[Characters] Heroes of the All Realm

[Olympia]

This is a very temporary thread until I can find a more permanent solution. But in the mean time, please post any public-facing contents you would like about your character here.

In an ideal situation, all of your memories also become public-facing, though not necessarily known in-game by all characters. If there is a particular memory you'd like to keep under wraps, then that's fine for now, but eventually, I'd like to get all revealed at least in an OOC context.

[Mairien]

East and West Name: Mahājanī Race: Lotus Elf Age: 72 Appearance This young elven woman looks unabashedly foreign. Dressed in shades of brown, ochre, and light pink, in clothes of unfamiliar shape and cut, she makes no attempt to hide the fact that she is not from these lands. She adorns herself in the fashion of her far-away home with a painted red spot on the forehead between the eyebrows, signifying whatever it might to her people. She is of small stature, short, with raven-black hair and brown skin. Her demeanour is friendly, she smiles frequently, and yet she is strangely calm as if she were thoroughly oblivious to her vulnerable appearance. She keeps a noticeably large personal space, does not touch people, and avoids being touched deftly and often inconspicuously. She speaks Helesan fluently and chooses her words well, but has a noticeable accent. Her voice is surprisingly dark for a girl of her size, yet soft and pleasant. Perhaps on account of the foreign language, she speaks measuredly, choosing her words very deliberately. There is a strange otherworldly look in her eyes, and sometimes a shimmer of ardour and fascination as if an unknown fire were burning within her.

Character Background Personality Trait 1: Mahajani keeps to her own foreign ways in matters of dress, grooming, ritual and nutrition (she is a vegetarian) in a quiet, unobtrusive and inoffensive way. Personality Trait 2: Mahajani is a gentle soul, full of goodwill and without prejudice. Flaw 1: Mahajani's concerns and perspective on the world are at an angle to how most people view things. In consequence, she can appear insensitive and even callous. Flaw 2: Mahajani is not very open to considering other people's opinions, especially in religious or metaphysical matters. As far as she is concerned, the truth, or something very close to it, is known to her, and everyone else is ultimately wasting their time - though that is an opinion she tends to keep to herself. Ideal: The ultimate achievement for a sentient being is to attain spiritual perfection. Worldly pursuits have merit only insofar as they are instrumental to this goal for oneself and others. Bond: Mahajani strives for nothing less than the liberation of all living beings from suffering. Every small step she takes is part of the unfathomably long path to that final goal. Humans pose a special conundrum in this connection. Trinket: An invitation letter from King Bhuttapana of Pekkara, in which he crossed out his title. Character Class: Cleric (Knowledge) Background: Far Traveller Philosophy: Oligarchic Stoic Skeptic Connection: Cryptic Prophecy

Factoids   Factoid 1: Mahajani has founded some kind of spiritual or intellectual community in Athyria. People are not entirely sure or in agreement about what it is. Some say they are a foreign cult, as they appear to perform rituals of their own, but they do not speak against the gods or promote new ones. Others therefore consider them a school of philosophers instead. They appear to promote happiness through a virtuous life without regard to material possessions and social status, which is not an unprecedented position at least within Helesa at large. Those who find occasion to talk about the movement have come to dub it rhoism or rhoicism, and its adherents as rhoics (rhoïkoi, 'streamers'). Factoid 2: Mahajani has the ear of the queen, who has a favourable view of the rhoics. The have occasional meetings in seclusion, sometimes for an entire day or two, and their activities during this time are the subject of some speculation. Among the more unflattering hypotheses are the views that they engage in dangerous magical experimentation and that they maintain an unnatural sexual relationship.

Memories   Memory 1: Ideal For the dozenth time, Mahajani's attention was violently pulled away from her breath, where it was supposed to stay, and arrested by the unusual noise that carried from afar. It was never truly quiet in the monastery, there were always the birds or the activities of its other inhabitants. But one got used to them. Today, however, the nearby village was holding a celebration of something or other, possibly the wedding of someone with too much money to spend - though it had to be admitted that to spend it on the enjoyment of his guests wasn't the worst thing. Mahajani caught herself reflecting on this. Lured away by the noise itself, her mind had now begun to contemplate its causes and thereby moved even further from its target. And again, for the dozenth time, she returned her attention to the breath and observed as it rose and fell. It was barely a minute before she was once again distracted. This time, however, it was the voice of another monk that pierced into her awareness. "Sir, it is impossible to meditate with this incessant noise!" he complained desperately to their teacher. "Do not blame the noise for disturbing you", came the reply. Mahajani had not opened her eyes, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "It is you who is disturbing the noise!" A wave of muted laughter swept through the assembled meditators and subsided in peace. Smiles lingered. Memory 2: Bond It was difficult to concentrate. Mahajani was trying to meditate, but the thought of suffering came up again and again. What she had learnt today had deeply unsettled her. The elves of the East kept these human servants, far in excess of their own number, who died like flies and bred like rabbits. Many an elf took more than a century to attain liberation, if they even succeeded - and apparently humans never even lived to a hundred years! And yet they had all the same capacities for thought and feeling as any other sentient race. They could be helped - but they had so little time! And what was worse, they had the capacity for evil. They were not like the denizens of the animal realm, which lived out a series of short, brutish lives in accordance with their accrued kamma, and were then inevitably reborn into the realm of sentient beings. An animal could make its fate neither better nor worse. But the humans had this potential, and despite the shortness and miserableness of their lives, they couldn't be taken for granted a rise above it and a chance to be liberated in a lifetime or several. They could make matters worse if they acted wrongly, and could trap themselves in an inescapably cycle of misery. A virtuous human, surely, could be reborn as another, longer-lived being, of course - but it would be so much more difficult for them to act rightly merely for the benefit of their future selves. Whatever benefit they would otherwise have seen in their own lives might well take longer to manifest than it would for death to arrive. Mahajani felt like her entire being was on fire, permeated by suffering that was not just her own. She observed the tingling sensations of tears flowing down her cheeks, and yet she sat entirely still and did not sob. Slowly, the warmth of compassion that glowed within her expanded, flowed through her like a balm and eased her suffering. Memory 3: Flaw Mahajani looked over the blue sea that stretched out into an indefinite distance and noisily broke against the rock some three hundred foot below her. She was standing at the edge of the cliffs - the White Cliffs of Crisia they were called, because they consisted of most unusual rock that was, indeed, white. A salty breeze pulled on Mahajani's clothes, brushed against the skin of her hand and face, played with her hair. She paid attention to wherever it touched, savoured every subtle detail of the sensations. It was a nice place. Suddenly she felt a touch around her shoulders. "Please don't touch me", she said calmly, in a friendly tone, and yet firmly to the young Empyrean next to her. He was not a local, but a sailor on the merchant ship with which Mahajani was travelling. He admired the cliffs greatly and had said that he came here every time they anchored in Petsetra. He had insisted on being allowed to show them to her. She could see a pang of pain in his face. "It does not concern you. It is a distraction", she added in imperfect Helesan by way of explanation. A glimmer of hope ignited in his eyes. "Perhaps a pleasant distraction, though? That's sort of the point", he said with a smirk. "No, I mean that it is not important." She sought for words. "It distracts your attention from what really matters. Don't get caught in it - in the chase of pleasure. It is a painful chase - as you are seeing this moment, are you not?" she explained with an encouraging smile. "Ask your peers - certainly, they will tell you that they suffer much, and only few will have stories of enjoyment. Ask your elders - certainly, they will tell you that it was merely wasted time in their life that they spent on something so fleeting, that it did not lead to wisdom." The young man's face underwent a curious transformation which transitioned through a stage of confusion and terminated in an expression of horror. Memory 4: Background It appeared to be a fundamental fact about the world that the further east one went, the worse the food became. The family who sat around the table had been most hospitable - apparently, the traditions in these parts matched her own homeland's, or maybe it simply was because she made people curious and was clearly not threatening. Her presence regularly caused various conundrums to the locals - such as how to reconcile it with the fact that here, men and women took their meals separately, but of course the head of a household was responsible for entertaining guests. Some decided that as a foreigner, she did not count as a woman. This time, her hosts had decided to make an exception and have the whole household dine together. But they had served mutton. Mahajani had thanked them properly and was partaking modestly of bread, olives, lentils, and vegetables. For a while, the conversation about what Mahajani had seen on her travels kept everyone's attention arrested. But eventually, her host couldn't hide his bewilderment at the fact that she was spurning the best part of the meal! "I do not eat meat", stated Mahajani simply, as if it were the most regular thing in the world. Clearly the locals didn't think so. Mahajani spoke before they could. "Imagine that I had, as your people would say, sworn an oath not to do harm to any living being." It was not the truth - but neither was it a lie. Mahajani had found that people would not understand if she spoke in plain realities. But other cultures had concepts which, when invoked, produced ideas that bore a family resemblance to what she would really have wanted to convey. It was good enough. The man looked more confused than offended. "But the animal is already dead. It was brought up well and we slaughtered it as is proper. It was this morning, before you even arrived!" Mahajani smiled at him. There was suddenly a mischievous element in her expression. "If you had sworn the oath - would you trust the gods to abide by this technicality?" Mahajani was pleased by their chuckles. She had not misapprehended the relationship the people of these lands had with their whimsical gods. Memory 5: Trait "Madam, we cannot go further. There are evil spirits ahead, they curse at us and throw things after us! We must stop and wait until they pass by", explained the man agitatedly when questioned why their caravan had stopped. Mahajani looked at him with quiet skepticism for a moment. "If there are evil spirits here", she stated reassuringly, "I will expel them for you." She went to the front and looked at the forest before them. When she approached, an acorn flew and hit her chest, bouncing off harmlessly. Another followed and hit her shoulder, coming from the same large sal tree that she could now spot. Chatter could now be heard from the crown of the tree, the 'curses' that the man had spoken of. But it was not curses at all - merely words in the language of the foreign natural world, incomprehensible to most mortals, but not to learned people. "Human, move! Too easy when you just stand still!" Mahajani's features brightened, and with a fine smile she approached the tree without hesitation. A few more flying acorns did nothing to deter her, and eventually they stopped coming. Soon the culprit became visible between the branches and leaves. It was merely a tree deva, one of the many spirits that dwelt in the natural world. Belonging to a higher realm than elves - though not much higher -, they led happy, carefree lives and, freed from many of the fetters that plagued elvenkind, did not understand the concerns of mortals well. What might be merely play and amusement to them could pose mortal danger to the inhabitants of other realms, and so they often made a nuisance of themselves without ill intent. "Deva!" The creature listened up. After a moment, it emerged, showing itself fully in its beautiful feminine form that was yet so foreign, her skin green and brown, and with a leafy growth instead of hair in all its natural places. "Do you not see that you are frightening these people? They wish to pass in peace, and you are upsetting them. It will not serve you well. If you frighten people, they can become angry and cut down your tree. And if you then harm them, you will only bring further ill upon yourself. You will no longer be a deva, and your life will be one of toil, not play. Consider this, and be kind!" The deva tilted its head. "What do you mean, human? Speak!" it said with skepticism and intrigue in its melodious voice. Mahajani sat down under the tree. *** It was after a while that Mahajani emerged from the forest. "There were no evil spirits. It was merely a tree deva who lives in that tree over there", she announced merrily. "Do not be unkind to it, it means no harm." Memory 6: Trinket Mahajani, sitting cross-legged on the floor, took the letter that a servant had just brought in and read it. It was written on a palm leaf, elaborately crafted and beautifully executed, in flowery, courtly language. The letter entreated the wise lady Mahajani to be a guest at court. It was signed by Bhuttapana, King of Pekkara. She considered it for a moment. She didn't particularly fancy the idea of being some kind of exhibit in a king's collection. "Tell your master", she said, "that I am no princess or courtier, and that I have no business in the affairs of state." The messenger, taken aback, withdrew. A few hours later, he returned, only to hand Mahajani the same letter. Taken aback, she examined it, and noticed that King of Pekkara had been crossed out in the signature. She giggled in surprise, and visited the king the next day. Memory 7: Connection The few outsiders who even made their way there often came a way with a vague and indistinct picture of the Melukhan Riverlands. But to its locals, who could see the details, it was a place of marvellous, colourful, fractal variety. They would have been astonished to learn that their beliefs were considered as homogeneous by others, as it seemed that no two learned persons could be found who would not disagree about one thing or the other. One of the many things that everyone disagreed about was the nature and status of prophecy. Some held that the futures was unknowable and that prophecy, as commonly conceived, was impossible - but they were mostly considered extremists. Others maintained that any sufficiently good understanding of the nature of reality would allow arbitrarily good predictions, and that highly realised beings could have such depth and density of insight that they could predict future events in ways that were completely incomprehensible to ordinary people and seemed like they came from nowhere. Yet others claimed that the cyclical development of the universe entailed that the future was also in the past, therefore long-existing beings who gained access to memories from their past lives could ipso facto predict the future. And there were many more. Be that as it may, a great many prophecies were being made, some taken more seriously than others, and by different people. One of them stated the following: The female spirit will build a realm for my wisdom in the east. This prophecy was said to have been made well outside of living memory by an incarnation of the bodhisatta Venkattasara. It was rather lacking in concreteness, and the curious use of the word 'spirit' in particular has sparked some debate as to the accuracy of the wording handed down by oral tradition, as the Lotus elves practiced it. Identifying incarnations of a bodhisatta was a difficult business. But there was a truly ancient man, well past his seven-hundredth year of life, who attested to having been Venkattasara's companion in a past life of his own, and who was believed to be able to recognise him in any form. Some accepted this, on the reasoning that people who associated acted similarly, would develop similar kamma, and find themselves returned in similar circumstances. He had spent many centuries crossing the entire Riverlands many times over in search for the reincarnation of his friend and master. And eventually he found it in an unassuming little girl. Many decades later, that same girl, now a fully ordained and recognised teacher, found herself on the shores of Helesa, in Athyria. The Venerable Ropikananda, Mahajani's teacher and abbot of the monastery in which she had been brought up, had suggested that she should journey eastwards to share the wisdom of their people with the wider world for the benefit of everyone. Never had he mentioned the prophecy, but Mahajani suspected that he very much had it in mind. As her feet were tracing the steps from the Athyrian palace, Mahajani was deep in thought about this very point. It was a windy day with a clear blue sky, seabirds were circling above and making noise. The sun was intense. But for once, Mahajani ignored all these things and the sensations that they evoked, and pondered. It was natural for a ruler to take an interest when a foreigner arrived in their city and brought unknown teachings; but it was unusual for it to be a queen, let alone a human, and it was also rare to find oneself so welcome. Mahajani thought of the letter she had kept, by now barely recognisable. To seek the patronage of royalty and gain influence through their favour was not in her nature. But now it was her turn to think of the old prophecy and wonder.

