Cyril Eisner
Spoiler: show
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xxxxxxxxxββββ* Male xxxxxββββ* 27 xxxxxββββ* 6'2" xxxxxββββ* 195 lbs. xxxxxββββ* Goddess Vessel
AAHPS γx ββββββββββ AAAINT γx ββββββββββ
AASTR γx ββββββββββ AAALCK γx ββββββββββ
AAMAG γx ββββββββββ AAADEF γx ββββββββββ
AADEX γx ββββββββββ AAARES γx ββββββββββ
AASPD γx ββββββββββ AAACHA γx ββββββββββ
AASTR γx ββββββββββ AAALCK γx ββββββββββ
AAMAG γx ββββββββββ AAADEF γx ββββββββββ
AADEX γx ββββββββββ AAARES γx ββββββββββ
AASPD γx ββββββββββ AAACHA γx ββββββββββ
-β REASON βΈβ considerable skill with black/dark magic
β LANCE βΈβ excellent with lances
β FELL STAR βΈβ fused with a god; high stats all around
β CREST OF FLAMES βΈβ major Crest of Flames
- - - - - - - You soon find you have few choices / I learned the voices died with me .γ
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Five years hasn't made nearly as much of a difference to Cyril as the one before it did. That one year, the year he spent at the monastery with his students, completely changed who he was. The Ashen Demon, a mercenary famous for his utter coldness, his complete lack of emotion both on and of the battlefield, warmed quickly to his students and colleagues, and though he will perhaps never be a very expressive man, the changes in his emotions are present, and the signs can be detected by those who know him well enough to understand what to look for. His face changes now, a softer, warmer resting expression being only one of many variations that might be found there.
The feelings beneath have changed, as well. In his students, he found friends, bonds, people to look out for and protect. It was perhaps the first time he'd ever really associated with people anywhere near his own age, and though the relationship was in part one of expert and acolytes, he truly believes they taught him just as much. For one, they taught him how it really was, to care for other people. He'd always cared about his father, of course, but in his students he found other ways of caring, ways that involved more openness and softness and warmth that didn't need to be disguised with gruff words.
So, too, did he learn what it was to have people who depended on him. To feel needed by people. To have friends, and... he also learned what it was to love someone, because of her. It was something he kept under wraps, would not act on, because she was his student and also because she was hurting so very much, and the very last thing he wanted to do was take advantage. And yet some part of him had begun to hope that, when the year was over, he might tell her what he felt, and learn what it was like either to feel in full the sting of rejection or... or maybe know what it was to love and be loved in turn.
But he fears that the five years he missed, floating in the ether, have ruined everything they all built together. He knows not what transpired, how many of those he cares about are still alive, or themselves, or any of it, but he cannot shake a feeling of profound guilt. Perhaps, if he had not rushed that man, the one who stopped him from saving his father, he might not have fallen. Perhaps he would have been able to be there for them, to help them.
But he wasn't. He wasn't there for them, and it seems that in the meantime, the entire world has begun to burn. The guilt of it is crushing, and the loneliness. All he can do is try to find them, his students, and be there now, to try to help them put the pieces of their lives and nations back together again. Try, and hope that it's enough. That it makes any difference at all.
The feelings beneath have changed, as well. In his students, he found friends, bonds, people to look out for and protect. It was perhaps the first time he'd ever really associated with people anywhere near his own age, and though the relationship was in part one of expert and acolytes, he truly believes they taught him just as much. For one, they taught him how it really was, to care for other people. He'd always cared about his father, of course, but in his students he found other ways of caring, ways that involved more openness and softness and warmth that didn't need to be disguised with gruff words.
So, too, did he learn what it was to have people who depended on him. To feel needed by people. To have friends, and... he also learned what it was to love someone, because of her. It was something he kept under wraps, would not act on, because she was his student and also because she was hurting so very much, and the very last thing he wanted to do was take advantage. And yet some part of him had begun to hope that, when the year was over, he might tell her what he felt, and learn what it was like either to feel in full the sting of rejection or... or maybe know what it was to love and be loved in turn.
But he fears that the five years he missed, floating in the ether, have ruined everything they all built together. He knows not what transpired, how many of those he cares about are still alive, or themselves, or any of it, but he cannot shake a feeling of profound guilt. Perhaps, if he had not rushed that man, the one who stopped him from saving his father, he might not have fallen. Perhaps he would have been able to be there for them, to help them.
But he wasn't. He wasn't there for them, and it seems that in the meantime, the entire world has begun to burn. The guilt of it is crushing, and the loneliness. All he can do is try to find them, his students, and be there now, to try to help them put the pieces of their lives and nations back together again. Try, and hope that it's enough. That it makes any difference at all.
