|
|
Post by aether on Jan 3, 2022 8:02:37 GMT -5
 THE WAR
Link To Original RP
"Hmm... why is this war happening? Aye, it's been so long I wonder if I can remember..."
Before King Adwin of Meriza stepped up to the throne and before King Ulric of Azahl was old enough to walk, the Great Southern War has been fought. Initially the two former kings (Tybalt of Meriza and Sadon of Azahl) fought over hunting grounds; a greedy fight during the summer that ended in the death of Tybalt's oldest son (Adwin's eldest brother) Anduin. This death caused Tybalt's blood to boil from the heat of rage and he swore with his own dying breath that the Wolf Clan of Meriza would burn the Eagle Clan of Azahl to the earth.
"Well... that's what I want them to think."
During the winter seasons that Kings are kind enough to retract their armies from the battlefield as snow turns the hoof-turned grounds white. Without fail, each spring the arms are sent back to battle.
'Battle' can be used loosely, to be frank. There is a lot of strategy, politics, and wizardry involved in a war such as this. Sometimes the forces are left on the field stagnated whilst they await the next order from the King. Sometimes, the sounds of war ring so loud it can be heard from neighboring towns.
THE CONTEXT
There will be many series of plots involved in this RP, all of which occur in the same universe, under the same circumstances. The difference between each plot are the characters involved, each character plays a key role in their separate plot which may or may not contribute to the overall plot of the universe (i.e, the war).
The timeline is medieval - the exact year is 752. King's rule the land and Lords rule partitions of those lands. Those not born into royalty are often expected to continue the profession of their parents such as soap-maker, blacksmith, warrior, farmer, etc. Those born into royalty are expected to sit tight and pretty, they will either be married out to strengthen ties between other Kingdoms or they will take the throne after the current King dies.
This RP is set on the southern end of the continent Vrodoth. Meriza and Azahl are border each other and share much the same landscape. The furthest south of each state is a coastline that is mostly cliffs but at the border is a small port where people can travel to or from either states. The takes places on the border also, only about 10 kilometers from the port.
For now things may seem a little confusing but it shall all be revealed in sweet time. All you have to know for now is that the war is far more complex than any normal human may think.
Important Terms:
Dweomer - meaning 'witchcraft'. Regular folk believe it to be a handmaids tale, but those who have experienced dweomer know it is no tale. A seer is a wielder of dweomer.
Demesne - the land retained and managed by the Kings.
Halfling - a person who is half human, half elf. They do not have elvish features but can live for a few hundred years.
Elf - a human like creature with natural dweomer abilities. They live in a land untouchable by humans. They have almond shaped, cat-like eyes, pointed ears, and are tall. Very rarely do they enter the human world, but if they do they use dweomer to mask their elvish features. Can live for hundreds of years.
|
|
|
|
Post by aether on Jan 3, 2022 8:03:25 GMT -5
CURRENT PLOT
Love Amongst WarA King's Heir is on the battlefield as he represents his father - the King of Meriza - in battle. During a day of battle, a storm rolls over the battlefield and scares his horse from beneath him. He hits the ground hard and is winded, all his defenses are down and all he can hope is he won't be trodden on by a startled horse.
Suddenly, an enemy drops down by his side and he is sure he will be finished there and then. But when the enemy lifts their visor on their helm, the Prince sees he is face-to-face with A Selfless Warrior, a woman who he has never seen before.
For a reason unbeknownst to him, she shows him mercy. Unsure whether to he ashamed that he had to spared by a woman (this is medieval times, that was a big deal) or is he should be thankful, he secedes from that battle.
As he is getting his wounds tended, his mind is thinking only of the enemy woman warrior. Suddenly, he becomes determined to find her again if it meant his mind would ease.
The Selfless Warrior doesn't know why she let him go - the ultimate enemy. Through the flames of a seer she'd seen who he was. He was the son of the enemy King, the son of her father's greatest enemy for the selfless warrior is actually the Princess from the opposing kingdom. Her own father doesn't know that she'd dressed in armor and sneaked out with the war band. When he finds her again she knows that she must kill him but a force within her soul prevents her from raising her sword.
Future Plots
A Truth Prevails
Something terrible was about to happen. The Masterful Seer could only watch with a grimace as the Prince and the Princess from two opposing factions met face-to-face on the battlefield. Fists clenched to form white knuckles, the seer rid the candle flame of the image with a turn of his head. Someone has to stop them from ruining everything.Being a seer was more than reading into the future and locating those in the present, but it was a being lawless guardian. To be a seer was frowned upon by those who feared greater powers; it was a talent that should be kept tightly a secret. Whilst some used their powers for evil, some tried to maintain a balance - for a long while now this seer had an inkling that this war wasn't actually a duel over a dead man and land. But a deeper, more dangerous war - with a being whose abilities far outreached his own. A war of control. A war where Kings were puppets.
To convince a King to let him onto the battle field, the seer would have to formulate a believable persona. Under the guise of a healer, he finds himself in the demesne of a King and tending to the injured who were caught in the battlefield. He finds himself in the company of A Righteous Healer and becomes instantly aware that she has the soul of a seer, though she was unaware as her talents were untouched.
His mission forks. Somehow, someway, he would convince her to practice the skills she didn't know she had, despite the fact it was something most were fearful of. On top of that, he needs to figure out what force is controlling the King.
A Stranger, Like Me
The Unearthly Stranger has been sent to capture the one had escaped. A talented archer, they are not a human. In fact, they are an elf from a world that is alongside the earth - though untouchable by humans. Their kind are mystical creatures and live in peace, secretly beside humans. Yet one left with evil intentions - and it's now this elves duty to bring them back.
In the human world that find themselves in a impoverished port town and they know immediately what needs to be done. The second child of King Ulric is set to be wed with a rich heir from an overseas King conveniently (not really conveniently, it was all part of the plan) also arrived in the port at this time. A quick brainwashing trick allows the elf to insert themselves into the memories of the travel party and they are able to blend in to travel to the demesne, as well as disguise their elvish features. There is an unexpected twist to the character who is deemed to marry the Kings second child. For some reason the brainwashing trick does not work on them, so when they come face to face with the stranger, they see right through the tricks.