Connections & Impressions   Daidalos: Basileides: His first encounter with the rhoics - probably on the recommendation of a friend, as happened often - having been less than satisfactory, Basileides nonetheless returned another time, only to leave again, though this time with considerably less altercation. Though aware of each other's connection with the queen, the two of them have not spoken since. Mahajani feels that as an unruly soul, he would greatly benefit from the practice, but has no intention of pushing people, believing that everyone needs to feel the pull within themselves to accept the freely given offer of teaching, and that if they are not ready yet, they may have to wait - perhaps even another lifetime. Alanse: Alaric: The man may be uncivilised, but he is not depraved. He is perhaps less caught up in a great many things than those who think themselves more refined, and he has had to let go of something and has yet persisted. Perhaps he is among the more fortunate. Fadina: It requires no great discernment to see that this woman is not a happy person, caught up in a great many desires, aversions, and resentments - not that any of that was unusual in a royal advisor. One might have thought that their common origin in the far West might have provided a basis for an acquaintance, but unaccountably it only seemed to put them at a greater distance. From this distance, Mahajani feels she is condemned to do little more than observe and pity. Epsimeira: Nasveran: Nasveran has seen it fit to listen to and explore the teachings of rhoicism, though as Mahajani sees it, he is limited by his intellectual curiosity which makes him shy away from delving into the practice that would allow him to develop wisdom by experience. Nobody has yet reasoned themselves to enlightenment. Yet the seed has been planted, and as far as Mahajani is concerned, anyone who comes in contact with the teaching, through whatever initial motivation, is fortunate, and she hopes with genuine goodwill that in time he will come to receive its full benefits.

[Odyssey]

Basic Details Theme Name: Daidalos Vassilis Race: Satyr/FeralChimera Class: Paladin, Oath of Vengeance Background: Courtier Age: 27 Appearance: The Chimera cuts an imposing figure. Standing at 6’3”, he holds himself with an air of self-assurance bordering on overconfidence. The origin of his stature and strength is an unusual blend between a Feral human and an ‘uncivilized’ Satyr Elf. Daidalos wears light blues, shades of greys, and navy, all accompanying his inexplicable yearning of gold despite openly loathing overt flaunting of grandiose wealth. He admires artistry, not the condescension of the less-fortunate, the fact that Daidalos adorns comfortably in his dress. His hair is a brown-meets-blond hue with colored tones of wheat, and fair skin that is deceptively unblemished. Upon closer inspection, his hands are well-calloused, and his fingers are scarred and nicked from sparring. Numerous, long-healed wounds are found elsewhere on his body, awards from his wild lifestyle before taken in under the guardianship of Prince Asterion. Daidalos's manner is brash, determined, but thoughtful, the traits that create a force to be reckoned if his passion or wrath is ignited. Decidedly forgoing a clean-shaven look, he keeps an ever-present, unshaven stubble that only accentuates a playful smirk. Not for the lack of good intention, he can be frivolous and rash in his words that have been a source of many lectures. Despite his apparent lack of reverence, there is also a severe and somber side to Daidalos. When angered, he forgoes all his fanfare and flourish and opts for quick and brutal retribution. His eyes light with a crackling glow as if the wrath from the God of War himself.

Background Personality Traits: Casanova: Daidalos is both a lover and a fighter, someone for whom passion is both romance and combat. Divine Retribution: A man of passion, Daidalos is well-known for his wit and good-nature. Conversely, in the face of mistreatment, his wrath is fierce and unyielding. Character Flaws: Child of the Dusk: Every instructor and mentor has tried to curb Daidalos' rash nature with all flaws blamed on his mixed lineage, and questionable Dusk origins. After all, a Feral and a Sylvan union would, inevitably, birth something barbaric and untamable. Bull-headed: Daidalos stands with staunch convictions. Swaying him is a challenge when he has set his mind to a task. Background Ideal: My life will be lived fearlessly and to the fullest. Opportunities have been afforded to me through fortunate circumstances, and I will impart those same opportunities to others. I won't standby and witness the cowardice of the powerful, taking from others what little they have or silencing the helpless. I avenge those who have no avenger and balance the scales. Background Bond: I am forever indebted to my parents for their sacrifice and to Prince Asterion, who took me in without question. Without their selflessness, I wouldn't be who I am. Without them, I wouldn't be free to pursue my passions nor have ambitions beyond my own selfish needs. Because of them, I work tirelessly to look after others' best interests in turn. Trinket: A wooden ocarina which produces various birdcalls when played. It's the only thing Daidolos was able to flee with. It serves as a memento of his parents and his previous life.

---

Character Memories:   Hidden under the shade cast beneath the open wooden slats of one of the garden's many pergolas, a dark-blond-haired child, no older than twelve-years-old, stood crouched within the thick leaves of a flourishing fern. His sharp blue eyes were set upon small birds, chirping unaware of their own mortal danger within the branches of an olive tree. Within the child's grip was a homemade bow, and a shot was ready. The weapon and the wild-eyed, young hunter were a strange sight within the wealthy garden if one were around to have seen him. He was a warrior stalking his prey through the wilderness. A mighty-- The arrow loosed, sent streaking across the empty pathway and toward the flock of small birds. It zipped harmlessly through the olive tree and disappeared. The birds fluttered off in a panic, their frightened calls causing nearby avians to scatter also. Daidalos's eyes threw wide, frozen in place his unexpected miss, and his sudden lack of control over his bow. His shoulders slumped as he huffed. Now, he'd have to go searching for his lost arrow. He stood up from the ferns, suddenly rising up out of his hiding spot. The blond-haired boy stocked across the stone pathway and into the thicket where is arrow must've been. Looking over the ground as he pushed through the bush, he found nothing. He pushed further, stepping into the greenery and carelessly snapping twigs. Daidalos emerged to the other side. His heart stopped as he felt both hands grip tight on his bow. Laying in crimson water, an arrow protruding from its lifeless body, was a beautiful swan. Daidolos hadn't missed, only hitting something he hadn't intended. His panic made him unable to breathe. The swan had been a gift to Prince Asterion from foreign visitors. A moving reflection across the man-made pond caused Daidalos to look up. Standing on the opposite side was Asterion. He had seen the body of the swan floating in the water, and their gaze met. Daidalos felt his bow slip from his hands and drop to the ground. Tears burned behind his eyes. Asterion was going to hate him. Or send him away. Asterion thought he wasn't good, but something terrible instead. Daidalos began to back away, his breathing fast and ragged. "Daidalos..." Before the Prince could say anything more, the boy turned and fled back through the bushes he came from. "Daidos. Wait--" Daidalos didn't stop. Did he sound angry? Or concerned? The boy couldn't tell. All he knew was that he had done something terrible, even if he hadn't meant to. They were right-- everyone had told Asterion he wasn't meant to be here. It was wrong to be here.

[Nasrith]

A Quiet Storm Name: Basileides Race: Half-Elf (Empyrean & Siren Lineage) Class: Storm Sorcerer Background: Sailor Philosophy: Oligarchic-Eudaimonistic-Skeptic Age: 64 Description: Athyria has treated Basileides well so far. Nearly a year after landing in the city-state, he is a changed man. His hair is clean of salt and grime for the first time in decades. The majority of it, an eerie, silvery black that brings to mind the ocean before a storm, is tied in a messy knot behind his head. His beard has been combed and clipped meticulously, giving him an air of wisdom, and both his head and facial hair have been infused with scented oils. The combined styles reveal a set of gently pointed ears, a proud indicator of his bastard heritage. His skin has kept its darkened, freckled hue. Maybe it was always that color, or perhaps decades spent under the unforgiving sun have put it past the point of no return. Here again, palace living has done Basileides much good. Hidden so long behind a leathery mask, the blood from his Siren father has started to show. His eyes are a quiet blue under a broad and crinkled brow. Large, round, and not at all elven, Basileides' nose plays prominently on his face. Thin lips, no longer cracked, sit beneath the shadow of his whiskers. They tilt upward often, but rare is the observer who has seen his teeth behind a wide smile. The Empyrean blood of his warrior mother has blessed him with a naturally lean figure, one that grew resilient upon the waves of the ocean. His shirts are loose, accentuating the firm musculature of his chest. His pants are just as liberating. Too plain to be considered truly stylish, his clothing does mark him as one of the most comfortable members of the Queen's band. At first glance, Basileides looks every bit the pampered socialite. The illusion would be complete if not for his hands. Whether drinking from a goblet of wine or coordinating nautical routes on a map of the Lucent Sea, the thick, dead calluses on his fingers are plain for all to see. Met by his own reflection, the chimera sometimes finds it hard to believe that a year ago, he had captained, briefly, one of the most dangerous pirating vessels in the Lucent Sea.

Character Background Personality Traits Storm-Touched: There is nothing that makes me feel more alive than the rain on my face, the wind in my hair, and the roar of thunder overhead. Bawdy Humor: I don't care how refined my company is. Sailors humor is, and will always be the best kind. Character Flaws Pampered: I have lived a hard life for a long time. Has this not earned me some small level of luxury? Unforgiving: My respect is hard-earned. If you don't have it, you are less than nothing to me. Background Bond An Ocean Away: Before I was captain, I was first mate. My captain serves another now, and though our goals may not always align, he will always be one of my dearest friends. Background Ideal Undefined or Unknowable: We are but ships tossed about in a storm. There is no purpose to it all, or if there is we cannot know it. We must each find our own way. Trinket Carving of an Eel: I keep a carved wooden miniature of an eel in my pocket. I remember carving this with Kariakos when we first dreamt of having a ship, and it reminds me of how far we have come.

Factoids Faction 1: Basileides arrived in the city a year and a half ago, as if delivered by magic. One day no one had heard of him, the next he was a member of the Queen's Court. By outsiders' best estimates, he is some kind of foreign tutor. However, he never instructs the Queen or any other members of her Court in public. This has led to untoward whispers about what was happening behind closed doors, and a number of inquiries from interested parties, both male and female. If they understood that the topics were magical in nature and not carnal, perhaps they wouldn't have lined up quite so readily. Factoid 2: Basileides was often seen wandering around the harbor, interacting comfortably with sailors and merchants. If anything, he looks more natural here than in the high, marbled walls of the Court. He spent at least a quarter of his time on one ship in particular, a trireme called the Merman's Song. It sported a shoddily crafted Merman figurehead that ran counter to the otherwise fine make of the vessel. The reason for his frequent visits, and for the poorly designed figurehead, are simple. The figurehead is a shell, and the Merman's Song is actually an infamous pirating vessel called The Eel. Basileides is its captain. Factoid 3: Originally, Basileides had planned on keeping mostly to himself and his crew. Instead, he has found himself with fingers in many pies. He has met and befriended many Athyrian merchants, consulting on the best times and places to transport goods, the safest routes to take, and even the crew who should be aboard. Skeptics in the Athyrian Navy have been won over by Basileides' charm and shrewd understanding of all things seacraft. When he's not hanging about with others of the Queen's Court, wandering around the harbor, or lounging about, the former pirate can usually be found deep in discussions, hunched over a map of the Lucient Sea.

Character Connections   Mahājanī: Invited by the Queen, Basileides first encountered Mahājanī at the head of a Rhoic gathering. Basileides had been skeptical, only coming because of the queen's insistence that Rhoic teachings could be useful for controlling the wilder energies of the fracture-touched. About halfway through his first sermon, he threw up his arms and stormed off. Basil has returned several times since then, begrudgingly admitting that maybe Mahajani's teachings could be useful. Daidalos: Alanse: Basileides came to Athyria to help Alexene in controlling her magic. However, he quickly recognized Alanse as the pupil in greater need by far. He sees himself as a mentor to the young man, helping him with his magic any chance he gets. Alaric: Alaric's uncivilized manners bother Basileides not at all. Recognizing immediately the utility of having a man like Alaric around, he has petitioned Alexene to let her feral bodyguard go sailing on the Merman's Song a number of times. In return, she has roped Basileides into helping Alaric control the Fracture Magic that swirls around him when he rages. Their work together has been met with mixed results. Nasveran: Originally, Nasveran and his sister interested Basileides only in regards to their affliction. As he spent more time with the two of them, he found a friend in the pale-skinned Sphinx. Even ashore, Nasveran reminded him of simpler times at sea with his crew. Epsimeira: Basileides met Epsimeira for the first time under the secrecy of night, as he helped pull her from a lifeboat off the shore of Heliandria. She wasn't the first Fracture-Touched he had smuggled out of a tough situation under the dark of night, but she was the first one he liked. On their journey back to Heliandria, they spent much time holed away, discussing the intricacies of their shared powers. Once back in Athyria, Basileides aided the expatriated elf in establish ties with local merchants, so that she may begin anew. Fadina: Fadina has accompanied Basileides on a number of smuggling expeditions to the more foreign parts of The All Realm. Originally, he had seen her as nothing more than a half-elf with delusions of grandeur and a talent for tongues. That was early on though before she had proven her value as an expert navigator, able to see the stars even when the clouds covered the sky and the rain fell in sheets. He still doesn't believe that she is an oracle, but he isn't about to ignore such a valuable asset.