- - - - - - - But my peace has always depended / on all the ashes in my wake.γ
Much of Cyril's past is a mystery, even to him. Truthfully, he isn't even sure exactly how old he is, though he figures he's probably somewhere in the vicinity of twenty summers, perhaps as few as eighteen or as many as twenty-five. His own memory is unreliable on the point, too, which doesn't help much. His father hasn't told him, and truthfully he's never really cared enough to ask. What he does know is that he was born on the last day of the Ethereal Moon, somewhere around two decades ago, and that his mother died shortly after his birth.
He was raised entirely by his father, Jeralt Eisner, who has to Cyril's knowledge always been a mercenary. He doesn't know anything about his grandparents, save that they are also dead, a significant amount of time ago, from the way his father discusses it. Cyril was a strange child, inexpressive and quiet even when he was very young. Though odd, this had its conveniences, as well, and he integrated fairly easily and without fuss into a lifestyle of constant travel and work. When he was young, he cleaned and maintained the mercenary company's equipment and animals, which taught him several vital stills.
Almost as soon as he could walk, his father had all kinds of weapons in his hands. Swords, axes, lancesβhe learned how to use them all. It was almost singleminded, the way Cyril devoted himself to the training, as if some part of him had a deep instinct for it, one that went beyond mere talent and into something about his very nature. The footwork of martial disciplines became the basis for the way he moves at all times. The reflex and reaction of the battlefield are simply automatic, making his balance and reaction times uncanny, nearly flawless. It wasn't long before he was joining his father and the company on jobs, probably around the time he turned thirteen or so.
Given Jeralt's fame, and the profile of the kind of jobs he could pull, it wasn't that long before Cyril had entirely unknowingly crafted a reputation for himself as well. An adolescent boy, moving over battlefields as quietly as a ghost, golden eyes glittering in the dark, a strange, passive calm etched into his features even as he hewed down foes twice his size, who should have been more than he could handle. It was, in retrospect, a thing that could very much terrify grown men, and the names "Ashen Demon" and "Ashen Ghost" came about as a result of this. Between his father, himself, and the mercenaries they trained with, the group was formidable.
Of late, they've set up residence in Remire Village. The band has recently downsized after the retirement of some of the older lieutenants, and Jeralt intends to rebuild its numbers by training locals, or so he says the plan is. Cyril is fine going along with it, save for one troubling consideration. For some reason, since they settled in Remire, the dreams he's had as long as he can remember, of ancient battlefields, destruction and blood and death, have grown more frequent and powerful. And with them, he has begun to dream of a strange, green haired child who speaks like someone's grandmother and sits upon a throne of stone.
Something about the dreams disturbs him in a way nothing ever has. It feels like something is changing, either in him or the world around him or both, and he isn't sure what to make of it all. Nor, indeed, what to make of the fact that his father has so little to say about any of it. It's put an itch under his skin, and he has no idea what would even begin to ease it.
He was raised entirely by his father, Jeralt Eisner, who has to Cyril's knowledge always been a mercenary. He doesn't know anything about his grandparents, save that they are also dead, a significant amount of time ago, from the way his father discusses it. Cyril was a strange child, inexpressive and quiet even when he was very young. Though odd, this had its conveniences, as well, and he integrated fairly easily and without fuss into a lifestyle of constant travel and work. When he was young, he cleaned and maintained the mercenary company's equipment and animals, which taught him several vital stills.
Almost as soon as he could walk, his father had all kinds of weapons in his hands. Swords, axes, lancesβhe learned how to use them all. It was almost singleminded, the way Cyril devoted himself to the training, as if some part of him had a deep instinct for it, one that went beyond mere talent and into something about his very nature. The footwork of martial disciplines became the basis for the way he moves at all times. The reflex and reaction of the battlefield are simply automatic, making his balance and reaction times uncanny, nearly flawless. It wasn't long before he was joining his father and the company on jobs, probably around the time he turned thirteen or so.
Given Jeralt's fame, and the profile of the kind of jobs he could pull, it wasn't that long before Cyril had entirely unknowingly crafted a reputation for himself as well. An adolescent boy, moving over battlefields as quietly as a ghost, golden eyes glittering in the dark, a strange, passive calm etched into his features even as he hewed down foes twice his size, who should have been more than he could handle. It was, in retrospect, a thing that could very much terrify grown men, and the names "Ashen Demon" and "Ashen Ghost" came about as a result of this. Between his father, himself, and the mercenaries they trained with, the group was formidable.
