#troupe 3

[freydis-freydat]

Who: Open starter for any of the women from The Ones Taken involved in Troupe 3 (@lunadarkwoodx, @alessiathepath, @arr0s, also open to anyone who would know the intimate details of what this group endured in Troupe 1 either from Freydis or another survivor so it's not quite soooo closed!) When: Early in captivity of the Kossith  Where: The brig! Notes: Abduction Two: Kossithic Boogaloo 

This was not a circumstance Freydis had ever counted on being on again. If she had more rational, more of a realist, perhaps another stint of captivity might have presented itself as a possibility, but not at the hands of the kossith. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, the anxiety she had felt of the pomp and circumstance Progress Day constructed around Aetherium felt like a red herring. Where she had focused on the advancements of the arcane material, her attention should have been fixed on Aventia and the strange beasts that had laid their stake in it. 

The weight of the collar on her shoulders was a constant reminder of the seriousness of their circumstance. Many answers and many questions had come in the last few handfuls of months, and it felt all the more frustrating. But Freydis was determined to survive this, to right the course of her destiny again, and to recover Hjalmar. An uncharacteristic silence had fallen over her for some time as she sat next to a fellow survivor, a calculating darkness in her eyes they would easily recognize from their time in the Broodmother’s lair. There was a deep sense of fury and determination that took root in her breast–she had not failed the woman beside her, and she had not failed Freydis. She was certain neither of them intended to falter this time around. “We have survived this before with less resources, less knowledge, and worse stakes,” Freydis finally said quietly, “and we will see the end of this alive again.” It was delivered with the weight of a promise. 

[spiralailani]

who? @rhysxvuldak where? Haven, Lysara

More and more wolves have been leaving the town, with the elderly and the weak being taken to a safer location. In comparison to how she had found Haven, it was now deadly quiet. It would be discomforting, if it wasn’t relieving. Countless lives are being saved by this evacuation, and it would provide relief to those who had been worried about collateral damage as they fought. Lailani is counted amongst those who are relieved, the weight lifting from her shoulder even as she walks through the quiet streets. Quiet streets that are suddenly not as quiet as the sound of the lute fills the silence. Captivated, her steps turn towards the noise and she walks to it in steps with the melody, humming under her breath as she goes. 

“It’s a beautiful tune,” she comments when the music stops and she finds herself facing a stranger. “Does the song have a name?”

[temperednuvi]

who? @fyrenxsolon where? Haven

It’s only by accident that she recognizes the flash of black as a dragon. A very specific dragon in fact. Nuvi hadn’t had the pleasure to meet Prince Ikaros’ dragon in person, but she had heard the rumors. And frankly, there aren’t many black dragons flying around as it is. Frowning thoughtfully, she follows the dragon’s flight path towards… Oh, she recognizes him. He was part of the team that headed into the Eluvian towards the Falon’din Hollow, isn’t it? Recognizing the face, she decides to greet him, and maybe satisfy her curiosity about why he had the Prince’s dragon. 

“Afternoon,” she greets with a nod. “You were part of the group that went to Falon’din Hollow's, correct? I believe I recognize you from that trip.”

[blightedmikhael]

who? @aurelientrader where? Brewed Awakening when? After Last Night In Aventia

“Somehow, things were simpler when being sent to the Iskaran mines was the biggest of our problems,” Mikhael grumbles as he sits in front of Auri and nudges one of the pints he had bought in his direction. Seeing the faiman had a surprise, but he had been one of his most pleasant employers, so Mikhael had seen no issue in reacquainting himself with him. Of course, after a couple of beers, the topic inevitably moved to the issue that was in everyone’s mind. “The Kossith are odd, and somehow more threatening.”

[vuldak-juneau]

Who: Open to anyone in Troupe 3 Where: The entrance to the cellblock where her little kennel is set apart  When: After the recent plot drop prompt Notes: No expectation to match length, this is how I decided to respond to my prompt so I wrote more than I typically might for a starter. Starter mentions beatings, injuries, violence. 

