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Ragnar Greymany

I don't do well with boredom.

0 · 754 views · located in The World of Ambar

a character in “Ambar: Chapter 1 - Snow & Ash”, as played by iCakez


""Warriors are not always the fastest or the strongest people. These things can be developed through training. Warriors are the people that are willing to stand between their enemy, and everything they love.""


Ragnar Greymane


[General Information]
Nickname(s): None yet.
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Race: Human
Origin: Stormgard
Occupation: Captain in the 9th Legion - The "Iron Wolves".


Hair: Dark Brown
Complexion: Slightly tan/golden from hours in the sun.
Height: 6’3 // 192cm
Weight: 202lbs
Body Markings: Tattoo on his left shoulder of a wolf, with the number 9 underneath. Refers to the 9th legion – “the Iron Wolves”.
Other than that, there are several scars all over his body. Too many to list.


Soldier branded on his forehead. You’ve no doubt from the moment you lay eyes on him, even if he wears his fine clothes. He usually looks quite serious, but sometimes you’ll see him smile. He likes to get into the middle of a fight, as he finds his true focus and skill here. A tall, medium-armored man, always carrying a dark iron sword at his hip, he looks impressive as a warrior, less so as a conversationalist if you aren’t somewhat straight-forward.

He gives off an impression of openness as well, though, but it’s hard to pin-point how or rather where this comes from. Talk to him for a while, establish a friendly relationship and you might find yourself wanting to tell him things you’d normally never tell a person you’ve met so recently. It’s not magic, though. It’s just how he is. And you’d be quite safe in doing so, Ragnar sees no point in sharing information about someone, unless it is truly trivial and non-important.

Ragnar is built strong. By no means a walking fortress at all, but his years of service and training have made him strong. Right down to his core. A fine balance between raw strength and agility, as both are needed in his style of fighting. His shoulders are broad, and his upper body forms a v-shape, slimming toward the waist. His arms are not huge logs like that of a blacksmith or a woodsman, but they are strong and tight. His back is straight, his head never bowed and his eyes will meet yours all the time. Ragnar might appear rather large if you stand close to him, as he is quit tall – and when he wears his armor he might seem larger than he actually is. But he doesn’t wear heavy armor. And this is important, because you will mostly see him in his equipment, all the time.

Out of practicality rather than a conscious fashion choice, he keeps his hair relatively short and manageable. Same goes for his beard, though he never shaves his face smooth. It’s nice to have some protection from the elements on your face, and soldiers don’t have the time to go shave constantly! At least they shouldn’t have. Ragnar is not strikingly handsome or beautiful in any way. He might possess a rugged handsomeness, but you’ll find no soft hands, bare chin or soft, plump facial features on him. It is obvious from the way he carries himself, that he’s a man of action and practicality.

In his stride you can see a man used to his armor. As if it is a part of him. And the sword at his side seems to ache for the touch of his hand. Or is it the other way around? Either way, he may be quiet and unassuming, but you’ll have no doubt how dangerous he is in combat. There’s something almost predatorial about his looks, and especially his eyes. Truly the Captain of the Iron Wolves.

Put him in a room with nobles though, and ask him to talk politics and gossip. You’ll see him go from a hungry wolf to a circus-bear, trapped and desperately trying to get out.


  • His friends or loved ones being in danger and not being able to do something about it.
  • Dying in vain.
  • Other than this, Ragnar couldn’t come up with something he’s deeply afraid of. Yet.

  • Quiet.
  • Sharpens his weapons and generally tends to his equipment when he needs to think.

    • Passion
    • Perfection
    • Wine
    • Women (of any race)

    • Nobility (mostly)
    • Failure
    • Disloyalty

Despite his years in leadership roles in the army, Ragnar is rather quiet. He possesses a sort of stoic, quiet authority and inner calm, that seems to be rooted deep within him. He has a deep sense of loyalty and won’t leave friends in peril or need. But he also has a deep distrust of people, as he thinks there’s too much shit in the world. In his own mind, Ragnar tries to do his part in contributing to a better world, by sticking to his moral compass and following it. Even if it costs him his life, but he is conflicted on this. You can’t save everyone, and there are a lot of bad people in the world. But surely, his determination when it comes to this also stems from his years in the army.

While he usually looks quite serious, a smile or a chuckle isn’t far away, but he isn’t exceptionally engaging or overwhelmingly friendly when you first meet him. That comes with time.
He values democracy and always has. He likes it when people work together, but Ragnar will definitely also put his fist to the table to break a stalemate. And while his self-control is admirable, there’s a fire in his chest that only needs to be fanned. He does what he can to channel that energy into anything other than rage and anger. This has helped shape him as a warrior.

When you first look at Ragnar, there won’t be a doubt in your mind that he’s a soldier, but once you talk to him and get to know him, you’ll realize that he isn’t a brainwashed grunt that blindly does what he’s told. There’s a human in there, whose outward appearance has been shaped by years in the Iron Legions. Soldier through and through, but with a brain and a heart. Make sure you get on his good side on first encounter though, as he can be quick to judge.

Ragnar strives for perfection in what he does, and therefore he is quick to make up his mind in combat. That way, he quickly decides whether a tactical approach or a direct charge is the better option. He may not always be right, but at least he does something. On the other hand, he has a hard time dealing with failure and is easily embarrassed by his own mistakes. It’ll take him a while to calm down and then he’ll go back and revise, figuring out what he can do different.


[Skills] As a soldier, his skills in combat are quite impressive. As a soldier who’s in the Iron Legions, even more so. As a soldier, in the Iron Legions, that has spent countless hours honing his skills to become a great swordsman, he is definitely one of the most lethal warriors you’ll see. He has the ability to shift fighting styles in the middle of a skirmish, and can fight with spear, shield and sword alike. There is a reason he is not dead yet, despite numerous battles.

[Spells/Magic Affinity] As competent he is with a sword in his hand, as incompetent will you find him with magic. Simple as that.


  • Ragnar doesn’t know anything but the soldiering life. He is trained to use his body. To survive. Fortunately, he can read, given his noble upbringing, but he can’t really do anything but fight. He has no other skills.
  • You might call it a redeeming quality, while others might think it downright foolish, naïve or stupid. But his loyalty and sense of duty can sometimes get in the way.
  • Quick to judge. As he does distrust people who aren’t wearing a uniform, or people who are clad in too fine a raiment, he can be quick to judge someone based on their opinions and actions. This causes inner conflict though, as he also thinks that there should be room for other people.



Ragnar wears steel boots, and steel pauldrons where the right shoulder is shaped like a wolf’s head. His arms are also covered in steel. This is all the heavy plate he wears though, and instead of wearing plate armor on his chest and legs, he wears a brigandine armour. Over all of this he wears a surcoat with the colors of the Iron Legions (red and white), with a wolf’s head on the chest. Around his waist is a sturdy, thick leather belt that holds his sword, dagger and other pouches. Finally, a cloak will hang from his back if it’s necessary. Meaning if it’s cold.

If you catch him on a rare occasion out of his armor, you’ll most likely see him wearing casual clothes, i.e. a roughspun shirt and a pair of black pants. If the situation requires a more formal attire, you’ll probably find him in a suit (meaning a surcoat of sorts) of red and black.

[Primary Weapon:]
Weapon Name: Blackfyre
Weapon Type: Sword
Origin: Castle Eisen
Was a gift from Ragnar’s mother, sent to him when he joined the 9th Legion.

