Vertigo

The Long Night | Medieval Fantasy

R Y L A N T W Y F O R D

Vauclause, streets
Dusk

Ever since Rylan first set foot in town, he found himself unloved by Vauclause's most crooked.

As far as they were concerned, he was nothing but a foul stranger, a sudden threat to a delicately upheld hierarchy. He was met with distrust and stares, and he returned both in kind. Unaware of the ongoing turf wars or the blood spilled during them, he strode the back alleys like a king without a people, not understanding that every stretch of cobblestone was already claimed in someone else's name.

Once the first dusk settled, he understood. If he wanted to hunt, sleep or piss, he had to fight for the right to do it where he wished. So, fight he did, and turf he claimed. But though he was a force unstoppable when it came to acquiring rights to streets, he never did best the others in hunting. The beasts he shared the nights with were fearsome and raw, built from head to heel to hunt and kill. Compared to them, Rylan's daggers were dull and his slingshot slow.

They were hunger made manifest, and to this day, they still stole his kills on the daily without a shred of pity spared.

He was, of course, talking about the cats.

Rylan hated cats.

On principle, the boy much preferred animals to humans. Much simpler in nature, they were unable to hide ill intent behind sweet smiles and sweeter yet words; if you failed to tell apart an angry animal from a pleased one, you entirely deserved to catch their claw.

But when a particular animal was practically built to undermine every attempt at food acquisition you made, animosity was unavoidable. If the cats weren't stealing his kills with their nimble feet and acrobatic prowess, they were winning over what little alms the townsfolk were willing to give with their large beaded eyes.

It wasn’t even something Rylan could blame the townsfolk for. Who would spare their scraps to the smelly scoundrel boy likely to rob you off your coin, when a tabby stared up at you just so, little fuzzy chest rising in tandem with its purr?

A disturbing - if faint - cracking sound pulled Rylan from his thoughts. He raised one sore foot to see what he'd stepped on, and immediately his brows pulled into a furrow. Under his feet, a pile of brittle bones lay in a tuft of bloodied feathers. Grey feathers, as was often the case; ravens were much rarer a sight in town than pigeons, and way more cunning still. It wasn't them the cats caught with effortless ease by the dozens.

Idly, Rylan wondered it that very kill was one he'd been robbed off earlier in the day.

With a small sigh, the boy wiped the bottom of his shoe on the corner of a cobblestone and pressed on. With his mind back in the present, he was suddenly all too aware of the discoloured sky.

Many said the sunset was a beautiful, inspiring time, one that had buttered many a troubadour’s tongue in the past. Rylan had always found sunset upsetting. One need only think of the implications to be disturbed; every day the sun would tirelessly journey across heavens, and every evening it would reach the end of the world and meet its demise. It would bleed orange across the horizon for man and beast alike to behold, and then be wiped from existence and memory alike end dusk. In the morrow it would begin the cycle anew, only to meet the same gruesome end.

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe he could have made a living as a bard instead. Or perhaps he was just too well acquaintanced with what came after sunset that made him think of it in such twisted terms.

The thiefling's steps hastened now, as the bright western horizon was slowly diluted with greys and blues. By the time the sky was black, the cats wouldn't be the only predators prowling the roads. Rylan swore he'd seen them before; shadows come to life, twisting and turning and convulsing, filling the air with the discordant crack of a dozen bones until they stood in a vaguely human shape.

On some nights, Rylan could swear he saw them blink in and out of his peripheral vision. There in an instant, gone the next - almost as if intent on driving him mad with doubt. On other nights, the town was quiet as a grave, and the worst monsters one could encounter were the lowlives with loose cloaks, waiting in shady alleys with baited breath and sweaty fingers for maidens to stumble by.

Yet on others, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary - but even the bravest felines hissed at something unseen, baring their dirty fangs and slashing at the putrid back alley air as if fighting away an invisible threat. It was usually then that Rylan bolted, so he never did find out which side won.

