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Cecilia Floros

"No time to grieve for roses when the forests are burning."

0 · 1,315 views · located in The World of Ambar

a character in “Ambar: Chapter 1 - Snow & Ash”, originally authored by SpiritDancer, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description

ā In the end, what you think really doesn't matter. āž

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CECILIA FLOROS
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{xG E N E R A LxI N F O R M A T I O Nx}

Nicknames
Gender
Age
Race
Origin
Occupation
ImageImageImagecici, ilia, lia
female
one hundred fifty-seven
elven
rinarwin
maven of tomes


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APPEARANCE
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[ Hair ] Blonde
[ Eyes ] Celadon Green
[ Complexion ] Pale
[ Height ] 5'10ft (177.8cm)
[ Build ] Tall and Slim
[ Weight ] 165lbs (74.84kg).
[ Body Markings ] Cecilia has two similar tattoos on her cheeks and freckles dash across her face and shoulders when in sunny weather for extended periods of time. Besides that, little scars dot her skin here and there, but there's nothing too major.

[ A P P E A R A N C E ]
It's easy to see that Cecilia thinks highly of herself. It's seen in the way she dresses, her gait, her speech; it seeps into her very being and everyday actions. She stands as if she towers over even the most gargantuan of people, and gracefully glides across the room with a predatory stride. Her sharp, pale green eyes are almost taunting, as if they're aware of something that you aren't, and they're equally capable of drilling holes into somebody if they need to. Framing those eyes are full, high arched eyebrows, coupled with a long and narrow heart-shaped face, a sharp nose, and, of course, complete with a set of pointed ears. All in all, when Cecilia isn't trying to petrify someone, she often comes off as very mischievous, and maybe not the most trustworthy of people.

Atop her head is flyaway, soft, blond hair that's difficult to keep in any type of complex hairstyle, and so Cecilia settles for keeping it in a simple bun. Despite her best efforts, even then some strands manage to find their way to the front of her face, and she has to adjust them to keep them from obstructing her vision. Other times when she cares less for looking as presentable as possible, she'll let it cascade down her back, though she'd only truly be seen like this whenever she's preparing for bed. Her skin is almost unnaturally smooth, left without even a hint if wrinkles forming. Truly, time has come to a standstill for her body. Although pale, her skin actually tans rather easily when exposed to sunlight for prolonged hours. Light sprinklings of freckles even start to show up under the right conditions, and they take multiple days to eventually fade away.

Besides the freckles, the only other markings on her skin (besides some small scars) are her elven tattoos on each of her cheeks, that serve as symbols of the goddess Namariƫ. Like every one else, she has the occasional blemish here and there, but her skin tone remains fairly even with little discoloration. Cecilia has the height of what you would expect from an elf, and besides a little bit of muscle, she's willowy and statuesque. Clung to this body of her's is exceptionally fine clothing, being of a comfortable texture and not too restricting in movement since she travels a lot. She tends to have clothing specifically tailored to her body type rather than wearing baggy and awkward hand-me-downs. Regarding foot-wear, Cecilia often prefers to be bare-footed, though this only holds true depending on the type of terrain she expects to be traveling in. For more rocky land she'll be seen wearing a pair of leather boots just as finely crafted as the rest of her clothing. She's the exactly what you would imagine when thinking of the elven people; tall, sharp facial structure, elegant clothing and the superiority to match all of it.

The expressions that can often seen displayed on Cecilia's face are usually one of four things; deep thought, irritation, indifference, or a face that simply spells that she's up to nothing good. She's never one to reveal all of her cards too early into the game, and she comes off as guarded for it. Though the hardened exterior isn't too hard to chip away at. Playful, and probably never as serious as she should be, there's surely an adventure to follow whenever she arrives. To some, she's just another nuisance to be avoided. To others, she's exactly the type of person that they like to hang around.




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[ D E M E A N O R ]
It could be said that Cecilia has perfected the act of "faking it till you make it." Previously, she was little more than a whisper carried away by the howling wind; a shadow of the person who she wanted to be. Now, she lives a life that's much larger than herself. Quips and flirtatious comments come as easy to her as the act of breathing. It's clear to those that spend even a fraction of a second with Cecilia that she doesn't truly care for any consequences that may come her way. She lives without restraint; calling her a free spirit would be a vast understatement. Highly sociable and with more than enough self-confidence to further inflate her own ego. She has learned how to appeal to others, wiggling her way ever slowly into their lives, and it has earned herself a few friends in high places that help her out from time to time. That being said, she has made just as many enemies.

Genuinely she's restless; she always has to be doing something to her herself busy or else she feels that she'll bore herself to death. Sometimes these things include researching heavy, dense historical tomes, and other times it means causing a little bit of trouble in whatever small town that she's found herself in during her travels. Usually, it's the latter. However, this doesn't mean she's nothing but a troublemaker. Cecilia didn't earn the title "Maven of Tomes" for nothing, as her intelligence is years beyond her time. Which is truly saying something given that she's one-hundred fifty years old.

Traveling around the continents and documenting history, studying texts that range from major historical events to scientific breakthroughs, it's no wonder that she knows a vast amount of knowledge. Now, if only she would actually use it rather than letting it waste away, but she seems content with acting dumb.

Though it may not seem like it, even now Cecilia has forced herself into the small boxes that society has crafted for her. It guides her every action; what's acceptable and what isn't, when is it right to stand up for others and when it's best to just ignore injustices. In spite of that, she isn't a blind sheep. She's more than aware of how cowardly her actions seem to those less afraid of being ousted by society, and it only furthers the guilt that heavily weighs on her heart. Cecilia understands the isolation they go through, how it feels to be seen as insufficient, and she has escaped such chains. But she also knows the scrutinizing eyes of those same people. The glares and ridicule thrown in her direction, as if she's oppressing them just as much.

Is it so hard to see if from my perspective? She has found her little niche in society, somewhere she feels she could even remotely be herself, and she'll cling to it with crippled fingers. And perhaps it is for the best, for if she cared not for the expectations set for her, there'd be no way to ascertain the things that she'd do. She's mastered how to soften her edges, to better fit into the aforementioned metaphorical box. It's truly a frightening thing to think that the mischievous Cecilia most know today is considered lesser in any way, but it's true. Once upon a time, she was a much, much more unruly person, a true free-spirit. While she lived in more than undesirable conditions back then, in some poetic way she was freer then than she is now.

But despite her mischievous nature, that persona can quickly give way to someone who has cold and ruthless efficiency. Combine that with relentless ambition and the result is someone who will demolish anything if it means reaching their goals. This leads to Cecilia being more than insensitive, casually dismissing other's emotions and needs as irrelevant if it doesn't directly aid her in reaching her aspirations. Her usual noninterventional nature is forgone for a much more dominant attitude; Cecilia will dig her heels into the Earth underneath her and push her ideals and her's only. It creates quite a rift in all relations when this more reprehensible side of her rears its head. She becomes nonnegotiable, completely shutting down any attempts at coming to a compromise.

These tendencies are only magnified by her impatience; in this case, her quick thinking tends to work against her, as she has little time to wait around for other people to act for her. She isn't completely unaware of how she can get. Yes, it even bothers her sometimes, especially when she knows the way she's acting isn't helping the situation, but her attempts to curve this seemingly innate behavior have ultimately ended up failing. That isn't to say that she's given up trying however. But whatever these so called aspirations are can change on the flip of a dime. Sometimes it's related to her job of documenting history, other times it involves much more petty things. What she really wants is something even bigger than the life she's concocted for herself. Cecilia wants to be a part of a greater purpose, and its been something shes been searching for for a while.



[ Fears ]
    Penury ā€“ Cecilia has experienced poverty firsthand, and after crawling out of the thick, trapping quicksand that it was, she no longer wishes to return back to such a terrible way of life. She'll do anything if it means avoiding such a way of life ever again, even if that involves turning to the more unsavory ways of making ends meet.
    Useless ā€“ No matter what it is, Cecilia wants to be of some use to someone. Currently, she fulfills that want in the form of her occupation, but she knows she won't be a Maven of Tomes for literal eternity. She knows her current standings are only temporary like everything else in the world, and worries about the times when she'll no longer her little role to fill in the world anymore. It does more than just make her anxious.
    Death ā€“ Although the fear of death shouldn't even be considered a problem to someone whose supposed to live forever, to Cecilia, death becomes even more of a formidable unknown. A cold, endless void. Empty, filled with nothing. It's not exactly something that she likes to think about, and so she forces any thoughts of it out of her mind for as long as she can. It's better to live as though such a hopeless end doesn't really exist in the world.
    Drifting ā€“ Not in the most literal sense, more as in she doesn't wanting to be mindlessly going through her life, doing whatever seems pleasing at the movement. She has a never-ending future in front of her, why should she waste it? It ultimately comes down to wanting some ultimate purpose in her life. Something that Cecilia will be content with doing for the rest of her life. She thought she had found that in documenting historical events, as the world is ever changing and history never stops being created, but she isn't exactly sure.

[ Quirks ]
    Pranks ā€“ Even if it's the smallest thing, Cecilia gets absolute joy out of pranking people. Of course, even she knows when shes gone a little bit to far. Unfortunately, that doesn't always discourage her, even when it should. She's made more than a few enemies this way, though she usually just shrugs and carries on her marry way.
    Inquisitive ā€“ She often asks enough questions to be compared to that of a child. There's always more to know about the world, and so she tries to learn as much as she can. Often, this is the form of magical experiments. Mixing and matching different techniques in order to get different results. Cecilia can't help but want to know everything there is to know about anything, and thankfully she has all the time in the world to do exactly that.
    Stubborn ā€“ Not exactly fond of doing this in a way that isn't her way, Cecilia can be relentless when it comes to certain things. So persistent that some would argue that it'd be best to just let her have her way. More often than not, she'll end up begrudgingly accepting whatever outcome that comes about, but she'll ensure that people know that she is not happy about it and will usually sulk around for the following days. She'll get over it, eventually.
    Disingenuous ā€“ She has a somewhat annoying habit of acting dumb whenever she very clearly knows everything about what's being explained. Sometimes there are people that pick up on this in the middle of their explanation, and will gladly complain to her about it being a waste of time. Other times, there are people that are so eager to explain everything that they'll obliviously ramble on and on, while onlookers can only sigh in contempt. She finds those specific people to be the cutest of things.

[ Likes ]
    All the components of nature, namely the calmness that comes with it.
    Anything that could be considered sweet; both drinks and food.
    Clothing, sheets and other things with a silk like texture.
    Blitheness; the type when everyone's a little bit too drunk and there's not a hint of maliciousness in the air.

[ Dislikes ]
    The dirty surroundings and oppressing air of slums.
    People who have the gall to judge others.
    Messy surroundings as the result of a neglectful person.
    Baggy clothing coupled with rough and uncomfortable textures.



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[ S K I L L S ]
Cecilia knows rudimentary hand-to-hand fighting skills; as in she knows how to punch someone without horribly shattering her fist. When it comes to swordsmanship she is much more skilled, fighting expertly with most short swords, however her true expertise lies in her ability to wield a rapier. Of course, it's on the slimmer side of swords, being thin and having virtually no edge to it, but it is just as effective as a weapon. When it comes to fighting style, Cecilia exercises cautious and precision. A rapier is has much more lethal potential than cutting swords, as unlike a cut, which might only be a flesh wound, thrusts can often puncture internal organs, and there is no true way to control the depth of a thrust.

Being much more pacifistic than most, she acts as if any attack she makes could be a fatal one, and as such she makes sure to avoid puncturing vitals that would surely kill someone. Since a rapier isn't well equipped to hold against a strong blow from larger weapons, Cecilia heavily prefers to void attacks rather than blocking or parrying outright. Though it is possible, but only feasible with the thicker section of the blade, and usually done in a deflective motion rather than a rigid block. Usually if she has block, she makes use of a dagger that she wields in her off-hand.

She doesn't constantly have her rapier on hand, but she can always be seen with at least one dagger strapped to her waist or thigh.

When it comes to more menial tasks, she's quite acquainted with repairing equipment, hunting for food and repairing simple injures due to her time spent traveling across various lands. Cecilia generally tries to be as prepared as she possibly can for anything that might occur, and is good at managing supplies.



[ M A G I CxA F F I N I T Y ]
Cecilia is knowledgeable on most common forms and techniques of magic, though that doesn't necessarily mean that she could pull off any and all spells without a hitch. She is much more competent in the history behind how spells and techniques developed over time, how techniques and views about magic vary between cultures and races, and how they can be used in different and creative ways.

This also comes with some knowledge of blood magic and other forbidden spells, but she wouldn't dare ever apply any of this knowledge, for she is Elven and views magic as a gift from Namariƫ; any use of such magic is a corruption of that gift. Usually, Cecilia will be seen using healing and support spells rather than offensive spells, simply out of preference more than anything else. Though she will often infuse her weapons with magic in order to improve effectiveness in combat.



[ W E A K N E S S E S ]
    Master of None - Disregarding her expertise at swordsmanship, and magic, she's a jack of all trades. Cecilia knows a little bit about everything here and there, but lacks in depth knowledge and understanding that would sometimes be required in certain situations; though she's generally good to have around in dire situations.
    Stamina - Her entire fighting style relies on ending an encounter quickly and decisively, aiming for vital points on her opponents body in order to immobilize them. In cases where she's going up against a bulwark of a person, someone who's able to withstand her attacks for a prolonged period of time, it's incredibly easy for her to tire out.
    Constraints - There are multiple things that hold Cecilia back, one of those things being the specialized weapon that she uses, which isn't as well-rounded as broader bladed swords which are meant for fighting under more general conditions. There is also the fact that she is simply unwilling to ever venture into the realm of more forbidden forms of magic, no matter how dire the situation may be. Some lines are drawn for a reason, and those lines are ones she'll never cross.



