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Post by ᵏᵉˢᵗʳᵉˡ on Jun 9, 2018 3:53:50 GMT -5
locations. Listanois. A kingdom far to the north with consistently cold weather. They survive mostly by trade, as their vast forests and mountain ranges are home to creatures and resources one would be hard pressed to find anywhere else. It was once ruled by King Bellinor until certain incidents drove him to his exile. Rummiria. A sunbaked country far to the south renown for their warm weather, fortune, and prestigious craftsmanship. Thievery and gambling are two things quite commonly experienced in Rummiria. It was ultimately controlled by King Vicar, though his violent execution has left it in chaos. A new figure, Ignya, has recently gathered an overwhelming amount of popularity within the kingdom with the promise of banishing magic once and for all. Magerest. The wealthy capital of Rummiria, infamous for its golden glory and vivacious atmosphere. A citadel stands in the midst of every tower, causing shadows to yawn over its alleyways and temples. The whole cityscape has a warm brown tone. The motto in Magerest is simple: nothing comes for free. The slums are viciously avoided by most civilians. Any talk or practice of magic is strictly forbidden. locations in magerest. maygard's orchard gate aphouver whistling mare inn to be added. possible locations to develop. Yelimeth. Kheneles. to be added.
characters.
Bellinor Jyun van Armithea 24 Bydivere Englynion vi Dyadant 25 Solaes Selakatos 23 Cessair Aetherson 19 Felblanc 17
Naida Kyneburg 21 Searle Fouques 25 Amaury 27 Kazimir Kairi 20
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Post by ᵏᵉˢᵗʳᵉˡ on Jun 9, 2018 4:01:47 GMT -5
naida kyneburg.
A distinct, pungent smell permeated the air, immediately alluding one’s mind to the sewers. To those above the ground, it was no doubt a location that elicited a raised eyebrow or disgust. There were a range of reactions to be exhibited, of course, but for the royal daughter of Rummiria, the eerie silence came as a source of temporary relief. Despite the lack of light, the endless, stone tunnel appeared to be tinged with green, as did the narrow, murky water which flowed with an air of uncanny serenity. The rusted bars hinged between the circular vents looked like the black teeth of an angered beast. Still, at the moment, it was the only location in Rummiria that allowed her to breathe, and for that, she was grateful.
Messily tearing the hem of her dress and slipping off her pointed, white shoes with trembling fingers, she leaned her back against the curved, damp wall. Contrasting the quiet rush of water, blood roared in her ears and fire pulsed through her veins. Spontaneous shots of adrenaline violently coursed through her body, making her numb and her knees feel as if they would buckle any moment. Her head was filled with splintered light and muffled noise and she could barely register the events that had occurred. The night felt unreal - a piece of well-fabricated fiction. It was the night she had realized just how metallic and putrid the smell of blood truly was.
How many lives had been lost? How many would continuously die, simply for serving the royal family? For being her servants? Albright, Enoon, Sasha - Gods, it took her every fiber of her being to keep herself from swiveling around and rushing back to the main hall of the castle. And Vere. What about him? What would happen to his family? Was he safe? The last time she had heard of him, he had been far away from Rummiria's borders. Please, she prayed silently. Please stay away. Please be safe, Vere.
Ignya, have some mercy.
Her jaw tightened and she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat and the colors in her vision blurred. Sharply intaking a breath through gritted teeth, she curled her fingers, the back of her knuckles all-too pale like the backbone of skinned fish. Her regret was raw through the stillness of the sewers. She blindly reached out for any tangible surface to steady the erratic pattern of her breathing. No matter how much she tried to focus on the path ahead of herself, it came rushing back, like a noose slowly tightening around her stained throat. The abrupt cacophony of shouts, the sudden outrage of the court, the mistrusting eyes of men that had bored into her as the woman she had trusted stood before them with a finger pointing in her direction.
"Witch!" She remembered hearing Hrani hiss from the crowd, his eyes two black slits.
It was the word that had started it all.
- - - In her dream, she was thirteen again. A soft streak of light streamed in through the symmetric windows, illuminating the polished, marble floor. When she raised her head and glanced over to the side, she could see the warm brown cityscape of Magerest - the flourishing rows of humble markets, serpentine alleyways, sunbaked streets, navy flags, and arched gateways. Narrow towers extended to the empty, blue sky, rising two hundred feet above the refined ground with their tips honed like the ends of gilded blades, and the domed structures of ivory temples were as visible as ever. Exquisite jewels decorated their rims, permanently engraved within stone for the eyes to marvel over.
As she watched the crowd thicken and deflate accordingingly to the time of the day, she allowed her finger to trail over the thick glass, lost in a trail of quiet anxiety. Rummiria, as a prosperous oasis, had been struggling against its rivaling kingdoms since the day it was born, and Magerest had changed after a different belief system had influenced the people: the start of its persecution for 'witchcraft' after witnessing its fluent capability for crime. There were still a myriad of facts she remained shielded against thanks to the high walls of the castle, but she understood that, contrasting its regal appearance, most news in Rummiria tended to be frowned upon.
It was then the subsequent tap of feet alerted her, abruptly drawing her away from her reverie. She sat straight, the way she was always instructed to, as a handmaid with a look of unconcerned wisdom boldly entered her chamber. “My lady,” she started with a curt bow, “I’ve received news of His Majesty’s arrival. He will be entering Gate Aphouver this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Enoon,” she said appreciatively as she sprung to her feet. The woman frowned, but Naida could not help feeling the tightened ball of nervousness within her chest unwind. The King had been absent from his throne for a month as a result of their neighboring kingdom's unwavering challenge over Rummiria's northern border, though if he was returning this early, news of success was guaranteed. Her father was finally returning home. Her vibrant, curious eyes trailed over to those of Enoon. “I'd like to ask you one more thing.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“What of Ver- him?”
Again, the woman watched her with indifferent calm. “He is also safe. You needn't worry, Naida.”
The foreign feeling of relief was overwhelming, yet welcoming. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the young, renown knight - he was not only well known for his elegant visage, but also the proficiency he displayed regarding his work. It did, however, feel like her own personal duty to be solicitous about the welfare of Bydivere. He was a myriad of things for her, after all. He was a storyteller; an adventurer; a teacher; a companion; a connecter; and most importantly, a friend. The first she'd ever had inside the walls of the castle at that, too.
Vere's back. It was difficult to suppress the bubble of unadulterated warmth that fizzed in her chest when the thought came to her again, though one look at Enoon was all it took for her composure to return as quickly as it had slipped. With a grateful nod, she waited until her handmaid disappeared behind the doors before scurrying over to the small window of her chamber.
- - - He was a man with features difficult to forget. A long, hooked nose rose from the surface of his olive skin, and his penetrating brown eyes were unnervingly steely. There was a perpetual furrow between his eyebrows, and his strong jawline was further emphasized by the harsh light that illuminated his appearance. He was pridefully sitting on a willowy, white mare in front of the army that vicariously paraded through the streets, and when he spotted her face behind the glass above his crowned head, he offered her nothing but a withering glare before promptly proceeding to the gates. She heard soon afterwards from the servants that he'd returned to his chambers immediately after speaking with his men.