After the bizarre disappearance of three kids only a block from his usual sleeping place, the thief had finally decided he could no longer risk a night in the streets. He'd tried inns at first. Any rundown place with a roof had been good enough, but most would not accept a boy in smelly rags. He had managed to fool a few places with his finer clothes and foreign flavour of words, but that had drained him of coin faster than he'd liked. In the end, he'd been forced to stalk the fringes of town for stables and farmhouses to slip into for the night.

Then, one night, he'd been running from something he could only feel giving chase, and had dived into the first stable he'd found. Inside, he'd expected to find horses rearing at him surprise - and had nearly soiled himself when he'd come face to face with them, instead; proud stryxes with sharp beaks and sharper yet stares, eyeing the scrawny boy that dared trespass in their turf with all the disdain of a king scorned.

Rylan had managed to win them over with food over the following weeks, and had now become an almost nightly quest at the aviary. He was well aware that every visit carried a very real risk - but he preferred the real risk to the ghastly, corporeal, haunting risk that awaited him outside.

The boy was half-way to his destination when he caught a glimpse of quite a scene. It was, ironically, the stryx that first caught his eye. Rylan recognized it as one from the very aviary he was headed towards and quickly duck behind a building to avoid detection. From there, his gaze wandered; to the boy that walked beside the bird to the man he was giving a passing wave; a young man draped in clothes all too fine to be worn at such a dangerous hour. His posture betrayed a drunk, one with quite a reputation among the town's night-dwellers. Tristan Baske, currently wrapped up in conversation with another man and---

Rylan rubbed at his ear in the wake of the woman’s words. A... someone with a mouth fouler than the nest of a dozen rats. But then, the bar she was peeking out of was hardly a reputable place, anyway. Rylan wasn't entirely convinced the owner wasn't a bull wearing a man's skin.

Considering the boy with the stryx was not yet home, Rylan figured he could not yet make his way to the aviary. He had to wait until everyone else was asleep before he could slip in, or risk detection. He didn't know what the Durands did to scoundrels in their stables, but he wasn't all too eager to find out.

So, while he waited, he leaned against the wall he was hiding behind and figured he might as well enjoy the show. If the situation devolved into a fight, all the better; he could stalk past the chaos and perhaps earn a coin or two.

Hidden In The Forest (Closed)

The Dunk

DUNCAN STEWART

"The Dunk"

AGE:

Sixteen

GENDER:

Male

PERSONALITY:

Loud, boisterous and usually found at the center of attention, Duncan comes across as the quintessential jock. Name a party - or any social gathering, really - and you can be sure to find him there. If not flirting by the pool, then making a name for himself at the beer pong table or the dance floor.

He's outgoing and sociable with a tendency for pranks and mischief - something that has caused undue conflict between Duncan and some of his friends in the past. Admittedly, he can be a bit 'too much' at times; so focused on having fun that he forgets others' feelings in the process. Even so, he isn't a bad friend and will look out for those in his inner circle; sometimes he just needs a proverbial slap back to reality.

But despite his well-crafted 'devil may care' attitude, Duncan is, at heart, an escapist and a coward, just as hooked on attention and adrenaline as he is on nicotine. He's deadly afraid of losing face, and though he likes to establish himself as the leader of most groups, when it comes down to it, he is a follower. What his older and cooler teammates do, he does after them - even if it involves bullying others or breaking the law.

In short, Duncan is a kid who never asked to be a big name - but since he turned out one anyway, he figures the only thing he can do is ride the wave until he crashes.

OTHER:

🏀 Stands at 6'5''

🏀 Local basketball ace; the source of his nickname.

🏀 While he seems to be soaking in all the attention and fame from his 'budding sports career', Duncan doesn't actually care much for basketball. He went to try the sport out in search of a mindless distraction, and somehow got coached into the local ace of his age group. Now, it's all too late for him to quit.

🏀 Lives alone with his father, but doesn't really talk about his home situation. Prefers to stay over at his grandparents' house whenever able.

🏀 Smoker. Usually turns to the cig when he's nervous or stressed out in particular.

🏀 Was among the first to be allowed on the trip. He isn't sure if his father remembers him asking, but he is sure his absence won't be noticed.

星空 不朽 | Hoshizora Everlasting

Cirillo Bianchi, The Dumpster Fire That Could

Cirillo Bianchi

"Don't take life so seriously. 's not like you're getting outta it alive, anyway."