The steep price of disobedience under the weight of the a’dam tempered quickly when one knew they were going to die anyway. The first of the beatings was brutalizing, all ripping skin and slick blood. The attention they drew to it all was salt to the wound before her forced shifts.That had felt like they’d dragged her by the hair to a vat of acid and made sure to submerge every raw part of her, body and soul. Juneau had poured her time in Lysara into trying to keep the vuldak at bay, to be a neutral and maybe sometimes even a good person despite her demonic nature. Luna sold her out in the most dire situation Juneau had been forced into to date, and now none of that mattered.

It was always going to end like this. 

Hope, blind faith, and fate working itself out in any positive manner were not part of Juneau’s outlook or lived experience. She didn’t suspect that would change now, and the bleak death that stood several feet in front of her made the present easier. The body could only experience so much pain before the baseline shifted and the vuldak acted in the same inhumane, carnal way night after night. The Kossith never actually allowed her to hurt anyone. Even if she did, and even with the heavy weight of shame over her exposed secret, it wouldn’t matter soon. Death would make each of these things the least of her problems. All there was no was to endure until they executed her.

Of course, that didn’t mean she’d be some shrinking violet about it. If her fate was sealed, she’d make sure the Kossith suffered her every bit as much as she suffered them. 

It was the time of day or night or whatever it was that the other, less dark-touched prisoners sifted in and out of the cellblock. It meant some of the Kossith would be near, potentially some of the worst of the Sul’dams. Her lips parted, lined with dried blood and almost indistinguishable amongst the other bruises that warped her visage. The lacerations across her hands and arms–most of which were defensive–never really having a chance to begin healing between beatings–stung terribly as she beat them against the side of her kennel. She wasn’t trying to escape, she wasn’t interested in doing so when there was nowhere to run, but she was trying to make as much noise as she could. When she saw the first of them approaching to punish her, as if her a’dam would not do so, she began to shout. “Hey, you self important fucking bovine!” she screamed, aware of exactly how much attention it would garner. Her voice was harsh, and the a’dam jolted her like some arcane shock collar. She swallowed hard, her throat dry like knives, and continued. “Remember when you fucking kidnapped me?” Another jolting shock, this one stronger, requiring longer to recover. “Too lazy to take the time to pick through your victims?” she challenged again. Another punishing jolt, her voice becoming more constricted from the pain. “Or are you just all as stupid as you all look?” A final warning from the a’dam, and her back was pressed against the back wall of her kennel, a cold sweat gripping her, and a feeling of suffocating nausea overcoming her. Her eyes shifted to the closest rahaat, and Juneau almost laughed at the irony of how likely it was they pitied her. "Better run away quick before that overgrown fucking cow gets here," she huffed out.

[theportaraceli]

who? @froyofthe-ironwood where? A small islet near Aurelia Isle when? After the ship went kaboom

After dragging herself and the blonde woman out of the water and into the small islet, Araceli throws herself to the ground with a grunt. She lays there for a moment, not caring about the sand sticking to her wet clothes. She lays there for a long moment, taking a jagged breath after the other, but she doesn’t allow herself to rest. That last half an hour had not been divine provenance, something had pushed them towards the islet. Someone, even, and she needed to figure out if they were alive, and whether they were an enemy or not. Grunting again, she stood up and waved for the blonde to stay as she began traveling the edge of the beach, eyes scanning the horizon until she saw a form collapsed in the sand a few hundred meters away. Her slow walk turned into a jog, which turned into an outright run when she was close enough to vaguely recognize the person lying in the ground. 

She had met him at the ship, right? He had been another one of the captured. 

“Hey! Are you alright?” She calls out, falling to her knees next to him, hands hovering over his form as she wondered what to do.

[hiddenvaldis]

who? @moon-hwa where? The Hanged Man, Caribella when? Post most recent plot developments

It’s the night before her planned return to Lysara and the Tower, and Valdís is enjoying the typical Caribellan night. Sitting on an empty table in the corner of the Hanged Man, she is enjoying the atmosphere of chaos, soaking in the energy to gather the strength to endure more of the Tower’s sterile education. Valdís has a drink in hand, and is humming in rhythm to the bard playing in the corner, and an overall sense of peace settling over her. 

It’s not true peace, for she has never known the sort, but it is the sort of peace that comes from being at ease in the middle of a hurricane, always expecting the next curveball life throws at you. 

In this case, life throws her a curveball in the shape of Moon-hwa. Looking at the first mate of the Thalassa Armada over the rim of her tankard, Valdís raises a brow as if questioning her presence. 