It becomes apparent the person set to marry into the Azahl kingdom is actually half-elf without knowing this. It is a shocking discovery for them as they had lived a normal life with their human parents - however at some point their mother must have been unfaithful.
Not only does the unearthly stranger now need to capture the evil escaped one, but the halfling is repeatedly getting in their war.
However, there is a plot twist here.
One thing the unearthly did not expect is that the evil elf has a plan for the halfling. Now, the mission to bring the evil elf back, has turned into a mission to protect the halfling.
|
|
|
|
Post by aether on Jan 3, 2022 8:03:42 GMT -5
CHARACTERS
The Kings HeirVarian of Meriza
Image Reference: VarianThe Selfless WarriorSeryan of Azahl
Image Reference: Seryan (imagine with brown eyes & plain brown hair). The Masterful Seer[ TBA ]The Righteous Healer
[ TBA] The Unearthly Stranger
[ TBA ]
The Royal Halfling
[ TBA ]
RELATIONS
Meriza
King Adwin is married to Queen Marla.
Heir: Varian
2nd Heir: Alban
3rd Heir: Genevieve
Deceased:
King Tybalt, father of Adwin.
Prince Anduin, 1st heir to Tybalt.
Azahl
King Ulric is married to Queen Idony.
Heir: Lucian
2nd Heir: Illara
3rd Heir: Seryan
4th Heir: Idalia
Deceased:
King Sadon, father of Ulric.
|
|
|
|
Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jan 3, 2022 15:02:04 GMT -5
baller! i still love the first plot and would like to do that one and may already have a starter typed up but if you wanted to incorporate aspects of the other plots into the world with side characters, since they all originally went together timeline-wise, i'd be down for brainstorming how to do that :3c or we could just wing it and throw them in as we go. it's your world, so if there's something else you want included somehow, then that's fine! i love world-building
|
|
|
|
Post by aether on Jan 4, 2022 8:09:40 GMT -5
I think in terms of the first plot we are good to get started but definitely there are other aspects we will merge together! My idea essentially is that the King's are both being used as puppets from an evil elf who has Dweomer (a magic sense), and the elf planned to have the kings heir murdered, however he didn't plan for the selfless warrior to be the other kings daughter, who doesn't murder him. So the plot devolves into this kind of mystery where the heir is in constant danger and soon so is the warrior, so they try to find out what is happening. We can later introduce the masterful seer who will supply more information (basically just giving them a run-down on the situation so they can band and try to take down the big bad). So that's the brief overview and we can definitely expand and just have fun with it!
If you have a starter already done, I'm totally down to get this thing moving! Cx
|
|
|
|
Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jan 4, 2022 14:52:11 GMT -5
well that all sounds amazing and i have no qualms or anything of value to add to that before we start lmao! i'll get a post up later at work :3c
|
|
|
|
Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jan 4, 2022 23:07:13 GMT -5
[ it's long-winded pls forgive 🙈🙉🙊 also if there's anything that doesn't make sense with your original idea just lmk nd i will change it ! <3 ]
-
-
The wind whipped his hair just close enough to his eyes that he had to blink. Anyone else might have been bothered by this minute distraction, but he welcomed any sensation that could prove he was still alive, a being in a body that he didn’t feel in control of. He couldn’t breathe. But the trickle of sweat and rain running down his back, strands of hair in his eyes, these were just what kept him grounded.
He shivered involuntarily, and finally managed to gulp in some air through the visor of his helmet. He was scared; this was nothing new. Varian wondered if his father’s brother had ever been scared. Adwin was keen on telling the story of how Anduin, even as he lay dying, showed great courage and resolve. But, he thought privately to himself, that didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid. There were times where he was convinced that fear was the only barrier that kept him from coming face to face with death. All the training in the two kingdoms couldn’t prepare a man for that. He didn’t condone cowardice, but being brave took every bit of concentration he had. There was a thin veil between the two. No wonder he felt like he was floating, like a cottonwood seed in spring. Make the decision.
“Go forth!” His father had said, shaking his fist in the air above his head, and Varian’s younger brother, Alban, stood behind their father, mimicking his gesture emphatically enough that it drew a laugh from Varian. And that was the last thing they saw. That was how they would remember him. He decided that was a good enough reason to keep going.
He was thankful no one could see his entire face. His brow was furrowed and his eyes wide, but he hoped this portrayed intense focus, rather than the truth. If that was all anyone could see, that wasn’t so detrimental to his image. The king’s son, the heir of the Wolf Clan. Varian released the breath he’d been holding, his form slouching somewhat beneath his armor, some of the tension waning as he let his mind wander in a momentary lapse. His steed, if it felt Varian’s muscles relaxing, made no move.
He would have been able to see his breath if the air was colder, if the change of seasons was upon them and winter was drawing near. Wishful thinking. It was only summer, and a wet one at that. Thunder rumbled overhead in a low growl, reminding him where he was once again. On a damp battlefield, under a gradually darkening sky. Far from home, far from winter, and the fireplaces and the furs, the warm feeling you could only have during a temporary truce.
This wasn’t his first battle. It would— hopefully— not be his last. Try as he might to shake his unease, he couldn’t help feeling like one of Genevieve’s girlhood dolls. He lacked a will of his own out here. Stranded in almost every sense of the word. But at least he was not alone. The men behind him were in the same boat. If they had an inkling that he was afraid, about more than just this cyclical war… Varian couldn’t let them see that.
Lightning forked through the clouds, splitting the sky in two. The image burned itself into the eyes of the opposing armies as they looked up, standing on a plain slick with rain. Varian knew it would only get worse once the fighting began. His horse seemed to sense this, too. Its ears flattened for a moment when the thunder hit, closer this time, a loud snapping drum. The stallion was new to Varian, and although it was bred for this, it was also new to the experience of war. This day would change that.