Of late, they've set up residence in Remire Village. The band has recently downsized after the retirement of some of the older lieutenants, and Jeralt intends to rebuild its numbers by training locals, or so he says the plan is. Cyril is fine going along with it, save for one troubling consideration. For some reason, since they settled in Remire, the dreams he's had as long as he can remember, of ancient battlefields, destruction and blood and death, have grown more frequent and powerful. And with them, he has begun to dream of a strange, green haired child who speaks like someone's grandmother and sits upon a throne of stone.
Something about the dreams disturbs him in a way nothing ever has. It feels like something is changing, either in him or the world around him or both, and he isn't sure what to make of it all. Nor, indeed, what to make of the fact that his father has so little to say about any of it. It's put an itch under his skin, and he has no idea what would even begin to ease it.
- - - - - - - Don't you ever tame your demons / but always keep 'em on a leash .γ
AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
He understood it, truly. Why Senka was angry with him, after all that had happened. He'd promised to be there when she needed him, and he wasn't. He's floored by her forgiveness, still not entirely sure if he deserves it, and more than anything still painfully in love with her. Where things go from here is something he's willing to wait and see on, but regardless, he knows that everything he has is hers. Up to and including his very life.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Though everyone has felt the effects of five years of war, not everyone has changed to the same degree because of it. Cyril, of course, didn't really feel the effects as such at the time. Thea did, but aside from him he thinks perhaps she resembles the version of herself he knew more than anyone else does. That's not to say she hasn't changed at all, of course. Far from it. But she has kept her heart, and he's grateful.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Cyril figured out quite quickly upon his awakening that he was in no meaningful sense anyone's leader anymore. Five years has made Mercer more than anyone into one of those, and his former teacher was happy to cede any lingering claim to the spot. It's only right, in a way, and Cyril is happy to advise. He's genuinely pleased to see how well Mercer's doing in that capacity, even if the war itself is something he'd never have wanted.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Sorcha spends a lot of time with him these days. Or more than she does with anyone else, at least. She's told him that this is because she remembers the most about him, and the memories are less painful, somehow. Cyril isn't sure exactly why this is, but while they wait for her to remember the rest, he is happy to help in whatever small way he can. So he talks with her and answers her questions, and hopes for the best.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Of course, that fact makes sense, in some respect. Death is nipping at Vridel's heels, it seems, and whether it comes via the war or his own condition is something Cyril's quite sure he doesn't much care about. Knowing Vridel, he probably hopes for the former, as at least there might be some use in that for everyone else. Still for the moment he doesn't seem to be seeking death, and they probably have Thea to thank for that.
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Coding by Aethiya, inspired by maccotango's guide to the same.
Sorcha Blaiddyd
Spoiler: show
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xxxxxxxxxββββ* Female xxxxxββββ* 22 xxxxxββββ* 5'8" xxxxxββββ* 120 lbs. xxxxxββββ* Queen of Faerghus
AAHPS γx ββββββββββ AAAINT γx ββββββββββ
AASTR γx ββββββββββ AAALCK γx ββββββββββ
AAMAG γx ββββββββββ AAADEF γx ββββββββββ
AADEX γx ββββββββββ AAARES γx ββββββββββ
AASPD γx ββββββββββ AAACHA γx ββββββββββ
AASTR γx ββββββββββ AAALCK γx ββββββββββ
AAMAG γx ββββββββββ AAADEF γx ββββββββββ
AADEX γx ββββββββββ AAARES γx ββββββββββ
AASPD γx ββββββββββ AAACHA γx ββββββββββ
-β BOW βΈβ excellent with bows
β FLYING βΈβ a natural on pegasusback
β FALCON KNIGHT βΈβ exceptionally speedy and mobile; skilled
β CREST OF BLAIDDYD βΈβ Major Crest of Blaiddyd
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Sorcha EilΓs Blaiddyd, once the future Queen of Faerghus, is a changed woman.
In the years after the fall of Garreg Mach Monastery, she was captured by traitors in her own kingdom, including one of the few people she trustedβCornelia Arnim. Held captive and hostage to Cornelia's sinister experiments, she learned that much of her life had been a lie from the very beginning. As one of Those Who Slither in the Dark, the plague that elevated Cornelia to prominence was engineered by her to begin with, as was Sorcha's periodic childhood memory loss. The Tragedy of Duscur, too, and the deaths of her father and stepmother and friends, was all contrived by Cornelia and her allies.
In the period of years between her capture and the present, Sorcha was subjected to nothing short of torture. Crest experiments, strange blood transfusions, even the forced amputation of her right arm and its replacement with a responsive, mechanical construct, to say nothing of her repeated dosing with amnesiac substances. In a way, the last was a blessing, for she remembers much of her torment only vaguely.