It was one of the few, familiar memories she had of him. Ever since she could remember, their interactions had always been strictly limited. King Vicar was not a forgiving individual when it came to time, as he was constantly occupied with the kingdom's demands. Family life did not apply to him; he chose to be a competent monarch, not a father or husband. He demanded respect and control, and they were to be willingly given to him on a golden platter. The last time she had abruptly resisted his idea of one-sidedly purging magic from the kingdom after witnessing fire destroy the culture that Magerest had once prided itself with, his proclivity for violence had exacerbated. The only insight she ever had of magic was through Bydivere, and he was not 'a thing to persecute,' nor were a majority of the people he spoke of. It had been the first and last time she had acknowledged her own frustration in such an outspoken manner. She had been sixteen, then.
Even after four years from her first and last exhibition of impertinence, she had never freely seen the land the King had reigned unless it had been through short, illicit means with her partner in crime. As she grew older, he'd made certain of tasking her with more responsibilities, tightly anchoring her to her title with little room to disagree. Now, abruptly released from her responsibilities, she had the small authority of wielding skin-deep freedom - one that was bound to end as well as that of the king's severed neck.
"Hey, missy. You there with the rag around your head."
The cold awoke her before the young, unfamiliar voice could. It sank into her skin like ice-tipped needles, gnawing at her ears and fingertips. Her bare feet, on the other hand, fiercely burned from the season's callous grip. She brought her hands together and held them close to her stomach, as if it would keep her narrow shoulders from shaking. Her locks had always been pale from birth rivaling the color of ivory, but the past few days left them heavily dishevelled and matted. The clothes she had hurriedly purchased off a woman in the alleyway with her ring were thin and tattered. She had discarded her dress and shoes as soon as the chance had arisen. They did little good for running.
"Are you deaf? You'd best begone before a patrol passes by. They'll come by here soon."
When she raised her head from where she sat, crouched against the stone walls of a closed tavern, she saw the vague silhouette of a boy with a hat deeply pressed over his head. Light shifted over his features, allowing her to spot his lively blue eyes and a streak of soot that covered the bridge of his freckled nose. He appeared to be no older than twelve. "I'm not telling you again," she heard from him as he leaned back with his hand perched on his thin waist, "I've been kind enough to warn you without wanting anything in return. You must be unfamiliar with this part of Magerest, huh? Folk like you usually don't last for a week. Hey, hold on a minute, have we met before? You look familiar."
"I'm sorry, I don't believe we have," she spoke through chattering teeth as she rested her head on the crook of her arm to shield her face from his curious gaze. The boy seemed to sense her vertigo, and after a hesitant pause, she heard him slipping back to the shadows the alleyways provided.
Slowly, after gingerly rubbing the tired skin beneath her raw eyes, Naida rose to her feet, pulling the rag closer over facial features. The outskirts of Magerest would not be able to shield her for any longer.
It was time to start moving again.
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Post by BrightestNight on Jun 9, 2018 23:59:03 GMT -5
The very air itself is agitated; powerful gusts of wind tearing through the rolling field of long mutilated grasses. Once waist-high to a man, they now bend in the wake of the waiting storm in neatly cut patterns. Some scorched black, others shorn in a neat though sweeping fashion. Concentric circles in which lay forms that further disturb what once must have been a peaceful setting. The winds that toy with them carry the fresh, forgiving scent of rain to match the steely gray of the skies overhead. These coupled with the distant, disturbed roiling of far off thunder. A somber shade of blue-gray light is cast over what one would be hard pressed to see as a battlefield. Bodies scattered throughout the grasses, each in their own startlingly neat circle of leveled grass. A few are even lightly covered in it, the long green strands clinging to the blood that trickles down their chests and the sides of their necks. Each and every one- twenty in all- was felled with a single strike to their throat. Swift and painless. Though their dirty, ragged clothing and battered armor denotes their status as violent bandits, there are no other signs of an accompanying altercation. Or, indeed, any suggestion that they had been able to retaliate at all. All visible wounds and hints at combat are at best days old. Weapons lay only inches away or are still gripped in sweaty fists that have been frozen by death and the adrenaline that came before. The entire scene is both macabre and almost fatally...neat- Contrasting and comparable to the man who stands vigil over it.
An elegantly wrought spear, glowing pearlescent in that strange light that is between the sun's rise and setting of the moon, protrudes shaft up from the loamy soil of a nearby hill. Its beauty likewise complements that of its wielder, possessing a criminally fair face and winsome silvery gaze with which he gazes upon the serenely dealt damage he has wrought. His svelte body is relaxed, gloved hands set lightly upon the body of his spear as if he hasn't quite thought to part from it yet. It is as much at odds with his deceptive lack of tension as the reflective calm he displays. He remains still as a waiting predator, even as the winds tear at his lengthy white-gold hair. It attacks the soft angles of his face and streams behind him like a banner of liquid metal- As much a beacon as the unsoiled ivory of his clothing and quiet luminescence of his weapon. His breaths remain shallow and even, half-lidded gaze trained into the clinging shadows of the forest just beyond the fields. There is silence but for the howling of the wind and steady thump of his heart until some unseen signal bids his grip to loosen and the air to calm once more.
He takes a step away from his weapon when whatever prowling beast decided to leave the bright creature alone, fingers slipping from his weapon to lace together before him. A word of thanks is breathed before he drops to one knee as he had been before the interruption, wintry golden head bowed and thick lashes fluttering closed in prayer. The idle stirring of the wind brushes his loosely bound hair from his face to spill over his shoulders and down his back. This is how he is found five minutes later, drawn from his reverie by the heavy thumps of boots approaching in militant tandem.
"Bydivere."
A rumbling voice he recognizes as belonging to Gerdan, captain of the guard here in the western portion of Rummiria's more heavily forested region. It would seem that he and his patrolmen had arrived later than promised. Features softening into something both warm and distantly friendly, Bydivere rises and turns to face them with an affirming, "Yes Captain?" If the blatant lack of respect that usually accompanies his name or any of his titles bothers him, Bydivere doesn't show it. Instead his own tone, though naturally rather crisp, is light and holds an air of openness. He speaks to comrades regardless of whatever currently aggravates them into disrespect. This shows in his loose body language and the quirk to his lips that could suggest a smile. Somber as the scene is, he is grateful for its end. Bydivere is alone in this sentiment, however. The men draw near and slide their gazes over him to look beyond. At the unsettlingly symmetrical elimination of foes they had been battling for more than a fortnight; all neatly dispatched in a matter of minutes. If Bydivere notices the loathing darkening their gazes, the way they regard the entire scene- him included- with hatred and disgust, he does not show this either. He has had practice in this, and only shifts minutely to block the captain's view, mien still one of casual pleasantness.
"Have you no further news for me, Captain? A report?"
"No." The reply is short, but he takes it in stride. "Are you certain? This is not as cut and dry as we might like to believe. Something unusual was influencing the minds and actions of these men and women-"
"Magic." A graying guardsman interrupts to spit off to the side as if it's a dirty word.
"It would appear so, Oswick." He continues smoothly, "Regardless, the matter should be investigated further. I look forward to more detailed reports upon my return to the capital." His words are followed by sullen silence, giving him the opportunity to study the group more closely. He counts a dozen armed men, a brow quirking when they arrange themselves in a way they must think is a subtle attempt to surround him. Noted, but only in an absent way. There are more important things to attend to than the strange whimsy of backwoods guardsmen.