_Name

Cirillo Bianchi, but he's also used to responding to "Cyril", "Ciri" and "You little shit"

_Age

16

_Gender

Male

_Birthplace

PSR B1257+12 A/B, commonly Draugr, People's Union.

A small planet far from the stability of the Solaris Accord's core, Draugr is distinguished by its indistinguishability. It played a relatively small part in the war, and though it is recognized as an official part of the People's Union, it is far from the center of political discourse. It has traditionally been self-sustaining, and both immigration and emigration rates are low; those who were born there seem mostly content to stay, while residents of other planets are in no hurry to move to the quirky, distant little rock. Especially since Draugr comes packed with quite a reputation.

The planet contributed little to the war effort, but that did not mean its people stood united. Quite the contrary; conflict among citizens persisted far past the declaration of peace, particularly among the young and the able who felt robbed of a chance to fight for their beliefs. The planet teetered on the edge of a civil war. The circumstances gave rise to crime that grew more and more organized by the day; until Syndicates, as they were referred, engulfed the entire celestial body.

To this day, it is these Syndicates that hold all the real power within society, their influence undeniable and omnipresent. At the same time, it is these very organizations that uphold peace and order, swiftly taking care of those that seek to stir trouble or threaten the system. As such, organized crime and corruption are seen as regular parts of every day life. Sometimes, people simply disappear - it's a fact of life. Unfortunate for certain, but so are thunderstorms and floods; yet there is little anyone can do to stop any of them.

It is generally understood that as long as one keeps out of the shadier parts of cities and towns, does not involve themselves in anything illegal or try to show opposition to the powers that be, they are able to live out their days in peace. It is the loons and the fools that find themselves in trouble.

Incidentally, Cyril is the latter.

_Appearance

One need not hear Cyril speak to understand just what kind of a person he is - for better or for worse. Standing at a rather regular 5'11, he carries himself with misplaced confidence that doesn't quite befit a boy from a backwater planet. Worse, no matter the circumstance, you will rarely find his face in a frown - unless it's a heavily exaggerated one, most commonly followed by a snide remark or an attempt at a joke.

In fact, that's what life seems to be to him; a joke, not a thing to be taken seriously. Mischievous smiles, hands moving to the lazy rhythm of his words and a complete lack of posture; those are the cornerstones of what make up one Cirillo Bianchi, and you're entirely forgiven for finding it infuriating. He's like water; calmly flowing through life without a care in the world, yet never completely still. He does have a goal, after all. He just doesn't entirely care whether he reaches it today or next year. He's dead either way.

In short, he has quite a punchable face.

_Personality

Cyril is, essentially, that guy; the one that can't help but offer his commentary and crack unsolicited jokes at whatever topic is at hand, regardless of its gravity. Laid-back to the point it teeters on unnatural, he seems entirely unconcerned by things most people would find troubling. He's either unable or unwilling to read the mood, and seems to miss social cues many would consider obvious. Often, people simply label him an idiot and move on - and that is definitely not an inadvisable tactic.

However in truth, he isn't as stupid as he makes himself out to be (he wishes). Contrary to popular belief, he's actually quite perceptive; able to read people better than anyone would think to give him credit for. It's thanks to that, in part at least, that he's also able to be quite charismatic when the need arises. Yes, him. This guy.

Though he often wields them for stupid purposes, he does have a way with words, honed by years of practice. He can talk himself out of many a bad spot, and it helps that he has an uncanny ability to keep his calm even in the face of danger. He has no pride to be wounded, and his life is forfeit anyhow; what is there left to be angry or shaken about?

Unfortunately, this does mean that his sense of self-preservation is low and his priorities rather messed up. Underneath the laid-back disposition is a defeatist, a boy who's very much resigned to his fate. The dark humour is a coping mechanism, as is the devil may care attitude. All the same, it's a genuine part of him now.

To sum the boy up, if he isn't busy having fun, getting in trouble, joking or flirting up a storm, he's... probably asleep - or dead. Like, literally.

