Tlaloc

would anyone be interested in a vampire academy rp?

Just as some genuine advice, I think you need to chill with the number of RPs you're putting out. I think this would be your 5th in the last couple of weeks. If you are committed to it and will dedicate yourself to it, then that's great, but it sucks to be a player and have your GM lose interest (or be a GM and have a player drop the RP due to overfilling their plate).

Hello all!

Welcome! Sounds like a fun set of interests. You'll fit in!

Another roleplayer?! In this economy?! On a roleplaying site?!

<Snipped quote by Tlaloc>

Hey let's not spam other people's threads with you and Tokyo's other orbiters, thanks!

@Lith

Excuse me?

Another roleplayer?! In this economy?! On a roleplaying site?!

Welcome

The young obsess with appearing old. Don't stress alleged juvenile interests. I'm immortal, I'd know.

Enjoy your stay and hope you find some good stuff here of all varieties.

@Lith

ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

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Hloþhilde ──────────•⋅⊰༻༒︎༺⊱⋅•────────── and the Marsènnish House of Guillarmes. @TokyoPewPew ______________________________________	Roelo ──────────•⋅⊰༻༒︎༺⊱⋅•────────── and the Loðyrian House of Barbroeck. @Tlaloc ______________________________________	Asli ──────────•⋅⊰༻༒︎༺⊱⋅•────────── and the Karahanlılar House of Muruvvetolgu. @Festive ______________________________________ ______________________________________

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Class E ──────────•⋅⊰༻༒︎༺⊱⋅•────────── 'Tis but some of the elite few. ______________________________________	Staff and Faculty ──────────•⋅⊰༻༒︎༺⊱⋅•────────── of Ansbourg Imperial Command Academy. ______________________________________ ______________________________________

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

𝖋 𝖆 𝖈 𝖚 𝖑 𝖙 𝖞
𝖋 𝖆 𝖈 𝖚 𝖑 𝖙 𝖞

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Generalfeldmarschall Hladekný

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ With a magnetic, intimidating charisma, a reputation for fanatical perfectionism, and a glittering record of service; Ferdinand Hladekný is regarded by many as an exemplar of military leadership. For fifteen years he has overseen the progression of would-be officers for the Laachtalian army. Though purportedly iron-fisted, Hladekný is a rather personable man who merely maintains a visage of ruthlessness to inspire discipline in his subordinates. His menacing aura is punctuated by his booming, bassy voice. He cares deeply about the growth of the academy's students, with his decision-making process being centrally based on what is likely to benefit their long-term success. He is generally pleasant to the academy's staff, but has a low tolerance for poor standards of teaching. He also spends a great deal of time making an effort to understand his faculty, dissecting methodology and curriculum in meticulous depth. Any professors with unorthodox methods, such as Herr Schöst, have the implicit trust of Hladekný to generate results, as he has sought to understand their ideology.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Herr Schöst

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

𝖘 𝖙 𝖚 𝖉 𝖊 𝖓 𝖙 𝖘
𝖘 𝖙 𝖚 𝖉 𝖊 𝖓 𝖙 𝖘

𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼 𝓔

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Lutz von Ecklingen

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Agalind von Einsbück

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Dauncey Heathhill

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Euben Hügerhaufen

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Ódda von Kark

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Siglaf von Kark

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Ṣaẓriq ūzd-Qaddab

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Giselmina van der Szaalm

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod.	𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼 𝓑

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Jan-Hugo Breitkreutz

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Seeking to put an end to a fifty-year-old blood feud, the Breitkreutzs and the de Barbroecks have, in recent years, explored the possibility of wedding Jan-Hugo and Ædra de Barbroeck. While Roelo has no interest in familial grudges, Jan-Hugo is a staunch traditionalist, and has always held a chip on his shoulder about the de Barbroecks, making his distaste at the prospect of marrying one very clear. With that said, the two did not have much of a relationship at all. They crossed paths again upon realising that they would both be admitted into the academy, and a dynamic of spiky animosity quickly formed. Jan-Hugo embodies so many of the things Roelo despises: arrogance, self-righteousness, and ruthless ambition. Likewise, Roelo's lack of respect for authority infuriates Jan-Hugo. Having developed a rather prominent ego in his flourishing adolescence, Jan-Hugo now has rather bullyish tendencies. He takes pleasure in provoking others, and he knows exactly which buttons he can push on Roelo to incite his anger, referencing his tarnished reputation and rumors of his illegitimacy. Despite his antagonistic nature, Jan-Hugo is charismatic and well-liked by most, and is among the most impressive prospects in the academy.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

