Kaspar shut the door behind him, listening to the sounds of his companions fading into the distance, hopefully off to their own rooms for the night. Feelings had been tugging at him since Jocasta had first talked about the nature of the refuge, but they’d been shoved down and away—as emotions always were, for one who was dangerous without that control.
The lightest sting in his palms returned, and the boy glanced down at them for the first time since they’d entered the refuge. The skin was scraped, though not severely so—it was still more than he’d hurt himself in years, and he cursed his lack of control. Something about this place made him feel vulnerable and weak—emotional, in a way he couldn’t allow himself to be.
He started toward the bath and then stopped, heaving out a breath. His muscles itched and he felt like he couldn’t stand still, like he was shaking. He grabbed at his dark brown hair, red eyes squeezing shut, and tried to breath deeply into his chest. He had a mission to do, for fuck’s sake—he couldn’t be this weak. Besides, this reaction would spark curiosity and questions. Maybe not all of his companions would notice, but some were far too sharp—and might be all too willing to use something they learned. No one else could know that he wasn’t Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft.
At that, something in his mind grabbed back violently and he jerked away like he’d been hit.
You are Kaspar. You’ve always been Kaspar. There is no one else.
He sucked in another stuttered breath, eyes snapping open, and realized he’d fallen back against the tub, crouching on the floor with his face between his knees like a toddler. He couldn’t find it in him to care much for decorum, letting himself slide down until he sat against the floor.
He needed to sketch. Sketching was what calmed him, what could tame these emotions and put them back into the locked box where they belonged. He’d not brought supplies, but the boy reached for anything nearby that could be remade into charcoal—drawing away at the nearby materials and, perhaps, at flesh. As the utensil materialized in his hands, Kaspar had the epiphany that trying to make anything else in such a state could leave him very injured and very lacking in deniability.
He glanced up, looking for a desk or some manner of paper.
His eyes found the wall first. It was flat enough, and plain enough. Charcoal was not so picky as ink.
The boy stood, stalking swiftly to the wall with a stick of charcoal clutched in his fingers. He put it to stone, hand sketching a rough line. He wasn’t even sure what he was creating until the first large, arcing line of a shell became apparent.
The halassa took shape one line at a time on the rough wall, the boy pacing back and forth fervently. At some point he grew too hot, bunching the ends of his sleeves up the elbow, but before long the fabric around the joints became too much for him to bear, and he hastily pulled off the vest and tunic alike, ignoring the prints of charcoal against the fabrics. The pale skin of his bared back glistened with sweat as he worked at the sketch, mind honing into the fine point he craved.
The face came last. He stared at the empty space in the center of this rapidly sketched piece, and his mind kept blinking to the designs—was it meant to have eyes dribbling down its cheeks, or to be choking on its own blood? Perhaps the neck was to be turned at an awkward angle, or no face at all but a gory hole where one had been, once.
He never thought of the peaceful face of the one Yalen had killed with internal chemistry.
Finally, it was a dark and smudged handprint that formed the face as he dragged his palm and spread fingers against the stone, ignoring the pain against the scraped flesh. There was enough charcoal left on the skin to coat it as he dropped the darkened nub that had served him. The boy stepped back, breathing more easily than he had since the door had closed.
For minutes he stood stock-still, taking in the messy sketch with little thought to the manner of cleaning it. Finally, wiping sweat from his brow, he noticed the black stains on his hands. He let out one humorless bark of laughter before stumbling back towards the bath, fumbling to kick the sand-filled boots off his feet.
The water was cold now, and he shivered as he lowered himself into it. The soap was not hard to locate—he noted that the bar seemed to be fresh, but was missing an uneven chunk. He tried to push down the shame of that moment and rubbed it against the skin of his hands, watching the charcoal slowly turn the water dark. Despite the chill of the bath, he found his energy draining and tiredness overtaking him down to the very bone.
He saw his parents in the dream that found him. Not the Marquis and his wife, but Ehren and Lark Weber. They looked just as they had when he was eight, young and lively and filled with joy in parenthood. He and his father were playing some simple game, sitting cross-legged on the floor and trying to tap each other on the hands, laughing the whole while.
It was Lark’s screams that pitched above his own childlike giggles, snapping the boy’s attention behind him towards the sound. She stared at him, horror in her eyes. Scared, and confused, he turned back to his father for help and—
Red.
His hands and wrists, and the floor all around him, painted in the dark crimson of fresh-spilled blood. It was icy cold and crawled up his arms as Alaric screamed, trying to scramble back from it to no avail. It climbed up and up, over his elbow and up the flesh of his arm, across the shoulder, prickling and cold against his skin all the way. Across his throat and up under his chin, passing his lips and flooding into his wide-opened mouth and reaching for the nostrils—
Kaspar woke, coughing icy water back into the tub and nearly dry-heaving. He shivered, breathing clean air and shaking his wet hair from his eyes. The boy couldn’t tell the hour, but knew he should’ve been asleep long ago—in a bed, perhaps.
He pushed himself out of the tub, arms weak but mostly clean, and shuffled toward the bed. Practically falling into it, no care for the water droplets still clinging to him, the boy wrapped himself in every available blanket, willing away the cold of the water and his mind.
He fell back into sleep, and did not dream again.
LOCATION: Breakfast Table INTERACTIONS: AA [@], BB [@]
Kaspar would seem stoic to any who looked at him over breakfast, but it was not unusual for the boy. If there was something darker to the silence, shadowing over him, it would be difficult to notice. He was tired, but that much had to be expected after the night he and his companions had experienced.
He had more than his fill of coffee, hoping the liquid would breathe something like life back into him, and picked at most of what was brought out for the meal. He glanced at his classmates, keeping an eye on their conversations, but lacked the motivation to chip in anything—even though one of them was Ayla, the cheerful girl who seemed to be the only one he stayed around.
His plate was nearly empty when the warden began talking, but Kaspar watched the man passively and continued to chew at his Pan Con Tomate, offering up neither questions nor suggestions. Something in him disliked this man, but the student couldn’t tell if it was for specific actions and the way he spoke to Marceline, or for the knowledge Jocasta had given them about the refuge—there was certainly no love in him for a man who allowed such things to happen.
But the Warden’s visit was blessedly short-lived, and Kaspar found himself pulled along behind his classmates on a tour of the facilities. While he did not have much personal interest in the tour, it would provide distraction enough for his mind and allow him to assess the state of the refuge and those living within it.
He noted, as Zarina drew attention to the priest, that Yalen seemed even more lacking in sleep than Kaspar. With a stab of pity, he wondered what nightmares could’ve visited him in the night—and decided, a moment later, that he’d rather not know. Kaspar’s own demons were enough to deal with. But he kept an eye on the fellow student, when he could—he might be impartial to emotions, but the red-eyed boy was not heartless.
Yet as the tour went on, the group dwindled with surprising urgency—Jocasta wheeling off to some task of her own and Yalen disappearing to aid a child. Ysilla seemed to be missing entirely, and Kaspar hadn’t quite noticed her departure following breakfast. He hung behind his classmates and Marceline, listening quietly to the conversation as it turned toward the tree they were nearing.
(Also found in YummyYummy’s “Morning before the Mission”)
Kaspar’s eyes drifted to the tree, scanning the branches and admiring its shape. He was unfamiliar with its kind, as he didn’t study the plants of Torragon, but it pulled him in like so many other plants had in his time.
Keeping the voices of the group half in mind, he stepped away, head tilted as he noted the particular shapes of the leaves, the contrast between the bark and the bright orange fruits that dangled temptingly from the branches. He reached up, fingers skimming the flesh of one, and wondered passively if it would keep until he had a notebook in hand.
Willing to chance it, he grasped the orange fully and tugged, detaching it from the branch and watching the leaves bounce in response. He palmed the fruit, turning it over and admiring the bold coloring. He traced the shape of it, the minute dimpling of the skin and the way the light reflected from the waxy peel. Then, realizing the foolishness of this moment, he found himself wondering what, precisely, his plan for storing the fruit was.
Feeling a bit sheepish at the way he’d been distracted by the tree, Kaspar glanced around to see if anyone—most of all his fellow students—had noticed his captivation. His red eyes trailed down, sweeping around, and froze near the trunk. His brow furrowed, unbidden, as he stared at the couple carving into the bark, and a coldness crept up the skin of his back. The girl was unfamiliar, but there was something unsettlingly recognizable about the boy, like Kaspar should know him—like he always had.
It took him another moment of openly staring to realize just how strongly the stranger’s face resembled his own—the most noticeable difference being in the colors of their eyes, but the other details seemed to fit like a blurry memory. They were close enough, though perhaps not exact.
For a moment, he felt as though he were looking at some distant timeline in which he’d simply been disposed of, placed far away where no one would ask any questions. It burned hot in his gut, flooding his mind with everything he’d spent the past night pushing away, too surprised for the logic to understand he was not tethered, and could not be this boy. It almost seemed like he could smell the blood again, coating his stinging palms…
And the pain forced his awareness back, red eyes sliding down to the fruit still gripped in his hand. The skin was mottled and leaking, pooling on his scraped flesh and dripping to the ground as his Gift peeled at it. The juice was sticky against his skin, not warm or red but still enough in the shock of the moment. Startled, he dropped the fruit to the ground and watched it thud gently, rolling away from his feet and leaving the stone wet beneath it.
Breathing raggedly, he backed away, trying to find his classmates and their guide. The boy didn’t matter, nor did any possible path but this one. Kaspar could simply push him away, every boy he’d ever been, and forget this moment in the garden. If it truly wouldn’t leave his mind, as part of him perhaps so dearly hoped, the carving would still be fresh—and it’s not as if the boy could leave.
As his feet shuffled back across the courtyard toward Ayla, Zarina, and Marceline, Kaspar finally caught onto the body language. He realized, moments before he stumbled back into it, that he was approaching what seemed to be a heated argument. He stopped, uncertain, and stared wide-eyed as Marceline turned and began to storm away. As he processed the last of her words, trying to make sense of where things may have gone wrong, it was Ayla’s angry voice that resounded next.
Kaspar felt like a child witnessing his parents argue, standing mere steps away as they shouted and thoroughly unsure as to whether he should still be here, listening. It was Zarina’s response when he truly began to make sense of the words, bodily flinching as she mentioned the tree—though it was unlikely either of them would notice, caught up in their disagreement.
As she turned and left, Kaspar was at a loss to see the tour ended so quickly—and in such poor spirits. For the moment, it seemed Ayla was the only other student left. The red-eyed boy stood unmoving, half-raised hand still coated in juice and stinging. He blinked slowly at her, unsure whether he should announce his presence, or perhaps offer some support or comfort… Or simply turn and leave, and pretend he’d not witnessed the heated exchange.
“You think you are the heroes, in a world where we are all simply men.”
2 9 | M A L E | E S K A N D | R A N G E R__ _ _ _ _
C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _
Vali, like many of his Eskand brethren, stands above six feet—four inches or so over, though he’s certainly never measured. His shoulders are broad and he’s got the musculature expected of a renowned raider, but benefits from the bulk of his heavy leathers and furs. His skin is pale and his features sharp, a harshness to the cut of his cheeks and nose. His jawline, though much the same, is hidden beneath a short-kept beard. Vali’s hair is blonde, kept nearly to his shoulders. While he usually leaves it down, he may put it in braids for battles or hunts, to avoid it becoming a hindrance. His eyes are a pale green-blue, and ever watchful.
Though he’s certainly fought enough to earn the scorn of the Northerners, Vali is far from simply a warmonger. He holds a steadfast faith in his Gods, believing they called him to war, but honors them in more than just bloodshed. He values the relationships he’s built among his peers, particularly those of his blood-brothers, and enjoys a good chance to speak and laugh with those he truly cares about. He understands why the northerners view his people with such disdain, but does not believe the notion that anyone is necessarily good among the conflicting sides—both act with self-interest, and he will not begrudge the Parrench for doing so, but the belief will likewise not stop his own fulfillment of his beliefs.
Vali also has his own sort of intelligence, particularly when he becomes invested in a hunt. He prides himself on being able to think like both hunter and prey, allowing him to understand the motivations of his quarry and design the hunt to prey upon those weaknesses. His intelligence is certainly not of a scholarly nature, but he finds great pleasure in the cultivated ability to get into something’s head and pull out its plans and actions—or tip the balance just enough in one way to assure an outcome he wants.
There is, however, a dissatisfaction within him—he feels, at times, a sense of shame in where his skills lie. He’s not the fearsome fighter his blood-brothers are, and couldn’t hold his own against a horde of foes the way people seem to expect of them. He’s younger and came late to the game, leaving the man to worry that his legacy will be paltry in comparison. He can be foolhardy as a result, pushing himself to do things he believes may garner him greater respect.
B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _
Some names are given, others earned.
The name Vali, powerful, was given in the small village to a squalling blonde babe in a hut that stank of sheep year-round. He grew, as some are fortunate enough to do, herding sheep as soon as he could count them. A shepherd’s life gave plenty in the way of blood—in the slaughter of livestock for food in the cold of Hundri, or the butchering of predators that stalked the herd.
Yet a different kind of blood spills from the flesh of men.
This was the blood the Gods of Eskand called for, to those who heard them in dreams and death and the cold wind on the southern slopes. They spoke with a voice that Vali, son of Kjell, heard and heeded just after his eighteenth birthday.
With five brothers to guide the herd, neither the sheep nor the family would miss him. So he took up his spear, a simple thing, and joined the great raiders going North.