Memories   Former Enemy/Fracture Touched: In the tumultuous time after the Fracture, one of the ships the Eel hit was then concubine Alexene's. Basileides wielded his new powers fearlessly as a pirate, and the image of the half-elf floating above the deck of the ship, wrapped in fracture magic, made quite the impression on the future queen. After stripping the ship of valuables, the Eel let it go. Years later, Alexene caught word that the ship had been sighted off the coast of a nearby city-state. Instead of seeking revenge, she sent an ambassador to request a meeting with the newly captained Eel. Basileides agreed. Memory One - Temple of Hermes: 3rd Day of Lyre Song, 2 Years After the Fracture Basileides watched as a twin-masted ship sailed away. It was laden with luxurious fabrics, glistening stones, and all manner of other goods headed to Khemet for trade. It sat significantly higher in the water than it had that morning though, having just unloaded a princely number of offerings to the Temple of Hermes. Hermes was the god of travel, the watcher of the seas. Lavish gifts at his shrine were customary before setting out on a long sea voyage. This meant it was the perfect place for a raid. Kariakos cracked his signature lopsided smile. "Well Basileides, is it time?" Basileides slid down from the top of the rock and onto the crag. Not even half of the Eel's men were with them. Kariakos was a new captain, with crew freshly formed, and what he had proposed sounded suspiciously like sacrilege to many of the god-fearing among his sailors. That left them with the heathens, the atheists, and the truly mean bastards for this raid. "They won't be turning around, and there are no other ships on the horizon, save our own," Basileides assured their small band. He had stood fully behind Kariakos in his decision. The idea was brilliant. A stroke of pirating genius. Who would ever think of sacking a Temple of Hermes? "Are you ready?" The dark-skinned pirate drew his shotel blade and nodded. The others did the same, and the sound of steel being drawn filled the air. As silent as night, the raiders slipped through the decorated garden around the temple and through the front door. It was too easy! The temple was white marble, its insides decorated with draping silk of blue and silver. A pair of lightly garbed priestesses were shifting the most recent offerings to the building's coffers in the back. As the group rounded the corner into the sacred place, a fat priest, obviously the holy man within the temple, turned to greet them. "Welcome to th-" He stuttered to a halt and took a step back, bumping into a heavily cushioned seat. "Why thank you," Kariakos said, baring his teeth at the man in a grotesque imitation of a smile. "Myron, Lazaros, search for secret compartments. You!" the pirate captain cried as a brave lad in a chiton went for a cudgel. "Don't do that." Kariakos strode past the fat priest, who had dropped into the cushioned chair, without a second glance. When Basileides went to follow though, some holy valor must have risen within the man. He grabbed the pirate's wrist and stared into his eyes. "What are you doing?! Even you, mercenary filth, live by the blessing of Hermes. Ships find safe harbor by his hand! This will enrage him and spell your doom." Basileides pushed the man off him, sending him careening again into the pile of cushions. "We live by no one's blessing but our own," the bearded pirate reprimanded. "Offerings to you are empty things. Hermes doesn't care how much gold is in your coffers. He doesn't watch every ship, guarding those that have paid your toll. If the sea rises up to swallow you, you survive because of the skill of your crew, and because of luck. Hermes' will has nothing to do with it." Basileides turned away from the jiggling priest, disgusted. A man-sized bust of the Voyager God stood before him. He wrinkled his nose. Why did people always assume the Gods were human, or that they cared about humans at all? "Now, you don't mind if we take some of this, do you?" Basileides gave the marble bust of Hermes a condescending pat on the cheek, then walked out. Memory Three - Away 14th Day of Sun Rule, 40 Years Before the Fracture Basileides stood, arms hanging limply through the ropes of the mainsail. He took what could very well be his last look at Nicopetros, the city he had been born in. Carved into the side of a mountain on the eastern edge of Ausonia, its white marble roofs and statues of silver were the first defense against the encroaching Dusk. Behind it, both the Wildwoods and the Kaltoic Wilds loomed ominously. That's where his mother was now, Basileides thought. A gold-plated warrior, fighting the feral hordes of Kaltoic. He remembered watching her depart. The cheer of the crowd still rung in his ears. Basileides was a chimera, a half-elf, and she was so much more! More akin to a god than an elf. No wonder she didn't want him. It stung him deep down, but on the surface, he understood. It wasn't his mother, Eriobea's fault that he had to leave. She was doing her duty, following centuries of elven precedence. It was his coward of a father that made it impossible to stay. Tereos, his siren father, had gone uninvited to Eriobea's private residence with Basileides in tow. "I am the father of your child," he had cried at her as he stood on her doorstep. "Not some concubine! You owe me more than this." "Look at him!" Tereos had gestured back to Basileides, who was half-hidden in shadow and confused. The look he saw in his mother's amber eyes told him everything he needed to know. Basileides, she could have loved, or at least accepted. However, she saw only contempt for Tereos. Her pride would broach no compromise. "Get out of here," she spat, striking the begging man across the face and sending him to the ground. His mother didn't even look at him as she slammed the door in their faces. Basileides left Tereos lying there in the street. He was despicable, a coward unfit to be called his father. "A tool," Basileides mumbled, back aboard the ship. "I was just a tool." A wild-haired human appeared before him, scars crisscrossing his nose and cheek. His name was Moskhos, and he was in charge of making Basileides more than dead weight on the ship. "No! This is a tool," he said with a cackle, holding out a mop. "Now get cleaning!" Memory Seven - Meeting with Alexene and Asterion: 9th Day of Aegis Rise, 8 Years After the Fracture Basileides stood near the center of a cave, lit by the afternoon sunlight peeking through from the west, and by a torch he had wedged between two rocks. The mouth of the cave was a two-mile ride south of Athyria, just above sea level. The chimera could hear the waves lapping outside. He had agreed to meet Queen Alexene on the condition that he was able to select the spot. Basileides had survived too long to waltz into the center of a civilized land, no matter who had invited him. The cry of a gull echoed in from the outside. Basileides' mouth quirked upward; that was the signal. A moment later, Queen Alexene stepped into the cave. She wore a plain riding tunic that showed the first signs of perspiration and was flanked by a pair of bronze-plated hoplites with swords at their belts instead of the customary spears. Good Basileides thought. To come alone would have been beyond foolish of her. By the fraying of her hair and the set of her clothes, she had ridden herself. Basileides bowed his head respectfully, sending tangled, oily hair tumbling over his shoulders. Then, a fourth figure entered the cave. Prince Asterion, wearing no armor and with a hoplite's blade at his hip, set himself behind the Queen and her official guard. From everything the pirate had heard about Asterion, he preferred humans to his own kind. Basileides liked him already. "You have come alone and unarmed," Alexene observed. She had made this demand. Though, by the surprise in her voice, she hadn't expected the directive to be followed. "I am never unarmed," Basileides replied. It was a thinly veiled reference to the fracture magic that had run through him for the last nine years, safe to make only because it was her reason for calling him here. It also didn't hurt that Basileides could see the man who had signaled the Queen's arrival maneuvering around the mouth of the cave to get a better vantage. In fact, he had five crewmen with him. Three outside and two stationed within, covered by thick grey clothes that resembled rocks. One such 'rock' was less than two feet from where the Prince stood. If Kariakos had been here, he would have thrown the whole plan overboard after seeing how poorly guarded the two royals were. Kidnapping a Queen would have been too much for him to pass up. Basileides hid a smile behind his hand and missed what Alexene said next. "Do you understand why I've asked you to meet with me," she repeated. "Of course" Basileides replied, the smoothness of his voice masking his amusement at the situation. A Queen begging a pirate for help! "It is because the rumors are true. Witch Queen, they call you, isn't it?" One of the hoplites put his hand on his sword, and Asterion took a step forward. The rock behind them twitched, but Alexene extended her arm to still her eager companions before they could close. "And you're... What, hoping that you can dissuade these rumors by spending some quality time with a known pirate?" In truth, Basileides had an idea of why she had asked him to come. This was a negotiation, and he treated it as such. The Queen looked down, gathering her words. "I remember you," she said finally. "You and that black-skinned dog that attacked our ship. You convinced him to let us go. And, you..." Alexene trailed off, at a loss. Basileides understood why. Fracture magic was hard to put into words, even for those that possessed it. She clenched her hand, shut her eyes tight for a moment, then let her fingers relax. In her palm was a ball of bright light, a miniature sun. The hoplite who had moved before let out a gasp. "If there is more to know, I want to know it. I would rather understand this thing that I have than bury it away." Basileides bobbed his head, agreeing whole-heartedly with the sentiment. Coming to terms with his newfound abilities hadn't been much of a struggle; in the lawlessness of the open ocean, you used what weapons were available to you. "A gift or a curse, it is what you make it. And," the chimera sighed, "This life has been losing a bit of its luster." Basileides turned, running a hand through his mess of a beard. "It's not just me you're asking for, though. My crew needs to be taken care of, as well. That means-" "Hold on!" a voice rang out. It was the Prince, and this time he was going to have his say. "This happened years ago and in battle! How do we know we can trust you? How do we know you can actually do what you say?!" Basileides paused, casting a sly eye at the elf. While they were not so different in age, Asterion had seen a quarter of the life the pirate had. "Don't worry, princeling" Basileides mocked, turning fully to face the four Athyrians. As he did, a wind picked up despite the cave's dead air. Hairs on the exposed arms of the Queen and Prince stood on end as a current of electricity prickled through the room. Basileides' feet left the ground, and the breeze turned into a contained temptest that yanked at tunics and threatened to pull the hidden pirates from their cover. The sorcerer's hair whipped around his face, and a stormy spark glistened in his eyes. "I am who Alexene thinks I am," he boomed, touching gently back to the ground. The gale died away as quickly as it had come. "Now, here are my demands." Half an hour later, Basileides followed the party of Athyrians out. He joined up with the hidden members of his crew as soon as they were out of sight, and together they picked their way over the wet rocks to where the Eel lay hidden a short distance away. Basileides' Demands A pardon for him and his crew. Anyone from his ship that wishes to leave must be given opportunity to do so, along with guaranteed work. The Eel is now under the employ of Athyria by way of mercenary contract.

[PopCultureBard]

Always Simmering, Burning Bright Alanse the Whelp Feral Human Sorcerer (Wild*est* Mage) Child of the Dusk, Tempestuous Soul, Slave to None On the surface, ah-laun-sayAlanse is nothing like the stories say ferals should be. He lacks bulk in his build, with narrow shoulders and lean muscle wrapped over a shorter frame. Paled skin, seemingly impervious to the rays of the sun, darkens at the cheekbones and nose into soft rosy highlights. A stark contrast, then, to the vibrant red strands that crown his head in unruly tangles that he keeps cut away from his face but does little to manage. His features are lean, with low cheekbones and a jawline that tapers to a gentle point beneath thin lips. At seventeen, he still cannot manage a proper growth of beard and finds it embarrassing enough to keep his face clean cut at all times. He dresses to his role, simple linen in light colors that lacks refinements or embroideries in an effort to avoid drawing undue attention from his elven betters. He allows himself one luxury, a brass ring that he himself forged under the tutelage of the chimera smith who took him in so many years ago. Background Details Trait #1: I tolerate undeserved admonishment from none, but I am quick to admit my errors. Trait #2: Many fear the unpredictable nature of my abilities and I am chief among them. Flaw #1: I am happiest among disorder and find the urge to disrupt unnecessary structure difficult to manage. Flaw #2: I do my best to put the past behind me, but I secretly revel in elven misfortune when I see it. Ideal: Complacency is a slow death and only by striking out for new experiences can one truly claim to be alive. Bond: The nightmares of my youth haunt me, and only the company of others seems to soothe the ache. Trinket: A small knife cut from the antler of some unknown beast, among his only possessions upon his arrival from the Dusk. It bears his name, or rather he adopted the name on it, and the tip often drips blood without rhyme or reason.

 

