a lesson into him wasn’t going to do him or anyone else any favors.
Shouldering her weapon again, Dot marched over to him. He startled, reeled the sword back, and his arms rattled like the last leaves on a tree, but he didn’t move. Eventually she came to stand right in front of him, and though she angled herself to look in his eyes, he still couldn’t meet her.
“Gonna swing then?” she asked. To her surprise he did, but it was half-hearted and had the carry-through power of someone half their ages. She caught it by the wooden blade, held it tight and wouldn’t let him pull it away. That got him to look at her. His were sharp green and would have been intimidating if he used them right.
With a hard yank she wrenched the sword from his hands, and he flinched, expecting a strike. Instead she tossed it out of the arena. “Gotta look’em in the eyes,” she said softly. “Don’t mean nothin’ if you can’t look the bastards in their eyes. You’ll do it next time, yeah?”
The boy nodded.
“Go on then.”
He scurried off the quadrant and back into the crowd. Once the match was called, she stepped down as well, though she kept her waster shouldered. Not exactly the start she wanted, but she hadn't come to Grayle to put the beatings on people who didn’t deserve it. A few of the other aspirants gave her odd looks, somewhere between curiosity and disappointment, but Dot focused on the other matches. Specifically on blondie and the Valeforian.
Dot watched the crowd split with a grimace. The lowborns were hurried up to the arena while the noble boys sat behind, socializing; of course, it wouldn’t do to have any of their prospective knighthoods actually challenged. For most of them, she guessed, the addition of a ‘Sir’ to their name was more a matter of elevating their station than anything, and for the rest, well, maybe they just wanted the prestige. A fancy title to go with their fancy swords and armor, to flaunt to their friends at parties, while the peasant soldiery went off to die in border skirmishes for them.
She felt herself getting mad, fast. Verite had warned her about this, but it still got to her—and he’d warned her about that, too. Now wasn’t the time to let anger throw off her balance. She’d come here to knock noble shitheads on their asses. Her eyes wandered up to the western wall, to the spectator’s box that she would have sworn glittered. She tried to make out the people there, but they were a blurry amalgam of coiffed hair and jewelry.
You up there, you bastard? You one of them? she thought bitterly. Just you fucking wait.
Dot spit wallward and made her way to the stage when her alias was called, stopping by the quartermaster’s table. The selection was unsurprisingly slim; most of the nobles had likely brought their own blunted weapons, and who gave a shit what the rest used? She picked up a wooden straight sword, shocked by how poorly it was balanced, even for a waster. Would these even hold up to a metal weapon without snapping in half?
“You got anything bigger?” she asked. The knight attending looked her up and down, cocked a brow, and shrugged.
She settled for a wooden longsword, which would have been appropriately-sized for most of the participants, but for her it was practically head-height. Smaller than what she was used to, but, oh well. It was on the lighter side, but she could feel it was denser than the smaller options, and might take a couple harder hits before it snapped. Would they count it a loss if she broke her weapon on someone’s back? Depending on who her opponent was, it might have been worth finding out.
Resting it against her shoulder, she marched up onto the stage, waiting. Who was she fighting, anyway? With how the group had split, it seemed likely she’d be squaring off with some lowborn before she got a shot at the real prizes. That didn’t sit right with her. Some of these kids had no place fighting anyone, but others truly deserved knighthood; they’d trained for it, fought for it, probably sacrificed all they had just to get this far. It wouldn’t be fair at all for someone like her to squash that hope, when at the end of the day Grayle was going to take her anyway.
Fuckers.
Maybe she was worrying for nothing, though. She’d dueled plenty of people back in the Tower, and Dot was proudly certain there was no one in Grandor who was Verite’s match, legends be damned—but all the same, this was a test. Could be that the first dirt-faced boy with a sword put her on ground in half a second. Could be she’d waited all these years just to embarrass herself in front of the people she despised.
Her grip on the waster tightened. She glanced over at the arena beside her, at some blond kid getting ready for his own fight. They were about the same height, but he was stick-thin and seemed jumpy as anything; the nobles likely smelled blood in the water just looking at him. Their ranks were rife with haughty whispers and infuriating grins.
She nodded to the boy, not that she could offer him much support. But if he got through, it’d be exactly what this country deserved.
“Yeah it’s foreign, innit? In Valefor it means, uh, ‘Daemon Puncher’. You know, based on the legend of the Daemon Puncher.”
“You’re from Valefor?”
“Do I look like I’m from Valefor?”
“You look like a girl.”
“Sayin’ they don’t have girls in Valefor?”
The knight sighed like he hoped it would be the last time he drew breath, and then scratched ‘Donathon Bigyarn’ into his ledger. “Go. In.” he said, tired eyes angry and pointedly staring away from her. “Fuck off.”
“Yeah.”
Dot waited until the registration desk was behind her to pull back her hood. She’d dirtied her hair enough to push it from gray to near-black, and while she’d worried at first that it being so long might be an issue, the more she looked around, the more noble boys she saw with locks well down their own backs. It baffled her that the knight had almost pegged her for a girl—half these bastards were prettier than she was.