All the horses’ coats gleamed in the rain, putting their riders’ armor to shame. Varian glanced behind him at Meriza’s army, waiting warily for the command. He was hesitant to give it. Azahlians never made the first move; often rather choosing to be the obsidian chess pieces rather than the argent. Finally, he looked at the knight who was serving as his lieutenant for the time being, giving him a slight nod. It was time.
He blinked and time seemed to leap, deer-like, ahead of him, running through his fingers as if it were water, and suddenly he was in the middle of the fight. He couldn’t say how long it went on for. He couldn’t get a good grip on the sword handle, either, as he tried to recover his balance in the saddle after blocking a particularly heavy blow. The blade tipped toward the blood-smattered grass, leaving him defenseless for a heart-stopping second before he lifted its familiar weight back into a comfortable place near his chest, but it was too late. In his peripheral vision, an enemy sword came swinging toward him, and he pulled on the reins, twisting his own body and bracing himself for what he knew would be a resounding impact. His horse reared slightly at the command to turn, but it simply didn’t react fast enough.
Metal clanged and rattled as his sword met his attacker’s, but he was at a disadvantage and swiftly overpowered. The Azahlian knight had a better angle on him, pushing his own steed (a Friesian, Varian noted) forward aggressively, pushing Varian’s own sword closer to him until it collided with his armor. He was slipping, everything was slipping: in an instant, he couldn’t feel the reins through his glove or the stallion’s belly between his legs. Thunder slammed through the sky, boxing the ears of everyone in the vicinity. In the back of his mind, he registered his horse whinnying in distress as he was falling. It had been bucked aside by the other knight’s advances, but there was nothing Varian could do now. The line between earth and sky had been upended, and he was completely disoriented. A blade— he couldn’t tell if it was his own, his arm was numb— kissed an exposed section of his neck. He made an attempt to release his weapon, instinct raging an internal war against his battle training expertise, but then he hit the ground and the air felt like it was crushed from his lungs.
It was a different world down here. Boots and hooves were intertwined for as far as he could see. It smelled… wet. Looking up at the sky, he saw nothing but those irrepressible clouds. Drops of rain landed in his eyes, blinding him. He blinked, the dark figures swimming around him. I must have lost my helmet.
Not that it would have saved him. He couldn’t catch his breath, and there came the same man again who was responsible for downing him. He was persistent. This is war, he thought dryly. Ignoring the stinging at his neck, he looked down to find he was still holding his sword. Pushing himself up onto his elbows was just the beginning, or so he thought, as he glared at the knight, who was raising his arm. The Friesian beneath him stood on two legs, and Varian was sure he was about to be pounded into the dirt and sliced down the middle in one fell motion. This man would return home a war hero, able to say that he was the knight who killed the Prince of Meriza, and said prince would become a wisp of a memory, a name added to the scroll kept on a pedestal beneath the family crest hanging behind the throne. The names on that list were generations-old, and anyone else might have been proud of that legacy, but there weren’t many truly noteworthy people on there. His grandfather was one of them, Tybalt. Anduin. Soon, he would join them. Varian.
He probably should have mourned his impending death, or the fact that he would never see his siblings or mother again, but it was actually something more philosophical that came to mind; quaint, wasn’t it? It was true what they said, though: death gave one a kind of clarity. He recognized that nothing would change if he died. His death would fuel the war and it would go on forever, taking countless lives. Frankly, this thought alone wouldn’t have been enough to convince him to try and survive the next five seconds. The war was, after all, somewhat out of his control… ironic considering he was the one here, getting blood on his hands, while his father slept peacefully in the knowledge that his son would bring his kingdom glory. Or something along those lines. God, now he was even thinking like his father! Varian would never admit it to anyone, but there were times he perceived that this war wasn’t even within the King’s control anymore, so his son’s death would truly mean nothing to him.
Perhaps Varian was being cynical. He knew Adwin loved him, in his own way. Meriza always had to come first, which he understood as the first-born and heir to the throne. He had to. But then he realized he would be nothing except another eulogy for the King— for his father— to tell, and that made him mad. More than anything, he couldn’t bear for that to be his end. He wasn’t one to believe in destiny, but to become a bed-time story, that couldn’t be his, could it? No. He wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t dying here today. Unfortunately, he had little say in the matter, and far less time to decide what to do to prevent his untimely demise.
Varian rolled out of the way as the horse’s weight, nearly a ton, came crashing down. He caught a glancing blow from one of its hooves in his side, and while his armor took the brunt of it, there would certainly be a bruise tomorrow. That is, if he lived to see the sun set first. The earth shook and the knight’s sword pierced empty air, but he urged his horse a few steps back, and it looked like he was going to try again. Varian tried again to stand, but really only managed to flop around like a fish in the filth. As he was getting his legs beneath him, bending his elbows and willing them to take his weight, he glanced over to find that one of his men had engaged the knight, giving him a chance, but Varian couldn’t get his legs to work, and he fell again. One more. He would keep thinking this until he either stood or was struck down permanently.
He was suddenly aware of another presence nearby. When he looked up, he saw another Azahlian knight. Standing eerily still in the eye of the storm, not mounted on a steed. Armed with a sword. He bit back an exasperated sigh, trying to get to his feet to face his next opponent and failing once more, gasping for air at the minimal effort. Something was wrong. He tasted blood in the back of his throat when he swallowed. The knight hadn’t moved, watching him struggle, and Varian paused to adjust his hold on his own weapon. He would fight from the ground if he had to.
|
|
|
|
Post by aether on Jan 6, 2022 19:00:43 GMT -5
[ that's absolutely perfect! my work has suddenly been kicking me in the butt so my creative muse is pretty low, however i will endeavor to get replies up when i can! <3 ]
|
|
|
|
Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jan 6, 2022 19:34:22 GMT -5
yo literally same i understand take all the time you need i literally had months to write this and a vacation where i was struck by a writing bug xD but yea now that i'm back to work i'm like DEAD inside
|
|
|
|
Post by aether on Jan 11, 2022 9:22:43 GMT -5
It was like a moth to a flame. The string of fate had wound intricately around her wrist, pulling tight until her hand grasped the hilt of a blade. It was a feeling that she'd grown accustomed to; war was inescapable. In her youth she would watch as men in clattering chain-mail and silver armor filled the great hall of her Father's - King Ulric - keep. In the coldest days of winter when snow kept even the bravest from leaving the walls of grand castle, she would watch the battle-scarred men woo and seduce the ladies of the court in an attempt to appease their need for youthful freedom. An inquisitive child, it wasn't uncommon to find Seryan sneaking roguishly through the barracks. Unlike her older brother, Lucian, who was being hand-reared by Ulric himself, Seryan was expendable. Seryan was the third child of King Ulric and Queen Idony, and one of three daughters. She was not able to take the throne, nor was she able to fight for her dynasty in war. Therefore, she was to be married - in her twentieth year - to an honorable suitor in exchange for strengthened trade lines.