𝖉 𝖊 𝕭 𝖆 𝖗 𝖇 𝖗 𝖔 𝖊 𝖈 𝖐
𝖉 𝖊 𝕭 𝖆 𝖗 𝖇 𝖗 𝖔 𝖊 𝖈 𝖐

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Roelo de Barbroeck

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Originating from the wealthy riverside city of île Monding, Loðyria, Roleo is the second son of Duke Tælman de Barbroeck, Prince-Elector of Loðyria. The de Barbroeck family is among the most powerful and esteemed in the empire. With healthy internal imperial diplomacy, extensive mercantile influence, and a reputation for loyalty and dependability, few bloodlines are better suited to rulership than the de Barbroecks. Adorned in their distinctively expensive orange regalia, they proudly display their wealth and sterling reputation, embodying stability in an empire otherwise on the brink of uncertainty. Described as a "haunted child" during his early years by his father, Roelo was always the black sheep of his household. Perhaps his disposition stemmed from his mother, Willemijn, who had long suffered from some form of undiagnosed mental unbalance. When Roelo was ten, she died by her own hand. His father remarried soon after, and it seemed that sweet, sorrowful Willemijn was quickly by everyone except for Roelo. Even his older brother, Jochem, was too encumbered with his obsessive need to please their father to grieve. There had been whispers that Roelo was a product of Wilemijn's adultery, that he wasn't a true de Barbroeck, and that his mother's guilt had driven her to leap from her balcony. Though these rumours were little more than unsubstantiated gossip, they still contributed to Roelo's severe sense of alienation. He was not lacking in wit; far from it. He had a keen intelligence and a clever tongue, but he was an angry boy with an ungodly stubbornness. His defiance often led to self-sabotage, burning bridges that might have otherwise benefitted him in the long-run. Resentful of authority and yearning for a life of freedom beyond nobility, Roelo found himself increasingly isolated, resigning himself to a lonely adolescence, finding companionship only in the children of craftsmen and traders. These friendships were fleeting, as his father quickly forbade any mingling with the commonfolk, placing an increasing pressure on their relationships. Roelo frequently disobeyed his father, first out of desperation, and eventually for any reason he could find. Scandals followed him everywhere: bar fights, drunken escapades through the city streets, even assaulting a household guard. No discipline, no matter how harsh, could make Roelo bend to his father’s will. If anything, it only fueled his defiance further. He wanted no part in his legacy. By the time he turned eighteen, Roelo knew he would never inherit anything of worth. In all but decree, his father had effectively disowned him. Even if misfortune were to befall Jochem, Roelo was certain his father would favor one of his younger half-siblings. The only point of agreement between them was Roelo’s admittance to the academy. It offered him a chance to leave everything he despised behind, while giving his father an opportunity to wash his hands of him without public scandal—a win-win for the both of them. Roelo was a gifted fighter. He allowed the prospect of being a soldier to become him. After all, by the time he arrived at the academy, he hadn't much of an identity beyond that of a warrior. Though distance from his father tempered his once-explosive temperament, he remained a tumultuous individual—now more embittered and distant than ever. If not for his combat skills and, more importantly, his family name, he would likely have made nothing but enemies at the academy. Perhaps he would have preferred that -- as special treatment that came from his father's name was not special treatment he wanted.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Duke Tælman de Barbroeck

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ A man of stoic temperament, Tælman is known for his dominant charisma, and his vicious, zero-tolerance approach to the eradication of pirates and smugglers. Those who know him well would be aware of his deeply ambitious nature, and his intention to etch his name in history as a great leader. A perfectionist, Tælman has micromanaged his estate, ensuring a retinue of the highest quality. He does not accept medicority within his court, demanding that, should his realm be a place of greatness, it should be led by example. This high-pressure enviroment has created some of the finest courtiers in the empire: but it has also broken a fair few. Roelo is a prime example of the latter circumstance; his defiant nature having always contrasted his father's dominance. Although deeply committed to his duties, Tælman is emotionally distant, especially toward Roelo, whom he views as a stain upon his legacy. As he would with his enemies, Tælman opted for an iron-fisted approach to fatherhood. Having long prioritised his legacy over his relationships, his bond with his second son is perhaps the greatest casuality of his career.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Jochem de Barbroeck