“Did you miss my presence so much you separated from your captain, witcher?” She asks, tone nearing sarcastic even when she is genuinely curious. As far as she had heard, Seraphiel wasn’t in Caribella. Was his first mate not with him? 

[ikarosx]

A trembling beneath your skin awakens you in the dark of the night, though when you open your eyes you do not see the interior of the Kossith ship. You pause, for a moment, and try to consider how much time has passed? Days? Weeks? They say you lasted longer than most, but broke, you did. Instead of the brig, you see a sky without stars churning above you like a wounded beast; threads of molten gold tear across it, tangled and sickened. Your body feels heavier, rougher and when you move you hear the faintest crackle of stone upon stone. 

You’re reminded of an old story, of a man whose family’s destiny was doomed and written across the stars. So afraid of the future was he that he aimed to steal the night sky itself: different have different variation of the God in the tale: Nótt, Nyx, Nox, Varda - but the root was always the same - someone wished to change a fate written in the stars, so they enlisted the aid of a God.  

When you awoke, a butterfly perched itself on your chest, resting against the collar of your a’dam. Its wings, inscribed with tiny runes, each pulse faintly. Somehow, without really knowing, you can see how it’s anchored to you, how this frail and fractured creature represents the shape of your soul. Its wings beat once, twice, then begin to ascend as the boat of the vessel blooms simultaneously around you into a ruined landscape. Thrones made of thorns, rivers of ash, statues weeping molten tears. Ahead of you a path splits three ways, each swallowed in mist.

"What Was Lost."

You step through a forest of petrified trees, their bark cracked and bleeding golden sap. Beneath your feet, runes writhe - ancient, primordial symbols, older than Avalon, older than the stars. The butterfly remains on your chest, its wings bright, but quivering. At the heart of the forest stands a figure: Titania, Queen of Avalon. She extends her hand - and you see that it is pierced through with nails of blackened gold.

Behind her, the trees shape themselves into the sigil of your House, but twisted, the roots choking the crown. Titania’s mouth moves, but no words come - only a sound like the flutter of a thousand broken wings. 

In her hand, Titania offers you something clutched in her bleeding hand: a mirror, fractured into seven shards. 

What do you do?

The air feels dead. His heart is heavy, his mind is fractured. To know the weight of the future had always been a burden, one he'd learned from a young age. Pushed for the power to see what would come next. Odin gave an eye for it, and the story of the man who wished to steal the stars. These stories are not new, they are not groundbreaking – greed drives every story, eveery bit of the future. And each vision that Ikaros gave, it felt like giving a piece of himself back to the weave.

How far down had he gone? This path, twisted and looming – like the life had been drained from it long ago. Every vision had a color, each one that he had known. Ikaros remembered green; the feeling of being lighthearted, the color of nature – of relief. White was peace, all consuming – but this melancholy of blue that he choked on, time and time again, like an ocean drowning his sorrows.

The a'dam sits heavy on his chest, body struggling to fight in a way that his mind could not. Torn in so many directions, the prince of Avalon was taught to bow to no one.

"Ir sa tel'nal." I am empty, full of nothing. He breathes the words at the sight of Titania, voice broken and raspy from disuse. He hadn't seen anything but his visions in so long, it made him want to fall apart.

The vision of his mother fills him with a sense of dread, piece by piece he tries to understand – why is she here? The sul'dam would take her, too. The Arishok would have his kill and his home – Avalon, so old and twisted – Abelas had said as long as the tree stood, there would be hope.

Abelas.

'Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer when alone within. Take spirit from long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours.’

Endure.

Ikaros' feet feel heavy, the fog of the dream fighting him as he lifts his hand to meet Titania's. He feels the blood in his mouth, the taste of remembrance. What he could do when he had his moments of reality, when the sul'dam allowed him to remember – he held onto those fleeting feelings.

There are no words spoken; his soul aches. It aches until he remembers what it's like to burn. Red. Anger. Blue. Melancholy. Choking.

The pieces cut his fingers, but he takes the mirror. Jagged edges; which way do they go? He tries to piece them together, forge the mirror, make it whole once more. Bleeding, endless ichor – again and again. Jagged edges to make a mirror whole, seven pieces, to gaze within and see a man he hardly recognizes.