Weapon Type: Dagger
A universal tool. Be it hunting, skinning, herb-gathering, rope-cutting or throat slitting, this dagger does it all.

Weapon Type: Spear
Length: About 7 feet

Ragnar's Story



| >>Daxos Greymany<< |
Daxos Greymane is a swine. At least, if you ask Ragnar. The Greymane family is very wealthy and as a result, Daxos has become lazy, fat and drunk. His relationship with his eldest son is widely known to be rather strained, while he has little to do with his other two children. He rarely shares a bed with his wife. Daxos seems content on drinking himself into an early grave. Respect for the Greymane name dwindles ever so slightly. Some say they look forward to the day Darion becomes the head of the family, as no one has any hope for Ragnar Greymane to return.

| >>Vynais Greymane<< |
Vynais Greymane is the wife of Daxos Greymany. A beautiful woman in her youth, and though she is aging, she is still easy on the eye. Ever kind, ever good to her children, though stern and strict when need be. She married her husband in hopes of a good future and security, but soon came to realize that she would have to be the one truly holding the family together. This is also a widely held opinion and belief, though no one would say so out of fear for upsetting Daxos. Vynais has a way of calming her husband’s ill moods and flares of rage when he is in his drink. She still looks after Ranissa and Darion, and does what she can to make sure her son will guide the family in the right direction once she and her husband are gone.

| >>Darion Greymane<< |
Second son of the Greymanes. An energetic young man, eager to see the world and experience what it has to offer. Tired to live in the liquor-stinking shadow of his father, though he will not openly oppose him. Knowing his father’s temper, Darion (with council from his mother) thinks it wiser to wait, out of fear of his father disowning him. No one would put it past Daxos, in a fit of drunken rage.

| >>Ranissa Greymane<< |
Spitting image of her mother. Just as gentle, just as kind and just as beautiful. Why she is not married yet, no one can fathom. Most guess that Vynais has a part in this. The mother might want to save her daughter for the right man, and not see her make the same mistake as she did.


Born into the Greymane family, Ragnar was accustomed to a luxurious and easy life from birth. His father was an aristocrat through and through, spending most of his time moneygrubbing and sipping wine with the other filthy rich nobles. Occasionally, he would also spend his time complaining about his scrawny, useless son and ungrateful, nagging wife. Truly a great man!

Ragnar’s mother was the one that truly raised him, along with his teachers of course. Most of which she had hired. As a result of this interesting family mechanic, Ragnar kept mostly to himself, only playing with his brother and sister, applying himself to his books and studies, as well as staying out of his father’s way.
When he was a young man, he travelled with his parents to Vesia. Given his station, Ragnar was used to a lavish life in luxury. But when he saw the poor and downtrodden that lived in the slums, his wine turned sour in his mouth, and he felt for them. His compassion could only have been attributed to his mother, as his father had no love or respect or compassion for the poor. He was a “aristocratic, pompous, malicious swine” in Ragnar’s own words. But as any young man, he struggled to find his place in the world.

Growing older, Ragnar grew bolder. He had been scrawny and skinny as a young child, but as he grew, his muscles settled in and he grew strong and tall. He also changed. Having seen too much of his father’s ill temper and drunken foolishness and embarrassing behavior, Ragnar wanted more and more to rid himself of the noble life his family led. Of course, he never told his mother or siblings out of fear of being called ungrateful or crazy. He did love his family very much, except for his father. Ragnar could never understand why a man that was supposed to be an example, did what he did. This couldn’t be all that was in store for him.

So as time went on, and Ragnar kept growing, so did his voice. He spoke up against his father and expressed his embarrassment. Sometimes his father would take Ragnar’s trespassing out over his mother, to Ragnar’s great dismay. But his growing distrust of other people, especially the upper class and the aristocracy made him rear his head like a stubborn, angry horse. He’d had enough of this and enough of this life. One day, he’d packed his things and was ready to leave, having already informed his mother. His siblings knew as well, but Ragnar was going to see his father before he left. What he told him need not be repeated, but they did not part on good terms. His sister was angry, and his brother was sad. Ragnar made sure to let Darion know that he expected him to look after their sister and mother. The latter bid farewell to her eldest son with tears in her eyes.

Having seen too much inequality and gluttony, Ragnar decided to at least attempt to help the world become a better place. Filled with the hopes and dreams of a young man, he enlisted in the armies of Stormgard, chasing a dream of becoming a great protector of the people, as all the great heroes of the stories he had heard as a child were.

Here, the man he is today was shaped and formed. Though he desperately wanted to, it wasn’t a straight way to the Iron Legions. You don’t just waltz in on a whim. Ragnar served in the regular army first, stressing the fact that he wanted nothing more than any other man, no special treatment or finer rooms or finer meals. He wanted to be treated exactly the same. Today, he doesn’t regret that decision, but he almost did then.

His fellow soldiers resented him for his station and the training was grueling. Harder than anything he’d had to do in his life before this. After what seemed like a long time of hard training and not much else, he was taken on a mission. He joined a ranging party to patrol the frontier on the Isle of Marn. Here, his life was saved for the first time, fighting an orc twice his size. This triggered something in Ragnar, and it didn’t take long before he was recruited into the Iron Legions.

Ragnar went home on leave before he began his real training here. Having not seen his family for a very long time, everyone was happy to see him. His brother had grown and was almost a man now, while his sister had become a beautiful young woman. His mother looked much like herself, only very few grey hairs so far. Everyone was proud. Except his father. The two of them spoke briefly, but it was clear that his father resented Ragnar’s decision to join the army, and not doing his duty to his family. Ragnar left few days later.

The Iron Legions was the true adventure. It is the pride of Stormgard (aside from the Royal Guard, who are also partly comprised of current or former members of the Iron Legions), and Ragnar felt right at home here. While his initial years in the army had left him with a sense of disappointment, this did not. He trained with the best. When orcs stirred at the borders, or pirates roamed the coasts, or particularly pesky and large groups of bandits caused too much trouble, Stormgard called for the Iron Legions. They always got the job done. As a result of his determination and loyalty, Ragnar was promoted to officer and was in charge of his own cohort. He led them in numerous engagements and quickly became known, as a man that did whatever he could to keep the integrity of his men. He walked among them, fought beside them, helped take care of the wounded, ate with them, joked with them and generally inspired loyalty. This single idea and mindset, was what made him a good leader. He was never a tactical mastermind, but when you fight with the best, your chances are good. Despite his flaws, Ragnar was still respected. He listened to his advisers and men who were better tacticians than himself.

The army, he found, was good enough for him. The older he got, the more he realized that politics and diplomacy were not for him. Ragnar got things done, he didn’t discuss it at length and argue about it, rubbing (and stabbing) backs. This would be his way of helping. Keeping the common people safe, as best he could.
At least, up until the mark appeared. In the middle of the night, Ragnar woke to a searing, blinding, white-hot pain on his wrist. First thinking it was blood magic or some other sorcery, he stared at it with wild eyes. Yet, the pain subsided, and he lay on his back on the floor of the tent, hardly able to keep his eyes open. His men had heard his pained grunts and shouts, and had called for help. Of course, he was brought directly to the King. The next thing Ragnar remembers, is waking in a soft, plush bed.