It was not easy, for one so unblooded—there were many who had soaked in their crimson tides and looked down upon the weak, taking glory and blood and gold as they pleased. One who had not yet proven his life worthy on the field of death was but a camp follower. Even the murder of the weak, the young, and the old was not enough—if a body could not threaten you, it was no more than slaughtering livestock.
Vali, son of Kjell lived months in the disdain of warriors before he too was blooded.
He alone stood in the cobbled street, surveying the wreck and ruin of blood and fire that had once been a town. He was the one the armed rider spotted, the man whom the snorting wild charger sought to run down with the wicked sword in his rider’s hand.
None here would mourn him. Some might take his shoes, the fur upon his shoulders, or his paltry spear. They would not send word home to his family, who would not cry for him if they did. Some would see, but few would remember the way the boy was cut down.
And yet… He was not cut down.
He, too, saw the approaching end. But rather than run or close his eyes like a coward, Vali, powerful, son of Kjell planted his feet against the rough-hewn stone, gripped his spear, and met his approaching death with a thrust and a guttural warcry.
The tip of his spear struck the beast at the base of its neck and sunk clean through the flesh. Screaming, it fell upon the spear and down the shaft, the chipped point finding its way out of the mane and into the throat of the rider.
They fell, and fell, the horse screaming in death, its riding choking on his blood, and Vali shouting for the glory of his Gods. They heaped on the stone in a puddle of dark blood, spear pointed to the sky—and for a moment, all was silent.
Then the body of the rider rose first, glistening wetly in the firelight, and was tossed to the side. Vali, son of Kjell emerged, screaming his victory to the smoke-filled sky, baptized in the blood of beast and man alike. His eyes were alight with a burn that none had seen in him before, like a man born anew in the death of his enemy—and, as some may whisper, his own. He staggered to his feet, snatching his fallen foe’s sword from the ground, and held it aloft as his brethren shouted around him.
He was victorious.
He was blooded.
He was Vali Twice-Born, and this name was earned.
He had his name now, Vali Twice-Born, and a sword that had tried to kill him. He was no longer weak and unblooded—and now truly began to hone his skills for the hunt. Vali’s reputation grew as he did, earning him respect as a hunter among the raiders who knew him.
But there was higher still to go, though Vali himself did not know it yet.
There were some among the highest renown of the roving hordes: Hrothgar the Black, Hildr, and Kol—those who, stories say, slew the great Mørkt Fjell, a beast none thought could die. And yet these warriors proved mortal men wrong.
He never dreamed he could be added to their ranks.
Yet his successes as a hunter spread beyond the lower riders, to even the ears of Hildr and Kol. A year and a half since his first naming, they were preparing for yet another great hunt—a great saber-toothed beast, a Skygge Katt reportedly twice the size of its brethren, had been picking off hunting parties for weeks. None sent after it could seem to find the creature, before being found themselves. Only one among the many who had been found escaped the bloody death, and spoke only of a giant who moved like a ghost and looked to be made of glass.
They needed one who could stay hidden from even the keenest of predators, and track down the most evasive of prey. Seeking to test his mettle, they invited Vali Twice-Born to the hunt—and even knowing the death he stalked toward, the man couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid.
It was Vali who insisted they take only horses that they could stand to lose. They traveled days into the trees, towards the last sightings of their Skygge Katt. Every night, as they camped, Vali would lead each horse a different direction into the trees and tie it to a trunk well away from the camp, leaving a lit candle for himself and both his companions to call for the Visitor’s protection. He sat awake, sleeping only minutes at a time, among the great spreading branches, and watched.
Six days in, and he did not hear the screams of the first steed as it died, not knowing there was something to be afraid of. He only felt the blood spill against the awareness of his Gift, and when his attention snapped to the now-dead horse, he felt the faint force tracings of the beast consuming it.
The next night, he knew what to look for—and sensed the Skygge Katt, seconds before it made its kill, the second horse dying as silently as the first despite the warning of the previous night. Vali focused all the awareness he could into the particular energies of the hunter, following it back into the woods until it vanished beyond the edges of his magic.
That morning, Vali broke the news—they were being stalked and toyed with, victims to the days-long hunt of a deadly creature. This was unlikely to unsettle his companions, as many beasts as they had killed, but served a great purpose—the formations of a plan. The transition from prey to predator, and the turning of the hunt.
On the eighth night of their journey, no one slept. The final horse was tied up, left as an offering to their quarry, and Vali persuaded his companions into the branches with him. There, he dampened their energies, masking the men from the senses of the beast. He felt it cross into the edges of his range, circling and stalking closer with a marked caution and pleasure in this aspect of the hunt. He breathed not a word to Hildr or Kol, fearing even the quietest of voices would chase it away.
When the great beast leapt silently from the foliage onto the horse, Vali leapt too—jumping from the branch he’d crouched on, drawing his own force energy to slow his fall as he plummeted onto the back of the Skygge Katt, for the first time releasing his battlecry. He stabbed into the cat with his sword, metal carving into bone and spilling blood as it bucked, tossing him from its back.
Hildr and Kol advanced from their perches too, facing down the great beast together as it turned on its hunters. Scraped but near-crazed by the scent of blood, Vali leapt forward again, and the battle was on in earnest. The Skygge Katt tried to retreat into the forest and return to an unaware prey, but Vali knew its heartbeat, rapid and frightened now, and could not be surprised.
He was the one to deliver the final blow to the beast—ducking low as it leapt toward him, and surging upward with his blade. The point sunk into flesh, finding the opening between two ribs and nicking the heart. It stumbled, and fought, but could not escape the claws of death as it succumbed to the bleeding.
They returned to the hordes three horses shorter, but with great cloaks of the dark, faintly-striped fur, teeth and claws in excess, and the startings of a bond that would only grow.
The venture that earned Vali his renown came to be known as The Silent Hunt—something that, with time and no small effort on the part of the man, grew to be analogous with Vali himself. It was a moniker he was all too happy to take on, feeling it added to the glory he’d been so late to seeking.
Kol and Hildr did not forget the venture, and he found himself increasingly in their presence—they seemed to develop a fondness for him, and the man could only serve to further prove himself. Nearly two years after the Silent Hunt, they took to him as a blood-brother, like the bond forged between themselves. He was younger, but truly known now by all who spoke their names.
The years since have been kind to Vali Twice-Born, The Silent Hunt—he’s bathed in blood spilled and blood sworn, his bond with his blood-brothers only growing stronger with each battle, raid, and hunt—they’ve trained together and provided great gifts for each other, sworn to be a family until even Sipenta ends and the Visitor’s table has crumbled to nothing.
I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Blodløst Sverd ]
The Bloodless Sword—the very weapon Vali pulled from the body of his would-be executer. Named for its failure to strike him rather than a lack of bloodshed, it has become the man’s weapon of choice. It is simple steel, but strong, with a wrapped leather grip that has been replaced more than once in his years of owning it.
❖ [ Hand-Ax ]
A small and simple one-handed ax. Vali keeps it in case he may ever find himself without his sword and bow, as it’s small enough to carry on his belt. He uses it primarily for utility, clearing paths in the woods when needed or cutting meat, but has yet to need it in battle.
❖ [ Leathers and Furs ]
His primary armor, thick and protective but light enough to suit his needs as a ranger and a hunter. He holds no particular attachment to the pieces, and often portions of it get replaced after being damaged.
❖ [ Sangløs Bue ]
The Songless Bow, his greatest treasure named for its use in many quiet hunts and the pieces that come from the Silent Hunt. A composite recurve bow constructed with teeth of the Skygge Katt of the Silent Hunt serving as the horn and maple wood as the core. A gift from Kol and Hildr, the bow is expertly crafted and well taken care of, often kept in a simple leather cover.
❖ [ Seiers Drikke ]
Victory’s Drink, a drinking horn Vali had made from one of the teeth of the Skygge Katt, hollowed out to hold liquid. He drinks from it often, not seeing the purpose in carrying it simply for show, but cherishes using it as an opportunity to tell the story of the Silent Hunt—though there are few who may see him drinking who haven’t heard the tale.
❖ [ Skyggehud Kappe ]
The Shadowskin Cloak, a great and heavy fur cloak made from the pelt of the Skygge Katt of The Silent Hunt. The fur is near-black with faint stripes criss-crossing it, and is well taken care of. Though he doesn’t often wear it to battle or to hunt, it is commonly seen on the ranger, particularly when the weather turns cold.
❖ [ Skygge Katt Necklace ]
The other saber tooth of the Skygge Katt, hung on a thick piece of leather stripping around Vali’s neck. It also has a small leather strip near the bottom meant to tie it to his chest to keep it in place during battles or hunts, but is often left unsecured otherwise so anyone near him can see the heavy weight of the tooth as it bounces against his sternum.
T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _
Third Wheel | Force | Essence
Vali is a hunter—of men or animal, it makes no difference. He enjoys spilling blood on an open battlefield, but when targets seek to evade pursuit… The Silent Hunt is no stranger to the chase.
His skill lies in Force Magic, with the lightest touch of Essence, spurred to life in the grassy sheepland valleys of Eskandr and honed in the burned villages of the North. He’s developed a keen sense for footsteps and breathing and blood, the hallmarks of life—feeling the force and essence energy surrounding living beings and following it, while dampening the reverberations of his own. He also manipulates the chemicals of his prey, keeping them from feeling the instinctual spark of fear that could give him away. In his youth, it was used to keep track of sheep herds and locate lost members of the flock—occasionally, it would help him hunt down predators that threatened his family’s livelihood and slaughter them.
After he followed the raiders North, he found a new use for it. He practiced his skills on human targets, learning to use his magic to cause small impacts in the ground and follow the reverberations, building a sense of his hunting ground. Softening and counter-acting his own footfalls to avoid detection, while mimicking them elsewhere to flush his quarry right into Eskandr steel.
His techniques of magic are built for distraction rather than attack on the battlefield, but that suits Vali just fine—he’s got skill enough to fight without extra force, and finds his Gift is to the benefit of his fellow raiders, both in catching fresh game to feed them and in finding the few living remnants of razed ruins.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Archery ]
Though he did not pick up the skill until he began raiding, Vali has proven to be quite useful with a bow and arrow. When hunting traditional prey animals, it’s his preferred weapon, offering an opportunity to strike from a distance and avoid detection with minimal effort. He attributes it to his keen sense of energies and perhaps a small capability in guiding the arrow with his Force magic.
❖ [ Animal Husbandry ]
Cultivated by years tending to flocks of sheep and herding steeds, Vali has a gentle hand with animals—primarily farm varieties—and a knack for Essence magic that can keep them calm in otherwise stressful scenarios. He’s excellent at handling horses, and rides a bit better than most as a result.
❖ [ Faith ]
Vali holds true to the Old Gods of Eskand, praying faithfully to them when the occasion arises. Faith is a powerful thing, and even if his may be wrong, it gives him strength to fight for his Gods. He believes he’s followed their call to journey north, alongside many who heard the same.
❖ [ Hunting ]
The skill that has earned him his renown; with the particular use of his Gift, Vali excels at hunting. He can track even the most elusive of prey, and can keep himself hidden to avoid scaring away his quarry. He takes great joy in hunting, and is confident in using these same abilities for scouting ahead when necessary.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Ax-Wielding ]
Though he excels with a bow and can hold his ground with both sword and spear, Vali has found that he has no talent at fighting with axes—despite these often being the weapons most associated with Eskandr raiders. He carried a small hand-ax, in case times ever become desperate, but has humorously little faith that he’ll survive any encounter that requires it.
❖ [ Cooking ]
Cooking was not something Vali was expected to take care of as a child. Though he had to manage when he left the comforts of home, the man is nearly hopeless. Things seem to go uncannily wrong when he tries to cook, from accidents with the ingredients to severely overcooked meats. One might think it was intentional, if the failures did not vex him so greatly.
❖ [ Faith ]
Though his faith brings great strength to Vali, is can also be a burden. He may push himself in the name of his Gods, leading to dangerous situations that he feels obliged to be part of. Similarly, such staunch support will find him highly disdained in the eyes of those who keep the Pentad, garnering no sympathy from the Northerners and their misguided beliefs.
❖ [ Insecurity ]
Vali has always felt that he has something to prove—despite his great successes among hunts, he fears he’s not enough to stand beside his blood-brothers. This concern, and the burning need to prove himself, can often push the ranger into foolhardy action—getting him into trouble much in the way his faith does. It’s also led to him taking the name The Silent Hunt, and giving meaningful names to many of his possessions—trying to insert his importance into history in hopes that it may stick.
C O L O U R C O D E & O T H E R__ _ _ _ _
❖ #B1EEEA
P o s t T e m p l a t e
L O C A T I O N | XX I N T E R A C T I O N | AA [@], BB [@]
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Kaspar’s life has been marked by his tutelage. He is calm by necessity, having spent most of his youth practicing the ability to suppress his emotions, and he works very hard not to let them bubble up too much unless he’s completely alone. As such, he can often seem uninvested or uncaring. He feels his confidence in his own abilities is essential to his training and tackles everything with the belief that he is fully capable—but this can come across as cocky when he’s too vocal about it.
His curiosity and his dedication go hand-in-hand. Kaspar’s interest in gaining knowledge has driven him to many of his studies, and is the primary factor in his studies of Binding Magic, as he looks to hone his natural aptitudes. This curiosity can be concerning, however, when it drives him to study skills that others would avoid.
