Ohm — Roleplayer Guild

It had been so long since the dust had settled. The Circle of Contempt—a boundless arena where many a duelist from across the known multiverse duked it out to claim superiority, for one reason or another—was now nothing but a surface-level burial ground. What once had been corpses were now dingy, chipped bones, marked with the past beneath a smoke-filled, blood-red sky. The rest of the remains had withered into fine particles, whipped up and carried away in the occasional breeze to become a new grave somewhere else in the circle. Harder to decay and littering the ground were numerous weapons—each time-worn, a sickly brownish-red along the edges and ends, utterly useless. They were relics against the backdrop of arid, cracked, dead earth, brethren that shared a common factor with the lack of nature that surrounded them. Safe to say, there was nothing left. The heyday of battle and conquest had vanished, and now the vultures could feed.

A small body, wrapped in shadow and scraps of frayed cloth, hobbled through the vast grounds, shielding its hollow white eyes from plumes of dust that would kick up from gusts of wind every now and again. Its gait was lopsided, leading with a right foot that never dared to trade places in the race with its left. Through an unseen nostril, it struggled to regulate its breathing, having trouble keeping a steady pace, though it truly had nowhere to be. No one had been here in an uncountable number of years, certainly longer than the small humanoid creature could think of. As it limped forward, flat feet scraping long marks across the ground, the creature suddenly came to a stop, its featureless eyes staring ahead at a lone sword. The weapon was stabbed into the ground, its edge cracked and chipped, no longer the refined razor sharp it had once been. Still, for the creature, it was gold.

A rough vocalization of joy leapt forward from the creature's face as it jumped in place, punching its fists into the air in celebration. It sprung forward, playfully hopping across the ground until it arrived at the sword. In the deafening silence of a vast and empty space, the creature came to a stop and casually crouched next to the half-buried blade, studying its every detail. A few snorts escaped its face, thin and bony pitch-black fingers gingerly tapping at the jagged edge to test its sharpness. Whatever luster the blade had, it had left long ago in the heat of battle. Finally, the creature stood up, barely matching the sword in height, and grabbed at the sword's handle with both hands. With a huff, and a puff, and a grotesque, high-pitched groan, the creature wrenched the sword free from the dirt, tumbling backwards and collapsing to the ground.

It lay there, chest heaving from the expended effort. It was hard to tell what thoughts were coursing through its mind with such a blank face, but the creature lifted itself up and got to its knees. Clutched in its hand was the sword, and with the realization in two, suddenly, the creature was standing, swinging the sword haphazardly and with reckless abandon. It danced in the dusty air, hopping from one foot to the next, croaking out cries of happiness and amusement. It would pretend it was a strong and skilled warrior, imitating the stances of long-dead combatants whose faces it couldn't remember. Occasionally, it would stumble, trip, fall, rise again. With each mistake, it started adapting to the weight of the sword, and soon, fewer mistakes were being made.

But, then, it would stop and look out into the empty, bloodstained mass grave. The creature's body stilled, eyes scanning a dark horizon. Its body shifted, bringing the sword close to its chest, hugging it not tightly, but with care, precision, and sorrow.

Before we begin our tale, featherlings, allow me to regale you with a different story—one of tumult that spans the history of Redmire.

The capital of Siliach has been replete with death and strife for many a moon now, beginning over 140 years ago and very nearly ending the royal lineage altogether. No one knows why it began or how, but the people of Redmire have come to call it a curse—one awash in blood.

The first to die, before the curse was called such, was Lord Embren II. By all accounts, Embren was a just ruler, one who listened to his people, one who sought to lift all of them out of the muck and establish an empire of prosperity. Naturally, a man like Embren had enemies—ones who plotted to use the power of the ruling class in economic pursuits, others who would dream and thirst for war and the opportunity to conquer, whatever other paltry desires that luckily do not plague our tribes—and so he was, logically, a target. Embren, however, was no pushover. He claimed the throne not just by blood, but by strength. You see, children, Embren was nearly denied the throne until he challenged those who stood in his way. The rightful king of Redmire, he was, but his enemies—who were his father's enemies and had shifted their sights to the throne after Embren I's death—attempted to keep him from the throne.