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Prior to their mother's death, Jochem and Roelo were good friends. A line in the sand was drawn as they matured, however, as Jochem became tunnel-vision focused on become the greatest would-be ruler in the empire. He trained tirelessly, honed his diplomacy, and never let his mask slip. As far as Roelo knew, after Jochem turned thirteen, he ceased having fun entirely. There was a time when Roelo would seek to relate to Jochem over their shared experience of immense pressure, but Jochem was in some kind of perpetual state of denial. The expectation loomed over him the most of them all, but he would pretend it did not. As such, the brothers became quietly drifted apart from one another until they simply became acquaintances. They never one discussed their mother's passing. Now an adult, Jochem seems to harbour some level of guilt for Roelo's estrangement, but maintains his focus on his destiny. He is (seemingly) happily married with a child on the way, and already has a fantastic reputation within the empire.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Ædreliese de Barbroeck

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ The first of three children born to Tælman's second wife, Thérèse, Ædra is the Duke's only daughter. A sharp-witted and observant young woman, Ædra is often underestimated because of her age and gender. Keen to avoid being reduced to an object of young beauty that is destined to be used as a diplomatic bargaining chip, Ædra has worked hard to educate herself. Through her childhood, she quickly learned to navigate the complex dynamics of her family, often acting as a mediator between her brothers, but finding closer kinship in female courtiers. Of all his siblings, Roelo is perhaps closest with Ædra, whose empathy and self-awareness is developed well beyond her years.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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Matthijs & Bastiaan de Barbroeck

𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Born a year and a day apart from one another, Matthijs and Bastiaan are two peas in a pod. Assumed by many to be twins, the youngest de Barbroecks are athletic and headstrong. While perhaps lacking the brains of their older siblings, they seem destined for greatness, with both capable of outclassing children several years their senior in sparring. Despite often being the source of chaos within the household, the boys are capable of falling in line when their father's foot comes down. Given his distance in age, Roelo has little in common with the duo.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅳ

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Class E found themselves in an arcade; one of several that exited the grand hall. The passageway, which offered access to the western wings of the academy, offered them welcome shade via its roof and columns; protecting them from the unrepentant sun, whose ire only grew as midday approached. Roelo noted how quickly his nine classmates seemed to herd into clusters. As each ensign left the hall into the loggia, following a brief intermission in which they inspected their new ceremonial effects and allowed their adrenaline to dull, they seemed to edge towards their neighbour. Smalltalk broke out; manufactured ice-breakers disguised as off-the-cuff musings. Subtly they prospected one-another, eager to find some commonality to latch on to — attempting to form the embryo of a clique.

“I hope that they teach us real swordwork, and not just parade drills.”

“Where’s your accent from? Sounds Herckelitzer to me. — — I thought so! I have cousins in Sanckt Prellin. Beautiful city.”

“This place is a maze. I’m sure to get lost…”

Roelo, meanwhile, positioned himself a few steps afar of the others, glancing out at the academy grounds. He was keen to appear uninterested by his peers; too preoccupied with studying the layout of his new stamping ground. In truth, he chose careful moments to snatch a glance at his classmates. They reminded Roelo of the waterfowl that nested upon the riverbanks of île Mondin; goslings banding into gaggles for kinship and survival; drawn together by instinct and insecurity. Roelo would not satisfy himself with the shallow comforts of such a flock — for if he was to succeed as he stubbornly compacted so to do, he need not forget that eagles fly alone. While it was true that he would one day need a rapport with his battle-brothers when the time came to march, Roelo dismissed the notion that he needed to seek out easy camaraderie. He thought instead upon legends and kings — men who won loyalty not through pleasantries or social standing, but through the sheer electricity of their presence. He would not fawn and flatter: he would sharpen his blade until it sang his name across the Empire. He vowed wordlessly to make it so; to rise above every lickspittle in his path, and to better each and every one, without once employing their craven etiquette. The gloams of his psyche whispered contradictions, of course. Of a longing for an end to his solitude — once involuntary, now self-imposed. But these contemplations fell silent when held against Hladekný’s sonorous words, which echoed still in Roelo’s mind: “where you may have found excuses and comforts as nestlings, you will find here only hard truths.” The others would find themselves ill-prepared, he thought, when the cruelty of war was revealed to them. He was different, or so he believed. He knew that winter would come, even as the sun still burned above. But this itself was a naïvety, for never before had Roelo been truly cold.