When it comes to social interaction, though, Kaspar is at somewhat of a loss. He’s spent much of his time away from public life, only interacting with his tutors and his adoptive parents. While he understands the general expectations of his manners as a Marquis’s son, he lacks any nuance in social interaction; combined with his typical lack of emotional behavior, he comes off as distant, anti-social, and even snobbish to some. Those who have spent time with him may instead see the boy as something akin to awkward and inexperienced—perhaps even endearingly so.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Kaspar’s appearance is, in many ways, misleading about his nature. He is a Bloodchild, but the mana type has been passed two generations from its origin; as a result, the only overt physical features that might distinguish it are his eyes, which hold an unusual red. His skin, though somewhat pale, is not light enough to be considered “albino”, and his hair is a standard dark brown that falls messily around his ears and eyes.
His features are not as strong as his Marquis father’s but are still enough to suggest his supposed noble heritage, despite his more common origin. His cheekbones are the strongest, set high and pronounced. His nose and jaw are softer, and his chin is more round than square. His expression is often schooled into something neutral and can seem harsh in particular circumstances. His height is relatively average, around 5’8” or 172 cm, with the likelihood of growing another inch or two, and his build is lean but not particularly well-muscled.
Kaspar tends towards fine clothes, often in red tones that draw attention to his eyes and dark colors to balance them out. He likes long coats and knee-high boots of leathers and furs. He likes jewelry but prefers to wear plain metal pieces, usually of gold.
L A N G U A G E S
Kaspar speaks Kerreman as his native tongue, but picked up Eskandish quickly enough to speak fluently. As a noble, he speaks Avincian semi-fluently and is decent at Perrench. He’s more recently begun learning Revidian and knows enough to scrape by, but is better at writing and reading than he is at speaking.
T H E G I F T
Kaspar’s first stirrings of The Gift began with an aptitude for drawing—from material sources, as is the way of Binding Magic. When it first developed, his control was lacking and often dangerous, necessitating interventions on his behalf. He’s a blackblood, and though it can be guessed at, it’s never been confirmed: Kaspar is a Bloodchild, the secondary mana type passed along from his maternal grandmother, who was revived at birth by her mother’s midwife.
At the age of sixteen, he absorbed a white aberration and gained the mana type Lightbringer. He knows little about this mana type; only Jocasta Re knows for sure he has it, though it was used to help Ingrid Penderson shortly after he obtained it.
His life as a noble afforded Kaspar with a selection of tutors to tame his natural abilities, and growing up one was never too far away. They worked through hours-long lessons nearly every day, trying to train him to draw from energies, but his skill there has never been as strong as his ability to draw from materials. Understanding that the options present were to limit his capabilities and use of The Gift or mold him into an individual worthy of learning Binding Magic, his tutors, with the approval of his family, selected the latter.
As such, much of Kaspar’s tutelage has centered on building precise control in his drawing. Casting fell secondary, and though he was taught low-level skills, his aptitude is not as natural. He’s also been taught and tested to develop the moral fortitude required, with heavy teachings on human anatomy and the applications of healing. He’s always been carefully watched, and often kept distant from all but his tutors. Though most of his teachings related to Binding Magic, the Elstrøm family historically specializes in Chemical. As such, he received some lessons in that when time permitted, often taught by his parents.
Kaspar, however, remembers his aptitudes—and the fostering of his intellect has made him a dedicated student, with a strong belief that you cannot tame something without first understanding its wild nature. Though his moral fortitude prevents him from any desire to test these abilities on living creatures, he’s determined to understand the nature of Blood Magic as an extension of Binding Magic. He’s not a fool, though, and knows the moral and legal boundary he treads; he’s kept this realm of study to himself, allowing his tutors to believe they know the extent of it by seeking their approval on some of the fairly tame, theoretical studies that can be found on books.
With strengths in drawing control and theoretical knowledge but a lack of skill in casting, Kaspar’s primary specialization is in Binding Magic, and he was pushed to choose Chemical Magic as his secondary specialty—however, he’s pursuing his interest in Blood Magic as a self-directed… extra-curricular activity.
R A S
❖ 7.73 ❖ [ Gained .13 in Through the Portal: Deserted Arc ] ❖ [ Lost .03 in Trials and Tribulations: Chapter One ] ❖ [ Gained .26 in Secrets ]
M A N A T Y P E S
❖ Primary: Blackblood ❖ Secondary: Bloodchild ❖ Other: Lightbringer, Demoncaller ❖ [ Gained Lightbringer in Trials and Tribulations: Chapter One ] ❖ [ Gained Demoncaller in Secrets ]
B I N D I N G
❖ Level Four: Journeyman ❖ [ Gained one level between Secrets of the Forked Tower and Nox Arcanum ]
C H E M I C A L
❖ Level Three: Adept ❖ [ Gained one level in Through the Portal: Deserted Arc ] ❖ [ Gained one level between Secrets of the Forked Tower and Nox Arcanum ]
B L O O D
❖ Level One: Novice
D A R K
❖ Level Three: Adept ❖ [ Gained one level in Secrets ] ❖ [ Gained two levels in Secrets of the Forked Tower ]
B A C K G R O U N D
Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft was born the only child of Helbahnese Marquis Arvid Elstrøm von Wentoft and his wife, Katka. Almost from birth, his constitution was weak and he was frequently victim to illness. He was not much of a public figure, often too sick to leave the confines of his family estate.
At age eight, Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft died.
Very few people know this truth, and are sworn never to speak it: The Elstrøms and their privileged staff, a noblewoman close to Katka, and two artisans from Kerremand.
Alaric Weber of Kerremand was born in the same year as the sickly Helbahnese noble, to his own father Ehren and his mother Lark, a tapestry weaver and a dye-maker. He, like his mother, had The Gift, and the makings for a heritage Lark would not speak of.
His Gift went unnoticed for, perhaps, the first few months after it manifested—his draw was not particularly powerful, being only a boy of eight, and so it was only small things he pulled from; bottle lids or small portions of ingredients and threads going missing, believed to be misplaced. The first time he pulled from a human, he left a small, scrape-like abrasion on his mother’s elbow, not enough for them to yet suspect his talents.
These incidents grew, though, in both size and frequency. His mother was the first to recognize the link between these occurrences, his red eyes, and her own childhood; fearing suspicion and punishment, she refused to explain these connections or seek help.
Seven months after it manifested, Alaric’s drawing became too dangerous. While playing with his father, in a fit of youthful joy, he destroyed part of Ehren’s wrist. While the amount would have been painful but fairly inconsequential elsewhere, he damaged the valuable artery. It was only through the quick intervention of his mother, minorly skilled in Kinetic Magic, that his father survived, though it would take much longer for any of them to fully recover from the ordeal.
Frightened by him and realizing that her family would be endangered if her child stayed, Alaric’s mother sought a solution. Her connections linked her with a noblewoman familiar with Katka Elstrøm von Wentoft, who arranged a meeting between the two mothers after seeing Alaric. It had been mere days since Kaspar’s death, and no public announcement had been made while the family grieved privately. Bereft, Katka and Arvid agreed to take in Alaric, who bore strong resemblance to their late son, and raise him as Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft. Alaric Weber, to the knowledge of the rest of the world, was taken in the animal attack that nearly killed his father.
Little changed about Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft; he remained an infrequent public figure to the lower classes of Helbahn. Over the years, whispers came from the few nobles who saw him that the boy seemed to grow stronger in constitution, though his once-brown eyes had taken an unsettling crimson tint. There were those who theorized he had died, or come near enough, and been saved by Binding Magic that left its permanent mark on him.
No one suspected he was simply not the same boy.
Kaspar’s memories of his birth family are faint—he was forbidden to speak of them after he was taken in, for the safety of the secret that could not be revealed. His childhood became distant, and his life overcome with lessons; those that would prevent such a tragedy from ever happening again, and those that would shape him into a proper noble. The Elstrøms treated him like their trueborn son, sometimes as though they themselves had forgotten, but his Gift necessitated a more physically distant relationship.
He wonders, sometimes, if his childhood was real—if there was ever a boy named Alaric, or if he’d simply imagined it as a youthful fantasy. He threw himself willingly enough into his studies, trying to wipe the questions and memories from his mind, and can let himself believe he’s always been Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft, so long as he doesn’t think too much on it. While his birth parents’ abandonment stings, he’s grateful to be so welcomed among his noble family and enjoys the comfort their wealth provides him with.
Yet he sometimes still dreams of Ehren and Lark Weber, always accompanied by blood.
Visiting San Agustin de las Arenas, a refuge filled with unwanted Tethered, forced Kaspar face-to-face with some of his childhood trauma and resulted in uncharacteristic outbursts of emotion and lack of control. The stress of the mission and near-death encounters contributed, but also drove the youth to displays of vulnerability that allowed him to form bonds with those students ensnared in the same situation; Ayla Arslan, Jocasta Re, Yalen Castel, and Zarina Al-Nader.
He also learned the deeper truth behind the death of Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft: that it had never actually occurred. The biological son of the Elstrøms was discovered to have the Tethering. As is an unfortunately common practice, they had the boy sent to a Tethered refuge— San Agustin de las Arenas. There his memories were removed and he was renamed Felix. He would go on to become an Afortunado. During the revolution which killed Warden Tavio Ortega and gave San Agustin de las Arenas its independence, Vice-Warden Juan-Manuel Quintana Rojas revealed the truth to Kaspar.
Kaspar would, minutes later, share this information with Felix. The two decided to move forward together with this information, and have informally adopted each other as brothers. When Kaspar returned to Ersand’Enise, Felix and his girlfriend Luisa were among the members of the refuge to join the academy as students.
Kaspar was among those who fought the pack of froabas attracted to the battle with the Royal Sand Wyrm, and aided Zarina Al-Nader in taming the alpha. Alongside a number of others he co-absorbed an aberration, increasing his RAS from 7.37 to 7.50. During the brief period of aberration madness, he fought and rough-housed with several others, injured himself, and discovered two great truths about existence, the knowledge of which faded with the madness.
Hours after returning, Ayla Arslan gifted him with one of the three froabas eggs she won in the auction following the defeat of the Royal Sand Wyrm. The egg, red-orange and banded, is believed to contain a “false alpha” of currently indeterminate sex, named Varmkorv by its owner.
Kaspar joined seven student societies during the Student Society Faire. After aberrations appeared on the second day of the faire, he found and absorbed a white aberration. In addition to losing some RAS and gaining temporary immunity to aberration madness, he also gained the unique mana type Lightbringer. Shortly thereafter, he used this mana type for the first time to cure Ingrid of aberration madness.
Just before the Melon Derby, the birthday of Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft passed, meaning he is now supposedly seventeen. However, his birthdate as Alaric Weber has yet to pass, so he is still secretly only sixteen.
In preparation for the Melon Derby, Kaspar helped Team You Could Never catch and train small dragons to seek out melons. He retained three of these: one grape dragon, one blueberry dragon, and one raspberry drake. He also convened with a former student, Augusto, at a gathering held by the Arslan family, and used to opportunity to learn some inside information about the Melon Derby.
When Ayla’s betrothal was announced, Kaspar realized he has feelings for her. Over the course of the trials, he tried to put these feelings out of focus and succeeded, until he drank mana shots with the Hegelans prior to The Dragon. He then used one of his dragons to leave a charcoal sketch of Zarina Ayla, which he drew immediately following her betrothal announcement, in her dorm.
Team You Could Never finished the final trial tied for first place; following the votes in Right or Spite, they finished third overall. Kaspar’s prizes included temporary access to The Forked Tower, and The Everlasting Learner's Enchanted Bookmark.
Kaspar, along with Zarina, Yuliya, and Ayla traveled through Ersand’Enise on Bloody Victendes. He managed to subdue and cleanse an afflicted boar using Lightbringer. Later, after Yuliya, Ayla, and Nibbler were drawn into an aberration and became demonic, he used the same ability to soothe the enraged Nibbler.
In addition to gaining .26 RAS through consuming aberrations, he gained the mana type Demoncaller.
When the aberration magic struck, he was afflicted first with Apathy, then Anger, followed by Vigor, and returned once more to Anger. During this episode, he managed to summon his first demon—a fish. He had to be physically carried into the aberration by Ayla after trying to storm off.
Among the God’s grove, he selected the Buddha’s Hand as his fruit.
Kaspar gained entrance to the Forked Tower alongside Yuliya, Zarina, Trypano, Ingrid, and Jocasta. Together, the six of them managed to solve puzzles. Through this, they met Ahn-Dami, Ahn-Shune, and Shune-Zept, as well as gaining access to a temporally altered chamber.
When meeting Ahn-Dami, Kaspar and others were granted the chance to look into her eyes. There, they saw many things, including the prospective paths of their futures. Ahn-Dami also assured Kaspar that he is good, when he comforted Jocasta—but, knowing all, referred to him as Alaric.
Kaspar chose to use his time in the Forked Tower to study his newly acquired Dark Magic, learning better how to use it without being a danger—unless he chooses to be.
Following his time in the Forked Tower, Kaspar focused primarily on his studies. He advanced in both magic schools he's pursuing under the watchful eyes of the Zenos. His research on other magics continued, but without access to the materials in the Forked Tower, his knowledge remained only theoretical.
Inspired by an idea that had been percolating since his time in the desert, and the acquisition of an industrial lifetime's supply of barbeque sauce, Kaspar teamed up with Ingrid Penderson to start a sausage sandwich business, titled [R E D A C T E D].
He also considered some of the truths he learned in the eyes of Ahn-Dami, preparing himself, and a plan, for an event that has yet to pass...
M O T I V A T I O N
Kaspar, above all else, seeks knowledge and skill. His heavy training throughout childhood ingrained a desire to understand and develop his abilities to their full potential, perhaps a step further than his tutors intended. He seeks to do good, though less than he seeks to do no harm, but in many ways sees it as a tool to develop his Gift.