To be married off like Illara. She rolls over to take it like the maids in the winter, but not I. Seryan sniffed. An inquisitive child, it wasn't uncommon to find Seryan experimenting with various blades in the barracks. An intelligent woman - aware of the most deadly weapon against a man - it wasn't uncommon for Seryan to exchange flirtatious moments and sweet nothings for playful teachings from the lads of the barracks. Never did she get close enough to lose her dignity to any of the men, but her reputation grew among them - her very presence would be enough for a swath of red-cheeked warriors to beg for attention. Even if that attention meant sparring with the beautiful young Princess. Over years she managed to weasel battle techniques from the men who came and went from war, majority of which she never saw again.
Alas, this was no way for a woman to act. On the dawn the first day of summer, the soldiers would march into battle. However, at dusk on the night before, Seryan was called to stand before King Ulric.
"... I've heard of your behavior! Flirting with the men as though you were a stable lass? My heir" The King rose his hand furiously, landing it across Seryan's cheek so hard that she stumbled. Idony, sat at her chair beside the King, looked away silently. "You understand what kind of whispers I've been hearing? You are to be married, Seryan! I've sent a messenger. We shall not wait any longer, I will not let you spoil yourself. You'll be married to Lord Twain in a moon, shan't he not be unwillingly."
The metallic taste of blood flooded Seryan's mouth as she straightened. Her arms by her sides, she merely nodded blankly to her father. "Thank you, My King." She curtsied gracefully, pulling at the silk fabric of her red skirt. Fuming, her Father sent his daughter away with a flick of his hand.
Seryan turned her doe brown eyes from her Father to her Mother. The woman was frail, with her cheeks sunken from an unnamed illness that had struck many years ago. Idony was staring towards the window with a distant look to her gaze, and when Seryan followed her eyes, she saw men in silver armor preparing for their march on the morn. It was then that Seryan knew exactly what she needed to do. I shan't marry Lord Twain. I shan't stay in this doomed castle a day longer!
When midnight came, the weather was warm. Guided by candlelight and the shard of a mirror, Seryan gripped at her long, brown hair in a bunch. She was alone in her quarters, as she had been since her altercation with the King, formulating her plan. With her free hand she reached down and grasped a small blade, slowly bringing it back up to press against the handful of hair she held in her other. In a minute of silence, she hacked at her hair, slicing it with the knife until finally... her hair was cropped at her neck. She made an effort to chop it boyishly, to avoid having strands that framed her girlish face. Once she was finished, she felt a sense of relief. And she laughed. And she laughed more. By the Gods, I cannot abandon my daft plan now. Should her handmaid find her at dawn with boyishly-short hair than she would be flogged; she had already tested her Father's patience more than she ever had before.
Standing from her wooden table, Seryan stood beside her window, pushing open the wooden shutters to allow for the occasional breeze to caress her sweaty face. Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath. Tomorrow, she would ride to battle; as a man.
***
The storm rumbling overhead was a cruel metaphor for the tension of war. Head tilted back to witness the black clouds, Seryan smirked ironically behind the protection of her helmet. She knew she should be fearful, that a sane human would regret choosing to leave their life of comfort in preference of a battlefield. The rain began to pummel at her metal exterior and she lowered her head. It had been weeks since she'd dressed in this very armor and walked from the castle as though she were a battle hardened knight. It wasn't difficult to maintain secrecy from a group of men who drank in order to hide their fear. All she did was remain silent at the edge of the crowds, speaking only when spoken to, and very little even at that.
Her hand drifted to her hip and her fingers curled around the familiar hilt of her sword. This is where she needed to be. Her heart was sure that her fate meant to lead her to the battlefield. To die an honorable death instead of marrying a miserable Lord. She wanted to laugh cynically, though she didn't risk making such a noise, even when the men around her were lost in their own anxious pre-battle thoughts.
When the call for battle began, Seryan nudged her legs against the sides of her mare and she charged forward. The sounds of war were deafening. It was steel slapping steel; pained screams; horses grunting and whinning; bodies falling to the earth; metal armor crinkling under hooves. They were sounds that Seryan swiftly grew familiar too after she'd first joined the war out of mere necessity. There would be time after the battle to process all the thoughts and feelings that came from it - should she live.
Seryan swung her blade expertly through an opening in a Merizian warrior's armor, causing the poor soul to slump and fall from his steed. She heard a blood-curdling war cry to her left and spun fast enough to parry his blow, bending slightly under the strength of the much larger man. She was sure that through the visor of his helmet she saw his blue eyes glowing with the heat of war, relishing every moment. Seryan slacked her grip on her blade and the man grunted as he pushed harder against her sword, she let his confidence grow until finally - in a swift motion - she tilted her sword so that his blade slipped, and she moved with force to swing her sword the opposite direction, catching it at the point between his helmet and chest armor. She moved to her next opponent in favor of watching the glow dissipate from his expression.