"As you can see, we need only clean up here." Bydivere tucks an errant lock of hair behind his ear with a smile. "That done, we are free to return home, yes? I look forward to passing through Maygard's orchard for our princess' gifts. Would you like me to have fruit sent for your daughter as well?" The words are directed at Gerdan, who responds with an even more stony expression belied by a voice that trembles with emotion.
"Do- Don't you dare speak of my daughter ever again. You-" He drags a breath through his teeth, opening his mouth to say more but is interrupted by another man. This one is younger, a newer addition to the guard whom Bydivere doesn't quite recognize. He practically vibrates with a reckless, violent energy that is confusingly disproportionate to Bydivere's words. "Your damned princess is dead!" He hisses so venomously that the taller man nearly takes a step back, argentine eyes widening slightly before narrowing in warning.
"I want all of you to explain yourselves, and I ask that you kindly think very carefully before you do so." The wind is agitated once more, cinereal clouds gathering into a more concentrated mass as the one who invokes them rests a hand on the pommel of his sword. He means to hear them out, it is possible that this is some strange misunderstanding- or perhaps they too have been affected by whatever curse or jinx befell the bandits- but they seem set on negating his further attempts at armistice. The youth suddenly lunges toward him with some strange weapon that brings to mind a short spear. It's comprised of a thin wispy branch and capped with an unfamiliar luminous flowering bud. Bydivere doesn't bother evading the weak attack, simply reaching out and snapping the 'weapon' in half with the intention of inspecting its end more closely. He accomplishes this with relative ease, yet when his left hand nears the bud, it bursts open with a sickly green light and extends barbed vines that tear into his hand, anchoring itself in place with an intent that speaks disturbingly of sentience.
For all malicious intents and purposes, the thing doesn't actually hurt him, which seems to unsettle the gathered men. Oswick takes a small step back, raising his spiked hammer uncertainly. Bydivere's once placid gaze is now as stormy as the sky above, now so thick with clouds they seem to press on those below. "What is this." His tone is deceptively casual, and he lifts the affected hand to gesture at those gathered with an inquiring cant of his head. "Well? What reason can you claim for the attempted assault of your own Knight Marshal? For uttering a sentence which threatens treason." Here he turns his scorching glare on the young man, barely out of his teens. The boy only glares back defiantly.
"You have nothing to say? Truly?" He receives no further response- At least none that aren't oaths, swears, curses on his name and that of the royal family's. Every word draws him further into that mixture of frigid wrath and battle calm that proceeds righteously offended retaliation. There is no room for hurt unless it is on the princess' behalf. 'She doesn't deserve this.' Bydivere's magic has been lauded and feared throughout the kingdom since before he had lost his youthful faith in the morality of others. Many viewed him as having too much power. Too much skill and talent- Too much of everything for one man already in a position where that power had far-reaching effects. He had worked tirelessly for years to prove Rummiria wrong and still he sees evidence that he hasn't been working hard enough. And yet...and yet this is to be expected now. But Naida- Naida has done nothing to earn such vitriol. She wasn't born with magic and anyone who pays attention would know that she hasn't the inherent power that she should either. And still she does her best to defend and champion the people against her father. They may impugn him all they wish but how dare they speak of her in such a light? The air around him heats at an alarming rate.
"Enough."
For all their talk no one has made any move to assault him further. Perhaps they lost their nerve when their failure of a sneak attack was ignored. He might have found it amusing in another circumstance. Now he can only feel the build-up of magic in the atmosphere, feel it dancing through his veins. They haven't decided to flee, at least. Smart but somewhat disappointing. He wouldn't be able to use as much concentrated force otherwise.
"You are all under arrest." Bydivere draws his sword and holds it level with Gerdan's dark slitted eyes. Clear and readable, not filmed over as the bandits' had been. "For an apparent attempt on the life of your Marshal and suspected conspiracies against the royal family. I will render you all unconscious so as not to be subjected to whatever filth you decide to spew next." A charge builds up around him, lifting strands of pale gold hair in an invisible breeze as his eyes flicker with amethyst light. There is some anxious shifting and more than one man attempts to flee, but Gerdan barks an order for them to maintain their positions. Just how cocky are they? Or is are they simply idiotic?
He receives his answer just as the spell is in the final stages of dispersing amongst them. It takes more concentration to wield such volatile magic when incensed, and Bydivere must take care not to unconsciously use deadly force in the delicate act of shocking multiple brains into some semblance of sleep. It turns out that he needn't have bothered, as the steady outpouring of magic arcs out in a flare of amethyst sparks before grounding into the earth between them in an explosion of grass and dirt. Bydivere doesn't have time to react to the eradication of his spell, as a cold, gripping pain suddenly radiates from the plant-like...thing on his hand and burrows into his chest. His magic should have repelled it long before this newest spell, and yet it affects some kind of counter spell of its own, so cold it feels as if he's burning from the inside.
He staggers backward with a pained hiss but doesn't fall- at least not until a boot connects with the side of his face and sends him into the furrowed earth. Foreign pain ushers spots across his vision, a ringing in his head and awful tugging sensation in his chest temporarily immobilizing him. So much so that it takes the knight several pained, sluggish heartbeats to realize that he is being kicked and stomped. His magic isn't protecting him from the flailing of boots and heavy heels that strike his prone body. His bones seem to ring from a particularly heavy strike and he's...actually bleeding. His magic isn't protecting him. The shock of sudden, violent pain is almost enough to scatter larger, more prominent dark spots across his field of vision, which consists mainly of blurred boots and bloodied earth.
"-Send you right back to hell with your precious puterelle of a 'princess'." Someone sneers from above him. Likely Oswick, Bydivere thinks with gradual clarity. He always did have a way with words. This final slanderous statement brings with it a rage and associated strength that clears his mind and the encroaching darkness from his eyes like nothing else could. Pain of all kinds, sharp, stinging, throbbing, burning- he hadn't even known it was possible to feel so many at once- still attempt to seize his entire body, yet Bydivere drags his left hand to his face and forces open his swollen jaw. He then sinks his teeth into the cloying, sweet smelling plant and tears it from his hand with such force that he ruins the appendage in the process, losing much of its structure as well as two fingers. The effect of this loss isn't instantaneous but it's enough to work with- The terrible draining sensation fades and the once distant clap of thunder is now much closer. No longer a threat or warning. It's a promise. He spits the acrid taste and shriveled remains onto the ground where they twitch feebly at Gerdan's stilled boots, finally succumbing to the surge of his magic.
Seeing that their window for physical 'punishment'- as he has no doubt was their reason for not attempting to kill him sooner- has closed, Gerdan and his men make to draw and strike with their weapons. Oswick's is already free and he moves to slam the warhammer into the back of Bydivere's head. The arc of his swing is interrupted by three still-gloved fingers. Bydivere lifts his relatively uninjured right hand and flicks the weapon out of the man's grip in an electric blast. The warhammer flies into the forest yards away with a crash and the almost melodic screech of the knight's signature magic. He is standing before Oswick's arms have begun to lower, listing but unwavering. Once beautiful white gold hair now hangs limply behind him, tangled with dirt and matted to the left side of his head with blood. His enviously proportioned features bear all manner of injuries- Swollen, cut, bruised; his jaw righted with his bloodied right hand and a crunch that makes even the youth flinch. Bydivere's noble armor is tattered and bloody; dented into the left side of his ribs while his right pauldron has been completely twisted from its previous position. The sword that denotes his knighthood has been down the hill and his spear is behind a wall of men. And yet he staggers and rises again. Takes a slow step toward them. His expression is one of quiet thunder, black with anger but in such a way that it is more felt than seen.