However, it was codified into ironclad law that whosoever feels fit to helm the throne of Redmire was allowed to challenge the current ruler for their seat in the Tower of Thorns. They must ascend the Tower and brave the dangers within, hurried along by an always-approaching presence who threatened their very lives with just one touch. When they reached the apex of the Tower, they were immediately set upon by the ruler's mightiest champion in trial-by-combat. If they won the battle, the current ruler would have no choice but to abdicate the throne. Because of this stipulation, very few ever tried to ascend the Tower of Thorns, and of those who did, only one ever bested it.

But, Embren II was not an invincible man, and there is always someone more strong, more skilled, more deadly. However, that individual didn't seek to claim the throne for themselves. Instead, they snuck into Redmire Hold under the cover of night and slit Embren's throat in his sleep. Ah, but Embren—he did not go easily, but he did go, all the same. As his blood fled from him, he fought his attacker into the night, unable to call for help. Sadly, his murderer vanished into the darkness, and Embren went, blessed with the sorrows of his loved ones, into the embrace of Bellua.

There are very few who have escaped the curse of Redmire. Even the Great Coward, Kalkas, he who demanded the erection of the Iron Wall, wasn't safe from the curse's reach. His death was a vicious one, and the reason that no trees are allowed in the Hold.

But, now, even Redmire's most recent Benevolence, Hieron IV, has found his place among the dead. The capital has shed its fair share of tears long before he ever took office. As he was silently laid into the earth, it was discovered that he had already selected his next successor and had it enshrined into the lineage of Redmire. His daughter, Eliora, would break Redmire tradition and become the first queen in the capital's history, a move that surely angered loyalists to the Siliachan Empire.

Which now brings us to the beginning of our story:

C O R O N A T I O N   D A Y

The crimson banners of Redmire were propped up high on towering wooden poles that lined its cobblestone streets. In the distance, subtly warped against the many buildings that flanked those roads, fanfare blared through long, brass horns, equal parts the welcoming of a new ruler and a warning of their short stay. Approaching from the Hold was a small carriage and, inside, the new queen, Eliora. Her father Hieron held the throne for just shy of two years before she was suddenly thrust into the torchlight for the world to see. Envoys from the Cascades and Lamafon, sent respectively by the Alenjas and Bhelvilles—they who war with each other for nonsense reasons, much like the rest of the world—and by His Flourishing Grace, Lord El'ech von Imbricado of the Mushroom City, were already stood among the congregation of Redmire's citizens, all whom awaited arrival of their new ruler.

Eliora was nervous. She knew what cost she had to pay in taking the throne, the eyes that would be forever set upon her, the enemies of her blood she would inherit, the curse that would affix its crown to her head. Instinctively, she raised her head to gaze upon the sword that dangled above her, one only she could see, waiting for the threads to fray. As she picked at the flesh surrounding her fingernails, an old and wrinkled hand reached over to hers—soft and delicate and undeserving—and squeezed gently.

"Everything will be alright," the voice said with a low, weak rumble. Eliora brought her eyes down to look upon Shenley, her most trusted advisor, and smiled. The old huma, barely half her height, returned the smile with warmth and another squeeze of the new queen's hand. As Eliora turned to look out the window, watching the residences of her people pass her by, Shenley did the same, his smile vanishing. He wondered how long it would take this time, and whether he'd have time to do what needed to be done.

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K A E L A N

@SilverPaw

We rewind time to just an hour before, when you arrived at Redmire yourself, in your own carriage. The road into the capital was quiet, which wasn't unusual for such an event like Coronation Day. You've likely heard about Siliach's curse through casual conversation in Port Kaigurne's Grand Bazaar. As you waited for your travel permit to be approved, hearing the chitter-chatter of myriad merchants, this is quite possibly when you heard about how long such a curse has lasted, and the many rulers it's claimed. As you arrive at the gates of Redmire, show your permit, and are allowed inside, it's all now starting to make sense why, after several hours of almost pure silence, you were accompanied by a rather bulky Venator, dressed in black leather with red trim. The Venator wears a similarly-designed plague doctor's mask, its lenses too dark to make out the pair of eyes that peer through.

You have never encountered a Venator of this magnitude before, but your relationship with them over your years of traveling through Makyos has allowed you some insight into what rank this Venator is—a Lammergeier. Executioner. If the color of its outfit wasn't enough to convince you of it, the dual battleaxes that weighed down their side of the carriage surely was. Their sheer presence was overwhelming to even the most stalwart of the guards in Redmire. As you were ushered beyond the capital's gates, you could almost swear you heard the guard's voice quiver.

