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Askavi / Re: Vitian
« Last post by The Darkness on October 17, 2020, 04:34:57 PM »
The Darkness has granted you...
Cut 24
Cut 11

As requested, THREE family rolls:
1: Summer-sky to Purple Dusk
2: Yellow to Rose
3: Yellow Descent
Rodgau Province / Re: And baby makes... Four?
« Last post by Morgan Blackthorn on October 17, 2020, 06:53:11 AM »

"I said we!" Morgan defended with a laugh. He let go of Catriona only long enough to throw his hands up in surrender, before quickly reclaiming one of hers in his own again. He slotted his fingers through hers, fitting their hands together like separated puzzle pieces. The fit was perfect, as always, forever.

Morgan grinned. "Yes, wife, twins." He was certainly pleased with himself, even if double the child was unexpected. Only for a brief moment did trepidation touch his heart, only to be quickly shooed away. Nothing would happen to his lady, even carrying a double load of child in her belly. They would only be proof of her power.

And his.

Shifting his hold on her hand, Morgan helped Cat sit up on the edge of the bed. "Of course." He muttered to the healer, only faintly incensed that she could suggest he would forget. Morgan was too busy brushing hair from Catriona's face, eyes watching the news play out across her features, to pay the woman any real mind. Her part in this was over.

For now. He supposed healers would be necessary for pregnancy.

Twins especially.

"They will." He agreed, instantly imagining a boy and a girl named after their parents. Shrugging, Morgan lowered the shield to let the healer out. "My apologies." He offered, not in the least bit sorry. Ready to embrace his standing wife, Morgan laughed as she slid boneless back into the bed. He sat next to her, their hands entwined in the cradle of their knees.

"We truly are, my love." Morgan's smile was as arrogant as the day was long, but there was a peaceful sort of love in his as he leaned in to kiss the space between her eyes. "I'll order another cradle made." He half teased, since it would be necessary.

(you are not crazy lady!)
Past / Re: Surprises in Winter
« Last post by Roan Bélanger on October 17, 2020, 06:26:16 AM »

The fabric of his clothing had parted. Cut, he realized, as the cold air wove its way into the crack to caress his skin. Shields too tight to protect clothing he was likely to discard anyway. Roan so hated to bring all the cling psychic imprints left of his raid clothing home to disturb his wife.

Or make her ask questions.

A single bead of blood welled his shoulder blade. Roan could smell his own power in it. The heaviness of his caste, and the dark promise of his Red. Licking his lips, he took in the scene. A wild creature was poised before him. All tangled hair and dirty hides, waving a sword at him like a child's toy. Roan blinked, half crouched and ready. His thumb rubbing strands of hair along his finger.

"Really?" He asked her, surprise rising the pitch of his snarled accusation. A sword? Against him? Maybe she didn't understand. She was foolish enough to engage him in first place. Roan's heart stuttered in his chest. He hated killing women. But when he walked the fields, Roan killed everything without much thought.

But the killing field did not stretch between them. Just snow and confusion tinged annoyance. "That was, lady, very stupid of you." Maybe he was capture her. It was the thing to do. Drag pretty women back to the islands to serve Paon's glory as slaves. Roan ambushed her with probes. A woman, most definitely, with Jewels a blink in comparison to his Red.

Most of her his however. Caste and flat taste on his tongue. It was like her appearance, too muddied to be judged. He brought the hair she'd shed in his fist to his nose, sniffing. Not quite. That little voice whispered, disturbing him. Roan shrugged it away and lunged, one long arm snaking out to test her reflexes. Craft sweeping out for the opposite ankle.

He wasn't afraid of some furlined waif brandishing a sword. Lazy as he was, Roan was a warrior of Paon.

Askavi / Vitian
« Last post by Vitian on October 16, 2020, 04:08:57 PM »

The Basics

Full Name: Vitian
Age: 282 as of AW103
Gender/Pronouns: She/Hers

Ethnicity: Eyrien
Birthplace: Askavi
Current Location: Askavi
Profession: District Ruler - North Ancravi

Caste: Queen
Birthright Jewel: Summer-Sky (UNCUT 24)
Offering Jewel: Opal (UNCUT 11)

Face Claim: Medalion Rahimi

The Body

Height: 5'6"
Body Type: Lean
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Orange gold

Most of a life spent in travel has kept Vitian narrow. Rationing on top of almost daily exercise meant that what she was able to put on was mostly stringy muscle, and as a result its only within the last decade or so that she's started to lean into a healthy weight. Her relatively small stature doesn't help matters, and she relies heavily on her wings to increase her physical presence.

