You MIGHT want to go into more details than that. I can clearly see they're fighting so.eone, but... why? What's going on? How did they get here? Stuff like that.
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Hypothetically,let's says the House was on the British Isles and the Hunt was on Rowan's tail. Literally chased to the far ends of the earth to escape them for stepping back on British soil.
Let's say I did squeeze in to Egypt to catch a free ride back to US. What's happening now? A... pit fight? Cage match? Demigod chicken fights?
Let's say I did squeeze in to Egypt to catch a free ride back to US. What's happening now? A... pit fight? Cage match? Demigod chicken fights?
Like Alexandria.
In Egypt?
Oh joy, well, I'm on the wrong continent.
In Egypt?
Oh joy, well, I'm on the wrong continent.
So what's the current plotline that's going on?
Like Ronan, I do not lie. I promised and I delivered. Ultimately, this is the new contender.
Whether he will be an ally or an enemy, that's for you all to discover.
Whether he will be an ally or an enemy, that's for you all to discover.
And thus
The Games begin.
The Games begin.
The grey-bearded Doorkeeper of the House of Altarnum rose from his chair as the bells chimed seven o'clock. He walked to the door taking out his keys, sorting throughthem until he found the long, iron key for the first lock. He locked the door in the same order as ever, turning the locks, sliding the wooden bars into place, and slotting the iron bolts into their housing. Upstairs, the Window Warden would be checking each of the shutters, the Firekeeeper would be lighting blazes in each of the hearths.
The House of Altarnum was a fortress. It lay in the hills to the South of Mireless and Lachlan Marshes. Sheltered by the hills it was built for anything short of an organized siege. The walls were six foot thick and granite; there were no windows on the ground floor and only arrow slits on the second, every higher window was guarded by thick-iron bars; the roof was surrounded by a rampart, and guards patrolled the corridors in pairs. Even getting to the door after dark would be impossible once the drawbridge was raised: a wide river flowed through a deep culvert before the door.
Yet as the Doorkeeper turned away from the door there was a slow rat-tat-tat. He paused and shuffled back to the door. he slid back the iron covering the peephole in the door. The wooden planks of the drawbridge were inches from his nose. He backed away from the door as the knock came agan. He pulled the great horn from his waist and blew it once to warn the guards that something was outside; twice would mean that something was trying to get in; three times would mean it was inside.
He had been warned about this sort of thing by his predecessor when he had started: 'There will be times when things come calling at night. Ignore them. Sound the warning and never speak to them'. There had been a handful of such occasions over the years of his service when he had to sound the alarm once; he had only blown the horn twice on one occasion.
He turned to walk back to his room when he heard the first of the bolts slide back. He watched transfixed as the bolts dragged themselves back the door. He raised his hand to move the bolts, but they refused to move no matter how much force he put upon them. The locks clicked one at a time. He forced the great key in the last lock and held on, but the key snapped under the pressure as the lock clicked open.
The third blast of the horn thundered though the House of Altarnum. The guards, veterans to a man, unsheathed swords, drew axes, unslung bows as they took up positions at chokepoints throughout the building. At the center of the house, two guards hurried the master of the house into a room with only one, iron door. A hired sorcerer, an elderly man with a thick grey beard and a robe of night blue and white stars, nodded to the master of the house as they guards hurried him past.
The clamour of fighting filtered through the house. Thunder shook the walls. Screams and cries echoed up the stairwells and cut off. Horns blew, bells tolled. Weapons clanged on the stones. Doors shattered with echoing cracks. Metal shrieked somewhere in the house. Gradually, the sound died away. Silence fell.
The Keeper, master of the hoise, sat shivering, waiting. He looked down at the roll of parchment he held in his left hand for a moment before glancing at the candle in his right. For a moment, there was a flash of white light from beneath the door and a chill crept through the room. He waited, his fingers shaking, his eyes glued to the door. Nothing happened. Then the flame flickered and went out. He reached for the matches he kept in a pouch at his belt, and fingers shaking, lit the candle. The candle flared up, and a pale face, too pale, was illuminated for a second before the flame died to nothing.
"Good evening," said a voice and then a soft, white radiance filled the room, revealing a tall young man, dressed in strange clothing with an orb of that same soft white light in the palm of his cupped hand. "You will refer to me as 'my Prince'. You are the Keeper?"
"Yes," the Keeper said, swallowing. His hands were empty.
