Heather Devereaux's Story

It was not the grand, stone-halls of art-minded Constance that echoed the roar of applause, laughter, and dull chatter, to such an extent it seemed much warmer than cool humid-wet weather generally called for most seasons; but a rather simple tent, of heavy tooled cloth that blocked out most the fading sun of the evening, made cozy warm by the sparse supporting pillars that allowed the cloth to dip in uneven folds and quaint seating arrangements that clustered people together (not unlike ancestors of the not so distant past, all-knowing elders speaking around campfires and youth listening on in silence). Without sunlight, candles had been placed in strategic locations that allowed for one to see their own feet and their nearest neighbors in order to keep them from trampling upon if they were to leave; a greater amount of candles brightened up the stage itself where the thespians were charismatically gyrating upon, while a low-burning fire trench curved around the stage and behind to give the appearance of greater definition / depth (and allowed for a smoke-like, hazing effect if the occasion called for it, as all one had to do was pour a little water atop the hot coals).

The on-going play itself was a rotational piece called “The Three Kings” set within Ve Marie and Koratev depending on the dress – nowhere near exact matches of what those countries occupants truly wore (but the fur coats looked real enough, everyone seemed to have a proper sort of decoration in their hair at the very least, a little make-up here or there, and the occasional glitter of fine-yet-fake jewelry) – of the hodgepodge cast of thespians at the time they resided on the stage. It was a classic of traveling groups, that was well adored by the local crowd as they hooted away the jesting manner at the opportunity to snub not only one but both of the world’s current imperial superpowers (and learn of the current and ongoing charged political events of their world in a round-about way). To the men and woman from another world, it would most likely look all very Shakespearian to them and of all his grand plays, or-… The Airian version of them. Considerably dafter in its proportions and allegations, and bloodier (all those deaths at some point had to be exaggerated, right?). But still something to past the time never the less!

As the play drew to an end, many of the thespians disappeared into the back for a quick respite before the next demonstration for the evening… {OOC: Word document froze on me, and I’ve got to run to work shortly before I can have the time to add in another paragraph or so detailing the voluminous greedy-drunk playwright kicking out Jules, Heather, (and any others that happened to show up). I will be coming back later to finish this, but I wanted to at least post what I had so far this morning that I’ve already rewritten to better reflect the posts that came before it, so others would have a chance to respond this weekend. Thank you!}

“Easy, Horace, easy.” Came a voice rough with a thick accent purring soft amusement, far more posh and proper than most of the slippery voices they had heard so far of Solace. A hand shifted the heavy fabric that served as the door to the tent, stepping out of the warm tent light into the darkened square was one of the thespians that acted in and narrated some of the previous play. Dark of hair and eye, but a fair complexion and noble mien that was potently different than many natives of the area (except for the few certain Guards – mercenaries – that resembled a kinship somewhat). Grinning an all to knowing, but kind enough smile towards the two ‘ruffians’. “Belletor, this heathen Manslander and whatever the hell you are,” Horace now named, pointed dramatically to Jules (who didn’t look enough like the right blond to call him a Sun-child, but different enough not to be readily considered a local Solacian by any means). He continued, “-haven’t paid for their entry into the show! How dare-…” “Oh dear! Poor, lost lambs. War orphans undoubtedly?” “Why you-“ “Tragic, yes. But I’m sure they’ve learned their lesson not to walk into any play-tent as they please, they’ll remember to pay plenty for the next one they wish to see? The sched-…” “SHUT UP INVALID!” The vein that had the potential threat of bursting under the strain of anger, seemed dangerously close to bursting now by the red flush and sticky sweat drippling across his head. Horace continued his tirade, ignoring the two behind him for the moment to flip upon the charismatic young man with vile curses aplenty.

And charismatic may be becoming an overused term, but over the time the play had occurred it seemed to come up frequently how one would describe the young man with easy, genuinely playful smile upon his maw. He obviously hit it off so well from stage-work a character or two, to narrating for parts – and this was done most often in another language(s) at that flitted off a silver tongue, reminiscent in diction to the Oni of Aires (and Native Americans of Earth) – that consistently seemed one of the thespians people wanted to visit with and touch as he passed through the aisles. It seemed too good to be true that he’d came out of the tent, when everyone else seemed to more keen to avoid any trouble with the ill-tempered play wright, in an attempt to defuse the situation with these out-of-towners in good humor.

Alas, it could be considered a certain wisdom if one knew and accepted that the most dangerous people were always clever, compelling, and charismatic. Thus it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise: In a subtle shift of tension from merely accepting the verbal abuse from his employer, his eyes blearily rose sharply with a flicker of vindictive anger in their depths – so faint, most wouldn’t have been able to tell it had been there at all, or, er, well… If he hadn’t suddenly dropped nearly to his knees, as one leg bent for balance and the other flashed out to knock the top-heavier man’s knees out from under him, and his hand clenching the walking staff flicking his wrist upwards to smack with abrupt force to the temple and causing the man to crumple in upon himself, hopelessly unconscious, before he even hit the ground.

“Nakk.” The stranger cursed softly under breath, as he crouched lower beside the Horace’s prone form. A hand briefly lent across the pulse in the neck, assuring that he’d stopped short of killing the other / though that damn headache in the morn’ would be nothing to scoff at, before idly tracing down to rummage in just the right pocket and pluck the hefty jingling purse (it would enough of a final farewell payment). It had happened all in a matter of selective moments, before he rose again - the coins disappearing in a pocket and walking staff grinding thoughtfully in the gritty walkway – and he observed the pair of out-of-towners with a new interest, w/out any of the abrupt ‘silly’ kindness as before. The expression soured with annoyance shortly, as he seemed focused beyond the two of them towards the bystanding gawkers of either gender (men with hungry eyes and chipped teeth from already long days in the field and longer drinking nights still, and woman bundled in their quaint gossiping groups that included the better part; already lingering about in the busy square from an earlier excitement due to butcher’s misfortune with his giantess of a daughter taking off).