The king’s advisors and physickers had studied him at length, but learned nothing more than the fact that the mark was identical to that of the princess.
He even met with the King and talked to his for long session at a time, and as such, was the first person to be found with the same mark on his wrist.

So begins...

Ragnar Greymany's Story

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Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany
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#, as written by iCakez
By the grace of his king and the stubbornness of himself, had he been allowed to go outside to train from time to time. The confines of his room was driving him mad. The room was nice, though. Nicer than anything Ragnar had stayed in before, but it was mind-numbingly tedious to spend most hours of the day in here. In an effort to stave off boredom, Ragnar would eat, read and rest. He felt lazy and couldn’t really find any interesting books. He wasn’t much of a reader. He did find one book, though. A book he was certain no one had found or read yet, lest it would have been removed or burned even. It was a love story about an orc and an elf, but as if that wasn’t enough, they were both female. And it was quite descriptive. Ragnar put it away quickly, as he would rather be dead than be caught reading that. He’d never hear the end of it.

He hadn’t been told anything either. He didn’t exactly know why he was here, except for the fact that once in a while, some old man in robes would come look at the mark on his wrist, accompanied by a young man that seemed to be an apprentice or student. Ragnar didn’t resist, but did as he was told. He’d met the king when he first came here, and the two of them had talked, but he hadn’t seen the man since then. Surely a king has better things to do. Regardless of what was going to happen, Ragnar didn’t feel like a prisoner. They’d let him keep his equipment, let him train and fed him rather nicely. There was wine too – and he’d even been offered women.

“Maybe they’re lulling me into a false sense of security before the execute me?” Ragnar thought aloud. “No. That doesn’t make any sense! And I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He walked to the door and knocked it hard. “Hey! Hey!”

No response.

“I’m not sitting in this room one moment longer! I’m sick and tired of it. I want to go back to my cohort!” He kept banging on the door and shouting but no one answered. In a fit of frustration, Ragnar kicked the door and shouted. “HEY! LET ME OU-“ The lock clicked.

He stopped and stared as it opened. In front of him stood the captain of the royal guard. He’d met him before.

“When you’re done screaming like a woman, would you follow me to the audience chamber please?” Locke asked in the nicest way.

Ragnar stared at him, confused. “What’s going on? Am I a prisoner? I didn’t do anything.”

“No, you’re not a prisoner, and I’m well aware that you didn’t do anything. We just want to ask you some questions. The king is waiting for you.” Locke seemed impatient.

He sighed and nodded. Before he moved to leave, he looked down at his equipment, considering bringing a sword. But Locke and the two guards that were to escort him, might advise against that.

Judging from the light, it was around midday. The sunlight filtered through the windows through the trees outside and danced on the wall. He’d been locked up in that room for so long that this felt surreal. In silence, Ragnar let himself be escorted to the audience chamber of the king of Stormgard, anxious to see what was going to happen next. Did they think he knew anything about the mark?

“I don’t kno-“

“I know.”

“But why are y-“

“Just keep walking, Ragnar. I’m not here to tell you what’s going to happen, all I know is that you’re not going to be hurt. Just follow along and you’ll find out soon enough.”

Slightly annoyed, Ragnar accepted and kept his silence as he walked. After a few minutes they arrived at a very large door of heavy oak. It swung open and he was gently pushed through.

“Now, behave yourself and wait here until the king arrives.” He sighed again and shook his head, but turned and walked around the room. More waiting.

Let’s go get the others.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany
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Callion paced back and forth in the relatively lush if somewhat cramped room he had been imprisoned in. The guards had assured he was a ‘guest’, but there was much evidence to the contrary. First was the guards, a pretty obvious reminder he was not free to leave whenever he wanted. Second, they took his bag and staff, not wanting him to start casting spells or creating magical circles of a sort. Third were the multiple nullification glyphs carved into the walls, floor and ceiling of the room he occupied. They made sure that whatever spells he could have cast without his gear, they were useless to him now. He narrowed his eyes at the gouges that signified his lack of power at the moment. “Typical anti-magic...knowledge of the arcane and experience in the arts...Floob.” Callion stated, running his hands along the edge and feeling like his energy was being sapped out through his fingertips. “Strong, well put together. Give me a quill and ink and I could turn this into a summoning circle!” Callion exclaimed, reaching into his bag only to remember that it wasn’t there. “Oh right...they were accurate to reduce me to nothing in this room.”

Callion returned to the bookshelf, staring at the titles with a very disinterested gaze. His finger slid past each of them as his mouth worded the titles of each. ‘A Heated Argument’, ‘The Infinite Theorem’, ‘101 Great Jokes’. “Is this a library for a child?” Callion asked out loud, almost hoping for a guard to answer him honestly. He walked to his bed and sat down, pouting like the very children he had just mocked. He had been expecting things to move faster, but he had already been here a few days and the situation looked no closer to resolving itself. What was he supposed to do? Every time he thought about reading a book, he did the exact thing that he had just finished doing. Honestly, so far the only thing he liked about this place was the food, which was well done and earned the chef some compliments from Callion.

The thing that was driving Callion the most insane was the fact that he was restricted from all his magical components and tinkering. He had resorted to taking a knife to the floor during his first night here, and after a short stint in which one of the guards ended up with pink hair, his meals were now heavily supervised. Not that he didn’t mind, it allowed him to voice his concerns and recommendations to them, even if they never said anything and simply stared at him from behind their visors. Now, he was kind of guessing that it had been a few days because he had blacked out a couple of times from falling asleep randomly. In his mind, he could have been in here anywhere between a few days to a few weeks. Not like he could do anything if he wanted to at the moment.

Suddenly there was a creak at the door and a heavily armored individual stood just outside the frame. “You have been summoned Lightson.”

“For what exactly?” Callion stood, staring at the guard with a mixture of defiance and curiosity.

“Not for me to speak on, please come along.”

“Do I get my stuff back?” Callion asked, folding his arms.

“When the time is right.” The man responded, turning on his heel and indicating for Callion to follow.

“Time is right? You bupper, I’ve done nothing to warrant this kind of behavior...from this kingdom.” Callion added onto the last part of his statement, wandering past the guards that had previously been watching over his captivity. As he continued to follow the captain, his gaze shifted to the mark on his wrist and a slight amount of worry fluttered over his mind. This had to do something with the mark. It was too much a coincidence for it to appear on his wrist and only a short time later for the guards to capture him and take him to the King’s hold. They had treated him...somewhat well at the very least so he doubted they intended to kill him. The issue was not that death may be the outcome, but subjugation and abuse of the power prophesied for these such individuals. The Church of Light had it’s own theories as to what these people, these heralds, could do and if they were even partially accurate it was a horrifying thing to behold.

But damn if it wouldn’t be interesting! What knowledge could be gleaned from this type of discovery?! Would the fact that he himself was marked make him even more powerful in the arcane arts? What kind of advantages would he gain over the average sorcerer or alchemist? Oooh, he looked forward to figuring all these things out in due time. For the time being, his attention was brought back to the present situation as the captain opened the doors. The Captain then stepped aside, ushering Callion in. “Wait here, the others will be along shortly.”