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[ A R M O U R ]
Cecilia wears incredibly light armor, with one a few pieces of metal to protect her shoulders and shins. Otherwise, it's all padded leather, allowing for much faster movement than if she were to be wearing a full suit of plate armor. Little dents cover the metal pieces of her armor, and her padded leather can be seen with patches that have been clearly sown in, made out of whatever material happened to be on hand at the time. As long as it works well enough, Cecilia is in no rush to properly fix it up.


[ C L O T H I N G ]
The clothing she wears when traveling heavily depends on the climate of the area she expects to be trekking through. During the colder seasons of the year, she can be seen wearing wool clothing, fur, and possibly some cloak or another to go along with it. In warmer weather she wears light, breathable clothing that won't absolutely smother her whenever it reaches the hotter temperatures. When she's not busy traveling, she wears very simple clothes that do the job of covering her body and being comfortable.

Her much more formal clothes are fairly simple, as she isn't a fan of overly intricate designs. Of course, they are a made of a fine material, some of them even being made out of silk.



[ I T E M S ]
There is almost always some type of item dangling from a belt wrapped around her waist whether it be a small vial or scroll. She makes a habit out of carrying around hundreds of small items with her regardless of whether she'll need them or not, and if you ask her about it, she'll simply state that she likes being prepared for whatever situation may occur. Among these items are numerous empty glass vials, first aid kits, scrolls, water skins, talismans, small daggers, and many other items.


[ P R I M A R YxW E A P O N ]
[ Weapon Name ] Sveva
[ Weapon Type ] Rapier
[ Length ] 50in (127cm)
[ Weight ] 1.7lbs (0.77kg)
[ Origin ] Was forged by a close friend of Cecilia's back when she still lived in Rinarwin, and she actually named the weapon after said friend. It was specifically crafted with a extra-thick and extra-long ricasso in order to assist in parrying broader bladed swords.


[ O T H E RxW E A P O N S ]
[ Weapon Type ] Dagger (Multiple)
[ Length ] 8-10in (20.32-25.4cm)
[ Weight ] 1.2-1.5lbs (0.54-0.68kg)
[ Origin ] Some purchased at market places she's visited over the years, others were personally forged for her use.

[ Weapon Type ] Staff
[ Length ] 96in (243.84cm)
[ Weight ] 6lbs (2.7kg)
[ Origin ] Also personally crafted by Sveva. Nothing stands out much about it, but upon closer inspection multiple notches caused by use can be seen in the wood of the staff.




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[ R E L A T I O N S ]
[ Family ]
| Ada Floros |
Cecilia doesn't remember much about her mother. Given that she passed away from illness whenever she was younger, she only has her father's word to go off of. Apparently, she was a rather self-effacing women, and considering how Cecilia turned out herself, she's not so sure about whether she believes that.

| MathƩo Floros |
A man withered away by strenuous labor, MathƩo raised Cecilia all by herself in the slums of Raes Ulin. Despite his less than savory station in life, he remains good-natured and ebullient, and has the tendency to be rather facetious and sometimes even foolhardy. While some may find it irksome at best, for Cecilia, her father always managed to make light of their bleak situation, and it's something she will forever be grateful for. Helping him get out of such a place was the least she could do.

| Adelina Sordi |
Someone who might as well be family after everything she's done for Cecilia. Ada was responsible for helping her get into Raes Ulin's academic institutes and also served as her mentor in teaching her about magic. Always dour in character, she was equally as disciplined whenever it came to training Cecilia. Occasionally she'll crack a smile, but it is a rare sight.


[ O C C U P A T I O N ]
For the vast majority of her life, she has been a Maven of Tomes, entrusted with traveling across various lands in order to document various cultures and history. Before that, she was a student at one of the academic institutions of Raes Ulin. Go further back and she still lived in the slums of said city, doing odd jobs here and there just to help her and her father get by in life.


[ O U T L O O KxO NxL I F E ]
"A hierarchy where the weak grovel in the dirt and the strong dominate them", is how Cecilia would quickly sum up her overall thoughts on the world. Pessimistic? Yes, but from all that she's seen and experience, she can't help but think this way. This doesn't necessarily mean that she believes in this sort of social darwinism, it's actually quite the opposite, but it doesn't stop it from being true in her eyes.

Regarding all of the races of Ambar, she thinks they're all equally unique in their own ways; a fitting perspective from someone who's a historian. Cecilia has seen both the beautiful face and the ugly under-belly of all there is in life, and she accepts them as reality.



[ H I S T O R Y ]
Cecilia grew up virtually an embarrassment to elven society. The slums were a pulsing symbol of all the immorality in their society, a place where only those desperate with no where to go or those vile enough venture into. Being born into such a place, she was forced to endure it's conditions and wear all the debauched labels that came with it. Ada, her mother, passed away rather early in her life. Their own poverty made it impossible to purchase any effective medicine, leading to her mother succumbing to what could very easily be compared to the common cold. Her passing was far too early for Cecilia to comprehend the concept of death or for her to even realize exactly what she lost.

With only her father bringing in money, as early as she could Cecilia began working small time jobs in order to help. She spent the beginnings of her life living in such poor conditions, quickly growing calluses from hard labor. For elves who are immortal, this was a minute amount of time in the timeline of their lives, but the reality for other races would be twenty years of that hopeless way of life. And Cecilia felt this hopelessness in the depth of her heart. Escaping the slums was a quite a feat in and of itself, but to escape poverty as well, to rise above into the higher echelons of society, was an entirely different matter.

It would be around this time that Cecilia would slowly come to realize the affinity that she had for magic and the manipulation of magical energy. She took every possible opportunity that she could grasp in order to practice her magic, staying aware enough to not fall to the temptation of the illegal forms of magic that were all too common in the slums. It would be even longer until she had caught the attention of Adelina Sordi, a mage who had come from the academic institutions of Raes Ulin. Cecilia never received an answer as to why someone of her standing would ever be caught dead in the slums, but perhaps it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. After openly presenting Adelina with her abilities, ones that were of a rather sorry technique and execution compared to what she can do now, Adelina had decided to take as her pupil.

Cecilia would spend multiple years perfecting her magic with the aid of Adelina, getting it up to snuff with others of a much more privileged life, before she was ever accepted into the academic institutions of Raes Ulin. Adelina was also her mentor whenever it came to swordsmanship, personally helping her develop her style when fighting with a rapier. Afterwards, when she was finally able to be accepted into the Institution of the Goddess Namariƫ, she spent numerous years studying everything that was available to her. Magic, history, medicine, science; pretty much anything that you could think of, she has studied it at one point.

She continued to affiliated with the institution, until later she was officially granted the title "Maven of Tomes". She was given the responsibility of traveling around the world of Ambar to document the cultures and history that belonged to the world, also required to document anything of note that might eventually turn out to be a key historical event, such as Orc warbands raiding neighboring borders or any of the recent events that have been going around for a while now.

In generality, her whole time spent as a Maven of Tomes has been uneventful, save for a few occurrences here and there. Even though she greatly enjoyed her work, she couldn't help but admit that there were times that it could boring. Ironic that the mark would soon embed its self in her wrist, bringing with it excruciating pain. She had seen glimpeses of such a symbol in old books, but why, or better yet, how it appeared on her skin was completely unknown to her. If anything, she knew what ever happened next was surely going to be an event for the history books.




The majority of the art credit goes to Nipuni.
The art credit for Ada Floros goes to Herssian.
The art credit for MathƩo Floros goes to Niklisson.
The art credit for Adelina Sordi goes to Pherberoni.
I do not own any of the artwork that you see displayed on this page.

So begins...

Cecilia Floros's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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Once this type of luxury was foreign to Cecilia; now, it only served to further annoy her.

Well, perhaps it wasn't the luxury itself that was annoying, but more of the way they simultaneously treated her as if she was both a guest in their castle and a prisoner in their dungeons. Every need was catered to, well beyond the expectations that she initially had, though she was also prohibited from leaving the room she was confined to. Not to mention the fact that the windows themselves where barred and she was prevented from using any sort of magic to free herself. Left without her equipment, and with every exit to the room closed off, Cecilia was stuck in every way possible.

In some ways, she could blame herself for the situation. She didn't have to willingly go with them, but doing otherwise would have created a whole new host of problems. The fact that they didn't ball and chain her as soon as they could proved that she truly wasn't a prisoner, although that helped little whenever she was still restricted to what was essentially a cell.

Without a doubt, this was all happening due to the mark that had appeared on her wrist. She knew what it symbolized, but she was completely lost when it came to why it had appeared, or as to what the king himself knew about it. When Cecilia had first arrived she spent quite some time considering the circumstances, yet now the only thing she was focused on was to not let the mind-numbing boredom consume her. Initially, this was done by reading whatever books were provided, which were aligned neatly on the bookshelf.

The contents of said books ranged from interesting to utter garbage, nevertheless, it was an efficient way of passing time. Eventually, she exhausted her resource of books and the boredom slowly started to set back in over time. Cecilia had then resorted to tearing the pages out of the books, folding the paper into whatever shape or object she could think of. It would've been simple enough to just ask for a journal, and admittedly it was a thought that had crossed her mind ā€“ after she had already started tearing pages out. She wasn't too concerned, it's not like anyone would miss the reprehensible literature that some of these books were. Plus, they were the ones who had driven her to such high degrees of boredom, she was merely taking advantage of the materials provided to her.

There was also one more aspect that was keeping her on her toes during her lengthy imprisonment, and that was the prospects of what was to come of all of this. Her specialty was in documenting history after all, and to find herself right in the thick of it made her more excited than it probably should've. Whether or not she would actually live to be able to record all of it was an entirely different matter.

It was in the middle of her little arts and crafts project that she heard the latch on her door being opened. The guard said nor did anything except glance at the torn books and then back at Cecilia. She, in return, only shrugged at the look on the guard's face, which was a mixture of contempt and slight disbelief.

Letting out a deep sigh, the guard finally spoke, "You're to follow us to the audience chamber, the king would like to see you."

Cecilia gracefully stood from where she was crouched over the books, strolling over to the door, "Finally letting me out, huh? Hopefully, it's for something worthwhile. I wonder what the king has to say about all of this."

The guard remained silent as they turned around and headed in the direction of the audience chamber, Cecilia closely walking in tow. Once they arrived, she was graced with the sight of six other individuals, one of whom seemed to have fallen asleep right in the middle of the chamber. There was only one conclusion that could be drawn from this, and it further increased her expectations of what was to come. "So, I assume that everyone here is marked as well, yes?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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Through all his past failures and the days he had tasted nothing but dirt, Thomas Burgundy had not experienced shame as he did now.

His nostrils flared as he breathed, loudly, his mouth incapacitated by the metal rod that was fixed between his teeth, held by straps encircling his head. Just like the bit of a horse bridle. The reigns used to direct him came in the form of cuffs clamped around his wrists and a chain. The whip, the eyes trained on his back and the hands hovering above their sword's hilt. He was an animal. A filthy, snuffling, mute animal that was being paraded around the castle of a King. He didn't belong here.

Where he belonged was the place he had been dragged away from: the executioner's block. Everything in these halls screamed at him that he was unworthy. The dirty smears left behind him - like the muddy prints of some mutt - tarnished the perfection of the place. What was he doing here? All he could remember before he'd been whisked away to this place was becoming helplessly ill before the crowd at the execution deck, watching his hands blacken... but that was a hallucination from fear, surely, that didn't happen. The chain was tugged as he lost his pace and Thomas quickened his steps. He could feel his face reddening beneath the dirt masking it. Perhaps this was to be a private execution before the King. He should feel grateful that his death would be worth as much, an assassin who was caught so young.

Finally, they were out of the halls. Thomas had noticed that they were moving in a meandering pattern around the castle, trying to make him lose track of the exits no doubt. It was a valiant effort, but a useless one. He'd never started to map the area. Whatever awaited him at the end of this journey, he would accept. The doors before them were opened and Thomas was led into a large audience chamber, beautifully crafted and the stuff of a poor man's dreams. Before he got a proper look at the others already there, he was forced to his knees before a throne missing its King. With his head tilted down he glanced around the room, and the tips of his ears turned pink.

There he was, starving, covered in dirt and wearing nothing but ragged trousers. His assassin brand, scars and the wounds of his most recent torture bared for all to see. His usually nicely trimmed hair matted to his forehead with sweat and in his eyes. Oh, his eyes. His lustrous blue eyes the only remnant of the beauty that was before such mistreatment, shining through the grime on his face. He kept his head down, discretely observing the company in the room. A snoring wizard, a soldier, a dwarf, a towering woman, a pale elf, a well dressed human girl and a... what? No matter the diversity of the crowd, there was one thing they all had in common that he didn't. No chains. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the feeling of eyes on him, the slight breeze on his naked back and how horribly vulnerable he was, displayed before them.

His prayers that somebody crash through the window and lop off his head right then were not answered, however he felt his cuffed hands be lifted and heard a clink as they were released. His eyelids fluttered open in confusion and he stared at his raw, blistered wrists - mark. There was a mark, some sort of rune. How did it get there? The bit was removed from between his teeth and he gnashed them together, bringing his hands up and massaging his cheeks. He sucked in a breath and prodded the inside of his bone dry mouth with his shriveled tongue. He couldn't try to speak like this. The guards left his side without a word and he looked after them in bewilderment. They were just... dumping him here? Without bondage? He stood, avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the room. On his feet, he forced himself to not hunch his shoulders and cower.

Something was happening here, and it wasn't Thomas's execution. But it wasn't time for celebration yet.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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#, as written by iCakez
Ragnar was not left to his own devices for long. While heā€™d spent the first few minutes alone, heā€™d inspected the room he was in. It was large, but not immense as other parts of the castle. It had a high ceiling, and nearly every surface was beautifully ornamented and painted and adorned. There was a throne sitting on the dais, raised about three steps high. Ragnar felt strange. He wasnā€™t wearing his usual attire ā€“ his armor. He only wore his tabard over his shirt and pants. No sword either, but given that he was to see the king that wasnā€™t so strange.