Secret Whispers, Darkness Speaks Weaving Webs in the Wild Fracture-Touched [Alexene] Alexene is, perhaps, the only person in Alanse's life who understands what he is going through. She saved his life when the dusk overwhelmed him and the day that he was entrusted with the secret truth about her own connection to the powers of the Fracture was the moment he pledged himself fully to her side. Secret Crush [Asterion] Having had no meaningful romantic connections in his life, and only a couple of awkward sexual encounters, Alanse finds his attraction to the prince as deeply confusing as any first love should be. He harbors these feelings in secret, watching Asterion from across the room and breaking lingering glances once he realizes his fantasies have gotten the better of him. While the feelings eat at him most strongly when he is alone with his thoughts, he cannot even fathom the kind of bravery it would take to approach someone of such significant standing about them openly. Cloudy Recollections Come Clear Memory 1: Ideal The dice clatter onto the tabletop as he empties his bag and the sound stirs his thoughts... "And what about the little one?" The man with the crescent scar over his cheekbone spoke with a grating growl, the voice of a man deep in his cups. He shook the cup and the dice rattled inside it before he slammed it down on the table and pulled it back to reveal his roll. His companions grumbled, their conversation about the Queen's Stray's growing less muttered as their game progressed and alcohol strengthened their resolve. "The whelp, you mean?" The bald man with the patchy beard smirked around the words, clearly pleased with his addition to the conversation. Chortled laughter made its way around the table and Alanse sunk deeper into his own chair, two tables away from the conversation which was just close enough to pick up all the details. His himation, a ratty thing he'd carried with him since his early days in the All Realm, didn't feel thick enough to disguise him. His teeth ground against one another as they spoke, that nickname one that he despised as much as any other. Crescent picked up two dice and returned them to the cup, nodding his ascent to the question. Then it was the man with the crooked nose's turn to pipe up. "I hear tell that one is fresh out of the Dusk. Some kind of freak feral." His word came out with an annoying whistle, likely the result of his broken nose. Alanse lifted his own cup and took a sip, the bitter bite of the drink bringing a grimace to his face. His first visit to a kapeleia and this was the company he had to keep? Go out for a drink, they'd said, It'll relax you. He'd been eager for it, a new experience in a world he was still discovering day by day. Now he was swallowing dark beer and bitter regret. Somewhere in his stomach, the power was clawing to be free. "That's idiot talk. Ferals are big, brawny killers who can barely grunt our tongue. That kid is a stick. My grandma could blow him over and she's in her grave." The fourth man, the only human among them, and those words stung him the hardest. It wasn't like he expected any different, humans weren't unified in their opinion of one another, but it still felt stronger to hear it from someone who was ostensibly his own blood. "Maybe." Crescent tossed the dice again, lining them up in order and then passing the cup to the Crooked. Bald cut in as he reached for his drink, hitting the cup with his knuckles and sending it careening off the side of the table. A muttered curse and he motioned to the keep for a replacement before adding his part. "I do know this, and I know it because my own cousin saw it happen. That boy is Fracture-touched. He near killed a man down in smelter's alley without laying a finger. Turned blood into crystal, too. Damned craziest thing Theron ever saw, he said." They didn't see him approach, so caught up in their game and their talk. All eyes jumped to Alanse only when he pressed coin to the top of the table, a stack sizable enough to match their wagers. He pulled back the hood of the himation and those eye at once widened and narrowed as silence took hold at the table. "Teach me this game." It wasn't a request, and given the talk he'd just overheard Alanse knew it wasn't likely they'd refuse. The gossip about him would always hurt, but sometimes it could pay to be feared. ...the dice come to rest, a dozen pips exposed to the sky in a winning combination, and he returns them to the bag with a smile. Memory 3: Background The portrait, a sylvan elf hunter concealed by low brush, turns his blood cold... "What is it, Lethyri?" The older elf moved softly as he approached the sentry, careful not to draw attention to their spot. He could see the boy now, stumbling naked through the thicket ahead of them. When the scout had motioned him forward he'd expected something dangerous. The smell wafted in as the wind changed directions, sending the leaves above them into a frenzied dance. Dirt, but earthy and thick like clay, and the metallic tang of blood. The boy stumbled and fell, rising to his feet with the struggle of two full hands. "A feral? Can't be but a child by any standard." Lethyri didn't look back as he said it, trusting that Rejeta was keeping proper distance. Elven eyes are keen, and sylvan eyes are the keenest, so Rejeta took in the details easily. Blood across the boy's chest, dark and dry. A knife in one hand, gripped with white-knuckled intensity. Something else in the other, and it took a moment for him to recognize it as a head. Not human, nor elven. A twisted, monstrous thing out of the legends of the Dusk. How long would a child survive in these woods? "Do I?" Lethyri lifted his bow, arrow set loose against the string. It would be quicker that way. A mercy, really, to end the boy now. The camp would never accept a feral, nobody would be able to sleep for fear of what it might do if it got loose. They could sell it, but dragging it to a buyer would be a lot of effort for something too scrawny to catch a real price. Rejeta gave a single tip of his head and the scout drew back the string. Then the boy turned toward them. Looked at them. It was enough to lift Rejeta's hand and stay Lethyri's shot. He couldn't say why. But the boy was moving toward them, impossibly accurate in his steps. They'd been scouts together in these woods for decades, there was no way the child heard them and yet here he was, coming right to them. He had a knife, and the evidence of some previous kill. "We shouldn't take the risk." Lethyri whispered through his teeth, but Rejeta was already unpacking the net from his bag and he knew there would be no talking him out of it. The boy reached out for them, stretching the hand clutching the head as far as it could go. The net came out fast, wrapped around him and dragged him down with the weighted ends. He struggled, snarling words that meant little to those who spoke a civilized tongue. He felt the bindings tighten as the elves swept over him and tied his arms. He was all fear and rage, but the elves were grown and trained and there was no escape. The first time he'd been bound, though not the last. ...Never again, words spoken only in his mind but branded in his heart. Memory 5: Character Trait The fog comes in low and thick over the harbor and his eyes sting against it... "Focus and control." Alexene was standing over his right shoulder, her voice steady. Alanse curled his fingers inward, pressing the tips into his palm, and willed the space between them to change. At first there was nothing, then a single green leaf uncurled from between his third and fourth finger. Easing the fingers open he saw more green, then red, and the rose began to flutter as it unfolded upon its release. The flower was imperfect, faded in patches and lacking enough petals to gain symmetry, but it looked and felt real. He lifted it and twisted the stem between his fingers, thankful that he'd failed to conjure up thorns for the thing. His lips pulled up at the edges, the smile slow to form but bright in his eyes. He was about to turn, to show off the creation, when he felt the cold creep of energy down his spine. "No...no, no!" He hissed, the words rising in pitch as he felt the power well up in his throat. Staggering to his feet, he pulled away from the queen and scrambled toward the opposite wall. He could see it in his mind's eye, flames surging out and melting the flesh off her bones. Or the air around her solidifying into viscous gel that filled her lungs. Every horrific thing imaginable ran through his thoughts in that moment as he pressed himself against the cool stone and pulled his body tight into a fetal curl. But then the energy was gone, and he opened his mouth to gasp only to have mist seep from inside him and flutter toward the open window. Harmless, small sparrows of vapor that flapped their way a dozen feet across the room before simply ceasing to exist. "It is not always terrible." Alexene didn't approach as she said it, leaving him to find his feet on his own. Giving him space. "Sometimes it can be beautiful." As Alanse got to standing once more, he turned his eyes to the empty palm where the flower had been. An illusion, and a brief one, but it had happened. He had created something. She was at the door before he realized she was leaving. "But it is always a risk, and that risk is yours to live with every day." He could feel the flutter in his heart, the gradual slow down of his pulse as the fear began to melt away. He drew in slow, deep breaths the way she had shown him. Finding your center, she'd said, is the only way to stay whole. He still had to wonder, though, if he'd ever been whole in the first place. ...A long, slow inhale of the cool mist before he turns back toward the city proper. Memory 7: Connection The coppery smell of the butcher's stall pulls bitter recollections to the front of his mind... It started so simply. Arguments with obstinate customers are a daily affair for a smith. Doubly so if that smith happens to harbor the muddled blood of a chimera. The back and forth over price and quality was barely enough to rouse Alanse's attention as he ran the whetstone over the edges of the latest row of knives in the cramped smithy. Only when Housar raised his voice to a shout did he rise from his seat and cross to the window, pulling the shudder up to peer out onto the porch. The customer was elven, of course, and the two men at his back were human with the bulk and bearing of hydra-bred somatophylakes. He could have stepped out and tried to calm the situation but what would a wealthy elf do in the face of a questioning human of no status? Alanse only had moments to wrestle with the decision before the guards strode forward on their master's command. It was so quick, the whistle of steel against leather and then the soft squish of steel against flesh. He was through the window before Housar hit the ground, the rush of red beneath him so thick that death could only been instant. It all muddied in his mind then. There was screaming, and he didn't realize right away that it was his own. He was holding the man who would have been his father, staring into eyes that were open but unseeing, and the blood was warm across his arms. He could feel it boiling inside him, the raw energy that he'd constantly fought to keep locked away, and his eyes were blurred with tears as he glared up at the man who'd given the order. As his lips parted, his intent simply to question why, something broke inside the boy. Moments later something broke inside the elf as well, invisible blows crushing bone and expelling blood with impossible force. The power flared and seethed, forcing its way out and crystallizing Hauser's blood into jagged spires as tall as a man's waist around them. The guards rushed forward, unwilling to let fear prevent them from doing their duty, and just as death became a shadow over Alanse a stern rebuke from behind stopped the men in their tracks. It's been said that one cannot recognize true beauty until they look upon the face that saves their life. If that is true, Alexene was the most beautiful being ever to exist. Her retinue, elves with hands ready at their blades, were enough to dissuade the mercenaries from their task. For a queen to intervene over the life of a common elf would be stunning enough, but to save the life of a Fracture-touched human was an act of insurmountable kindness. When Alanse lacked the strength to find his feet, she ordered her men to help him. When he explained the situation that now left him with nowhere to go, she offered him a place among her own. For a boy of barely fourteen who had seen the only person to offer him kindness slaughtered in the street, this offer was a thing he could never reject. He should have entered the graveyard as a corpse that day. Instead, Alexene saw that he entered her home, not as a slave, but as a student. He never questioned why, and he never will. ...Dropping the cluster of daylillies on Housar's grave, he smiles his gratitude to the old man once more.

[Spoonybard]

Theme

Character Details Name: Alaric son of Gundrun Race: Human (feral) Age: 40 Class: Barbarian (Way of the Wild Soul) Background: Outlander Appearance: Only the blood of the vulgar clans predate human domestication. The few elves who studied them noted early that primal breeding produced wild differentiation among offspring, even within the same clan. And yet, were it not for his clan markings and savage garb, Alaric son of Gundrun could pass for a Hydra. He towers a full head over most, and his large frame seems conditioned for labor and battle. He shuns the clothing of civilization, preferring to wear his leathers tied about him in the manner of his people. His skin, originally fair, has been both darkened and hardened by years in the sun. He twists the locks of his full mane and beard around dried rope fibers to retain and strengthen his natural scents. Lately, he has been persuaded by others to bathe more often. It is a work in progress. The official Protector of the Queen, he is often referred to as the Queen’s Dog, the least offensive of his various titles. He is the only known vulg to walk freely in Athyria. Personality Traits: Uncivilized – I prefer to chew loudly and suck the juices off my fingers because it makes you uncomfortable. But do not mistake my lack of manners for ignorance. Standards of behavior are woven from the same loom as the natural world. I can always recognize a dangerous game, whether it’s two Councilors engaging in a debate of wits, or two lions circling each other before one strikes. Proud – I have grown unbothered by jeers at my race or station. A hiss matters little from a snake without venom. But, should someone who poses a real threat challenge me, I would have little choice but to respond with force. Flaws: Hedonistic – Growing up in the wild has left me susceptible to the pleasures of city life. I am bewitched by a well-cooked meal and will seek out the warm comforts of alcohol. I am easily seduced when I wish to satisfy my more carnal urges. Pessimistic – I believe mankind and elvenkind alike to be inherently evil. Only some have the strength of character to rise above their base natures. Civilization is a merely a veneer covering the rot beneath. Idealists tend to grate at my patience. I find most others need to learn life's cruel lessons the hard way. Ideal: Power is Earned – It is the natural order of things. During my time in the palace, I’ve learned that raw strength is but a minor component of power, that the mightiest may not be so easily determined by appearances. Despite the silly elven laws of inheritance, in the end, the one who wears the crown has likely already done much to deserve it. Bond: I Am Alone – Yes, I am loyal to the Queen to a fault. Yet, deep down, I know it is not fully by choice. My clan is no more, and no others will have me. I have no family to call my own. No love to find in my bed. It is a fate I must endeavor to accept. Relationship (Alexene): Inspired Loyalty – I have come to recognize and admire Alexene and the role she is destined to play in the All Realm. She has the power, and power deserves to be followed. Fracture Touched – Like Alexene, I am Fracture touched, able to command primordial Dusk magic. She and I have worked closely together to control and master our powers. Relationship (Asterion): Former Enemy – I first met Asterion on the battlefield where he ultimately bested me, choosing to spare my life. Strangely, he intervened when I should have been imprisoned or enslaved, and instead let me go. Heroic Stand – Asterion and I were part of a heroic last stand, relying on one another for survival and inspiration. The shared experience crystallized our friendship, forging a deep bond. Trinket: A necklace composed of teeth from a bear. It belonged to my first love, who I shall never see again.

Connections Daidalos: Alaric spent many hours learning how to fight with the dory and xiphos from Daidalos, ward of Asterion, who showed great skill with these foreign weapons. Fadina: Some nights, Alaric joined Fadina in the gardens. They sat quietly, enjoying the peace, offering bits of bread to any critter that happened to wander by. Basileides: The Queen ordered Alaric to help Basileides smuggle a Fracture-touched into the city. Basileides helped Alaric gain his sea legs. He was not so successful in helping the vulg control his magic. Espimeira: As it turns out, one of the smuggled was Espimeira. She was a rare aristoi who hadn't immediately put him off.