He’s excited to be out from under his tutors for the first time since he was eight, with an opportunity to practice much of the knowledge he only has in theory. He also hopes to find more space and information to support his study of Blood Magic, without the concern of his watchdogs always hovering.
Yet, he worries that all his pursuits will be meaningless. With so much focus on drawing magic and little skill in casting it, Kaspar fears that he’ll never develop the capabilities to truly use it, instead being damned to only ever knowing his Gift through theoretical knowledge.
I N V E N T O R Y
❖ [ Books ] Many of these books focus on magic, primarily Binding; some may include theory on Blood Magic, if he’s been able to find such books. There are a few selections on plant life, particularly those native to Revidia and Perrence. There are also several novels written in Revidian that are below his age level, which he’s using to continue learning the language.
❖ [ Cloak ] A thick, black fur cloak with soft, red-dyed leather and gold fastenings. While perhaps not frequently necessary this far north, it’s an item from his home that helps him feel more confident and collected as he leaves the Elstrøm Estate for the first time since he arrived there.
❖ [ Everlasting Learner's Enchanted Bookmark ] A magical bookmark obtained as a prize at the end of Ersand’Enise’s Trials. It can automatically locate a keyword or phrase in a library.
❖ [ Froabas Egg ] Red-orange with dark bands of color and holding a froabas named Varmkorv. The egg was one of ten laid by the Alpha Froabas at the end of Through the Portal: Deserted. Originally won by Ayla Arslan in an auction, she gifted it to Kaspar because he had not obtained anything in the auction. The egg is nearly hatched.
❖ [ Jewelry ] He has several rings he alternates, all of which are made of gold and lack any gemstones. Two have small designs etched into the metal, one of flowers and vines, and the other similar to a braided rope design. He has two more plain rings. He also has a plain gold necklace made with a herringbone chain pattern, that gives it the appearance of a single piece of gold unless examined more closely.
❖ [ Notebooks ] A set of five leather-bound notebooks with ornamental, gold-inlaid designs on the front. They contain notes on his studies, written in a combination of Eskandish and Kerreman and often in shorthand. None of these contain overt references to Blood Magic; any information or notes he takes on this include copious amounts of shorthand and abbreviation, and are only denoted as a cohesive subject by the consistent label “EX”.
❖ [ Sketchbook & Charcoal ] A leather-bound, smooth-covered book with sturdy, blank pages inside. The front third of the book is already filled; the sketches primarily consist of plant life, both ordinary and anatomy sketches, but also include human anatomy sketches and the occasional landscape. Most recently, he has been drawing sketches of his froabas egg.
❖ [ Wand ] A hand-crafted cherrywood stick with a black leather grip, used as Kaspar’s focus for casting. The leather is worn in.
P E T S
❖ [ Blåbærterte ] A small Blueberry Dragon caught prior to The Melon Derby. She’s smart but quite shy, and spends most of her time either with Tomsøthet or near Varmkorv’s egg in Kaspar’s dormitory. Her name means Blueberry Tart, because she’s small and blue.
❖ [ Feit-og-Sint ] A Raspberry Drake caught prior to The Melon Derby. He’s ornery and spends most days roaming around Ersand’Enise, but demands to be let back into Kaspar’s dormitory at night. He often hides under the furniture and eats fruit he’s stashed there. His name means Fat-and-Angry.
❖ [ Tomsøthet ] A Grape Dragon caught prior to The Melon Derby. He’s friendly but very absent-minded, and likes to explore Kaspar’s dormitory and get into trouble. He’s fond of Varmkorv’s egg and Blåbærterte. His name means Empty Sweetness, because his heart is big but his head is empty.
W E A L T H
❖ [ To Be Determined ]
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ [ Control ] Kaspar’s crowning achievement in his study of The Gift is in his control of it—particularly over his ability to draw. But he also possesses strong mental and emotional control, cultivated by his tutors’ copious lessons. He can never want to hurt someone because he risks making that desire a reality. He has to maintain a hold on his emotions because he may be dangerous if he loses focus.
❖ [ Manipulation ] Kaspar has learned how to predict what his tutors want to hear, and how to feed them just enough information for them to believe they know the full picture. He doesn’t seek to manipulate others into giving him items and money, but rather into giving him trust; he views it as the only way for him to continue his personal studies uninterrupted, by preventing those watching him from suspecting he’s pursuing other interests.
❖ [ Memory ] While not eidetic, Kaspar’s memory is strong, particularly relating to things he sees or reads. It helps most often with his studies, but he can remember far more, and the applications are wide-ranging.
❖ [ Plant Identification ] His preferred subject for sketching, Kaspar has gotten quite familiar with plant life, and his memory certainly helps him remember key identifiers. However, he also occasionally practices his material drawing skills on plant life, trying to learn how this particular aspect of Blood Magic can be both precise and devastating. He likes to understand the plants he might be destroying, as a sign of respect for their use as a learning device.
❖ [ Sketching ] To further his emotional control, Kaspar sought a hobby to help him re-center and settled on sketching. He’s been fine-tuning the skill over years and prefers to sketch plant life outdoors, taking the peace of the location as yet another source of control.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ [ Casting ] Kaspar lacks skill in casting. He’s capable and not a danger to himself or others when doing so, but hasn’t developed the same knowledge or precision that he exercises in other areas. With his tutelage focusing heavily on fine-tuning his drawing to prevent dangerous accidents and no natural aptitude for expelling that mana, casting remains one of his weakest aspects of using The Gift.
❖ [ Confidence ] While it often helps him stay calm, Kaspar’s confidence enables him to put himself in risky situations. His own belief in his skills and his moral fortitude lead to a feeling of invincibility and his expectation that he can’t be a perpetrator or victim of terrible accidents like that of his youth, and that his interests are not immoral. Given his practice in Blood Magic, his lack of caution has the potential to lead to horrifying results.
❖ [ Curiosity ] His curiosity can lead to choices many would consider dangerous. When Kaspar wants an answer, he will seek it out—heedless of how others may think of his actions. He won’t stoop to injuring others or their belongings, but holds a belief that actions can only hurt them mentally or emotionally if they know about it. As such, he may take things a step too far in seeking answers, particularly from those he feels may be lying to him.
❖ [ Energy-based Drawing ] Kaspar has always struggled with drawing from energy sources, as is considered typical for most schools of magic. He’s capable of it, but is often less precise and slower in doing so, compared to his skills in drawing from material sources.
❖ [ Solitary Nature ] Kaspar’s personality is often enough to keep him isolated from others, but he’s not the kind to seek out connections. While he’s willing to allow others to trust him, and values the faith others may put in him, he does not allow himself to exercise the same trust. He keeps many things to himself, and won’t seek out support or assistance unless even he cannot deny he’s in far over his head—and by the time he understands that, he may be too deep in.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
❖ Color is #B8041A ❖ Alt+0248 for "ø", if anyone wants it
G U I L D
❖ Enchanter’s Union
C L U B S
❖ Draconic Order ❖ Egalite Fraternite ❖ Essence Club ❖ Pragmatics ❖ Sleuths ❖ Society of the Grapes ❖ Surveyors
Update 9.3.22
❖ Header:
Raised RAS
❖ Personality:
Minor tweak added at end to reflect how others may view him
❖ The Gift:
Adjusted presence of Chemical Magic to reflect family specialty Added "Getting Technical" section to reflect new magic tier system and track progress
❖ Background:
Added section for Through the Portal: Deserted Arc
❖ Inventory:
Added Froabas Egg
❖ Miscellaneous:
Added Class Registration Forms Added Class Schedule Added Student Societies
Update 12.29.22
❖ Header:
Raised Age Lowered RAS
❖ The Gift:
Added section regarding acquisition of Lightbringer Adjusted “Getting Technical” to reflect recent changes Added section to “Getting Technical” for mana types
❖ Background:
Added section for Trials and Tribulations Arc
❖ Inventory:
Added Everlasting Learner's Enchanted Bookmark
❖ Pets:
Added section and contents
❖ Wealth:
Added section and contents
Update 2.20.23
❖ Header:
Changed Character Portrait Raised RAS
❖ The Gift:
Raised RAS Added Demoncaller Added section regarding acquisition of Demoncaller Adjusted “Getting Technical” to reflect recent changes
❖ Background:
Added section for Secrets Arc Added section for Secrets of the Forked Tower Arc Added section for Before Nox Arcanum Timeskip
❖ Inventory:
Adjusted description of Froabas Egg
❖ Wealth:
Adjusted contents to reflect current status
P o s t T e m p l a t e
[ Location ] | [ Interactions ]
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Fisk stands at 5’7” with a slim figure. He’s been told he has his father’s facial structure, with the sharp lines and defined cheekbones, but undoubtedly has his mother’s eyes—a pale hazel color. His hair is dark brown and he usually fluffs it up somewhat before going anywhere, otherwise it falls over his forehead a bit. When he’s out in public, Fisk squares his shoulders and stands straighter, giving him a slightly broader appearance, but during the evenings and when he’s in his dorms, he can be spotted with a more relaxed posture and, occasionally, even a slouch.
His school uniform is, to outward viewers, perfectly standard. He wears the typical male uniform, and never takes off the jacket—partially because it helps give him the slightly boxier figure he’s going for, but mostly because of the pins and buttons he keeps on the inside. Right now there’s only a few, pinned into place over the right side of his chest: a trans pride flag, the first “He/Him Pronouns” button he ever wore to school, and a cheesy tourist “I <3 NYC” button. As a collector of pins and buttons, Fisk has every intention to cover the inside of his jacket with these bits of his personality.
Outside of the uniform, Fisk is all about layering. He typically wears plain t-shirts or button-downs (depending on his mood and the occasion) underneath an assortment of unbuttoned/unzipped jackets, hoodies, and cardigans, usually paired with dark jeans and lace-up dress boots. In the comfort of his own dorm (or on particularly lazy days), he often dresses in cozy sweaters or cardigans and plain black sweatpants. His clothes are specifically chosen to avoid anything form-fitting without appearing loose or baggy, and he’s always wearing either a binder or a compression sports bra, giving his chest a flat appearance.
| | R E P U T A T I O N | |
Fisk really has two conflicting views on his ideal social life at Marble Heights: being the kid with a solid group of friends who’s known as generally A-okay, or being the kid who only willingly talks to two people for the next three years—with the kind of name that most people don’t even recognize when it’s read out loud at graduation.
Problem is, he still hasn’t decided which approach he wants to take.
So Fisk hovers between forcibly-extroverted and reluctantly-introverted. He makes efforts to join conversations and befriend his classmates, but sometimes it can come across as lukewarm. Or, he shrinks back into his shell, keeps his head down and stays quiet, but there’s a look in his eyes like he wants nothing more than to be part of the group.
But as much as he’d like to fly under the radar, he can’t help himself—he’s the kind of guy to stop and help someone pick up their books in the hallway, to stand up to people he doesn’t know for someone else he doesn’t know, to sit down with a crying classmate at lunch when no one else will. He’s the kind of kid who sometimes dives deeper than he can swim but still pushes his way through the haze of what the fuck did I just do?
Fisk’s story, as many do, starts with his parents. Nikole Halloway is the daughter of long-time New York state congressman Richard Halloway, born and raised on the outskirts of bustling NYC. She runs Hallowed Industries, a prominent technology and communication enterprise she started at 20 years old. When they met, John Seward was a well-known math genius working in corporate financial analysis, persuaded by Richard Halloway to tour Hallowed Industries and consider taking a lead job in the company. He and Nikole quickly became a leading power-couple in the New York business scene, and they married two years later—John happily taking Nikole’s last name on the belief that it would be far more prominent than his own ever could.
Fisk is the only child of this dynamic duo, and was assigned female at birth. For most of his life, they’ve tried to be attentive parents—still, there are plenty of events they missed, dinners eaten with the nanny watching a press conference on TV, goodnights whispered into the darkness of his room long after he’s fallen asleep. They try to make time for bonding, though—with his mom, it’s going on long drives away from the city, blasting soundtracks to any one of dozens of musicals they’ve seen on Broadway. Or quietly humming in their seats, trying not to disturb the audience within the theatres themselves. With his dad, it’s watching movies and crying unashamedly through the entire thing, sharing a box of tissues and a pizza. And, when John has the time to spare, math homework—Fisk is absolutely, terribly hopeless at the subject. The only time it makes sense is in biology, and neither Fisk nor his father understand why that gets a pass.
Fisk, until this year, attended school near New York City. His freshman year of high school, he decided to join the Drama Club, fueled by a love of theatre and the whole swath of his friends that were planning to join too. Almost halfway through the year, in an exercise about playing characters out of their comfort zones, Fisk was charged with portraying the role of a male lead. He remembers that week, and the constant bursts of euphoria, the feeling of loss every time he had to take the costume off—and realizing that this was his missing piece. The world clicked together in a way he didn’t know it could, and so much suddenly made sense; the constant struggle to like himself, and the feeling like his place in society was an ill-fitting costume that chafed. A few weeks later, he cut his hair short and started trying out different names and pronouns around school.
To his delight, much of his school was accepting. There were the occasional bad eggs, but it was all-in-all a pretty wholesome experience. Home was a slightly different battle—one where Fisk never actually came out to his parents. He was reasonably certain they would accept him, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to have a full image to present to them, wanted to know who he was and what this meant for him before he finally told them. And he needed time for that. Time, and space, away from the people who knew the person they thought he was.