As if to interrupt him in his studying of the room, someone abruptly entered the room. Well, someone was escorted into the room. Ragnar turned and watched. What followed was a series of rapidly spoken sentences, too fast for anyone to follow. This man seemedā€¦. Odd. Ragnar shook the manā€™s hand but almost recoiled when he pulled up his sleeve. But it was over before he could react, and the man was talking again. Ragnar sighed almost inaudibly. Execution? Exciting?

A brief respite came as the man introduced himself, but Ragnar couldnā€™t do anything but nod. Before he knew it, the conversation had changed from their demise and the short, depressing time that led up to it, to the room they were in. It went on for a few minutes. At one point, Ragnar had to actively close his mouth as he watched Callion. Strange encounter as this was, Ragnarā€™s confusion was complete when the man seemingly fell asleep. The silence that followed felt heavy and thick after this curious manā€™s ranting.

ā€œWhat in the name ofā€¦.ā€ He shook his head but didnā€™t move. His brain used so much of its capacity to process what had just happened. Ragnar had never met anyone this eccentric before.

Soon after the words had escaped his mouth, the door to the audience chamber creaked again.

Oh, please no. I ca-

To his great relief, this man seemed to beā€¦ Less extrovert. But he did seem to find the situation curious as well.

ā€œRagnar.ā€ He offered in return and sighed with relief. He looked at the man who had introduced himself as Garos and thought for a moment. He looked like an orc. And then not. Ragnar couldnā€™t quite place him. He gestured toward the sleeping rake and shrugged. ā€œDonā€™t ask.ā€

The next person to enter the room as also of a smaller stature. But in an entirely different way. While she was not as tall as any of the other people present, she was wide and strong to look at. Ragnar wasnā€™t sure he would win if they arm-wrestled. A series of emotions flickered over her face, but it was hard to make out what she was thinking. Ragnar gave her a small nod by way of greeting.

More people arrived, as if they had planned on delivering each person with a two-minute delay. A woman arrived, who was quite pleasing to the eye (in Ragnarā€™s humble opinion). By the way she carried herself, he guessed that she had to be some form of soldier. He chuckled at what she said when she saw Callion.
The next was also a woman who seemed desperate to let her presence go unknown. She seemed frightened and tense. Lastly, a woman arrived who did not seem so concerned. She waited a moment but then openly asked a question to everyone present. Brave he thought. Ragnar locked eyes with the young elf woman and nodded, a crooked, brief smile appearing on his face.

He had remained relatively quiet throughout, watching the people that arrived. There was seemingly no connection, other than the mark he figured everyone had on their wrists. Two of the people present had openly spoken about the marks, so it was safe to assume that this was the link between them.

The very last person to arrive, did so in spectacular fashion. No other person in the room seemed to have undergone the same treatment as this man. Everyone had been calmly escorted to the audience chamber. This man was dragged. He was dirty, chained, reeking and not until he was on his knees was the bit between his teeth removed. He looked like a wild animal and by his initial presentation, it made Ragnar wonder what he was doing in the same room as them. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

Ragnar watched the man for a moment before sighing and crossing his arms, moving to lean against the wall. There was a chair beside him, but he felt that it wouldnā€™t be proper to meet the king on your ass.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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#, as written by iCakez
While heā€™d had enough time to think on what to tell the 8 that would be gathered before him in a few moments, the king was not entirely sure how to say it. This was new for him. Heā€™d always known what to say and how to approach certain topics, but this was such a different subject and such a strange situation. And he didnā€™t even have something specific to tell them. He only had a request.

For a king, I find myself in a strange position. He thought to himself. No royal was used to asking subjects.

He paced his chambers, stroking his beard and thinking. Heā€™d been seeing his granddaughter this morning. Her situation hadnā€™t changed, but that also meant that it hadnā€™t gotten worse again. She could eat, but she was still weak and tired. Maybe it was due to the fact that she was so young that she didnā€™t withstand whatever illness the mark had brought with it. Maybe hers was different?

There was a knock on the door.

ā€œYes!ā€

The door opened slowly and a young soldier stepped in.

ā€œTheyā€™re ready, sire.ā€ He said and waited.

ā€œThank you.ā€ The king said and nodded, waving the soldier away. He waited for a moment and sighed. He was still equally prepared, having failed to find better words.




He opened the door and stepped through with sure, determined steps. He appeared from the right side of the throne in the room and slowed down in front of it. The king looked at the ragged band assembled before him. He recognized the first man they had discovered with the mark; a soldier in his own army. There was also a woman there who had to be a soldier. But they were rather different, all of them. He had decided against dressing in something overly royal for this particular thing. Balian had dressed himself in a way that exuded confidence, royalty, but also openness and that he was approachable. He carried himself much in the same way.

ā€œWelcome.ā€ He started. ā€œI hope that your stay here has been to your liking, though I can understand why some of you might be puzzled or offended, as you havenā€™t been told much.ā€

He looked at all of them and folded his hands behind his back, stepping down from the dais and began walking back and forth in front of them. He seemed to consider his words carefully. Suddenly he stopped and seemed to relax, faced the group and was serious. Balian looked at the ragged group before him. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that while most of them had their eyes on him - probably glad to finally get an explanation to all this - one fellow seemed utterly uninterested. Before he continued, the king looked at this young man and paused. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but the sight of him stopped the words coming out. Was he sleeping? Incredulity and anger flickered over his face very briefly, but Balian managed to compose himself. His words had to retain their weight and importance.

ā€œIf you havenā€™t already reached the conclusion that you all have a mark on you, and that this is the reason you are gathered here, then I can assure you that this is exactly why.ā€ He said and sighed. ā€œMay I see your marks?ā€

Patiently, he watched as they pulled up their sleeves and revealed the same mark he had studied so intensely on his granddaughter. The king paused at each person and made sure to look them in the eye before he looked at their wrists. When he had seen them all, he turned and moved to the foot of the dais.

ā€œThis mark you bearā€¦ā€ He paused. ā€œIt is very old.ā€

The door from which all the members of the group before him had entered, creaked again. A very old and hunchbacked man appeared, carrying a very large and very old tome. The king watched him and waited. The time it took for the man to put the book down on the table on the right side of the foot of the dais, was almost awkward. The silence was thick. When he had rid himself of the book, he seemed almost ten years younger, and he stood and smiled at the king. He was sent off with a nod, and the time it took for him to leave was a little shorter. Still slightly awkward.

ā€œNow. You are here becauseā€¦ā€ The king paused and brought himself to say it. ā€œBecause I need your help.ā€ He let that sink in. ā€œMy advisors have found old scrolls and dusty old tomes, such as this.ā€ He gestured to the large book. ā€œAnd found a page that is blank, except for that very mark.ā€ He pointed at each of them. ā€œThey have also translated a partially destroyed page from this book,ā€ he gestured to the tome again. ā€œAnd discovered a passage that mentions the mark and the Heralds in the same sentence.ā€
King Balian stopped and cleared his throat. He wanted to make sure that he still had everyoneā€™s attention.
ā€œI realize, of course, that this has still not provided you with an explanation as to why you are here.ā€ The king offered them a small, apologetic smile.

What he was about to ask of them, was something that would make them risk their lives for him. He knew that he had to approach this carefully, and not stand tall above them as another king might do. No, he had to show them that he needed their help, and that he was as curious as they were to find out about these marks.
ā€œAs I said before; I need your help.ā€ Balianā€™s brows furrowed. ā€œYou see, strange reports have come in from the far corners of Stormgard and other kingdoms, things that chill even my old bones to the core. Things I donā€™t want to believe. At the same time, you have been found bearing this mark.ā€

For a brief moment, he contemplated telling them about his granddaughter, but couldnā€™t bring himself to do it.

ā€œFar to the north-west of here, a town has been razed to the ground. This happened two days ago. Two days ago, there was not a thing resembling a threat to this town, and todayā€¦.ā€ He paused and looked at them. ā€œBut the strange thing about this whole affair, is the rumors that follow. Folk speak of blue fire and even the walking dead.ā€ Balian emphasized these things, silently hoping that these people knew their mythology and religious history. The dead walking and blue fire were both linked strongly to the Heralds.

ā€œAll of these things happen at the same time. While I value caution and thinking before action, I cannot help but feel that this coincidence isā€¦ Peculiar.ā€ He added. The difficulty of presenting the subject left him, and the king seemed relieved. It was obvious that this truly troubled him. Perhaps that was convincing enough? He looked at the tome for a moment before he looked at each member of the group.

ā€œI will not command you, or demand this of you. But I will ask and pray that you will help each other, Stormgard and me. Go to this village in the north-west, see what you can find and bring back proof that the dead walk, or find out what might have happened.ā€

As the words left his lips, he felt more desperate and the likeliness of these people accepting seemed lesser by the minute.
ā€œIf you do this, I will reward you all handsomely, you have my word. I canā€™t send my own troops, as I donā€™t want word to get out. If rumors of the Heralds and the walking dead slip out, who knows what panic might follow. No. You here gathered before meā€¦ You must do this, to find out what these marks mean.ā€

Never had he ever had such difficulty expressing himself and explaining something. This was truly difficult, and the king realized at that moment, as he was looking over each person in the room, truly for the first time, that he was frightened. The otherwise great man seemed to shrink a little in the room and he looked a few years older.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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Mara eyed each new person as they entered the large hall. The hall which she now understood to be a throne room.

She suddenly felt hyper aware of her bare feet on the cool stone floor. The women that kept checking in on her had brought her shoes and forced them on her feet after her first bath--but the shoes were terribly crammed and made her movement hobbled. She hated it. So as soon as she was able to, Mara ditched the uncomfortable things and went bare as she always had. She had never worn shoes before in her whole 22 years of life--and had seen no reason to start. Now, she understood the reason. A proper lady didn't wander around the castle without foot attire. Mara was most definitely, not a proper lady. That much she was sure was clear to those around her now. Anxiously, she picked at stray strings on her apron, making a small hole much larger.

Mara's eyes took in the elfish lady--or so she seemed to be, Mara had never met any non-human before..yet, here the room seemed to have more than one. She took in the tall, beautiful woman that had just entered with her eyes as if memorizing her and in turn her eyes moved to each individual in the room with the same veiled intensity. A tiny woman in heavy armor--a dwarf? How brilliant! A dusky-skinned gentleman, who comparatively seemed a giant--but no was he an orc? But with fine features? Hard to say. The rest seemed at a glance as human as she--but all of them were fascinating in their own way. Especially the one that came in chains. Mara had stiffened at the sound of the chains, fearing they had come to put her in them. She felt herself unwillingly tremble and gripped her apron more tightly in her worry. But when they released the man, covered in dirt and gore and left him with the rest of them--Mara felt more at ease. At least they weren't here to shackle her too. Though, she thought watching the previously chained man with curious eyes, what had he done to earn his chains? Despite this..Mara ached at the sight of him. He looked injured and dirty--he looked like she surely did before the handmaidens had gotten to her. She could feel the lump of cheese she had hidden in her apron pocket and thought perhaps she would offer it to him...but just as she had started to move gingerly toward the previously chained man the elfish woman spoke up.

When the elfish woman mentioned "the mark" Mara's green eyes seemed to sharpen. Momentarily, Mara looked back to the elfish lady before shrinking away again. Make yourself small, you're not here at all. Something she'd taught herself to survive long ago. Staring too intensely at people can get you into trouble. Especially if you're caught. Faintly, Mara touched the stinging mark on her wrist. They all had it too? Was that perhaps why? And just as if in answer to her question, someone entered the room by the throne.

Mara felt her knees shaking. That was the King of Stormgard. The King! She was the guest of the King?! The food she'd just eaten felt suddenly heavy in her stomach and momentarily threatened to come up. Mara thankfully, stifled the urge. Should she kneel? Curtsy? She'd never met royalty before! And the only book she'd ever read about how one should treat a member of royalty was a fairytale--so was it even correct in its' instruction on manners? Mara was not sure, so she simply tried to politely incline her head and look obedient, much like she did with her father.

Mara watched as the king paced back and forth before the group, confirming that these marks were indeed the reason they were all here--but they were not all illegally practicing magic. This mark was not a punishment for that, though she felt little relief in learning this. Much of what the king said to them all--was anything but relieving.

He needed their help.

The king--needed her help? Mara felt her eyes go wide in surprise.

Mara listened raptly as the king described the situation, absorbing the words like a thirsty plant might absorb water. He spoke of terrifying things. The dead walk? Blue fire? Heralds? What did all of this mean?! Mara picked at her apron more furiously than before, pulling long strings out and snapping them softly in her callused fingers as she listened. When the king mentioned wanting them to go investigate a town that involved all of these stories...rumors he called them...he asked them to help. All of them? Surely, not her? She was a farm girl. Poor. Scrubbed clean just to be presented to him like a gift--but usually dirty and dim. Sure, she could read and knew some things about the local plants. She could survive and do what she needed to live meagerly--but this was not a job for a farm girl with a painful burning mark on her wrist. Surely, the ones in armor were only meant to go? Mara knew no more about battle, or self defense than most rabbits did. She didn't even own shoes! (Save the ones that felt too small that she'd hidden in her room.) But he'd fed her and clothed her (though she'd never asked for as much) and how else would she ever repay this? Would she be killed if she refused? She would probably die even if she went--though even the thought of taking on some dead that walked seemed somewhat less daunting than returning home to her drunken father. Could she tell the king that there must be some mistake? She was utterly useless for such a venture. She took a deep breath, her throat feeling dry as speaking was not something did often.