“Haven’t you ever seen a clumsy invalid tripping over a drunken fool, no?” He snapped, a short snarl of authoritative power, which caused the closest people to look at their feet immediately chastised. As much as the people of Solace enjoyed watching a good brawl or good show, those that looked on for their own amusement often weren’t fond of starting something themselves. Before anyone had the opportunity make an amendment to the general rule, he flicked his head over his shoulder towards a distant side-street (that would then lead to more confusingly twisted residential alleys, but away from attention), and clipped softly to the two in front of him, “Manslander, and-… Acquaintance,” The brief pause allowed an aura of amusement to return tickling his words again (because he wasn’t going to echo Horarce’s earlier words’ of whatever the hell you are). “Apologies and Thanks are in order I suppose. I recommend best be scare before the defective puppies raised in rose gardens make their rounds. Yes?” He turned on his heels at that, walking stick make a threatening click that parted the crowd enough to push through easily. Leaving the out-of-towners up to their own devices and choice of whether or not they followed, went another direction entirely, or let the Guards catch them; making it clear it was up to their own choice(s).

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H E A T H E RXD E V E R E U X
_____ T H EXA R T I S T _____

Outfit: Link Here
Location: Aires - Marlboro
Dialogue Color ✦ #8A4E62
Thought Color ✧ #3A0012

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For the life of him, Jules could not remember the last time he’d seen a play. Well, that wasn’t true. He’d caught glimpses offstage, poised to help with the odd quick change, had meandered through an empty auditorium while an actor swanned about onstage to determine if a sequined suit was blinding or simply dazzling from the audience’s perspective. But it wasn’t like the real thing. He was only reminded of that now, surrounded on all sides by enthusiastic audience members, cheering and howling as the actors ran their paces.

For a moment, he lost himself in that crowd, the tension that he’d been steadily building slowly ebbing away. It was an effect aided by the low candlelight, fighting against the tent’s darkness to make those onstage shine, flickering spotlights for the audience’s pleasure. It wasn’t Broadway, obviously. It wasn’t even like Community Theatre. They were a hodge-podge lot onstage, costumes, props, and make-up the minimum it needed to be to help the audience along. This was theatre in the old school, a cobbled together group wandering the world and selling their dramatic wares. It was… nice. Comfortable in its setting. Some of the actors fit in this stage, figure painted into this moving piece of artwork. It was, well, it felt more like home than even New York had for the past few years.

The allure of the show effectively vanished for Jules the moment the third patron stumbled into him, drunkenly guffawing at a joke either too obscure for Jules to understand or not even there at all. He was left with an unfortunate sort of awareness. The tent was far too warm now, the people around him suffocating rather than a collective group he was meant to be part of. Was the show over? Was he missing something? He was obviously missing something. And, and- where was that other girl? Where was Tallyho? Oh, God, he was literally missing something.

The other blonde had vanished, and Jules couldn’t even be sure how long ago it had happened. Was she okay?* They should probably find her, Jules decided, the thought cemented when someone meandering by spilled something sticky and unknowable near his feet. For her sake. Right. That was it.

* Would they be okay without one of the only Airesians they knew to keep them from doing something unknowingly stupid?

He turned to Heather, the only other familiar face immediately available to him.

“Did you see-?” the question, spoken just loud enough to be heard over the din, was cut off when someone suddenly grabbed both of them. Jules could barely let out a swear himself as they were dragged bodily from the tent, crashing against spectators too slow to get out of their way before being thrown out and into the cool night air. Jules staggered, partially hopping as he nearly crashed into a nearby group of women. They tittered, partially offended and partially intrigued by the entertainment sure to come.

The swears were louder out here, their assailant still drunkenly snarling as Jules whirled around to face him. Great. Drunk, mean-tempered, and belligerent. That's exactly the kind of person Jules always wanted to be around. And perhaps he would understand later why this man was angry. Maybe he could sympathize with him when they weren't in the heat of the moment, theatre person to theatre person, impoverished artist to artist. But at the moment, he could only bristle, lips pulled into a thin line of disgust.

"Excuse me?" He squawked at the same time Heather sputtered out her own objection. He had no idea what a Manslander was, although from the way it was spat it was clearly not on, but his own insult "whatever the Hell you are was something he'd heard before. You had to develop a thick skin when you existed as someone outside of society's norms, at least in theory. Jules had never quite mastered that technique, and it showed as he spluttered, red face from a mix of embarrassment (he didn't even warrant being a person to this drunk fucker?!) and outrage.

Perhaps it would have gone further, then, with both outraged Earthlings backed up against a metaphorical wall given that they barely knew where they were and unwilling to simply take this man's abuse. It was lucky for all involved that someone else entered their fray. Jules recognized him, had seen him glide about the stage of that strange play. He was playing the role of a peacemaker now, gentle and forgiving in spite of the man named Horace's snarls and bluster. Not that it seemed to be leading to a positive conclusion. No, Horace was far too drunk and furious for that.