The six other boys found themselves in a scattering: two small groups that were huddled close enough to seem as one. It was unintentional, of course, but their haphazard arrangement felt like a primitive military formation — built not for the defense of flesh, but for the adolescent ego. Now and then, they’d glance over at Roelo. They knew now of his noble standing, and he was sure they would seek to ingratiate themselves to him in time. There came great perks in befriending a de Barbroeck, after all — more fool them for assuming him to be one in anything more than name. He’d not ever spend another nonessential coin of his father’s wealth; not on himself, and certainly not on anyone who hoped to squeeze him for his goodwill. In truth, Roelo knew it not, but he was fortunate in moments like these that he carried such a prestigious name. Had his peers not been privy to the authority of his house, any sense of mystery and mastery that he presently carried would have been superseded by his incongruity. He was strange and unapproachable; a disparate outsider; someone who would undoubtedly be mocked and ridiculed as a freak had he been of common blood. While the boys would more-than-likely come to find his temperament unpalatable, many would forgive it — for such aloofness was not only uncommon, but perhaps even romanticised within the highest class of gentry.

Across from the boys, the three girls seemed also to convene, subconsciously self-segregated at the first opportunity. The shepherd of their ensemble was clear to see; the blonde, in her magnetism, seemed to have pulled the other girls into her orbit almost immediately. She stood slightly apart from her would-be-friends, though not in a way that suggested isolation. Rather, it was a studied sort of elevation… a peahen’s perch: and the others were already falling into step. She would be the matriarch of Class E, that much was already clear, and she had the looks and confidence that meant she would assuredly have her pick of the bunch should she seek a paramour among the boys. The brunette did not draw a second glance from Roelo, but he did take a moment to examine the dark-haired girl, who had, only minutes ago, seemed lamblike and unremarkable. Her posture seemed less shrunken, and she now held a fervour in her eyes that Roelo had not noticed upon first appraisal. Perhaps Hladekný had galvanised her with his words — still, she seemed content in acquiescing to the blonde’s uncontested campaign for class-queen.

A breeze drifted through the arcade, stirring the edges of cloaks and plumes. On the other side of the garden that the pathway bordered, Groups C and D followed their respective professors, gradually filtering out of sight. Schöst, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen. Minutes passed.

One of the boys — the lean one with the hooked nose and Herckelitz accent — had taken it upon himself to entertain the others with some embellished tale of a chase and subsequent duel with a cutpurse. He gesticulated theatrically, and the others laughed, too readily. Roelo rolled his eyes, though nobody would have been able to see it. He folded his arms, drawing in a breath that carried heat-warmed grass and stone. He considered, briefly, what might remain of this moment in ten years — whether the faces around him would grow sharper or blur into anonymity. Would any of them rise high enough to be remembered? — other than himself, of course. He would brazenly ensure of his success, or die in the process. The academy would mould them all, certainly — but what shape would they take? Champions or failures? Or corpses?

From one of the shaded corridors leading deeper into the western wing, a set of footsteps approached. They lacked the dragging and clicking that would signal the arrival of Schöst, but nonetheless silenced the class. A gentlewoman of some perceived seniority emerged to regard them.

“Class E,” she spoke. “Please follow me.”

“Where is Herr Schöst, ma’am?,” one of the boys asked — an apt question, given that the other groups had been accompanied by their new tutors.

“He has returned to his quarters. You will meet him in class this afternoon.”

There was something in her tone — not curt, but clinical — that discouraged further inquiry. The boy who had asked merely nodded politely. With that, she turned on her heel, and the ten students scampered attentively behind.