But even without quite understanding why or how, Sorcha knows that something within her is fundamentally broken now. She's not even a whole person, and she never will be again. What is left is the shell of a woman, with nothing left to call her own. Her people believe her dead, her memories are too far away to graspβeven her identity is gone, her very being infused with the blood and essence of a people she knows call themselves the Agarthans. She is no longer fully human, and many of the experiments have robbed her of various human traits.
She's... hollow, now, bereft of all the things that used to make her herself, and she understands that much even if she doesn't remember exactly what she's lost. There is an ache in her, one that cannot be assuaged by anything she has encounters, a missing something where perhaps her heart used to be. Her dreams for the future of her people, too, have fallen by the wayside: she is no longer fit to be their Queen, no longer capable of executing even the most basic responsibilities of the office. Nor does she any longer feel any connection to them, or her country, or even her name. It is just a thing to be called, a meaningless designation.
Now, all she knows is pain. The pain of emptiness, yes, and the pain of reaching for things unfound. But also physical pain, old wounds and new scars and cuts and bruises and the aching nothing where her arm used to be. She's done her best to numb herself to it, to numb herself to everything. She doesn't even know why she's alive anymore, really, except that every time she thinks to hand her tormentor one last, pyrrhic defeat, she cannot. She cannot bring herself to die, but she doesn't recall why that is. Didn't she promise someone...?
In the years after the fall of Garreg Mach Monastery, she was captured by traitors in her own kingdom, including one of the few people she trustedβCornelia Arnim. Held captive and hostage to Cornelia's sinister experiments, she learned that much of her life had been a lie from the very beginning. As one of Those Who Slither in the Dark, the plague that elevated Cornelia to prominence was engineered by her to begin with, as was Sorcha's periodic childhood memory loss. The Tragedy of Duscur, too, and the deaths of her father and stepmother and friends, was all contrived by Cornelia and her allies.
In the period of years between her capture and the present, Sorcha was subjected to nothing short of torture. Crest experiments, strange blood transfusions, even the forced amputation of her right arm and its replacement with a responsive, mechanical construct, to say nothing of her repeated dosing with amnesiac substances. In a way, the last was a blessing, for she remembers much of her torment only vaguely.
But even without quite understanding why or how, Sorcha knows that something within her is fundamentally broken now. She's not even a whole person, and she never will be again. What is left is the shell of a woman, with nothing left to call her own. Her people believe her dead, her memories are too far away to graspβeven her identity is gone, her very being infused with the blood and essence of a people she knows call themselves the Agarthans. She is no longer fully human, and many of the experiments have robbed her of various human traits.
She's... hollow, now, bereft of all the things that used to make her herself, and she understands that much even if she doesn't remember exactly what she's lost. There is an ache in her, one that cannot be assuaged by anything she has encounters, a missing something where perhaps her heart used to be. Her dreams for the future of her people, too, have fallen by the wayside: she is no longer fit to be their Queen, no longer capable of executing even the most basic responsibilities of the office. Nor does she any longer feel any connection to them, or her country, or even her name. It is just a thing to be called, a meaningless designation.
Now, all she knows is pain. The pain of emptiness, yes, and the pain of reaching for things unfound. But also physical pain, old wounds and new scars and cuts and bruises and the aching nothing where her arm used to be. She's done her best to numb herself to it, to numb herself to everything. She doesn't even know why she's alive anymore, really, except that every time she thinks to hand her tormentor one last, pyrrhic defeat, she cannot. She cannot bring herself to die, but she doesn't recall why that is. Didn't she promise someone...?
- - - - - - - Hide your soul out of his reach / shiver to that broken beat.γ
Sorcha was born in Imperial Year 1163, during the Blue Sea Moon, to King Lambert of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and his first wife, SinaΓ©d. Her mother died not more than a year after her birth, the victim of a plague that ravaged much of Fhirdiad and the surrounding area. In truth, the plague almost took Sorcha as well, but she survived, something that those who knew the most of the incident considered to be a miracle. It was a little bit of history that got out into the general populace, and she earned a reputation for a rare hardiness of spirit very agreeable to Faerghus culture, and the affection nickname "Miracle Princess," for this as well as being born with a Crest of Blaiddyd, far from a guarantee even in the royal family. Many believed her particularly blessed by the Goddess, though for the most part Sorcha remained unaware of these rumors.