_Background

Cirillo's life could have been easy enough. He was born into an entirely average home with two hardworking parents and a family dog with the most pretentious name imaginable. The quintessential middle class home, one could say. Being the only child of a couple that had wished for kids for years, Cyril was spoiled to the extent his parents' salaries would allow. He wasn't given everything his heart desired, but there was no lack of love, toys or games during his childhood.

In retrospect, perhaps that was a bad thing. Perhaps things were made a bit too easy for him; to the point that on some days - weeks, months - Cyril was almost bored by the normalcy.

Either way, like most things in life, it did not last. Draugr was hit with recession, and it didn't take long for its effects to reach the Bianchi household. Cyril was around ten when his parents came home downtrodden, with furrowed brows and tired eyes. The plant they had been working in until then had laid off workers. In favour of magitek, many said in angry, hushed whispers, it's the very thing that sparked the war the last time!

But though rumours circulated, none dared try and ascertain the truth underneath Syndicate's ever-vigilant eyes. Instead, it was taken as simply another thing that happened and had to be overcome, not by fighting against it but by finding a way around it. Cyril's parents set out to look for new jobs, be that those were not an easy find at the time. They did eventually land something that paid a few bills, but the pay was only a small portion of what they'd earned prior. More was needed, if they were to uphold their quality of life. And it would need to be an endeavour shared by the entire family.

Though still young, Cyril was ushered to try and find a part-time job to help support the family. Reluctant at first, the preteen did as he was bid and set out, eventually landing a job as a delivery boy. The pay was as poor as could be however, and once his father fell ill and was rendered unable to work, the pocket money Cyril brought home was like trying to apply a band-aid on a gash. Cute, but effectively useless.

And yet, his mother was soon granted a promotion, and his father's condition was stable and not at all life-threatening. The financial climate was slowly changing. If only Cyril had stuck delivering food a few years longer, things could have perhaps returned to the way they were.

But the young boy was filled to the brim with impatience and frustration, and from those circumstances came the worst decision he ever made.

It happened one day on a bustling market as he returned home from work. Caught in the crowd and unable to push past all the people much bigger than him, Cyril found himself bumping into backs and pockets left and right, until someone's wallet threatened to spill onto the pavement. Thick and filled to the brim with cash, it was an opportunity all too tempting to pass up on.

Cyril brought home an exceptional sum of money that day; a bonus for work well done, he said. The next day, he brought home almost as hefty a sum, as he did the few days after that - though he'd stopped showing his entire haul in case it might rouse suspicion. And, just like that, gone were his problems. He could once again afford all the things his parents had bought him in the years past, be that some he had to buy in secrecy. He no longer had to go to work, when he could earn much more in a much shorter time.

For a long time, it was simply pickpocketing. Then it was counterfeits, sold with the most charming smile he could muster. And when that became all too boring, he trafficked illegal goods, broke into homes and menaced people he was paid to target, all for the sweet promise of money and excitement. He no longer needed the games and goods he'd originally missed so; he had something much more exhilarating now, a thrill unlike any other.

Then, one day, that thrill became a thriller.

To Cyril, the man had been but another target; just someone who wore an archaic gold watch that someone else wanted. He'd moved in with practiced charm and dexterity, smiling at the stranger one minute; gone with his belongings the next. By all means, it had been a success. The money the watch fetched him was exceptional, enough to support the entire family for... for years, he bet.

The warning bells did not ring in his head until a gunshot rung in his ears. The man had caught up with him, and slowly the gravity of the situation dawned on young Cyril. This was no ordinary Joe; this was a man held in high regard by one of the largest Syndicate families, and he was not pleased.

Cyril thought he would die there and then, but he did not. Not yet, he was told; he would not be going anywhere until he'd paid back the full sum of the watch he stole. Which, according to the man, was far greater than what he'd been told by his contractor. The watch had been a MAID; he would be paying back his debt for years until he'd be allowed the peace of a grave. If not through money, then through blood; of those, Cyril reluctantly chose the former.

After three years of working for the Syndicate, Cyril was informed that he would be sent away. To where and for what purpose, he did not know - but he'd long since learnt that refusal was not an option. So, all he did in the wake of the news was cross his arms, cock his brows and ask with the deadpan tone only a dead man walking could muster: "Should I bring sunscreen?"