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅲ

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The room was decorated with varying regimental and military standards, which were interspersed with fine oil paintings of former academy chancellors. The lower half of the rear wall was spanned by five narrow vertical columns of stained glass, which sat beneath a singular, domineering circular window. The glass was masterfully designed; salted with rich reds, blues, purples, greens, and yellows; depicting various scenes and imagery of Laachtalian legend — the victory on Römtung Hill, the felling of the Green Drake, the coronation of Paol the Great. The morning’s violent sunlight filtered through the glasswork, coruscating vibrantly across the stone floor, rendering the chandeliers and candelabras in the room rather redundant. Afront the windows was a broad dais draped in crimson velvet, and hemmed with tassels of gold. At the anterior of the dais was a tapered mahogany lectern, where upon the Generalfeldmarschall would soon address the cadets with a commencement speech. Behind it, cushioned tables were positioned; fifty ceremonial smallswords lay restfully, awaiting their bestowal on the neophytes. Fifty-five padded, velvet seats were afront the dais; one for each student, and an extra for their respective professors. Further from the dais were benches arranged for family, which would be filled after the cadets had all filtered in and found their place. The music carried thunderously from outside, but little noise came from within, the cadets adopting a hushed reverence only interrupted by an occasional whisper. As they trickled in, they made their way to one of the five labelled sections: from A through E.

In front of the first four sections stood four professors, each lingering in wait, surveying and regarding their new pupils as they approached. Rigid and elegant, they stood as their cadets might in three years time, as gleaming examples of military excellence. The fifth, the custodian of Section E, made no such attempt at politesse. Roelo might not have noticed the man hunched in a seat at the starboard of the hall, had he not been looking for him. Though he might’ve been mistaken for someone of lesser station, it seemed to be Schöst who haunted the nearly-shadows, his cane resting against the wall. He was bereft of ceremonial medallions, his regimentals were dark and utilitarian, and unlike his contemporaries, he made no attempt to shephard and usher. Schöst looked as if he’d once been an imposing man, but he’d been left mangled by a particularly unkind wartime injury, which fleeced him of any real aura of grandeur. With that said, what he lacked in intimidation by way of physical prominence, he might’ve recovered through ghoulishness. It was a cruel thought, but an undeniable one, that the professor’s afflictions, along with his wider countenance, made him look somewhat baleful, somewhat miserly. It wasn’t that his face wore irritation, or any particular unkindness — in fact, it wore nothing at all, but his dark eyes reminded Roelo of a painting’s; not vacant of thought, but unreadable and forbidding. While looks were often misleading, Roelo couldn’t help but suppose that, when it came to his edifier, he’d drawn the short straw. Schöst had the look of a laggard; he hadn’t yet even opened his mouth, and he’d already left an unbecoming impression on any who laid eyes on him. Perhaps, Roelo considered, no straw had been drawn at all. After all, he was in class five of five. He wondered how these classes were even selected — it wasn’t alphabetically, lest a de Barbroeck would, of course, be seated in Section A. Was he merely among the paddings-out of the fifty annual entrants? The leftovers? The back face of the meticulously decorated festive tree, not quite as preened and perfected as its other margins? It would make sense. Hladekný and Tælman were clearly friendly; the latter must’ve told the former of Roelo’s many shortcomings. Roelo imagined them together, chuckling peevishly as they celebrated their mutually-beneficial exchange, clinking goblets of bon vin; Hladekný obtaining generous donations and endorsements, and Tælman ridding himself of his albatross. It didn’t matter, though. He’d prove them both wrong.

Roelo observed his classmates as he took his own seat; there was the red-haired boy, who he made sure not to make eye-contact with, and five other males, none of which he recognised — he felt a sense of relief that the execrable Jan-Hugo Breitkreutz was not among them. Three girls took their seats; one dark-haired and mousy, one brunette, confident and eagle-like, and one blonde: attractive. He looked away. Now that he was here, his tribe of nine beside him, the intimacy of it all daunted him. As much as he had intended to blend into the crowd, to keep his head down; it seemed a rather ridiculous thought now in practice. How would he go unperceived in such a small troop? Already some of the boys were breathing their names to each-other, exchanging hand-shakes and smiles.