"Your Highness..." Her voice was surprisingly bold and she wore an expression that seemed greatly in contrast with that voice. "I am no warrior...I fear that I may cause more harm than good to such a venture. I have never held a sword. Nor have I worn armor...I know nothing of battle...and little of other than farm work..." Mara said, her voice carrying though she kept her eyes to the ground in deference. "I think some great error has been made in my inclusion... But if you have needs of me, I see no fit way in which to refuse you...for what little I can offer in help, My Lord, you have it."

Mara was trembling from head to toe despite these bold words. Her heart was full of terror--but what choice did one such as her have before such a summons? Command or no--she surely could not decline. Her knuckles were white with the force in which she gripped her apron, trying to calm herself. It was strange...for one such as her to be the first to speak. But the strangeness of the whole thing seemed to silence or stun the room and she felt if she hadn't hastened to say her piece than she may never speak at all.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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It was nice to have a little confirmation that the rest of the others also bore marks, even if the conclusion was a little bit obvious. Just at a glance, there was little all of them had in common, and if it weren't for the marks, there'd otherwise be no telling why all of them were gathered. There was just one other person who entered ā€” well, honestly he was dragged ā€” and they were left to await the king, who entered shortly after. Of all the things Cecilia had expected to hear a request for help was not one of them, especially not from the King of Stormgard himself. What was even more unexpected was the link the strange mark branded on their wrist had to the Heralds, and as Cecilia continued to listen intimately to the king's words she felt her previous excited and carefree demeanor starting to turn grim.

There was the small hint of disappointment that she didn't learn more about the nature of the mark. Not only that, but she'd have to go on what was essentially a suicide mission just to find out what it truly meant. Though that was but an aside to the sudden realization Cecilia had of what all of this could entail. If this truly had something to deal with the Heralds, it was more than distressing to think about the future of the world.

Following that realization was unprecedented levels of eagerness, despite how incongruous it was.

Cecilia initially waited before she had spoken, taking in the atmosphere of the room and attempting to compose herself. Shockingly enough, it was the woman who seemed keen on making herself disappear that had broken the silence first. She had said nothing that was less than expected of someone answering to a king, but it still caused her to raise a brow. Truthfully, Cecilia expected her to pass out from the shock first rather than speak. It seemed as though today would just be full of revelations.

She then glanced at the rest of the people that were gathered in the audience hall. All of them had stories of their own, lives that they could very easily lose if they had taken up the task the king had offered to them. No doubt they were all aware of such a thing by now. The only thing left up in the air is whether or not the rest of them would accept the task or turn their backs on everything presented to them thus far.

After the frightful woman had finished speaking, Cecilia decided it was best to voice her mind sooner rather than later. "If I may speak next, this is truly a consequential task if you're asking us in such a personal manner. Despite that, you leave the decision of accepting up to us instead of threatening imprisonment or execution should we not accept." She paused, her jovial expression and voice suddenly turning cold, "Although I can speak only for myself, I do not possibly see how I could deny you. Any hope of returning to some semblance of normality was dashed the moment I was branded with the mark that you speak of. It'd be foolish, and frankly halfwitted, to think otherwise."

She gave a slight bow before returning to look the king directly in his eyes, "To end my little spiel, I'll accept this task of yours." Cecilia smiled charmingly, her previous demeanor returning before she spoke once more, "Of course, this is under the pretense that I'll be allowed to document any and all occurrences that we experience whenever we reach the village."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany
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Seven other people, in varying states of dress; and occupations, if their posturing was anything to go by. Eight, including himself. A varied group that made no sense to him, the assemblage was too random. Seeing how some clearly seemed to belong to some sort of militia, while others looked as if theyā€™d stepped straight off farmlands, there was little to no connection between them. None that Garos could make, anyhow. Besides the stinging marks branding the inside of their wrists, they were a motley crew, indeed. Hardly warranting an audience with the kingly sot himself; regalia dimmed down on their accord, no doubt. Make ā€˜em look less like they were being sent off to the block for heresy. Smart move.

He allowed himself an unabashed view of the others, taking them in as he would potential clientele. They were not, of course. Guests, as the tall woman had aptly put it. His gaze lingered there, sizing her up. Lass was nearly as tall as he wasā€”something heā€™d never experienced before, he wasnā€™t sure if he shouldā€™ve been impressed or a little intimidated. Colorful tongue, too. Someone after his own heart. From her squared-up shoulders, and the stiff upper lip, he guessed his soldier assumption wasnā€™t far from the mark. He pursed his lips, slipping his eyes away from her. ā€˜Course, heā€™d been wrong before.

The last one was dragged in like some sort of wayward pup from the gutter, a half-drowned rat or a fish on land. Uncomfortable. Dirty. Obviously treated more poorly than the rest, though he couldnā€™t fathom why. A ragged street-urchin? A hapless individual unlucky enough to land himself in unmerciful hands? Both were equally likely. Not all guards were sunshine and soft hands, treating their guests with mild neglect rather than outright violence. From the looks of it, heā€™d suffered the later. Poor sap. He hmā€™d softly. A tutting sound, rattling from the back of his throat. Looked like he could take a scrap well enough. A formidable quality, if there ever was one.

A meek kitten. A wily, sharp-tongued elf. Andā€¦ a dwarf. Onyx eyes snapped onto the top of her head, then met her eyes. She was staring hard, mouth pursed and eyes squinted as if she were trying to see straight through him. The height difference was laughable, but thatā€™s not what gave him pause. He blinked. Once. Twice. Narrowed his eyes, studied the womanā€™s minute features; set into a face that was just as scrunched up at his, trying to puzzle out her expression. The realization made him snort aloud. Gloā€”the wee lass that escorted him through Caeld on one of his many excursions, rubbing elbows with people who didnā€™t quite mind where he was from. He gave her a pretty penny for information about the place, and even sat down for a drink or two; she could hold her own. Could tell that from the first time he laid eyes on her.

ā€œIā€™ll be damned,ā€ he nearly stooped, hands planted on his thighs, before he remembered himself and reeled backwards, eyebrows jolting up his forehead, ā€œnever wouldaā€™ thought Iā€™d see your face here, Glo.ā€ A pause, reflective. ā€œWish it was under better circumstancesā€”ā€

A cough came from behind them, where two guards stood by, hands stipled behind their backs. Gaze drawn ahead, staring straight through them. It was only then that Garos swiveled his attention back towards the empty throneā€¦ and the King. He straightened his back, moving one hand onto his hip, letting the other hand down at his side. Wouldā€™ve felt more comfortable with his axe strapped to his back, but beggarā€™s couldnā€™t be choosers, and the King looked as if he had something important to say. Important enough that heā€™d keep his gob promptly shut. For now, anyway.

He listened. He absorbed. Even if he wanted to roll his eyes, hard. A King was asking them for help? Lowly sots; thieves, soldiers, people who obviously hadnā€™t held a weapon in their livesā€¦ to do, what? Check out a razed village. Heralds. Walking dead. Blue fire. He could feel his lip curling because he already damn well knew what his answer would be. How far would this thing spread? Where would this particular phenomenon stretch its fingers? To his borders, maybe. His home. Even so. The larger, stupider part of him laughed at the challenge; bared its teeth against it, because even if there was no handsome price twinkling just beyond his reach, his answer wouldā€™ve been the same.

The mark felt as if it thrummed in response, burning. Itching. He rubbed it against his trousers. And he wasnā€™t alone. The brown-haired mouse with the downcast eyes stepped up first, much to his surprise, presenting her answer in a startlingly clear voice. Brave, bold. She reminded him a little of a deer. A doe; they were strong, in their own right. Graceful. A lot stronger than she looked, that was for sure. He watched her hands tremble and tighten into fists, smothering into her apron. A toothy grin broke across his face, baring small tusks that poked up behind his lip. If someone whoā€™d never even fought before was accepting this sortā€™ve dangerous task, what right did he have to refuse? None, none at all. His gaze flicked to the side, lingering on the fair-haired elf.

A puzzle, she was; hard to tell what she was thinking with that sharp tongue of hers. Cold as ice, for a moment. A glimpse into something. Though, she was quick enough to smooth it over with flowers and softer words, following it with a simple request. He wasnā€™t made from any of those things, no sir. He arched his eyebrows, inclining his chin towards the King. He studied the bearded man for a moment longer, before clearing his throat, ā€œā€™Course, Iā€™m in. Like she said, doesnā€™t seem like anythingā€™s gonna be the same for us anymore, not with these marks. Reckon thisā€™ll be the only way to find out more about it.ā€ A hum of assent and a final nod, ā€œNever heard a King ask for a favor before. Good a reason as any.ā€

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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ā€œWell this is oddā€¦ā€

Callion muttered to himself as the room seemed to melt around him, leaving him standing on a platform surrounded by darkness, which was then quickly illuminated with flowers that seemed to bring with them a light that shed a bit of vision on his surroundings. His space, roughly a five foot diameter from where he was standing, was made of hardwood which then seemed to meld effortlessly into a pleasant petal filled meadow. Callion scraped his chin, looking everything over with a calculating eye. ā€œDream or vision...vision or dream?ā€

ā€œWhy not both?ā€ Callion heard a high voice ask, turning around and being met with a wagon wheel that had sprouted arms, legs and a face.

ā€œDream.ā€ Callion stated, earning a ā€˜pshā€™ from the wheel.

ā€œMy man, you should know when this happens by now, cā€™mon!ā€

ā€œI suppose, but it always takes me by surprise...wait, Iā€™m not getting into this conversation with my subconscious!ā€

ā€œWhat argument?ā€

ā€œYou know damn well! That existential ā€˜are we real or a fabrication of a dreamā€™ talk. I have one nearly every time I drop in here. The last time it was with a teapot with a penchant for top hats.ā€

ā€œSounds classy.ā€

ā€œHe was droll.ā€

ā€œGasp, you would say such things about me?!ā€

ā€œYouā€™re a wheel!ā€

ā€œYouā€™re arguing with your subconscious again.ā€ Callion pinched the bridge of his nose.

ā€œI assume I just fell asleep standing up? Not the first time Iā€™ve done that honestly.ā€ The wheel shrugged...or what could be called shrugging for this particular creature.

ā€œI donā€™t know, itā€™s not like I have eyes on the outside here.ā€ Callion peered around a bit more.

ā€œWell, I will say that this is a bit more...lucid than my previous incursions into the depths of my mind. Tell me, will there be any other inanimate objects gracing me to talk witty repertoire with?ā€ It was this moment that a 'ding' came from behind Callion, causing him to turn around and witness a deer materialize from nothingness, itā€™s buck teeth large enough that they could have been mistaken for tusks. It smiled, opening its mouth to talk.

ā€œWitty yah say, well I dun know ā€˜bout that, but I can make a mean cabbage soup.ā€ Callion pointed at the deer.

ā€œNo...No I refuse, that is not me, that is not my subcon-ā€ Whipping around to yell at the wheel, he found it absent, cutting himself off mid sentence. ā€œHuh.ā€ Callion turned back around, and the deer was gone as well. ā€œOdd...but it is a dream I sup-ā€ It was at that moment that the floor beneath Callion disappeared and he fell, landing on his butt in a big comfy chair surrounded by books which also occupied the seats as if they were people. The seats were arranged like an amphitheatre, with a light suddenly turning on and showcasing a rather diminutive squirrel wearing an adorable kingā€™s crown. ā€œWhat now?ā€ Callion asked, folding his arms.

ā€œWelcome.ā€ The squirrel stated, his voice deep and regal. Callion raised an eyebrow, but he also knew this was par for the course. ā€œI hope that your stay has been to your liking.ā€

ā€œWhat the...where...Iā€™m confused, how long have I been out?ā€ The Squirrel stared at Callion before jumping off the stage and landing on his lap.

ā€œYou will be silent when I address you...or are you nuts?ā€ Callion stared.

ā€œI know my mind can come up with better jokes than that...Iā€™ve read many books.ā€

ā€œAs evidenced by this theatre.ā€ The Squirrel motioned, to which the books applauded and cheered despite not having the actual capacity to do so.

ā€œI should probably wake up, thereā€™s a king about to address us and I assume me sleeping isnā€™t exactly going to be a good first impression.ā€

ā€œSILENCE FOOL!ā€ The Squirrel yelled at him, jumping back up onto the stage. ā€œYou know how this works...besides...I need your help.ā€ The Squirrel bobbed his head, the crown shaking with each movement. ā€œFar to the North-West of here, a town has been razed to the ground.ā€

The theatre changed, the chair disappearing beneath Callion who was left to once again fall on his behind like it was some kind of cushion. Callion stood, dusting himself off and muttering some dirty words which then became a visual representations floating out of his mouth, giggling as they disappeared into the blackness. Suddenly there were buildings encased in blue fire, undead zombies were walking around...but they were acting like regular citizens. Buying obviously decayed food, tending to their dead crops and vampire cows. It was then that Callion noticed a perfectly normal baby at his feet. He stooped down, holding it up and at armā€™s length. ā€œWell, arenā€™t you just perfectly out of place.ā€

ā€œI think some great error has been made in my inclusion...But if you have needs of me, I see no fit way in which to refuse you.ā€ Callion stared at the baby, which then reverted back to a regular pooping machine as it burbled and tried to eat itā€™s own foot.

ā€œWell spoken for a baby...when did I see a baby last?ā€ A woosh blew past Callionā€™s face, causing him to drop the baby. As he scrambled to catch it out of reflex, the baby hit the ground and splashed as it turned into what looked like ale. It was then that he noticed the blade embedded into his arm. ā€œaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHā€ Callion started screaming before stopping himself. ā€œWait...this is a dream...or is this a vision? Reality is confusing!ā€ Callion screamed at the blackness before pulling the knife out of his arm. As he pulled, the blade elongated to bend and form a sword which he held in his left hand. Before he could comment, a mouth formed on the blade.