She was not sure how long she'd been performing the dance of battle, but quickly her body grew worn with effort. Her armor was heavy and she - frankly - was small and weak. But those around her continued moving together in skilled combat. Unfortunately, this moment of weakness was enough for a Merizian warrior to take advantage of. As his blade went to crash down mercilessly over Seryan's back, her horse sensed the motion and startled. It reared back and took the brunt of the blow, unknowingly saving the life of it's rider. Seryan fell with a crash to the rain-soaked earth, the wind momentarily knocked from her lungs as she gasped. Thankfully, the enemy didn't drop down to finish her, and once she gained the breath to look she found him clashing swords with another Azahlian man.
This is not over yet. Now without a mount, she would be an easy target. In the grass she felt for the hilt of her sword and grasped it. Stumbling to her feet, she assumed a battle stance, but remained still as the world spun around her. She felt as though she would retch if she did not maintain her momentum and forced her body to move forward. I've no chance against someone on a horse, I'll be bucked and killed by the steed before I've even got my blade up. She tightened her grip and locked eyes on her target; a writhing, wounded man on the ground. Stepping as lightly as she could - which wasn't much, given her armor - she approached.
With each step she rose her arms in preparation for a finishing blow, it would be better to strike swiftly than leave the poor sod to suffer. Finally, within striking distance, she heaved a deep breath to strengthen the fire in her stomach only to pause. Her arms were frozen. Her legs were frozen. It was as though a frosty hand tapped a part of her body and brought each motion to a stop. She hardly remembered to breath. It was undeniably a sense of fate. She stared at his plain face through the visor of her helmet, bearing witness to the features of a man who so desperately wanted to battle to save his own life, but was limited by his injuries. I've killed countless in this war. What was stopping her from killing him, too?
The sounds of war were lessening. As more and more fell, the space between battling bodies grew sparser. Soon, there would be a call to retreat. The string gracefully untied itself from her blade, leaping from it and instead winding itself over the body of the man before her, and with this movement, it defrosted her muscles. In a moment of hesitation, she lowered her arms, feeling just as unsure as she undoubtedly appeared, and she returned her sword to its sheath. Reaching forward, she used two hands to grasp the young mans chest armor, and she yanked him upwards to his feet.
"Run, you're no use as you are," through her exhaustion, she did no work to hide her feminine voice. "I'm sure the Merizian Prince would be thankful for any solider that survives." With that, she gave him a light shove - as one comrade might do to another - willing him to leave. She gripped the side of her helmet and lifted it up from her face, feeling instantly refreshed despite the muggy air. Her dark brown eyes stared intensely at the stranger, her features - beautiful when in the court - were dirtied by sweat and muck. In the distance, horns began to blare, issuing a retreat. Yet she stayed, waiting, to see him leave.
𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 |
|
|
|
Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jan 28, 2022 12:48:16 GMT -5
It would have taken a gift of strength from the gods, or some impossible, death-defying miracle, to withstand another attack. Once he decided he had a good grip on the hilt, Varian looked up at the Azahlian knight, grim determination smoldering in the ashes of his grey eyes. The knight approached, unphased by the violent surroundings. The sea of warriors parted, and each step the knight took was more deafening than the last. Varian’s pulse roared in his ears as the man raised his sword. How did one define ‘resolve’ in that moment? He wondered, not for the first time, how Anduin could accept defeat. With his dying breath. Varian couldn’t summon any inspiration from this fleeting thought, and he didn’t move as his enemy’s sword reached its zenith. Afraid to blink, but also afraid to watch the blazing metal as it came down on him, cleaving him into permanent darkness.
The moment never came. Squinting with confusion, Varian realized that the knight had stopped in his tracks, immobilized by some invisible hand. He should have taken advantage of his would-be assailant’s hesitation, but the rain, the shock— If he was going to take this chance to fight back, he had to first get up off the ground. Varian, pressing his fists into the mud, was almost to his knees, when the Azahlian knight stepped closer, finally closing the gap between them, but now he was much too close for his weapon to be useful. A single glance told him why: the knight was sheathing his sword, and then, with a bemuddled look in his brown eyes that reflected how Varian was feeling, the knight reached down.
Varian, though still holding his own sword, sensed no ill intentions from the action, however unexpected it was. There was a quick tug under his arms as the knight grabbed him, lifting him to his feet, and as Varian stumbled, leaning dangerously close to the Azahlian before he was sure he could stand on his own, he noticed how short the man was.
Her voice was like a balm of sunlight after rain. It was a staggering change of perception to know that this knight of Azahl was a woman. She was strong. Strong enough to pick him up, the weight of both their armor on her shoulders.
“Run,” she said. There was no doubt, looking at her eyes, despite her helmet and the mud obscuring her feminine features. “I’m sure the Merizian prince would be thankful for any soldier that survives.” She had no idea how true that was, but why would she say such a thing to him? To him, of all people. Did she do so knowingly?
The battle’s end was drawing near. It was almost ghostly quiet, compared to the initial clash. Any remaining sounds of battle were distant, clouded, like he was hearing them underwater. There was no time to question her wisdom or to ponder her femaleness, her presence here in the middle of a war, or the fact that she— She shoved him, and Varian barely caught himself from falling again. His head was pounding, his chest hurt, the wound at his neck was throbbing, but he stood there, swaying, observing her as she removed her helmet, and his fears were confirmed. Her brown hair was cut short, her frame hidden under her armor, but her stature and face were evidence enough, even if she hadn’t spoken. The horns blaring retreat in the distance reached him, somewhere in the back of his mind.
The thought of raising his own sword against her didn’t cross his mind. It was done. And what was worse… she held all the power. She had chosen not to kill him. She met his gaze, expecting him to turn and run as she said. But Varian, despite knowing he should leave, stared back. The silence was heavy in the rain, but there was nothing to say. The sound of oversaturated grass squishing behind him was what finally made him break eye contact.
Limping to turn slightly, he saw his lieutenant had survived, approaching on his horse and leading Varian’s steed beside him. They trotted over, hooves sending up splashes of water and blood as the commander knight pulled both horses up short by his prince.
“Your Highness,” the man said breathlessly, and Varian thought he heard a tone of relief slipping through his voice, but as he took in the sight before him, his posture went rigid. He was looking at the woman. Varian glanced back at her, but she wasn’t advancing on him. He sheathed his sword, this motion a signal to his knight to stand down.