_Statistics

STR - ▰▰▱▱▱
DEX - ▰▰▰▰▰
CON - ▰▰▰▱▱
INT - ▰▰▰▱▱
WIS - ▰▰▰▱▱
CHA - ▰▰▰▰▱

_M.A.I.D.

Cyril's MAID takes the form of a ring, usually worn in his left middle finger. It's a fancy-looking thing of plated gold that paints him wealthier than he really is. Usually, his MAID allows him three distinct forms of attack.

1) By snapping his fingers (with the finger the ring is worn in, of course), Cyril can create a spark of static electricity that then gets picked up and amplified by the MAID and his own magical prowess. This allows Cyril to shoot out blasts of electric energy from his fingers with a snap. These blasts may stun targets or interfere with less complex electric devices upon contact (MAIDs are unaffected).

2) Similarly, by utilizing electric magic, the ring allows Cyril to essentially turn his hand into a railgun. He can pick up small objects such as rocks, and then with a snap of his fingers, fire them off at such high velocities that they essentially become makeshift bullets.

3) Finally, the ring is able to give Cyril's punches quite a shocking edge. Channeling energy into his very fist, the MAID can enhance the power of his punch and, upon impact, release magic straight into the target's body. Needless to say, this is particularly useful when he's forced into close-quarter combat.

_{Miscellaneous}

♟ He's kleptomaniac, and cannot help his impulses sometimes. It's best to keep your valuables close by - or if not, at least your weapon; so you can whack him when he tries to reach for your stuff.

Hyrule's Civil War (Zelda RP)

I've got the company's summer party today - working from 8 to 1, and then party from 1 to midnight, so I won't be able to post until Saturday. But yeah, since Nadijah's post won't affect the rest of the group, I'll get that up early on Sat!

Hyrule's Civil War (Zelda RP)

It was mentioned that the front entrance was locked, and the door that was left open for them was a backdoor.

Hyrule's Civil War (Zelda RP)

N A D I J A H

Telma's Bar → Outside the Well
Green District, Castle Town

There wasn't much for Nadijah to eavesdrop, in truth. She'd arrived just in time to hear her fellow Gerudo confirm that the strange voice she'd heard was speaking in earnest, but no one seemed willing to take her up on her offer to answer questions. Nadijah found it both infuriating and ironic; she certainly had a plethora of questions.

What manner of magic did the queen possess to be able to commune with them so? What kind of revenge was the king looking for, if it involved the death of his own people? Why was he acting now, of all times? What good would them going to the dying queen even do?

There was only one way to stop a madman - and that involved blood and steel, not a rendezvous with a dying woman in labour.

But though the lack of answers frustrated her, Nadijah wasn't unopposed to the idea of forgoing idle talk and getting a move on either. The longer she spent standing around in the downpour, the stronger a pull she felt towards the well. It was as if invisible hands had wrapped around her arm, yanking and pulling and beckoning her to turn on her heel.

The sudden sound of feet on wood pulled the Gerudo from her thoughts before she could give in to the pull. In an instant, she flung herself to the bar's roof, far from the path of the exiting group. She watched them march on in the rain, straining her neck to try and peek under hoods and helmets to gain a better view. The rain made sure she didn't entirely succeed.

Face in a frown, haunted by her own inaction, the Gerudo reluctantly settled to waiting once more. She was not quite willing to join the merry little band of misfits.

At the very least, if the well was indeed a trap, they’d be the ones falling to it - not her. Nadijah tried very hard to find solace in that fact.

-----------------------

It was only after everyone else had taken the proverbial plunge into the well that Nadijah made her approach. She lowered her hood once she reached the taller Gerudo woman, hoping her heritage would make clear her intentions.

"Sav'saaba," she mumbled, but didn't wait for an answer. "I didn't expect to find a sister in this wretched place."

Much less one that, according to the woman's own words, served the royal family. What could have possibly led to her serving the very people that sought to eradicate her kin? It was a question that burned in Nadijah's throat like the hottest desert sun, but she swallowed it down and substituted with a question nearly as pressing: "What is going on?"

