#troupe2.livingstone

[engineerzuleima]

who? Members of the Queensguard and Queen's Court where? Aventia When? Towards the end of the evacuation

Aventia is lost. The reality is clear for all to see, no matter how stubborn or how hopeful. Despite her reassurances to the Artist a few weeks before, Zuleima understands that there are some defeats one cannot stand back up from. Remaining in Aventia now would lead to one of such defeats. Slowly, surely, the Blight is encroaching upon the Borderreach, and all they can do is attempt to curb and stop it from spreading. 

Lips pressed in a grim line, she enters the command tent set aside for the Queensquard and Court. 

“Another line of escape it’s secured,” she tells the other inhabitant of the tent as she crosses the space to the center map, examining the details of the Borderreach and the nearby Wildlands. Tapping the table absentmindedly, she glances at her companion. “How long, do you think, until the city is fully evacuated?"

[hiddenvaldis]

Caribella was the port to her storm. The one place where Valdís attempted to avoid bloodshed despite her predilection for the craft of bloodletting. Captain of her own Armada, she is rarely challenged in places where she holds home court advantage; the locals are all too aware of her own history within the island to dare to think of disrespecting her in such a manner. Violence for violence’s sake was the rule of the beasts, and each of the Raider Captains were beasts of their own design. Followers of the depth, worshippers of the ocean gods and their unpredictability, they were the sort to understand that ruthlessness was mercy upon themselves. 

Most of the residents of Caribella knew as much, understood the silent agreement to keep out of the way of the sharks while they rested their weary fins in the safety of the reef. 

It seems the message missed some of them. 

Valdís has heard some of the rumors surrounding Seraphiel’s new first mate, heard of her rabid ascend to the top and guessed on her origins based on mumbled words about her accent and her manner of fighting. All in all, she didn’t care for this Moon-hwa, not through rumors, and not through first impressions. 

A shame, really, considering how tragically attractive the other was. Few were the times Valdís knelt, but if the circumstances had been any different, she would have been pleased to make the other scream in an entirely different context. Alas, it is not, so the captain keeps her attraction to herself, tilting her head in consideration as she takes the new raider in. 

“How about no,” she drawls, arms crossing as she raises a single eyebrow at the audacity of the stranger. To challenge her as an unknown, not even bothering to go to any of her crew members first? She won’t dignify a half-assed attempt to challenge her, not when she has better things to do than to deal with egocentric whelps. “I don’t indulge the demands of nobodies nor upstarts, and you, darling? Are both.”

with: @hiddenvaldis where: the port, caribella notes: hot girl pirate battle commencing

She was meant to be a Raider. The pillaging, the fighting, the blood shed. Moon-Hwa had adapted to her new life easily. It wasn't so different from her time as a Witcher, after all. Same violence, different targets. A Witcher with poison in her veins and loyalty to no crown had been unleashed upon the world, and she planned to slaughter her way up to the top of the totem pole, if she had to.

Earning the respect - or better yet, the fear - of the other Raider captains was of priority. There was only so little her brute force could accomplish without their influence. Seraphiel was already feared amongst pirates, and it was time for Moon to prove why he'd chosen her as his First Mate.

Elokian. Ryukin. Valdís. She spied the Witch Captain walking amongst the port, undoubtedly headed towards her own ship. How a dirty Witch had come to command an armada, Moon didn't know, nor did she care. If there were anyone amongst the Raiders to knock her down it a peg, a Witcher should be the one to do it. Moon-Hwa had been itching for this very moment since Valdís' name had first left Seraphiel's lips months ago.

"Valdís!" she yelled out, the poison in her tone matching the venomous glare Moon shot her way. "Headed back out to sea so soon? I've a parting present for you." she challenged, pulling her tiger sword from it's sheath with a confident flourish. The civilians nearby froze in their tracks, all turning to stare at the two women in stunned silence. Challenging a Captain while on the island wasn't the most legal of moves, but she dared someone to even think about stopping her. They wouldn't. Couldn't.