That’s why, at a rare family dinner one night, he brought up Marble Heights Academy. To his parents, it was a place where he could receive the best in education and make sure he’s starting his life on the right foot. For Fisk, it’s freedom and an opportunity to explore his identity, now that he finally knows the name he wants to give to the world.
| | B E Y O N D M Y R E P U T A T I O N | |
Fisk knew his exact approach to social life back in New York. Everyone in his grade knew him, and a lot of people above his grade had at least heard his name. He was generally well-liked, but he had a bit of a knack for sticking his nose into trouble and trying to resolve it—and everyone knew it. He was the too-nice kid, the helper, and the devoted mother-hen of his social group. But he was also the kid who cut his hair off halfway through freshman year, who changed his name and his pronouns out of, to most people, seemingly nowhere. And as accepting as the school seemed to be, that’s why he needed to leave—he needed to figure out who he was without the reputation and the expectations.
He also has a way-too-emotional side—something he gets from his father. It’s the one common thread between Fisk and his claw-your-way-to-the-top, math genius dad, the man who can charm his way through hundreds of acquaintances but thinks his wife is his only real friend. Yet the two bond over their ridiculously sappy natures. Every time Fisk has to hide his teary eyes through the end of an emotional movie—any emotion will do—or an even slightly sad song, he can’t help but text his dad a ludicrous amount of crying emojis.
His bond with his mother stems from a deep love of singing and drama. While Fisk’s mom doesn’t have a worthwhile acting bone in her body, she loves theatre productions and took him as often as possible when he was a kid, ingraining an appreciation that fanned into something more. She also has a decent singing voice, and Fisk has been developing his from a pretty young age, certainly surpassing her skill level.
| | E X T R A C U R R I C U L A R A C T I V I T I E S | |
Theatre Club
| | B E S T & W O R S T S U B J E C T S | |
| B E S T |
English
Biology
| W O R S T |
Anything resembling Math
This includes the Sciences
(Except, inexplicably, Biology)
| | E X T R A N O T E S | |
While Fisk is not afraid of people knowing he’s transgender, he’s doing his best to keep it on the down-low.
His legal name is “Bea Halloway”, but Fisk will have done everything in his power to make sure the only place it would appear is in legal paperwork.
P o s t T e m p l a t e
Location: XXX
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“You think you are the heroes, in a world where we are all simply men.”
2 9 | M A L E | E S K A N D | R A N G E R__ _ _ _ _
C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _
Vali, like many of his Eskand brethren, stands above six feet—four inches or so over, though he’s certainly never measured. His shoulders are broad and he’s got the musculature expected of a renowned raider, but benefits from the bulk of his heavy leathers and furs. His skin is pale and his features sharp, a harshness to the cut of his cheeks and nose. His jawline, though much the same, is hidden beneath a short-kept beard. Vali’s hair is blonde, kept nearly to his shoulders. While he usually leaves it down, he may put it in braids for battles or hunts, to avoid it becoming a hindrance. His eyes are a pale green-blue, and ever watchful.
Though he’s certainly fought enough to earn the scorn of the Northerners, Vali is far from simply a warmonger. He holds a steadfast faith in his Gods, believing they called him to war, but honors them in more than just bloodshed. He values the relationships he’s built among his peers, particularly those of his blood-brothers, and enjoys a good chance to speak and laugh with those he truly cares about. He understands why the northerners view his people with such disdain, but does not believe the notion that anyone is necessarily good among the conflicting sides—both act with self-interest, and he will not begrudge the Parrench for doing so, but the belief will likewise not stop his own fulfillment of his beliefs.
Vali also has his own sort of intelligence, particularly when he becomes invested in a hunt. He prides himself on being able to think like both hunter and prey, allowing him to understand the motivations of his quarry and design the hunt to prey upon those weaknesses. His intelligence is certainly not of a scholarly nature, but he finds great pleasure in the cultivated ability to get into something’s head and pull out its plans and actions—or tip the balance just enough in one way to assure an outcome he wants.
There is, however, a dissatisfaction within him—he feels, at times, a sense of shame in where his skills lie. He’s not the fearsome fighter his blood-brothers are, and couldn’t hold his own against a horde of foes the way people seem to expect of them. He’s younger and came late to the game, leaving the man to worry that his legacy will be paltry in comparison. He can be foolhardy as a result, pushing himself to do things he believes may garner him greater respect.
B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _
Some names are given, others earned.
The name Vali, powerful, was given in the small village to a squalling blonde babe in a hut that stank of sheep year-round. He grew, as some are fortunate enough to do, herding sheep as soon as he could count them. A shepherd’s life gave plenty in the way of blood—in the slaughter of livestock for food in the cold of Hundri, or the butchering of predators that stalked the herd.
Yet a different kind of blood spills from the flesh of men.
This was the blood the Gods of Eskand called for, to those who heard them in dreams and death and the cold wind on the southern slopes. They spoke with a voice that Vali, son of Kjell, heard and heeded just after his eighteenth birthday.
With five brothers to guide the herd, neither the sheep nor the family would miss him. So he took up his spear, a simple thing, and joined the great raiders going North.
It was not easy, for one so unblooded—there were many who had soaked in their crimson tides and looked down upon the weak, taking glory and blood and gold as they pleased. One who had not yet proven his life worthy on the field of death was but a camp follower. Even the murder of the weak, the young, and the old was not enough—if a body could not threaten you, it was no more than slaughtering livestock.
Vali, son of Kjell lived months in the disdain of warriors before he too was blooded.
He alone stood in the cobbled street, surveying the wreck and ruin of blood and fire that had once been a town. He was the one the armed rider spotted, the man whom the snorting wild charger sought to run down with the wicked sword in his rider’s hand.
None here would mourn him. Some might take his shoes, the fur upon his shoulders, or his paltry spear. They would not send word home to his family, who would not cry for him if they did. Some would see, but few would remember the way the boy was cut down.
And yet… He was not cut down.
He, too, saw the approaching end. But rather than run or close his eyes like a coward, Vali, powerful, son of Kjell planted his feet against the rough-hewn stone, gripped his spear, and met his approaching death with a thrust and a guttural warcry.
The tip of his spear struck the beast at the base of its neck and sunk clean through the flesh. Screaming, it fell upon the spear and down the shaft, the chipped point finding its way out of the mane and into the throat of the rider.
They fell, and fell, the horse screaming in death, its riding choking on his blood, and Vali shouting for the glory of his Gods. They heaped on the stone in a puddle of dark blood, spear pointed to the sky—and for a moment, all was silent.
Then the body of the rider rose first, glistening wetly in the firelight, and was tossed to the side. Vali, son of Kjell emerged, screaming his victory to the smoke-filled sky, baptized in the blood of beast and man alike. His eyes were alight with a burn that none had seen in him before, like a man born anew in the death of his enemy—and, as some may whisper, his own. He staggered to his feet, snatching his fallen foe’s sword from the ground, and held it aloft as his brethren shouted around him.
He was victorious.
He was blooded.
He was Vali Twice-Born, and this name was earned.
He had his name now, Vali Twice-Born, and a sword that had tried to kill him. He was no longer weak and unblooded—and now truly began to hone his skills for the hunt. Vali’s reputation grew as he did, earning him respect as a hunter among the raiders who knew him.
But there was higher still to go, though Vali himself did not know it yet.
There were some among the highest renown of the roving hordes: Hrothgar the Black, Hildr, and Kol—those who, stories say, slew the great Mørkt Fjell, a beast none thought could die. And yet these warriors proved mortal men wrong.
He never dreamed he could be added to their ranks.
Yet his successes as a hunter spread beyond the lower riders, to even the ears of Hildr and Kol. A year and a half since his first naming, they were preparing for yet another great hunt—a great saber-toothed beast, a Skygge Katt reportedly twice the size of its brethren, had been picking off hunting parties for weeks. None sent after it could seem to find the creature, before being found themselves. Only one among the many who had been found escaped the bloody death, and spoke only of a giant who moved like a ghost and looked to be made of glass.
They needed one who could stay hidden from even the keenest of predators, and track down the most evasive of prey. Seeking to test his mettle, they invited Vali Twice-Born to the hunt—and even knowing the death he stalked toward, the man couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid.
It was Vali who insisted they take only horses that they could stand to lose. They traveled days into the trees, towards the last sightings of their Skygge Katt. Every night, as they camped, Vali would lead each horse a different direction into the trees and tie it to a trunk well away from the camp, leaving a lit candle for himself and both his companions to call for the Visitor’s protection. He sat awake, sleeping only minutes at a time, among the great spreading branches, and watched.
Six days in, and he did not hear the screams of the first steed as it died, not knowing there was something to be afraid of. He only felt the blood spill against the awareness of his Gift, and when his attention snapped to the now-dead horse, he felt the faint force tracings of the beast consuming it.
The next night, he knew what to look for—and sensed the Skygge Katt, seconds before it made its kill, the second horse dying as silently as the first despite the warning of the previous night. Vali focused all the awareness he could into the particular energies of the hunter, following it back into the woods until it vanished beyond the edges of his magic.
That morning, Vali broke the news—they were being stalked and toyed with, victims to the days-long hunt of a deadly creature. This was unlikely to unsettle his companions, as many beasts as they had killed, but served a great purpose—the formations of a plan. The transition from prey to predator, and the turning of the hunt.
On the eighth night of their journey, no one slept. The final horse was tied up, left as an offering to their quarry, and Vali persuaded his companions into the branches with him. There, he dampened their energies, masking the men from the senses of the beast. He felt it cross into the edges of his range, circling and stalking closer with a marked caution and pleasure in this aspect of the hunt. He breathed not a word to Hildr or Kol, fearing even the quietest of voices would chase it away.
When the great beast leapt silently from the foliage onto the horse, Vali leapt too—jumping from the branch he’d crouched on, drawing his own force energy to slow his fall as he plummeted onto the back of the Skygge Katt, for the first time releasing his battlecry. He stabbed into the cat with his sword, metal carving into bone and spilling blood as it bucked, tossing him from its back.
Hildr and Kol advanced from their perches too, facing down the great beast together as it turned on its hunters. Scraped but near-crazed by the scent of blood, Vali leapt forward again, and the battle was on in earnest. The Skygge Katt tried to retreat into the forest and return to an unaware prey, but Vali knew its heartbeat, rapid and frightened now, and could not be surprised.
He was the one to deliver the final blow to the beast—ducking low as it leapt toward him, and surging upward with his blade. The point sunk into flesh, finding the opening between two ribs and nicking the heart. It stumbled, and fought, but could not escape the claws of death as it succumbed to the bleeding.
They returned to the hordes three horses shorter, but with great cloaks of the dark, faintly-striped fur, teeth and claws in excess, and the startings of a bond that would only grow.
The venture that earned Vali his renown came to be known as The Silent Hunt—something that, with time and no small effort on the part of the man, grew to be analogous with Vali himself. It was a moniker he was all too happy to take on, feeling it added to the glory he’d been so late to seeking.
Kol and Hildr did not forget the venture, and he found himself increasingly in their presence—they seemed to develop a fondness for him, and the man could only serve to further prove himself. Nearly two years after the Silent Hunt, they took to him as a blood-brother, like the bond forged between themselves. He was younger, but truly known now by all who spoke their names.
The years since have been kind to Vali Twice-Born, The Silent Hunt—he’s bathed in blood spilled and blood sworn, his bond with his blood-brothers only growing stronger with each battle, raid, and hunt—they’ve trained together and provided great gifts for each other, sworn to be a family until even Sipenta ends and the Visitor’s table has crumbled to nothing.
I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Blodløst Sverd ]
The Bloodless Sword—the very weapon Vali pulled from the body of his would-be executer. Named for its failure to strike him rather than a lack of bloodshed, it has become the man’s weapon of choice. It is simple steel, but strong, with a wrapped leather grip that has been replaced more than once in his years of owning it.
❖ [ Hand-Ax ]
A small and simple one-handed ax. Vali keeps it in case he may ever find himself without his sword and bow, as it’s small enough to carry on his belt. He uses it primarily for utility, clearing paths in the woods when needed or cutting meat, but has yet to need it in battle.
❖ [ Leathers and Furs ]
His primary armor, thick and protective but light enough to suit his needs as a ranger and a hunter. He holds no particular attachment to the pieces, and often portions of it get replaced after being damaged.
❖ [ Sangløs Bue ]
The Songless Bow, his greatest treasure named for its use in many quiet hunts and the pieces that come from the Silent Hunt. A composite recurve bow constructed with teeth of the Skygge Katt of the Silent Hunt serving as the horn and maple wood as the core. A gift from Kol and Hildr, the bow is expertly crafted and well taken care of, often kept in a simple leather cover.
❖ [ Seiers Drikke ]
Victory’s Drink, a drinking horn Vali had made from one of the teeth of the Skygge Katt, hollowed out to hold liquid. He drinks from it often, not seeing the purpose in carrying it simply for show, but cherishes using it as an opportunity to tell the story of the Silent Hunt—though there are few who may see him drinking who haven’t heard the tale.
❖ [ Skyggehud Kappe ]
The Shadowskin Cloak, a great and heavy fur cloak made from the pelt of the Skygge Katt of The Silent Hunt. The fur is near-black with faint stripes criss-crossing it, and is well taken care of. Though he doesn’t often wear it to battle or to hunt, it is commonly seen on the ranger, particularly when the weather turns cold.
❖ [ Skygge Katt Necklace ]
The other saber tooth of the Skygge Katt, hung on a thick piece of leather stripping around Vali’s neck. It also has a small leather strip near the bottom meant to tie it to his chest to keep it in place during battles or hunts, but is often left unsecured otherwise so anyone near him can see the heavy weight of the tooth as it bounces against his sternum.