The words came out a tad more forceful than Nadijah had intended. She went on regardless.

"Why is this foreign vai asking us to meet her at her deathbed? How are we to know that this isn't some twisted trap meant to weed out those disloyal to the mad king?"

Why are you trusting the queen of our enemy, Nadijah wanted to add so badly it hurt, but bit her tongue so as to not let it slash out.

Hidden In The Forest (Closed)

Huh, didn't get your tag either. Might've been because it was inside the italicized text...?

Anyway, probably gonna make a jock. Dude who just came out here to have fun, and isn't gonna let any stupid little rumours stop him. Probably dismisses the danger until the very end, and is the first to go investigate to prove that there's nothing out there etc. Buuut he'll also get progressively more scared as things unfold, and eventually he's only dismissing the danger because he he really, really doesn't want it to be real.

Somethin' like that!

星空 不朽 | Hoshizora Everlasting

Awesome! Thanks for having me.

Will fix up the weapon tomorrow (at the latest) and then throw him in the char tab. Sorry 'bout thaaat.

Edit: All done~

Hyrule's Civil War (Zelda RP)

Working on a post now!

Discussed things with Product, and Nadijah's gonna exchange a few words with Telma before catching up with the group. No dramatic falling entrance, alas, but there'll be another chance for her to ruin the mood later, heh.

EDIT: Posted! Sorry 'bout the wait. The second part is set whenever everyone else has entered the well - if someone's not gonna enter, just holler and I can edit it accordingly. But I think everyone is going to get in sooner or later.

Also yeah, she hasn't put together that they're going to save the unborn baby. It was never explicitly stated by Zelda after all - she just asked them to come to her. And to Nadijah, saving some baby is irrelevant to stopping the king.

The Long Night | Medieval Fantasy

Rylan Twyford

"These alleys are no place for a lordling. If milord is looking for trouble, might I suggest the woods beyond the city? They're just as dangerous, but at least the smell's more bearable."

---

Name: Rylan Twyford

Age: 18

Gender: Male

Class: Scoundrel

Country of Origin: Tenebroux

Weapons:

♙ A simple dagger, not entirely untouched by the elements. The handle is worn and the edge rugged, kept sharp only by regular (amateurish) maintenance. Make no mistake, though; prime condition or not, a stab to the gut is a stab to the gut - and necessity gives Rylan quite an aim indeed.

♙ A crudely made slingshot. More useful for shooting down pigeons for dinner than injuring an actual person, but can at least provide a small distraction in a pinch.

♙ Rope. Good ol', plain rope. It's more useful than you'd think.

Appearance:

On most days, Rylan looks about what you'd expect from a kid who's grown up on the streets. Standing at 5'6'', the lack of proper nutrition has left him scrawny and short, even in face of all the physical activity he engages in every day. His hair is a tangled mess of strands and mud, his clothes torn and ditty, and the slums have left him with a distinct smell. Needless to say, he's not the most charming sight to behold on his worst days.

However, should there be a special need for him to look more presentable, he can - at least, if given ample time to prepare. Before fate thrust him onto the streets, he used to spend his days wrapped in scented silks and knows how to play the part of a someone more fortunate. He has a few articles of finer cloth safely tugged away in one of his many stashes, and though he knows selling them would fetch him many a coin, he figures they're worth more when worn. He can't exactly sneak into festivals looking like he usually does.

It should also be noted that while his physical strength is nothing to brag about, Rylan is incredibly nimble; a cat on two feet, he always seems to find a way to land on his proverbial feet. To the chagrin of many a past pursuer, the boy can scale a building or lose a guard with the best of them. He has an uncanny ability to squeeze himself into the smallest of crevices and disappear as if unto thin air if you so much as lose sight of him for a second. It may sound admirable - but really, anything less and he'd be long dead by now.

Personality:

Don't let the cocky grin and confident stride fool you - despite his casual smugness, Rylan is as craven as they come. Concerned first and foremost with his own well-being, loyalties mean little and promises even less when push comes to shove. It's not that he doesn't care about you - it's just that he cares about himself more. He's aware that his life is hardly one for the bards, but it is the only life he'll ever have and he intends to hold onto it tooth and nail.