The knight lifts his ruined hand, levels it at the stubbornly grouped men as if he's passing judgment whilst ozone stings their tongues and thunder swells with a speed and intensity that almost mimics the rapid beat of their hearts. They waver under his steady gaze but don't falter- This, whatever this is that they believe in, they are ready to die for it. Are proud to. He is playing into their expectations, he knows. If only he could bring himself to care. What good would mercy do in this moment? Isn't death its own kind of mercy? Bydivere Englynion vi Dyadant smiles slow and beautiful, like the advent of sunrise that halos his dirt-streaked head in the luster of sun-strained gold. His smile is one that brings to mind a wrathful angel as lightning splits overhead and screams follow in its wake.
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Post by ᵏᵉˢᵗʳᵉˡ on Jun 10, 2018 1:20:55 GMT -5
kazimir kairi.
He was looking at the face of a wiry man with a stubbled beard, a youth with a mulish expression, a woman with inky black hair, and a willowy, lean-muscled man with the coy smile of a wolf. Although their eyes were nothing but ink on paper, it was as if they were truly gleaming, drawing in every inch of the pearly street. Ayberk Kudret, cutthroat. Hayri Yavuz, thief. Illav Derya, escaped convict. Amaury, illegal immigrant.
Criminals like these were common within Magerest; amongst its mass glory, it was also a covert nest of paupers, beggars, and thieves who sought to take possession of others' sympathy for tangible goods. Beneath the plain residents of the city, it was a plot of liars and deceivers. Some had been denoted to this 'grotesque' status after committing an unforgivable deed. Some had been the victims of manipulation. Others had grown to become one all their lives, learning to pickpocket and steal and cheat and adapt. Naturally, as Kazimir Kairi, he was a part of them.
After his eyes passed over the faces of the wanted culprits, he spotted polished writing that expressed high concern of the royal daughter's current whereabouts, her identity, and Bydivere Englynion vi Dyadant's betrayal. So, there'd been a coup. Rummiria's most powerful monarch had crumbled to a status most nobles regarded with a scoff - a criminal. Oh, how ironic. The kingdom would soon experience a shift in power, and the wealthy bounty placed on the princess's head was its beginning step in doing so.
It wasn't the coup or the cacophony that concerned him, however, but rather the rich numbers that had been placed on her (he wasn't foolish enough to target a renown knight, traitor or no traitor) life. The sum was enough for him to buy the richest house in the kingdom for his family and feed them until they were as good as dead.
No one, - Aslan, Hacer, Koray, Ayne, Asil, Harun, Ela, Emre, Fenrirr - would have to wonder when they'd be lying across the street like road kill from a lack of food. No one would have to anxiously crouch down in a corner, wondering when the guard from that day's shift would pass by, oblivious to their presence. No one would have to watch their own boney limbs deteriorate from the lack of sunlight and nutrition and life.
They would live.
Taking one last glimpse at the values, he quietly slipped back to the bent alleyways, where what resembled home would be.
fenrirr.
Long shadows yawned over the tangled alleyways. Blinking his eyes to clear his hazy vision, he inhaled a long breath of the static air and gently perched his chin against his propped up hand. It seemed that the cold did little to interfere with Magerest and its daily routine as people spilled from the blanketed streets with spots of white decorating their hair. They looked like crowns that carried the title: congratulations for being utterly, impeccably, drearily mundane!
Anyway, his tired foot felt paralyzed against the layered cobblestone street; his tattered sandal offered little resistance to the temperature. Nevertheless, he proceeded to observe the stagnant, pearly road ahead with a touch of exasperation. The light seeping through the windows of the ubiquitous, domed structures casted warm, amber shapes over the floor, and those who wandered about left a long line of noticeable tracks behind.
They were deliberately oblivious to their own surroundings to retain a certain illusion of peace - he could see the purposeful glaze over their vacant eyes as they marched ahead, ignoring anything else scattered away from their narrow point of view. It wasn’t a rare sight to see when the people of Magerest approached the perimeters of the slum where the air permeated with the stall, putrid scent of sweat and oil.
No one wanted to acknowledge their existence. Oh no, they would think. Poor souls, they would say. Someone go and help them! They would cry. But they would never lift a finger of their own to diagnose the catastrophe and make an effort to alleviate it. Turning a blind eye to problems seemed to be a naturally ingrained quality within humans. No one had truly proven him wrong so far - that was, until he saw the piercing eyes of a girl.
She was looking at him directly without turning away, her tired gaze unwavering. Surprisingly, he did not see the look of pity he despised so much within her black orbs. It was an impossible feat to describe what emotion flickered over her face, but it was as if she was trying to take every corner, wall, street, and stone in. It was as if she was observing the state of the area, permanently engraving the scene in her eyes, like she wanted to remind herself of something. And it was as if she was acknowledging that something - something too far and complex for him to understand. She had the weariness of a pauper yet the eyes of an outcast. An idealist.
“What are you thinking about, Fenrirr?” An animated voice called from above, causing his face to parallel the narrow sky. There on the low roof of a familiar building sat a young man with bright, unorthodox eyes. They were sharp and vigilant, the stark color of soot. He had a mischievous - if not almost feline - smile on his face with long lashes and a bird-like physique. The look of easy indifference on his angular face identified him as Kazimir Kairi, one of the many thieves of the infamous slum. When he looked back in the direction of the girl, she was gone.
“Nothing,” Fenrirr answered with a quirk of a brow. The thief before him appeared to express a certain degree of amusement, as if he knew what thoughts were lingering in his head. And yet, even as an air of vivaciousness encircled him, he was obscured by what felt like enigma. “Well,” continued Kazimir, “I’ve got some interesting news for you. That should cheer you up a little.”
“Nothing is interesting around here. There’s only ancient rats and dust and oil and politics,” snorted Fenrirr, until he swiveled around to see Kazimir holding up a transparent-hued vial. “This wasn’t easy to grab,” started the other thief as he slowly swirled the small container. “But I had to. It might just be the solution to your leg, after all.” Where had he gotten this? It seemed that Kazimir Kairi always had a way with these things, yet it never failed to bemuse him nonetheless. Accepting the valuable medicine with his soot-covered hands, Fenrirr struggled to speak.
Indeed, when his means of transportation had been slowly and excruciatingly stolen from by the lack of food and sunlight, he had spent several long days by the side of an abandoned dome. When he'd been found, he'd been taken to the home of a young and large family by a man who'd called himself Kazimir. "I am of no use to you," he remembered saying, "One of my legs no longer works. Why have you brought me here?" Looking up, Fenrirr's narrowed eyes met those of Kairi. He still remembered what the thief had said to him - what this con artist, cutthroat, liar, and soon-to-be-friend had said.
"You should give this to Ayne or Asil," he finally said with a shake of his head, extending the medicine back to his feline companion. "I can't accept this." He felt the warm touch of Kazimir's hand before he saw the young man approach his side.
"Keep it," he heard. "You've waited long enough, Fenrirr. This is yours. Besides, who knows - there may just be a day when we won't have to steal, anymore."