Moderately concerning dietary habits aside, Vitian is pretty. Strong brows, soft mouth, good jaw. Her temperament is surprising, although it probably shouldn't be, considering the arch caste her face naturally falls into. Her grace, what little there is, is easily betrayed - her hands are too rough, her step too heavy, to disguise her history. Vitian doesn't believe in lies or subterfugue, and it's evident in all parts of her. Her clothing is simple, of sturdier make now that there are better materials but kissing cousins to what she grew up in. She never complicates her hair, or her person, with ornamentation; her jewels are set in plain rings, and perhaps her greatest concession to preference is that she favors her Summer-sky for her left hand and her Opal for her right.

The Mind

Craft Strengths: 15pts
Reading the Land
Queen's Gift
Physical Enhancement
Craft Weaknesses:

The first several layers of Vitian are rough, callous, carved from the stone that builds Askavi's mountains. She has a temper she's worked hard to tame enough to use, first instinct typically to cut before she can be cut herself, either with words or weapons. Vitian fights: she's fought for the recognition she could scrape out of her father, for her position as District Ruler, for affection. She's landed at an unusual cross-section of history, where being a ruler is to be a center of tumult and to be a Queen is to invite challenge.

Vitian relishes both. Her caste has only ever done her the favor of having her enemies underestimate her, but there was never a time for hiding behind it. She is direct, the fastest route being the straightest one, even if it's through others. She has a learned capacity for caring, but it's often difficult for her to empathize - she is jaded, equally as prepared to be snubbed as to disregard the reasoning behind it. People do what they do, and Vitian has to deal with the consequences, not the rationale.

Family and connection are a hard won thing for her, and she hesitates to believe anyone who too easily marks themselves her friend: they must not be genuine in some way, or they have very low standards. She doesn't make any assumptions about her good standing in the eyes of others, assuming, instead, that they view her in some kind of negative light. Those who have proven themselves otherwise may still find her speculative of their intention, but less frequently. The people she views as closest are the ones she returns to after absences of any length, acting like nothing has changed. Any desires she has for personal closeness with another are analyzed strictly in the dark, alone, and only inasmuch as she can understand what weakness she may find in herself so that it can't be used against her.

The Backstory

  • Jacivar | Father | Summer-sky to Purple Dusk Warlord (presumed deceased)
  • Cyrian | Mother | Yellow to Rose Caste (deceased)
  • Prian | Almost Wife | Yellow Descent witch (presumed deceased)

Vitian was meant to be a son.

This she knows because she has been told, time and again. Vitian's birth brings Cyrian's death, leaving Jacivar, no longer young but not old enough to parent alone, as the sole provider for a babe he couldn't claim to want. Vitian had been meant to be a son, and Jacivar chooses to ignore all the parts of her that are not. She's passed from nursing mother to nursing mother until she's old enough not to be. In Jacivar's tent, Vitian whiles away the hours until curiosity and indignation grow too strong. She is very much her father’s daughter, for all his disinterest, and perhaps that, too, is an issue. Not enough of Cyrian lives in her for him to love.

Vitian grows fangs.

Not the kind that count, the kind that poison, or see to dreams. Vitian grows metal fangs, shadowing her male age mates. Jacivar's blindness means there is no direct retribution for playing at war, mirroring their lessons with clumsy hands, but that isn't true for the other men of their camp. Time and again she is dragged before her father, hissing, spitting, scuffed and bloody. Caught your brat again, Jacivar, the other men say, mocking. Vitian is always regarded with varying degrees of amusement and derision, and sometimes her roughing up isn't self-inflicted. Some bet on when she will finally be sent away, knowing that even if she doesn't end up with dark jewels, her temper could be enough to see her broken, Queen or not.

This is a shadowed future she doesn't understand, despite the shadow women who tend the camp. She doesn't know what separates her from them, only that she is different. Their Craft doesn't feel as hers does, as that of her father and the other men. It turns her from them, straightforward in her distaste in the way only children can be. Her logic is simple: her father pays attention to the boys and men, and not to the women, not where she can see. She wants her fathers attention. Clearly, she has to do what the boys do for him to see her. And no matter how many times she's dropped at her father's feet, how many times he banishes her to their tent with bloody teeth and no food, Vitian returns to steel. 