He took the reins, climbing up on his stallion (not without pain), and found himself looking back at her again, even after his lieutenant had spurred his own horse away. Unease sat in the pit of his stomach. He nudged his heel gently into his horse’s flank, and he left her there physically, but he couldn’t forget about her as soon.
He didn’t look back, but he could picture her standing there, alone on the battlefield, wet hair flying in the wind. Up and over a set of hills they rode, back to their encampment as Azahl retreated to theirs in the distant woods. Anyone could have predicted the tents would be full of injured fighters. At his lieutenant’s behest, Varian brought his horse to the makeshift stables, then brought himself to see one of the physicians’ assistants, trying to stifle a cough.
The boy who treated him was young, not yet in his second decade. Perhaps he was Genevieve’s age. Varian started when the boy told him that he was done. He hadn’t been paying any attention, but sure enough. The superficial cut on his neck was no longer bleeding. Sensation had returned to his sword arm, and while the boy said this was good, Varian did not enjoy the discomfort that seemed to come from his bones. No matter how he held it, whether it was close to his side or extended, it hurt.
“It will be less sore tomorrow, sire.” The boy said, cleaning up and moving on to the next patient, but Varian was again lost in thought. He didn’t know whether to be ashamed or thankful to still be alive. He was used to living in a world where almost everything was constant. His father’s illusions of grandeur, the comparatively somber counsel from Queen Marla. Genevieve’s interminable spirit and support. Alban and his faithful wit. The large rock that could be seen from the highest tower at low-tide in the reservoir just outside the palace walls. Even the war was something that he could rely upon to always be during the warm seasons. Everything that had been done to groom him for a life lacking in peace couldn’t have prepared him for what happened.
A woman from Azahl had spared his life. It clearly hadn’t originally been her intention to do so, but something changed her mind. Some unspeakable reason, an intangible force stayed her hand. She made her choice. Varian knew what the king would say: move on. He had more important things he should be focusing on. But how could he, knowing the consequences of her choice? That he was allowed to live, and not know why?
Sleep did not come easily once night fell. The rain had slowed, but there was still the occasional dripping patter on the canvas. He couldn’t let this go. I have to find her. Varian didn’t know exactly how he could, but if it would set his mind at ease, he had to at least try.
|
|
|
|
Post by aether on Jun 29, 2022 9:31:41 GMT -5
King Ulric
Fury shot through Ulric's veins as hot as the fire that burned in the hearth of the Great Hall. Not a sane person dared approach the King as he paced to and fro affront his grand throne. Even his wife, Queen Idony, watched from afar. Sat beside a window on a wooden chair, she felt faint as her hazel eyes watched the sun blaze overhead, caressing the earth with it's warmth. Seryan had disappeared. It was undetermined if she had fled after her dispute with the King of her own accord or - as the King had spoken so venomously - if she had given her womanhood to a soldier and made the idiotic decision to follow his footsteps to war. Idony closed her eyes, her cheeks feeling warm was tears rolled down them. Not my Seryan... she would not leave for a witless soldier... she would leave for herself.
"Bannel!" The roar came from Ulric, turning every head in the room. "Come!"
From a distant section of the room, a tall, gangling gentleman rushed forward. He maintained a safe distance from the temperamental king as he bowed deeply, blue eyes wide with concern. "Yes, My King?" The steward asked, a slight quiver to his voice was representative of the onlookers.
"Send a messenger to the army. I want it seen to that no man has persuaded Seryan to..." Ulric's face contorted with disgust, "Tend to the soldiers." He spat the words as though they were a bitter taste in his mouth.
Bannel nodded swiftly, "R-right away, My King." He waited not a moment longer before turning heel and alighting from the room. The steward wiped sweat from his brow and let out a long breath as he did so, moving at a quick pace as he descended a spiraling staircase. At the base of the stairs he raced as fast as a gentleman could without causing suspicion and he opened a door to the courtyard. Outside, the marshal - a short, fat older man - attended to a prized stallion. "Hal!" Bannel panted as he came to a stop, "Send a lad to the army on the fastest horse you have. Seryan is missing and the King believes she may have been daft enough to go with the soldiers!"
Hal's green eyes widened and he rubbed a hand on the back of his neck nervously. "Aye... I just sent my lad into town. He'll be back by evening. With the war going on... I've not anyone else to spare."
Bannel ran a hand through his dusty brown hair in vexation. "Aye," he breathed with defeat. "The boy won't be able to catch up to the army with that late of a start..." Bannel bit his lip nervously, "But, aye, that is all we do."
On the eve, Patt - a boy only fifteen - rode with haste towards the battlefield.
Seryan
Your highness? Despite the fatigue that clawed at every fibre in her body and the pulsing of blood in her ears, she managed to hear the faint sounds of the approaching warrior. Her dark gaze flicked from the rider and back to the knight that she had allowed to live. Her legs began to tremble as she man - his highness - winced and climbed into his saddle. It wasn't until they had made some distance that her legs finally gave way and she fell to the ground, using her arms to keep herself from falling into the mud. For a reason she couldn't comprehend, her chest felt as though it was tightening and she struggled to inhale. As the effects of adrenaline subsided, her body began to crumble. Faintly, she heard a call nearby identifying any live soldiers. With the last of her spent energy she sat back on her legs and threw an arm in the air. I'm here.
Shortly after being assisted back to the camp, Seryan fell into her trundle within the corner of a large tent. She declined a look-over from a medical aid, she hadn't sustained any serious wounds, and she did not want anyone looking too closely at her. With her helm and armour placed to the side she ran her fingers through her cropped hair. The day was... a lot to process. Not only had she survived in the war when she was so sure she would be killed but, more seriously, she'd let someone go. Someone who had been addressed as your highness. She sucked a breath through clenched teeth and rolled onto her back. She was so sure that whatever had overcome her body at that time hadn't been within her own power. It was as though her arms were being held in place by some unseen figure, and now all she could envision was the smoldering grey eyes of the man she'd almost killed. He clouded her mind like a plague, a sensation that she found so infuriating that she clasped her hands over her eyes.