Memories Note: The memories below are presented in chronological order. Alaric arrives in Athyria a little over five years prior to the start of the game. Memory 6 The Necklace Alaric's behavior concerns his mate. She uncovers a secret. Age: 22 This is to remain a secret, for now. Memory 7 The Duel Asterion encounters a vulgar clan. Conflict is inevitable. Relationship: Former Enemy Age: 35   Note: The following "memory" is from Asterion's perspective rather than Alaric's. I wanted to show how the vulgs are viewed by the Athyrians. I also felt the scene was more dramatic from his viewpoint. Asterion crested the hilltop and saw with his own eyes what he had hoped was not true; his scouts had not exaggerated. There were several thousand vulgs prepared for battle at the foot of the hill – a full clan. All the men and women of fighting age formed a protective crescent around their hastily-erected encampment. Even from this distance, Asterion could make out their leathers and furs and motley scraps of armor scavenged from past victories. They held rough-hewn swords and lumbermen's axes and rocks spun on ropes. Their roars and yelps were meant to intimidate, like wild beasts warning predators away from their young. Opposite them, his phalanx of hoplites was fewer in number five-fold. Still, they had the tactical advantage of higher ground, of discipline, gleaming armor and good Hydra breeding. A charging horde of barbarians, even awash in their rumored frenzy, would find a veritable wall of spears and tower shields difficult to break. The prince motioned to his unit commander and his childhood tutor. They pressed their mounts forward until they came beside him. "O Nabhitha, you have experience with the vulgar clans. Do you recognize them?" Asterion asked. Squinting, the Lotus elf swept her unflinching gaze across the encampment. The deep wrinkles in the creases of her eyes betrayed their many centuries of use. "They wear the marks of the bear, hyena, and stoat. Either Visivulgs or Ostrovulgs, I can't be sure without a closer look." The words conjured vague memories of reading from the historical records, of names like Wulfram the Wild and Gautstafr the Impaler, of dates and battles long before his time. Were he still a child, he would have faced a scolding for forgetting. Now, he smiled at his old tutor, fond of those memories. "Forgive me, but some of your lessons seem to have left me already. Are they primarily hunter-gatherers or marauders?" Theodenes cleared his throat. "O Commander, I would be quite impressed if you knew the answer,” said Asterion. “You are a great many years more separated from Nabhitha's instruction than I." Sometimes, the prince wished the sun-weathered Empyrean would eschew formality and speak his mind. Alas, Theodenes could weary even the stodgiest of nobles with formality. "Only to ask the Prince if the kind of savage matters. They have roamed much farther south than ought to have been permitted, and onto the King's lands no less. We must, ah, convince them to turn north." Asterion sighed. This was supposed to be a routine military exercise on the border, nothing more than a display of strength to the neighboring city-states. The prince's added presence was a demonstration to his own people that he was of age to lead in battle. He hadn't expected the day would come so soon. "I'd prefer to avoid losing the lives of our men needlessly," he said after some thought. "Might we go around?" Had Theodenes lacked such superior control over his upper lip, he might have looked irritated. "Go... around? O Prince, if I may remind you, they are vulgs. On your father's land, not here at his pleasure, and in your way. Avoiding them now would embolden them to stay, and worse, you would lose face with your men. I realize that I have not spent as much time as I should have engaging the Prince in the ways–" Asterion held up his hand, and Theodenes fell silent. Such barbs of authority were rare from the heir to throne, but were heeded when given. "Your counsel is wise, Theodenes. I would surely suffer without you by my side. You are right; we must convince them to turn back north. The parley flag, please." The commander seemed ready to protest, but a sharp look from Asterion warned him otherwise. He summoned the bannerman and changed the King's standard to that of the olive tree on white, the agreed upon symbol for parley. At least, among civilized society. It was a gamble the vulgs knew what it meant. When the flag was ready, Asterion led the bannerman and a few of the more imposing hoplites down the hillside. He also brought Nabhitha with him, to assist with translation. It was fortunate she had an interest in the languages of the Dusk, and of the Vaerinjarnt dialects in particular. Theodenes he left at the top to take command should the worst befall him. Upon seeing the small contingent break away and move down the hill, the vulgs began to whoop and cheer. Asterion was briefly worried they mistook his actions for surrender, but it was too late to alter course. He ordered the company to halt not three hundred paces from the enemy line. Seeing their faces now, sneering and barking, threatened his courage. Remembering his training, he steeled himself for what was to come. "I am Asterion, son of Hypenor, King of Athyria," he shouted, precisely as his tutor had instructed. "Who is Speaker for the clan?" As Nabhitha translated, her voice rang loud and clear despite how heavily their language favored consonants. It was as if she had taken his words and chewed on them before spitting them out. A man separated from the pack and stepped forward. He was one of the largest among them, at least three decades old though still holding onto much of his youth. His chest, arms, and legs were bare, painted with crude shapes in white and red. He wielded a battleaxe of Dwarven design, clearly a spoil of war. He spoke, a sharp, booming bass. Once finished, a roar erupted behind him. He lifted his arms to encourage his fighters before motioning them quiet again. Nabhithia translated. "I am Alaric, son of Gundrun. I speak for the Freefolk of the Field. Why do you ask for me? Do you wish to know the one who will kill you?" Asterion grinned to himself. Who knew a vulg had a sense of humor? "Tell me, how does one become Speaker?" "Your kind crowns babes as they suckle on their mother's teats," Nabhitha translated. She paused to mention that the next sentence had no direct translation, and that it involved the lower orifices and was considered a grave insult. She continued. "The Freefolk, we only give power to the strong. A contender must battle and win to become next Speaker." This was it. Asterion dismounted and stepped forward, drawing his sword. "Very well. I challenge you, Alaric son of Gundrun, for Speaker of the Freefolk of the Field." The prince was not expecting the peals of laughter that followed from the horde. Only Alaric maintained a straight face. In fact, he seemed to be growing angry. The vulg pointed at his foe with his axe. “You and your brethren of slavers claim dominion over all you see, and now that you see free humans before you, you wish to claim dominion over us too. You shall not have it! None but a human may speak for us!” Cheers from behind, weapons held high. Asterion had one card left to play. He laced his words with aristoic condescension. “I did not know the Freefolk backed down from a challenge. Perhaps I was taught wrong.” “I back down from no one, elf nor man.” The vulg was quick to respond once Nabhitha had finished. Good. “Then fight me, coward!” Asterion shouted, leaning into the performance of provocation as much as possible. He lifted his blade and gripped it tightly. Alaric charged, letting loose a thunderous cry. His face and chest bloomed a deep red. The corners of his eyes seemed to darken and leak blood. The dreaded rage of the barbarian. He became a rhinoceros on the rampage, a massive beast, his axe held forward like a single horn. Little else would be more frightening to face in single combat. The prince took a deep breath and calmly submitted himself to the lessons of his old blademasters. He waited in stillness. Once the axe came bearing down upon him, he recalled the first form of Deucalion’s Duet and nimbly stepped aside. The technique was well-worn among even the greenest of trained martial artists. Fortunately, the vulgs had yet to encounter the studied art of swordplay in practice. Now the advantage was his, as the larger man’s momentum carried him too quickly to pivot. Asterion swung his blade into the vulg’s side. But Alaric didn’t crumple, nor flinch, nor register the bloody gash. This was the power of the rage. Having planned for a wounded reaction from the other, Asterion left himself open. The vulg reversed the swing of his axe so the iron butt connected with the side of the elf’s helmet. Asterion reeled. The dent in his helmet had blinded his left side, and with some difficulty, he managed to remove the cage from his head. He quickly swept his hair out of his face and looked up, expecting the barbarian to be already upon him. Instead, the man was staring at him, transfixed. The blood of the rage was slowly draining from his features, his color returning to normal. Moving to an offensive stance, Asterion leapt at his foe. The other started and parried well, mostly through sheer strength and force of will, ignoring the accumulating cuts and bruises. The elf danced through all the forms of Deucalion’s Duet before moving into the Singing Blade’s Serenade. When a feint failed to draw attention, Alaric buried his axe in the prince’s armor, cutting just past the plate into flesh. Asterion staggered backwards and clutched his side. He risked a glance, and could already see blood soaking through his tunic. The vulg raised his weapon aloft and let out a cry of triumph. His clan roared and hollered. They believed the duel to be nearly done. But the elf had another idea. His techniques had been focused on fighting a man, and a swordfighter at that. He needed to assume his enemy fought with a beast’s instincts. The Huntsman’s Hand. In the Shadow of the Bear. These were the lessons that would see him through the encounter. Asterion leapt again, ignoring the pain, and rolled to the side. Pop and thrust. Roll again. Jab, not swing. Stay low. Don’t wait for reactions, and assume a thick hide. Jab again. Weave and roll. Again. The vulg was visibly frustrated by the quickness of the elf. He swung his axe down hard and into the earth, having missed the elf by little more than an inch. When he pulled back up, the axe caught on a previously buried root. This was his chance. The prince kicked the handle out of the vulg’s hands. He followed with a slice along the back of the other’s exposed knees, a sweep of the legs to knock him prone, and then the tip of his blade at his neck. It was over. A new chorus of cheers, this time from the top of the hill. Asterion smiled. His first resounding approval from his soldiers. He swelled with pride, briefly, before catching sight of Theodenes riding down the hillside. To insert himself into the moment, most likely. Meanwhile, the sounds from the vulgs turned to snarls and gnashing teeth. They readied to charge. Alaric brushed the prince’s blade aside and sat upright, signaling to his clan to wait. Alaric spoke in a low voice. “You have bested me with your tiny meat skewer,” Nabhitha translated. “But they will never accept you as Speaker.” Asterion sheathed his sword and extended a hand. His wound was still bleeding, but he forced himself to appear as if it was no bother. He’d pay for it later. “Fortunately for you, I have no desire to be Speaker. Tell your people to pack their things and move north, out of our lands. No one need die here today.” The vulg let Asterion help him to his feet. He turned to his people and began to shout to them in his own guttural language. There were more growls of discontent. Very few of them turned round. “They will not turn their backs when the enemy is still there,” Alaric said. “Maybe losing his head will convince them otherwise,” Theodenes said having just arrived, bringing several more hoplites with him. The Hydras raised their spears. Asterion stepped between them. “Peace! Lower your weapons. We have already won.” He turned to the vulg. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us. I promise you no harm. Once we are certain your people are on the move, we will allow to you join them again.” After Nabhitha finished, Alaric considered the offer. He stared up at the phalanx on the hill, and then looked over his own wounds. It was obvious he hadn’t expected the prince to put up such a fight. He seemed to wonder if all of their army fought with similar skill. Finally, he nodded. He barked his final orders to his clan before being led up the hill in binds, his axe confiscated. ****** The prince was true to his word. Two days later, Alaric was released, much to the chagrin of Theodenes. While there was not sufficient time for his wounds to heal, Alaric felt he could move with enough speed to overtake his people. He had told them to head east before turning north. He set foot towards the rising sun. By evening, he found the bodies of his clan. Memory 3 The Stand Alaric warns Asterion of a new enemy. The Athyrians fight for their lives. Background: Outlander Age: 35   Alaric sped through the brush. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids and dulled his senses. His wounds threatened not only his pace, but each step. Still, he ran, and he tracked. The heavy bootprints of the phalanx were easy to follow. He was close. He would reach the prince first, that he knew for certain. But rushing to their encampment was a risk. He would have to trust that the elf who spared his life would keep him safe once more. The other clan, they were the unknown. Their ways were unrecognizable. Their language was unfamiliar. They bore no marks of beasts, only marks of death. He called them Skullclan, after the skulls they painted over their faces. They killed on sight. The sudden arrival of Skullclan was the reason his own clan fled south. Everyone knew of the tyranny of the elves, but now the elves were the lesser evil. He led his people into their lands not to invade, but to escape. He had not realized the Skullclan had followed them. He was a fool. Images of his people pricked at his thoughts like sharp knives. Three days ago, he was enjoying their company. Singing songs by the fire. Playing hide-and-strike with the children. Watching the young women of age pursue the men had they marked as mates, the ones who would give them the strongest babes. Then the elf prince, the duel, his capture, and release. A mere two days later, he had discovered the charred remains of his clan. Not a single one spared. Bodies blackened by fire. Heads torn from necks. Children piled onto pyres. An unnatural smoky haze clung to the air. It had been an ambush. Very few of the corpses were skull-painted. Alaric had not the strength of body or soul to bury a clan of thousands. He could barely stand the sight of it. Instead, he wept. And after he wept, he tracked his enemy, caring little for his own life. Full of a desire for vengeance, he chased after them, ready to take down as many as he could before death’s release. That was when he noticed the elven bootprints. The Skullclan were tracking the elven prince and his army. He decided to warn them. The vulg ran the entire night, making a wide arc to the north to move round the Skullclan, then cutting south again to pick up the trail. He had a knack for learning terrain quickly, for orienting himself with the sun, stars, and plants. He knew he was ahead of his enemy, no longer seeing their prints. But the question was how far? “Παύση!” Two soldiers in bronze armor drew their swords. Sentries, he assumed, posted to keep watch from a distance. He was close. He ran past them, a blur of flesh and furs. One of them blew a horn. Around the large boulder he dashed, and across the field. Men started gathering in front of him, reaching for weapons and armor. He ran past them too. Faster and faster, around strange, brightly colored tents and fires, and over stirring bodies. Which tent? The large one in the distance, the one with the banner. He ran towards it. A wall of spears and shields appeared in front of him. He skidded to a stop. The men chasing him caught up. Soon enough, he was surrounded. “Asterion!” he shouted. He learned a few words during his two-day imprisonment, one of them being the prince's name. Saying it had earned him a smack across the face by his guards. He made sure to say it frequently. “Asterion!” His voice carried through the camp. The men stepped forward, drawing the circle tighter. The points of their weapons hovered closer. “Asterion! Asterion!” He spun round, looking for a weakness or gap, but found none. These were a disciplined sort. Humans, like him, but all the same shape and color. He knew they were bred that way. Like livestock. Livestock with spears. “Χαμηλώστε τα όπλα σας!” Alaric recognized the voice of the prince. So did the men, and they lowered their weapons. Asterion pushed his way through until he was standing before the vulg. He shouted more commands, and their translator was ushered out of a tent and over to where they stood. “O Alaric? What in the Dusk are you doing here?” he asked with the aid of the dark-skinned elf. “Asterion, please, I have come to warn you.” Still out of breath, he struggled through his words. “My clan is dead. They have killed them all. I should have told you before. I came to your lands to be free of them. I did not realize they would follow. Now they are almost here. They will kill you next.” The prince made a gesture meant to soothe. “Calm yourself. Who is coming?” “The Skullclan. They will try to kill you all.” Another elf, the one he had learned was called Theodenes, had made his way through the gathering crowd. He said something to the prince, and they began to argue, though with far less wrestling than he was used to seeing when two vulgs argued. Finally, the prince spoke to him, and the woman translated. “My associate worries that if another clan did indeed slaughter yours, there would be no better way to ensure a swift vengeance than to lead them here. Let us serve your revenge at the expense of our men.” “I swear I did not bring them here!” Alaric nearly shouted. “On my name and on my father’s name, I ran all night to circle them. I only came to warn you.” “Why, then?” Theodenes asked. He circled the vulg. “Why do you care for our fate?” Alaric remained silent, questioning himself. Did he take advantage of them for vengeance? And shouldn’t he hope they kill each other? He looked at the prince, the elf who bested him in single combat. He knew his answer, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “We must fight either way,” Asterion said. He turned to the vulg. “Are they mounted or on foot? How long do we have?” “On foot. But they are fast. I do not know how long.” Asterion clasped the older elf's shoulder. They talked between themselves, and when they were finished, the one called Theodenes began shouting commands. A flurry of activity erupted across the camp. Men donned their armor and grabbed their weapons. They ran out of supply tents carrying sticks shaved to points on one end. There was a general movement towards a field where they would make their stand. “Come with me,” Asterion said. He led Alaric and the translator through the commotion and into his tent. “Neither of us are fit for a fight, but we may still have need of you. I have a spare cuirass and helmet you can wear. It won’t fit, but it’s better than nothing.” “I do not wear armor,” Alaric replied. “You must look like us and not like them. Within the chaos of battle, I cannot promise my men will not attack you in error.” Asterion found what we was looking for in a massive trunk. He held the armor out for the vulg. It was frighteningly small. “Or, you can run. I would not blame you if you did.” Alaric took the thing reluctantly. “No. I will fight.” "Good. I would rather have you on our side." The vulg nodded.   *********** The first of the Skullclan was sighted not three hours later, not long after the non-combatants had left with the horses. A horn in the distance announced the enemy's arrival, followed by an unsettling scream. One of their men was slain. The sentries soon came running from their scattered posts and joined the formation, which shifted seamlessly to accommodate them. Alaric was impressed beyond measure. He had never seen such a style of fighting. The Hydras, as he learned they were called, were arranged in a full circle five men deep. The men of the outermost ring were bent low on one knee, spears held outward. Behind them knelt men with great shields, bracing the heavy barriers with both hands to protect the spearmen before them. The shields were lined up edge to edge to form a wall. A notch was cleverly designed on one side of the shield to allow the spear to fit through and have a little room to maneuver. Rows three and four were more spearmen and shieldmen. These Hydras stood tall and held their weapons and shields for protection from above. Finally behind them, a row of bowmen, nocked and ready to draw upon command. All around the formation, the men had dug a trench lined with sharpened sticks. The phalanx would not fall so easily. “Εκεί έρχονται, δυτικά” Theodenes said, one of the few gathered in the center of the formation. He stood on a makeshift dais with a long brass tube pressed to his eye. The device supposedly allowed one to see great distances. Asterion stood beside him, along with a bannerman and a hornsman to assist with relaying commands. Alaric, too, stood with them. He was not trained in their style and could not participate in the formation, nor could he understand any issued commands. Instead, he was tasked with taking down any vulg that managed to break through the circle. His armor was tight and restrictive, and his wounds were still a hindrance. Yet he knew, if he needed, he could summon the rage and fulfill his role without fail. Theodenes let out a yell. It was a single syllable, more of an expression of excitement than a word. He didn't need a translation; the language of the warrior was universal. The men all shouted a reply. Again, then several times more. Alaric joined in once he had a sense of the rhythm. He could feel the lust for battle spreading through the circle. It was infectious. As much as Alaric did not care for the older elf, he knew what he was doing. “Για την Αθυρία!” Asterion cried, taking over the chant. “Για την Αθυρία!” the men cheered. “Τοξότες, έτοιμοι,” Theodenes shouted his command. “Εννέα ώρα, χίλια βήματα, ισοπαλία!” In unison, the bowmen all turned to the east and drew back their strings. Seconds stretched into minutes. Over the shields, Alaric could make out the outlines of men running towards them. Hundreds of them. Any moment now. He gripped his axe. “Φωτιά!” A twang of bowstrings, and the whistling of arrows. They soared through the air and shrank into dots against the pale blue sky. It was difficult to tell whether they struck any targets as the field swarmed with Skullclan fighters. The bowmen managed only a few more volleys before the vulgs were upon them. The crash of bodies against the shields was deafening amidst the cries of war. Alaric shifted anxiously on his toes, feeling helpless. He was used to being in front of the men, not in the rear. He could only watch as crude weapons attempted to carve a way through the wall of shields. Occasionally a hatchet would sail overhead, or a spray of blood would soak the rear lines. When a Hydra went down in front, another would step up from behind and take his place. “Τοξότες, έτοιμοι! Τέσσερις η ώρα, χίλια βήματα!” The bowmen spun round toward the west. The enemy was flanking. The first wave had purposefully held back until the rest could circle around. The choice of formation proved the Athyrians' wisdom in battle. “Φωτιά!” Within minutes, the second wave reached the shield wall. Another crash, more sounds of struggle. One skull-painted vulg managed to break through, sword raised, bearing down on the inner group. Alaric quickly dispatched him with a blow to the head. He picked up the body and, in an impressive display of strength, tossed it over the wall. He did not want it around. “Τοξότες, έτοιμοι! Δώδεκα η ώρα, χίλια βήματα!” The archers spun to face north. Alaric looked over at the elves in command. Apprehension was starting to show on their faces. They may have misjudged how many their enemy numbered. A third crash. Several more Vulgs broke through. Alaric struck them down. The ranks of men were thinning around him as bodies piled up beyond the shield wall. When possible, the men kicked the bodies into the trench they had dug. The elves had thought of everything. No, not everything, it seemed. There was a sudden rumble of a horn, and not an elvish horn. It was deeper, more ominous. The sounds of the battle stopped. The enemy was stepping back. Were they retreating? No, they were making way. But for what? Theodenes must have thought the same thing. He issued commands. The rear ranks held their shields even higher, and the bowmen joined underneath. He frantically spun round, his looking device pressed to his eye, searching for what was coming next. Then he dropped the device, and his eyes grew wide. A look of terror seized hold of his face. They were right in front of him. Alaric followed his line of sight to several vulgar men and women, naked save for their paint. They were spinning their arms and chanting. “Αρκάνα!” Theodenes shouted as he threw himself on top of Asterion. There was a collective gasp from the men. At the same time, Alaric began to glow a faint yellow color. He knew what that meant. He dropped low to the ground, and summoned the rage in his blood. Then the fire came. He had encountered Dusk powers before, but nothing to this extent. A blazing inferno exploded around him, as if from nowhere. The shields were all facing the wrong way to defend against it. Hydra flew through the air, many caught ablaze. The wall was broken on all sides. The Skullclan came pouring in. A massacre ensued behind the thick cloud of smoke. He now knew what had befallen his clan. Alaric staggered to his feet. His ears were ringing loudly. He could no longer hear the battle. Skullclan strikers leapt at him through the haze. He acted on instinct, cutting them down. He tore off his helmet and cuirass, as they were hot to the touch and getting in the way. He began to dig through burning bodies. He found what he was looking for. Asterion. He was still breathing. He threw the prince over his shoulder and charged due east. He had to break through the enemy lines while the rage was still with him. He hacked through the Skullclan as he went, sprinting fast, one foot in front of the other. Slowly, his hearing returned, and he could make out the faint cries of battle fading away into the distance. There would be no other survivors. Alaric ran through to nightfall. He didn’t stop to rest, for fear they were still chasing him. He did not want to face their fire again. He pushed past the pain and the exhaustion. When the moon was high, Alaric came upon a watchtower alongside a road. The King’s standard swayed from the battlement in the slight breeze. As the vulg approached, two guardsmen came forward with swords drawn. Even if he could speak the language, he was too far gone to understand what they were saying. He dropped the prince on the ground before them, closed his eyes, and promptly lost consciousness. Memory 1 The Fracture Alexene finds a new Fracture-touched. Alaric learns where true power lies. Ideal: Power Is Earned Age: 35 To be written. Memory 5 The Dinner Alaric dines with three influential Councilors. Alexene intervenes. Personality Trait: Uncivilized Age: 36   Alaric sat cross-legged on the ground and held his plate up to his face, tearing up the cuts of curried veal with his teeth and wolfing down the summer vegetables poached in cream and the pickled prawns with olives. His tongue reveled in the flavors. This was the most delicious food he had ever tasted. He cast the empty plate aside and lifted the goblet to his mouth, letting the spiced wine spill out over his beard and down his chin. Once the goblet was drained, he wiped his mouth with the furs tied to a wrist and let out a very satisfying belch. Then he turned his attention back to the room. Everyone else was staring. The three Councilors and their attendants were reclined on cushioned beds and mounds of pillows. They lay with their plates of food beside them, delicately guiding a small portion of veal onto some fresh pita before bringing it to their lips. Humans known as Sirens draped in loose silks circled the beds, ensuring plates and goblets were kept full. Separated from them was Asterion, his bed given the preferred position in view of the rest and overlooking the veranda. Much to the surprise of the guests, Alaric’s bed was positioned to the right of the prince. Less surprising, he had elected to sit on the floor. There had been comments the vulg was trained well, which Alaric was able to catch. Immersed in the Helesan language for a year had been enough for him to pick up on a fair amount of vocabulary and most of the grammar. In fact, he seemed to have a knack for it. “As I was saying, O Prince, we are, of course, grateful you defeated them so quickly,” said the Councilor known as Gaios. He was rather rotund for an elf. Alaric was not used to seeing their kind shaped like a pear. “There was never any doubt among the Council of Fifty you would return successful. However, your initial defeat at their hands last year was obviously a matter of unfortunate circumstances. You had only planned for a military exercise! Which must not be the same as an actual battle. No, they must be quite different for you to have been so unprepared, and for you to have suffered such a loss of good men. Not to mention the great Theodenes! It is a divine tragedy! A fluke of fate! O Philemon, wouldn’t you agree?” The old and frail Councilor spoke up next. “Yes, I agree and do think-” “Well said, Philemon, well said,” Gaios interjected. He plucked some grapes from a bunch and popped them into his mouth. “And what say you, O Eusebios? Surely you agree as well.” The third Councilor washed down his food with some wine before speaking. He was long and thin, and in possession of a nose unlike Alaric had ever seen. Not on elf, man, nor beast. The vulg wondered how the Councilor was able to see around it. “It is true,” said Eusebios. “A noble sacrifice on the part of the Hydras. They are a credit to their breeders. I have dabbled a bit in breeding myself, you know. Arranging a satisfactory coupling has its… challenges. Attraction is a fickle mistress.” He eyed a Siren as she floated by. “But I digress. We are here to discuss the river.” “Yes, the river!” Gaios propped himself up a little higher on his pillows. “O Prince, from what I understand, it was a brilliant plan. Who could have thought of diverting an entire river for a military venture but a strategist of the highest caliber?” The other Councilors nodded. “You do me a great honor speaking so highly of me, Councilors,” Asterion said. “But I must confess it was not my idea. It was his.” He motioned at the vulg on the floor. “That is why I invited him. So you could tell him yourself.” Gaios paled. “It was... his plan?” Asterion nodded. His demeanor was unchanged, but Alaric could see the sparkle in his eyes. He was enjoying this. “Ah, well, I should have known. How could a vulg have the foresight for the consequences? He was concerned only for the battle, not for the good people of Athyria. How was he to know the river’s new path would flood poor Philemon’s estate? His gardens will not bloom again this year. And then, the aqueduct that fed poor Eusebios’s orchards dried up. His fruit are significantly smaller than they should be. Significantly smaller. Not to mention my bees! They are ever so distressed by the changes. Their honey is hardly as sweet.” “The river’s course has since been corrected,” Asterion said. “Yes, yes. Unfortunately, though through no fault of your own, the damage is done. There must be compensation considered. Just and rightful compensation. My fellow Councilors and I are but victims in this devastating tragedy. Think of the bees-” “Bees?” Alaric spit. All heads turned to look at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could men of power whine like babes? “Why you care about bees? Not when Skullclan striker is stripping flesh from bones, strangling your wives with your insides, and roasting your children on fires. They make trophies from your tiny cocks and dance on your burning corpses.” Silence. One of Philemon’s attendants promptly fainted. Several Sirens flitted to her rescue with fans and lemon water. “Yes, the clan in question can be a bit… dramatic,” Asterion said. He took a sip from his goblet and placed it back down beside him. “It was fortunate we defeated them when we did.” “O... Prince,” Gaios said, stammering slightly and dabbing his forehead with a fresh linen. “If the etymology of the word vulgar wasn’t apparent before, it should be now. Would you permit our conversation to continue without the vulg’s company?” “He is a guest,” Asterion replied. “Are you offended by his presence?” “Are you not?” More silence, a tense one. Asterion took another sip from his goblet. “It is rare to see a vulg from up close and live to tell about it. O Councilors, I am gifting you a very unique experience. There are many who would pay for such a thrill.” “Forgive me, but I would not pay to watch a mongrel eat my food and bark at me,” Eusebios said. Alaric leaned towards the prince and got his attention. "Psst! What is mongrel?" Asterion sighed. "A stray dog. It's... not a nice thing to say." Their eyes met. Throughout the meal, he had wondered why Asterion didn’t just tell these men off. No matter the importance of a so-called Councilor, they couldn’t be more powerful than the heir to the throne, could they? As they exchanged glances, it dawned on Alaric that the prince was not able to speak his mind. There were unspoken rules in place that prevented him from doing so, rules the vulg had yet to understand. It was why the prince was choosing his words so carefully. At that moment, the prince's plan became clear. Alaric was different. Not only could he be crude and blunt, it was expected of him. He had a power the prince did not have, could never dream of having. And Asterion brought him to dinner to use it. This was going to be fun. The vulg leapt to his feet and roared, tearing a pillow in two. An explosion of feathers burst around him. Attendants screamed. The fragile one fainted again. Platters fell to the ground, sending pears and oranges and kumquats sailing across the marble floor. “A mongrel!? I am clan Speaker!” Alaric shouted. “I led to glorious victories on battlefield. I bring fear to enemies' hearts when I cut them into little pieces.” He strode over to Eusebios and raised a fist as if preparing to swing. “You make me so angry enough to kill everybody dead!” The terrified Councilor, in an effort to escape, dove nose-first off the other side of the bed. Philemon froze, unable to find the courage to move. Gaios buried himself under his pillows. Attendees and Siren alike scattered, picking a direction and running in it. Asterion finished the last of his wine. “Enough!” came a commanding voice. Queen Alexene stood in the open doorway, anger hardening her usually delicate features. “Alaric, be seated!” Reluctantly, the vulg marched back to his spot and sat down on the floor, crossing his arms and legs. “O Queen, beautiful and wise Alexene, you have saved us all!” Gaios cried, emerging from beneath the pillows. Slowly, the room came back to order. Attendees returned to their beds, and the Sirens attempted to rescue the lost fruit. The Queen swept into the center of the veranda. “O Councilors, explain yourselves. Why does it appear you have riled the vulg?” "It was Eusebios," squeaked Gaios. "He did not realize the Prince's vulg was so untrained..." Eusebios pulled himself up from behind his bed, one hand clutching his nose. "My nose! I think... I think it's broken." The Queen ignored him. "The Prince's vulg? No, you must have heard wrong. The vulg belongs to me." All three Councilors raised their eyebrows in confusion. "He is yours?" asked Gaios. "We were told he was one of Asterion's slaves." "While Alaric has been of great assistance to my step-son, it is only because I lent the vulg to him. He is part of my personal guard. I'm afraid to say there have been rumors of attacks against my person since my ascension to Queen. Absurd, I know, but one can never be too careful. Who would dare risk an attack with a vulg barbarian to protect me?" "The Queen is truly wise and-" "Yes, I am. Now I'm afraid I must steal the prince away from you. We have urgent business that must be attended to at once. Please, feel free to enjoy the rest of your meal in peace. My staff will see to your