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Post by BrightestNight on Jun 14, 2018 3:28:45 GMT -5
He was never one for reading, nor was he keen on listening to a bard's stories or a minstrel's song when they weren't dedicated to himself or his interests- Namely hunts, battle, and other such violent pastimes. So, logically, he supposes, the fact that the weather doesn't suit the scene shouldn't offend him. This is not a play. Nor is it some dramatic point in a tale that must be delivered in grand gestures and hushed tones. Although the story of his life so far, if shared in song or to frighten children into behaving, would most definitely have both. And there would be rain. Constantly. As it should have been on the day he was spawned. As there should be now. A persistently insistent ill omen. And perhaps his mother had been right when she had accused him of a thespian's temperament- The skies are bright and blue. Azure, perhaps. The sun is shining brilliantly as if in pleasure. Its golden rays are tempered by a cool, gentle breeze that teases cheery tones from the bells tied in his hair. And he is disgusted. The day is warm and bright and pleasant and this bothers him more than the man who lies dying before him. More than the assorted farm animals who have already been forever stilled lying in disarray around them. In blood and filth and their own offal.
It has been so long that he no longer feels...it. The whatever-it-is that allows a person to recognize and fully appreciate, for good or ill, the fact that they have taken a life. Still, he feels the need to apologize for his inattentiveness, in a way. "It isn't that I truly wish for it to rain daily." He explains above the wet wheezing of a punctured lung. "Personally if I were to die, I would rather that it be during a perfectly disastrous storm. Something suitably fitting and-" He waves his hands for a moment, searching for the right word. "Theatric! Sir Bellinor cannot simply die on any old day, you see. I am-"
"M-mon...M-monsterrr..." Slurred through bloodied lips, expelled from collapsed lungs with such concentrated intent that he has to admire the man for so vehemently attempting to deliver this final disparagement. It had long ceased being an insult.
"Precisely!" He snaps his fingers with a satisfied grin. "One such as I requires more pomp and circumstance, you see? T'wouldn't be right, otherwise." The man is dead before his sentence is completed, but he doesn't notice until he glances down for confirmation and finds an empty stare focused unwaveringly on his own. There are clear tracks through the crimson streaking the man- the corpse's face and Bellinor has never wished more fervently for rain.
When it rained, he could pretend that he didn't notice their tears.
❅⚜❅⚜
His most recent 'quest' had taken him to a small farm that was apparently designed to be secluded from any suggestion of humanity. With haphazard rows- and zigzags, of produce growing from every serviceable plot of land, a few even creeping up or around the squat buildings. Of which there were two- a stone storehouse and the misshapen offspring of a hut and a farm home. Animals, be they chickens, cows, or the sole pale donkey, all roamed free with little to no fencing to speak of. He marveled at so strange a place. He might have found it quaint, once upon a time. Now he simply focused on the thunder of numerous heartbeats, all spiking in visceral reaction to an approaching predator.
He hadn't bothered with stealth, simply striding into the storehouse where the lone man had stopped his work to wait for him. Derus had known he would be coming. The animals told him, he said. Calm and almost accepting. It was only a matter of time before the few he did business with grew suspicious of his connection to his animals. A matter of time before the growing loathing of magic poisoned the quiet community and turned neighbors against each other for even the smallest infractions.
Derus watched the being- for he could hardly be called a man, now could he?- watch him with wrinkled, impassive features. I've heard about you, he said. I can't tell if you're worse or better than what I built in my head, or which qualifies as which. Bellinor had laughed then, shrugging his bow from his shoulder and flipping an arrow into hand. The door slowly creaked open behind him as the farmer's animals filtered in to defend him. A loping sheepdog and waddling pigs. Chickens, a duck...even the squirrels that he apparently fed on occasion.
The assassin tried to even his breathing, kept his smile on his face as he lifted the bow. I hear that quite often, he mused. What were you expecting?
"Something more monstrous. Not someone."
❅⚜❅⚜
Bellinor buries the man in the back of the farm. Perhaps he's feeling...something like sentiment. Or some brand of it, for he makes a grave among a small patch of land dominated by wildflowers. There is no one to bring the flowers, so they might as well be readily available. Or so his reasoning goes. He buries the animals as well, scattering them throughout in the places he'd first seen them upon his arrival- Supposing the donkey preferred to roam the field of wheat and the sheepdog guarded the strip of land before the encroaching woodland. He is kicking the last of the dirt over its resting place when he hears a thin, warbling whimper. It trails off before starting up again, and he slowly lowers his boot and swivels in the same movement, easily tracking the sound to the nearby farm house's siding. It's dented in from where a body had been kicked into it, the newly made curvature raising a portion of the wood away from the ground so that it could make the perfect hiding place for something small and frightened.
"And you are both, aren't you?" He intones, trying and failing to make his voice soft. He sounds more amused. His address is directed at the splotched puppy trembling in the shadow of the splintered wood, eyes so wide he can see the whites. Approaching with unhurried, deliberately perceivable movements, he kneels before the puppy and- Reaches for it? He doesn't quite know why but he remembers, vaguely, that he might have had dogs once upon a time, and continues to nurse a soft spot for them. Not that he had been particularly demonstrative of that fact mere hours ago. Ha! This one must agree with the sentiment. Or thought. Or perhaps disagree with the need to bury its parent in the first place- For it darts up to sink little puppy teeth into his gloved hand before whipping past him with impressive speed.
Lantern-bright eyes watch it disappear around the back of the house. His face appears to be frozen into some mixture of greeting and inquiry. What had he been about to say? 'Hello, how is orphanhood treating you?' Fingers curl into a loose fist as he rises. There is no pain, only a faint sense of irritation. He hasn't touched anything without the intent to cause irreversible harm in so long- But it's better this way, isn't it? 'Isn't it?'
"You're slipping in your old age, Bell." He laughs, because that always seems like the appropriate response. "Or are you- am I- are we- old? Is that really an excuse for 'slipping'? Perhaps I'm more mad than senile- If there is, in fact, a difference." He hums pensively as he finishes his rounds, staying clear of the corner of the farm that the young dog had fled to.
Though he doesn't seek it out again, he ensures that the farm's pump maintains a steady drip into the water trough and leans a shard of wood against it to be used as a makeshift ramp. Prolonging the inevitable, perhaps. But he finds that he cannot simply leave these things be. It is a continuing weakness of his.
❅⚜❅⚜
The Whistling Mare inn receives many...odd sorts, being a bit of a halfway point between longer treks and nondescript villages. So it is not as if a cloaked, hooded figure who is of marked height even whilst slouched in a chair is particularly out of place. Not usually. But tonight, when the building is filled almost to capacity with merrymaking and only a few, quickly stifled lamentations, said figure stands out. Especially when he remains unmoving even so as to suggest not a breath being taken, when everyone around him is being exceptionally lively.
Myrna takes note of this, for she believes the man- The low masculine voice she could detect in his two-word request for a drink would suggest as much- to be dead. She eyes him as she weaves her way between two particularly gleeful tables, precariously balancing ale and hearty stews with an ease born of long practice. He appears to be closer to lounging rather than sitting properly- and her lip wants to curl at that- long limbs sprawled somewhat haphazardly but in a way that simultaneously suggests regal indolence. Dressed from covered head to toe in sable, his face is concealed by the combined measure of his hood and high collar of his coat, though she could have sworn she'd seen a sliver of pale yellow when she'd taken his request for a drink. Sick, perhaps?