Jules was a coward. He'd admit that freely in the same way that he'd say that he was a fan of theatre or a complete weirdo. That didn't mean that he didn't take a step forward when Horace rounded on their would-be savior, even if said step was more of a reluctant shuffle. Jules wasn't entirely sure what he was planning on doing if things went south, mind you. Maybe hit Horace with his bag? Or find a large stick to flail wildly around with before running off and hope that maybe he didn't hurt himself? Oh, God, let it not come to that.

"Oh my God!" Oh my God indeed. Jules couldn't help gasping himself as Septimus dropped in one fluid movement, taking out Horace in a quick burst of action. The audience that had begun to grow outside the tent seemed frozen for a moment.

"Is he dead?" Jules glanced at Heather, took a step towards the crumpled body, and then thought better of it. He'd seen enough horror movies to know that you didn't get within ankle-grabbing range when it came to potentially unconscious assholes.

"I mean, probably not?" Jules offered, glancing around nervously. At least he hoped not because the last thing he needed was some dumbass dying in front of him and/or being made an accomplice to murder. But time was too short to worry for long. More of a crowd was beginning to gather, and their savior was wandering off with an open invitation, although not explicit, to follow him.

Unlike Heather, Jules was not actually prepared to make his way back to the inn. Having assumed that someone would leave him back, he hadn't really bothered marking a trail or remembering things like land marks or, well, street signs. Did they even have street signs? Could he read them if they did? So, while he did want to run away and preferably find his way back to the muscular meat shields of Dorian and Haru, well, he didn't have much of a choice. But maybe Heather-

"We should follow him."

Okay, maybe not. She was already following Septimus and Jules let out a dramatic, disgusted sigh. Typical. Cowards never had any luck finding other cowards.

"Right. Follow the random dude and hope for the best," He muttered to himself before following behind. And if he picked up the pace just a little more when he heard Horace let out a little groan, well, that was his business.

The trip through the twisting alleys of the residential district off Sanguine Square wasn’t a long journey in truth, but as time whisked by the amount of people hustling and bustling died off slowly but surely, in the same turn the buildings looked more lived in than merely fronts for stores and their wares. Belletor paused at some crossings and turns, his free hand rubbing casually against the rough scores etched approximately head-height in wood, or stone, or some hardened combination of mud / straw, as directional bearings (or “street signs” for the Earthlings), before continuing on a meandering path. Never did he seem concerned nor aware or acknowledging the living shadows following along behind him; one part simply curious, the other sticking together was better than nothing.

Belletor finally paused in a relatively quiet alley (at this hour, only the day-drinkers that had definitely had their fair share were wandering home this early in the evening), stopping at an in-descript heavy wooden door heavily shadowed by the lone candle flickering in its lonely lantern. He set his walking stick leaning up beside the door, before rapping his knuckles twice roughly against the frame. Another brief moment passed, before a woman (another thespian) with rougher weary look in her eyes that clearly contrasted the glittering silks she wore, snapping a question in a halting slurring tongue in his direction and clicking her fingers together impatiently. His response in return was the same language, though altered and more melodious than the woman’s with his prime and proper accent strengthen the hollow words. He passed a leaner coin-purse into her waiting hands, before stripping off the doublet, revealing an off-white cloth shirt slightly damp with sweat – that in the evening chill was enough to allow the sporting of mild gooseflesh up his neck – and other items he had worn during the play; passing it to the woman, who disappeared inside with the door left partially ajar as if to invite him in, though he remained patiently waiting at the stoop.

The woman that had collected the thespian clothing articles from him, returned to the door in short order with his own apparent belongs (an oddly shaped bundle of leather coat) in hand, but eyed the appearance of two newcomers with immediate distrust. The distrust was echoed in her hollowed language that she growled back to the young man waiting patiently at her stoop. Belletor seemed to blink at her question, and blearily tilt his head to acknowledge their silent audience, before humming a quiet negative to her inquiry with a lackluster shrug of his shoulders. Not swayed by his nonchalance stance to the strangers that had obliviously followed him there, the woman snorted out a mild curse; before dropping his belongings with a muted clang of exposed metal – the first few inches of a naked sword escaping its scabbard – and the coat that had been wrapped around it flopped; and slammed the door, hard enough to cause the candle in the lantern to sputter dangerously / threatening to go out. Belletor flinched at the sounds, looking mildly exasperated but rather understanding of the event that had just occurred. “You know… “ He mused abruptly into the silence from the woman’s albeit harsh departure, easily switching back into polished TRK Common. There was the echo of laughter on his breath, and his faint smile not unkind – as he finally seemed to vocally acknowledge the presence of the other two young adults that had followed him upon his wandering path into the heart of the residential alley’s twisting off Sanguine Square.

“A trifling few and far actually take my offer.” He continued, conversationally – bending down to grasp the scabbard of the partially exposed sword, and twitching his wrist just so as he rose back up that it slid back into its sheath with a satisfying slick clink; and began shortly belting it with fumbling fingers, much higher up his waist were one would typically rest one’s weapon due to the seemingly odd length it possessed (an Calvary sword wasn’t really meant to be astride two feet). Once satisfied with its position up on his ribs, he bent down swiftly again, shaking the street dust and grime off the coat – an older but well-made water-shedding leather, typical of any Constantine gentleman to handle the many rainstorm or muddy hovel of their homeland – slipping it over the damp shirt, effectively becoming a different person (especially when viewed from a distance). A far different (and much slimmer) appearance than the puffy, finely colored doublet, delicate flowers brushed out of his crown, and ribbon belt, from before.