every need until you depart. O Councilors, a pleasure." With that, she glided back through the doors. Asterion hopped to his feet, said his goodbyes to the Councilors, and followed her into the hall, taking Alaric with him. ****** The Queen was waiting for them out of range of the veranda. "What a fool of a step-son I have," she said as they approached. Asterion laughed. "Oh, but it was worth it to see the looks on their faces. You should have seen it." "I did." "So you understand," the prince said. "Besides, Alaric's performance was worthy of the stage. Stories are always exaggerated. They will spread word of how the vulg flew into a violent rage. It will lend justification to our actions with the river in order to stop his kind from invading." "The Skullclan is not my kind," Alaric said. "Right. Perceived kind. And they will not ask about compensation again for some time." The Queen was unconvinced. "I gathered that much. What you did not consider is how they would have also spoke of your proximity to the vulg. How close you sat him to yourself. How comfortable you were around him. How unfazed you were by his savageness. There would be jokes about him being your dog, sleeping at the foot of your bed, giving you fleas. Or worse, you lying with him. Now they are my rumors to bear." "You didn't have to-" "Yes, I did. Your reputation is your most important asset. It is the surest way you can protect your claim. When I said he could be yours, I assumed you would at least be distant. Going forward, you are to limit your contact with him." "You do not have the authority-" "But your father would," Alexene interrupted. It was a habit of hers that did not endear her to the aristoi. "Please don't make me be the one to tell him. He would hear of it regardless, and the vulg would be sent away." She waved a hand. "No more talk of this. I wasn't lying when I said we had urgent business. Please meet me in my study. I will be there shortly after some words with him." Asterion tried to protest, but the Queen sent him away. Once he was out of sight, Alexene sighed. "You are now mine, it seems." "I belong to no one," Alaric said. He wanted to be sure she knew. "Yes. But if you are to stay, you must act the part of my slave. It shall be as I said to the Councilors, you are now a member of my royal guard and will ensure my protection. A pretense is stronger when close to the truth. In return, I can promise you this -- you will be part of my closest circle of confidants. While you protect me physically, I will protect you politically. In time, I will see you made a full and free citizen of Athyria. Until then, you must do as I say. If this is not amenable to you, you may leave our lands and return to your own." Alaric remained silent. He looked down the hall where Asterion had vanished moments ago. He considered himself free no matter if it was publicly accepted or not, and the prospect of voting or owning slaves didn't hold particular appeal. And yet, there would be benefits. As a citizen, he would be able to come and go as he pleased, to live in the wilds and return to eat and drink well in the city. And then there was the prince. "I will stay," he said after some time, albeit reluctantly. The Queen laid a soft hand on his shoulder. "Asterion cares for your well-being. He is good-hearted and has a tendency to pick up those who need lifting. He tells me you have no one left. I can sympathize with that. He also owes you an enormous debt for saving his life. One that may never be repaid. However, I must put his best interests above yours. I am forbidding you from seeking him out nor spending time in his company. There is too much risk. And then there's..." She trailed off. "Never mind. It is time for the Protector of the Queen to begin his duties. Now follow me, but be sure to stay two paces behind. Do not speak unless I tell you to. And above all else, always look as terrifying as possible." Memory 4 The Countant Alaric sneaks into the palace, drunk. He encounters Alexene in the gardens. Character Flaw: Hedonistic Age: 36 This is to remain a secret, for now. Memory 2 The Tournament Alexene is thwarted by an enemy on the inside. Alaric finds himself in the middle. Bond: I Am Alone Age: 39   Alaric waited in the tunnel leading to the arena pit. Though the iron gates were shut, he could hear the roar of the crowd announcing the end of the penultimate event. He wondered who was victorious, the criminals or the lions? From the sound of it, likely the lions. The battle whetted the spectators’ appetites for what was to come, the tournament’s finale: Pyrros versus Alaric. His opponent was the slave of one of Athyria's foremost Hydra breeding houses. According to the odds posted at the city's gambling halls, the Hydra was favored to win. A dozen armed guardsmen approached from the hypogeum. Alaric wasn’t expecting so many soldiers to escort him onto the pit. Then he spied one of them carrying a set of furs, and another some jars. Something was wrong. “Hail, competitor. The Queen has requested that you exchange your armor for your vulgar garb. She said this would prove more exciting for the finale.” The furs were tossed on the ground in front of him. They appeared to be recently cut from stray dogs, the hide not properly tanned and oiled. They stunk of rot and filth. It was a lie, and not a very good one. An unknown power was onto the Queen’s game, someone with influence within the palace. Alaric only recently became aware of the Queen's plan himself. She explained that every ten years, Athyria held the Champion’s Tournament. Competitors seeking fortune and fame gathered at the Colosseum, hoping to be named the next Champion of Athyria. There were many perks for the victor, including an immense sum of money, often enough to purchase their own estate. This time around, the Queen convinced the King to double the winnings. Should a slave enter and win, their owner would instead receive the prize, but the slave would be freed and granted citizenship. The plan was for Alaric to enter the tournament and claim the title of Champion. The Queen would have the justification she needed to fulfill her promise and elevate him to a full-fledged Athyrian. In return, she would receive the prize from the royal coffers, securing her own personal wealth separate from her title. She’d also prove her personal protector was the strongest warrior in Athyria, certain to worry her enemies and inspire her allies. There were obvious concerns. Alaric could lose. Fortunately, the rounds were not to the death, though death was always a risk. And if he won, the citizens might not be pleased with a vulgar Champion. The Queen’s reputation would be severely damaged if she were seen to be equating a savage and an elf. Thus, he was to appear as Athyrian as possible. He filed away at the sharp edges of his accent. He cut his hair and trimmed his beard in the fashion of the Hydras. Through the bouts of the tournament, he wore their armor and fought in their style. He made sure to bow and acquiesce and use proper titles of address. He loathed every minute of it. But it was for a worthy end. The Queen was depending on him for success. "No," he said to the guardsman. "I proudly wear the armor of the Athyrian." He never thought he'd hear himself say those words. The guardsman who had spoken drew his xiphos. The rest followed suit. "You are no Athyrian. You will put on these rags, or we will peel your armor off ourselves and toss you into the arena as bare as the day you were born." Facing the points of twelve swords at his throat, Alaric weighed his options. He could fight, and possibly win, but he would risk injury before the match against Pyrros. There would also be consequences for attacking Athyrian guardsmen, and even the Queen might not have the power to prove he was in the right if any of the Hydras wound up dead. Whoever was buying or commanding their loyalty would not likely be exposed so easily. The vulg did not see a way out of his predicament. He held an icy stare on the guardsmen as he stripped off his helmet and cuirass, belt and baltea, chiton, and greaves. They also forced him out of his boots. They splashed mud and paint on him, and messed his hair with tar. He was left to configure the furs by himself, though they were crudely cut and poorly laced for wearing. Once dressed, he knew he appeared a mockery of a vulg. Still, it wouldn't matter. The Athyrians wouldn't know the difference. ****** It wasn't long before the gates were opened from the other side, the signal for Alaric to proceed. Blinking against the sudden burst of daylight, he stepped out onto the arena grounds, dirty, clad in dog furs and splashes of paint. There was a collective gasp from the Colosseum's packed audience. The reaction was immediate, the distaste palpable. To them, the vulg revealed himself a deceiver. His Athyrian demeanor had been an act until he threw off his costume to become the wolf underneath. It was the heel turn of the century. The boos and jeers began in the upper tiers, from the aristoi and the elves. It spread through the merchants and traders, to the farmers and laborers and slaves. Even if there were onlookers who believed the event to be scripted theatrics, they still had a part to play in the show. Pyrros would be the hero to root for. Alaric looked up towards the royal box, locking eyes with Alexene. She was sitting upright in her chair. Her expression was one of shock and anger. They exchanged a wordless dialogue, and in her usual manner, she figured out quickly what must have happened. She leaned forward and twisted round to look in the box next to hers. The polemarch Thalysios was reclined in his chair, unable to hide his wide smile. The King's brother, and head of the military. Of course. He was in command of the guardsmen, and would know which ones to enlist for the task. Thalysios met the Queen's gaze and winked. He wasn't afraid to reveal himself after all. Alexene looked back at the vulg. Her expression changed to one of regret. She mouthed a single word. Lose. She had been outplayed and was sounding the retreat. He wasn't sure if his pride would let him. At the very least, he wouldn't let himself go down without a fight. Meanwhile, the announcer introduced the other combatant who emerged from the opposite gates. Pyrros strode eagerly into the arena. Alaric had watched him fight before, but only from a distance. He was certainly more intimidating in person. In fact, he was the largest man Alaric had ever seen, taller than himself. The Hydra's long-styled corinthian capped with three peacock plumes served to accentuate his height. Sunlight reflected off his gleaming, ornate armor. His rich blue cape that bore the seal of his master's House swept grandly behind him. He raised his fists overhead, much to the crowd's delight. Alaric approached the official dressed in white in the center of the arena, meeting his opponent. He bowed, but the other remained stiffly upright. The crowd approved with a show of laughter. Two more officials arrived with their weapons. Pyrros was given a dory and round hoplon. Alaric was instead handed two claws. He had only worn this style of weapon a few times before, strictly when sparring, and mostly as a novelty to try. The primitive leather bracers were designed to be tied across his palms. Short iron blades extended out from his knuckles. They would be his only means of offense. Thalysios's choices were apt. The battle was to be the hunter against the beast. "Warriors, prepare for battle!" shouted the announcer. The officials backed away a dozen paces to give the combatants a wide berth. Pyrros strapped his shield onto his forearm and readied his spear. Alaric adopted a center-wide stance, knees bent, ready to evade an attack without hinting at the direction. "Begin!" Pyrros didn't wait. He darted forward, thrusting his spear. Alaric leapt to one side. His opponent attacked again, and again, pressing Alaric backwards. With neither sword nor spear, the vulg could not draw upon on the Athyrian techniques he had learned, and his claws were no match for the bronze shield. He needed to find a way to make an opening. He would fight like a vulg again. Alaric let out a shrill warcry just before his opponent's next thrust, startling him and sending his spear wide. He grabbed hold of the wooden shaft, spun in, and keeping a firm grip, used his free elbow to snap the shaft in two. Now he had a weapon. Pyrros flipped the other half round, the sauroter facing outward. They began to circle one another. The vulg went on the offense. Step, strike. Step, strike. Pyrros's shield would not allow for any forward thrusts, so he had to aim for an extremity and hope the edge of the dory's leaf-blade would catch. But he was careless, and Pyrros's sauroter stuck into his shoulder. Blood ran down his arm and chest, blending into the red paint. He backed away to catch his breath. Pyrros wouldn't give him reprieve. He charged the barbarian, whipping the back end of the spear about and catching Alaric in his side. Rather than recoil, Alaric gritted his teeth against the pain and held the other's weapon against him. He jammed his end of the spear into Pyrros's forearm with such force, the tip broke through the other side. Pyrros released his weapon and staggered backwards, clutching his arm and crying out in pain. This was his chance. In possession of the back half of the spear, Alaric leapt at the Hydra, but his opponent brought up his shield and blocked the attack, splintering the end into useless pieces. He followed with a rush forward and a downward strike of his forearm, burying the spear tip still jutting out of his arm into Alaric's already injured shoulder. Both toppled backwards, Alaric landing on his back. He was pinned under the heavy shield with Pyrros on top. The Hydra ripped the point out and stabbed him again, pressing it in deeper with his weight behind it. Alaric screamed in pain. It was time to throw the match. "Yield! I yie--" Pyrros ripped his shield arm out of its straps and grabbed a handful of sand, which he shoved into the barbarian's mouth. Then he moved down to his throat and began to squeeze. Alaric had managed at least one loud call to forfeit before he was silenced, but the officials weren't responding. Had Thalysios bought them too? With his own hands trapped beneath the hoplon, he was unable to signal defeat. Death was imminent, and he saw no other alternative. He would risk the rage. A surge of strength coursed through his body. Control slipped away, and the frenzy took hold. He roared, lifting both Hydra and shield off him enough to roll to the side. Pyrros leapt to his feet, and then collapsed in pain. His flesh was beginning to decay, fortunately beneath his armor and out of view of the crowd. This time, Alaric had channeled necromancy. The vulg was too consumed with bloodlust to rein himself in. He swung a fist and connected with the side of the Hydra's helmet. He swung again, left and right hooks, knocking the man about. The fourth strike ripped the helmet clean off. The fifth found the side of his skull, the sharp blades on his knuckles sinking in past the bone. When he pulled the claw out, Pyrros slumped to the ground. His eyes and mouth were hung open, a gruesome visage. Blood pooled around his body. The rage subsided, and Alaric sat back on his heels, panting. Slowly, his grasp on the world returned. He noticed a hush had descended on the crowd. One official came over to help him to his feet. The other two lifted the body and carried it away. Alaric, upon remembering his instructions in the event of his victory, stumbled before the royal box. He dropped to his knees and tilted his head upward. The King was standing at the rail, Alexene beside him. Whatever she was feeling, she hid it well. All eyes were cast in her direction. She would remain strong and adjust to the new circumstances, as she always did. King Ilus spoke. "O Athyria, the Tournament of Champions is complete," he intoned. "Pyrros, slave of House Cyrene is defeated. Alaric son of Gundrun is the victor by rule of death!" There were a few cheers. Death always had its fans, and the tournament finale would be talked about for years to come. Those in attendance could say they witnessed the brutal death firsthand. The majority, however, directed their fury at the vulg. He heard boos, the angry shouts, even threats. Alexene whispered something in the King's ear. He nodded a few times before raising his hands and quieting the ruckus. "The Queen is not satisfied with the results. She requests the title of Champion remain vacant, for it must not be held by a vulg." He paused to assess the crowd's reaction. Some cheers and applause, but not as enthusiastic. No one was pleased, nor could they think of a better answer. "We are both saddened by the death of Pyrros," the King continued, "who shall receive a posthumous manumission and be given a state burial in the Hall of Heroes. We will also invest the winnings in House Cyrene as compensation for their loss. May House Cyrene continue to grow and prosper with the blessings of the gods." The applause was louder now. Lady Cyrene, who was seated on a balcony not far from the royal box, stood up and waved, bowing to the King before taking a seat again. Even with the show of generosity, she did not look happy. The King looked down at the victor. He had not been fond of the vulg, having battled the northern clans in his youth. Still, he loved his wife enough to accept her strange whims, even if it meant having a barbarian stand guard over their occasional meal together. "Alaric son of Gundrun, you have fought well and earned your place in the annals of Athyrian history. On this day, you have earned your freedom and are now a full citizen. May you direct your talents in battle against Athyria's enemies and in further service to her Queen." Alaric rose to his feet. He should have been glad to see the Queen's promise fulfilled. He was officially free. Yet he only felt the angry stares of the thousands in the stands, heard the insults they hurled at him. No matter how hard he tried to fit in, to make Athyria his home, he would never escape the prejudices of the people who only saw him as a savage. He would never have a true home again. He spit on the ground and cursed the people of Athyria. He cursed the elves and their tyranny. He cursed the chimeras and the humans, how they trampled over each other to get ahead, how they pulled the ladder up behind them. **** them all. All but the Queen. He searched the balcony for Alexene, but she had already departed.