"What, is that all the drink you got?!" She's forced to shift her attention at the particularly raucous cry, scowling as she slams another three mugs of frothing ale onto the already sticky table before her. "This is an inn, not a brewery! If you-"
"Where's your sense of celebration?" A ruddy man cries, drawing his third drink toward himself with a crooked-toothed grin. "We're free! Those royal pigs 'ave been roasted 'n spitted, and Ignya-" Another man interjects with a respectful, "Her Grace", which the first acknowledges with an enthusiastic wave of his drink. "She promised to put an end t'all this magic nonsense!"
Myrna's expression remains unreadable as another of his companions starts on a drunken tirade about how the enchantment meant to draw fish to his boat instead only attracts more dangerous sea creatures. "Can only use it for kindling now!" He moans, thumping his head onto the table and sloshing nearby drinks- those that aren't in the process of being knocked back in commiseration. Though her fingers clench at the thought of having to clean the dripping mess later, she manages to keep her tone suitably dismissive. "What of the princess then, didn't she escape?"
"Ha!" A wispy blonde points an unsteady finger in the barmaid's general direction. It's the wrong finger but she doesn't appear to notice this. "Not for long she isn't! I tells you now if Her Grace don't see to her, the people will!" There is a general chorus of cheers and shouts of agreement. More calls for another round of drinks- But Myrna remains where she is, frowning more openly now as she rests a fist on a rounded hip. She sees the worst and best- but usually the worst- of humanity in her line of work. Tonight is a fine example of this. "The poor girl's only crime is being born to the wrong people." She mutters, abandoning her irked tone when the ruddy man asks her to repeat herself. Not quite drunk enough that he's too enamored with the sound of his own voice. Wonderful.
"I'm simply wondering about her sworn knight." Myrna responds airily, tugging a rag from her belt and attempting to clean up the worst of the spills.
"What, you mean the Kingsguard? They-"
"No her knight, Sir Bydivere." She clarifies, voice rising as she slants her pointed hazel gaze toward the most rowdy of the over crowded tables. "He passed through here on his way to the border, you know. It's likely he'll be doubling back once word spreads." And it definitely has. Her own words have the desired effect, previously jolly patrons taking a break from their celebrations to glance almost superstitiously at the roof overhead, as if they can see ominous clouds beyond it. Myrna had believed that to be that, with the conversations now turning to the fate of Rummiria's most renowned knight and House; arguments over presumed deaths and the impossibility of said deaths- When she finds that she's done more than simply cause a shift in the once jovial atmosphere.
A mug slides down her newly cleaned table and comes to a stop right before the ruddy-faced man, who cuts off his impassioned conversation with a startled grunt. Myrna is inclined to do the same, eyes widening as she turns to find the patron she'd presumed dead- or in an ale-induced stupor- smoothly claiming the seat vacated by the wobbling fisherman. He ignores the prone body sprawled partially under the table and folds his arms atop it with a grin. Or at least that is the impression he gives, seeming to radiate good cheer despite a lack of visible features.
"I am afraid that I've missed all of the excitement in my travels," He waves a gloved hand vaguely in the direction she remembers to contain sprawling forest and sparse farmland. Yet he is definitely not a farmer by any stretch of it. The bow he'd propped against the wall would suggest...A ranger, perhaps? "You wouldn't mind sharing the story behind this evening's celebratory mood, would you?" There is a clear smile in his voice, and drunk and sanguine as they are, it appears that no one within earshot minds sharing in the least. Not even with an inscrutable stranger who has yet to offer his name. The lively room is soon filled with the cacophony of voices attempting to tell their own approximation of recent events at once.
Myrna retreats, ostensibly to return to the job her mother has been glaring her into completing from over the counter- But truly neither her mind nor her gaze strays from the man in black. He is suspicion incarnate and there are very few sober enough to agree with her. She tries not to judge him based solely on what she can or can't see, but what she can discern is rather damning in and of itself. It is only natural that they didn't hear his approach under the usual bustle of a busy inn, but when he had made himself known, it was clear in her brief glimpse of the way he moves that they wouldn't have heard him even in the dead of night with not an owl's inquiries to disturb the quiet. When he'd turned his attention to her, just a brief flicker of gem-bright eyes, she'd felt pinned in place as if by a snake assessing its next meal. A moment that stretched a second into a day before his passing regard saw fit to release her from its silent weight. And the way he speaks- There is an arrogant quality to his words that suggests someone well-bred and accustomed to being listened to. He doesn't speak often now, listening with encouraging hums and inquiries to several stories at once- But she sees the way he tracks every word and nuance, gaze bouncing from one person to another so that they do not feel its weight as tangibly as she. There is a gravity about him that one would be hard-pressed to associate with the warm charisma of Sir Bydivere, yet it reminds her of him all the same; though only in the way that the sun might remind one of the moon- Repelling rather than enticing. There is a chill in the air despite the previous balmy warmth provided by many bodies being packed into one room.
Is she truly the only being present with her hair standing on end?
"You heard it right," The thin blonde nods emphatically along with something mumbled by her sour-looking paramour, now pointing her spindly finger at their thoroughly entertained stranger. "The princess slipped away somehow and hasn't been seen since. There's a price on her head now."
"Can't imagine she'd survive long." Someone mutters. "She really is alone now."
There's a faint crystal chime as the dark man tilts his head, idly tracing the rim of a mug he has yet to drink from. "And what does that mean?" His low voice is still faintly imperious but coated in genuine curiosity, as if the country's sentiments and politics are foreign to him. And they very well might be. Something about his mannerisms suggest that he doesn't often have the chance to socialize. Myrna can see him mimicking those around him in subtle ways as if attempting to relearn social behaviors- Or perhaps make his own suitably crude to make his presence more familiar.
"Never mind all that!" The ruddy-faced man, who had introduced himself as Ferrin, claps him on the shoulder and presses the mug more fully into his palm. He doesn't seem to notice the stiffening of broad shoulders. "Don't matter where or why she is with 'er Grace's best men on 'er shadow! Have a drink!" The stranger abruptly rises with a strange laugh. Both unsteady and jubilant, as if he's found the answer to a question that has always disturbed him. The force of his laughter causes him to stumble back a step; the man he knocks into is too startled to protest, and indeed the remainder of those present follows suit. Shocked into silence by the disturbing sight and sound. Myrna, for her part, is inching toward the knife in a nearby meat pie when his wild, disjointed merriment drops into uneven breathing.
"How entertaining you are! It is much appreciated." He grins. And if the room had been silent before, all air has been sucked from it now. The hood has slipped from his head, tilting the ragged collar of his coat at an angle that partly reveals the lower half of his face. Softly angled features and a straight patrician nose are expected- But it is the inhuman hue of his eyes and unnaturally sharp fangs revealed in his grin that truly bring all movement to a halt. Silken sable locks frame his face, while the remainder is tied up with disproportionately cheery fuchsia ribbon and elegant little silver bells.