At some point, she'd fallen asleep. This was unsurprising given her intense fatigue. She was startled awake by shouting, momentarily confused, she sat up and felt for the hilt of her sword. It took a few moments of concentrating to make the shouting coherent in her ears.
"Are you accusing me of stealing some wretched lass?!" The voice slurred with the effects of intoxication. Seryan tensed, eyes widening. "If there was a lassie here don't you think I'd be-"
"Mavvy, stop it you loaf!" Snapped another voice, sounding sober. "Look, boy. We just survived a war. Why don't you go bother someone else. Clearly we aren't who you are after."
Seryan grabbed at her cloak and threw it over her shoulders, flipping up the hood to conceal her features. Asking about a woman? That doesn't sound promising. Her brown eyes narrowed as she fumbled to gather her few belongings into her side-pouch. She tied it around her waist and clicked her sword to her hip. Moving towards the tent entrance, she listened.
"H-hello sir," it was the uncertain voice of a young boy. "K-King Ulric se-sent me, L-Lady Seryan is missing."
A sense of dread washed over Seryan as she crept forward and peered through the tent flaps.
"The K-King suspects she h-has joined the forces." Seryan caught sight of the boy, no older than eighteen, with thin blonde hair and tanned skin. He fidgeted his hands as he spoke to a larger, more muscular man who was battle-hardened from years of war.
Curse him! Seryan wanted to scream. In her fantasies she would love to approach the boy and shake his shoulders, tell him to go straight back to the castle and tell her father to mind his own business. Of course, she could not do such a thing. Instead, she exited the tent, moving light-footed towards the boundaries of the makeshift camp. Thankfully, most men were either drunk, asleep, or wounded; none paid attention as she slipped passed them. In her mind she was devising a plan of escape - having survived the battle, she could not go back to the King. She also could not be discovered by her comrades now they were aware of her disappearance from the castle. Any story she may have been able to conceive if she'd ever been discovered would no longer stand: they all knew she was missing.
There was only one reasonable choice. Leave.
She slipped away into the darkness, uncertain of her fate. The undergrowth was thick and she moved at an excruciatingly slow pace in order to minimise the noise of her trail. Every few steps she paused, honing her senses to focus on listening, and when she was satisfied that all was silent she continued forward.
Hours passed when she reached the edge of the forest. Clumps of undergrowth grew sparser and the moonlight lit the ground. Looking forward, she made out the battlefield where she had fought earlier. The wide partition of land was empty, glowing white in the moonlight, she could imagine that it was without bodies of fallen soldiers. Seryan decided to rest there at the edge of the woods, leaning her back against the trunk of a tree. She dared not fall asleep, however her mind was too distracted for sleep to consider arriving. Too much had happened. It was rather overwhelming.
What am I going to do now. She held her face in her hands and bit at her lip when she thought tears might fall. After everything she had been through... she refused to cry.
sorry if this counts as necroposting but we've me have been meaning to reply for... months ^^;
|
|
|
|
Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jul 25, 2022 16:43:32 GMT -5
He waited. Hours passed, the sky ran out of rain; he was still waiting. But his mind wouldn’t settle long enough for sleep to claim him, even with his eyes closed, even though his body ached for rest. Any other night, the blend of hushed and vibrant voices from his soldiers gathered around their fires wouldn’t bother him. But this was unlike any other night, as it followed the single most unusual day he could recall. Their voices seemed to whisper in his ears, causing him to stir restlessly as if they were the voices of the dead, which, for all he knew, some of them may have been. The din of conversation was dying down somewhat as the men retired for the night.
Varian didn’t know the exact moment he made the decision to sit up on the edge of the cot and pull his boots on. Nor could he explain the impulses that controlled him as he stood up, reaching for his scabbard, wrapping his belt around his waist. He didn’t think about how it would be his only form of protection. Where he was going, he could bring nothing more than a fragile hope that the gods would favor him on this fool’s errand. He picked out a plain cloak, fastening it at the hollow of his throat. His steps fell silently, or rather, he couldn’t hear them over the sound of his own heart, pounding in anticipation.
The tough, damp material of the tent slapped against itself as he left, flinching at the sound that seemed to drag him instantly back to his senses. Varian paused, scanning the darkness in front of him until he found what he was looking for: his gaze fell on his personal guards, standing with their tall spears held upright across from the door to his tent. They straightened as his gaze fell on them. They were no doubt wondering why he was up at this hour. A glance at the sky revealed little more than a black void, but there was a patch of gray near the horizon, denoting the resting place of the day-time celestial being. Dawn would not come for some time yet, but he wanted his guards to see him go, so they had less cause for concern than if they found an empty bed later and assumed the worst about their missing prince.
“Are you alright, Your Highness?” The one on the left spoke softly. Cornelius. He recognized his voice. Varian found himself nodding before he realized they would be hard-pressed to see it.
“Yes. I couldn’t sleep. I need to clear my head. You will remain here.”
He could almost feel their need to protest. These men were not statues, they did not wear the same armor as the soldiers, but he still heard the joints between the elegant metal pieces shift as the muscles underneath tensed in response to his words. These were palace guards, and while they were trained for fighting, they did not partake in the war itself. For good reason, he thought to himself, not without affection. It was their sworn duty to protect the royal family, to protect him, outside of the battlefield. They are the absolute worst at following orders. The two men finally nodded in unison.
“As you wish, Sire.” Cornelius acquiesced, and Varian turned to his right. He made his way to the edge of Meriza’s bivouac, unnecessarily cautious about who saw him from then on, skirting from shadow to shadow, avoiding the brightest flames people gathered around. He almost wished for the rain to return, if only to cover the sound of his escape.
He reached the side of the very last tent and had to stop. Before him sprawled at least two hills, and beyond that, the flat grounds where, by some twist of fate, his life had not been taken prematurely. And in the forest, even further east, a woman had entrenched herself among Azahl’s forces. This was his hope. That she was still among them, and that he would find her there.