ā€œIf I may speak next, this is truly a consequential task if youā€™re asking us in such a personal manner.ā€

ā€œIā€™m not asking you anything at all...blade?ā€

ā€œOf course you are, who else would be asking?ā€

ā€œI think the outside world is affecting my dreamscape.ā€ Callion stated, to which the blade laughed.

ā€œItā€™d be foolish, and frankly halfwitted, to think otherwise.ā€

ā€œRight, thatā€™s enough sass from a weapon of war.ā€ Callion stated, throwing the blade and watching it turn into a sparrow and take off into the unknown. Callion gave a shrug, taking a step forward only to tumble over a barrel. Falling onto his face, the lid of the barrel fell off and gave way to raucous laughter, in fact it was somewhat deafening. Callion scrambled to get the lid back on and right the barrel before his dream ears started bleeding. Once he was successful, he gave a huff. ā€œCould you not do that again?ā€

ā€œNever heard a King ask for a favor before.ā€ A mouth formed on the lid of the barrel, giving way to the words. ā€œGood a reason as any I guess.ā€

ā€œWell...Iā€™m not a King but I do appreciate it.ā€

ā€œHe wasnā€™t talking to you genius.ā€ The deep voice. Callion turned around just in time to see the Squirrel King jumping up and preparing a roundhouse kick. ā€œTime for a wake up call.ā€ The Squirrelā€™s kick connected with Callionā€™s face and instantly it felt cold.




Callionā€™s form in the audience chamber slammed onto the floor with a mighty thud. It was only then there was a slight commotion from the man as he gave a yelp in surprise, lying prone for a moment as he clinged to his face. ā€œOw...ow ow ow ow ow...is it bleeding? Am I bleeding?ā€ Callion asked, repeatedly dabbing his fingers at the entrance to his nostrils as he sniffed repeatedly. It was that weird feeling like there might be a nosebleed, but he couldnā€™t confirm. It took a few moments for Callion to register where he was, and that eyes were on him. He stood up, brushing himself off slightly. ā€œMy apologies, a nasty condition of mine that causes suc-ā€ As he turned, he caught sight of the King himself. There was a brief pause as Callion seemed to contemplate the many different forms of suicide before giving his nose a mighty wipe on his sleeve and dipping into a deep bow.

ā€œMy...GREATEST apologies my lord. I have a condition which...no, nevermind it will sound only like an excuse. It was not my intention to sleep so soundly upon your arrival, nor was my action to ignore you.ā€ Some of this felt familiar...had he been dreaming about this stuff? Callion straightened, looking at the others as his eyes flitted to each. There were a lot more in here than before. It took only a few seconds for Callion to piece some things together, and rather than ask for a recap, simply went with his gut.

ā€œAlright, Iā€™m going to try and catch up through the powers of observation and irresponsible guesswork. The informal presentation means that you are asking something of us, on a personal level. Everyone seems more or less at ease, with the exception of our beat up friend over there who looks like he could use a hug and maybe some ointment, so I can safely say there hasnā€™t been the threat of execution yet. Iā€™m seeing a couple of smiles and intrigue on peopleā€™s faces, so you have asked us something that has peaked the interest of what could only be called adventurous souls...so weā€™re travelling correct? If thatā€™s the case...Ah, I remember, there was a town that you needed us to look at right? Wreathed in blue flame? If thatā€™s true, then the squiiiiiiiiiiā€¦ā€ Callion trailed off for a moment. ā€œ..iiiiirrell...no other words fit there, long story short I believe my subconscious mind heard some of your conversation so I would like to assume there is a town covered in blue fire that we are most likely being asked to investigate cause marks, as I can see no other connecting feature between all of us. Am I correct?ā€

Callion stared around at everyone as they seemed more or less in complete awe, shock or maybe some kind of flabbergasted. ā€œOh, and for those of you I havenā€™t introduced myself to...Callion Lightson, a pleasure.ā€

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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#, as written by Baby
When Garos' face lit up with recognition and he snorted loudly at his triumph of memory, Glola quickly set her eyes to the floor and turned slightly away from him, trying to conceal the small smile playing at the corners of her lips. He spoke with the energy and cheeriness that sheā€™d hope for, but she refused to make eye contact or indulge him in conversation. It was bad enough that she was staring at him, now she couldnā€™t get rid of her smile and was damn near blushing. If she spoke, she probably wouldā€™ve had a high pitch squeal. Thankfully, before any real conversation could bloom, they were interrupted with the presence of the king.

As he began to speak, Glola set aside her fading glee over her rekindled friendship with Garos and went back to thinking of her cover story.

When the king asked for the group to show their mark, Glolaā€™s heart pounded to the anthem of her anxiety, though she kept her actions at a minimum. She gave a small glance around the room to make sure everybody was participating and turned over her arm to expose the mark. She had danced to the ends of the world with stories and excuses until her nerves were fried from memorizing all possible answers to questions that had yet been asked. And when the human king had actually turned the speech around and asked for help, Glola was rushed with two emotions.

The first was relief. Any dialogue that might go towards why she has the mark or what she may have done or even who she was related to, was thrown out the window. Everything she had mentally prepared for crashed into rippling waves of released pressure. She almost sighed, but she kept her breath tempered to kill the messenger of her private thoughts.

The second emotion, first heavily overshadowed but then growing monstrously bigger than itā€™s presiding cousin, was shame. With the kingā€™s plight, she felt tested. It was as if the Maker had set her into the flame and forged nothing but a dull knife.
Even at the peak of her action, she had only considered escaping. And at the peak of her thoughts, she practiced holding up a castle of lies on the base of her tongue. This king spoke of the undead and yet moments before she was concerned of them finding out her real name. Could Nefaek even have influence outside of dwarven lands? Outside of Caeld even? Who really cared if a piss-old dwarven elite had trifles with his family? What did that matter across the seas? What did that matter to darkness enveloping the world?

Glola felt sick to her stomach. How could her fear of death taken over her like this? She was threatened decades ago, and ever since she had let her desire for survival reinvent her spirit to that of a cellar mouse.
ā€˜Makerā€¦ā€™ Glola closed her eyes as she began her silent prayer. ā€˜I have spent my life indulging in pleasures yet hiding from my old friends and family. I feared my father, I feared my own name. I have worked for excess. But if the dead truly walk, and the heralds have begun to stirā€¦please use me. Forge me to be your hammer, let your will be manifested through my body. I will atone for my cowardice, I will be your mountain of steel.ā€

Feeling herself relax in her unspoken promise to the Maker, Glola opened her eyes with a newfound clarity. As the others were starting to join in to accept the Kingā€™s plea, Glolaā€™s chest swelled. This was her time. ā€˜Maker! Witness me!ā€™ Glola blinked hard before stepping forward, clearing her throat as she was ready to make good on her freshly sworn vows.

ā€œI will also-" *SPLACK!* ā€œWha?ā€ Glola whispered, turning to see the blond man whom she noticed earlier lying face down on the floor. Her right eye twitched maddeningly as she tried to collect herself.

ā€œMy apologies, a nasty conditionā€¦ā€

Glolaā€™s shock prevented her from registering his words. He spoke loudly and brazenly and didnā€™t even know that he was interrupting her turn to speak up and be a hero! She felt like a child for being so petty but the deed was done and her mood was sufficiently ruined. Her cheeks flamed as she rolled her eyes and folded her arms. She turned to the king and gave him a weak thumbs up to show her compliance and sulked to the back of the group.

ā€œOh, and for those of you I havenā€™t introduced myself to...Callion Lightson, a pleasure.ā€

ā€œIā€™m sure.ā€ Glola growled under her breath. Feeling even more childish for her extended pout, Glola relaxed her shoulders and let out a deep breath. Her vow wasnā€™t with the King or her soon-to-be traveling companions. It was with the Maker. And he will know how hard she will fight.

[Updated Glola's fears!]

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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Rushed from the executioner's block to be put before a King begging him for help. This day could not have turned out any more overwhelming for Thomas. It was all a blizzard of colour and sounds and despite how still the atmosphere of this room was in its reality, everything was jumping for him, with vibrance and life. Life which he had just been given a second chance at. He was no fool, despite how the King pleaded, his kind words were not for him. No doubt the speech was rehearsed before the knowledge that he would be addressing a criminal was shared with him. If Thomas were to walk back out those doors, he would be met with an axe to the neck. And if he stayed, well... He discreetly glanced around at the present company and grunted in defeat under his breath. Honestly, it would be embarrassing... And a death sentence regardless.

Submitting to the King gave him the life expectancy he had on death row. As an assassin he had already fallen into disgrace by being caught. Nobody was coming to save him from the axe because he was dead to them anyway. But... Being made to work under the man in charge of the guards that caught him... Now he would be considered a true threat to his organisation. They'd send blades after him for sure.

...

.. . But nobody here needed to know that.

He had told himself he would accept what was at the end of this journey, and if it was fighting hoards of undead for the King, so be it. Nobody else in this room were under the pressure to accept such a mission, however, and one - or perhaps two - in particular looked like they'd be more of a burden to drag with him on this mission. To his surprise, and slight annoyance, it was the young woman he had the greatest concerns about who offered her aid first. As he listened to the strangers around him bending the knee on their own free will, he had to wonder if he'd have accepted the king's request had the threat of death been removed from his head. How noble a person was he, really?

The wizard's scene had Thomas confused, shocked and delighted. He had a feeling that the hardest part of this mission wouldn't be the battle against unknown forces of evil but rather keeping a straight face around this... Callion Lightson. Just because he no longer had the reputation of his guild to uphold didn't mean he was going to forsake his professionalism, of course. After shaking his head at the wizard's eccentricities, the captured assassin finally attempted speech.

"I..."
he choked, sounding like the undead he was being tasked with to find. He swallowed to no avail and glanced over at a guard in a silent request for water. It was denied. He took in a deep breath through his nose and glared up to the King. He fought through the pain it took to spit out a sentence as he rasped, "This is not a request for me. If I bend the knee to your pleading, the reward is my life. Is that right?" He allowed himself to give the King a short, tight-lipped smile, knowing that his lips would split should he grin too wide. "Throw in a meal and a bath and my loyalties are yours... Your Majesty." He dipped into a small bow towards the man without lowering his gaze, the cold never leaving his sky blue stare.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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#, as written by iCakez
While he had watched everyone else in the room and kept to himself, Ragnar had learned little from his observations. They were a colourful bunch to say the least. Everyone seemed to mind themselves, although two seemed to know each other already. Ragnar watched that encounter for a moment and smirked. They greeted each other like true old friends. The time that passed until the king came was just enough for Ragnar to become slightly restless. Heā€™d been held long enough.

As soon as the king stepped through a door to the right of the throne, Ragnar immediately leaned away from the wall, stepped forward and took a knee. He was a soldier of Stormgard and this was his king. This would be the only etiquette suitable. In fact, he was surprised that only a few others did the same. One or two of them seemed too scared to move and then there was the sleeping man. Ragnar stood up again and put his hands behind his back. For a moment he wondered if the king was going to react harshly to the sleeping man, but he did not. That was slightly surprising as well. When bid, he put forth his wrist so the king could inspect the mark.

Soon, however, the atmosphere grew serious and sincere. Slightly sinister as well. For even though the king seemed to convey his message in a proper manner, Ragnar could not shake the feeling that he seemed the tiniest bit desperate. The more he heard, the clearer it was to him that the king really did need their help. He wasnā€™t commanding either. Even though he could. Or he could have their heads off if they didnā€™t comply.

This was new to Ragnar. He was a soldier ā€“ few people asked for anything where he came from. They demanded that something be done or some service rendered. When the king mentioned reports coming in from far corners of the world, he felt a cold tingle crawl up his spine. He sensed in the kingā€™s voice a sliver of the same sensation. Was it fear?

What isnā€™t he telling us?

The question was burning in his mind, but it would never be polite of him to ask his king.

When he had heard all the king had to say, Ragnar considered only briefly. It was never a choice. A village had been destroyed and he was a soldier in the Iron Legions of Stormgard. He was here to defend her people, uniform or not. This was the obvious reason. It was his duty. But underlying, there was a curiosity and something that wasnā€™t quite fear. Yet. Rumours that were usually told to scare children were now reported to them from a king. Had the others in their company grasped the severity of this? In the kingā€™s voice, Ragnar had also detected an urgency. It seemed to imply secrecy. The king was probably smart to keep this relatively secret, so it wouldnā€™t spread panic if it became public knowledge. One thing was the rumour, but the fact that the king was actually sending people to investigate in secret? That was something different entirely.

He was torn from his train of thought by the sound of the skinny man falling on his face. Ragnar looked at him and was at a loss for words (again). Truly curious, this fellow. The king seemed to tackle this very professionally. He hadnā€™t been thrown off by it too much. Yet.

The first to step forward was the one he had least expected would. This brought a sincere smile to his face. Sometimes youā€™d find courage where youā€™d least thought it possible. Ragnar watched as everyone stepped forward. The sharp-tongued elf woman raised a fair point, but accepted nonetheless. The orc. Or elf? Whatever he was, he accepted as well. Impressively, the man whoā€™d been asleep for most of the kingā€™s speech got almost everything right.


This is becoming slightly unsettling. Ragnar thought with visible uneasiness. He found himself nodding to the man when he introduced himself again, as he was too flabbergasted to do anything else, even though they had already shook hands.