A single finger pointed to the floor. Pain wracked the Keeper's body. It felt as a white hot knife had been plunged into his belly, if needles slid into eyes, as if his throat and lungs were on fire. "You will refer to me as 'my Prince', reminded the man coldly.
"Yes, my Prince," the Keeper gasped. He slumped, panting, in his chair. There was the iron taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue.
"Now, Keeper..." the man lifted the Keeper's chin with one hand and looked into his eyes, "This isn't going to hurt a bit. Well, it isn't going to hurt me a bit. You had exquisite defenses. I have no wish to break you mind, so we will start with the old methods. What do you think? Will you talk?"
The Keeper shook his head. The man sighed and made a short motion with his hand. The chair on which the Keeper sat came to life. The wood twisted and bent, binding him before floating into the air.
"You cannot resist me," the man whispered. "Would you like to guess how many came with me to storm this stronghold. There were no others. I came alone. Your men died for nothing. You will die for nothing, unless you tell me this: where are the children of the Gaill hiding? Do not think to lie, for that is our contract."
"You want to know that?" the Keeper asked, surprised. "You aren't one of them?"
"Do I look Rómáinis or Rómhánach?" the man asked with a sudden blaze of irritation in his eyes. The arms of the chair tightened around the Keeper painfully. "Rest assured, that once I have my answer, I will leave this place." He watched the Keeper's face intently.
"If I tell you, will you let me live?"
"If you tell me, I swear upon the place I call Home that I will treat you as I would my own Father," the man promised.
The Keeper hesitated for a moment before his mind flinched back at the pain the man could inflict before gesturing the man over. The man leaned in close, listening to the soft whispers of the answers his sought. After a few minutes, the man pulled back.
"Who else knows this?" the man asked.
"I can't tell you. I don't know... my Prince," the Keeper said, he could feel cold sweat soaking his shirt. The man's eyes were cold and emotionless as he waited for the Keeper to answer. "We don't ask for names. They paid the price we asked."
"Your business is knowledge. Who was he?"
"She, all I know is that it was a she. She wants to kill them," the Keeper gabbled. He could feel the chair pressing into his wrists and ankles, slowly cutting off his blood supply.
"How much have you told her?"
"Everything we knew. We were to meet again soon."
"When?" the man said, grasping the Keeper by the throat in his eagerness.
"I don't know, she was to arrange it."
The man surveyed him for a second and stood back, looking at him. "You are a coward. I despise cowards." He stepped back and raised his hand.
"Please, you promised..." the Keeper begged. He recognized the expression of his captor's face, he had seen it too many times before.
"I swore upon the place I call Home; of which I have none left. I swore to treat you as I would my Father: I killed him. Be thankful I gave him a merciful death."
There was a sharp crack as the Keeper's body slumped in the chair. Rowan, prince of Albion's night, paid it no heed as left the room and hallway and made his way to the nearest window, already feeling his arms change into a cloak of feathers and he threw open the shutters. As an owl soared into the dark night, only one name was on his mind.
Camp Half-Blood
The House of Altarnum was a fortress. It lay in the hills to the South of Mireless and Lachlan Marshes. Sheltered by the hills it was built for anything short of an organized siege. The walls were six foot thick and granite; there were no windows on the ground floor and only arrow slits on the second, every higher window was guarded by thick-iron bars; the roof was surrounded by a rampart, and guards patrolled the corridors in pairs. Even getting to the door after dark would be impossible once the drawbridge was raised: a wide river flowed through a deep culvert before the door.
Yet as the Doorkeeper turned away from the door there was a slow rat-tat-tat. He paused and shuffled back to the door. he slid back the iron covering the peephole in the door. The wooden planks of the drawbridge were inches from his nose. He backed away from the door as the knock came agan. He pulled the great horn from his waist and blew it once to warn the guards that something was outside; twice would mean that something was trying to get in; three times would mean it was inside.
He had been warned about this sort of thing by his predecessor when he had started: 'There will be times when things come calling at night. Ignore them. Sound the warning and never speak to them'. There had been a handful of such occasions over the years of his service when he had to sound the alarm once; he had only blown the horn twice on one occasion.
He turned to walk back to his room when he heard the first of the bolts slide back. He watched transfixed as the bolts dragged themselves back the door. He raised his hand to move the bolts, but they refused to move no matter how much force he put upon them. The locks clicked one at a time. He forced the great key in the last lock and held on, but the key snapped under the pressure as the lock clicked open.