Callion looked back to the door as the Captain closed it, undoubtedly locking him in the audience chamber. Callion took a moment to look around, giving a smug look and a nod. Thought I would only get to be here if I was about to be executed...wait. It was at that moment that Callion noticed he wasn’t alone. A brutish looking man who obviously carried himself like a soldier was also wandering the room, staring at Callion as he was the only other person in the space. “Well then!” Callion exclaimed, making his way towards the man and grasping his hand without waiting for any kind of introduction. “You must be another one of the marked, if we’re going off of the fancy little Cloffs we have going on our wrists here.” Callion finished shaking the man’s hand rigorously to pull his sleeve up a bit and reveal his mark.

“Do you think they mean to execute us? Oh how exciting that would be.” Callion paused. “Well, for a short while before the fear of death would set in and we inevitably fall into a pit of despair, desperation, sadness and ultimately nothing.” There was a pause, almost like Callion was doing it for dramatic purposes before spinning around and looking at the room. “Now this is a room! Look at this place, fit for a king...well of course it is, it’s his audience chamber isn’t it?” Callion spun back to look at the man. “Oh right, didn’t give you my name, how gargoole of me. I am Callion Lightson, a pleasure to meet you sir.”

Before the man could respond, Callion’s attention was already diverted to the rest of the room. “A decent bit of architecture, fine make and materials are of high grade. Whoever made this room obviously knew how to use the materials used to mask their own inadequacies, for they are nearly covered up by the wood structuring. Maybe with a little bit of refinement, this room could be...could be…” Callion gave a large yawn. “Could be...more...of a…” Before long Callion’s rantings had stopped as he seemed to sway in his spot.

He had fallen asleep standing up.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany
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The word was a damned stretch seeing how inhospitable it felt. Garos scoffed at the locked wooden door, taunting him. He’d tried finagling the thing from the inside with a bent piece of metal he’d found tucked in the corner of the small cell… to no avail. They’d nicked everything else off his person—for good reason. If he’d only had his tools, he might’ve been able to weasel away. His weapons, his pouches, they’d patted him down for anything inconspicuous, leaving him with only the clothes on his back. He didn’t remember ever receiving an invitation to whatever sordid hell this was; wee, cozy cell in someone’s bloody castle, waiting for who-knows-what to happen.

No, he couldn’t remember ever agreeing to anything like this. Mind, his hands were never clean. Figuratively. Literally. Though when the guards had dragged him off down the cobblestone streets, they hadn’t said anything specific. No hissing in his ears, slapping at his pockets for wayward rings that may have fallen into them. No spitting at his heels, or withering stares at the dried smatter of rouge underneath his fingernails, either. ‘Course, they hadn’t been very gentle. Neither had he. He knuckled at his face, fingers feathering over the fresh bruise and swelling blooming just above his cheekbone. Couldn’t well blame ‘em, he’d never done well with those shiny-armor sorts, stepping on his boots and demanding that he come along now, important business with the King.

Sod the King and all his kingly sad-hats. What would he want with someone like him? Made no sense. He howled as much to the guards grappling at his sides, more dragging than leading him to this quaint, little chamber. No worries, they’d said, he’d know soon enough. Like that would soothe his ruffled feathers at all. It hadn’t. For now, they’d instructed him to keep cozy-like and comfortable, he’d be here for awhile. The pinched look to their faces spoke volumes, he’d seen it before, again and again. Mutt. He laughed at their backs, and beat at the door for awhile, realizing it was fruitless when his attempts to open it proved feeble; hopeless, even. They made good damn doors, alright. Constructed well enough to keep their guests in place.

At first, he paced back and forth, irate—eyeing the bookshelf with little more than a doleful stare. He didn’t want to sit down and read. Didn’t really want to stay in one place at all. Being pinned in one place had never felt right to him. His nerves rankled, bleating that he get the hell out before something happened. Like, having a rope strung around his pretty little neck. Or having his head bounce down from a chopping block. All for a crime he was sure he hadn’t been caught for. Why? It was driving him mad. Repeatedly, Garos rearranged everything to annoy the guard tasked to slip food through the door. He’d push the bookcase up against the slat, forcing the man to enter, and weather the storm of questions he had. He wanted someone to talk to, dammit. Anyone.

Guest, his arse. At least, the food was good. He’d even been offered a lass to warm his sheets; by a female guardsmen, no less. He wondered, aloud, if she was propositioning him.

No lass came that night. Or any other.

His daily routine kept him sane, mostly. Striping nearly from head to toe, and going through the motions, stretching out his muscles, and sweating off the tension that threatened to snap him like a bowstring. Any demand to allow him outdoors was met with a firm, unmoved no. They didn’t trust him. Certainly not after headbutting the poor sap who’d first approached him with all his lordly titles, telling him he best be coming with them or he’d make things harder for him. Miscommunication was all that was. They didn’t want him squirreling off at the first opportunity. He didn’t blame them, not really. Trust was hard to come by. If the tables were turned, he wouldn’t have allowed it either… but still.

After chewing around the heel of buttered bread, Garos leaned in front of the door, cheek pressed up against the iron-wrought bars allowing him a small window into the hallway. Nothing of note. Boring. Cobblestones on cobblestones; stonework belying expensive materials, meant to impress. He turned his wrist in the light, dragging his thumb across the unusual symbol. He wasn’t stupid enough not to think it wasn’t related. He’d been in jail before, for a variety of reasons… but this time, it felt different. He’d never believed in coincidences. Weird symbol appears one day and suddenly, he’s cordially invited to the king’s castle for a cuppa’ tea? Unlikely. Not someone like him.

Another face popped up, startling him away from the door. The guard grinned wide, teeth bared. Clearly amused he’d gotten the jump on him. “Alright, you’re to come with me, now. No funny business.”

Garos cleared his throat and sniffed indignantly, straightening his collar. Hilarious. Arching his eyebrows, he ignored the fact he’d been surprised by his sudden entrance, stepping closer to the door once more, “Finally. Bloody ‘ell, you keep saying guest-this, guest-that. From where I’m from, this ain’t how you treat yer’ guests—”

The guard only inclined his head in a nod, twisting a key in the door, and opening wide. Only then did he see two more guards flanking his sides, previously out of view. One of them sported a goose-egg along his hairline, mouth tempered into an unimpressed frown. Both were wide-set with strong shoulders, capable of dragging instead of escorting. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Licking his lips, Garos shrugged a shoulder, and slipped out of the chamber, “Lead on, then. S’pose I won’t get my axe back ‘til I do. Awful lonesome without out, y’know?” He smiled, and felt the scar stretching along his lip; his best I-won’t-be-a-lick-of-trouble look.

The leading guard hm’d softly, patient as a peach. A good indication that he wouldn’t be seeing any of his things until he followed along and played nicely. That, he could do. For a time, anyway. He followed in silence, for once. The growing tension was enough to smother down whatever questions he had rattling around in his skull.

Soon enough, the hallways and winding staircases led up to another regally-decorated chamber, with high-ceilings and enough royal whimsy to let Garos know that he was standing in some sort of audience chamber. Not that he’d personally know what they looked like. He’d heard tales; people who’d come up here for an audience, wanting their requests and demands answered for. Not enough wheat! Bandits skulking the trade paths! He doubted that their appeals were ever acknowledged. Kings hardly had time for slum-rats and paupers, farmers and denizens who didn’t live in high-rise locations. At least, not in his experience.

Maybe, he was wrong. It was known to happen.