Vitian descends for her birthright with fledgling calluses.

Her Summer-sky is hot in her hands, uncut and rough enough to catch skin. The talk around her, the looks, they change on her return. She's one of very few gifted a jewel that has never seen the hands of Blood, and now there is no question as to her caste: the temper she wields and the teeth she bares belong to a Queen, one who, late to take her first jewel at eighteen, has had years to sharpen her will with the young men.

There is no Coven for her to be sent to: the camp they are part of is too small, already at risk with her presence and the young daughters of several of the men. Where before her Birthright she shadowed her male peers she now practices beside them, if only in flight. She's narrow, and small, and her wings are those of their sky predator ancestors, built for fast dives and quick turns. Now, at least, she has a better vantage of learning what the men learn with their practice swords, their hunting knives. What her women tutors don't see can't be interrupted, and she has long since stopped hiding her activities within their tent. Jacivar doesn't ask after her training, in anything, and Vitian has stopped trying to tell him.

Vitian meets Prian in the fall.

Fifty-two and wild with it, she's accepted by fringe members of the male youth, and is often found in their company. Still caught between her caste and her desire for acceptance, she splits her time between her female tutors and her handful of male associates, and it's with them that she encounters the other girl for the first time.

There isn't much they're able to do to observe the traditions of Venalaus, snaking their way through the mountains in an effort to outpace Witch's hunting parties, but they do what they can. They are joined by another small camp, no more than ten, and it's one of the first times Vitian can remember meeting youth outside her own band.

Prian is Blood, and only barely, Craft so weak she might as well be Landen. They find themselves together as girl outcasts, Vitian for her inability to bend as many of the men expect her to, Prian for lack of Craft, something she's taunted about ruthlessly by other girls in her band. Worse, she confides, is that she wasn't born wingless - true flight would always be beyond her, without Craft assistance.

They find themselves together frequently, in a three-day gathering that turns into a tenday, and then a month, when a mixed hunting party fails to return.

Vitian descends for her Offering with Prian, ninety and eighty-seven respectively.

She rejoices at Prian's Yellow, and takes it upon herself to teach the other girl to fly. Vitian has again shaken her home-camp, and bares her teeth with pride when she presents her uncut Opal in her fist. She's no true warrior or Queen, but her age mates have taken to listening when she speaks. She knows her way around sword and knife and bow, not as well as any man but well enough, and it's a man in comradery who she asks to request her Virgin Night from her father. No doubt Jacivar recognizes her meddling, but he still waits outside their tent for the deed to be done.

It's Prian's bed she falls into after, adjusting to the change within herself, confused over her findings. Feelings that are easily dashed with understanding when her clumsy attempts at kissing the other woman light her up in a way the night with her male friend had not. That is the difference, the confirmation. She finds in Prian the warmth and softness and acceptance that aches her heart, and she loses herself to the other woman's smile, her laugh, her eyes.

They are together for decades. Vitian takes no other lovers, and it is she who waits besides the girl's brother - younger, father and elder brother taken by Witch - when Prian goes through her own Virgin Night. They are inseparable, and it is only with Prian's gentle insistence that Vitian learns to refine any part of her Queen's Craft. Whispers about them are diminished by time, by stress, by the weight of Witch's shadow on their backs as they work to keep just ahead of her, just that much closer to freedom.

They're together, and then they're not.

Witch's death rocks not only the people, but the land as well. Traveling through the mountains when her last act of vengeance sweeps through Askavi, it is only Vitian and a handful of their band that escape the cave in, both her father and her lover separated by feet of fallen stone.

Vitian mourns.

Adrift, she follows the remnants of her camp blindly as they descend. South, into Askavi's fertile basin, a people in ruins around them. Stragglers, fractions of camps and war bands, all trickle toward what was a hearty city only weeks before. It surprises no one when tempers clash, lifestyles and beliefs struggling to merge in the wake of what should be triumph.

Victory is bitter. Victory tastes like cave dust in her throat.

It is, perhaps, only the exact right circumstances that land Vitian in a position of power. She is a Queen, one of several washed into Ancravi, but unlike her caste-sisters she comes with a retinue who already hold some respect for her. The remains of her own band are mostly young, strong males, peers who've seen her grow and a few who have lent her their knowledge when she was struggling alone with their practices. Her bladed temper harkens more to a warrior than others, and she attracts those who cannot stomach the floundering of her competition. Her own aching heart drives her to stake out land in the Northern edge of Ancravi, against the mountains feet, dreaming of finding Prian.