ā€œMy king.ā€ Ragnar spoke and stepped forward. ā€œWhile I have as much interest as anyone here to be rid of this mark on my wrist, I also have a duty to fulfil. If Stormgard and her people are under threat, my duty and my oath demand that I do what I can to protect them.ā€ He took a knew and bowed his head. ā€œI am yours to command.ā€

While this might seem ceremonious, it was nothing but right for Ragnar. It was his king and country!
But he couldnā€™t shake the feeling that the mark had serious meaning behind it. It wasnā€™t because he knew what it meant. It seemed to seep into his veins with every day. As if a weight was put on his shoulders. As if something tugged at his heart. Ragnar had been the first one they had discovered, aside from the princess, that had the mark. Heā€™d talked to the kingā€™s advisors and met with the king a couple of times before. And he could not shake the feeling that they knew more than they let on. He wasnā€™t sure this mark was entirely good. He was sure, however, that something dangerous awaited them all.

And I cannot be the only one.

He stood back up and stepped back, having decided to trust his king.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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#, as written by iCakez
The time from the last words had left his lips until someone spoke seemed to stretch on for ages. The king felt very small ā€“ a very unfamiliar feeling to him. And the person who first spoke was the one he would have never expected would. In fact, he was not entirely sure that any of them, apart from the two soldiers, would accept. The old king nearly shed a tear when this young woman stepped forward, with a voice bolder than her expression.

What she said initially made him think that she would decline. But she did not. Balian stepped toward her and put his hands on her shoulders. ā€œYou can carry a pitchfork and still have the heart of a lion.ā€ He said softly. ā€œAnd you would do me, and this country a great service.ā€ He said and smiled reassuringly. Her display of courage was touching. ā€œThank you. What is your name?ā€ the king looked at her as she answered. He repeated it under his breath and then looked at the next person that stepped forward.

His heart fluttered again.

This one seemed to have a more practical approach to the whole thing. It sounded like she was going to challenge him. But each and every word of what she said raised a fair point. She was right. Balian stood before her as well. ā€œYou are right, of course. But remember I do not demand this of you.ā€ He said and trailed off, letting her finish. ā€œOnly if you promise to bring your findings back with you so we might investigate together.ā€ He smiled and nodded his thanks.
ā€œThank you. Your name?ā€ He repeated the gesture heā€™d made with the first girl.

The next one was a tall man. Orc? Elf? He really couldnā€™t decide. Maybe half each? Either way, this one was ready from the get-go. His point was also fair. In fact, he suspected that their lives would change forever. This man had a delightful approach to his request, which further increased the kingā€™s mood. Balian put out his hand and for him to shake. ā€œDelighted to hear it! Your name?ā€

What came next was not ā€“ initially - another person accepting or declining. It was the form of the sleeping man, who Balian had forgotten about for a moment, collapsing. He turned and watched as flailing limbs calmed and he was standing again. The room fell silent as this person looked at Balian, who in turn just stared back. Heā€™d never experienced this before. Apparently, it was a condition?
At least he had the decency to excuse himself. He gave a nod when he did so, but couldnā€™t get a word in before the man started talking again. Surprisingly, he was right in what he guessed. Balianā€™s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. ā€œIā€¦ā€ No words would find their way. Instead, Balian threw his head back and laughed heartily. Part relief and part amusement. ā€œI take this as acceptance, Callian Lightson.ā€ The king smiled and nodded, patting the skinny man on the shoulder with his big hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught what he only assumed was a gesture of acceptance from the dwarf woman. He nodded in return and put his hand over his heart. He made a mental note to get this oneā€™s name later.

The man that had been brought in in chains spoke up next. He seemed parched and in pain. Balian approached and put his face level with his. ā€œYour reward will be your life.ā€ He nodded. ā€œYouā€™ll have a meal and a bath. Two if needed.ā€ The king was not without humour. He nodded at the man, indicating the state of his appearance and smirked. ā€œAnd youā€™ll have gold and my thanks, if you serve well.ā€ He nodded again to reinforce his seriousness. ā€œName?ā€ When heā€™d given his name, he moved away.

His old knees cracked as he stepped back.

Then the soldier stepped forward. Well, one of them. Ragnar, was his name if memory served. His display of loyalty was also moving. In him, he had a good soldier and one who would serve well in this task. This had gone better than he could have hoped for. ā€œThank you.ā€

ā€œThank you all!ā€ He said louder as he stepped back so they could all see him clearly. ā€œTruly. I am grateful to each and every one of you.ā€ The king looked around at everyone. ā€œYou will be escorted back to your rooms, where a list awaits you on which you shall write any and everything you would need for the journey. Be it a sword, arrows, whetstones, shoesā€¦ā€ Balian pointed at Maraā€™s feet and gave her a smile. ā€œWhen you have done this, youā€™ll find a squire outside your door who will escort you to the baths. When you come back, there will be clothes ready for you, and you are invited to dine with me in my quarters. Tonight we feast.ā€

The king paused and looked around at everyone. ā€œThere is no time to waste, my friends. My final request is that you leave on the morrow. Itā€™s a 5 day journey to your destination.ā€

Before anyone could raise their voice to this, he cut them off. ā€œBut waste not your thoughts on this! Go to your rooms, fill the list and bathe. I shall see you tonight. Thank you all.ā€ The king smiled before he nodded and turned on his heel and left the same way heā€™d come in.

When he reached his chambers he sat at the same desk heā€™d had supper with his chef the previous night and put his head in his hand. He sighed with relief and nodded. Theyā€™d accepted.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider
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Mara felt strong hands press into her shoulders and her trembling, momentarily ceased. These hands were oddly reassuring. Not like the hands of her father (heavy, slothful, and usually full of the need to hurt her) but firm and strong. Assured hands. Confident. When she chanced a surprised glance up, she found these were the hands of the King. She should not have been surprised such hands would belong to a king--but mostly, was surprised that such a man would touch a person of her station without malice or obvious disgust.

Mara gazed at the King before her (and slightly above her as he was still a rather tall man) she saw him smile, and heard him praise her. Mara flushed pinkly, unused to kind words or smiles or words of thanks. When he asked her name, she lowered her green eyes demurely, realizing she'd been boldly looking the King in the eye in her surprise.

"Mara Timbers is my name, My Lord." She managed softly, and she heard him repeat her name equally as soft before moving on to the next woman who spoke.

Mara listened carefully as each voice spoke up in agreement one by one--only looking up again when the sound of someone hitting the floor echoed in the room. Mara blinked, watching the flailing man, Callian Lightson as he regathered himself awkwardly before the king. In her head, Mara was torn between pity for the man's condition and stifling laughter at the spectacle of it all. Outwardly, she readjusted her eyes again, forcing herself not to stare at anyone too long. Stay Small. Stay hidden. Fade from the eye and mind of the rest. Though, Mara could sense she had surprised the room as much as she had surprised herself by speaking up first so boldly. The King took Sir Lightson's outburst in stride, laughing rather than scolding. Mara was impressed by the King's good nature. She had never imagined someone of high station could be so kindly as well. He even spoke somewhat gently to the man who had been in chains--who had also accepted.

Mara listened as the King thanked them each and all, and announced that they would be returning to their rooms. Mara liked this idea--the memory of the book she'd left behind flitting temptingly past her mind's eye. She was doting on the idea of more food and curling up to read when the King brought attention to her bare feet. Somewhat cowed, Mara flushed her shame and curled her toes in, as if it were possible to hide them. She nodded her assent as the King invited them to join him to dine and requested they bathe and create their supply list. What sort of supplies did a journey require? (Other than shoes--which the King had made plain) She thought on this as she was led from the Hall by the same old-faced, young-voiced guard back to her room.

As promised, a scroll of parchment was stretched across the table in her room, along with a quill. Mara nodded to the guards, who promptly left her to it, and settled into a chair. She could write--but little. She hoped her somewhat childish scrawl would be still legible to whomever needed to gather her list. At the top she wrote her name, as seemed fitting. Her slanted, tilted letters crowding like old men at the shoulders.

First on the list she carefully wrote, "Shoes" before carefully adding beside it "--which do not pinch or hobble". Then she stared at the daunting white page. "A loaf of hard bread and a bit of hard cheese sayfe to travel" she wrote, knowing food would be always important. Was there really anything more? She could not wield any weapons, nor had the stamina to wear heavy plate. She pondered a moment before scribbling, "A bag of sturdy mayke for stowing" which seemed to be the last thing she would need. The bag would hold the bread and cheese--and any other herbs they came across in the wood on the way. She didn't suppose she would be allowed to read during this journey--though wished she could.She had her water skein and she had her mother's cloak with her still, having hidden it from the ladies who looked after her. But was a red cloak going to be too flashy for travel? As an afterthought, Mara added "A plain cloak in which to travel for warmthe"

She read this over several times, fretting about her spelling and her awkward handwriting before setting the page aside. A bag, some bread and cheese, a travel cloak and proper fitting shoes. That seemed enough. More than enough. She gently blew on the wet ink to dry it, before setting the page on the table at last. Done with her first task, she moved to the door, opening it gingerly. The young boy beyond it looked startled by her appearance. Perhaps he had not expected her so soon? Perhaps she really did not know what one needs for such a journey? But this was all she could think would be proper. The boy hastily bowed, gathering his wits and began to lead her to the baths.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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An interesting cast of characters, they all seem to have their own reasons for wanting to help out. Curiosity? Duty? Escapism? Boredom? Oh how wonderful all their explanations must be! Callion mused to himself as he stood with a slight smile on his face as the King reacted to his awakening with a laugh and a clap on the shoulder. That was good, the last thing Callion needed was to be in the bad books of yet another King. Instead, Callion looked around to the rest of the room, considering he had only met the soldier before apparently disappearing into his own dream state.

He first turned his attention to the younger woman who looked like a peasant or pauper, if slightly more dressed up. She seemed to hold more courage than her initial impression would give, although Callion wondered if it was truly bravery or simply a wanderlust that was full to the point of overflowing causing her to accept without truly understanding her predicament? She didnā€™t look like she had any formal training in anything except maybe to pull turnips from the ground. She could be a liability should there be any fighting...or she could prove to be a surprise! Imagine if she suddenly pulled a blade from mid air and sliced her way through the hordes of the undead to the chorus of a thousand angels! Or if she picked up a bow from a battlefield and was a hidden savant, nailing a target in the face from a thousand paces off! Oh how wonderful and exciting that would be! Now Callion couldnā€™t wait to see what she was capable of.

Next was a woman of smaller stature but larger presence. A dwarf, without a doubt, and built just as one would expect of the rock digging race. With arms that were larger than Callionā€™s legs...which he supposed wasnā€™t that much of a compliment considering his own physicality, she looked like she could hold her own in any fight. She seemed a bit miffed as she purposely looked away from him. Did he slight her? What did he do that he could have possibly offended her? Maybe she was just an angry person in general and this was her general demeanor. OOoooooh, if it was that, Callion wanted desperately to see her in the thick of battle! Maybe she was a berserker! Wouldnā€™t that be exciting! Wading into battle with the roar of a thousand lions...Callion paused for a second. His imagination was truly getting ahead of him today. Better to move on to the next person.

A half elf, half orc if Callion was correct in his inspection of the racial features. These were indeed a rare creature, as Elves were often times more concerned with race purity and Orcs were too busy trying to be ā€˜Strongā€™ to bother with the often perceived weaker race. Still, it looked like he carried a bit of both traits, with small tusks and an air of swagger that had Callion immediately thinking of all the stories the man most likely held in his head. Would they be about danger? About love? About a love of danger? About the danger of love? Oh, how many things could he learn from this one man, someone born on the extreme spectrum of grace and barbarity? Callion looked forward to it with nearly uncontained glee.

Next up was very obviously another soldier, although this one was a woman. That in itself wasnā€™t surprising as Callion had known a fair amount of women who were often tougher than the men they encountered, himself included. She, however, towered above a height one would expect of her gender, and her sharp features indicated either a very oppressive personality...or open one if the laws of opposites were to attract one another. She was a striking woman Callion would say, although he doubted she seemed interested in such a thing considering her profession, not to mention her eyes broke the monotony with unspoken harsh wit. What kind of person was she? Was she a tough on the outside, soft on the inside kind of woman? Was she a crass soldier with no filter? Was she the kind of person who wouldnā€™t lift a finger unless ordered? Was she running from a previous life of weakness? Callion couldnā€™t wait to figure out!

The next woman was undoubtedly an elf. Everything about her spoke volumes to the stereotype of beauty, grace and finesse that the race was often attributed for. It was impossible to tell the age of an elf without either asking, or Callion performing a scrying spell that would most likely end up with either a very harsh beating or even death...it was a pretty invasive thing to do, as he had learned the hard way. Still, without staring over long, he could tell she was trained and had some fight in her, which would indicate some level of age. Her face seemed to be chiseled in stone, not allowing any sort of emotion to truly shine through, another staple of the elven race it would seem. Still, if she did have a number of years behind her, maybe Callion could ask her for a history of the world from her perspective? Maybe some insight into the development of elven culture? Maybe she had some stories of heroes long gone that she could regale him with? Oh, or maybe she knew some magic from her homeland that Callion had yet to read and learn? The possibilities were endless!

The last person in the room, aside from the King and himself, was one whose story was immediately evident. Easily a prisoner or torture victim turned into a last minute soldier whose only real choice was immediate death, or potential death. His scars, dirty appearance, slouched posture and hesitant speech told volumes about his life, treatment, and potential path going forward. Would he come out of his shell? Who was he really? What kind of skills would be brought forward? What was he in for? Was he truly a noble soul at heart turned evil? This group of people was so interesting and the adventure was going to benefit from so many varied individuals for sure!

It was then that Callion noticed that the King was wrapping up and Callion refocused his attention back to the matter at hand. They were instructed to head back, clean themselves up, request whatever they needed for the trip and to join the king in his chambers for supper. Such an extravagant offer that Callion wouldnā€™t pass up, considering he had never really been in a Kingā€™s chambers before! This entire ordeal was turning into quite the adventure, and he could request anything from the King? Oh, his idea filled with wants and desires as magical formulas and alchemical ingredients filled his already boggled mind as he followed the people out of the room.