The whole city was like that, she’d noticed. Pretty as could be, gleaming with ivory towers and artful bridges as far as the eye could see. Below, the rushing river and distant falls leant a pleasant hum to air, and the weather here was fairer than any she could remember traveling Alexandria.
So it was fitting then that on her way to the arena she had crossed through the less aesthetically pleasing portions, and seen a glimpse of the grimy, dilapidated slums propping up that shining façade. A perfect reflection of the noble boys around her; a pretty face and a waterfall of confidence to hide their true natures. A mask of humanity.
She hoped she’d get to beat a few cracks into it, before the day was done.
As she made her way towards the arena, to join the ranks of other aspirants, her eyes wandered to them. For the moment she was anonymous, and though she didn’t expect that to last past the preliminaries, that was as far as she needed it to go. Had she walked in here waving her summons, and announced herself as the Heir of Light, she wasn’t certain they’d have even let her compete. And if they had, whoever they paired her off with would either have been too afraid to put up a real fight, or worse, they might have thrown some hapless lowborn at her, in the hopes she’d make a show of it for the audience.
Well, fuck that. If she was going to subject herself to these people, then she was going to do it on her own terms. They could have Dot Mummer when she was done. For now, they got Donathon Bigyarn, who was not from Valefor.
Rain was relieved to hear that the Uglydein ghoul wouldn’t be tailing them. She’d only just met cool people, and the last thing she wanted was to drag some grandpa around while they all drank beer and punched each other. They’d get in trouble for punching pyromancers—the folks back home had made sure she knew that. Other hunters? Fair game. Normal people? Maybe don’t, it’s boring anyway. But pyromancers? Off-limits, even papa had said so.
Thinking about him made her stomach feel funny. Made her want to punch Galiel anyway just to do it.
Stupid. Cut it out. You’re mad at him.
Lexann—still not a real word but whatever, they could come up with definition later—asked if Rain’s name was a poem. Ah, the pink giant was a little slow, it seemed. Well, that made sense; you couldn’t have so much muscle and have brains, too.
“No, it’s water,” Rain said, correcting her.
No harm done; she didn’t like the woman any less for being a bit dumb. In fact, she preferred dumb people. Dumb people were fun. Nerds on the other hand, like Galiel and the other pyromancers, made her want to bite things.
Besides, Lex brought up a good point then: why didn’t the pyromancers just blast the void’s ass and be done with it? The obvious answer was that they were lame little wusses with weak gums who were afraid of death, unlike Rain, who had an iron jaw and wasn’t afraid of anything, even a little bit. The better answer was that if they did do that, then none of the hunters would get to have any fun.
“Because this is cooler,” she offered. “Like, way cooler.”
It broke Seele’s heart to see Artemis in such a state. The poor girl had only just joined them, and already things had exploded—quite literally. She hoped this wouldn’t ruin things for her, but she couldn’t blame her if it did. Right now though, that was a distant concern.
“No, honey, no no,” she said softly, keeping her smile firm in the face of the girl’s hollow dismay. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The only mistake you can make now is blaming yourself, okay? It’s all handled. Just go back in and try to relax. I’ll be right behind you, I just want to make sure Graves is alright, first.”
It was impossible to ignore the way she had looked at him. Seele knew what fear looked like, and she knew how different it was to be afraid of someone rather than something. She stroked Artemis’s shoulder gently.
“Hey, it’s okay. I promise. Look at me. No one is going to hurt you, no one. We won’t let it happen.”
With that she left the archer, stopping momentarily on her way to Graves to speak with the siblings. To her relief they seemed fine, though she knew from the incident with Kazuki that, with things like this sometimes it was the bond that suffered more than the body. Sif and Siegfried had been with them from the start, they were part of the family, and she paled at the thought that she might lose them this way.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, bowing low like her mother had told her was right to do when you were truly apologetic. “I hope neither of you were hurt. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would have…happened, back there. Thank you for your help.
“And, Siegfried…you’re right. You are—about my plan. It’s stupid, and hasty, and chances are it’s going to get me killed, but…it doesn’t matter. This whole city’s collapsing on itself, maybe the whole world is, too. Someone has to do something. Even if it’s not the world, even if it’s just a few missing people.
“I’m not calling you a coward. You were in that dungeon, you were there when Aag…well, you’re one of the bravest people I know. I meant what I said; you don’t have to be part of it. Neither of you do. I’m sorry that I got you into this. I hope we can still be friends,” she managed a small smile. “I like you both very much.”
Once again she left, finally coming to the side of Lendie’s healer, and kneeling down next to Graves.
“Andrecille, right?” she asked. It seemed the woman had worked her magic on him already. “Thank you so much for helping. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
Her attention turned down to Graves, then. A pang of frustration flashed through her, along with the realization that she was upset with him. But that was silly, and she knew that. She was just embarrassed about being in the middle of a scene, and a little stressed from having to talk her way out of jail. He was hurt, and clearly much deeper than Andrecille’s magic could reach.
So, with a little muster she kept her smile alive for him. “Graves, sweetie, are you alright? Can you stand, do you need help?”
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 sights 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.
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