[theportaraceli]

who? @studentalthea where? Aventia, near the evacuation lines when? A few minutes before the memories hit, because I love drama

A day after the odd exchange with the merchant, it haunted her still. Araceli knew not the reason, whether because she knew the little fox toy was infinitely important but remembered not why, or due to the inherent oddness of the whole exchange. She doesn’t understand why, but there is something missing. A whole on her chest, empty darkness where something else once stood. The thought lingers at the edge of her mind through the evacuation, worry heavy on her brow as she continues her tasks and pretends everything is alright as to not to alarm her people. 

She manages just fine, until she meets Althea’s eyes across the crowd and sees the doubt clear on them. It’s no surprise the Emissary notices, not when their entire relationship was born while they were both wearing masks. Long had they grown from that, but that doesn’t change the fact that they knew each other’s masks, and when they were wearing them. 

With a sigh, she steps away from the crowd and deeper into the crumbling streets of her once home. The sight sends off another pang of loss through her, the reality of her rotting home ever present and sharing space with her worry about her deal. 

“There is no going back, is there?” She asks quietly, as she hears Althea step closer, eyes flickering to meet hers with a bitter smile on her lips.

[theportaraceli]

where? on the road from aventia when? right after the fall

Aventia is lost.

Araceli stands at the back of the last wave of refugees, one of the last to leave before escape had become impossible. In the distance, she can see the smoke curling upwards in a great spire. It stands tall against the darkening sky, a tombstone for all to see.  Her home is gone and buried in blood. 

There is an acrid smell to the air, and a bitter aftertaste settling in the back of her throat. 

Despair and rage alight her senses, as the desperation born of having to make a choice that would haunt her forevermore settles on her shoulders like a burden. What does it mean to be a leader? What does it mean, when it is you who has to choose the unchoosable? 

It was the city or its people. 

There is only one choice she can make. 

Life over heritage, survival over bravery. 

Aventia has fallen. Never again will she run underfoot across the markets, the shades from the old houses keeping her safe from the sun. Never again will she visit the beaches of her youth and see them untouched by violence. There will be no more festivals to be enjoyed within Aventia’s walls, no more singing to echo through the streets. The darkspawn had come and wiped the joy that had once clung to every stone.

Never again would she taste the delightful sweets of the vendor near the docks when she returned from a voyage, never again would she rush through the streets as she laughed, her crew following as she offered to buy a round. Never again would she walk up the steps of her mother’s castle with weary shoulders, preparing herself for yet another heavy conversation with her mother. 

Fear sunk its root into Aventia, spreading slowly and insidiously. It hitched a ride with the Blight, seeping into the water and into the very air they breathed. 

Soon, all of the Borderreach will feel it. 

The loss of their region’s capital, the loss of their North star. 

The fall of the first line of defense.

Keepsakes, memories, people: all gone in the blink of an eye, wiped away without any care. 

The Blight devours all indiscriminately, she had known, from the weakest to the strongest. There was no hope, no salvation. There is no cure to the sickness that had invaded her home, consuming her joys. There is no deliverance for the souls who have chosen to stay, despite knowing the end result. 

Where once a city stood, there is nothing left but a blighted mark. 

Where once a home shone, there is nothing but the scorched remains. 

There is nothing she can do to change it. 

Araceli is no Legionnaire, she cannot be. She has not the experience to fight the Blight, not the magic to seek a cure, not the power to turn the tides. 

She is just a person, just a mortal standing still as her home burns in the heart of darkness. 

She is a crown without its jewels, a leader without an army, a woman without a last resort. 

She is useless. 

She was useless. 

Her home fell apart around her, brick by brick falling as she was buried in despair. 

Eyes dimmed into darkness as she tried to bring others to safety, desperate to help but with so little to do so. 

A captain is meant to go down with her ship, yet when it had mattered most, she had turned around and fled. She left those who refused to leave behind, weighted the lives of the few against that of the many and found them wanting. 

The bitter aftertaste swells. All Araceli can taste is ashes as she looks away, unable to bear the sight. 

No tears stream down her cheeks, there are no trails on the ashes covering her face, no sign of weakness on her facade. Her courtly mask is as steady as iron as she encourages the lagging refugees to step forward, moving ahead to help a limping grandmother move into the cart. 

Araceli is a mockery of what she should have been. A heir without a city, a captain without a ship, a woman without a home. 

She is a leader who has failed her people. 

She cannot break. 

