“Your options feel really off balance,” she pointed out with a slight smirk. Which quickly disappeared as she recalled where she was.
The noblewoman raised an eyebrow.
"Do you think so? Freedom on one hand, slavery on the other: that seems to be a perfectly balanced brace of options to me." the woman smiled wanly.
“Would you be disappointed if I replied saying I desired an advantageous marriage?” Asking her own question with a curious look.
The stranger, give her her due, did not answer immediately, but thought about this for a second. "I would be disappointed if you believed that any of the base churls that your mother has in mind for you could be described as 'advantageous'. But I would be even more disappointed if I believed that you were playing with me, Ismay; for I ever deal plainly with those I deign to speak with, and expect no less frank reply." she replied in haughty tones, her demeanour becoming a little more frigid: indeed, the temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree or two, and Lord Irongron on his little 'throne' pulled his stole around him closer.
After a brief moment her eyes widened with a mix or shock and surprise, “Forgive my rudeness. I shouldn’t have used such a tone my Lady.” Bowing her head in shame. She could feel a phantom smack to the back of her head, knowing her dad would have put her on forge clean-up duty for a month.
This apology seemed to warm the hooded Lady a little, and she smiled again now.
"It is natural at this hour that you grieve for your Father and drown in despair, your mind is not your own. And yet now is the time you must decide: whether to slumber and let life carry you downstream to a mundane destination: or whether to rouse your spirits and swim agin the tide to a fate worthy of your great skills and abilities. I am a rope that dangles overhead: you have a fleeting chance to snatch at me now, before the rush of the waters carries you away, and gain aid, for I shall not come here again." she said, her ocean-blue eyes burning into Ismay's black coals.
The Lady in black suddenly forgot this rather demanding soliloquy and looked about.
"The hour grows late, the sand runs through the time glass. My horse is tied up upon the road beside the marshes..." she reached out a small white hand and touched it to Ismay's unusually muscular arm "... strong lass that you are, will you not accompany me through the forest to that place, lest I become lost in the tanglewood or beset by footpads or goblins?" she asked, or rather, dared: for even the strongest of men and doughtiest of warriors would scarce venture into the woods by the marsh at this late hour, where strange lights often showed and odd noises groaned when night had come and all good Ceros worshippers were asleep in their beds.
So the impatient enemy were leaving their high ground position and coming down to meet them? It could not have worked better. From Tancred's host came the strident sound of war horns trumpeting as loud as possible. This was only the advance guard and despite Tancred's personal banner, he was not under it or leading this first wave. Instead Arnaud, a veteran warrior and one of Tancred's most trusted commanders was leading this force. Outnumbered yes, but Arnaud knew they did not have to defeat this mass coming down upon them, only hold out long enough for the those trumpeting signals to bring on Tancred with his main body emerging from dead ground or treelines to close the trap.
It was a risky posting but Arnaud had been pleased to be assigned it for it showed his lord relied upon him and if victory came out of this day's battle, his rewards would be great. Arnaud at the last minute launched a countercharge so they would not be caught merely waiting to receive the enemy's wild charge. The initial crash of the two hosts filled the valley with sounds of steel on steel, horses and men going down, cries of exultation and screams of agony.
But like most medieval battles the real heavy losses would come later when one side or the other would break and most lives would be lost in the pursuit by the victors.
Tancred now couched his own lance upon hearing the signals, roared his familiar battle cry and kicked his warhorses flanks. His mailed chivalry joined in the cry as they now charged toward the already chaotic melee. When they hit, they began to overlap around the flanks of Offo's cavalry. The odds were now in favor of Tancred's chevaliers. Tancred struck a shocked looking knight full in the chest, hurling him off his horse, the lance snapping within the unfortunate fellow's chest. Tancred did not hesitate though but drew his war sword and continued into the fray.
She listened with hesitant ears to what the woman said. Her words and the way she spoke somehow reminded her of a haunting song someone might hear around a late-night campfire. Like a spell meant to warn those who were listening to proceed with caution. Ismay had to wonder if all noble women spoke this way, or if the one before her was unique even among the elite.
Glancing towards her mother for a moment she could already feel herself starting to wither, like an old husk, as her mind wandered down the the path of accepting the marriage her mother was likely in the midst of planning. The woman’s words were spot on. As if she had already known.