“My name is Ṣaẓriq,” whispered the lad to Roelo’s left — who had dark skin and coiled hair. He angled himself, and his hand, to the de Barbroeck. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes — good morning,” Roelo replied impulsively, shaking the extended hand. He seemed to react without any forethought. “Roelo.”

Ṣaẓriq gave a small grin, and a nod, before turning his attention away.

Idiot, Roelo thought. Why such an unwieldy greeting? Why did your voice pitch itself so falsetto? You sound like a fool.

Roelo had been too caught in his own head to notice, but the guests had all taken their seats, and the band had gone quiet. The cadets began to rise to their feet for a reason unknown to Roelo — but he quickly followed suit nonetheless. Out from a side passage, he noticed, had emerged Generalfeldmarschall Hladekný. The chancellor strode uniformly to the dais, and the entire hall stood in deferential quiet. For a few moments, the room was utterly silent.

“Thank you,” Hladekný started, clearing his throat as he took his place at the lectern. His bass voice resonated through the room, carrying effortlessly to those at the rear. He carried no script with him; with his imminent speech seemingly committed to memory. “Good morning.”

“Cadets,” he continued. “This hall, where you gather today, has borne witness to many generations of young men and women who, like you, once bathed in anticipation, in pride, and perhaps in uncertainty for what lies ahead. But you are not just inheritors of the past; you are the future of our Empire. Each of you, from this day forward, carries the weight of a storied legacy on your shoulders. And a great weight it is. It is a responsibility — a privilege — to safeguard the principles that have forged our realm, to uphold the values that will continue to guide it through generations to come. For many of you, today is a cause for celebration: a new beginning. But I must forewarn you. I speak before you in obsequy of your childhood, as today you must bid it farewell. Tomorrow, you will be children no longer. War is cruel, and it is merciless. It would be neglectful of us, as the guardians of your potential, to treat you as anything other than men and women levied with the highest of expectations.”

“The professors before you are among the most skilled and proven officers in the Laachtalian Empire. They will guide you, yes, but they will not carry your burdens. It is up to you to rise to the challenge. Where you may have found excuses and comforts as nestlings, you will find here only hard truths. You will be tested, you will be judged, and you will be held to a standard higher than you have ever known. You will face doubt; pain; defeat. Your boundaries will be appraised and dismantled. You will learn discipline; and like an iron in fire, you will fortify. The path you have chosen is an arduous one, but not in futility. This, I promise; each and every one of you who dedicates themself wholly to your study will undergo a glorious metamorphosis, discovering a mastery of self that you had previously thought unattainable. The tools and teachings with which we provide you, if taken responsively, will pave the way for your legend. While firstborns destined for high peerage you are not, do not misclassify yourselves as ancillary to your kin. While your elders play a role of great importance in their gentry, it is not they who will hold-fast the marches and bounds of this Empire. It is not they who will ensure the destiny of our realm. It is you, truly, who bares the legacy of Lethuwic.”

The chancellor fell momentarily silent, and the crowd applauded.

“Now, cadets, you will bind yourself to the Empire in oath,” he resumed, as the applause diminuendoed. “You arrived here, today, as scion; naïve and unfledged. Join me, in eulogy, and shed your old skin. Your new life begins now.”

Each cadet had, of course, been briefed on their induction. Section by section, marshalled by their professor, they would form a queue. One by one, they would be summoned by Hladekný to approach the dais, taking several sharp, precise steps forward. There, an officer would hold aloft a ceremonial scroll bearing the oath of allegiance. The cadet would raise their right hand, palm forward, and recite the oath, while standing at attention. Meanwhile, Hladekný would retrieve one of fifty ceremonial smallswords from the table on the dais, which he would bestow upon the cadet following the recital of their oath. Hladekný would hold the sword horizontally in both hands, and the cadet would step forward, bow, and receive it. Thereafter, they would exit through the passage to the left, giving a stoic parting glance to any family members that watched on.