Her childhood was otherwise largely typical of nobility in Faerghus. She was well-educated in history, politics, mathematics, and literature, as well as in civic engineering, an enterprise that had recently become of great importance in Faerghus, as it was improvements to Fhirdiad's infrastructure that were credited with ending the plague, the work of a brilliant mage and engineer named Cornelia.
When Sorcha was eight years old, her father remarried the exiled former Empress of Adrestia, Patricia. Patricia is the only mother figure Sorcha really remembers, though she was always somewhat distant with the Princess, melancholy in a way that Sorcha never seemed to be able to touch, no matter how many times her childish self tried to reach out her hand. She did, however, make friends with one of Patricia's children, Vridel von Hresvelg. They knew each other for about three years before Vridel returned to the Empire, leaving Sorcha once again without siblings of any kind.
Only a year later, on a diplomatic venture to Duscur for peace negotiations, the royal family and knights in the Holy Kingdom delegation were attacked and slaughtered by persons unknown. Sorcha, along as part of her training to be Queen someday, was the sole survivor of that incident, which killed her father, stepmother, and her teachers and mentors among the Kingdom Knights.
In the aftermath of that event, a grieving nation and shattered nobility came to blame the people of Duscur, and the acting regent ordered immediate retaliation, despite Sorcha's protests to the contrary. She was only a girl, after all, not yet ready to be Queen, and even the Miracle Princess could not save Duscur from what happened next. What she did do was steal a pegasus from the knights' barracks and fly as fast as she could to the site, but Duscur was a small nation, and Faerghus's attack swift and executed on all sides at once. Sorcha flew into the burning capital, determined to do something, anything to put a stop to the killing.
But she was much too late. She came upon a group of soldiers at the palace, about to kill a young woman not much older than herself, and Sorcha threw herself in front of the girl, ordering the soldiers to stand down. They did, with reluctance, and after some discussion, Sorcha flew the girl home with her. The girl, named Senka, became one of very few survivors of the Tragedy of Duscur, and also Sorcha's best friend.
In her sixteenth year, she enrolled, along with Senka, at the Garreg Mach Monastery Officers' Academy.
Her childhood was otherwise largely typical of nobility in Faerghus. She was well-educated in history, politics, mathematics, and literature, as well as in civic engineering, an enterprise that had recently become of great importance in Faerghus, as it was improvements to Fhirdiad's infrastructure that were credited with ending the plague, the work of a brilliant mage and engineer named Cornelia.
When Sorcha was eight years old, her father remarried the exiled former Empress of Adrestia, Patricia. Patricia is the only mother figure Sorcha really remembers, though she was always somewhat distant with the Princess, melancholy in a way that Sorcha never seemed to be able to touch, no matter how many times her childish self tried to reach out her hand. She did, however, make friends with one of Patricia's children, Vridel von Hresvelg. They knew each other for about three years before Vridel returned to the Empire, leaving Sorcha once again without siblings of any kind.
Only a year later, on a diplomatic venture to Duscur for peace negotiations, the royal family and knights in the Holy Kingdom delegation were attacked and slaughtered by persons unknown. Sorcha, along as part of her training to be Queen someday, was the sole survivor of that incident, which killed her father, stepmother, and her teachers and mentors among the Kingdom Knights.
In the aftermath of that event, a grieving nation and shattered nobility came to blame the people of Duscur, and the acting regent ordered immediate retaliation, despite Sorcha's protests to the contrary. She was only a girl, after all, not yet ready to be Queen, and even the Miracle Princess could not save Duscur from what happened next. What she did do was steal a pegasus from the knights' barracks and fly as fast as she could to the site, but Duscur was a small nation, and Faerghus's attack swift and executed on all sides at once. Sorcha flew into the burning capital, determined to do something, anything to put a stop to the killing.
But she was much too late. She came upon a group of soldiers at the palace, about to kill a young woman not much older than herself, and Sorcha threw herself in front of the girl, ordering the soldiers to stand down. They did, with reluctance, and after some discussion, Sorcha flew the girl home with her. The girl, named Senka, became one of very few survivors of the Tragedy of Duscur, and also Sorcha's best friend.
In her sixteenth year, she enrolled, along with Senka, at the Garreg Mach Monastery Officers' Academy.