“Alas, you don’t seem very much like the rest of these scavengers – just strangers, lost and then found.” Belletor said, contemplatively, regaining his last item (the walking stick) from where it had been leaned up against the door. His free hand moved then, rolling his wrist in an elegant gesture to thump across his left breast in a common greeting (though far more impressive with a metal breastplate no doubt). “Belletor, Septimus.” Septimus offered his true name, pausing long enough time for them to offer their own names in response (or not, if the case may be). Though it would be considerate to have them placed in his mind eye other than a female Manslander and male Acquaintance (or “whatever the hell you are” per Horace)... “Well met, but night is young and I best be off for the journey ahead. Follow the path directly, it will lead you back to the Square directly.” He gestured with a tilt of his head behind him. Helping them again, or Helping himself? Either way, it ended the conversation shortly without much delay. “Oh… And try to avoid walking into any more of the arts without paying, yes?” He let a loud, rueful laugh escape at that final comment, flashing a crooked grin. Before stepping towards and then around the pair, disappearing into the growing shadows quickly and efficiently as if he’d never been there in the first place.

One would be lying if they didn’t admit that the Month Warriors had a collectively chaotic day in Malboro. Nonetheless, the strange encounters they’ve experienced were no reason to not move on from the walled city before day break. Haru made sure of that, taking it upon himself to wake up early and personally round up the warriors, even if it meant snatching the wool blankets right off of their unconscious bodies. They had one more day of travel left.

You see, Haru wasn't the only immortal who had been waiting for the next group for hundreds of years. There was more of him where he came from, twelve to be exact. And while he knew not of where most of his fellow guardians went, he knew of at least one person who was only a cart ride away. And today, they were going to him.

Tallyho, who had been one of those who slept so soundly that Haru had to physically snatch her covers off, didn't take kindly to the rude and early awakening. In fact, she was a little angry, although she was much too scared of Haru to outwardly voice her wrath. And so she spent the earliest part of their ride quietly fuming in the corner of the cart. To be fair, that wasn't the only reason why she was peeved though.

All of her “best friends” growing up were her cousins and even then she didn’t feel like she had that much of an attachment to them. But in the off chance she made a friend with a settler, the friendship seemed to end almost as swiftly as it began. Such was the case with Ingra, at least she thought so at the time. When they parted ways last night Ingra invited Tallyho to visit her in Malboro whenever she wanted. Tallyho accepted the invitation uneasily. But in her heart she knew that she’d probably never see the towering feminine figure again. Especially when she didn’t know where she’d be next.

The next five hours were probably the most trying. There were no more snacks in the cart and a strong scent was beginning to develop amongst the group members. They travelled so much before this point but Tallyho, years later, would always remember those five hours as the most uncomfortable hours of her life. She needed to get out of this cart. Fast. And it didn’t help that they had gained some altitude on the mountain path. The ground was far below them, hidden by canopies of trees and autumn mist. The snow was going to come down soon enough.

She wondered if they’d be trapped on this mountain and how high they were going to go. By this point they were nowhere near the top.

“We are almost there,” Haru assured them, as if on cue. “Ryou lives here. He was a guardian too. And when we went our separate ways he built a modest training ground up here. Takes in a handful of students, many orphans, and teaches them how to fight. Many go on to be mercenaries. This academy will be your new home for a few months. You need to learn how to defend yourselves because there will be lots of people who want to challenge you, test you, kill you… So you need to be ready.”

As they weaved and turned precariously on the winding mountain path, Haru proceeded to name each of the teenagers and their associated powers off to them. He hadn't forgotten his promise to tell them who they were. But Tallyho, being Airesian, was quite aware of who she was already.

Soon after, the upward path levelled into narrow road that wedged through two slabs of mountain face. And soon, they were surrounded by forest. The view over mountain ledge was gone, and besides the fact that Tallyho’s ears had popped, she wouldn't have been able to tell that they were in fact, on a mountain.

“It looks like we’re here,” Haru said.

The upward narrow lane wound through a forest of mostly oak and maple, where most of the trees were so ancient that only the most meager grass and brush could grow beneath them. By the time it leveled between the two faces of mountains, there the forest was not so old, and smaller trees and brush, some of it still living despite the lateness of the season, stood thick and heavy. Golden and scarlet leaves had begun covering the dried skeletons of the smaller brush, and the naked, sleeping trees swayed in a chorus of gentle creaking. Signs of humanity began shortly after, after Haru’s statement: They traveled passed a barren orchard, beehives, and a quaint field laid fallow for the season; and the dirt pathway became more heavily laden with soft, white cobblestone, jostling the cart and it’s passengers almost painfully. It was the signs of a strong holding, that the academy’s central buildings had walls higher than some military encampments, reaching nearly twice the height of a man and made of seamed, dark grey stone, laboriously raised from the mountainous ground over many years. The gates, heavy wood bound with a primitive steel, were half-closed, and a woman precariously perched on the wall above them, squinting laconically out over the distance.

The woman was lean, with darker skin than most people they’d seen so far of Solace, and had her long brown hair drawn painfully tight to pass an illusion of a mane of hair. Her colorful, flowing loose, tunic-dress and multiple layers of fine, jingling jewelry upon her arms and neck, left far too much skin on display – not that she seemed all that bothered by the cold seeping with the mountain mist clinging to the protected valley – and the prominent scars that came with it. She seemed to observe the coming cart with a slim mixture of annoyance and indifference for some time, before deciding they were close enough to skinny down the wall on a thin braided rope attached to a thickly made gray-fletched arrow wedged into the cracks of stone and landed on bare feet (ankles tinkling with their own noise-making jewelry in turn). Wordlessly she nodded in reluctant greeting as she pushed open the gate, allowing the driver to get his beasts and the cart inside the property; and once everyone was inside, she closed the gate and locked it with a ring of keys orbiting unnoticed upon her wrist.