She cannot — will not — regret her choice. 

Aventia is lost, but its people aren’t. The city has been ravaged, but its memory remains. When all it’s lost, survival becomes the priority. It must. 

She had lost the city, but its citizens remain. She has to take comfort in those numbers, has to bolster herself with the facts against the tidal wave of grief and shame. 

If she doesn’t she will lose her damn mind. 

Araceli had believed she knew of hard choices.

She had been making hard choices for years, smuggling refugees out of Iskaldrik and skirting around the truth when talking to the country’s authorities. All to save another life, bring one more person to safety, help just another soul. The threat of the mines had loomed ominously through her every interaction, the threat of what could be lost following her every step. She had known hard choices, she had thought, and how leaders could not escape them.

She never thought she would have to choose between her home and her people. 

But she had, and she had chosen the people. 

She had chosen to trust in the enduring hope, in a future that was shrouded with darkness but led to the light. The fall of her home was not the end, it could not be, she would not allow it to be. 

It had to be worth it.

It had to be. 

Hope had to endure, her people would endure. There was no ifs, no buts. She would make sure of it, even if it meant bleeding herself dry, wearing herself down to the bone, or even cutting herself into a million little pieces to make up for the fact that she had failed. 

The fall of Aventia would not be mirrored in another city. Her home’s destruction would not have a sequel. 

If she had to, she would die to make sure of it.

Something, someone, had coordinated the darkspawn attacks. Something, someone, had chosen Aventia as its target. The Legion of the Death would do that part in the matter, rendering the machinator to pieces, destroying the being that had brought her home to its knees, and Araceli? 

She would do what she did best. 

Play the game, skirt the truth, and keep an eye out. 

Wait, until it was the perfect time to slip her daggers into someone’s back.

Sing loudly in distraction, throw money away to buy her people another drink, coax a smile from the darkest of faces. 

Nurture the flickering hope that remained, despite all odds. 

She was not a hero of legends, no grand warrior to avenge her home. She worked best behind the scenes, nurturing the hope that flickered, sneaking through the cracks and pulling people from the dark and into the light. 

There are no borders to cross, no survivors to smuggle, but that does not matter. 

She is adaptable, and she is angry.

She will not allow the rot to take hold of her heart or the hearts of her people. She will not allow it to spread or to fester. She will fight it with every jaded breath and every swell of grief. The Dark One looms above them, and like hell she is going down without a fight. 

It might be a fool’s errand, it might be an impossibility. It doesn’t matter. 

If there is no path forward, she will build one. 

Brick by brick, step by step. 

There is a future ahead for them, waiting for them to reach it. 

Come hell or high water, she will build the path that connects this moment of despair with the light. 

And she will not build it alone. 

Goodness is not an exception but the rule, kindness a persevering trait. 

Survival is the imperative.

Here and now, while she walks away from her burning home, she feels so very alone. As if the there was no one left in the world but her, yet, her people are no more than five feet away. Hope lies ahead, found in Kay’s laugh, Zeliha’s smile and more. 

Ahead of here there are people who will help, souls willing to fight for a brighter future, or too angry to go quietly into the night. 

Despair does its best work on the lonely, but as much as she feels lonely, Araceli knows she is not alone. 

Aventia is lost, and her home with it, but she will not allow for Lysara or Taravell to be lost as well. 

And neither will them.

[hiddenvaldis]

All pleasant evenings must come to an end, Valdís knows, but it never fails to amuse her when someone dares to cut through the tension and throw a wrench into the atmosphere out of instinct rather than choice. The Dreadnought is too well known as a looming shadow, Kian too careful, for his interruption to be anything other than a loss of control. Head lolling to the side from where she lays sprawled at the head of the gambling table, Valdís sends her healer an analytical look. There is not much to go buy, the Dreadnought persona far too well worn for most outsiders to notice any difference, but their constant company due to the nature of their odd relationship has given her enough to grasp at the few threads that clue the keen observer to her crewmember’s discomfort. Once noticed, the captain inclines her head in acknowledgment of Kian’s worry and begins to disentangle from her gambling like a lazy predator awakening from their nap. 