Years pass. Vitian defends her location with her temper, with her blades, with her craft. Her borders expand to District's borders. The basin peak is hers, defended by the remnants of her family, bolstered by those who find her more tolerable than others. She tries to handle people fairly, always with Prian's even tempered voice at her shoulder, trying to create a balance for what is best. Often her heart turns to the mountains, and over the years she has gone back in search of the woman she lost, but eventually that, too, has dulled. Hope blossoms within, but she knows better than to feed it too fully.

Another Queen's shadow attempts to stretch across Askavi, younger, darker, looking for unification. Vitian holds her place, and waits.

The Writer

Player Name: Kay, Kayndred
Player Pronouns: she/hers
Timezone: -8 GMT
Contact: PM, Discord

Inactivity Instructions:

Roleplay Sample:
See Michael Villiers
Past / Re: Surprises in Winter
« Last post by Alesia Skye on October 11, 2020, 05:03:10 PM »
Alesia was out hunting, a bow slung over her back and a dagger glinting in her hand. She left no tracks in the snow, the land shifting and stretching out to protect its Queen. Her land.  The silent trees, the echo of a bird as it flew, a single black speck streaking the grey sky. She knew every hollow, every root, every sapling that was just breaking free from the dirt. Right now, the hidden Queen had her eyes on a buck below her, its horns pronged and its eyes staring off in the distance, listening. She knocked an arrow to her bow, the rough bark underneath her, and was about to hit the animal straight in the heart when a vibration caught her attention. A shift. Through the dirt, up the tree she was perched in, and into her slender frame.

The land was soaking up blood.

Lowering her bow, the buck ran off as Sia put her hand on the tree and reached out with her Land Sense. She followed the roots of the fur tree, under the dirt and across the forest, until she felt a disturbance in the village below. Blood pooled on her land and feet rushed across the surface, boots digging deep into the land. The Queen swept away from the disturbance, searching for others, strays wondering up her mountain.

There was one, his steps careful, steady, drawing closer to her home. While it was hidden well, the land obscuring the entrance, Alesia was not one to take a chance. In fact, she was not one to let anyone to come close to her family and live to return to theirs. There was a reason that the village people spoke of the Hell Hound in the mountain, guarding the mountain pass from wayward travelers.

Sia made her way down the tree and silently climbed another, using the tangled branches of the evergreens to climb upward and across, until she was lying in wait for the male. For it was a male. She could tell that much from the heaviness of his steps, stupid and heavy. No sense of the marks he left on the land. Her clothes, made from the pelts of the animals she killed, blended in with the brown of the trees and her scent, a mix of fur leaves and herbs, was that of the forest itself. A psychic and visual shield wrapped around her body as Sia’s prey crept closer. Just like the buck that had gotten away. The temperature dropped lower as he appeared, the snow cracking under foot and the air freezing in the throat.

One more step. One more step.

A knife was thrown, perfect and deadly, at the male’s back a second before the hidden Queen leapt from the branches. Her hands were raised above her head, elbow pointed out, hopefully to smash down on the male’s skull. Such a blow, if successful, could knock him out or seriously daze him. If not, she would scramble away from her target, ripped hair left in his hands and wild eyes, before drawing the sword at her waist to challenge him.
Past / Surprises in Winter
« Last post by Roan Bélanger on October 11, 2020, 06:48:13 AM »
@Kenna [/center]

Roan couldn't imagine that anything of interest existed in these Darkness cursed mountains. The air was brittle, like the faint dusting of snow that crackled beneath his feet. And it was cold. Colder than it ever got in Paon, though not the soul shriveling freeze of Glacia. A place he refused to return to after a single winter foray.

But he still didn't like the cold. It made his skin draw tight and his hair bristle. Chilling the tips of his fingers and biting the end of his nose until he thought it was running. He ended up sniffing perpetually, or rubbing his face against his shoulder when he needed to be silent.

The town had been dreary. Shut up tight, probably because of the cold as much of the late hour. Smoke poured from the chimneys, turning the sky a bland sort of grey. After using his Red to pop the darker locks among the buildings, he'd slunk away. First behind what someone suspected was a warehouse - and Roan suspected they were right - and then into the trees.