Inside the gates there was a significant open space for communal gatherings and/or training; with what looked to be a deep well to one side, a large placid fountain with a minimal movement of water in the center, and stacks of various weaponry to the other side. Past it was a trio of large, rustic stone buildings, and beyond them a small barn and pens for animals resting upon a distant wall of the forest beyond. The woman approached the head of the cart, her sea-glass eyes retaining a distasteful yet knowledgeable look about a thing or two of the situation at hand as she passed over the heads of the warrior crowded in the back, before focusing on red-headed Guardian – the distaste lifted some, but she offered no more than lukewarm terse ‘smile’ to part her lips briefly. “Haru, and month warriors. We have been waiting for you… Ryou had another matter to attend too, and asked for me to greet you in his stead.” She spoke matter-of-factly, her voice quick and melodious and with minimal effort to separating the pronunciation between words. The brief pause in collecting her breath before continuing, allowed her gaze to shift briefly towards the cart driver / farm-hand and the tired horses appraisingly.

“I will call a student over to help take your cart to unload and allow your beasts some rest and hot grain. But dinner is not for some time I am afraid, and while I understand you must all be very weary from your journey – I have only a tour and general things to offer you in the mean-time.” She finished shortly. Pursing her lips to deliver a short whistle, a younger man (really a boy, if his half-finished build and gangly limbs were any indication) materialized from a distant building, nodding in quick affirmation to her proposal / orders, as he stepped forward to take the reins of one of the team and stroke the equine’s bristled nose absently. The woman hardly spared the lad an appreciative glance, with all her authoritative attention focused upon Haru and the month warrior crew, yet was truly thankful not to be entirely alone dealing with this group of unknown variables even momentarily. Ryou had certainly done his best to feed her to the wolves to deal with this delicate matter in the most elegant way she knew how. Goddess help her...

Properly introduced by Haru’s confirmation, Alina bowed a polite inclination of her head and offered a gentler but still terse smile of her own. “The years have been kind.” She mused in agreement. Her eyes flickered a spark of something infinitely warmer at the guardians’ continued commentary: One part evidently satisfied to be remembered for her gifts from his last visit 10 years ago; the other a reluctant (at least to be seen expressed in front of a majority of strangers to be honest), reserved fondness for a missing member of the party mentioned previously.

“Yes… Ryou mentioned that it would be best to leave my bow behind in the barracks for your arrival, due to the sensitive nature of some of the month warriors arriving. However, I hazard the state of their-err, other world, if a bow would cause any remarkable reactions – mhm, they’re to be warriors, no?” Alina continued, a faint echo of wiry amusement yet callous intentions upon her breath, with an idle shrugged roll of her shoulders. Her smile faded to a her preferred neutral line, observing the collective of individuals as the last unloaded from the cart thoughtfully, harsh yet not entirely unwelcoming – at least two, the sun-daughter and the Halesian male, should very well know what a bow was / and that a war-bow wasn’t someone’s silly prized hunting weapon; the others only caught her glance long enough for her to understand they held themselves differently, not wrong per say, but something wasn’t right either. Though, Alina noted, that she should suspend further judgement until later on.

She flicked one of her hands up in a dismissive gesture towards the other student, who nodded respectfully in turn, stepping up into the wagon seat and took the offered reins from the cart-driver (who subsequently leaned back with a thankful but tired expression). The lad murmured soft encourage to the horses, resuming travel as they pulled away from the milling group and headed toward the barn and quaint pens beyond the three buildings standing before the group; the two men, younger and older, chatting softly but animatedly as they went. Over the creaking of the rattling wheels departing, Alina raised her voice and said quite simply, “Come,” with a brief, beckoning gesture of her hand, and turned on a bare heel – jewelry jingling pleasantly as she went.

As a tour guide, Alina proved to be more efficient than particularly informative, and the tour marched on quickly (with very little questions being answered frankly). As they crossed the open yard before the buildings, many things were noted in an idle fashion, including: To start, that the only sources of water upon the campus were the fountain and the deep well, and the necessity to treat such resources with care (w/out quite blunting the thinly veiled threat of what could happen should you do). Following that, all of the training seemed to be outdoors; from a few groups of other students scrunched together in the shade or various nocks and crannies with books / crude parchment / or intent listening to other ‘instructors’, a well-maintained sand-pit with a rack of swords near-by with a pair of sprawled / sweaty students taking a breather, to the distant but well maintained shapes of targets with a rack the included suitable bow shaped pieces of wood and string, to multiple trails disappearing off into the forest for endurance (she didn’t take enough time to mention that it would be unwise to wander off alone down them unless with another elder-student of the Academy until they grew more familiar, but that should be rather self-explanatory). And last, as nonchalantly as everything before, that the first, smallest stone-and-wooden building they passed without entering was Ryou’s home and left it at that.

At the next building, a much larger structure that resembled more of a barn or shed with doors that looked almost as heavy as the gate they’d arrived through and a high vault to the roof observed as they walked up to it. “These are the barracks.” Alina spoke shortly, as she pried open the door that gave muted groan and revealed the interior. The barn had been converted to a giant communal living area, much like any army not on the move / living out of tents, completed with orderly rows of wooden bed frames and more of the same located above in a balcony (once used for feed storage) connected via a rope ladder, and had a single stone fireplace on one side that was dead currently / but would be lit every night for warmth. Many showed signs of ownership, with mattresses, blankets, clothes, weapons, or various sentimental knick-knacks; and more were empty frames, void of anything including a mattress. Alina paused momentarily frowning, searching left and right with measured tilts of her head, before finding what she was looking for and started off again to weave between frames on the ground-level before stopping at a row of thirteen beds in a row in a lonelier corner of the barracks (eleven bare, and the last two already claimed with stuffed mattresses, thin blankets - and the furthest in the corner had a rusty oxen-bell attached to the foot, and a long-sword hanging sheathed at the corner of the head).