“I suppose I have had enough of taking coin from these delightful men,” she muses languidly, flashing a charming smirk to her opponents and watching as feathers smooth over with her charm. Standing tall, she collects her winnings, winking to the runner up and throwing a couple of gold to the loser of the pot. “For your troubles, friend,” she says amiably as she fills her pouches and fully extricates herself from the table. Offering a jaunty bow as she does, she flashes another smile as a round of laughter fills the table. “Good evening gentleman, gentlewoman, and gentlefolk. I thank you for your hospitality, but I have places to be and ships to conquer, and I would hate to see that interrupted by some dirty owls. You understand, right?”

There is a warning threaded through her words, letting the table know that as light-hearted as she acts, she takes her Dreadnought’s warning seriously. Any Lysaran spies will be dealt with prejudice, both for her own safety, and to keep her pact with her healer. 

With one last nod, she turns fully and slips next to Kian. 

“Shall we?” She asks, gesturing towards the door. “Might as well pick dinner up on our way too, the hour grows late and the cook is on leave for the night.”

who?: @hiddenvaldis where?: the hanged man when?: while this dumb siege is happening as if pirates would care about that

For his own benefit and peace of mind, The Dreadnought remained close to his Captain. It meant he often seemed out of place, like a looming shadow carrying an air of negativity behind her. In the bustling backroom of The Hanged Man, he sat in the corner while Valdís raked in the gold. She was good, but The Dreadnought wasn't a gambler and saw little benefit in the games she played. Round after round, his anxiety spiked until it all spilled out in the form of an outburst. His cane came down harshly on the table and a cutting silence followed as the whole room looked at The Dreadnought in shock. In fact, beneath the mask, his face looked much like theirs as he seemed to take action without conscious thought. Though this merely translated to a few extra moments of awkward silence before he remembered to press two fingers to his throat.

"Captain, haven't you had your fill yet?" he says, the second set of vocal chords he wove modulating his voice beyond recognition. "It's time we move on, no? Your luck may run out soon." The Dreadnought wanted to go, but a secretive, masked man drew attention when alone. When he stood behind a renowned captain, then he was just another head in her posse. That was the whole point, however their lifestyles couldn't have been more different. Beneath the mask, Kian was bored, agitated, awkward, and yes truly worried. This was the second night in a row they were present at The Hanged Man. "Plus, we wouldn't want Lysaran spies thinking they've observed a pattern in your movements. We should go, you've practically drained them of their gold already."

[theportaraceli]

The beginning of the end of all Araceli has ever known begins with tremors. 

Her day had long started, by the time tremors began, most of her morning gone as she revised proposals and all manner of paperwork. Araceli notices them by the trembling of her ink, dripping upon the paper as the world seems to shudder in anticipation of the horrors they will witness over the next fortnight. At first, she thinks it could be merely a natural event, but then she looks out the window and sees smoke. It’s not enough to worry her overmuch, still, but enough for her to set her quill aside and stalk to the window, brown eyes scanning the horizon as her heart begins to race. 

It’s the first screams that have her rushing out the door and crossing Celaya’s path. The presence of the Witcher is not surprising, since she had done nothing to get rid of her just yet, hoping that her warning would stay her hand for long enough to persuade her to betray her loyalties. Yet, while Celaya’s words are not a surprise, the implied offer of aid is. 

The tension on her shoulders loosens ever so slightly, a sense of relief filling her as she realizes the other means to fight and not flee. As abhorrent as she believes witchers to be, there is no denying that they are powerful warriors, as having her fighting by her side will be beyond helpful. 

“Follow me,” she tells her with a nod, reaching forward to grab Celaya’s wrist — Carefully, loosely, just enough to guide but weak enough the witcher could get rid of it with a movement — and takes one of the hallways opposite of the direction the guards were taking. Best to properly attire the Witcher, now that her help has become essential. “What is your weapon of choice?”

starter for @theportaraceli.

where: inside lady severian's homestead

when: aventia siege, at the beginning

note: yikes

Whatever reliance she'd come to find within the faiman had snapped and warped beneath her reaction to a truth which Celaya was unable to change. She'd noted quickly that, though she could remember many faces as they cropped up, that none were often tied with kindred memories of positive pasts. It spoke of a scalding truth - that perhaps she was the monster Araceli believed her to be. Where Celaya had woken with a blank space of her former identity, she could still sense her former glories; the strength that imbued her musculature, her constitution to have endured so much and come back from the brink. It spoke of a hardy woman, one who'd many experiences under her belt, but she'd learned quickly that she was the very antithesis to a hero. To Lysarans, she was a monstrosity, a blight on their citizens, and as one did when feeling cornered; she'd lash out.