The third blast of the horn thundered though the House of Altarnum. The guards, veterans to a man, unsheathed swords, drew axes, unslung bows as they took up positions at chokepoints throughout the building. At the center of the house, two guards hurried the master of the house into a room with only one, iron door. A hired sorcerer, an elderly man with a thick grey beard and a robe of night blue and white stars, nodded to the master of the house as they guards hurried him past.
The clamour of fighting filtered through the house. Thunder shook the walls. Screams and cries echoed up the stairwells and cut off. Horns blew, bells tolled. Weapons clanged on the stones. Doors shattered with echoing cracks. Metal shrieked somewhere in the house. Gradually, the sound died away. Silence fell.
The Keeper, master of the hoise, sat shivering, waiting. He looked down at the roll of parchment he held in his left hand for a moment before glancing at the candle in his right. For a moment, there was a flash of white light from beneath the door and a chill crept through the room. He waited, his fingers shaking, his eyes glued to the door. Nothing happened. Then the flame flickered and went out. He reached for the matches he kept in a pouch at his belt, and fingers shaking, lit the candle. The candle flared up, and a pale face, too pale, was illuminated for a second before the flame died to nothing.
"Good evening," said a voice and then a soft, white radiance filled the room, revealing a tall young man, dressed in strange clothing with an orb of that same soft white light in the palm of his cupped hand. "You will refer to me as 'my Prince'. You are the Keeper?"
"Yes," the Keeper said, swallowing. His hands were empty.
A single finger pointed to the floor. Pain wracked the Keeper's body. It felt as a white hot knife had been plunged into his belly, if needles slid into eyes, as if his throat and lungs were on fire. "You will refer to me as 'my Prince', reminded the man coldly.
"Yes, my Prince," the Keeper gasped. He slumped, panting, in his chair. There was the iron taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue.
"Now, Keeper..." the man lifted the Keeper's chin with one hand and looked into his eyes, "This isn't going to hurt a bit. Well, it isn't going to hurt me a bit. You had exquisite defenses. I have no wish to break you mind, so we will start with the old methods. What do you think? Will you talk?"
The Keeper shook his head. The man sighed and made a short motion with his hand. The chair on which the Keeper sat came to life. The wood twisted and bent, binding him before floating into the air.
"You cannot resist me," the man whispered. "Would you like to guess how many came with me to storm this stronghold. There were no others. I came alone. Your men died for nothing. You will die for nothing, unless you tell me this: where are the children of the Gaill hiding? Do not think to lie, for that is our contract."
"You want to know that?" the Keeper asked, surprised. "You aren't one of them?"
"Do I look Rómáinis or Rómhánach?" the man asked with a sudden blaze of irritation in his eyes. The arms of the chair tightened around the Keeper painfully. "Rest assured, that once I have my answer, I will leave this place." He watched the Keeper's face intently.
"If I tell you, will you let me live?"
"If you tell me, I swear upon the place I call Home that I will treat you as I would my own Father," the man promised.
The Keeper hesitated for a moment before his mind flinched back at the pain the man could inflict before gesturing the man over. The man leaned in close, listening to the soft whispers of the answers his sought. After a few minutes, the man pulled back.
"Who else knows this?" the man asked.
"I can't tell you. I don't know... my Prince," the Keeper said, he could feel cold sweat soaking his shirt. The man's eyes were cold and emotionless as he waited for the Keeper to answer. "We don't ask for names. They paid the price we asked."
"Your business is knowledge. Who was he?"
"She, all I know is that it was a she. She wants to kill them," the Keeper gabbled. He could feel the chair pressing into his wrists and ankles, slowly cutting off his blood supply.
"How much have you told her?"
"Everything we knew. We were to meet again soon."
"When?" the man said, grasping the Keeper by the throat in his eagerness.
"I don't know, she was to arrange it."
The man surveyed him for a second and stood back, looking at him. "You are a coward. I despise cowards." He stepped back and raised his hand.
"Please, you promised..." the Keeper begged. He recognized the expression of his captor's face, he had seen it too many times before.
"I swore upon the place I call Home; of which I have none left. I swore to treat you as I would my Father: I killed him. Be thankful I gave him a merciful death."
There was a sharp crack as the Keeper's body slumped in the chair. Rowan, prince of Albion's night, paid it no heed as left the room and hallway and made his way to the nearest window, already feeling his arms change into a cloak of feathers and he threw open the shutters. As an owl soared into the dark night, only one name was on his mind.