T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _
Third Wheel | Force | Essence
Vali is a hunter—of men or animal, it makes no difference. He enjoys spilling blood on an open battlefield, but when targets seek to evade pursuit… The Silent Hunt is no stranger to the chase.
His skill lies in Force Magic, with the lightest touch of Essence, spurred to life in the grassy sheepland valleys of Eskandr and honed in the burned villages of the North. He’s developed a keen sense for footsteps and breathing and blood, the hallmarks of life—feeling the force and essence energy surrounding living beings and following it, while dampening the reverberations of his own. He also manipulates the chemicals of his prey, keeping them from feeling the instinctual spark of fear that could give him away. In his youth, it was used to keep track of sheep herds and locate lost members of the flock—occasionally, it would help him hunt down predators that threatened his family’s livelihood and slaughter them.
After he followed the raiders North, he found a new use for it. He practiced his skills on human targets, learning to use his magic to cause small impacts in the ground and follow the reverberations, building a sense of his hunting ground. Softening and counter-acting his own footfalls to avoid detection, while mimicking them elsewhere to flush his quarry right into Eskandr steel.
His techniques of magic are built for distraction rather than attack on the battlefield, but that suits Vali just fine—he’s got skill enough to fight without extra force, and finds his Gift is to the benefit of his fellow raiders, both in catching fresh game to feed them and in finding the few living remnants of razed ruins.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Archery ]
Though he did not pick up the skill until he began raiding, Vali has proven to be quite useful with a bow and arrow. When hunting traditional prey animals, it’s his preferred weapon, offering an opportunity to strike from a distance and avoid detection with minimal effort. He attributes it to his keen sense of energies and perhaps a small capability in guiding the arrow with his Force magic.
❖ [ Animal Husbandry ]
Cultivated by years tending to flocks of sheep and herding steeds, Vali has a gentle hand with animals—primarily farm varieties—and a knack for Essence magic that can keep them calm in otherwise stressful scenarios. He’s excellent at handling horses, and rides a bit better than most as a result.
❖ [ Faith ]
Vali holds true to the Old Gods of Eskand, praying faithfully to them when the occasion arises. Faith is a powerful thing, and even if his may be wrong, it gives him strength to fight for his Gods. He believes he’s followed their call to journey north, alongside many who heard the same.
❖ [ Hunting ]
The skill that has earned him his renown; with the particular use of his Gift, Vali excels at hunting. He can track even the most elusive of prey, and can keep himself hidden to avoid scaring away his quarry. He takes great joy in hunting, and is confident in using these same abilities for scouting ahead when necessary.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Ax-Wielding ]
Though he excels with a bow and can hold his ground with both sword and spear, Vali has found that he has no talent at fighting with axes—despite these often being the weapons most associated with Eskandr raiders. He carried a small hand-ax, in case times ever become desperate, but has humorously little faith that he’ll survive any encounter that requires it.
❖ [ Cooking ]
Cooking was not something Vali was expected to take care of as a child. Though he had to manage when he left the comforts of home, the man is nearly hopeless. Things seem to go uncannily wrong when he tries to cook, from accidents with the ingredients to severely overcooked meats. One might think it was intentional, if the failures did not vex him so greatly.
❖ [ Faith ]
Though his faith brings great strength to Vali, is can also be a burden. He may push himself in the name of his Gods, leading to dangerous situations that he feels obliged to be part of. Similarly, such staunch support will find him highly disdained in the eyes of those who keep the Pentad, garnering no sympathy from the Northerners and their misguided beliefs.
❖ [ Insecurity ]
Vali has always felt that he has something to prove—despite his great successes among hunts, he fears he’s not enough to stand beside his blood-brothers. This concern, and the burning need to prove himself, can often push the ranger into foolhardy action—getting him into trouble much in the way his faith does. It’s also led to him taking the name The Silent Hunt, and giving meaningful names to many of his possessions—trying to insert his importance into history in hopes that it may stick.
LOCATION: Torragonese Desert INTERACTIONS: Ayla @Ti, Various @Force and Fury
Kaspar could feel the way his heart sped up as the sand wyrm barreled ever closer. The boy had never been particularly religious, but felt his mind grasping for anything to pray to, any being that might see fit to spare the collection of individuals waiting with bated breath.
He didn’t want to die. Despite all the things he was forbidden to speak of, every harsh lesson that his future hinged upon… He didn’t wish to leave it behind. Gods, he had parents who loved him, and how few people could say the same? He had a home to return to, a family and a place within this world. The threads of his fate did not wish to be cut short.
Fuck. Fuck.
Kaspar swallowed down the curses that wanted to spill from his lips, pressing against his tongue and pleading to be released. It would do nothing for them now, not as their massive adversary closed the distance with frightening speed. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but the boy knew he couldn’t risk the safety of his team with such cowardice. The only thing left to do was hope, to cling to the faith that their plan could save them.
The sand closed in. Granules washed over him, the trembling of the ground leaving the noble sure that he would sink right in, swallowed by the earth. He felt it spray over his face and suck at his legs, uncertain for a moment if this was how death should feel, large and shaking with a fear that seemed to sap the marrow from his very bones.
But the wave of sand moved on, the agonizing eighty-some feet of wyrm certainly giving them time enough to contemplate. The shaking would lessen, until the ground stopped moving altogether as the beast burrowed off in the distance, following the low thrum of a giant tuning fork. Kaspar was alive to see the stillness of the dunes and his companions around him, buried and frightened but not beyond this world.
His knees gave out, and the boy would have collapsed onto his hands if he were not so buried. As it was, he fell backward into a seated position, as though he were sitting at a table, palms scraping into the surface behind him. He let out a noise of disbelief, glancing toward the whooping Jocasta, mouth half-open in awe. Kaspar had felt more emotions in the past few moments than he thought he ever had—he could feel the itch of the sand against his awareness, something in his body begging to draw in mana, to combat whatever had deserved such a surge of adrenaline.
He gave in, destroying small bits of sand around him and ignoring the soft kiss of pain against the heels of his hands as a smattering of cells were taken, leaving something akin to rug burn on the now-tender skin. The red-eyed boy sucked in a deep breath, exhaling with a watery chuckle, and finally began to take stock of his faculties.
He’d been so happy to have such high-cut boots, excellent for keeping the sand out—and they were buried past the tops now, filled with the pesky material that shifted uncomfortably against his feet. He tugged, feeling resistance in the weight of the grain, and began to work one leg in a circular motion, dragging it gently from the avalanche before applying a similar tactic to the other.
Kaspar glanced to Jocasta, who was now offering praise to the lioness who had saved their hides. He nodded in agreement, still too breathless to talk, but felt the gratitude well up in his chest nonetheless. Then the chair-bound girl offered some advice, arguing against confronting these so-called caretakers—and he had to admit it was intelligent. He was no stranger to stoicism, but could understand the indignance they might feel in this “refuge”, and the way some of his teammates may want to tackle it head-on.
Pushing to his feet, the Elstrøm resolved to compartmentalize, first getting the resources they would need. He breathed out steadily, visualizing the draining of any latent emotion with the carbon dioxide and inhaling only clean air and staunch focus.
LOCATION: The Refuge
The presence of so many individuals put Kaspar on high alert. With the curious peering and murmuring of children, the boy actually slipped toward the back of the group, shuffling until he was somewhat hidden behind Ayla. Caretakers were yelling in at least two languages, though their charges did not seem to care much for listening—something the noble could understand.
Several small forms managed to break through the ranks of adults, approaching their sand-riddled pack with wide eyes and high voices. One in particular stumbled up to Kaspar, his face echoing the uncertainty the red-eyed boy felt as the child began to speak. ”Are you guys like… Here to pick up anyone... or something?”
He felt a pang in his chest and dropped to a knee beside the child, trying to hear his next words—and failing, with the cacophony of voices around them. His mouth opened and shut several times, trying to decide how one was supposed to talk to a child and offer hope without offering lies. He thought of what his father would do, how the marquis could be reassuring but honest, and tried to channel confidence into his voice as he finally replied softly, "I… I’m not sure. But we are here to help."
This didn’t seem to assuage the child’s nervousness, and Kaspar grasped for anything else that might help—and remembered his conversation with Zarina. He held up a closed hand, assembling a small marble in it, and opened the fingers to reveal the swirled pattern in the orb of glass. He waved a hand over it, trying to capture the child’s fascination.
It was then that the warden barked more orders, and his audience seemed set to flee. "Here!" Kaspar called as the boy began to turn, grabbing his hand and pressing the marble into his palm. "Keep this—it’s very special." The child, nervous and mumbling, seemed unsure what to make of the gift as he ran-hobbled back from the students, disappearing into the crowd of other individuals. Kaspar stared after him for a moment, feeling another unwelcome surge of emotions and reflections on life as one of the unwanted—and then seemed to realize he was still kneeling, and straightened quickly, clearing his throat and setting his jaw.
As Warden Ortega began to speak, the noble remained silent and studious. He would not need to be silenced by any of Jocasta’s glares, opting instead to note what information was being offered and, perhaps more importantly, what wasn’t. The man put on a friendly enough air, but Kaspar felt suddenly like a member of some inspection, an individual who was provided an act so everything seemed alright. Knowing what they’d heard from Jocasta, he would not be surprised to know this was the case.
It was Marceline that more readily caught his attention—and he felt she had some rather prudent points to be made. The aberration was their main concern, and the sand wyrm was deadly enough without it—who knows what could happen in the hours they might spend sleeping. Yet, it seemed they would be without a choice, unless the students wanted to slip out in the night without further consulting the refuge.
He watched the interactions between the warden and Marceline—the reluctant deferment, and the way he seemed to try and overtake her in the conversation, discounting her arguments and instead pressing for the comfort of the individuals who were supposed to be solving a significant issue. The way his fingers rested on her shoulder for a moment, Kaspar wondering what weight they held—punishment? A threat? A reminder of the power he was supposed to hold? Coupled with the grin that split beneath the mustache, the Helbanese boy felt his own skin crawl in the moment, as though a phantom hand pressed upon his shoulder too.
But the moment was gone, and the warden walking off and leaving this Marceline to see to their guests—hypocritical of him, in Kaspar’s eyes, to speak so much of their comfort and not see to it himself. Though, in truth, he was glad the man was gone, and glad to be getting a chance for sleep. Unless any of his companions voiced an opposition, he would simply follow, crimson gaze scanning the lanterns that seemed to be lit and awaiting their arrival.
“You think you are the heroes, in a world where we are all simply men.”
2 9 | M A L E | E S K A N D | R A N G E R__ _ _ _ _
C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _
Vali, like many of his Eskand brethren, stands above six feet—four inches or so over, though he’s certainly never measured. His shoulders are broad and he’s got the musculature expected of a renowned raider, but benefits from the bulk of his heavy leathers and furs. His skin is pale and his features sharp, a harshness to the cut of his cheeks and nose. His jawline, though much the same, is hidden beneath a short-kept beard. Vali’s hair is blonde, kept nearly to his shoulders. While he usually leaves it down, he may put it in braids for battles or hunts, to avoid it becoming a hindrance. His eyes are a pale green-blue, and ever watchful.
Though he’s certainly fought enough to earn the scorn of the Northerners, Vali is far from simply a warmonger. He holds a steadfast faith in his Gods, believing they called him to war, but honors them in more than just bloodshed. He values the relationships he’s built among his peers, particularly those of his blood-brothers, and enjoys a good chance to speak and laugh with those he truly cares about. He understands why the northerners view his people with such disdain, but does not believe the notion that anyone is necessarily good among the conflicting sides—both act with self-interest, and he will not begrudge the Parrench for doing so, but the belief will likewise not stop his own fulfillment of his beliefs.
Vali also has his own sort of intelligence, particularly when he becomes invested in a hunt. He prides himself on being able to think like both hunter and prey, allowing him to understand the motivations of his quarry and design the hunt to prey upon those weaknesses. His intelligence is certainly not of a scholarly nature, but he finds great pleasure in the cultivated ability to get into something’s head and pull out its plans and actions—or tip the balance just enough in one way to assure an outcome he wants.
There is, however, a dissatisfaction within him—he feels, at times, a sense of shame in where his skills lie. He’s not the fearsome fighter his blood-brothers are, and couldn’t hold his own against a horde of foes the way people seem to expect of them. He’s younger and came late to the game, leaving the man to worry that his legacy will be paltry in comparison. He can be foolhardy as a result, pushing himself to do things he believes may garner him greater respect.
B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _
Some names are given, others earned.
The name Vali, powerful, was given in the small village to a squalling blonde babe in a hut that stank of sheep year-round. He grew, as some are fortunate enough to do, herding sheep as soon as he could count them. A shepherd’s life gave plenty in the way of blood—in the slaughter of livestock for food in the cold of Hundri, or the butchering of predators that stalked the herd.
Yet a different kind of blood spills from the flesh of men.
This was the blood the Gods of Eskand called for, to those who heard them in dreams and death and the cold wind on the southern slopes. They spoke with a voice that Vali, son of Kjell, heard and heeded just after his eighteenth birthday.
With five brothers to guide the herd, neither the sheep nor the family would miss him. So he took up his spear, a simple thing, and joined the great raiders going North.
It was not easy, for one so unblooded—there were many who had soaked in their crimson tides and looked down upon the weak, taking glory and blood and gold as they pleased. One who had not yet proven his life worthy on the field of death was but a camp follower. Even the murder of the weak, the young, and the old was not enough—if a body could not threaten you, it was no more than slaughtering livestock.
Vali, son of Kjell lived months in the disdain of warriors before he too was blooded.