"The Crown and the Storm."

Your mother fades, then a few paces bring you to stand before a sea of black water, frozen in time. Above, a shattered moon bleeds rivers of crimson light into the water below. A ruined citadel floats at the center of the sea. It looks like the castle where you were raised, your home, or something that once was. From the citadel’s highest tower, a second butterfly flutters toward you - this one twisted, thorny, armored in black crystal.

It circles you, whispering promises of power, survival, dominion as the butterfly on your chest shudders at its presence.

In your hand, a crown of thorns appears, heavy and wet with blood. 

What do you do?

The mirror and his mother fade, his hands no longer covered in cuts and blood, they're just his. He'd been so many people, so many consciousnesses that had pervaded his own. Vision after vision. The death of those who would never see it come. The pain of loss, the glory of a victory. The vanquishment of a threat.

Ikaros burning, too close to the light. Melted wings and broken promises, like the mirror that melted with the vision. A sea of black water, the air stale. No longer dead, but in stasis.

He remembers his own downfall. A blighted hand, reaching forward. Suffocating.

Time would never cease, but it often felt elastic. His visions made it as such, and the broken creature that remained looks at the ruined citadel, Arvandoril. The home of the people of the stars. Once so brilliant and bright, floating amongst the vast sea. Deep and full of despair, how could he fix such a thing?

He couldn't. He had failed. The reminder burns bright, his eyes he wishes to tear from his skull. But still, he'd see. Blinded for so long, it had done nothing but make his oracular ability stronger.

Broken, Sahlkareth.

The butterfly that floats towards him reminds him of what he'd done, what he'd become. Nail after nail in an obsidian coffin, would he ever remember the lives he'd help take? Ikaros had always had a healthy dose of avoidance to humans within Taravell. Avalon was always his main consideration.

He reaches forward, the thorns digging into his palms. He is the heir. He is the crowned. The next king – he would have that power. Ikaros' hands shake, his fingers curl around the crown to dig it further into his palm.

He thinks to place it on his head, to pull it down, down – until he could bleed as much as he wants to.

But he doesn't.

Someone is screaming.

The butterfly on his chest had shuddered, the obsidian one gone from his sight.

He was screaming. His hands, bloodied once more, both wrapped around the crown that breaks as he finally tears it apart.

Mythal'enaste.

"The Last Thread."

You walk along a crumbling bridge suspended over a void of stars and below, shadows twist and rise - broken echoes of yourself, of the futures you could have lived. The bridge groans under your feet, each step fracturing it further. Ahead, at the bridge’s end, stands Yhane - cloaked and veiled - holding a leash woven from rune-threads and he holds out his hand to you.

Between you and him, a final butterfly - massive, ancient, wings black as obsidian - blocks the way. It perches on the bridge’s edge, its wings torn but still alight with runes you do not yet understand.

What do you do?

The vision fades, but the pain always remains.

Hate is loud. Fear is loud, but it is only the desperation of a few who shouted, wanting to be heard.

He wants to hear her voice again, Titania reminding him what it meant to be a king.

You might not ever be able to change those few minds, but so long as you remember you're not alone, you will overcome.

Ikaros stands now, his vision returned to him, and he knows who this person is who waits for him at the bridge's end. Yhane, holding the leash to his end.

Sahlkareth wishes to take a step forward, and he does – a few that lead him forward, to stare at the butterfly. These runes had appeared on each pathway, leading him forward and speaking to him in a language he had yet to understand.

His mind aches. To force the butterfly to move, to let it all end in a way that he had seen. He was not the man in the story; he did not wish to steal the stars, and bend it to his will. The prince had never used his ability in such a way. The Kossith had pulled forth something that had remained within him, protected and pushed away – but perhaps he was the man he wished to change the endings he'd seen. The pattern wrote itself in many ways, many versions.

While the colors he knew and felt, the way he'd drown on melancholy blue, or sit in the electric yellow of finally feeling something for himself – they were dulled, but present.

He feels as if he'd be sick. Was this another vision pulled by the same creature that stands at the bridge's end? The veiled demon that had shattered his soul, these echoes of himself playing around him.

"Ir tel'him." I am me.