Alina turned to face the group and waved her hand in an encompassing gesture to the set-up directly behind her, “This is where you will be staying warriors,” Unspoken, she shared a brief glance towards Haru, who would not be sleeping with nor nearby the warriors; if Ryou didn’t simply demand the other man stay in his own home was one thing, otherwise he would be offered a location in the tier above out of respect undoubtedly. The pause finished, she turned her head to acknowledge a nearby corner as she continued, “We have straw available to make your bedding with, the liners are in one chest, and the other has blankets – one per person for now, once Winter arrives - considerations will be noted… It will be easier if you set your places up now, depositing any extra belongings you may have, before the dinner-chime calls from the mess hall calls and dark is upon you.” Alina fell silent, regarding them all with a cool expression, patiently folding up her jangling arms across her chest to wait for the warriors to get a ‘move on’. As it was clear this wasn’t like an inn they’d stayed in the night previously, without any maids to come and go and do such a thing themselves, and that your own sleeping arrangements was entirely up to yourself. However, now out of the abbreviated tour for the moment, she seemed more available to any questions or concerns that would pop up if anyone had something.

XXPerspectives

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XXTallyho AbelX

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XXHaru SinwoodX

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As Ron sat down on his finished, awkward bed, he began to feel uncomfortable as the child began to talk about shit. He wondered if she even knew that she was speaking or if her parents had not taught her about social dos and don'ts. Then she asked everybody their age, while guessing that his own age was about 20 years off. Still he figured that he would just shrug it off and go with it.

"Close." Ron began with a grin "I'm actually 43, but thanks for the compliment."

He began to empty his belongings into what was left of his ration bag from early in the trip and placed it by his bedside. The only thing that he was sure to keep with him at all times was his pistol, along with its ammunition. Partially because he was in an unknown world with knights who could be one-shot by it and also because Heather had threatened to kill him earlier. While he had not thought about possibly harming any of the other warriors, the thought about snuffing her out had come to mind once or twice during the journey. However, that would be a bad idea so long as they were in the presence of Haru or within the academy walls. Until that came, Ron had no desire to be friendly to someone like her.

"Hope the ride wasn't too rough for you princess" He called out to Heather.

Alina remained silent, and observing haughtily over the conversation stirred to life by an over exuberant child, and the cautiously reluctant (until another stepped forward, showing the way; or how it ‘must be done’) or lackadaisical attempts of stuffing the liners with the straw for their mattress and pillow. It wasn’t long until her patience ran thin, however, that even the fond endearment (only earned through the child’s six seasons frankly) couldn’t win out for much longer. Why must she always go to pooping, indeed? “Kiba.” She admonished abruptly, not cruel by any means but not quite blunting her sharpness of tone either; stepping forward to wind a firm grip with her slender fingers about the little girl’s wrist, pulling her off to the side and out from the midst of the warrior’s bedding duties. After they’d moved a respectable distance away, Alina knelt unto her knees in front of Kiba, with her terse smile falling into a thoughtful frown. "Hold still." Releasing her grip from the other’s wrist, that hand made itself busy plucking the straw that prickled and poked out of the untamable afro; while the other wound up to her own head, and after a few curious tugs with the evidence of her carefully tight braided mane look decidedly looser on the left side compared to the right, a white-tooth comb of bone was free to help removal of the straw – much quicker than solely by fingers in the mess of hair that was more or less unmanageable to many of the adults here that called the Academy home (or even this side of the World for that matter). It wasn't a long ordeal, only made longer by Kiba's occasional ticklish squirm, before Alina was satisfied that most if not all of the straw had been taken care of. "Go get yourself washed up for dinner, your father will be returning soon, yes." She hummed softly, though the order it entailed no fainter even with her low tone. As she rose, resuming her cross-arms, attentive expression with eyes not unlike the frost that stars sometimes held in the sky above.

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H E A T H E RXD E V E R E U X
_____T H EXA R T I S T_____

Outfit: Link Here
Location: Aires - Daniel Military Academy
Dialogue Color ✦ #8A4E62
Thought Color ✧ #3A0012

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XXPerspectives

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XXTallyho AbelX

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XXKibiX

As she finished stuffing her lining, Angela was a little sad that Kibi was leaving. This was only momentary. As the confrontation escalated, Angela was relieved that the little girl wasn't around. She didn't need to see this. Angela didn't feel the need to see it either, but she was stuck where she was. So, as she plopped her mattress down on the wooden frame, she let out a small sigh of frustration.

She never expected everyone to get along, and she herself was still a anxious over this whole thing, but this just seemed excessive. And, of course, it was Ron instigating things. She was the type to want to befriend anyone. But Ron? He was the exception. Why he was so intent on acting out was beyond her. She couldn't blame Heather for her reaction. She actually enjoyed it a bit. Dude had it coming. Tallyho raised some good points, too. But for the sake of peace, Angela thought it would be better to let things fizzle out.

She turned around and raised her hands defensively, an awkward and forced smile on her face.

"Hey, hey, let's not let this get into a thing. We're all tired and smelly and stressed but it's like, we don't have to take it out on each other! Y'know?" Angela's voice wavered a little, as she was pretty frightened by the thought of Ron shooting up the place, but at least she could say she tried.