- - - - - - - You gotta wipe the dirt off of your hands..γ
AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
There's a part of her that wonders if she, as she is now, could really be enough for someone who loved who she was before. Sorcha's remembered bits and pieces, and while she knows she was never anything like carefree, she's also aware that she had more... spirit, back then. Something that seems more broken than intact now. And yet she's aware also that this her is developing powerful feelings for Mercerβand that terrifies her.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Sorcha doesn't exactly know what to make of Senka. She has this feeling like she's perpetually disappointing her friend by not remembering more, or faster, and she's not really sure where it comes from. She also feels like the other woman told her her feelings weren't enough, in the discussion they had over lunch, and it's left her feeling a bit unbalanced. Inadequate. Certainly uncomfortable. But... flying was nice.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Her memories of Cyril are relatively intact. Or the came back faster than a lot of others did, as though somehow that inherent brightness in his soul refuses to be erased, powerful even against the magic Cornelia worked. For this reason, Sorcha is sure that he was her teacher, that he cared, and that he died. One of her few uncomplicated emotions is her relief to know he's alive. She spends a lot of time with him.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Perhaps most of everyone, Thea makes Sorcha feel comfortable as she is right now. Maybe it's because she remembers a fair bit about the other woman, or maybe it's just that her warmth doesn't seem to be in any way dependent on whether Sorcha ever remembers anything else. In either case, it's been really... nice. She likes spending time with Thea, but is understanding of the fact that most of Thea's time is spent with Vridel, given his condition.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
She wonders how much the others notice. The ways Vridel is slowly getting sicker, more weary. She doesn't think he's on death's door or anything, but it does worry her that even in his weakened state he takes to battle with the rest of them. She'd never think to tell him not to, of courseβshe doesn't have the right. She thinks she probably lost it along with everything else she lost, but it doesn't stop her from worrying about him, somehow.
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Coding by Aethiya, inspired by maccotango's guide to the same.
Vridel von Hresvelg
Spoiler: show
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xxxxxxxxxββββ* Male xxxxxββββ* 24 xxxxxββββ* 6'0" xxxxxββββ* 166 lbs. xxxxxββββ* Adrestian Emperor
AAHPS γx ββββββββββ AAAINT γx ββββββββββ
AASTR γx ββββββββββ AAALCK γx ββββββββββ
AAMAG γx ββββββββββ AAADEF γx ββββββββββ
AADEX γx ββββββββββ AAARES γx ββββββββββ
AASPD γx ββββββββββ AAACHA γx ββββββββββ
AASTR γx ββββββββββ AAALCK γx ββββββββββ
AAMAG γx ββββββββββ AAADEF γx ββββββββββ
AADEX γx ββββββββββ AAARES γx ββββββββββ
AASPD γx ββββββββββ AAACHA γx ββββββββββ
-β FAITH βΈβ excellent in white magic
β REASON βΈβ quite good with dark/black magic
β MORTAL SAVANT βΈβ magical and martial double-threat; highly dangerous
β DUAL CRESTS βΈβ minor Crest of Seiros and major Crest of Noa
- - - - - - - Call a doctor, say a prayer / choose a god you think is there .γ
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Vridel's time is running out, and he well knows it.
After his uncle's attack on Garreg Mach Monastery, Vridel swiftly returned to the Empire, where he demanded his father cede to him the crown, for what little it was still worth. Ionius abided the request, and Vridel was crowned Emperor Vridel I of Adrestia. He immediately assembled what nobles he could, ones willing to fight by his side for the soul of his country and the soul of FΓ³dlan. There were few enough, but together their force was not inconsiderable. Unfortunately, within the Empire, those loyal to Volkhard and Prime Minister Aegir far outnumber crown loyalists, and as a result Vridel was forced to flee his own country.
At first, he and his forces took refuge within Brigid, which under the influence of his friend and intelligence man Callum Macneary, the King's grand-nephew, declared its independence from the Empire. But the entire time he was there, Vridel's itch to act only grew. He's still deeply suspicious of the Church, and frustrated that he was pulled away from it, and his allies, so close to the truth.
Vridel took the news of Sorcha's and Senka's deaths quite hardβhis friend and his sister were important to him, and knowing that for all his work he was unable to help them was another blow all its own, to say nothing of the fact that it was his country that did that to them. People he knew to be suspicious of, people he should have watched more closely, people who sprung a trap under his nose. He, who was supposed to be their Emperor someday.
He's Emperor of islands and dust, now. The hopelessness of his own situation has worn away much of his facade, and what he thinks of as many of his illusions. Constant clashes with Imperial troops have honed him over the last five years, but have also worn away much of the person he was in peacetime. Vridel is tired, now, and hard. He treats those around him coldly, refusing to get close to anyone who could just as soon be dead tomorrow, and on the field, he fights alone. He has grown much too good at it, and at deadening himself to what he sees and does.