“Your options feel really off balance,” she pointed out with a slight smirk. Which quickly disappeared as she recalled where she was. “Would you be disappointed if I replied saying I desired an advantageous marriage?” Asking her own question with a curious look. After a brief moment her eyes widened with a mix or shock and surprise, “Forgive my rudeness. I shouldn’t have used such a tone my Lady.” Bowing her head in shame. She could feel a phantom smack to the back of her head, knowing her dad would have put her on forge clean-up duty for a month.
"I can prove that what I say is true."
As they watched, a single block of the dark marble that tiled the floor was lifted up, breaking free from its surrounding mortar. Then it floated up in the air in front of the magician. The block must have weighed at least twenty pounds, and who could tell how much force was needed to pry it loose from its place in the floor?
Her brother of course was always the practical and logical one. Wanting to know the logistics, how many stones can the old man lift, how much weight is able to move, etc. How many buildings could the old man potentially dismantle, or even build. All of the various ways the magic abilities could be harnessed to the utmost advantage of Draavos.
All Zara had heard was the old man’s words, they kept spinning around and around in her own mind.
Rustio shrugged, "I use this power when tending gardens. Sometimes a stone or a quantity of soil must be moved. If given a few moments... I could move hundreds of pounds of material. Perhaps thousands, if I was given the time."
Really her mind and being made up but just hearing the word garden sealed it for Zara. All the lush gardens and flowers that they could do, even in the desert ground. Perhaps his magic even helped to make the sand fertile? Maybe it could even be trained into doing such things. The possibilities were rather endless, but it was Akris that had brought her out of her internal musings.
Every word Akris spoke shocked her to the core, much more than finding a magic user in their rooms wanting protection. She hadn’t known much about their bodyguard that had been chosen for the task of keeping the twins safe, and to make sure that any kind of plotting against their country would be kept at bay.
Now though, Zara wished they had perhaps learned more before bringing him along. How had they been so blind? How had they not seen the true enemy in front of them?
Zara gave a quick glance to her brother to see how Akris’ words impacted her twin. Through it all though she kept that smile on her face, that calm demeanor never wavered. All of that diplomatic training had prepared for such an event, otherwise surely she’d have embarrassed herself, her brother and her ancestors.
She switched to her native tongue, as she admonished Arkis:
“Silence!”
“Know. Your. Place. Boy.”
Zara then switched back to the common tongue of Brydd, and moved over to the old man. She curtsied deeply to him,” Mister Debril, I Zara bint Mazul, grant you sanctuary. As long as there is breath in my body, you shall have my protection.”
“Now, let’s leave the details to the men shall we,” Zara then reached out and hooked her arm through the old man’s, and began to tug him out of this room into one of the other chambers for privacy.
“I will be happy to of course answer any questions you may have of your new homeland, in exchange I have several questions for you. I’m quite the gardener as well. And on the way here, I’ve been making sketches of all these flowers and plants I’ve come across. I apologize but I do not know the names, I would love it if you could share them with me. I would love to be able to label them correctly in my book, you see.”
“Oh, apologies, can you read and write? If not, I shall be happy to teach you if need be….”
@[Cubanwriter]
"Here is what I propose," Breccan began, "Do not speak of the ensorcellment to any other than myself or Grayfury. For one thing, we are still unsure what happened so the less said, the better."
"Understood" nodded Wynn, glad of some direction in this confounding matter.
Breccan then explained the way that marriages were usually arranged amongst the Drakeri to her husband, all of which was, of course, no surprise to herself. Yet the next words to issue from the Second Marshal's mouth fair knocked the wind out of her: armour or no!
"I have longed to plan to do this, but have just not gotten around to it. Wynn, with your permission, I would like to formally adopt you as my lawful daughter. This would entitle you to a dowry that even a High House of Brydd would not sneer at. We can state that we have not advertised the fact as I simply had had no time to contact your clan for formal permission - which is true."
Wynn just sat open-mouthed for the longest moment, and then threw herself upon her knees and kissed Lord Windmaster's hand. "My Father! I am your Daughter!" It was one of the simplest, yet most resonant oaths in the Drakeri canon: and one of the few connections that equalled those bonds that existed between ddraich and rider. She did not rise from her knees until bidden.