His eyes raked across the guards, who were already trailing away. Leaving him standing there like a dunce. Back to where they’d come, with narry an explanation. He wasn’t alone, however. No. There were two others here; one considerably larger than the other, more his size—looked like the drinking sort, or at least someone he might’ve bumped into at the tavern. A grizzled man. Soldier, maybe. He saw the sort before, shoulders so straight they might’ve been held up by spears. He blinked, owlishly. The other… he wasn’t sure quite what to make of. Skinny as a rake, bundled in robes. Rings, baubles on his hands. Shiny things. Eyes snapped firmly shut, swaying.

The lad was sleeping?

A snorting laugh rankled from him, one that he hadn’t meant to let slip out. He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, glancing back to the one man who was still conscious. “And here I thought this was an execution. ‘Less there’s lads out there who can sleep through it. None I ever met.” A thoughtful pause, accompanied by a grin. “Names Garos, if there’s to be introductions.”


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Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider
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#, as written by Baby
Spoiler: show

In the shade of the hermatite, where sound and shape were blurred into a voiding darkness, Glola didn't respond to her birth name. It had been decades since she heard it, and the last time she responded to it, her uncle kicked her so hard in the gut, she couldn't bend for days. After all of the painful training to never respond to that utterance again, Glola kept polishing her diamonds, waiting for Thraket to finish whatever spell she assumed he was beginning.

"Nefa." Thraket started again, this time with a light push to Glola's shoulder. Without diverting her eyes from the diamond, Glola flicked her hand for her uncle to finish the spell.

"Nefa!!" Thraket grabbed his niece's shoulder roughly, and instinctively she spun and punched him square in the jaw. A hard enough punch to knock some teeth out, if her uncle didn't have the fortitude of a mountain. He nodded at her response and wiped the trickle of blood that escaped from his burst gums.

"Still got it. Good. So, down to business. Do you want 20 silver?"

"Yeah." Glola released some of her magical energy, not able to fully see without making the gem shine a bit through the darkness.

"Okay. I'm turning you in."

"Wuh?" In the time it took for Glola to even comprehend her uncle's sentence, she was tied in a thick rope and the shade of the hermatite disappeared, bringing them back to their original spot in the woods. "What's the meaning of this?!" Glola tried to break through, but the rope was strong, and Thraket was even stronger. He tightened his hold and threw her over his shoulder.

"Well, the king sent some guards over because a lot of people saw you with the mark. Then there was a ransom of 20 silver for anyone who could locate you. And 40 if they turned you in. So it was either get some coin out of this or wait until your assistant that you trust so much to get greedy and tell them about where you were hiding."

"Ah. The rope?" Glola relaxed into her captivity, accepting her own mistake of telling her long-time friend Dilka that'd she be out in the woods for awhile.

"The king of Stormgard."

A second of silence.

Thraket tightened his hold on Glola to an almost painful restraint.

When Glola registered what that meant, she went into a full-blown panic. A human king?? Where she might not even get a fair trial? And would have to be sent over in a boat? "NO!"

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that. I have some friends over in those lands. They'll raise hell and then some if you're executed, but from what I know, you won't be."

"AND THE BOAT‽" Glola screamed at the top of her lungs, feeling her chest tighten and heat up from fear.

"If they pay 40 silver, I don't think they'd turn you over in the water. I have a sleeping draught I bought down at the dock. I took it out of your cut, of course. I'll have one of my men board with you and your things to make sure you're taken care of. That also came out of your 20 silver."

"Curse you! Curse you and the bastard you came out of!" Glola spat out hateful words in her panicked rage.

"…Did I say your cut was 20 silver? Huh. Meant to say 15. So, you can cry and scream and then throw up and faint every five minutes when they load you on the boat or, when I give you this vial to drink, you don't talk about my father, you don't wake up for the next three days, and when this is all said and done, you'll be around 15 silver richer with the same end result. Take your pick."


"Gotta give it to ya, Unc." Glola said aloud, chomping down on her 5th slice of cake that day. "This ain't bad at all..." An understatement. The beds in the human lands were bigger and softer than what she was used to, the food was endless and exquisite, and the peace and quiet of her quarters was a delicious wine to sip on while she lazed around for hours at a time. For the first day, she was so overwhelmed with how much sweets they bought at her request, she didn't bother to bathe until the smell of her sugar-frenzied sweat was even too much for her. And when she was escorted to the bathing rooms, she poured the soothing hot water over her body for at least two hours straight. If this was how humans treated their prisoners, Glola might’ve pleaded guilty.

“Hmm…” Swishing her tongue around on the chocolate icing clotted on her tongue, Glola thought of her current situation. The guards told her nothing, but from what she could infer from the treatment she was receiving, execution was out. For now. The king likely wanted information, but she wasn’t sure how he’d react if she claimed to know nothing.
For sure, two things were non-negotiable. She could never give out her birth name and she couldn’t tell them her body was permanently corruptly with blood magic. But what then? What if they want to examine her body? See her other tattoos? Would they be able to tell? Wouldn’t they have experienced clerics?

“It was the mark.” Glola countered the hypothetical argument out loud. That could be it. If they found out anything unusual with her, she could blame it on the mark and say she hasn’t felt the same since it showed up on her arm.

“Patience is definitely my virtue.” Glola smiled to herself, remembering how she had previously planned to escape her confinement to find a place to hide. They confiscated her hammer, dagger and apron but they didn’t know about the beads hidden in her braids. She contemplated crushing them into a powder to create a small fire or combine them into a bomb to blow a hole in the wall. But neither of those options took her far in her head.

“Hmm...” Reaching for her 6th slice of that morning, Glola paused when she heard the lock on her door shift. Now the time she mentally prepared herself for had come.

"Your presence is requested." The armored guard stood at the front of her room, waiting for her to get ready to move. Minutes before she’d already made the resolve in her mind to not waste her energy with fighting or arguing. So she wiped the crumbs that accumulated on her cheeks and stood up to follow.

What was the dance?

‘When did this mark appear?’

‘Two fortnights ago.’

‘Do you know what happened when you got it?’

‘I had an intense burning feeling and then I passed out in the tavern I was in. One of my close friends carried me home. It burns still to the touch.’

‘Have you been doing anything unusual during that time?’

‘No, just enjoying a few drinks is all.’

‘What about your other tattoos? Any burns?’

Glola’s chocolate eyes had glazed over into an almost milky almond color as multiple scenarios and questions coursed through her mind. Questions she’d readily expect, questions she didn’t think would ever be asked.

When the guards had stopped walking, her body did as well, but her mind was not in the present moment. She had gone so far as them asking her family history, her lineage. She came up with cousins, brothers, sisters that all fell under the ‘Heavyrider’ lie. Names, appearances, relations. She came to when the one of the guards lightly bumped into her shoulder with their hip and realized that she was in a room with three other men.

‘Is that…?’

“Names Garos, if there’s to be introductions.”

A wave of mixed emotions filled the color back in Glola’s eyes. She was so grateful for a familiar face in such a trying predicament. Besides just recognizing his face, Glola recalled fondly his long stories and cheerful smirk. She wanted to walk up and tug at his shirt, yet she doubted herself. Would he remember her…?

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Glola thought sharply, almost angry at Garos for something he didn’t even do. Yet. Not wanting to make a scene or to impose her presence, Glola stepped lightly into Garos’ right peripheral and kept quiet. She prayed that he would keep talking. And in a deeper part of her secret prayers, she prayed that he’d see her. She’d watch his face to see if the emotion of recognition was there when he did. And if he didn't remember her, well, he could say goodbye to any enchantments she would have offered.