Up came Section A, their professor quietly organising them into a queue before the dais. One by one, they approached Hladekný. While nerves could be heard and observed through occasional minor fumbles and missteps, the students filtered through without any significant embarrassment. Section B followed, then Section C. Within the throng of the third cluster was Jan-Hugo, a contemptible young man who wore a smug leer. Roelo had learned to detest the Breitkreutz, who was everything Roelo was not; an arrogant justiciar, a flatterer, a would-be paladin. He knew that Jan-Hugo would worm his way through the academy, currying favour with anyone and everyone with a shred of influence. He’d undoubtedly be popular and successful; an exemplar, just like Jochem. He felt a pang of what might be jealousy at the thought, but quickly surrendered it, tasting bile on his tongue at the thought of envying the grotesque Jan-Hugo. Section D passed by, and ‘fore long, Herr Schöst issued a heavy sigh, struggling with his cane; arising to direct his decade to the dais.

While Roelo might’ve experienced pangs of anxiety at the thought of socialising with his peers, he felt no such apprehension at the prospect of claiming his smallsword. In fact, as he found himself second in the queue of ten, he felt a warmness engulf him; a fervent euphoria. The ritual was important threefold; as Hladekný had posited, it was a relinquishment of childhood, a coming of age; it was a transfer of responsibility, and an acceptance of destiny; and finally, and most crucially, it was an absconsion from Tælman. Roelo’s chains would break, and he would be his own man, with his own path to carve. When he considered it, he realised he didn’t care much about protecting the Empire; it could crumble, and he would not weep. But the thought of becoming a great man, and forging a legacy that existed independently from his father’s — now that was a sweet delight. The way he saw it, that ascension was worth almost anything; he’d kill for it; he’d become subservient to another entity for it. Was it petty? Most certainly. Did that make the thought any less rhapsodic? Most certainly not. He had no other desires, and enough incentive to push him beyond the limits of most. He would surpass every other in his throng. He would best Jan-Hugo, and not only would he best him, but he would ensure that he was bitterly embarrassed; that there could be no doubt in the mind of any onlooker who was the man of greater moral fibre. Others would be here to make friends, to find love, to explore the realm. He cared not for such things; he only sought to dominate.

He approached the lectern, and recited the oath, hand aloft: “I swear to uphold the laws and values of the Laachtalian Empire, to bring strength to its people in war and in peace, and to uphold the honour of the realm in all my deeds, in life and unto death."

Hladekný offered out the blade, a resilience in his eyes.

Roelo claimed it. Goosebumps crested his skin.

As he left the hall, chin kept high, he searched the benches at the room’s rear. Quickly, he locked eyes with Jochem, who gave a friendly nod, which he returned; and then Tælman, who was expressionless. The moment hung in the air for a few seconds as Roelo made his way to the exit, and neither flinched; both were cold and reserved.

And then he left. He wondered when he would see his father next. Perhaps he never would; though that was an optimistic thought, as the Duke would come sniffing for renown and acclaim when Roelo eventually completed his studies.

He exhaled, resting against the wall of the passageway he had entered. Here he would wait for the rest of his class, after which point, he assumed, Herr Schöst would provide further instruction. He studied the smallsword in his grasp, keen to examine it in all of its majesty. While in its sheath, all that could be seen of the weapon was its rounded guard, urn-shaped cap, and black, leather-bound grip; which was woven with neat brass wire. The scabbard from which the hilt protruded was fashioned of black-lacquered leather, and reinforced with brass fittings; chape and throat painstakingly polished. Suspensions rings were affixed to the scabbard, ensuring its security upon a cadet’s belt in march. He placed his hand on the hilt, releasing the instrument from its confines. The blade itself was straight and slender, thirty-two inches in length, and shaped of the finest steel. Its ceremonial temperament was evident by virtue of its blunt tip, but the sword was nonetheless ergonomic. Its edge was razor-sharp, reflecting light sharply in a keen line, and its cylindrical grip was designed to fit comfortably in hand; well-balanced and elegant. It was accepted — nay, encouraged, that this blade might etch cicatrix in monomachy; though its gelded point would ensure the prevention of any premature tragedy. It was a weapon, of course, but it was principally an article of uniform, an essential part of each cadet’s personal effects for the coming years. Pleased, he let the sword slip back into its case.

With each minute passed came another of Roelo’s classmates, until all had exited the hall. Most of the others assessed their blades in the same manner as Roelo, while the others lingered awkwardly, awaiting Schöst’s approach. It so happened that they would come to wait for longer than they had expected.

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