Ron smirked when Heather lashed out towards his comment. He was halfway hoping that she would whip back with something a bit more clever, but then again he figured her for somebody that was not used to being talked to like that very often. Then Tallyho came over and gave him an earful. He honestly had no idea why he loved instigating people he had no affection for so much. Perhaps it was just from growing up with four brothers. The amount of shit talking that happened at their farm made him accustomed to harsh attitudes, but he was not about to change the way he talked to others, especially for some people he just met.

Then Angela came over in an awkward stance and an uncomfortable smile to try to diffuse the situation. Ron sighed as they were probably right. If he was going to stay with this group until they defeated some great threat, for who knows how long, then it would probably be best not to be at each others throats. He glanced at Angela and pulled out his pistol. "I'm guessing this is why you're so defensive?" He asked. "Fine. As a gesture of good will..." He began to empty all the rounds from his revolver, and placed the empty gun on his bed. "Tallyho can hold onto it until we trust each other. Okay?"

Ron then took out his only joint he had on him, perhaps the only source weed on Aires, and walked over to Heather's bunk. "Look. Sorry about being a dick. Smoke with me?" He had very little experience in apologizing to people, but in that little amount of experience, weed was one of the best expressions of good will.

XXPerspectives

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XXTallyho AbelX

To say Keiran was adapting well would be a lie. More like he was just accepting it as reality. He was apparently some superpowered warrior of old and was supposed to go and protect this Lord of the Rings-like place from many Godzillas. Easy enough, right? Well Keiran didn't think so, when Ryou had told him all this he didn't believe a word. He's still not sure if he believed it, but he felt it. Especially when his bracelet burned like fire five days ago. He had just been minding his own business at home after a long day at work. He had been tasked with watching over screaming children in the children's area. He wasn't happy to say the least bit.

So the thanked God when he finally got home. All he remembered was thinking how pretty the sunset was before he was sucked into a blackness. Then when he came too he was in some sort of school. After being informed of what he was and what he was supposed to do. He was left to his own devices. Pretty much he was told 'Yeah you're a superhero now, now go wait for the rest of your group.' it was great.

Now here he was, he finally got the chance to bathe in the spring and was making his way back to the barracks. His hair wet and still dripping he paused at the door. There was a group of people that he wasn't familiar with, and they were wearing Earthen clothes. Did that mean they were like him? Only one way to find out is to go forth and ask. He was not that happy with them hovering so close to his bed where his bag of belongings were. Though what could you do? He was really protective over his things, especially since that was all he had right now.

He pushed past the group and flopped on the already made bed. He looked up through the top of his glasses at the arguing. "Given some of you guy's clothes, you're from Earth? Great, I was beginning to wonder if I was being bullshitted and waiting for nothing." he said and smiled. He was seriously glad to see people from his planet, none of the people around here got his jokes and took things too seriously. He wasn't sure if these guys would either, but it was comforting.

"Also. If you plan on killing each other, I saw nothing." he jested.

The look on Angela's face could best be described as a startled cat. Her eyes were wide and her body rigid. Her arms practically wrapped around her body as if that would provide any sort of defense. The shots still rang in her ears, along with her pounding heart. For a moment, she thought he was actually going to kill them all.

She opened her mouth in an attempt to say something to him but nothing came to mind. What was there to say? What the fuck? No, that wasn't good enough. All she could do was stand there in disturbed awe and watch as Tallyho shoved the gun in her mattress. At least it wasn't loaded anymore. Angela was grateful for that. She'd ignore the annoying smell of weed for now. The last thing she wanted was another reason to start an argument.

She exhaled as the newcomer arrived. Not out of relief, for she was still pretty tense, but out of the fact that she couldn't keep holding her breath waiting for some way to express her frustration at Ron.

"No, nope." Angela managed to sputter the words out.

"No killing today. Or tomorrow. None. None at all. Not happening. Nope." She threw up her hands and sat down on her bed, exhausted by the situation.

"But yeah, yeah we're from Earth. I mean, most of us are. Uh, sorry 'bout you walking in on this. We're just like, well, it's been a long day. Cart rides and stuff and we ran out of snacks. Like, god I miss cars. And air conditioning. Oh, right, i'm Angela Taylor. Nice to meet ya!" Angela waved. She didn't feel like getting up to shake his hand. But she did give a tired smile. There was no reason to be rude.

"What are you in for?"

[Calliope Alexander] - [#551a8b] - [Mood]

While the others seemed to have been listening attentively to the small child Cali had simply found her to be an irritating little sprog. Once her bedding was finished and smoothed out she set about finishing up the bed nearest one of the few rough windows in the barn. Setting down her backpack on the far side she carefully took out a bundle of solar panels which she affixed to the window, muttering slightly about the pitiful levels of light. It’d be enough for what she wanted but it wasn’t entirely great but would hopefully improve with a bit of time since the day was already fading. Either way the charging pack would at least be usable in a day or so.

Turning back to the room at large she had to muffle her laughter at the sight of the others all but breaking into full out war. She half expected one of them to try and smash a bottle to use as a knife; well if they had a bottle in the first place. As she lounged on her makeshift bed she thought about trying to intervene but while she was weighing the sides of the escalating conflict a few of the others had already jumped in the try and make peace. She raised her eyebrow when the gun-toting idiot handed his weapon to the native girl who hid it, supposedly safely, under her pillow.

”Hopefully you’ll both be good little children now that teacher’s confiscated your ‘toy’. I’d ask if you’re compensating but the answer can’t be anything else given how much of a blowhard you’ve already been.”