The silence was occasionally broken by heavy breaths that dared to fog the lenses of the Lammergeier's mask. The carriage was drawing ever closer to the open plaza, the fanfare approaching a fever pitch in volume. As someone who has had his fair share in dealing with death, you know when a song doesn't carry any life in its notes. You could also tell as much when you started to see the despondent faces of people who hadn't quite yet made it to the plaza.

You're now approaching the plaza yourself. The Lammergeier reaches for their battleaxes, sensing the ride coming to an end.

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L O U I S

@Bacon

Louis, you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a couple of Venators of your own—two Eagles, each dressed in colors of brilliant, yet pale gold. Their matching masks are aimed low, watching from the stands near the stage where the new ruler of Redmire is yet to be sworn in. The banners that sway in the winds that whip through the plaza stir a buried unease in your chest, drudging up memories that were probably best left forgotten. You are the last surviving member of House Evermoore, as far as you know, and that knowledge, at times, does not help but churn the stomach.

You watch people file into the plaza from every road, witnessing the rare chance encounter of the poor mingling with those who have more. Peppered into the crowd are gleaming sets of armor, each bearing black shoulder capes with gold lining. Emblazoned on the fabric is a large, wide, dark grey rectangle accented with shining threads, representative of Siliach's famous Patronaat, the Iron Wall that surrounds the very land you stand in. In front of those symbols, each cape bears a decaying skull, jaw hinged wide, as if waiting to swallow those dare to get close. You recognize the iconography immediately—standing among the crowd are Redmire's Death Guard. Even with the curse of Redmire looming over the next sovereign, their presence here is odd, yet perhaps welcome. They are the most combat-capable knights in Siliach's military, sworn to protect the ruling party with their very lives.

On the edge of the crowd, you notice a carriage pull into view and come to a stop, seemingly heavily weighed on one side. A door on the carriage swings wide open, and the carriage's balance equalizes as you watch a Venator—a Lammergeier, to be more precise—emerge from inside, brandishing a massive battleaxe on each shoulder. In your time spent among the Venators, you have only encountered a Lammergeier once before, knowing exactly what role they play in the Venators, and it brings you to a realization that something doesn't seem quite right.

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Z A H R A

@13org

Zahra, you stand in the Grand Bazaar of Port Kaigurne, the only entry point into the land of Siliach. The Grand Bazaar is host to every foreign merchant from all parts of Makyos, who each come here to Siliach to peddle their wares and make some coin. However, considering they are foreign to Siliach's people, they are restricted from ever traveling past the Patronaat and into the realm proper, and so you find yourself among them, surrounded by stalls and the shouts of those hawking their items.

You've been stuck here in the Port for a few hours at the very least, after having spent much longer flying directly from the sun-roasted sands of Verja's deserts and over the Kaien Sea. Having never been in the land of the huma, you likely thought nothing of the Patronaat that surrounds its shores, assuming that though it existed for some reason, you could simply fly over it, as you are an eidola and unhindered by such obstacles. It was only a split-second decision to veer away from the near-invisible field of crackling magical energy that saved you from becoming someone's next well-cooked meal. You would come to know, as you waited for your approved permit, that the field was set in place a long time ago by a mage named Noumena, who hadn't been seen in decades. Noumena was supposedly alive and well, according to the rumors that spoke of his immortality.

The designs of the Grand Bazaar almost remind you of the resplendent architecture of Fe'Oth-la-Mir, the capital of Verja. When not stained by the ashes of Mount Atyunnata, Fe'Oth-la-Mir has an unparalleled luster that not even the houses of the Cascades could match. High arches join halves like hands, welcoming the occasional visitor with open arms that the Aquus claimed would put a knife in your back, if the Ceir had anything to say.

Before you could ruminate on the civil war that rages quietly across your former home, your train of thought is interrupted by an approaching figure, clad in dark brown and black military dress. Helmetless, his chiseled features are almost haloed by the sun as he strides toward you, bearing a small piece of parchment in hand.

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L O C K E

@JJ Doe

She was supposed to be your next mark. A young huma from within the heart of the village of Barkrend, eager and naive; ripe for the picking.