It feels like every good part of him has died, too, including the naive idealism that made him believe he could change the world. These days, he mostly waits for it to end: for death to claim him on the field. And still, he keeps fighting. Keeps waiting, too, though he isn't sure what he's waiting for. Maybe word of a little woman, strong and verdant-haired, who keeps the last corner of his heart from freezing over. Maybe for anything to come along and wake him up again. Bring him back to life. Most likely, he simply waits for his foreshortened lifespan to run out, for his Crests to consume him, for his final, endless rest to come at last.
After his uncle's attack on Garreg Mach Monastery, Vridel swiftly returned to the Empire, where he demanded his father cede to him the crown, for what little it was still worth. Ionius abided the request, and Vridel was crowned Emperor Vridel I of Adrestia. He immediately assembled what nobles he could, ones willing to fight by his side for the soul of his country and the soul of FΓ³dlan. There were few enough, but together their force was not inconsiderable. Unfortunately, within the Empire, those loyal to Volkhard and Prime Minister Aegir far outnumber crown loyalists, and as a result Vridel was forced to flee his own country.
At first, he and his forces took refuge within Brigid, which under the influence of his friend and intelligence man Callum Macneary, the King's grand-nephew, declared its independence from the Empire. But the entire time he was there, Vridel's itch to act only grew. He's still deeply suspicious of the Church, and frustrated that he was pulled away from it, and his allies, so close to the truth.
Vridel took the news of Sorcha's and Senka's deaths quite hardβhis friend and his sister were important to him, and knowing that for all his work he was unable to help them was another blow all its own, to say nothing of the fact that it was his country that did that to them. People he knew to be suspicious of, people he should have watched more closely, people who sprung a trap under his nose. He, who was supposed to be their Emperor someday.
He's Emperor of islands and dust, now. The hopelessness of his own situation has worn away much of his facade, and what he thinks of as many of his illusions. Constant clashes with Imperial troops have honed him over the last five years, but have also worn away much of the person he was in peacetime. Vridel is tired, now, and hard. He treats those around him coldly, refusing to get close to anyone who could just as soon be dead tomorrow, and on the field, he fights alone. He has grown much too good at it, and at deadening himself to what he sees and does.
It feels like every good part of him has died, too, including the naive idealism that made him believe he could change the world. These days, he mostly waits for it to end: for death to claim him on the field. And still, he keeps fighting. Keeps waiting, too, though he isn't sure what he's waiting for. Maybe word of a little woman, strong and verdant-haired, who keeps the last corner of his heart from freezing over. Maybe for anything to come along and wake him up again. Bring him back to life. Most likely, he simply waits for his foreshortened lifespan to run out, for his Crests to consume him, for his final, endless rest to come at last.
- - - - - - - and they'll never say die.γ
Vridel was the ninth of twelve children born to the Emperor and Empress of Adrestia, entering the world in Imperial Year 1161. As part of such a large family, he was never expected to become the heirβin almost every other case, the eight children in front of him would surely have prevented it. But of course, his was not every other case. The irregularity in Vridel's life began shortly after he turned ten, when the Insurrection of the Seven stripped his father, Emperor Ionius, of much of his power. Vridel and his mother Patricia, as well as several of the younger siblings of the family, were taken in exile to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, where his mother remarried the widowed King. She lived separately from them thereafter, leaving the children in the care of their uncle, Volkhard von Arundel.
Three years later, the children were returned to the Empire, and the real trials began. His uncle forced he and his siblings to endure torturous experimentation with Crests; his father was powerless to interfere, stripped of his power and slowly withering himself. The experiments slew all of the Imperial children but Vridel himself, leaving him with an additional crest and hair turned white from the strain it put on his body to bear both. He fears as well that his lifespan has drastically shortened, and while his crests grant him considerable power, tapping their power often leaves him exhausted for days afterwards.
It is not a part of his life he enjoys discussing by any means, but it changed who he was, in very important ways. Those years of pain and torment are the reason why Vridel so hates the way crests are equated with worth, the way the Church calls them 'blessings' and signs of the goddess's 'favor.' He does not yet know the full truth behind what they really are, but has grown deeply suspicious of the teachings of the Church of Seiros, and in fact is almost certain they're hiding something important from the public.
He enrolled in the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery in part to get close to the Church, to be able to discern the truth of this hypothesis. It was also in part to get a sense for the other leaders of FΓ³dlan, so that he might more effectively plan his next move. He doesn't know exactly what it's going to be yetβthere is simply too much he doesn't know. But nevertheless, he knows he'll be taking some kind of action, and has already laid the groundwork accordingly.