Callion was lead to a different room than he was previously held in, and while they looked similar the main difference was the lack of sigils preventing his use of magic. ā€Oh, so now I am truly a guest I suppose! Where is my g-ā€ As Callion asked the question, walking into the room, he noticed all of his supplies lying on the bed. This included his staff, a side travel back and a belt filled with pouches, all of which carrying very specific ingredients for his craft. ā€Ah, question answered. Well then, I can take it from here.ā€ Callion said, turning around and closing the doors on the escort that had shown him to his new room.

From there, he immediately went to his gear to make sure everything was there. Sure enough, nothing had been touched and everything was accounted for. Callion took a breath and released it in a content sigh. There was going to be so much to learn and experience in the next chapter of his life, he only hoped he lived through it all to truly appreciate the opportunity that he had been given. Not to mention that everyone seemed to have accepted, no begrudging party members here, everyone was willing to explore and understand!

A cursory glance around revealed the parchment and writing materials sitting on a small table. Walking over and taking a seat, he dipped the quill in ink then proceeded to tickle his chin with the feather as he thought things through. There were so many things that he could wish for, that he could use to further his magical studies...and why not ask for them? After all, the King was offering, so might as well go for the moon. With that thought in mind, Callion went about writing with fervor as the parchment soon quickly started fill up.

A few minutes later, Callion opened the door to a steward, standing there and ready to receive his request. Callion handed the paper over, and as the Steward reached for it, he raised an eyebrow. To him, the paper seemed unintelligible, with miniature scrawlings on it. ā€œUh, sir...I canā€™t seem to read this?ā€

ā€Hm? Oh right, my mistake.ā€ Callion wandered over to his bag, digging around for a moment before pulling out a magnifying glass. He walked back to the Steward and handed him the instrument, to which the Steward went about holding it up to the paper. Sure enough, the words became legible. ā€Now then, everything on that paper is essential if the King would like to maximize my potential on this excursion.ā€ Callion exclaimed, puffing his chest as if he was proud of his achievement of asking for an absurd amount of items.

ā€œI...will do my best sir...To clarify...does that say ā€˜Twenty seven bars of soapā€™?ā€

ā€Twenty seven exactly, not one less or one more. Soap contains a specific ingredient that, when mixed with a weed known as Hertalin, creates a potent aphrodisiac.ā€

ā€œWhy...would you need an aphrodisiac?ā€

ā€Donā€™t know, but it never hurts to have one on hand, right?ā€ The Steward looked at Callion for a moment, not sure if the man was serious or having a laugh at his expense. ā€Now then, enough explanations...where are the baths?ā€

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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"Cecilia Floros, pleasure to be of service." she said, giving her name as soon as the king had asked for it. She watched as the man that had spoken after her had also accepted the quest. So far it'd be three of them journeying to the village, and although Cecilia was sure the orcish elf man (or would it be more appropriate to say elfish orc man?) seemed the type to hold his own in a battle, she was less sure the same could be said of the bare-footed woman who had spoken up just moments before her. Then again, it was a surprise that she had even spoken up at all; perhaps she had more surprises in store for them.

Before anyone else even had the chance to speak, the man who had previously fallen asleep standing upright had unceremoniously fallen over. She could only watch as he tried to recall all of the details that he had missed. Cecilia wasn't sure if she should role her eyes or break out into laughter. Truly it was a ridiculous occurrence, made even worse by the fact that it was in front of the King of Stormgard. Even after making an utter embarrassment of himself, he seemed to have accepted the quest that the king had set out for them.

Callion Lightson. That was one name that she'd be sure to remember well.

Though the king himself didn't seem to be as perturbed as she had expected him to be, laughing it off as he continued on to the next person, one who happened to be a dwarf. The dwarf merely gave a thumbs up as a sign that she would join them on their journey. The next to speak was the man who was dragged into the audience chamber like an animal. As someone who looked to be more of prisoner than the rest of them were, he had no other choice but to accept, lest he actually end up dead and left to rot. One of the last to accept was one of the two out of the group that actually seemed to be a trained soldier. His acceptance wasn't unusual, as he was a soldier meant to serve this country after all.

She watched as the last soldier had accepted and the king graciously thanked them all. She looked over the group that had gathered so far; five of them that seemed to be human, a half-orc and half-elven man, and a dwarven woman. It was a strong group to be sure, but it seemed to be just the type of group that would be taking on a mission like this in the first place. She didn't know how well they'd be able to cooperate with each other given that they'd all clearly came from very differing backgrounds, however, Cecilia was certain that the trip wouldn't be a boring one. She made sure to keep track of all of their names, or at least the names of those who had spoken, for future reference.

The king would have them sent back to their rooms in order to prepare for the journey, and that they'd be able to request any items that they'd need for their travels. Cecilia brightened up a bit given the knowledge that they'd be able to bathe, as it was something that she had been waiting for the chance to do for a while. Not only that, but they'd actually be given a real meal after their short time of being locked up in their "guest" rooms. It was also a blessing that they'd be leaving tomorrow as there was no need to delay with such an important task at hand. With the king saying all that he'd had left to say, he'd dismissed them all back to their rooms.



She was led back to her room and upon entering she immediately say the parchment and quill that had been placed on the desk in the room. They had also cleaned up the little mess of origami that she had made out of the pages of books that she had torn out, taking the ruined books out of the room as well. Cecilia was more disappointed by this than she should've been, but had merely shrugged and surveyed the rest of the room for anything else that might've been touched.

The gear that had been taken from her when she had first arrived at the castle was laid neatly across the bed. After checking to make sure that every vial, scroll and weapon that she had on her when she had arrived was still present, she sat herself down at the desk and began to write out everything that she thought necessary for the trip.

Ink flowed out of her pen as she wrote out her list in beautifully intricate calligraphy; empty vials of all sizes, to take samples, and copious amounts of parchment, to record anything note worthy they would happen upon at the village, were only a few of the items that could be found on her list. Of course, there were also other essentials like extra bed rolls, cloaks and simple fire starting materials were also scrawled across the paper. After she had finished writing, she meticulously rolled up the parchment and left it on the desk so it could be retrieved by whomever. Feeling content, she left the room to find the servant who had been waiting for her and made her way to the baths.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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Garosā€™ grin was tellingā€”or so, heā€™d like to think. As soon as the king rounded on him, he extended his hand to shake, clasping at the elbow instead of palm. It was their was of doing things, and so, heā€™d do it here, as well. No point bending at the knee, or curtsying as if he were fancy frills. No, it wasnā€™t in his blood. Besides, the King seemed to understand that they came from all sorts of colorful backgrounds. This was a pleasantly-spoken request, not a demand or threat of axe poised against throat. Pleasant, for once. He gave a tight squeeze, lips pulling back from small tusks, ā€œGaros. Garos Sharad.ā€ He looked him in the eyes, searched and found what heā€™d been looking for. Genuineness. It was there, it practically bled from his pores.

Good. He wasnā€™t all words, all breathless air. He meant what he said. It was enough to give weight to his words, and that he made no promises bore far more authenticity than if heā€™d swept a hand to treasuries, assuring lordships under the guise of fealty. ā€˜Course, heā€™d never admit to understanding how these things worked. Kings and their queens, with little princes and princesses swaddled at their feet, borne to replace them once they were tired and wrinkled. Destined. He scoffed at the idea, because it was foolish; an old bygone tradition that still clung to its place in this world. Once you lived between two very different realms, it was easy to understand that they were just thatā€¦ traditions. Little more, little less.

Ebon eyes slunk back to the wee one at his side, swinging her gaze away from him and the others, expression momentarily obscured. Glo. The grin hadnā€™t left his face, only pulled up more, amused. A silent thumbs up, buried in something that he could only imagine as a pout. That her obvious attempt at her own admonition had been interrupted by the sleeping rake hadnā€™t been lost on himā€”that she was irked to the point of silence hadnā€™t been either, though he merely sidestepped towards her, closing the distance enough to bump her shoulder, expression tempering itself into something a little more comforting. It was hard to wrangle the smirk from his lips, however.

Each person had their own admission of the situation. Accepting the terms, in varying degrees of bravery. Some probably felt as if they had no choice, drawn by curiosity orā€¦ dragged in like a dog in chains; a cell or fresh air on their face, it was an easy decision, really. He glanced over at the one whoā€™d been pulled in like a prisoner, filthy and bruised; a bath wasnā€™t much to ask for. His life? A better appeal. Interesting. Heā€™d have to wrangle that story out of him down the road. He hmā€™ed softly, rocking back on his heels to get a better view of the others. Here he was with a mottled assortment of people, no two the same. Perhaps, it was intentional with how divergent they were.

Glo. An old traveling companion, his wily dwarf-lass. He was sure that theyā€™d be laughing wherever they went. Sheā€™d put many a smile on his face, trying to steel her upper lip. Tough as nails, that one. Callion. The sleepy rake, a mystery. Tongue filled with slanted words, bustling to be heard. Where he came from, or who he was, tickled his fancy. He wanted to know more, if only to sate his curiosity. Ragnar. A straight-line soldier, drawn up as if he was heading for battle. The only one whoā€™d bent the knee, perhaps filled with a purpose he didnā€™t feel himself. It was admirable, if anything. A tall, broad-shouldered woman, sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed. Cursed like a sailor. He liked her already. A nameless prisoner, dragged in silence, probably pleasantly surprised he wasnā€™t biting his tongue at the guillotine. Mara. A soft-spoken farmer girl, meek as a mouse but far braver than heā€™d given her credit for. Lastly, an elvish lass he couldnā€™t seem to figure out; cool as snow, with edges there, somewhere.

He'd have to ask the others their names. He'd like to remember them, after all.

It was finished, this little meeting. Now, they were being sent back to their rooms, finally treated like guests. Garos smoothed a hand over the front of his bare chest and exhaled softly. A breath he hadnā€™t been aware he was holding in. Suppose he had been rather nervous of what was going to take place here, it certainly hadnā€™t ended the way heā€™d expected. Maybe, he just got lucky this time. He raked a clammy palm through his dark hair, and turned on his heels, thumping Glo one more time on the shoulder, before quick-stepping away with a tusky-grin. A bath? A chance to dine at a fancy table, with fancy food? It wasnā€™t an offer heā€™d turn his head at. No-siree.

An adventure, thatā€™s what this was.

There was a bounce to his step as he retreated back down the hall.


As promised, all of the essentials were set neatly on his bed. Garos rubbed at his scruffy chin, eyeing the assortment. Extras, too. Parchment paper, quill and ink for requisitions; things heā€™d need on the road to wherever the hell they were going. His extra clothes, as well. Hood, scarf, leathers. His lovely lady, Bludger, freshly whetted and sitting pretty against the straw-filled pillow. He quickly donned his gear, stretched out his shoulders, and adjusted the strap to the large axe resting between the hollow of his shoulder blades. It felt nice, nestled there. An old friend, comfortable. Without it, he felt naked as a wee lamb.

Snatching up the parchment paper, he pressed it up against the nearest cobblestone wall. The smoothest patch he could find in the chamber, since he hadnā€™t been given a writing deskā€”could be they thought him too much of a dullard to read. Stupid half-orc, too busy thumping his chest in the darkness, snuffling past tusks. ā€˜Course, he hadnā€™t brought any books of his own in his satchel. Too burdensome to carry when trying to swing an axe, and besides, suppose he wasnā€™t the best writer, or reader in the world. A slight frown pulled at the cornerā€™s of his lips as he settled the quill in his hand, freshly dipped in ink, hovering above the page with shaky fingers.

Chicken-scratch was an understatement. It wasā€¦ atrocious, even he could tell. Legible? Somewhat. Through pursed lips, and furrowed brows, he tasked himself to write as smoothly as he could manage, words big and blocky. A childā€™s script. No grace at all, this one. Even he could admit to that. He could spell at least, his father had seen to that. Dried strips of meat, sliver of cheese, knob of bread; rations, enough for a few days, until he hunted something up himself. Most of what he needed to survive on the road, he already had. Heā€™d been doing it for ages, so this was no different. This was, however, an opportunity for niceties he might not get otherwise. A sprig of vanilla, a pouch of turmeric, saffron, and the spiciest pepper they had on hand.

Perfect.

Garos blew across the page until he was satisfied it was dry. He dragged his thumb across the first line, and grinned wide when it didnā€™t smear. Rolling up the parchment paper, he strode to the door, drew it open and shoved the unwritten end of the tube halfway between the door, causing it to remain stuck outward. A clear indication that it was finished. He turned towards the opposite end of the hallway, scratching at the back of his head. Where were the baths?

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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"T..." Thomas uttered when the King asked his name, straining to make them heard. His jaw seemed to seize up, his body arguing against sharing this information. It was only natural. He hadn't shared his name with anyone for a long time now. "Thomas Burgundy," the words slipped from defeated lips and hung there. He watched the King move along with a guarded gaze. He had a decent air about him, for one so powerful.

When it came for the gathered party to disperse, filtering out through the doors back to their rooms, he just stood there. He'd been rushed through the castle to make this meeting on time, there had been no talk of rooms. He glanced over his shoulder as each member of the rag-tag group left with purpose in their stride, then heaved and looked to the guards that dragged him there. He held his wrists out expectantly, waiting to be dragged to the next destination. He had a hunch that this was how the entirety of their little adventure would feel for him.

Soon he was led back through the halls with steel weighing down his hands once more, but no bit restraining the movement of his mouth. There was the pattering of footsteps bouncing around the hall coming from behind them, though it was difficult to tell with the echo. As Thomas found himself yanked around a corner, a high female voice called out to them.