The butterfly fills him with a sense of dread, and Ikaros turns his mismatched gaze down onto the one that had settled on his chest. So delicate, some fractured part of him that carried the light.

His voice had been silent for so long, only echoing all what he'd seen. Any opinion forced from him by the sul'dam. Who was me?

IkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkareth–

He takes a step backwards, and another, away from the sight before him.

The stars were gone, stolen from the endless void around him. What god would aid him now? Who would intervene? Tempt the Norns, the Moirai, the Gulses – all versions of fate and death and vision. Ikaros had been in his head for so long, it was hard to discern reality from his visions – was this just another of Yhane's tricks? What torment would await him?

He held on to the semblance of who he used to be, backwards, off the bridge, lest he throw himself into the void below.

Ir tel'him.

[eivorx]

When your sul’dam forced your shift, there was no reverence or awe in the way they spoke to you - a dragon. It was with unbridled command, you resisted because of course you did, but it did nothing for you but cause more pain as you fought your own draconic transformation. Wings exploded from your back mid-scream, scales burst from your skin like bone shards, and as you spread to take flight, that lifting feeling of freedom never came. An island passed by on the horizon and you were the first instrument the sul’dam used to take it, those who did not bow were destroyed, those with a hint of magic were collared and as your sul’dam dismounted your back, he stroked your scales and whispered: good boy.  Vaelzhar, the Kossith have renamed you. Sky-Brand. You have been assigned to the Heart of Bone, run by the sul’dam Shaekir. A heart forged for precision, subjugation, and extraction. Shaekir believes that rahaat are little more than a flawed system, one that can be retooled and optimized to meet his expectations.  

Hiding for so long had always caused him pain. Every beat, every breath, it was one that was shortened for a reason, held back for another.

Eivor wasn't sure why he thought he could get away from this, hiding in his Elvhen form when they had others who could pull forward what he was holding back.

Pain was familiar, and pain was mindless. It wasn't unlike what he'd known for three centuries straight; what he'd felt beneath the hand of the Archon, of the Aetherians who ensured he held hearts in his palm and bodies beneath his jaws. But the Kossith knew what to pull, how much pain to inflict before it was against his will that his prismatic scales burst forth, his wings spread, and he roared to the sky.

It was a lesson, one that he had perhaps been wondering about all along. Why did the dragons of this world turn their backs? Because they were seen as fearsome creatures, beasts that held ill will towards all. The sul'dam only reminded him that he was a weapon; no great, revered dragon. No pride to be found swirling in his chest. Just obedience. Only violence.

Violence was an old friend, wrapped around the jaws of a dragon that had always been too afraid to open them and become what the dragons of the world had already learned. Yet he had been the first lesson, torn from this time, in a place that wasn't his own.

Witches crumbled beneath his claws, Elvhen, anyone whom the Kossith wanted, they bowed or they were torn from their world with a blast of prismatic magic that would leave nothing but perhaps a moment in the Wheel from when they had existed.

Anger. It was easy, and Eivor would let it consume him. He'd learned this lesson before, how easily rage could inhabit a body such as his. But this was his own demon, the one he carried with him. Every inch of him fought until he couldn't, until he could rise again the next day and start again. But more fell beneath him, with the sul'dam on his back, the praise that cut like knives through his scales. Another weapon for someone else's use. If he could've found death, it couldn't have been another answer. Not until he found his vengeance.

Vaelzhar. It wouldn't leave him; it would haunt him, or perhaps, one day, it would become another weapon. A tool against anyone that stood in his way. He'd become that dragon, and when it turned on the Kossith, with nothing in its gaze but the hate that filled its chest, he would have the last laugh.

He was a creature of pure magic, the telperion in his veins had only attempted to poison such a thing. He was Vaeros, and if he never became Eivor again, he would not waste a moment of mourning. Death would always answer in his place.

[thequeendomhq]

"Beneath the thorn, two voices thread - not quite a song, not quite unsaid. The wind leans in, the leaves are still; a feathered hush, a sharpened trill. What passes there is sweet, and slight - and not for ears that fear the night." ~ of the Nightingales

Overheard in the market square...