He alone stood in the cobbled street, surveying the wreck and ruin of blood and fire that had once been a town. He was the one the armed rider spotted, the man whom the snorting wild charger sought to run down with the wicked sword in his rider’s hand.
None here would mourn him. Some might take his shoes, the fur upon his shoulders, or his paltry spear. They would not send word home to his family, who would not cry for him if they did. Some would see, but few would remember the way the boy was cut down.
And yet… He was not cut down.
He, too, saw the approaching end. But rather than run or close his eyes like a coward, Vali, powerful, son of Kjell planted his feet against the rough-hewn stone, gripped his spear, and met his approaching death with a thrust and a guttural warcry.
The tip of his spear struck the beast at the base of its neck and sunk clean through the flesh. Screaming, it fell upon the spear and down the shaft, the chipped point finding its way out of the mane and into the throat of the rider.
They fell, and fell, the horse screaming in death, its riding choking on his blood, and Vali shouting for the glory of his Gods. They heaped on the stone in a puddle of dark blood, spear pointed to the sky—and for a moment, all was silent.
Then the body of the rider rose first, glistening wetly in the firelight, and was tossed to the side. Vali, son of Kjell emerged, screaming his victory to the smoke-filled sky, baptized in the blood of beast and man alike. His eyes were alight with a burn that none had seen in him before, like a man born anew in the death of his enemy—and, as some may whisper, his own. He staggered to his feet, snatching his fallen foe’s sword from the ground, and held it aloft as his brethren shouted around him.
He was victorious.
He was blooded.
He was Vali Twice-Born, and this name was earned.
He had his name now, Vali Twice-Born, and a sword that had tried to kill him. He was no longer weak and unblooded—and now truly began to hone his skills for the hunt. Vali’s reputation grew as he did, earning him respect as a hunter among the raiders who knew him.
But there was higher still to go, though Vali himself did not know it yet.
There were some among the highest renown of the roving hordes: Hrothgar the Black, Hildr, and Kol—those who, stories say, slew the great Mørkt Fjell, a beast none thought could die. And yet these warriors proved mortal men wrong.
He never dreamed he could be added to their ranks.
Yet his successes as a hunter spread beyond the lower riders, to even the ears of Hildr and Kol. A year and a half since his first naming, they were preparing for yet another great hunt—a great saber-toothed beast, a Skygge Katt reportedly twice the size of its brethren, had been picking off hunting parties for weeks. None sent after it could seem to find the creature, before being found themselves. Only one among the many who had been found escaped the bloody death, and spoke only of a giant who moved like a ghost and looked to be made of glass.
They needed one who could stay hidden from even the keenest of predators, and track down the most evasive of prey. Seeking to test his mettle, they invited Vali Twice-Born to the hunt—and even knowing the death he stalked toward, the man couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid.
It was Vali who insisted they take only horses that they could stand to lose. They traveled days into the trees, towards the last sightings of their Skygge Katt. Every night, as they camped, Vali would lead each horse a different direction into the trees and tie it to a trunk well away from the camp, leaving a lit candle for himself and both his companions to call for the Visitor’s protection. He sat awake, sleeping only minutes at a time, among the great spreading branches, and watched.
Six days in, and he did not hear the screams of the first steed as it died, not knowing there was something to be afraid of. He only felt the blood spill against the awareness of his Gift, and when his attention snapped to the now-dead horse, he felt the faint force tracings of the beast consuming it.
The next night, he knew what to look for—and sensed the Skygge Katt, seconds before it made its kill, the second horse dying as silently as the first despite the warning of the previous night. Vali focused all the awareness he could into the particular energies of the hunter, following it back into the woods until it vanished beyond the edges of his magic.
That morning, Vali broke the news—they were being stalked and toyed with, victims to the days-long hunt of a deadly creature. This was unlikely to unsettle his companions, as many beasts as they had killed, but served a great purpose—the formations of a plan. The transition from prey to predator, and the turning of the hunt.
On the eighth night of their journey, no one slept. The final horse was tied up, left as an offering to their quarry, and Vali persuaded his companions into the branches with him. There, he dampened their energies, masking the men from the senses of the beast. He felt it cross into the edges of his range, circling and stalking closer with a marked caution and pleasure in this aspect of the hunt. He breathed not a word to Hildr or Kol, fearing even the quietest of voices would chase it away.
When the great beast leapt silently from the foliage onto the horse, Vali leapt too—jumping from the branch he’d crouched on, drawing his own force energy to slow his fall as he plummeted onto the back of the Skygge Katt, for the first time releasing his battlecry. He stabbed into the cat with his sword, metal carving into bone and spilling blood as it bucked, tossing him from its back.
Hildr and Kol advanced from their perches too, facing down the great beast together as it turned on its hunters. Scraped but near-crazed by the scent of blood, Vali leapt forward again, and the battle was on in earnest. The Skygge Katt tried to retreat into the forest and return to an unaware prey, but Vali knew its heartbeat, rapid and frightened now, and could not be surprised.
He was the one to deliver the final blow to the beast—ducking low as it leapt toward him, and surging upward with his blade. The point sunk into flesh, finding the opening between two ribs and nicking the heart. It stumbled, and fought, but could not escape the claws of death as it succumbed to the bleeding.
They returned to the hordes three horses shorter, but with great cloaks of the dark, faintly-striped fur, teeth and claws in excess, and the startings of a bond that would only grow.
The venture that earned Vali his renown came to be known as The Silent Hunt—something that, with time and no small effort on the part of the man, grew to be analogous with Vali himself. It was a moniker he was all too happy to take on, feeling it added to the glory he’d been so late to seeking.
Kol and Hildr did not forget the venture, and he found himself increasingly in their presence—they seemed to develop a fondness for him, and the man could only serve to further prove himself. Nearly two years after the Silent Hunt, they took to him as a blood-brother, like the bond forged between themselves. He was younger, but truly known now by all who spoke their names.
The years since have been kind to Vali Twice-Born, The Silent Hunt—he’s bathed in blood spilled and blood sworn, his bond with his blood-brothers only growing stronger with each battle, raid, and hunt—they’ve trained together and provided great gifts for each other, sworn to be a family until even Sipenta ends and the Visitor’s table has crumbled to nothing.
I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Blodløst Sverd ]
The Bloodless Sword—the very weapon Vali pulled from the body of his would-be executer. Named for its failure to strike him rather than a lack of bloodshed, it has become the man’s weapon of choice. It is simple steel, but strong, with a wrapped leather grip that has been replaced more than once in his years of owning it.
❖ [ Hand-Ax ]
A small and simple one-handed ax. Vali keeps it in case he may ever find himself without his sword and bow, as it’s small enough to carry on his belt. He uses it primarily for utility, clearing paths in the woods when needed or cutting meat, but has yet to need it in battle.
❖ [ Leathers and Furs ]
His primary armor, thick and protective but light enough to suit his needs as a ranger and a hunter. He holds no particular attachment to the pieces, and often portions of it get replaced after being damaged.
❖ [ Sangløs Bue ]
The Songless Bow, his greatest treasure named for its use in many quiet hunts and the pieces that come from the Silent Hunt. A composite recurve bow constructed with teeth of the Skygge Katt of the Silent Hunt serving as the horn and maple wood as the core. A gift from Kol and Hildr, the bow is expertly crafted and well taken care of, often kept in a simple leather cover.
❖ [ Seiers Drikke ]
Victory’s Drink, a drinking horn Vali had made from one of the teeth of the Skygge Katt, hollowed out to hold liquid. He drinks from it often, not seeing the purpose in carrying it simply for show, but cherishes using it as an opportunity to tell the story of the Silent Hunt—though there are few who may see him drinking who haven’t heard the tale.
❖ [ Skyggehud Kappe ]
The Shadowskin Cloak, a great and heavy fur cloak made from the pelt of the Skygge Katt of The Silent Hunt. The fur is near-black with faint stripes criss-crossing it, and is well taken care of. Though he doesn’t often wear it to battle or to hunt, it is commonly seen on the ranger, particularly when the weather turns cold.
❖ [ Skygge Katt Necklace ]
The other saber tooth of the Skygge Katt, hung on a thick piece of leather stripping around Vali’s neck. It also has a small leather strip near the bottom meant to tie it to his chest to keep it in place during battles or hunts, but is often left unsecured otherwise so anyone near him can see the heavy weight of the tooth as it bounces against his sternum.
T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _
Third Wheel | Force | Essence
Vali is a hunter—of men or animal, it makes no difference. He enjoys spilling blood on an open battlefield, but when targets seek to evade pursuit… The Silent Hunt is no stranger to the chase.
His skill lies in Force Magic, with the lightest touch of Essence, spurred to life in the grassy sheepland valleys of Eskandr and honed in the burned villages of the North. He’s developed a keen sense for footsteps and breathing and blood, the hallmarks of life—feeling the force and essence energy surrounding living beings and following it, while dampening the reverberations of his own. He also manipulates the chemicals of his prey, keeping them from feeling the instinctual spark of fear that could give him away. In his youth, it was used to keep track of sheep herds and locate lost members of the flock—occasionally, it would help him hunt down predators that threatened his family’s livelihood and slaughter them.
After he followed the raiders North, he found a new use for it. He practiced his skills on human targets, learning to use his magic to cause small impacts in the ground and follow the reverberations, building a sense of his hunting ground. Softening and counter-acting his own footfalls to avoid detection, while mimicking them elsewhere to flush his quarry right into Eskandr steel.
His techniques of magic are built for distraction rather than attack on the battlefield, but that suits Vali just fine—he’s got skill enough to fight without extra force, and finds his Gift is to the benefit of his fellow raiders, both in catching fresh game to feed them and in finding the few living remnants of razed ruins.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Archery ]
Though he did not pick up the skill until he began raiding, Vali has proven to be quite useful with a bow and arrow. When hunting traditional prey animals, it’s his preferred weapon, offering an opportunity to strike from a distance and avoid detection with minimal effort. He attributes it to his keen sense of energies and perhaps a small capability in guiding the arrow with his Force magic.
❖ [ Animal Husbandry ]
Cultivated by years tending to flocks of sheep and herding steeds, Vali has a gentle hand with animals—primarily farm varieties—and a knack for Essence magic that can keep them calm in otherwise stressful scenarios. He’s excellent at handling horses, and rides a bit better than most as a result.
❖ [ Faith ]
Vali holds true to the Old Gods of Eskand, praying faithfully to them when the occasion arises. Faith is a powerful thing, and even if his may be wrong, it gives him strength to fight for his Gods. He believes he’s followed their call to journey north, alongside many who heard the same.
❖ [ Hunting ]
The skill that has earned him his renown; with the particular use of his Gift, Vali excels at hunting. He can track even the most elusive of prey, and can keep himself hidden to avoid scaring away his quarry. He takes great joy in hunting, and is confident in using these same abilities for scouting ahead when necessary.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S__ _ _ _ _
❖ [ Ax-Wielding ]
Though he excels with a bow and can hold his ground with both sword and spear, Vali has found that he has no talent at fighting with axes—despite these often being the weapons most associated with Eskandr raiders. He carried a small hand-ax, in case times ever become desperate, but has humorously little faith that he’ll survive any encounter that requires it.
❖ [ Cooking ]
Cooking was not something Vali was expected to take care of as a child. Though he had to manage when he left the comforts of home, the man is nearly hopeless. Things seem to go uncannily wrong when he tries to cook, from accidents with the ingredients to severely overcooked meats. One might think it was intentional, if the failures did not vex him so greatly.
❖ [ Faith ]
Though his faith brings great strength to Vali, is can also be a burden. He may push himself in the name of his Gods, leading to dangerous situations that he feels obliged to be part of. Similarly, such staunch support will find him highly disdained in the eyes of those who keep the Pentad, garnering no sympathy from the Northerners and their misguided beliefs.
❖ [ Insecurity ]
Vali has always felt that he has something to prove—despite his great successes among hunts, he fears he’s not enough to stand beside his blood-brothers. This concern, and the burning need to prove himself, can often push the ranger into foolhardy action—getting him into trouble much in the way his faith does. It’s also led to him taking the name The Silent Hunt, and giving meaningful names to many of his possessions—trying to insert his importance into history in hopes that it may stick.
As they departed from the halassa’s corpses, Kaspar found himself gravitating toward the back of the group, keeping an eye to make sure no one fell behind. Solitary as he was, it didn’t bother him to be a step behind his companions; yet, several still turned their attention toward him. ”Shame there wasn’t an opportunity to study them more closely. When the circumstance is right, you should find the opportunity.” He half-smiled at her comment, undoubtedly spurred by his interest in sketching, and nodded, ”Perhaps I will. Their shells had quite intriguing patterns on them, I may try to sketch them from memory. Surely you might find a subject in them, too?” He remembered the way she painted, and though partial to charcoal himself, thought they would make good subjects for a more colorful medium as well.
Even as he spoke, another figure drifted toward the back of the group; this one surprised him, as Zarina Al-Nader came to walk beside him. He recalled the way the girl had awkwardly complimented his kill earlier, and wondered what the Helbahn noble could’ve done to draw her attention. ”Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favourite Binder.” He turned toward her, seeing the way her features softened, and remained silently curious. ”Think you’d be able to make some grub, should this take a bit, Casper?”
Some small part of him prickled at the slightly mispronunciation of his name, but the boy didn’t sense any harm in it as he contemplated the answer. ”I am capable of creating food, yes, so long as there is something around me to pull from.”
”Wait, could you, technically, change a sapphire into an emerald? Because that’d be pretty cool.”
