#rstd:alphabet

[the-real-rg]

F - Fear

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What looked like the remnants of a fight marred the path to the clinic, spiraling out of the Blind Owl and spilling onto the street like eviscerated intestines. Soldiers and drunks alike milled about; red dripping from the latter’s lips like booze, matching the stains on their knuckles. The guards eyed Devi suspiciously, recognizing the Devil with ease. In an alley, tucked next to the bar, lay a crumpled lump of blanket. A body. Right across from the clinic.

Fear yanked at Devi’s knees as she approached one of the guards standing by the corpse.“What happened?” she asked, throat dry.

He looked at her with some disdain, silent even as he sneered.

Devi gestured at the body with her foot, hands tucked into herself for warmth. “A patcher?” She didn’t get an answer beyond the slightest twitch in his gaze, and panic latched onto Devi’s heart. Was it Ahava? She prayed it wasn’t a tell. “I’m Insensitive, same as you. Just curious, is all.”

The guard sighed. “A riot started and the witch got caught in the center of it—they were pretty much torn to pieces. Can’t say they didn’t get what they deserved, though. The folks we’ve asked say they were practicing.”

Practicing. God, it couldn't Ahava under that blanket, could it? She was smarter than that. Had her eyes faded yet? Was Ahava safe? Where was she right now? The clinic?

Devi tried to hide her panic even as she looked back at the clinic. No light came through the shuttered windows. “Are they an Aeran patcher?”

He grunted. “No idea. Their eyes were gouged out.”

Devi nodded numbly, before turning away from the scene, heading towards the clinic. First Barachiel and now this? Her skin itched, fists clenching by her side as Devi did her best to keep walking forward, rather than running back to the corpse to rip off it’s blanket, claw at its face until it told her the truth. Was it Ahava? 

What would the doctor’s face look like, gold eyes hollowed out by violent, indulgent fingers? Blood dripping from dark pits and claw marks down her cheeks. Would there be bruises on Ahava’s knuckles, signs that she died fighting? Or would she be barely recognizable, just a body beaten and bruised and torn; limp as a doll? Would she cold, skin pale and unfeeling beneath Devi’s calloused fingers? No longer sunlight, no longer warm.

Please, Devi thought, as she tried to stifle tears, please let her be alive. Devi didn’t know what she’d do if Ahava died. Maybe she’d kill herself.

The clinic door was locked and the windows were bolted and Devi didn’t have a key. Too bad for Ahava. Devi began pounding on the door with vigour, not quite desperate enough to start yelling yet. She was scared, yes, but attracting the attention of the Guard wouldn’t help anyone.

There was the sound of movement from inside the clinic, followed by the flashfire light of a lantern being brought to life. Devi heard a thud, several small things clattering to the floor, and Ahava cursing loudly.

The Devil quietly thanked whatever gods existed for saving the doctor.

“Who is it?”

Devi took a moment to collect herself, feeling impossibly shaken as her breathing came in uneven, relieved gasps, wet with grief. “It’s Devi.”

[the-real-rg]

C - the Coliseum

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[The Coliseum] is a one way ticket to fame and success, but it rarely left one feeling anything but battered and exhausted.

A contest of champions, with elite warriors sent in from the various regions of the continent of Mezilon, the C O L I S E U M provided a (relatively) safe way for nations to show off their cultures, display their specialties, and “establish dominance”.

Run by an internationally representative committee, the Coliseum took advantage of two massive, uninhabited swaths of terrain full of monsters. The southern plot was nicknamed the badlands and became known for it’s massive if unintelligent beasts that rivalled even the biggest manors in bulk, coupled with horse-sized pack animals built for the barren plains. The northern area earned the title Host Forest - due the number of hyper-intelligent and often parasitic beasts that lived within it.

Each presented its own challenges, and teams representing one of the 27 nations and micro-nations of Mezilon were sent into the territories to ‘claim’ land and defeat monsters. The corpses were collected by the committee and sold in parts - venoms, hides, bones, and other resources were essential to many non-magical medicines - the funds of which were used to fund the Coliseum. Whichever nation ‘claimed’ the most land was deemed the winner and got a large portion of these proceeds as a prize.

[the-real-rg]

D - Devi

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[Devi’s] fall from grace had been a public spectacle that none were keen to let her forget. Despite the many years that aged its memory, the incident had even given life to her nickname in the Arena: the Devil.

D E V I ’ S life, it seems, has come full circle.

She started her life living as a street rat, painfully familiar with the gruelling grind that was living each day just trying to survive to the next. By the time she met Amator, she'd learnt to expect the worst. But he provided opportunity - one she was desperate for. She wasn't without her suspicion, it was too perfect, to convenient, but it offered her with not only a purpose but a family. People to trust and be trusted by, and that was too tempting a bait. Devi accepted.