“I remember the smell first. Not rot or blood. Oily. Bitter, like iron steeped in seawater. It clung to their skin, their armor. It filled the streets the way grief fills a house after the mourners are all gone. They didn’t knock. They never do. They waited. Stood in the rain for hours. Days, maybe. Always watching the windows. My husband - Alfric - he sold spices down by the docks. Said one of them bought a jar of saffron, didn’t say a word, just… looked at him. He couldn’t sleep that night. Said he felt like they were judging him. Waiting for something. The next morning, he was gone. Not a mark. Not a struggle. Just his boots left by the door, laces still tied. The guards wouldn’t listen. They never do. And those Kossith? They watched me cry. They’d seen it before, I know it. It was them.” ~ Seleanna Anwen, Presumed Widow

Whispered between a pair of friends at the docks...

“They don’t blink. Did you notice that? I did. I watched one stand in the same spot for seven hours. I counted. Mama says not to stare at them. Says they ain’t like people. But they are, kind of. Just… wrong. Like they’ve forgotten how to move like we do. Like they’re pretending. There’s one that walks the market sometimes. His horns scrape the awning over Granny Vasha’s stand. Every time. But he never flinches. Just walks through like the world’s too small for him. I drew one once. In the dust behind the church. Had long claws and big black eyes. When I went back the next day, it was gone. The drawing. The dust. Even the wall was clean. Scrubbed.” ~ Wren Talver, Orphan

Discussed among a few traders...

“They don't buy blades. Don’t even carry blades, not like ours. No flair. Just cold steel. I saw one bend iron with his bare hands. Not a grunt. Just clenched his fist 'round the bar like it was butter. Then he dropped it. Didn’t even look proud. Just... disappointed it bent so easily. A noble came in, wanted me to forge something ‘fit for a Kossith. Told him I make weapons, not gifts. I’ll not shape my forge to please invaders who stare down at us like we’re made of straw. But here’s the truth, friend: the people come to me less now. They don’t want swords. They want locks. Heavy ones. For their doors. Their windows.” ~ Garran Dulth, Blacksmith

Spoken of within the barracks...

"I've seen giants before. Men taller than the gate they’re guarding. Brutes that bleed thick and die hard. But the Arishok - he's something else completely." He doesn’t walk like he’s heavy. Not like something that size should. You expect the earth to groan beneath him, but no. That man… that thing, he's like a hammer just waiting to strike. And always - always - those three follow him. The rahaat they call them. You’d think witches that size, if you can still call them that, might look dangerous. But these ones… they look broken. Heads down. Collars tight. I didn’t understand at first - why bind your own like that? Until I saw one twitch. It was subtle. Barely a breath. A flick of a finger, and the air folded in on itself. My squad’s torches snuffed out like they’d been drowned. We didn’t speak of it after, but we all knew: if that collar hadn’t caught it, we’d be ash. They’re dressed in layers - veils, robes, all in black. You never see their faces. Only the gold of that thing they call the a’dam. They never speak. When the Arishok stops, they stop. When he breathes, they seem to hold theirs. Like they're his shadow, not his servants - he doesn’t fear the rahaat. They fear him.” ~ Guard Captain of Aventia, Rennan Stone

Whispered, in fear.

"I’ve passed through a dozen war-torn roads in my life - Astorian sieges, Ankhurian riots, even saw the fall of Yggdrasildal. But I’ve never smelled a wind like the fields outside of Aventia, not since the Kossith took it. It’s… cooked meat, rot, and burned ash. Spiced with fear - and horror. The farmland’s no longer green. Not really. The soil’s blackened, the trees stripped like bones, and everywhere - everywhere - are the crucifixes. Darkspawn. Spiked to iron posts with spears driven through wrist, shoulder, and spine. Not killed outright. Just… ruined. Twisted. Still breathing, some of them. I swear on my coinpurse, one turned its head as I passed, no eyes left, just sockets weeping something blacker than blood. The Arishok’s men did this. The Kossith call it 'vaaras kata' - cleansing without fire. I call it something else: message. They don’t just kill darkspawn. They broadcast them. One of the guards told me they’ve discovered it works. The staked ones scream through the veil - sends ripples of agony back into the horde. The other darkspawn, they feel it. Smell it. And they stay away. So they crucify them. Stretch their arms wide across timber rigs. Gag them with molten iron. Strip the skin in patterns I swear must be Kossith script. They don’t do it for cruelty. That’s the worst part. Like sharpening a blade. I’ve seen some of the Kossith kneeling before the darkspawn, whispering something in their tongue, what the darkspawn says back - if it says anything - I can’t say.  But the screaming never stops.” ~ Arren Vasq, Silk Trader

ooc info:

You can treat this as common knowledge.