This question took him by surprise, and the boy couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he glanced to the Virangish girl, tilting his head to mimic her own stance. “Gemstones are an interesting question. A binder could draw from a sapphire and reconstitute the matter into an emerald, but it does not require the destruction of one gem to make another. A binder could construct an emerald from sand, or dirt, just as easily, so long as they know how to make the emerald. Chemical mages, I understand, can also change the nature of matter—in, perhaps, a more direct manner.” As she seemed to parse over his response, he added, “Is this simply curiosity, or do you have a greater reason for asking?”
Zarina seemed dissatisfied with his answer, lips pursing and hands coming to her hips, and Kaspar quirked an eyebrow. “Huh. Yeah, you can just make very pretty and wonderful things from crap you find. Yup. Way to remove the mysticism out of things! At least make it sound cool and interesting. Give me a moment. Like, say…” She picked up sand, and he watched as it slowly turned into a small drop of glass. “See? Like this! Except this becomes a diamond, or something. There, class is now captivated and thinks of dumb schemes to make bank. But anywaaayyyyy, no, I’m just making conversation. And y’know, figuring out what some of us can do. I guess.”
“So, apart from a lecture, what do you do, Kaspar? And make it sound interesting, I’m a demanding audience.” She winked at him, and the boy found the barest start of a blush creeping up his cheek.
He still wasn’t sure what had drawn her attention to him—was he simply the one she knew least? Was there something special she saw in the Elstrøm child?
And why did he feel the sudden need to impress her? Was it in defense of himself, of his schooling? Was there just something that demanding about her presence? Yet, he found himself drawing from the top of the sand and converting the granules into something concrete and whole. ”I apologize for removing the… ‘mysticism’ of this. Forget everything. Let me try again.” He closed his hand around the still-forming marble of glass, waving the other with some flourish as the pieces came together. He opened his palm, revealing the blue orb. ”A sapphire, you see?” His hand snapped closed, and he pulled out the energy, reconstituting it for this paltry trick as the noble revealed an orb, shaded green now. ”Behold! An emerald now, yes?” He held it up for her to admire, before hiding it from view and completing the trick one last time—revealing, at last, an orb of glass swirled with green and blue. ”Why only one, if you can have both? There, the mysticism has returned!” He dropped the orb into her palm, trying to understand his own motivations for such a show—and finding no answer to his satisfaction.
But there was still a question unanswered. He thought, studying himself carefully before supplying an answer, this time in a voice much softer. ”For the Gift? I do Binding, mostly—as you know. I draw, very carefully; I’ve practiced a long time, to be so careful. I’m learning the ways of Chemical Magic, too, though my knowledge is… lesser, in that field. For everything else? I sketch, mostly plants. I take the beauty in the world and recreate it on paper with charcoal. I study plants, too—I study many things, in truth, but none are very exciting. I speak with Ayla, or sit in silence and sketch while she speaks, sometimes. I’m afraid it is not… all that interesting.” His crimson eyes drifted back toward the lioness as he spoke, watching her engage with Yalen and Jocasta. He wondered silently if she would have dropped back to speak with him, had the Al-Nader not arrived first. Biting back the contemplation, his gaze slid back to the girl walking beside him, and he found himself curious. ”And what of you? What is it you do, Zarina?”
“I do loads of things.” Her voice dropped in volume too, nearly drowned out by Ayla’s playing. ”People say I’m a good performer. Mostly for dancing. But I just like to move. Ride. Go anywhere I want. How I want. And it makes it easier for me to do another thing I do pretty good. Taking care of business.” She clenched her palm, and Kaspar watched passively as the orb he’d given her was crushed, the tiny particles swept away by the winds of the desert. “... That sounded sinister. I just tend to shake the wrong tree from time to time. Or they rustle mine.”
He thought about what little he knew of leading, of interacting with others—and how some seemed to find him uncaring because they did not understand his nature. ”As I understand it, only those who are idle or disinterested can truly avoid shaking trees. You do not seem the type to sit idle; it is inevitable, I am sure.”
“Or just idiots who like to mess with the wrong trees.”
He let out a small chuckle of amusement, walking through the sand in silence for several moments. Yet, as Kaspar trudged side-by-side with the girl, he found his attention pulled harshly to the front of the group, where Yalen and Jocasta seemed to be speaking.
”They say it’s so you won’t miss the family that left you there. Didn’t your… your own parents abandon you? Mine sure did, whoever they were.”
He felt the words crawl up his throat and choke him, gut twisting in an unusual sympathy. His breath stuttered as he thought, unbidden, of parents who could abandon their own child because they couldn’t handle his Gift. He forced it away, sucking in a deep breath and stripping the memory down, storing it in a box that was meant to stay locked. No matter the emotion, he could not afford to seem so weak with so many eyes watching. He returned his attention to Zarina, forcing himself to say something to distract from the conversation ahead, and any response he might have had to it.
”It was, perhaps, a touch sinister—crushing objects to dust may certainly have added to this.” His voice sounded hollow to his own ears, but he forced some sense of amusement into it, hoping the Al-Nader did not notice.
She seemed not to notice for a moment, glancing at him and stuttering in confusion for a moment before replying, “Sorry, just showing what I can do. I think. Crushing glass isn’t exactly impressive, though.” She hummed for a moment, before dropping her voice and asking a question Kaspar would rather not answer. ”What do you think of them? The afflicted and the mind scrubbing.”
Kaspar glanced away, distress in his red eyes as he forced stoicism onto the rest of his face, rather than flinching as he would’ve liked from the raw strike to a nerve. He’d not spoken of anything like this since he was eight; no one in Wentoft discussed the abandonment of children by people who should’ve loved them. Yet there were rules of his home that could not be enforced here, and he was sure this was the first of many painful clashes he’d encounter.
He kept staring straight ahead, feeling notes of vulnerability as they crawled up his throat. ”It is... unfortunate. That some have parents who could not or would not love a child because of something that child could not control. Those who take them in... It should be done with a willingness to care for the child as a being, rather than a disease. Only some of..." He choked on the words he wanted to say, on us, as he forced himself to continue, "Of them, are fortunate enough to receive that compassion.”
Yet up ahead, shapes appeared in the sand. Their duty was upon them now, and the boy forced back the emotions threaten to bubble to the surface, placing a careful mask over him and standing up straight, Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft once again.
If only things did not go so wrong.
He did not speak Torragonese, but Kaspar knew enough to hear panic and fear in any language. He braced, crimson eyes sweeping the sand wildly as he tried to decipher what was approaching, attention pulled from the figures hurriedly running back towards the refuge.
”Sand Wyrm! East of here! It's... it's coming up fast!” The panic in Jocasta's voice was concerning, but the translation nevertheless helpful.
Nevermind that he didn’t know what a sand wyrm was—he could hazard a few guesses, but the most important was deadly. He watched Jocasta take to the air, Ayla shouting after her, and wondered how he could best evade the beast—and how many of his companions similarly lacked the talents to do so. He doubted they could fight it, even as he tried to bolster his own confidence in his ability to draw its life away if necessary—there were some creatures that were simply beyond death at the hands of mortal men.
Ayla turned toward them, shouting something in excitement. ”Dança-Alsahra, Dança-Alsahra!” He couldn’t even pretend to understand the words, but paid rapt attention to the girl anyway. She pulled something out of her pocket, holding up a metallic object towards them and declaring, ”Binding Magic. Kaspar, Ysilla, need this bigger, at least 100 times bigger. Right now. Use everything.” He wasn’t sure what Ayla’s plan was, but Kaspar had to admit he didn’t have one of his own—and so he would do as the musician asked, and hope there would be time for asking questions later… inside the refuge.
He turned to make eye contact with Ysilla, nodding sharply at the puppeteer and sweeping his arms to draw from the plentiful desert sand. Great pockets of shifting granules appeared dozens of feet away as he absorbed the matter, taking care not to destabilize their group. He pointed his cherrywood wand at a spot in the sand, and there began to emerge the massive tuning fork, the concentrated effort of binders who could not afford to not give their all in this moment. He felt the pressure inside his blood, and the strain of casting so quickly, but shoved it all down and focused on his talents, on how he knew he could do this.
As soon as the construction was done, he stumbled a few feet away, bending over with his hands coming to rest on his knees. He took deep breaths, watching small droplets of sweat drip into the sand and pushing away the slightly nauseousness turning his stomach. Panting, the crimson eyes glanced up to watch the efforts of the Priest, heating the object as it waited to be flung some great distance. He couldn't help but think back to the halassa with the boiling eyes, and found it did not help his momentarily compromised constitution.
Ayla spun, finished with her instructions to Zarina and the flying Jocasta, and his eyes snapped to her face. “Stop absolutely everything, not even a breath.” He sucked in deeply, providing oxygen to his heaving lungs without bothering to straighten up, and stilled—it was not easy, but he could sense the urgency in Ayla’s voice, and would rather feel the momentary discomfort and continue living.
Kaspar watched her prepare magic of her own, but did not call out any of the things that sat in his throat. What are you doing? What is your part? he thought, but spared some of his confidence for her. He would need to trust all of his companions in this moment—at least that came easiest with the painter whom he'd spent so much time with already. But, quieter and unbidden in his mind, came one other thought, By Gods… Be careful, Ayla.
All he could do was watch as she hit the tuning fork, sending a great vibrating noise through the dunes of the desert. His breath held, eardrums reverberating with the noise, as he waited to see if the sand wyrm would divert, giving them a chance to run to safety.
He hoped that he wouldn’t leave his parents childless again.
Kaspar watched the red-painted halassa charge unwittingly—or perhaps uncaringly—into the stone wall he’d constructed. That was as he expected, though he was surprised to see it crash to the ground so easily; it would seem the heads were not so well-armored as the shells. He watched the leg spasm, considering his options, when his attention was drawn by the screaming of Yalen’s opponent.
He did not expect to see such ruthless efficiency from the priest and watched the sludge of its eyes dribble down the beast’s cheeks as red mist drifted from the vacated eyesockets. It was not a pretty sight, though he swallowed the disgust that rose in his throat and stashed it away with his other carefully-kept emotions. The halassa was dead, and that mattered more than how it was done—though he would be sure to avoid Yalen’s bad side after seeing such well-directed power.
He heard Ayla retch, and his red eyes darted towards the performer, scanning her surroundings to make sure her distraction would not put her in danger. She straightened, though, returning to the task at hand, and the nobleman nodded at her resolution. She had yet to go for a kill-shot—though it’s not like Kaspar had either—but seemed to be disorienting the halassa, and certainly wouldn’t need intervention from someone who had yet to kill his own foe. He would keep an eye on her, in case things went suddenly awry, but trusted her to handle it for now.
It was Jocasta’s powerful shove that drew his attention next, puffs of sand spraying up with every impact of the great turtle on the loose ground. It was quite the powerful thing and seemed rather effective as the beast stopped struggling. “I-I'm sorry, That's one more down, b-but it took a lot out of me. I've got your backs, though! I'll...I'll scan in the distance for any more. Gods help us if there are!” He noted her nervousness, understanding it could be poison to one’s hope, and called back, ”Good idea! If there are, we’ll find a way to manage!” He hoped it would give some confidence to her, and anyone else in the group who might need it. That was the one thing Kaspar could truly impart—incorruptible faith in one’s self.
Zarina and Ysilla, too, seemed to be holding their own. The former moved gracefully with her sword, avoiding the beast’s maddened assault, and seemed to be closing in on a kill as she danced in time with Ayla’s song.
”Hold it there for a moment Ayla! I can help!”
Kaspar’s attention was drawn again to his friend, and he noted Yalen’s assistance; it was good to know who you could rely on for help, and he seemed to be as kind as one would hope of a priest. Moreso, it meant that the binder need not worry about Ayla’s combat until he’d truly finished his own. His gaze slid back to his turtle, twitching in the sand, and new plans formulated in his mind.
He needed a kill-shot, there was no way around it. His skill with chemical magic was not as strong as he’d like for this purpose—though a few ideas did come to pass—and binding magic was not suited to offense. Still, there were… options. He’d read about theories, and he knew that the premise was similar enough to what he was doing already.
Kaspar reached his awareness out, feeling for the energies of the material that made up his halassa. His senses delved into its daze-opened maw and plunged down the throat until—there. Focusing on that space in its neck and the material energy he’d drawn, the boy began to cast. More stone, like that of his barriers, but within the cavity of its throat. He imagined the stone forming and expanding, pressing against the flesh until it ruptured the walls of the esophagus, and next the vital blood vessels that traversed the neck and perhaps the bones of its spine as well. When his senses told him that the damage had been done, Kaspar would switch once again to his drawing prowess.
Delicately, he pulled apart the stone he’d placed, leaving room for the creature to bleed within and removing direct evidence of what he’d done. It was unlikely anyone would inspect the bodies, as rife with scavengers as they would soon be, and he could find some half-excuses to justify his actions… But Kaspar knew they trod dangerously close to the line between Binding and Blood, repurposing matter as the former but damaging as the latter.
He pulled at the sand beneath his barrier, too, to bring the stone wall crashing down on the stunned—and likely dying—turtle. Perhaps that would deal the killing blow—he did not feel guilt or shame at his actions, but a pressing awareness of his moral standpoint. He had not drawn from the creature, though that too would be justified if it meant protecting human life, but he’d never killed something more than a plant with his magic, and it sat in his mind, relegated to later digestion.
Alternate titles include:
[list][*]certifiable mess
[*]afraid of people
[*]just doing my best
[*](but hey, at least there's pizza)
[/list]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Alternate titles include:<br><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li>certifiable mess</li><li>afraid of people</li><li>just doing my best</li><li>(but hey, at least there's pizza)</li></ul></div>
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Ti
Fallenreaper