‘Is someone snoring?’ Glola blinked from her concentrated stare at Garos, thinking she had heard something she knew she couldn’t have. The other two men were standing upright.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider
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The word was uttered without frills nor inclining of tone. Just a monotonic observation of of her situation. Emily was, without a doubt, bored. She'd staved off the cabin fever for the first few days by reading through the various books on the bookshelves, from the historical to the trashy, to at least try to fend off the inevitable for a few minutes more. When those began to fail, she managed to talk her guards-- and no matter what they tried to tell her, they were her guards-- into supplying her with a empty journal and a charcoal pencil. Half of its pages were already filled with artistic sketches of the furniture that filled out the room she was placed in. Though cozy, she could tell a cell when she saw one. Rooms usually didn't come with locked windows.

She sat on the very same windowsill, her head resting against the wall and her leg pulled up close to her, the other dangling freely to the floor below. Lazily, her head rolled over and she reached out to tug at the window. It rattled, but otherwise did not budge. Just like it did the first time she tried it. And the second. The third too. She stared at it for a moment before she shook her head. "Bored," she repeated, and though still monotonic, managed to somehow sound even more deflated.

She couldn't even pull rank on her guard. The king trusted his life to the Royal Guard, meanwhile she was basically a messenger with a fancy name. A really fancy name of course, but fancy names meant little when locked up in a cushy prison. She had woken up in the comfy bed about a week or so ago. What proceeded the waking up was probably got her under lock and key-- though damned if she knew what caused it. She glanced at the mark burned into her wrist again. Whatever it was or what it meant undoubtedly was what put her in this position. Which wouldn't be so bad, if he damn guards had the decency to tell her what it meant. And she thought that they were all on the same side.

The window rattled again, this time a bit more forcefully, but just as before it refused to move. Granted, it was just glass, and had she a mind, she could probably just toss herself bodily through it. She weighed enough, she could probably make it through. Of course, she figured that the room was situated somewhere high, and that meant a long fall down. She'd give it a couple of more days before the cabin fever sets in, and it would seem like a much better option than sitting cooped up for another day.

Fortunately, it looked like it wouldn't come to that. Out of the blue, the latch to her door clattered open. Emily reined in the desire to bolt for the open door like some sort of feral animal and instead kept her perch on the windowsill. She couldn't let them see her desperate. Instead she greeted the guard with a rather bored expression. "Sooo... Going to let me go now? Or are we going to keep pretending I'm still a..." She glanced at the guard's armor, and deciding that she wasn't too high of a rank, continued, "goddamn guest?"

The guard sighed and shook her head, "I told you once before Emily, you are not a prisoner." It wasn't the first time Emily heard that excuse.

"Bullshit. Unless other the guests have their doors and windows locked," she said with a chuckle, jiggling the window for effect. "If you do, then, well, I think your problem lies elsewhere."

The guard sighed again, but opted not to answer her. Instead, she deftly steered the conversation elsewhere. "If you'd follow us to the audience chamber, the king has a few questions for you."

"Oooh, the King. How fortunate am I," she said sarcastically with her hands raised, her fingerings wiggling. Eventually, she shrugged and hopped off of the windowsill, "Whatever, as long as I get out of this room," she added, crossing the room to the door on the other side. Fortunately, they did not throw the manacles on her, instead she simply had an entourage of one other guard follow her.

Eventually she was deposited into the promised area, though not alone. Another eyebrow rose as she scanned the faces of the others that'd been brought in before her. "The... other guests, I guess," she said to herself, before shaking her head. She settled into military rest, spine straight, and hands locked behind her back, before she patiently waited for the king to arrive. At least for a moment. Until she noticed one of the other guests gently swaying on his feet.

"Is... Is he fuckin' asleep?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers
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She was clean. She was fed. So understandably, Mara was assuming she had died.

It must have been around the time when the local guardsmen had caught her, wandering the wood after fleeing her father's home in terror. They must have killed her--she did bite that one man rather hard on his hand when he'd caught her. Maybe he'd drawn his sword then and run her through. Maybe it was so traumatic for her eternal soul that she just couldn't remember the actual part when she died. But there was no other logical explanation. No reason to keep a farm girl in a comfort that she'd never before known. With a soft bed (No fleas at all!), and a warm fire, three meals--THREE!--each day since she'd arrived in...wherever she was.

They even sent in other women to her room ; higher bred ladies than she--with colorful dresses of handmaidens, and clean straight teeth like graveyard headstones, smelling of essential oils; to bathe her (somewhat forcibly, scrubbing until Mara's skin was a stinging pink, like an animal hide rubbed raw). She tried to explain that she was perfectly capable of cleaning herself, thank you, but the ladies simply grimaced in reply and dumped scalding water over her head, raking their fingers through her hair brutally as they took to their task. The handmaidens eyes had a look unfamiliar to Mara--was it pity? No, Mara knew that look. The one she got from the priests as they saw her tiny frame, engulfed in her old frock. No, it was something else--something between great dislike and disgust.

When the ladies felt they could scrub no more from her (Mara's hands permanently stained by the earth beneath her nails and scarred from a horse bite, her skin tanned past what might be considered beautiful in a high lady's court, her hair naturally unruly) they took away her one dress and apron, mentioning cleaning--but Mara suspected, they were more likely to burn it based on the looks on their faces. Instead, they gave her a different dress. Maybe not new--but the newest Mara could ever remember having. A brown simple shift and a green bodice--of the likes she had never worn before. This must have been plain by the look on her face--for one of the ladies took pity on her and helped her into the strange, rib-crushing device, tightening it from behind until Mara wondered why breathing was not fashionable any longer.

In the few days--or was it weeks?--that Mara had been housed in the fine room, she felt herself for the first time in her memory; well-rested and she knew what it felt like to be "full". Unused to heavy meals (or any meals at all, really) she rarely could finish all of the food that was brought to her--but just in case the food stopped, she would squirrel anything she didn't eat away in various parts of her large space. Apples went hidden in apron pockets, cheese and bred were tucked under her pillow or hidden in the folds of a curtain. Her food hiding didn't go unnoticed for long, and the ladies tutted at her angrily as they cleaned out her stashes. Mara did not know how to protest this, so she watched them take it all away in silence. Mara did not cease the habit of food hiding. She just got more careful about it. Her face became a little less gaunt, her body felt a little less fragile to move--though the awful mark--the mark that appeared when she'd been illegally practicing magic--still burned to the touch no matter how well she was fed.

In the time between meals, Mara was left alone. Beyond the closed door she could hear footsteps and sometimes voices. If she was not dead--she was not sure what she really was. This did not feel like any prison she had ever heard of, though it seemed she was not allowed to leave either. She had heard the ladies who fed her now and then mention with some malice that she was a "guest"--but of whom? She remembered little about arriving in the room. If she had not died upon her capture--then she could only assume she had lost consciousness either from physical retaliation by the guards she struggled with or her own exhaustion. She only recalled fighting, biting and scratching in the woods--then waking in this room. There were even books here--much to her deep pleasure. And no one had told her she could not read them.