There were a few others creeping among the tall shadows, scouting houses farther out. Roan went past them. Roaming farther, higher, which was colder. But the deeper snow cushioned his foot steps, and the branches and leaves froze in a manner that was appealing. None of it would last the trip home, but he'd still have the memories.

The quiet was eerie. And subtle. The leaves didn't tremble in a way he was used to. Water dripped from a lattice work of frozen pillars handing from branches, occasionally dotting his cheek or hair. It made him flinch - colder than cold - but there was the beginnings of a pond teasing him through the trees. Ice working in from its shores in a way he wanted to see.

His probes found nothing alarming. Sleeping or sleepy animals, mostly. Like the town, they tried drowsing the cold away. The screams from below faint enough to not be disturbing. The crackle of power in the air made him edgy, but Roan knew he'd find nothing to test or interest him in the houses or shops. The mountains were a desert.

Roan was sure only trouble came from the cold.

Alarm swept up his spine. Probe swirling against something not quite right. Too late though. A shadow launched itself at him, and Roan was rolling before his thinking brain could catch up with his instinct. Shields forming, craft melting snow. He snarled and grappled, burying fingers in hair, and flesh, his nose in dirty clothing.

Enemy! Attach! His brain screamed, but another part of him, older and darker, kept his craft from melting barriers and webs so much lighter than his own. Not quite. The old dragon in him whispered. The prince of warlords. Not quite.

Heyasi Province / Re: Fabrications
« Last post by Kyung Yi on October 10, 2020, 07:10:14 AM »

There was a clatter and a squeal. Chair and table legs grating across the floor. Overturned mugs turning beer into frothy stains. It was there. They existed. Moment happening at the peripheral. It was not right. Nothing was right. It infringed. If only he could live it one more time. And this time get it right.

Over and over again until he got it right.

Someone grabbed his arm. The hand was small. The world shifted sideways. Like two pictures on thin paper laid over each other. Fabric layered on fabric. Was one reality? Or was it all a dream? Kyung wanted only to go to the sea. To be scourged in waves that grew taller than a man.

To live in a story and not in the hell his life had descended into. But this hell was his punishment. The Darkness was always punishing him. He struck with a wing, but the hand held on. It spoke to him. Small words from small fingers. Kyung squeezed and looked down.

A healer. He knew a healer. "Iseul?" He asked, but knew it was wrong. She did not look like him. And the Jewels were wrong, a probe battering at the hand reflexively. Healer. Purple Dusk. He'd worn a Purple Dusk once, like a talisman on his chest. Before. Before he'd shattered it trying to save what he hated.

Mother Night how he'd hated her, but she was his!

"Little fly," he warned, thumbs digging into the man he held. Toes skittered across the floor as the warlord tried to find purchase. "There will never be peace for Dhemlan." He told her. And never for him. He rattled the warlord's jaw one more time. Wings flaring with the violent shaking before he let go. Allowed the other male to collapse in a heap at his feet.

A heap that quickly fled. Coward that he was. That they all were. Frozen, watching. One lone healer against him. He. Kyung Yi. He had served as a guard to Nari Choe! He was power. Prowess. A warrior.

Worse still, a warlord prince.

"Do you vouch for them, then, little fly? That they didn't help?" Someone had done it. Kyung knew who. When he could remember. Which wasn't often. The moments so full of pain and failure. His sight blinded and filled with Nari's face and his grasping hands. Mother Night that bitch. Nari's Grey should have saved them all.

Heyasi Province / Re: Event: Winged Comet
« Last post by Eunji Khal on October 10, 2020, 06:52:15 AM »

Eunji's lips grew thin at the corner, creasing the space between mouth and cheeks in a bleak smile. The stillness after his strange laughter - and what a strange thing to laugh about - passed quickly, though their flurry was tempered now with even graver suspicion. Perhaps it was an Eyrien thing, to laugh at such things. Or perhaps he had broken his head in the fall.

None of the healers mentioned damage to his skull, or his webs. But they worked around his wings as if they did not exist, and even Eunji who was unskilled beyond the most basics of first aide - apply pressure, keep clean - could tell one, at least, was damaged. Anyone with eyes could have seen this. It was most frustrating. Eunji did not enjoy being frustrated, but she had many remedies for the trials that faced her on a daily basis.