Her reception as Amator's personal guard was cold. The people of his high society life expected her to slit Amator's throat in his sleep, and Barachiel shared the sentiment. It took them all a long, long time to understand that in giving her this chance, Amator had earned her loyalty.

Worming her way into Barachiel’s heart was tedious. He hated her for reasons she couldn't understand, turning up his nose at her whenever she entered a room by Amator's side. It was her desperation to be accepted by Amator's friends that kept her stubborn as she hacked away at his walls. With time and painfully earned understanding, she eventually came to call Barachiel her friend. Her best friend. She trusted him, they trusted each other.

And then he killed Amator - killed the man who had given them everything, who had loved them, respected them. 

She hadn’t even seen it coming.

Devi lost everything when Amator died. The man she considered a brother was dead. Her best friend was his murderer. Barachiel, ego fat with blood, considered her another object he could pluck from their home and take along with him on the next part of his plan. Devi got front row seats to the genocide of magicians, watching the slaughter from a cage disguised as a bedroom.

Then, when he got bored with her, he dumped her in the remains of Aera - a once proud nation brought to its knees by Barachiel’s power lust - and she was left to piece together the remains of her life, struggling to survive. Again.

Originally, Devi’s character intro was going to be done in the same style as Desdemona’s and Barachiel’s, but then when I started the A-Z challenge, I decided to include it under the letter “D” instead. Here’s the original moodboard I had planned to use, with Devi’s faceclaim front and centre.

[the-real-rg]

E - Elegant

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As Devi moved to sit down, she peered over the table at Barachiel, reassessing. Critical. She was looking for further fault in his exterior beyond ‘messy’. Barachiel had always been described as some variant of beautiful, despite the deep scars that split his face in half.

Time had done its damndest, but Barachiel could still pass for the twenty-two-year-old she’d first met, and the deeply coloured apparel matched the vivid youth in his features. Spun in Barachiel’s signature jade and silver, the tunic was fur lined but still managed to take advantage of the more sleek, more predatory, aspects of his lithe figure. A fitting outfit for a man of his standing. The silky fabric and sable fur announced Barachiel’s status like a herald.

A flash of hot jealousy spiked in her stomach, and Devi became acutely aware of how greasy her hair was. She couldn’t recall a single time she’d felt pretty. It didn’t help that part of Devi still missed the elegant wardrobes prosperity had once afforded her.

As if noticing her stare, Barachiel moved to fuss with some of the new stains on his sleeves, before giving up abruptly. Pink tinted his cheeks in the firelight.

“Forgive my saying so, but you’re a bit of a mess, Barachiel. I do hope it’s only because of the cleaning, and not because you’ve gotten into another bar fight.”

He flushed a whole shade deeper. “I haven’t… had any major disagreements with civilians as of late. I’ve been avoiding the bars, I’ve been trying to monitor my drinking.”

[the-real-rg]

B - Bruiser

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Bruisers were expensive. They needed things like food and water and rent money and then they had to be paid? How rude. But it was common knowledge that a well-fed bruiser fought better than a starved one, so the Arena fighters kept draining their benefactor’s wallets, using so much money that they eventually became an investment.

For those fortunate enough to have some degree of fighting skill, a there exists one way to save yourself from the Quereven mines and a life of prostitution; become a B R U I S E R. 

A violent occupation, bruisers are the hounds in the ring of a dogfight, representing their benefactors and gaining them wealth and glory. For bruisers, the hours are long, the work painful, and the pay little, but you’re more likely to come out of a fight alive than you are the mines.  

While all the glory is found in armed combat, swords and armour and weapons are a privilege only veteran bruisers can afford. Newcomers to the ring find themselves slotted into the role of bloodfighters - brawlers designed to whet the appetites of the onlooking crowd and begin the trickle of bets. These bare-fisted fights are brutal, often leading to permanent facial disfigurement. But then again, watching someone’s face get mashed in is half the fun for the onlooking vultures. 

[the-real-rg]

A - Amator

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"What was Amator like?"

It was Devi's turn to hesitate.

"You don't have to answer I just-"

"No, no it's fine. He was just complicated."

A M A T O R, an esteemed magician practicing the dark arts of necromancy and blood magic, was the rock upon which the nation of Querevage was built. Charismatic and persuasive, he was able to convince a ragtag group of mercenaries to claim their own territory and establish themselves as an independent culture and group, separate from the state they served. With Amator as their leader, a revolution began and - to the horror and bewilderment of the surrounding countries - a new nation was born.

But Querevage was just one of his many projects and as king, his research into magic became increasingly taboo, his determination to push moral boundaries ever more dogged, and his quest to change what was societally acceptable grew exponentially. This unquenchable ambition to create change made him a controversial figure, and he was described as everything from “an endlessly compassionate ruler” to “a sociopathic warlord”. The only thing everyone could seem to agree on was his alluring, magnetic presence and endless charm.

Strange, then, that it was his lover who murdered him.