[UngainlyFool]

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. Name: Fadina, the Oracle of Dusk Race: Chimera (Lotus/Siren) Age: 63 Class: Druid, Circle of Stars Character Description: Fadina is the bridge, the union, the path from one world to the other. She is the human and the elf, both beast and woman, joy one day and despair the next. Her manners are foreign, her accent muddled from many dialects to sound both quaint and familiar. She seems to avoid the sun, covering her head during the day, but bearing her skin to the stars at night. At times, she seems to look through you, and at others to measure you with an unnerving gaze. Lotus elves note her dress and affectation as theirs, but she is clearly not one of them. How could she be? The castes of elf and man do not mix in distant Melukha. She has the haunting beauty of the tribes that the Hexamanid took fresh from the Dusk. She gives no service to a particular God, but they speak through her, that much is clear. They call her the Oracle and the Oracle is said to never sleep. To keep her inner eye on the threads of fate, she must be ever vigilant. But she is not a hermit; her ears are open to any who would release their woes to her.

Star-crossed Character Background: Far Traveler Two Personality Traits: 1. The Twins: My day begins at the full dark when others go to sleep. The augury points the way. 2. The Archer: I see portents and omens in even the small things. Life guides us if we have the senses to understand. Two Character Flaws: 1. The Lyre: My sight casts a darkness over people. I see only their tragic flaws for it is the flaws that guide the path of fate. 2. The Scales: I see the beasts and plants as equal to these industrious people of the Realm. I will defend either from the cruelty of the other. One Background Ideal: The Virgin: To approach each day, each breath, as a gift is to live joyfully. One Background Bond: The Water Bearer: I carry the burdens of others because that is why I was made. To see the future darkly is to know the impermanence of the world and reconcile with it. One Trinket with an Explanation: She keeps little in the way of personal items, but there is a pointed tooth from some fantastic beast that can not have ever existed. Around it is painted a story, her story, painstakingly decorated by her mother before she was born.

Previously Secret   Royal Connections Alexene: Cryptic Prophecy/Arcane Entanglement. There was always a figure laced into the enigmatic history of her life on the tooth her mother gave her. A woman, a human, she could tell and one who would lead her one day back to the Dusk. When the dreams came nearly 30 years ago she knew it was Alexene. She watched her grow in her dreams until the time was right for them to meet at last Asterion: Favored Mentor. King Hyperon always warned his son about the trap of prediction. But over the years of listening to the chimera and her exotic brand of prescience that she gave freely to the people of Athyria, Asterion developed a belief in them. What started as someone he could confide in developed into someone he would go to before any campaign or major decision. In many ways, Asterion believes in Fadina's powers more than she does herself.   Character connections and Impressions Basileides: Prime among the new gods of the Fracture. This captain has spent so long fending for himself that he has willfully severed his connection to the heavens. Perhaps he thinks he earned his gifts by skill and guile. Still, I like him. Ever a pragmatist, he has shown in our many journeys together to be a man who does what needs to be done. Mahājanī: My mother warned me not venture to the place of my father, but here an elf has come from Melukha and found me. It is sad, this selfish religion she brings with her. Alexene finds something in it, though it will only bring the Queen down. For removing one's self from the joys and sorrows of the world only serves to sever fate and is not living at all. Daidalos: Alanse: Like me, this boy knew the truth of magic before the Fracture. He brought it with him from the Dusk. He is young, impetuous, and struggles with so many things. When we return to the wild place together, there will be a time for us. But for now, he is consumed by too many other thoughts and desires for us to know each other. Alaric: This is a sad man. He is a fish taken from the sea. He is a bird hooded by a master. I am the most myself when I am around him. Most people come to me to vent their woes, but I find myself talking to him when we spend time together in the quiet gardens. He knows the true things. I long to see the joy of life on his face. Soon. Soon. Nasveran: Epsimeira: We met once under the Veil trees of Heliandria. Despite our differences, an honest conversation was had. I feel she has never been shown a true kindness. Perhaps that is why she never holds on. Clever is too simple a word for her. She should not go to the Dusk. It is not her place, but fate is taking her there.   Memory 5: Personality, The Twins The sun had set, but it still spread orange tendrils into the coming night sky as if sad to leave. Fadina rolled on her seat, adjusting her skirts as she crossed her legs in a meditative pose on the stone slab. It lay at the foot of a massive marble throne, sized by the architects both for its position to be seen high atop the roof of the Temple to Andrandamos but also to hold the God it was designed to honor. Fadina never sat in the carved stone cushion itself, she was not so brazen or heretical as that. But where Andrandamos could recline, taking in the first rays of dawn in the east, she could sit at his feet and first catch the darkening sky and the stars that came back from their day's rest. Darkness fell at last, interrupted only by the individual braziers below at the entrances of buildings. Not enough, indeed, to blot out even the faintest of the constellations' light from this spot on the tallest of Athyria's stone edifices. Fadina hooked her fingers into her hood, pulling the fabric up and away from her tied hair. The cool breeze took the day's sweat from the top of her head. It was a bracing feeling that elicited a smile from her. First from one shoulder and then the other, she tucked and allowed the spun garment to slip from her. A flush took her skin, raising goose flesh at the cool air and also the exhilaration of being bare before the sky. Fadina dropped her head back, straightening her spine with a breath and then opened her eyes to the heavens. There was the Bull, in his endless standoff with the Hero. Above them, the Scorpion, splayed in deference to the Lady of Snakes. The Hunter was still hidden, as was Drakon, but before her watch was done, they, too, would dance across the night. They were all welcome companions and advisers, however, her attention this night was on the Little Bear. He spoke of births, pointing always to The Prime just as his mother, the Big Bear, pointed to him. The Prime: the one star in the heavens which did not move from his place in the North. The Prime was the origin. Of life. Of light. She looked at the crystal in her folded hands. It rested there. In times of clouds and brightest day, her map inside the crystal could show her the far celestials. No one had taught her this magic. The Fracture placed the knowledge of the Dusk there in her dreams. On a clear night such as this, the crystal served another purpose, to amplify her gifts. If that is what they were. The stars were vague, evasive, and sometimes did not speak at all. Or perhaps she was simply not worthy to hear them. It did not stop Fadina from listening, though, or watching as she did now in awe. How many people were going about their nightly ablutions and whispered talks among their lovers, oblivious to the grandeur above them? The wheel of the heavens acted on them all even if they did not know or care, or so she believed. Faith was all she had at times. It was the young woman who came to her earlier during the time of sun. Hysione was her name, asking if her pregnancy would go to birth. This was her third. Fadina knew as a healer the chances were slim after two stillbirths that she would have a baby. She had taken her hands, tears remaining held back with practiced distance as she agreed to consult the Little Bear for the desperate mother. The Oracle will know. That is what they all thought. But Fadina did not know. Only the gods knew with their minds and desires transposed across the night's sky in points of light. She clutched her crystal and the tears that had been held at bay all day long flooded her raised eyes, causing the twinkling stars to slide and shimmer. What would she tell Hysione if her augury failed? No, it was not the augury, not The Oracle. It was Fadina who would fail. She tried to clear her mind of false thoughts, but in the back of her brain, where she could not yet purge, there was one. It was the one hoping for Woe. Weal and woe did not answer the question. They informed how she could impart it. Woe would gird her emotions from the questing eyes of another desperate pilgrim wanting the Oracle to give them hope. And how little of that there was in these times.

[Begon Ugo]

Basic Character Details Name:Nasveran Race: Sphinx Class:Rogue (Arcane Trickster) Age:28

Appearance Nasveran slips into the room, his tattered woolen green cloak wrapped tightly around his tall lanky form, a hood shading his red tinged eyes. As he sits at the table, a pale... almost bone white hand reaches out and picks up a long stemmed glass and he fills it from a nearby pitcher with a trembling hand. Taking a long drink from the glass, Nas wipes his mouth with his sleeve and slowly removes the hood, revealing straggly hair that matches the absence of color in his skin. The elf smiles at those gathered around him as he subconsciously clears his throat and rubs the ill-groomed hair bristling on his chin. "I apologize for my lateness," he says in a weary voice, "Shall we begin?"

Character Background Personality Traits Nature's Balance:Nasveran bends with the wind but he does not break, remaining calm in all situations. Natural Selection:The lion on the hunt does not stop to consider the feelings of the antelope. Nasveran is blunt and to the point in his speech, saying what must be said. Flaws Bloody Ascendancy:The pain Nasveran feels must be a test... it must have a purpose. He believes he will rise above the pain... rise above it all. Background Bond The Hourglass Runneth:The sun is certainly painful upon Nasveran's alabaster skin, even more so on his delicate eyes... but this is nothing compared to the pain his twin sister Veranase must endure. For her, the condition is debilitating and a cure must be found. Background Ideal Caretakers:Civilizations... cities... towns and village rise and fall, that is the natural way. Blood however... is forever. Nasveran's people have perfected the balance of civilization and life. It would behoove the rest of the barbarians to follow the Lotus' example. Trinket Placeholder:Nasveran carries a small vial of his sister's blood. He hopes that one day he will come upon something... anything... that will lessen his sister's hyperactive sensitivity to the light of the sun. Character Memory 2 The Hourglass Runneth: Character Memory Veranase lay sprawled across the bed, the silk sheets layered on top of her small frail form. The elf’s almost translucent skin was slick with sweat yet she forced a pained smile as Nasveran slipped into the room. The young man gently grasped his sister’s hand, giving it a slight squeeze as he fought back the ever present tears. The thick curtains were drawn tight… as they always were lest some stray ray of sunlight pierce the protective veil. In that case, angry burns would immediately appear on Vera’s skin, welts that would spread with alarming rapidity. It was a chance that could not be risked and so Nas’ sister stayed perpetually wrapped in her protective cocoon, no better than a prisoner rotting away in a dungeon cell. Nasveran and his sister both suffered from the same underlying condition, a lack of color… in their skin… eyes… hair. The sun slowly leeched Nasveran’s energy throughout the day, a drain on his ability to concentrate at times… an excuse for occasional bitterness. But for his sister… the sun meant death and it was this irony that at times threatened to drive Nasveran mad. For even as his twin sister was denied the warmth of the sun, Nasveran was blessed with, dare he say, the gift… of a personal connection to the darkness. Nasveran was a confidant of the queen, one used when the requests made were a bit untoward... risky. The sphinx could move like a slinky black cat through the slimmest of shadows and he had the ability to find his way into places he would never be invited. The propriety of such requests from the queen never bothered Nasveran, pedestrian notions of right and wrong meant nothiing to him as long as the ends were justified.

Connections & Impressions   Mahājanī: Nasveran was always on the lookout for the latest obsession to sweep over the well-heeled of Athyria. It was always something... something to excite the dulled senses... something to make the individual feel that they accomplished something meaningful in their safe, routine day. The thin elf smiled inwardly as he remembered the shoulder-less chiton fashion of the year before. It was quite popular before some deliciously inopportune mishaps had made nipped that particular fashion in the bud. But Mahājanī... and her ideas... this was something altogether different. There was a deepness to her teachings, a sublime quality that probably washed unnoticed over many that came to hear her words. The exotic woman... so different than the ivory skin and haired Nasveran touched a nerve in the jaded man. Happiness comes from within... that might be an idea worth exploring. Basileides: It was Basil's hands that stood out at first to Nasveran. While he was safely ensconced away from trivial menial labor... a perk of his Sphinx bloodline, Nas had learned to appreciate the simplicity and rewards of physical endeavors... the immediacy of satisfaction in a task completed. Through later conversations, Nasveran learned of Basil's past marauding on the high seas and that raised the man in Nasveran's esteem even further. There was little distinction between piracy and being an official privateer and in that slight difference, a piece of paper, no more... lay all of Nasveran's feelings towards authority. The hypocrisy of it all sickened him and so he celebrated Basileidea's past, not allowing the man to ease too far into the luxurious life of the Queen's court.