Reminder that all threads that predate Progress Day must be dropped or wrapped by Monday, April 14th.

[nmzuka]

whatever I'll post my addendum to it anyway

[spiralailani]

“Such as a symbol of protection? Or perhaps a prayer to my gods?” She suggests thoughtfully, even as her mind comes with another suggestion to keep to herself. Perhaps a bird in flight, subtle enough to seem like another decoration, but there for all other Nightingales to notice if they look closely enough. It is always a good thing for them to know who to ask for help. Eyes moving to his axe, she eyes his own modifications with an interested look. “Might I ask for an explanation for your modifications?”

"You should go to any true forge master; inscribing something onto the blade seems more your speed," she seemed sternly put together, one of pure discipline and practice who wouldn't settle for anything less meticulous than that. As such, when Lothar said this he was not insulting but offering a clear recommendation that would uphold her own values but emulate the true craft of the blade that was positioned onto her axe. "With something personal only to you," since Lothar did not truly know her beyond this interaction he awaited her to offer her own truths on the subject.

[spiralailani]

who? @nylathriasoulseer where? The Cabin, Haven when? Post plot drop and Nyla’s reunion with Agnes

Agnes had gone off to talk with one of her acquaintances for a moment, a man who looked like he would feel out of place if he took off his rather odd armor, and Lailani had promised her she would keep watch while she was away. She was sitting by the entrance of the cabin, humming under her breath as she wove some of the flowers she had gotten earlier into a flower crown, when she heard the cabin’s door open. Turning around, she sent Nyla a smile full of relief, settling the partially woven crown to the side and standing up. 

“Hi Nyla,” she says, stepping closer and slowly, wanting to bring her closer for a hug, but not knowing if she would feel comfortable after everything. “I am so glad you are here.”

[temperednuvi]

who? @talisa-the-steel where? Haven

It’s not that Nuvi didn’t expect to see people she recognized during her stay in Haven. What she didn’t expect was to vaguely recognize someone from their trip to Falon’Din’s Hollow. The trip that had revealed that Laurelin was in danger, and that her research was more than necessary. The rescue mission had changed a great deal, and only a handful of people were even privy to the information of what had happened inside. And the stranger before her was one of them. Immediately curious as to why the stranger was present, Nuvi closed the book in her hands and wandered closer to the woman. 

“Hello there,” Nuvi greets with a soft smile as she considers the other. “I believe we have met before? In a rather similar situation, in fact.”

[blightedmikhael]

Who? @despairlyklor where? Haven

Haven is different to how he remembers it. The streets remain the same, he is sure of that, but the air is more somber, almost strained. It makes sense, considering the looming thread standing above them all, and getting closer by the minute, but it is as much a punch in the gut as a reminder of what it’s at stake. If Haven falls, hundreds will lose their homes, just as they had in Aventia, and despite not being Lysaran, Mikhael would not wish that fate on anyone. Looking around the village, his eyes on a stranger who seems more settled than himself, and he approaches. 

“Apologies, is there a place I need to announce myself if I came to aid against the Kossith, or would my presence alone suffice?”

[theportaraceli]

who? @kayames where? Their Apartment in Aventia when? About a week after the ship went boom

Araceli is grimy, dirty, and sticky. It’s been a week since the forsaken ship had gone up in flames, and the dip on the ocean that followed had done nothing to improve her mood. The week that followed wasn’t any better, as she struggled to piece together where to return, when her mind was still broken down in pieces. Making her way back to Lysara proper from the Queenset Isle Sylvie and her had washed up on had been an obvious step, but from there, she had struggled to find her place. She knew that at some point she would have to make it to the Tower, to try and get a witch to look at her fractured mind, but before she could even attempt to do as much, her feet had taken her to a Warding Stone and towards Eterna, further into the city and to a front door that seemed oddly familiar. 

It took her a long moment to realize that it was her place, and another for her to gather the courage and knock. It felt as if she would find a key part of her behind the door, but she can’t explain why. 

“Hello?”