And yet, here you are with her, sitting at an open table just outside a tavern in Redmire, watching a crowd of people grow in earnest. She  is talking your right ear to death, daydreaming of a cozy life in the capital with you, attempting to wax poetic on a love-filled future to the huma equivalent of a cobblestone wall. Part of you swears you could feel the nerves in your right arm deaden, the way she clung to you like a serpent to its next meal. It almost felt like you were the target for a grift of incalculable nature. But, hang on... you're the grifter. That's your job. You're supposed to be the doting one, the one with the sob story, the cunning manipulator. This girl is matching your dance step for step, and it's becoming a little annoying.

As she blathers on about how kind and sweet you are, your eyes flick over to the man clad in armor, watching the people below from the stands near the coronation stage. You see him flanked on each side by two individuals dressed in plague doctor gear of a pale gold color, appearing a bit overdressed for the occasion. Your mouth moves automatically, agreeing with the girl that, yes, you should get married, and your blood runs cold. The cost of this little grift is going to be too much to get what you want from her. It might be a good idea to make a break, fast. As you mull over the idea, you watch a carriage pull up next to the crowd from your left, the door subsequently swinging wide as a much larger, beefier plague doctor steps out, brandishing two battleaxes that are lung over their shoulders.

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R U E

@Loveless Crown

It has been quite some time since you've been here. When you last stepped across the lands, you were fleeing from them, your mother in tow. She, in her old age, wasn't able to keep up with you, and you watched her get carried away, taken by those who so wholeheartedly believed that all her efforts were an attempt to perpetuate the curse that hung over Redmire. They called you assassins, death-dealers intent on spreading an evil sickness that would eradicate the innocent. Even if you could prove it otherwise, why would they believe you? All your lies amounted and became their own beasts, slinking through the shadows, laughing when you ran.

Things are different, now. You sit in the Grand Bazaar of Port Kaigurne, awaiting the approval of your permit. When they asked why you were here, you didn't lie. You couldn't—the Compromise you entered into made sure of it. The directness of your statement didn't spurn them to question you further. They simply accepted whatever reason you gave them and went about their business. Here you are, awash in the mixed scents of spices, blade oil, the strong air of Lamafonian flora, and an odd combination of sea, sand, and ash. You watch the merchants around holding up all manner of items, claiming this and that and another, and it instantly reminds you of your days spent not only here, but in other places around Siliach, before the Patronaat was fully completed and travels were restricted. Those days spent with your mother were invaluable at one point. Post-Compromise, only you'd know what value they hold. The only thing you can tell for sure is that the Grand Bazaar is not what it used to be. It looks far different now than ever before, a melting pot of cultures from across Makyos.

Your mind starts to make comparisons when you see a figure in black and brown military dress heading your direction. As you wait with bated breath for the approval of your permit, you notice the small piece of parchment in his hand, and a sudden, instinctual joy flutters into your chest, only to be immediately snuffed out when the man walks past you. Your eyes follow him and the note in his hand as he begins to approach an eidola twenty feet away, the source of the strange odorous combination.

∞    ∞    ∞

The breeze slipped through the cracks and crevices in the ruins of Mull as the lone figure stopped at its edge. Pale blonde hair fell in subtle ribbons and strands over the sides of his head, dull silver eyes gazing over the now-ancient destruction. His body stood statuesque against the wind, unmoved by the forces of nature even as what once belonged to the whims of E'co attempted to topple his form, but no dice. He stood for what seemed like minutes, surveying the ruins before him before his head slowly turned, facing the direction of the capital in the distance. Redmire gleamed in the sun, the city sitting atop a hill that overlooked much of the Sojourn sitting between itself and the shadow-laden, fogged ruins of Mull. Somewhere in his mind, he reminded himself that today was Coronation Day. By the time the sun set, a new queen would be sitting upon the throne. He began to wonder if they deserved to be there.

Turning away from the ruins, he gave one last side-eye to the lone tower that sat at Mull's edge, dilapidated and rotting. He remembered the four adventurers that stepped foot into that space. He recalled only three returning. He had heard that only two kept fighting, and that only one survived. A story largely told to him in fragments, hunted down and heard at the end of a life. Another day in an endless cycle.

Soon enough, he was on the road, slowly walking towards the capital. He had passed the Patronaat easily enough, literally slicing through the fabric of reality to reach the other side. No amount of magical energy could impede his search, unless he simply gave up the ghost, but what kind of journey would that have been? To scour all of Makyos for his desires, only to stop before striking gold? He was so much closer now than he had ever been. He could feel her energy here, resonating from the capital, radiating across the land. All he needed to do was arrive and take what was his.

And so, his march toward destiny continued.

Ohm Banned

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