*Fear not, my court is whole and well.* None foolish or weak enough to be trapped beneath falling debris. *However there are many in Dhemlan who have survived the war with new skills. Including tending to those who had been our enemies.* Eunji was careful to frame it in the past tense. The war was technically over. Dhemlan and Askavi no longer openly charged each others borders and villages.

But the hatred was still strong on both sides. If she had not seen opportunity in the comet of an Eyrien before her, she herself would have gladly let one of her males slit his throat.

*Ah, here she is.* Eunji watched him bristle. A Red often did that to people. For herself, Eunji accepted the homage paid her with quiet dignity. Bowing her head graciously to Nian-zhen, her Purple Dusk was pale in comparison, but her caste gave her all the power she needed to dominate. Smoothing her countenance, Eunji watched the dynamics shift. The other healers moved aside for Nian-zhen, who touched the Eyrien's wing as if such a thing was common place.

It made Eunji's skin prickle. Though she had held out her own hand in friendship to the warlord, such casual contact did not suit her. It was to be suffered, like many other things in the long climb upward to glory. Lacing her fingers together, Eunji stretched out the digits, the heels of her palms pressing tight to one another while she watched and waited.

*I see.* Nian-zhen was far too clever. Eunji would have to keep a careful watch on her until she could be sure of her loyalty. A thing Eunji was very good at being sure of. *Surely his other wounds are much more pressing than his wing. It would be unsafe for him to try flight in any instance. I'm sure the palace is in quite an upheaval.* Eunji played ignorant to what was happening outside of the infirmary.

Fingers coming together, she turned them upward, tips touching the soft skin beneath her chin. *Let the worst be taken care of today. The rest may wait on another sunrise.* Eunji  bowed faintly to Nian-zhen, and smiled softly at Indivar, who was baring his teeth at the healer. *It seems prognosis is good, if recovery long. Nian-zhen has assured me she will personally see to your care. I am, of course, willing to host you until you are well enough to travel.*

And it was safe enough for travel, but that was unspoken, and unlikely for quite some time.

"We will need to find rooms for Indivar so that he is not dominating a whole infirmary. Many might be afraid to seek the healers in his presence." It was much too far from her reach and control. Unsecured and open to the public. "Yong-gi, find suitable apartments within our block, please." The prince bowed swiftly and departed, a saber rattling at his side.

Heyasi Province / Re: Fabrications
« Last post by Hae-Won Wuxian on October 06, 2020, 02:29:27 AM »
Her neighbor's horse grumbled under her weight, not used to carrying some one for this long. She had to travel for her latest commission, and with the Winds down, she had to travel by land. The days lost weighed on her. She couldn't even pay for a darker colored coach right now. Everything was gone and the Blood were nearly as useful as the landen now.

The horse tried to slow under her, moving from a brisk walk to something slower than even she could walk. She clucked her tongue softly and tapped the beast's shoulder to keep it up to speed. When it didn't respond she resorted to the stirrups, spurring to to keeping the same speed. Her neighbor had assured her that this beast could keep this speed for an entire day if need be, and that it was notoriously lazy with new riders. She couldn't blame it too much. Of she were a horse, she would probably act much worse than this.

Her day ended at a tavern just outside a village maybe a half day from where she was meant to go. They had a clean bed and decent alcohol for her, and decent hay in a small stable for her horse. She paid for the night with a few coins and added in an extra to ensure her mount was equally well cared for. The keeper was kind enough and invited her to enjoy dinner in their tavern below. She took the late afternoon as an opportunity to clean herself a bit and prepare to meet with her client tomorrow. She treated herself a bit, calling in some of her nicer soaps to enjoy herself while she could.

Afternoon bled into evening and the tavern below started to fill with locals. She slipped down and ordered a pint of the local beer from an overly happy waitress that she couldn't help but be pleasant with. The talk of the local village was enjoyable while she sat and drank her beer. It wasn't enough to make her even that tipsy but the buzz warmed her. The talk of a local birth also warmed her. It had been the first birth in so long and the new father was out celebrating with his friends.

She sat and listened to him celebrate with a small smile on her face, until the Warlord Prince entered. She could feel him as soon as he stepped inside, but one look at him both eased her fears and broke her heart. He was lost, and didn't truly see the now quiet tavern before him. He wandered in and killed the conversation throughout the entire tavern. But he didn't see a tavern, did he. He saw something else, and his growled words hurt her.