Satisfied with her barb she plugged her earphones in, flicking her music on before frowning as she saw the battery blink down to 18%. Despite her dwindling musical options she certainly found it amusing to watch as they sat down to share a joint, or at least he appeared to be offering to a girl who had been at his throat moments before.

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H E A T H E RXD E V E R E U X
_____T H EXA R T I S T_____

Outfit: Link Here
Location: Aires - Daniel Military Academy
Dialogue Color ✦ #8A4E62
Thought Color ✧ #3A0012

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If you were wondering what had happened with Jules and Dorian within the past day’s journey, the answer would be a resounding “nothing”. Jules had woken with a stiff back, a headache, and the revelation that his dark roots were beginning to show and he had no way to stop them, which is to say that he had woken up to a bad mood. It was only perpetuated by the subsequent cramped cart ride, unpleasant tour of a less than cozy training academy where he would be spending the rest of forever, and the current interpersonal chaos that was this group and all they came into contact with.

He’d filled his mattress first, glad for once that he’d played set crew for a director that had demanded accuracy for a piece that took place in the middle ages (“If they cannot feel the straw, how are they supposed to feel the people who sleep on it? I ask you!), and was it, pale face twisted somewhere between a scowl and a pout.

Dorian was currently grimacing on his bed, although maybe that was just his face. He’d given up on filling his mattress halfway through, muttering something dark and unnerving* before simply setting the half-filled lining on his bed frame. He was currently running over the blade of his sword with a sharpening stone, the soft whick, whick noise of stone against steel lost in the surrounding cacophony of people. Somehow this was less concerning than the emptied gun Tallyho had tucked into her mattress. Jules wasn’t sure if that was because Ron was just that unnerving or if everyone was just comfortable with the thought that if Dorian went rogue, they were all screwed anyways.

*In Halesian, it translated to, “What a waste. Don’t they have goats to feed? At market you could sell this for…”

The two weren’t friends, per say, but they were certainly joined together in their division from the general hubbub. That and both had been bonded by the fact that they’d spent over twenty-four hours directly in each other’s presence and had not decided to kill or hate the other yet, which was a good track record among the group.

So, their conversation unfolded as such:

“It’s like we’re in Hell,” Jules said when a new Month Warrior appeared out of the blue and Ron started waving around a joint. It was an appealing sight, but Jules wasn’t quite desperate enough to ask anything of their resident psychopath.

Dorian grunted in response, although he wasn’t certain what Jules was talking about. In the days they’d known each other, Dorian had come to accept that most of the Earthers’ idioms and sayings were going to be lost on him. It didn’t make getting back into the swing of Common any easier, but one must be patient with aliens, he supposed.

“No, I mean it. There’s straw digging into my everything, we’ve had twenty fights in the last three seconds, I haven’t bathed in God knows how long, and… God, everyone’s awful,” Jules said, which wasn’t true, but that had never stopped him from complaining before.

“Little girl is good,” Dorian corrected with a shrug. “Bold. Strong character, yes?”

“You’re right. It is a good quality. She’s rather delightful,” came the reply, but it wasn’t from Jules who froze mid scoff. The voice was far too deep and warm, not slightly higher than usual and bitter. Both men abruptly turned their heads to the stranger in their midst.

A man was standing a little ways away from them, beaming in the direction of Kibi and Alina. He was a handsome man and a little older than anyone standing in the room, even Haru. His thick black hair and scruffy beard was flecked and peppered with gray and smile lines were evident on his dark face. Still, there was something about him that made his age hard to place, too much youth in his smile, too much energy in his body. He was not a large man, more lean and lithe, wiry muscles hinted at underneath his almost baggy training clothes. He was warmth personified, although there was something harder there, under the surface.

Before either could do much more than blink, the man was crossing the room and scooping Kibi up into his arms, swinging her high into the air with ease before pulling the child into his arms for a bear hug.

“Kibi, my darling, my dear, have you been playing hostess?” He said as he set her down in a smooth motion before grinning at Alina. “Or co-hostess with our lovely Alina, yes? Charming our new students, I’m sure.” The tone was strange, not quite doting adoration but not quite a tease.

Somewhere in the midst of all that motion, both Jules and Dorian realized who he was. For Dorian, it was from watching him walk to Kibi, all powerful stride and loose but precise movements. Jules picked it up around the time he dared to coo at Alina, ignoring her detached manner.

When the man turned to the majority of the group, it was only to confirm their suspicions.

“Hello and good evening. My name is Ryou Zerrin, the owner of this humble academy. Please forgive my lateness. I’m afraid that certain matters detained me.” He bowed deeply, although the motion lost any sort of seriousness the moment he straightened, delight spreading across his comely features.

“So, which one’s mine? Where’s my March?” Ryou appeared eager, a broad grin spread across his face, but his eyes were surprisingly focused, scanning over each warrior with an appraising eye. They were being judged for some quality, and some were clearly found wanting. His eyes skipped over Dorian automatically, lingered only briefly on Jules and most of the others, and merely brushed over Ron before landing on Angela.

“It’s her, right?” He said, asking Haru , who he had yet to officially greet, rather than the girl herself before turning back to her. “Has to be. Look at that sweet-faced smile.”

Jules, who remembered very little about whose month was whose but was quite certain that Angela had something to do with the Autumn, glanced over at Dorian and realized that Dorian had not been grimacing before. If he had been, there was no other word to describe the look of pure discomfort on his face when Ryou began his search for the March warrior, the realization that none of this was going to end well setting in quickly and forcefully. Well, that settled who March was.