Camp Half-Blood
Ronan
Who am I? I am the lord of the Broken Towers, the Misty Halls, Cold Comfort, Red Hill, and Joyous Guard, the master of Forlorn amongst my other lands and houses, men know me as Tam Lin, The Last Friend, Tirithon, I am a captain of Nuadha's host, Elcmar, the Lord of Doors, Earl of Narrow Places and many other names. I invite you to my table~
Age
As old as his tongue and a few years older than his teeth
Appearance
Godly Parent
Titania, the Gealach of Tír na nÓg and Queen of the Faeries
Powers
~Fith Fath: Ronan is capable of shifting his form into a wide arrange of forms and creatures, though such forms seem to be limited to living creatures. Likewise, Subject Cu’s physiological capabilities are far greater than that of an average humans, with his epidermal layer resistant to many forms of injury.
~The Twisted Path: Ronan utilizes magic that can be used to make people see and think things he wants. Humans with weak wills can easily be pulled into mental trance that makes them highly susceptible to him.
~My Erstwhile Allies: Ronan able to exert a certain degree of control over his natural surroundings, though the extent of this power degrades the further he is from his mother's crown. Such things such as animal empathy and minor elemental control remain accessible to him in his current state, growing in magnitudes of power the closer he is to the diadem.
~A Deal Struck: Ronan is able to unconsciously grant a person a power, an object of power or change nearly any event within their power to something as trivial as transporting them to a location or as simple as knowledge on something. He seems only capable of using this power subconsciously and only if a “bargain” is struck between him and the other party. He may impose his authority on any agreement he makes and agree to three times, provided the person is not being magically coerced into the agreement. As long as he carries out his side of the bargain (and he is compelled to do so), the other party must likewise obey or find themselves cast under Rowan's power for up to a year and a day for each clause they broke, if they break the terms of the agreement.
~The Crown Of Thorns: This crown of briars is everblooming and everdying in all manner of forest flowers. The crown serves to amplify Ronan's already considerable power when worn, though he seem's hesitant to even acknowledge its existence. Personally considers it his greatest shame.
Weaknesses
-Ronan finds himself physically unable to cross the threshold of a home if the doors, windows, and flu are shut, unless he is invited. You cannot enter any private building that has iron hung above the primary door without permission from an owner or resident, nor can he use any abilities to affect creatures inside such a dwelling if you are not allowed inside. The iron must be explicitly hung above the door, separate from the door frame - an iron door frame has no special effect on him. A private building is a location like a home or warehouse where the general public is not normally allowed.
-Ronan finds himself physically unable to touch any creature so long as is wearing some form of red thread. Synthetics such as nylon and other polymers have no protection, nor does this protection safeguard against other forms of assault, such as humans under Ronan’s glamour.
-Upon contact with treated and untreated iron, Rowan’s highly resistant epidermal suffers injury akin to that of a third degree burn. According to him, the mere presence of iron is enough to induce feeling of nausea and illness and he will make every attempt to avoid at all costs.
-Ronan finds himself physically unable to cross a line of salt, even if threatened with violence. While he is perfectly capable of going around such a barrier if permitted, the act of stepping over seems entirely beyond him. The distant he maintains from such defenses varies depends on the amount used.
-Ronan is incapable of lying. He has only ever been determined to tell the truth, however, the extent of "what the truth is" varies wildly. Oftentimes, when interrogated, the he will talk in circles with riddles, cryptic meanings, or sometimes just nonsense. While snippets of factual information has been gleamed from careful analysis of these conversations, all interactions thus far admit that such efforts are exhausting. Ronan has learned to bend the truth so hard, it almost threatens to break...
Bio
The Queen of Fae
Ruled all the Night,
All with her crimson mark;
The Prince of Fae
Stole her thorny crown,
And thought it a merry lark.
The King of Fae
Called for the Hunt,
And beat the Prince full sore;
The Prince of Fae
With broken heart,
Was banished forevermore.
Ruled all the Night,
All with her crimson mark;
The Prince of Fae
Stole her thorny crown,
And thought it a merry lark.
The King of Fae
Called for the Hunt,
And beat the Prince full sore;
The Prince of Fae
With broken heart,
Was banished forevermore.
Characters theme song: youtube.com/watch?v=izYzuG0Vh2k
Im gonna be honest. None of the current Higher Grade writing RPs are catching my interest while this looks like it'll be fast paced and nice. Though I'll probably write a lot more than you guys.
Mind if I throw in a Celtic Demigod into the mix to change things up a bit?
Mind if I throw in a Celtic Demigod into the mix to change things up a bit?
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