As contented as a cat, she curled up by the window in her large room with a new book each day. She was a very strong reader, and her mind devoured the book as hungrily as she devoured each meal she was brought. Some of the books seemed simple, like children's fairytales, or some cook books--but others were filled with complex poetry like she had never read before or thick tomes with heavy histories. Mara read as many as she could unscrupulously. Who knew how long she would be allowed this leisure if she were not dead? And it seemed this intuition was right enough as her door opened one afternoon and a heavily armored guard stood framed in the doorway. Mara looked up from her book, eyes sharp, body taut as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. (And indeed, her father would have thought as much.)

"You're to come with me, Miss." the voice seemed younger than the face of the guard who spoke. Mara said nothing, watching him. When he did not move to forcibly escort her, Mara gingerly closed the book and placed it with a forlorn expression on the table before obediently moving to the door. What right did she have to refuse? She'd been more than well taken care of. If they meant her harm she did not think they would bother. Why not just lock her in some cell to rot? If they were punishing her for her illegal magic use--surely, that would have been where she would have found herself. The guard nodded her ahead of him, where a second guard waited, but again did not move to touch her, and Mara obediently walked ahead of him now between the two men. Maybe they had heard she was a fighter and were keeping a respectful distance.

They walked for some time, arriving at a large door that opened into a huge room--which Mara could only compare to the largest church she had ever seen. Her eyes went wide with awe. Was the castle? She realized this with a bristle of horror. Mara was led to stand beside a group of five others, all very different--most dressed like nobility. Ahead of them--a throne sat heavily. The king? She swallowed dryly and tried to make herself seem small. Had all these others also committed the crime of learning magic without a proper teacher? One in particular looked very advanced for someone who shouldn't be learning...he also seemed to be asleep...had he been tortured? Kept awake for days? Mara wondered if they had only been gentle with her as she was so unskilled in her crime. But the others seemed not to be frightened--one man even seemed to laugh at the sleeping man.

"Is someone snoring?" one woman asked.
"Is...Is he fuckin' asleep?" another voiced with skepticism.

Mara watched all of this in silence, as was best in situations involving people above your station, she knew. She stood apart, body tense, picking nervously at her apron as she waited to see what fate would befall them 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: Glola Heavyrider 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 – 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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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#, as written by iCakez
Ragnar was not left to his own devices for long. While he’d spent the first few minutes alone, he’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 wasn’t wearing his usual attire – 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 wasn’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 seemed…. Odd. Ragnar shook the man’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 couldn’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, Ragnar’s confusion was complete when the man seemingly fell asleep. The silence that followed felt heavy and thick after this curious man’s ranting.

“What in the name of….” He shook his head but didn’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 be… Less extrovert. But he did seem to find the situation curious as well.

“Ragnar.” 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 couldn’t quite place him. He gestured toward the sleeping rake and shrugged. “Don’t ask.”

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 wasn’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 Ragnar’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 wouldn’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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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#, as written by iCakez
While he’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. He’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 didn’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. He’d been seeing his granddaughter this morning. Her situation hadn’t changed, but that also meant that it hadn’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 didn’t withstand whatever illness the mark had brought with it. Maybe hers was different?

There was a knock on the door.


The door opened slowly and a young soldier stepped in.

“They’re ready, sire.” He said and waited.

“Thank you.” 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.

“Welcome.” He started. “I 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 haven’t been told much.”

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.

“If you haven’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.” He said and sighed. “May I see your marks?”

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.

“This mark you bear…” He paused. “It is very old.”

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.

“Now. You are here because…” The king paused and brought himself to say it. “Because I need your help.” He let that sink in. “My advisors have found old scrolls and dusty old tomes, such as this.” He gestured to the large book. “And found a page that is blank, except for that very mark.” He pointed at each of them. “They have also translated a partially destroyed page from this book,” he gestured to the tome again. “And discovered a passage that mentions the mark and the Heralds in the same sentence.”
King Balian stopped and cleared his throat. He wanted to make sure that he still had everyone’s attention.
“I realize, of course, that this has still not provided you with an explanation as to why you are here.” 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.
“As I said before; I need your help.” Balian’s brows furrowed. “You 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 don’t want to believe. At the same time, you have been found bearing this mark.”

For a brief moment, he contemplated telling them about his granddaughter, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Far 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 today….” He paused and looked at them. “But the strange thing about this whole affair, is the rumors that follow. Folk speak of blue fire and even the walking dead.” 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.

“All of these things happen at the same time. While I value caution and thinking before action, I cannot help but feel that this coincidence is… Peculiar.” 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.

“I 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.”

As the words left his lips, he felt more desperate and the likeliness of these people accepting seemed lesser by the minute.
“If you do this, I will reward you all handsomely, you have my word. I can’t send my own troops, as I don’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 me… You must do this, to find out what these marks mean.”

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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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 — well, honestly he was dragged — 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 Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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 they’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 ‘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 was—something he’d never experienced before, he wasn’t sure if he should’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 wasn’t far from the mark. He pursed his lips, slipping his eyes away from her. ‘Course, he’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 couldn’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, he’d suffered the later. Poor sap. He hm’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. And… 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 that’s not what gave him pause. He blinked. Once. Twice. Narrowed his eyes, studied the woman’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. Glo—the wee lass that escorted him through Caeld on one of his many excursions, rubbing elbows with people who didn’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.

“I’ll be damned,” he nearly stooped, hands planted on his thighs, before he remembered himself and reeled backwards, eyebrows jolting up his forehead, “never woulda’ thought I’d see your face here, Glo.” A pause, reflective. “Wish it was under better circumstances—”

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 throne… and the King. He straightened his back, moving one hand onto his hip, letting the other hand down at his side. Would’ve felt more comfortable with his axe strapped to his back, but beggar’s couldn’t be choosers, and the King looked as if he had something important to say. Important enough that he’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 hadn’t held a weapon in their lives… 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 would’ve been the same.

The mark felt as if it thrummed in response, burning. Itching. He rubbed it against his trousers. And he wasn’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 who’d never even fought before was accepting this sort’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 wasn’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, “’Course, I’m in. Like she said, doesn’t seem like anything’s gonna be the same for us anymore, not with these marks. Reckon this’ll be the only way to find out more about it.” A hum of assent and a final nod, “Never heard a King ask for a favor before. Good a reason as any.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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“Well this is odd…”

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. “Dream or or dream?”

“Why not both?” Callion heard a high voice ask, turning around and being met with a wagon wheel that had sprouted arms, legs and a face.

“Dream.” Callion stated, earning a ‘psh’ from the wheel.

“My man, you should know when this happens by now, c’mon!”

“I suppose, but it always takes me by surprise...wait, I’m not getting into this conversation with my subconscious!”

“What argument?”

“You know damn well! That existential ‘are we real or a fabrication of a dream’ 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.”

“Sounds classy.”

“He was droll.”

“Gasp, you would say such things about me?!”

“You’re a wheel!”

“You’re arguing with your subconscious again.” Callion pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I assume I just fell asleep standing up? Not the first time I’ve done that honestly.” The wheel shrugged...or what could be called shrugging for this particular creature.

“I don’t know, it’s not like I have eyes on the outside here.” Callion peered around a bit more.

“Well, 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?” It was this moment that a 'ding' came from behind Callion, causing him to turn around and witness a deer materialize from nothingness, it’s buck teeth large enough that they could have been mistaken for tusks. It smiled, opening its mouth to talk.