The wind picked up, carrying voices from the camp behind him. Glancing back, he saw the silhouettes of about ten soldiers around a fire. A few of them were talking strategy, it seemed. He caught snippets.
“No clear winner…"
“Same as tomorrow?”
"...Say for sure. A draw.”
That’s how it was with this war. Neither kingdom’s army had officially “lost” yesterday, but Varian felt like he lost something, he just couldn’t place what it was he’d lost. Looking out at the tors and picturing the geographical features that were just out of sight, Varian debated with himself. The journey would take too long on foot, but it would afford him more stealth. In the end, he crept over to the temporarily erected wooden posts marking the stables. The animals were spread across the plain beside the encampment, and it took him a bit of time to find his horse. His liver chestnut coat looked almost black without the light of the moon to distinguish the stallion from the rest of the herd. Varian approached cautiously, knowing he was about to ask it to do more than its required purpose of bearing him into battle.
The stallion, however, was more than willing to be ridden again, even if it was to return to the place where it had been molded the day before. Varian wasn’t about to waste the concealment of the night sky trying to find a saddle and tack. Time was precious. He wouldn’t be able to search for that woman in broad daylight. Someone would certainly notice him then. He was, of course, assuming she was disguised with the soldiers of Azahl, and praying that her deception was known only to him. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if his mission was a failure, if he simply couldn’t find her in his inadequacies. Or worse, if she was gone, or dead… Varian hadn’t the faintest notion of where to start looking. Pushing his heels into the horse’s flank, the reality of this grand plan of his began to dawn on him.
He sped over the hills, and too soon, he was staring down at the battlefield. It was eerie. The slope of the land before him seemed to lead to the mouth of the underworld itself, but he urged the stallion on. It was treacherous in the dark. Bodies lay everywhere, some were where their souls had been severed, some in piles or in rows. There was only so much that battle-weary warriors could do to clear them. Tomorrow, or rather, in the morning when the sun broke through, they would go to work again, putting their dead to an uneasy rest and preparing the blood-thirsty field for another feast.
The stallion trudged on as it knew how, and slowly, the clouds made way. Suddenly, he felt exposed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in a strange premonition that only came a moment before a deadly blow. He pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse almost to a halt. It sensed his fear, and refused to stop entirely, stepping as though the moonlight itself were an onslaught of swords and pikes.
The night, however, remained as still as before, so on they went, crossing the field swiftly. If anyone was watching from the trees, they didn’t reveal themselves, with flying arrows or otherwise. He thought it more probable that the Azahlians were camped further in, which meant that, as he reached the border of trees, he would have to go on alone if he wanted any chance at entering their ranks. He dismounted, tying his horse to a low, sturdy branch, surveying the striped shadows of the trees. The moonlight peered through the canopy at random intervals. Varian had only gotten a glimpse of the forest’s vastness from the top of the hill. It would take guidance he wasn’t sure he would be given to find the Azahl camp, let alone one woman among thousands of men.
But it would seem he was wrong, not for the first time in the last twelve hours. Something, or someone, obviously favored him. Varian decided he would look for the path the soldiers would have taken after the battle; surely there would be signs that he could follow: trampled earth, broken bushes. A path worn by decades of fighting and retreat. He walked along the outskirts of the woods, the forest dense to his right, the field of bodies to his left.
Fortune was a fickle mistress. He found their path, but hesitated to follow it. Until now, he had been driven by something like desperation. He had to find her again. He had to ask her, he had to know. It hadn’t mattered how he got to that point, or what he would do after the fact. Varian stared at the opening through the trees, seeing nothing. Feeling nothing, not even the cold early morning air on his shoulders, lost to the world, scarcely breathing. He could hear his father mocking the decisions he was making. He wondered what Queen Marla would do. Turn her face away, the way he’d seen her do when the king had one of his outbursts. Not many in the courtroom knew that she did so out of shame. It was hard to imagine such a gentle lady experiencing such an ugly emotion, but Varian often felt it too, and he felt it now, though he wasn’t sure why. He hoped she would understand, out of everyone, the determination and the need to see a woman from the enemy’s kingdom again, if only to prove to himself that it hadn’t been a dream.
This was reckless. This was a dozen other things, too, but that was the nicest way of describing it. You’re being selfish. Here he was, tempting fate after he had been blessed by an unseen hand. It was disrespectful, uncharacteristic of him, to be so rash and thoughtless. His father would be furious, his ancestors dismayed. Who could say what that woman would do if she saw him again? She tried to kill him once, why wouldn’t she try a second time? Something prevented her. What was it? Would it happen again?
He wouldn’t be able to withstand another onslaught with the answers to these questions taunting him. What is happening to me? Varian was about to take one of many steps toward what he hoped would not be his demise, when he was brought up short by a sword pointed at his chest. His heart skipped a beat, but he wasn’t run through with the blade immediately, so his eyes ran down the length of it, to the hilt and the hand behind it, then finally to her face. The shock between them when he met her eyes was immeasurable.
“How?” This he whispered to himself more than to her, breathing out in disbelief, or awe, at finding her here. There was no doubt it was the same woman, but what was she doing this far from her countrymen? Gradually, he remembered he was under duress, as she had not lowered her weapon. He raised his hands up slowly in surrender.
“I mean you no harm,” he started, then faltering, because he didn’t know what to say, thoughts running rampant and untamed until he snatched them back like a child chasing fireflies. In lieu of speech, he watched her, taking in her face, her stance. She was unafraid, at least of him, and appeared to be well-trained. He didn’t know how that was possible, but Varian could see she was no maidservant. He didn’t dare move, not even to blink, as long as she was pointing that sword at him. A shiver ran up his spine, his next question threatening to leap forth into the silence, but he held his tongue for the time being, to see what she would do next. Somehow, by his own doing, he now found himself at her mercy. She would either strike him down, as he suspected she wanted to, or she would want to talk to him, just as much as he wanted to talk to her. The night seemed to hold its breath.
aether
|
|