The half-believed stories often shared in superstitious whispers never quite prepared one for the reality behind them. A fact which is undoubtedly proven in this moment, where Myrna makes a frantic grab for the knife and is blessedly ignored as a potential threat for the presumption. No one quite knows his name, but there are plenty of descriptive tales to give one ideas. "Demon." She breathes, and his gaze skips toward her as he retrieves his bow and swings it onto his back. The manic grin remains, even amid the general drunken panic that has swept the inn into a frenzy of movement and muffled screams. No one is sure what to do- whether fleeing or remaining still is the better of their prey-like instincts. Ferrin sits frozen in shock as the demon takes his leave. He and Myrna remain of those unable to bring themselves to move, though after what feels like hours, he manages a soft, "Well the princess don't stand a chance then."
Myrna slowly lowers her knife, remembering the brightness of his eyes. The relief.
"Doesn't she."
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Post by ᵏᵉˢᵗʳᵉˡ on Jun 20, 2018 15:45:05 GMT -5
The royal palace was an accumulation of ornamentation and building work comprising the original foundations; it was layer upon layer upon layer. Painted silk taffetas coupled with appliqués decorated the long walls with different palettes of mahogany and gold. The massive paintings around the castle corridors manifested the profound legacy of Rummiria, glorifying portraits of its ancestors with gilded frames, and episodes of its history were depicted in great detail for the world to see. Pavilions were polished, monumental edifices further enhanced its presence, and the opulent bridges that sprouted from its flanks blended in with the vast, sunbaked landscape below. With the prosperous growth of Rummiria and its many illustrations of competence, King Vicar’s name had become as sacred as that of a deity. He was a blessing that had saved it from extinction, and the people held him high up on a stool in return. The whole world had come to respect his power. After magic was exploited for evildoings within Magerest and ‘strange circumstances’ had begun to occur, his decision to eradicate those who practiced ‘witchcraft’ had further made him a king few and far between for the people. Of course, as a city that had once heavily relied on and believed in magic, resistance had ensued for several years. Still, even so, his reputation had become impossible to tarnish, save for the exposure of one, unexpected truth by the country's most highly regarded cleric, Ignya: The royal daughter has magic flowing in her veins.
Had he known that she was capable of producing ‘witchcraft,’ she was certain he would have murdered her long ago without an inch of hesitation. An unfortunate accident, he would say. Had she, herself, known, she was certain that she would have done something to prevent a catastrophic result such as this one, even if that would have resulted a knife through her throat before the eyes of the public. There had been plenty of stories about how she had almost died: once by the hands of a foreign assassin when she had been five, another by poison from Yelimeth’s diplomat when she had been eight, and another by a camouflaged mercenary who had nearly axed her on a carriage when she had been moving to Kheneles for compromise. The list went on and on. Was it selfish to think that, if one of those many individuals had succeeded at their zealous attempt, so many lives could have been saved? Through the darkness and cold of the night, she thought she saw the faces of Bydivere’s family and a myriad of more silhouettes behind them, waiting, watching. I’m so sorry. - - -
The guard preceded her into the throne room where she then stood, silently, with her gloved hand resting on the handle of her sword. She tried not to flinch as she felt her father eye her from above. She didn’t need to see him in order to feel his raw gaze, the way how he seemed to study her as if expecting something that she could not offer no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes kept to the floor, never up. She could barely remember the lines that made up his features anymore, whether if he had short hair or sported the beginnings of a beard. She had to picture his portraits in order to give his rumbling voice a face to speak from. “I am terribly sorry for my past impertinence, your grace. I should not have spoken out of line. You are right,” she said, wincing at her following words, “Magic and those who practice them should be…” Her voice trailed off, and she could feel his eyes practically burning a hole through her head. Dead silence stretched across the room. Even the smallest movement of armor resonated through the air like blaring trumpets. Air seemed to disappear, the last bits of it wrung from her lungs. “You cannot say or agree to it,” she heard him state, the crease of his eyebrows breaking his indifferent visage. It had been months since he had last spoken to her. She heard an edge in his deep voice, the fickle anger that hid behind it. Her eyes spotted a thin circle in the minuscule golden linings of the carpet. “I cannot,” she agreed quietly. Having to forcefully attend Magerest’s brutal, public executions had done little to change her idealistic reach for the coexistence of those with and without magic. Of them all, she could not forget the ear-splitting wail of the woman who had crouched over the headless corpse of a man. The woman’s red, tearful eyes had pinned her down with loathing she could not begin to describe, and the silver ring on the man’s finger had dimly glimmered from the afternoon sun. The public had cheered as they watched the remainder of his body drown in his own blood. Finishing her sentence would also mean that she would be betraying the boy she had grown up with. Stars burst across her vision. The force of his hand sent her staggering backwards, causing her to fall unceremoniously on the polished, marble floor. Her eyes watered from the impact. “You humiliate me and interrupt the council with your daydreams and that is all you have to say?” “Your grace,” she heard a shrill voice intercept from the massive, metal doors. Hrani stood with his bony fingers nervously entwined together, long nails curled like the talons of a vulture. His insipid black eyes rested on the floor, flickering back and forth from the carpet to the marble. His submissive posture pointedly revealed his unusually long nose. “Kaleigh Raakel has requested your audience.” She felt knives against her skin as the King turned to look at her again before she heard his footsteps weaken from the distance. Soon after, she heard the large doors behind her slam shut. - - -
the guard. For a moment, she thought she saw a certain someone in Naida. It was this exact location that the court’s true tactician and strategist had practically declared himself a pariah by laying out the hypocrisies of King Vicar’s beliefs. He had risked the wrath of the wrong men - the nobles, his own father, and the monarch - fully knowing the consequences that would follow. In a small way, the Naida now reminded her of him. Searle Fouques had been a dynamic individual. Everything about him had been active, starting from the way how his pale orbs had brightly twinkled with affection. He had been easy to enervate yet quick to heal with a playful attitude that contrasted his serious nature beneath. He had been a realist with an acute sense of practicality, but he had also been a tireless idealist who had despised casualties. She still remembered his vivacious gaze resting on those of the King when it had been announced that they would kill or enslave every man, woman, and child in possession magic. She still remembered how he had calmly stated that he would not aid the massacre - that he would no longer serve the court and its purpose. He had always joked that he would one day retire to the mountains where he would lead a humble life as a hermit. If the rumors were true, he was doing just that. The princess, on the other hand, had always been overshadowed. She was a stoic figurehead who was advertised as a ‘proper example of royalty.’ The public knew so little about her that it was almost as if she were invisible. She excelled at her studies, waved at crowds when she was required to, and walked with unparalleled grace. Her image was sold as: the delicate yet regal daughter of his majesty, another perfect product crafted by the hands of the King. For fifteen years, Naida Kyneburg had been a wired machine. "We continue to rely on those who possess magic and yet we declare the death of those who are of no use to the monarchy?” It was her outburst that had changed her thoughts about the young woman. Only then had she realized that there had been something lonely about her, sitting so still with her back straightened for hours in solitude, silenced by the strictures of court life. - - - Amber was a predominant color in the tavern, the one hue that illuminated all tangible surfaces and people within. Those who were less intoxicated chattered mundanely while others shamelessly wobbled across the dance floor. Here, politics and bloodshed and status were seemingly forgotten, swept under dancing feet and hearty laughter. Customers swayed in a synchronized fashion and flocked beauties who joyously twirled together around the wooden tables. The price was cheap here, eliciting no shortage of customers despite its more rural location - a mediator between Magerest and its wilderness. But, by the same token, help couldn't be hired, and it left the man behind the tattered counter chronically understaffed. Still, that seemed to interfere very little with the celebratory atmosphere. It had been a little over a week since King Vicar’s execution and the start of Ignya’s reign. Underneath one of the dangling lights sat a cloaked silhouette, not particularly eye-catching in a crowd such as this one yet still somehow peculiarly curious. In front of them sat an untouched drink which they occasionally touched with a flick of their long fingers as they spoke with the man next to them. Their calm demeanor set them a hair apart from the bustling of the tavern, their narrow shoulders precariously balancing an act of indifference. A small glimpse of their hand revealed a bronzed complexion from the withering sun and soot. “You’re trying to hear about his whereabouts?” Asked the man, clearly surprised. Spectacles hung on the tip of his rounded nose and a plumy beard sprawled down his chin. Ink stains speckled his white sleeves. “Why?” “It’s frightening knowing that someone so dangerous is out there, lurking about. They say he still hasn’t been caught,” they replied simply, concisely. They traced the lip of their glass slowly, thoughtfully. “I’d like to be as far away from them as possible.” “Aye, can’t disagree with you there. The princess’s watchdog, that one. Shoulda been executed with the rest of ‘em.” The man didn’t seem to notice the way how their grasp around their glass tightened ever so slightly. Their posture quickly changed, however, relaxing once again, and they leaned their chin against their propped up hand over the counter. “So, sir Wystan,” they said with the smallest hint of what sounded like a practiced smile, “what can you tell me?”