“Witty yah say, well I dun know ‘bout that, but I can make a mean cabbage soup.” Callion pointed at the deer.

“No...No I refuse, that is not me, that is not my subcon-” Whipping around to yell at the wheel, he found it absent, cutting himself off mid sentence. “Huh.” Callion turned back around, and the deer was gone as well. “Odd...but it is a dream I sup-” 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 king’s crown. “What now?” Callion asked, folding his arms.

“Welcome.” The squirrel stated, his voice deep and regal. Callion raised an eyebrow, but he also knew this was par for the course. “I hope that your stay has been to your liking.”

“What the...where...I’m confused, how long have I been out?” The Squirrel stared at Callion before jumping off the stage and landing on his lap.

“You will be silent when I address you...or are you nuts?” Callion stared.

“I know my mind can come up with better jokes than that...I’ve read many books.”

“As evidenced by this theatre.” The Squirrel motioned, to which the books applauded and cheered despite not having the actual capacity to do so.

“I should probably wake up, there’s a king about to address us and I assume me sleeping isn’t exactly going to be a good first impression.”

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

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 arm’s length. “Well, aren’t you just perfectly out of place.”

“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.” Callion stared at the baby, which then reverted back to a regular pooping machine as it burbled and tried to eat it’s own foot.

“Well spoken for a baby...when did I see a baby last?” A woosh blew past Callion’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. “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH” Callion started screaming before stopping himself. “Wait...this is a dream...or is this a vision? Reality is confusing!” 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.

“If I may speak next, this is truly a consequential task if you’re asking us in such a personal manner.”

“I’m not asking you anything at all...blade?”

“Of course you are, who else would be asking?”

“I think the outside world is affecting my dreamscape.” Callion stated, to which the blade laughed.

“It’d be foolish, and frankly halfwitted, to think otherwise.”

“Right, that’s enough sass from a weapon of war.” 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. “Could you not do that again?”

“Never heard a King ask for a favor before.” A mouth formed on the lid of the barrel, giving way to the words. “Good a reason as any I guess.”

“Well...I’m not a King but I do appreciate it.”

“He wasn’t talking to you genius.” The deep voice. Callion turned around just in time to see the Squirrel King jumping up and preparing a roundhouse kick. “Time for a wake up call.” The Squirrel’s kick connected with Callion’s face and instantly it felt cold.

Callion’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. “Ow...ow ow ow ow it bleeding? Am I bleeding?” 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 couldn’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. “My apologies, a nasty condition of mine that causes suc-” 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.

“My...GREATEST apologies my lord. I have a condition, 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.” 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.

“Alright, I’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 hasn’t been the threat of execution yet. I’m seeing a couple of smiles and intrigue on people’s faces, so you have asked us something that has peaked the interest of what could only be called adventurous we’re travelling correct? If that’s the case...Ah, I remember, there was a town that you needed us to look at right? Wreathed in blue flame? If that’s true, then the squiiiiiiiiii…” Callion trailed off for a moment. “ 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?”

Callion stared around at everyone as they seemed more or less in complete awe, shock or maybe some kind of flabbergasted. “Oh, and for those of you I haven’t introduced myself to...Callion Lightson, a pleasure.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Emily Austringer Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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 she’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 couldn’t get rid of her smile and was damn near blushing. If she spoke, she probably would’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, Glola’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 it’s presiding cousin, was shame. With the king’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.
‘Maker…’ Glola closed her eyes as she began her silent prayer. ‘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 stir…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.”

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 King’s plea, Glola’s chest swelled. This was her time. ‘Maker! Witness me!’ Glola blinked hard before stepping forward, clearing her throat as she was ready to make good on her freshly sworn vows.

“I will also-" *SPLACK!* “Wha?” 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.

“My apologies, a nasty condition…”

Glola’s shock prevented her from registering his words. He spoke loudly and brazenly and didn’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.

“Oh, and for those of you I haven’t introduced myself to...Callion Lightson, a pleasure.”

“I’m sure.” 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 wasn’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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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.

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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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. He’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 wasn’t commanding either. Even though he could. Or he could have their heads off if they didn’t comply.

This was new to Ragnar. He was a soldier – 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 king’s voice a sliver of the same sensation. Was it fear?

What isn’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 wasn’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 king’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 wouldn’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 hadn’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 you’d find courage where you’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 who’d been asleep for most of the king’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.

“My king.” Ragnar spoke and stepped forward. “While 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.” He took a knew and bowed his head. “I am yours to command.”

While this might seem ceremonious, it was nothing but right for Ragnar. It was his king and country!
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the mark had serious meaning behind it. It wasn’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. He’d talked to the king’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 wasn’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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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 – 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. “You can carry a pitchfork and still have the heart of a lion.” He said softly. “And you would do me, and this country a great service.” He said and smiled reassuringly. Her display of courage was touching. “Thank you. What is your name?” 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. “You are right, of course. But remember I do not demand this of you.” He said and trailed off, letting her finish. “Only if you promise to bring your findings back with you so we might investigate together.” He smiled and nodded his thanks.
“Thank you. Your name?” He repeated the gesture he’d made with the first girl.

The next one was a tall man. Orc? Elf? He really couldn’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 king’s mood. Balian put out his hand and for him to shake. “Delighted to hear it! Your name?”

What came next was not – 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. He’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 couldn’t get a word in before the man started talking again. Surprisingly, he was right in what he guessed. Balian’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “I…” No words would find their way. Instead, Balian threw his head back and laughed heartily. Part relief and part amusement. “I take this as acceptance, Callian Lightson.” 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 one’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. “Your reward will be your life.” He nodded. “You’ll have a meal and a bath. Two if needed.” The king was not without humour. He nodded at the man, indicating the state of his appearance and smirked. “And you’ll have gold and my thanks, if you serve well.” He nodded again to reinforce his seriousness. “Name?” When he’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. “Thank you.”

“Thank you all!” He said louder as he stepped back so they could all see him clearly. “Truly. I am grateful to each and every one of you.” The king looked around at everyone. “You 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, shoes…” Balian pointed at Mara’s feet and gave her a smile. “When you have done this, you’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.”

The king paused and looked around at everyone. “There is no time to waste, my friends. My final request is that you leave on the morrow. It’s a 5 day journey to your destination.”

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

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

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callion Lightson Character Portrait: Cecilia Floros Character Portrait: Garos Sharad Character Portrait: Ragnar Greymany Character Portrait: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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: Glola Heavyrider Character Portrait: Mara Timbers Character Portrait: Thomas Burgundy
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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 didn’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 couldn’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 Callion’s legs...which he supposed wasn’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! Wouldn’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 ‘Strong’ 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 wasn’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 wouldn’t lift a finger unless ordered? Was she running from a previous life of weakness? Callion couldn’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 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 wouldn’t pass up, considering he had never really been in a King’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. ”Oh, so now I am truly a guest I suppose! Where is my g-” 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. ”Ah, question answered. Well then, I can take it from here.” 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. “Uh, sir...I can’t seem to read this?”

”Hm? Oh right, my mistake.” 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. ”Now then, everything on that paper is essential if the King would like to maximize my potential on this excursion.” Callion exclaimed, puffing his chest as if he was proud of his achievement of asking for an absurd amount of items.

“I...will do my best sir...To clarify...does that say ‘Twenty seven bars of soap’?”

”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.”

“Why...would you need an aphrodisiac?”

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