She was not one for theatrics; her bitter contempt was a much more silent lethality, a snake in the grass, a predator stalking close until their prey felt comfort.

Any petulant plans of resent collapsed the moment screams pierced the morning air, the moment the skies of Aventia were streaked with ashen smoke.

Celaya had little time to gather herself before the sounds of an all-out war resounded outside her window; close, but not yet on top of them. Tossing the doors of her personally sanctioned quarters open, she tried to remain neutral at the sight of Lady Araceli who also seemed awoken by the early morning commotion.

"It seems Borderreach is the new jewel in their eyes," if Iskaldrik had fallen, it seemed now their enemies were going for the head of Lysara's defenses. "Where is your weapons chamber?" She turned to head one direction, hardly looking upon Lady Araceli; guards of Lady Severian rushed past them in the hallway, barely sparing a glance as they rushed to bolster outside defenses.

[theportaraceli]

Althea’s presence is a balm to her senses. The witch’s perspective always dragging Araceli out of whatever spiral her mind had led her down to in the moments filled with silence. Sometimes, one needs to held a mirror to oneself to understand yourself better, but there are times when you need someone else to draw you out of the depths. Be it by presence or words or touch. At this moment, she is grateful that it was Althea that chose to follow. 

Eyes glancing down at the hovering hand, she lets a soft smile flicker on her lips as she takes another breath, trying to gather the threads of her composure into a firmer grip. Slowly, but surely, those threads are fraying, and that is the one thing she cannot afford. 

With her mother departing to Eterna, Araceli is the one her people look to for reassurances. Leaders cannot be weak, lest they allow fear to fester amidst the masses. And that would be the worst allowance she could make at this point. 

“There are the people,” she agrees with a slow exhale, eyes closing as she gathers herself for a moment. “As long as they survive, Aventia lives. As long as we survive, the pain given will be returned twice over.”

She says it like a promise, like a threat, but the weight doesn’t lessen any less. Not when her home is gone, not when so many had been lost in the wink of an eye. The streets she had run through as a child are gone, and the people? If they were lucky, they barely survived. If they were not— Well, death would have been kinder. 

Opening her eyes, she exhales slowly and rolls her shoulders back. 

“Aventia will survive on its people, and I will find whatever tried to destroy it and rend them asunder.”

That said, Araceli begins to turn, ready to turn around and leave the moment of weakness, when a memory flickers. Then another. And another.

“Fuck.” 

So that was what was missing. 

Her father. 

Althea followed Araceli, her footsteps echoing in the eerily quiet, crumbling streets of Aventia. The city was a shadow of its former self, the air thick with the scent of smoke and decay, the once vibrant buildings now reduced to ruins. She found Araceli standing amidst the devastation, sunken into the despair of her home. Tempest swirled overhead while Grimm made short work of carrying the witch's equipment, huffing and puffing at his mistress's side.

Yes yes, it was all very sad and tragic - but much work remained to do.

Althea stopped beside her, her gaze sweeping over the destroyed cityscape. She didn't need to ask what Araceli meant. The answer was all around them, in the shattered stones and the acrid smell of darkspawn corruption. "No," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of battle. Althea was many things but she wouldn't take to lying to Araceli now,

She turned to face Araceli, her expression softening. She understood the weight of loss, the pain of seeing something you loved reduced to ruins. She reached out, her hand hovering near Araceli's shoulder, a silent offer of comfort. "But that doesn't mean there's nothing left to fight for," she continued, her voice steady and sure. "As long as you remain standing, there's hope." Althea had said the very same to Aurea many times over, "Keep your head held high, my dear, the world is watching."

Althea's hand dropped away, her gaze returning to the ruined city. Her candor poised like steel given form, Tempest rumbled darkly overhead as Grimm quieted. "For every stone they've toppled, for every life they've taken. We will make them pay."