"Sirs! Excuse me, sirs!" Thomas turned his head around as the guards stopped, catching the eye of a flushed maid with her curls falling out of the cloth covering her head. She inhaled sharply and darted her gaze to the ground before focusing solely on the guardsmen. "We have a room prepared for him, sirs. You're headed the wrong way," she said, hands gripping her apron tightly. One of the guards scoffed.

"We are taking him to his room. This is the way to the dungeons, isn't it?"

The maid shook her head. "By the King's request, rooms have been made up for all of his guests, and all are to dine with him. Even... him." The more outspoken of the guardsmen clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"Does he look like a guest to you?"

The maid gazed up Thomas's scarred, dirty, branded and... well-formed back, her eyes lingering a little too long on his shoulders before she caught herself and jolted, stammering, "I-It's King Balian's orders. If you lock him up until morning, I will have to explain why he is absent from the feast to our King!" The guardsman that had been quiet placed a hand on his friend's shoulder to calm him, then gave a nod to the maid. She broke out into a relieved smile and made a gesture to follow, "Thank you! Thank you. This way, sirs."

The cuffs were removed from Thomas's wrists as the maid opened the door to his room. "Here it is," she murmured nervously, "I will return back with wa-"

Before she could react, Thomas had lunged at the vase of lilies on the writing dress and ripped the flowers from their arrangement, throwing them to the floor. He swung the vase up to his lips and tilted his head back, gulping loudly until all of the water from the vase was emptied, either into his stomach, on the floor or running down his chest. The maid stared.

"O-Or you could drink that! The flowers were going to die soon, so..." Thomas shot an icy blue glare at her and she immediately began backing out of the room. "I'll leave you to settle, sir." She shut the door with an unintentional slam then yelled through it, "Do not wait for a squire! The guards will take you to your bath when you are ready!" The sound of her quickened footsteps seeped through the crack beneath the door and soon, Thomas was left in silence. He shut his eye and took a deep breath, soaking in the smell of lilies, books and fresh sheets.

His assigned room was small, with a small bookcase and a small bed and a small window, but what it made up for in its smallness was the quality of everything around him. Never had he slept in a room with so many things that glittered that weren't crafted with intent to harm. Never had he slept in a bed that looked so... oh, that bed. The pillows, stuffed full to almost bursting with the feathers of young geese. The furs, ripped from the corpse of some majestic beast. The silk, stripped from the bodies of worms boiled before their wings could unfurl. This bed... it was the most beautiful pile of dead things that Thomas had ever seen.

He flopped face first on top of the sheets, disregarding his filth and gripping one of the pillows to hug it against him. Burying his face into the softness, he let out a loud groan, letting out all of the thoughts on his situation:

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck."

Once his vent was done, he moved to the window, poked his head out and decided 'no'. It would not be a smart move to attempt to climb down from this height while so weak. He wasn't going to let himself die from a stupid fall. He sighed as he recalled the fall he had after assassinating his first contract. Just fifteen years old, shaken from the kill - out the window. Even if he was the son of the late guild leader, he should have been put down for that, like any other. Ugh, his fellow trainees at the guild must have been currently celebrating his capture. All those whelps jealous of him being favored. He wondered if they were competing over who would be the one to kill him. It was definitely the smartest to abide the King for now, with the safety of group he was to assist. Most looked like they could handle themselves.

Thomas wrote his list in prettier handwriting than one would have expected, requesting all of the equipment that had been confiscated from him at the time of his capture and (with a smirk and an evil chuckle) an apology letter from his torturer. Not very professional of him, he'd admit, but the thought of having something like that in his position was too tempting to not give it a try. As he tried to think of something else he desired he ran his quill over his dried lips. Lip balm, he added with an underline.

After drying the parchment he came out of his room, handing the rolled up note to one of the guards waiting outside his door. "I'm ready for my -" he began, when the cuffs were clamped back on. He looked at them in exasperation. "... The sheets need changing," he grunted as they began to lead him away.

While they dragged him, he noticed a familiar looming figure ahead in the hall. He was one of the members present in the King's audience, Thomas recognized, the Orcish looking fellow with the air of a troublemaker. Garob or something. He was stuck halfway out his door, like something was inhibiting him leaving. Ah, that was it. Unlike Thomas who had men forcibly drag him to his location, Garob didn't even have a squire to point him in the right direction. Thomas sighed, debating ignoring him, but he couldn't see any benefit to not assisting in something so mundane.

"My bodyguards are taking me to a bathing room," he said plainly without a glance at the directionless half-Orc as they passed his room.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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The baths were a definite welcome after being locked away for days, even if she would rather be bathing in the confines of her own home. The warmth of the waters washed away the grime and stress that clung to her body, and after ensuring that she was sufficiently clean, Cecilia found herself thinking deeply about the unusual circumstances that she has found herself in. It was strange how the situation could change in just the span of a few weeks. Before being taken to the King's castle, she was surveying some ancient ruins or another near a small village, and now she was about to set off on some quest with an unforeseen outcome. Not to mention she was traveling with strangers no less. It was almost too outrageous to be believable.

She wasn't interested in the dinner, all too aware that it was little more than a formality. She bathed for a while longer before leaving the public baths. The servants had prepared a dress for Cecilia, knowing that she probably didn't pack a formal gown in advance. She requested something more simple for the occasion. While the frills and intricacies of certain dresses were interesting to look at, they were hellish to wear. Perhaps some women of nobility were willing to suffer through it for the sake of aesthetics, but Cecilia was certainly not one of them.




She was the forth of the group to arrive, and it was clear that the King had yet to seat himself. The decor of the room was of the caliber that Cecilia had slowly grown used to seeing over the years; a vast candle lit room with overly expensive paintings on the walls. She hoped that something worth note would come of this dinner, but her expectations were almost nonexistent. At the very least, it'd be interesting to see how everyone acted, given that some of them were clearly unaccustomed to such luxuries.

She would enjoy seeing them squirm a little, but perhaps that's a tad sadistic.

It wasn't long since she'd seen the other three, and their names remained fresh in her head. They acted as they did whenever they had first gotten their mission from the King, though Mara's courage from earlier seemed to have evaporated along with the bath waters, as she was back to curling in on herself. Truly a shame. But, what did manage to catch her eyes the most were the tattoos that were painted over Callion's skin. Of course, they looked less like tattoos and more as if someone had tripped and spilled ink all over him, but there were a few magical symbols that she could pick out here and there among the mass of confusion.

She had arrived just in time to hear Garos speak some consolidating towards Mara, no doubt trying to ease her out of her shell. "I wouldn't be so quick to say that we're all equal, but it is fair to say that the King is certainly higher in station than all of us here." Cecilia seated herself at a slight distance (one or two chairs) from the rest of them, to give her a decent view of everyone's movements.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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Mara saw from the corner of her eye as the dusky-skinned man seated himself beside her. As before, she couldn't decide what race he was, not that it mattered for more than sating her endless curiosity.

"No need to be shy here, Mara.ā€ he said to her, his voice deep and sonorous. For some reason, the way he said her name made her face feel hot. Why was she blushing at such a simple comment? Probably because she was unused to the luxury of being acknowledged by her own given name. Her father mostly called her, "scum" or "maggot" or "dungheap" or when he was feeling affectionate he'd called her his, "earthworm". And she was careful to never give the priests her name, so they wouldn't seek her out and set her father into one of his rages.

"We are all equal at this table, no?" The man said. Mara felt a surge of gratefulness that anyone would say such a kind thing. Though surely, he must not realize how low on the food chain she really was. Maybe even nobility could think her fair and equal in these clothes?

Somewhat emboldened by his words, she lifted her green eyes to his face. He was smiling, broadly and warmly. Small tusks poked past his lips for a moment before he seemed to realize himself and pull the smile in. Mara drank in his dusky blue-grey face, his well-made leathers, and the somewhat ruggedly handsome scar thst arced across his face. Mara had a sudden thought that she would like to touch that scar, but was not sure why. Instead, she absently used her left hand to stroke her own scar on her right hand. She managed to give a smile, small and gentle back to Garos. His voice had been the easiest to recall. Though, she could recall all of them, she was sure.

"Sir Sharad--" Mara started to thank the man, but was interrupted by another guest as she seated herself across from them.

"I wouldn't be so quick to say that we're all equal, but it is fair to say that the King is certainly higher in station than all of us here."
The elvish lady said as she settled into her seat.

Mara felt the small flame lit by the kindness of Garos words blow out by the coolness of the woman's words. Cecelia Floros. The elfin woman's beauty was daunting before, now attired more formally, Mara could hardly stand to look her way. She dropped her eyes back to the table demurely. Mara felt a bit silly for even starting to think her change in clothing could change the vision of others. She was just a farmgirl after all. Perhaps Garos had just felt sorry for her, looking so out of place in these fineries. Especially out of place beside the carefree eccentric Callion.

Mara nodded, taking the cloth napkin from the table and placing it delicately into her lap. She folded her hands around it, missing the comfort of an apron in this unfamiliar gown.

"G-good evening, Lady Floros." Mara managed meekly, gripping her napkin in her lap. She was unsure how else to respond to the woman's honesty.

Mara was sure it was for her own good that Cecilia quickly reesrablished her place in the food chain. For a moment, she had forgotten her place. She did not, and probably never would, belong in the world of nobility. She was simply here as a pawn for the king to use, not to be accepted by people of higher rank. More like a useful pet, to be set loose once her purpose was complete. It was best not to get her hopes up or get attached.

Mara was unsure if greeting the woman would count as speaking out of turn, but hoped her lack of eye contact would subdue any feelings of offense that stirred. She wondered if a proper lady would bother to strike a lowborn such as herself for speaking out of turn. If so, Mara knew she would take the woman's blows over returning home any day. Perhaps if she survived this awful encounter they were to take, the king might consider letting her stay in his service as a scullery maid. At least she could expect to be fed here. And maybe she could sneak a book or two to read.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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Thomas was not impressed when he saw that the bath was a public one, with the other male members of the party already scrubbing away in it. Well, actually, he was slightly impressed by what he saw - but entirely unimpressed by the fact that he was impressed. He averted his eyes from the bath, frustrated with himself. He should have been used to this sort of situation, there was no privacy back in the guild when it came to bathing, but it was just one thing that he never got used to. This was always going to be awkward for him.

His bonds were removed and he crept to the furthest corner away from everyone else, slipping into the water and closing his eyes at the pleasure of its embrace. It had been too long. Red and brown seeped from his skin into the water in a cloud. The others were probably happy to have him as far away from them as possible. Though most in the bath were minding their own business, Thomas felt eyes on him that seemed to dart away whenever he searched for them. At last he caught the wandering gaze of the half-Orc and stared back at him. He must have been sizing his new allies up, Thomas supposed. How he could do it so openly in this environment and without shame was just baffling to him. Thomas didn't vocalize any complaint, just glanced away with an uncomfortable squirm. His ears were tinted pink as he turned his back to him to clean the dirt from his face and hair privately.

There was a mirror fixed on the wall before him that he gazed into as he scrubbed away at the dirt hiding his "humanity". Soon, the redness of his rubbed skin cooled and he saw himself again. It was... underwhelming. Remnants of mistreatment and starvation lingered and his hair was a messy wet clump, flattened against his neck. The features he took so much pride in were merely pretty and the scars that tainted his face seemed even more prominent against the pallor of his skin. He picked at the bags beneath his eyes and gave a small huff. He could fix this.

... Or, as it turned out, somebody else would fix it for him. It seems the castle staff were determined to make the assassin into someone who would dine at the banquet, not poison it. Waiting on his bed (remade with new sheets, as requested) was a grey, white and silver tunic, dark grey pants, a fancy belt with a lily-themed buckle and this odd white cape designed to hang off only one shoulder. It wasn't his armor, but it would do for a dinner party. Was it a party? Could all dinners at the King's palace be considered parties by extravagance alone? He put on the attire set out for him, shaking off his nerves. Given his position, he shouldn't have had any expectations - he could be stopped by guards on the way to the King and thrown into the dungeons, that's what he should have expected. It was stupid to get flustered over clothes and luxuriant food like this was some delusional rags-to-riches story, as delusional as the thought that helping the King could transform a killer to a hero.

What would he be after helping the King, exactly, given he survived?

After trimming the hair off the back of his neck (closely watched by his guards) and shoving down the urge to hide his face behind powder, Thomas was finally satisfied with his appearance. He had failed to bring back the beauty he was used to, but appeared youthful and pretty nonetheless. At least his eyes were not tarnished, blue and innocent... Oh, what a misleading mug he possessed.




He was the fifth arrival to the dining room, his first time arriving anywhere in this castle without chains. Also, his first time presenting himself to the others as a man instead of an animal. He made no spectacle of it. Near-unrecognizable to all present, he stood back and regarded the table with a stony expression before moving to his chosen seat. Even his gait was different. Prouder, purposeful, almost soldier-like. Instead of moving to sit in the dark and gloomy corner like any other self-respecting assassin, he took his seat across from... Mara, he recalled. She had undergone somewhat of a transformation herself, though not as drastic. He sat in the chair with the posture of one who belonged in such an environment, as much a part of the scenery as the paintings and the bouquets. Given how eerily still he sat, he could have been an artwork or part of some arrangement.

There was a mostly subconscious reasoning behind the seat he had gravitated towards. Callion would be entertaining to observe, he needed to prove that he wouldn't be uncomfortable sitting near Garos despite how he reacted when he noticed him watching in the baths, and Mara... her gaze from across the table wouldn't feel so harsh, he thought, if she had the bravery to look up. His long lashes fluttered up as he looked across the table at Mara and her company, but he couldn't think of anything worthwhile to say. His hysterical, pleading stomach spoke for him instead. Thomas shut his eyes with a deep, exasperated inhale, trying to pretend he was elsewhere as the tips of his ears grew pink. Though he was prettied up, there was no denying that he was still seen as a miserable, starving criminal by these people.

Why, why, didn't they take him to the dungeons instead.