In the meantime, there is much to do, and much to learn. Of paramount importance, of course, is making sure no one at the monastery catches on to his aims, and as such he wears an effective facade in the meantime, casting himself as an empty-headed philanderer and the very pinnacle of useless nobility. He was never expected to inherit, after all, so why should anyone expect him to know much statecraft or more than the bare minimum of history or politics? He has to work to conceal his competence on the field, as well, but he's clever enough to hide his success behind others, to make suggestions that sound careless, or are just enough wrong that someone else can easily 'correct' them and arrive at the right answer, that sort of thing.
He was chosen as house leader of the Black Eagles because of status alone, he's sure, but it serves well enough. In but a few short days, the houses shall move into their quarters at the monastery and commence their first group training exercises. When that happens, the future will begin.
Three years later, the children were returned to the Empire, and the real trials began. His uncle forced he and his siblings to endure torturous experimentation with Crests; his father was powerless to interfere, stripped of his power and slowly withering himself. The experiments slew all of the Imperial children but Vridel himself, leaving him with an additional crest and hair turned white from the strain it put on his body to bear both. He fears as well that his lifespan has drastically shortened, and while his crests grant him considerable power, tapping their power often leaves him exhausted for days afterwards.
It is not a part of his life he enjoys discussing by any means, but it changed who he was, in very important ways. Those years of pain and torment are the reason why Vridel so hates the way crests are equated with worth, the way the Church calls them 'blessings' and signs of the goddess's 'favor.' He does not yet know the full truth behind what they really are, but has grown deeply suspicious of the teachings of the Church of Seiros, and in fact is almost certain they're hiding something important from the public.
He enrolled in the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery in part to get close to the Church, to be able to discern the truth of this hypothesis. It was also in part to get a sense for the other leaders of FΓ³dlan, so that he might more effectively plan his next move. He doesn't know exactly what it's going to be yetβthere is simply too much he doesn't know. But nevertheless, he knows he'll be taking some kind of action, and has already laid the groundwork accordingly.
In the meantime, there is much to do, and much to learn. Of paramount importance, of course, is making sure no one at the monastery catches on to his aims, and as such he wears an effective facade in the meantime, casting himself as an empty-headed philanderer and the very pinnacle of useless nobility. He was never expected to inherit, after all, so why should anyone expect him to know much statecraft or more than the bare minimum of history or politics? He has to work to conceal his competence on the field, as well, but he's clever enough to hide his success behind others, to make suggestions that sound careless, or are just enough wrong that someone else can easily 'correct' them and arrive at the right answer, that sort of thing.
He was chosen as house leader of the Black Eagles because of status alone, he's sure, but it serves well enough. In but a few short days, the houses shall move into their quarters at the monastery and commence their first group training exercises. When that happens, the future will begin.
- - - - - - - Good for you, you fooled everyone .γ
AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
It was a painful thing at the same time as a great relief, to see Thea again after so much time. He was terrified that she would see what he had become, how close to the edge of sanity he tread, and hate him at last in the way he always expected. But of course she didn't, and now he wishes for nothing so much as that he'd made his way to her sooner. Five years gone, and so little time left... it's almost too much to bear, knowing what he's cost them.
x
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
He can't say he approves of the way she let them all think she was dead, but Vridel understands. Understands the feeling of having died while still somehow technically being alive. Understands why it would have been easier to leave behind her name and her life to focus on what she felt she had to do, to protect her people. And so despite everything, he found that forgiving her that was the easiest thing in the world.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
It's not that he lacks confidence in Mercer, or the others. It's just that there's always been something about the Professor in particular that inspires it. Maybe it's the divine influence, maybe it's just the fact that he's already seen them through so many battles without a single death. Whatever it is, having Cyril back on their side has given Vridel renewed hope for the outcome of all this. He'll hold to it as long as he can.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
He doesn't know exactly what happened to Sorcha, but he knows that at the very least she barely remembers him. It hurts, he can't deny that, but he has faith in her ability to recover from whatever foul magic was worked on her. And if not, well... he's willing to earn the right to be called her brother again, whatever that takes. More than anything, he's just glad she's alive, so that they can have the chance at all.
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AAFondnessxx γx ββββββββββ
AARivalry xx γx ββββββββββ
AAAttraction γx ββββββββββ
AARespectxxx γx ββββββββββ
This line is here to take space.
Vridel has absolutely zero issues with Mercer being the leader of the combined army they're fielding. Honestly, if anyone's done the work, it's him. He trusts his friend's head for strategy, and more importantly knows that the opinions and expertise of others will be heeded where sensible. Personally, he knows Mercer's struggling right now, and wants to help in whatever way he can. It may not be a lot, but perhaps it will count for something.
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Coding by Aethiya, inspired by maccotango's guide to the same.