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Vestige
Aug 11, 2018 2:18:13 GMT -5
Post by BrightestNight on Aug 11, 2018 2:18:13 GMT -5
He can neither drink nor sleep. Brief stays in the inns he comes across are born from an entirely different necessity. It was perhaps not the brightest idea to go amongst humans directly after a mission- But he often found himself doing so anyway. He felt that the recent kill, the bloodshed- Would stabilize him enough to pretend to be one of them. If only for a while. He'd hunted before the mission to ensure a clear head and yet still he couldn't prevent the devastation that resulted. It was all rather pitiful, actually. The man wasn't even a threat. None of them were. What was meant to be simple and swift- The reason he'd chosen to replace his former weapons with a bow in the first place- had instead simply devolved into the same mistakes until he finally stood clearheaded in the midst of another nightmare. For whom? Is it still his? He doesn't feel as if nightmares belong to him anymore. He avoids sleep just in case. He supposes he should at least be grateful that Derus's more potent magical blood allowed him to spare the barmaid. He had been tempted, but for once a higher purpose stayed him. If only just.
He had entered the Whistling Mare purely to remind himself that he was a being who- that he was. Sometimes people spoke to him unprompted and it is a welcome feeling. That night, however, the patrons were too preoccupied with their celebrations and he let the sounds- mainly of pumping blood and beating hearts but he was trying to drown them out in favor of laughter- wash over him. Until he actually paid enough attention to realize what they were celebrating and a feeling of deathly numbness overtook his body and mind. He had heard whispers and suggestions of this in his travels, but only now with this clear assertion and cheerful stories being shared, does the realization truly sink in. The royal family that he served- who served his purpose for being- they were gone. The monarchy and his name and paltry title. The names and petty titles of all who associated with them. He had never been as he had wanted to be- Reduced to a hearth tale at best- But now he truly was nothing. He had thrown his shredded identity behind the throne and tried to patch it together- But now the bloodied rags have been set aflame. He cannot serve Ignya, regardless of whether or not she would accept him in light of her delicate abhorrence of magic; one so fashioned that it sways the people better than the merciless King Vicar ever could. It is a matter of honor. Sir Bydivere had told him once that honor is of utmost importance. Without honor, he has nothing. Does he have any honor left now? What honorable action can he take going forward? Sir Bydivere is gone and he cannot ask him and he feels that familiar paralyzing helplessness. He could kill Ignya, couldn't he? But what then? What good has vengeance ever done for him? It only becomes a cycle and his mind is a cycle and-
"What of the princess then, didn't she escape?"
And gradually, the fog clears. The words aren't very heartening, and he hadn't heard this in the murmurings of passing travelers, but the simple suggestion is enough to give him hope. The clenching around whatever passes for his heart loosens with the next words. The Princess is the throne, even disgraced and hunted- And Sir Bydivere is honor- and together they are purpose. Bellinor found himself moving, and speaking, without consciously meaning to. He only knew that he needed more information. He couldn't just let this be more hearsay. He needed confirmation, and as he smiled charmingly though imperceptibly at the humans, he thought pleaspleaseplease.
❅⚜❅⚜
Those events seem jumbled and far away now- the feelings they evoked are locked away yet he can remember everything else clearly. It had taken him two weeks to reach the outer fringes of Magerest at his unrelenting pace, stopping only to hunt when his focus waned. He has been skulking the closest towns for four days now and frustration is beginning to mount. He can just barely remember the princess's scent, and though locals are rather eager to help provide information, her trail has all but gone cold. Sir Bydivere's scent is more prominent in his mind, yet he judges the princess to be in the most immediate danger. If he knows the knight as well as the barmaid does, then the man would be on a very discreet but no less devastating warpath. Still, he is too close to the borders to be able to prevent the princess's capture.
His only consolation at this point is the fact that no word of her is a positive sign that points to continued survival- On the other hand, there are far too many whispers about sightings of Sir Bydivere and no one has any illusions as to where he is headed or what his purpose is. New guardsmen, much more than before, patrol the winding streets as he makes his way out of the crumbling slums by way of the labyrinthine alleys, trying to hold his breath against the stale putrid air when he catches a scent like a memory.
Dark almond-shaped eyes set in a delicate feminine face. A flutter of pale glossy hair in the warm breeze, bringing with it a wholly individual scent- It is...pleasant. Early morning sunlight slants through arched windows and limn her in gold while he pauses in the shadows of the columned hall. The whisper of skirts and soft patter of slippers on stone then- Boots. Upturned face, not quite a smile but softened gaze. A beautiful man rounds the corner and takes her hand but his gaze is not soft and the entirety of its steel is wielded like a lance. A forced retreat- scrubbing irrationally at the blood on his sleeve-
Blood. Weeks old but something flares in his chest and a sharp grin slashes his features as he wheels about to pursue it.
❅⚜❅⚜
Bellinor enters the boisterous tavern on the heels of another, silent and stalking. Hunting. He's so close that he can taste his success- Which tastes a lot like blood but that isn't the point- He knows. He's certain. She has to be here, somewhere. His answer. Few patrons bother to spare him a glance, too taken by their mirth and dance. Drunken songs and sloshing amber liquid, eyes fever-bright in the amber glow of hanging lights. Women twirl around tables with a coquettish flutter of lashes and skirts. Once, his gaze might have followed them, now he avoids the center of the room with its crowded tables and sticky floors, padding along the far wall with a singular goal in mind. His lithe body and tell-tale curtains of hair are hidden by a cloak that shades his eyes and also successfully conceals the fact that he's practically vibrating. His gaze sweeps the sparsely populated room as he swipes his tongue over his lips, tasting the air. This is the third establishment that he has visited in his search. She wouldn't be indulging in the celebratory atmosphere, he knows, she's likely to be seeking refuge in a room under an assumed identity or- A flutter of fabric and his head swings toward it like a hunting hound, rocking forward on the balls of his feet as he attempts to connect the movement with the muddle of scents permeating the air.
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