Unfortunately for him (and certainly those around him) Rylan also comes packaged with a bitter sense of humour and a sharp tongue. Smartass at heart, it is only self-preservation that keeps Rylan's wit at bay most of the time. If need be, he knows just what to do to butter people up and has no qualms with throwing away pride for another morrow. As far as he's concerned, whoever said they'd rather die on their feet than live on their knees was a halfwit. He's lived knee-deep in rat droppings, and even that beats throwing your life away for some childish concept of 'pride'.

With all that said, Rylan isn't entirely an unpleasant person. He may not be one to throw himself in front of an incoming arrow to save your knee in a shocking display of courage, but if you are a perceived friend, he will extend a hand where he's able. He isn't purposefully looking to make enemies, and will most likely return a favour if you've done one for him. The world is already a shitty place, he isn't trying to make it worse.

Short Biography:

Though he's spent most of his life in Lutaire, Rylan's earliest memories are of a place far beyond the mountains and swamps - a place that lies across the endless ocean, under an eternal sun. There, as he recalls, everything was much sweeter; the weather, the scents, the words spoken to him by strangers. As a boy, he never understood the hurry with which his parents left. Now, he understands all too well.

Rylan's parents were lowborn. His mother was a foreign beauty, stolen away and sold to a local lord as his seventh concubine, and his father was a slave under the very same roof, convicted for crimes he never committed and stripped of his freedom. Their first meeting was happenstance; their next few were not. For years, they managed to keep their rendezvous a secret, the comfort they found in each other the only thing that kept them sane.

And then the news broke that she was with child. For nine long months, both lived in a state of constant fear. Many a time they contemplated escape, but an opportunity never did present itself. So all they did was pray, pray and pray that the child would not bear resemblance to their true father. The gods must've heard, because he did not. He had his mother's eyes, and her fair skin had made his a shade lighter than his peer's.

For years, life was... the same old, as it were. Rylan doesn't really remember much of it. He bore a different name and lead a different life, and it all feels as though it happened to someone else entirely. The only thing he can remember vividly is the day they fled; the sky was starless and filled with smoke. He had started to resemble his father too much as he grew. There were whispers. The fire in the northernmost tower was a sign from the gods.

Theirs would have been a tale for the bards; two lovers, escaping into the night with their child. If only they'd gotten the happily ever after they justly deserved.

The few years the couple spent in Lutaire were filled with hardships and strife. They were strangers in a strange land and eventually, that led to their demise. Bandits slayed them, attracted by the smell of sweet summer wines and tales of riches from beyond the sea. Big was their disappointment, when they found naught worth stealing in the couple's hut - except their young son. He ought to fetch a few coppers.

Rylan never did find out exactly how many coppers he fetched, but considering how grand the place of his new master was, he hoped it was a fine amount. For a time, he worked as a servant boy to a lord with a gaze that made his skin crawl. His tasks consisted mostly of serving wine and looking the part of an exotic trophy from beyond the seas.

That was, until one day during a boar hunt, his lord and company were attacked by sellswords, after the man's gold - and head. Being young, Rylan was spared the bloodbath by one of the mercenaries and dropped off to the nearest town with a few coins, a piece of bread and a 'good luck' for good measure. And for a foreign boy with no particular skills to his name, luck was indeed what he needed.

Almost a decade later, Rylan's come to the conclusion that Lady Luck's a bitch and he's better off without her.

Summary: If it looks like a street rat, sounds like a street rat and smells like a street rat, it's probably Rylan.

Other:

♙ Has a soft spot for animals of all kinds, and would love to one day behold a dragon up close. A dangerous affair, he knows, but it's not animals - even fire-breathing ones - that scare him so; it's people.

♙ Has spent time in a few other towns and villages besides the one he currently resides in. He often does his travelling with merchants or performer groups, working for free in exchange for protection from the elements. He's been in this village for a few years now, and leaving has crossed his mind. It's never a good thing to stay in one place for too long, lest you get caught and lose a hand or two.