Her body stood before she even realized she wanted to respond. She didn't really, but these poor people couldn't possible deal with a Broken Warlord Prince. She couldn't either, but she was at least a Jeweled  Healer.

She stroke forward and fear pounded through her heart at his wings and his vacant expression. Her hand tightened gently around his forearm and her words came out in a soothing way, the same she used for patients gripped in fevered dreams and visions, "Shh, my lord, he's not at fault. Peace, please, you are safe. It's not your fault," She didn't know what might have been his fault, but it felt reasonable enough. She started to craft a Purple Dusk shield around the people closest to them, the first around the new father,, trying to protect them in case of a violent outburst. She felt confident in her ability to ride through a storm of anger unbroken, but any protection, not matter how meager it might be compared to his rank would at least help.

"Come back my lord, these men aren't what you see. You are safe, please, be at peace." She prayed in his ear, both hands how clasped around the hands gripping the poor stranger. She hoped that her desire for him to release the man, to keep from becoming violent. She'd seen enough bloody rooms in her lifetime to never want to seen anything as violent like that again.
Lys / Re: The Nettle & The Needle
« Last post by Nikodemus Vee on October 06, 2020, 12:53:38 AM »
"You would know if he were using my mouth," Nik allowed lasciviously, one brow ticked up. There was enough rumor about where he lay between his two closest confedants that he didn't feel bad bandying it about a little. It wasn't like there was anyone else who wouldn't take it seriously, barring the man in question.

Her declaration brought a croak of laughter out of him, almost enough to jostle his plate. "Oh, then all her good spoons and hairbrushes would have been broken. She learned after five, I think," said with an air of pride at ones own stubbornness that, he imagined, fairly smothered his guest. Nikodemus was quite good at smug, if he said so himself.

His mother, of course, had never had to raise a hand to him, let alone one wielding an object intent to hurt. She was too well bred. Her disappointment and censure had been weapons enough, something he knew he hadn't yet pinned down and that Heidi was just as likely to use against him. Surely there was nothing good to be had about having childhood friends in ones court - they didn't need retellings of the stories of youth, they'd been there for it and could offer their own color commentary.

Of which there was no end in regards to Nik's staff. "They gossip flagrantly either way," he scoffed, attention catching on the hand at her throat. Maybe he should take her jewelry shopping instead of out to lunch. Getting her something shiny to wear would be settling. "You'd think I don't punish anyone, ever, they way they go on." Perhaps he should go out and fire a few of the worst offenders, but the idea immediately rankled. He'd hate to have to train up replacements. Caught, he thought, scowling delicately at his plate. Curses. Heidi and Frit would end up laughing at him the whole time, either way.

Of course. He was probably laughing now, too. "Of course." He hadn't even seen the man yet, but he wasn't surprised at his meddling. He rubbed the base of his horn with a fingertip, smoothing his expression into something calmer before his hand dropped, napkin appearing between fingers to dab at his chin, only to squint in consternation when it came away clean.

"Only this morning, from reading late I'd guess." He admitted, aware of how late 'late' was and how he couldn't give that information up without a fight. "But I drank plenty of water and rested with a cold towel over my eyes between meetings, and its about gone now." That, at least he'd divulge, because to say it was gone completely would be to invite even more suspicion. Nosy woman.

Welcome to Witchlight

We are an AU Black Jewels RPG that is continuously expanding the world lore to truly make it our own. Come join us and play in our sandbox!

Open since 2017, we have 9 unique races, from birds to wolf-shifters. Feel free to drop into our Discord, lurk our wanted ads, and see if Witchlight is the fantasy site you should always have been looking for.

We have an RPG Rating of:


FALL - AW103

The seasons will change on 11/20.

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Home for the Mourning Days by Vigot Thidrandisson
[October 28, 2020, 04:04:38 PM]

Lore Submissions & Templates by kayndred
[October 27, 2020, 09:40:02 PM]

Transactions by The Darkness
[October 27, 2020, 11:10:02 AM]

Vitian by The Darkness
[October 27, 2020, 11:09:14 AM]

Traveling Too by Audun Dahl
[October 27, 2020, 03:23:32 AM]


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Witchlight is loosely based upon the Black Jewels Series by Anne Bishop though it has been adapted and expanded by our members. All lore, characters, and writing belongs to the members. Site graphics & custom codes were created by the staff. A special thanks to Wolf & Katarina for all their help with the planning of Witchlight and the writing of the base lore.

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