Here, Breccan paused and focused his attention on Salain, "This should remove any onus regarding Wynn's birthright. However, you would need to agree to return to Ironreaches Siege for the next Gathering of the Clans so that we may formalize your marriage under our traditions as well. As far as your suggestion that Wynn return as an envoy of Claen Gael, I would have to speak to both Grayfury and The Voice to arrange that, but I believe it can be done. On your part, Syr, you would also need to make certain of Gruudux's safety in your homeland. Few Morrighan survive the death of their wingbond with mind, body, and soul intact."
Wynn wondered if it should rather be her being asked to assure both men of the Salainian's safety from Gruudux, rather than the other way around; but she held her tongue before her Husband and... though she could scarcely believe it... Father!
@[Stromwolfe]
"I am sorry to hear of your father's death, he once did me a great service, and I have yet to fully repay him." she said. "What is your name?"
“I’m Ismay Beaman my Lady,” she answered bowing her head slightly in respect to the woman’s unknown but obviously higher station. “I’m glad my father was able to be of assistance. Knowing him I doubt he’d ask for anything in return,” she replied. Offering the woman a supporting smile.
"Ismay..." The pretty lady seemed to taste the name upon her tongue, like some notable vintage of wine "... that name, in an older tongue, means 'esteemed and beloved'. Indeed you were beloved by your father: for the favour I owed him, he begged I repay to you, when, upon some future day, he could not protect you from a world which would, like the reaper's scythe in the cornfields of summer, lop you down to the level of all other women of your station: who are without exception mere drudges who labour at their husband’s whims and bear and spawn forth their progeny until, a worn-out husk, you can bear no more and dried out, sucked empty like an old wineskin, you crawl, a neglected hag, to your grave."
Ismay's mother could be heard yapping nearby, the merry widow feathering her nest at the price of her daughter's freedom and happiness. The woman in black listened for a second with a wry smile on her perfect features.
"You are Esteemed, too: especially by those who envied your father's skill: for they realise that you, too, have a magical touch with hammer, tongs and anvil. But those men will not utilise your skill, they will smother it in the cot and snuff it out as a candle at eventide: for men are jealous an fearful of such skills in a woman." She gave no reason why she believed this to be true, but certainly sounded very sure of herself. She looked at the strong, well built girl with a gaze as direct as it was intense.
"Tell me Ismay, daughter of Beaman the Smith: what are you - what would you be? A wife, a drudge or a blacksmith?"
From the edge of the room Ismay watched the goings on of those in attendance, doing her best not to draw attention to herself. She was all too aware of how vulnerable losing her dad had made the two women he left behind. Only realizing too late why her mother had kept pressing her to get engaged, despite her young age. As dad’s little hammer, her father was quick to brush off his wife’s insistence, much to Ismay’s delight. She would always love her father for that. Her friends were also aware of their own vulnerability. With all the nobles and men in attendance her friends had gone home after the funeral, with the promise to return after the nobles and other older-single men were gone.
Hearing her mother laugh drew Ismay away from the downward spiral that were her inner thoughts. She looked across the room to where her mother stood talking with two men. One of the men looked older than her father, and the other was in his later 30’s if she recalled correctly. They were from one of the competing smiths in the area. The sight of her mother being so up-beat and friendly with them worried her greatly. What exactly was she planning?
“Ismay!” she called. “Darling, come here for a moment,” gesturing with her arm for her to join them. Hearing her name called nearly made Ismay sick. Her heart jumped into her throat, and her stomach tried to jump off the roof. She could feel the panic in her rise. Then suddenly, as if sent by her father’s heavenly ghost a shadow she hadn’t noticed before began to speak to her.
What she initially believed was a shadow was in fact a woman in a black hooded cloak. Thankful to have an excuse to ignore her mother’s summons Ismay turned her full attention to the very beautiful woman standing in front of her. “I’m Ismay Beaman my Lady,” she answered bowing her head slightly in respect to the woman’s unknown but obviously higher station. “I’m glad my father was able to be of assistance. Knowing him I doubt he’d ask for anything in return,” she replied. Offering the woman a supporting smile.
Breccan's mind sorted out the various threads of the conundrum, finding and discarding solutions. There was only so much prevarication that could be managed. Too many times such plots unraveled catastrophically. Yet, he had a natural inclination to protect Wynn. Ever since he had taken her into his care as a fosterling, he had felt responsible for her well-being. Now, he looked on her more as a father than anything. This last thought gave him his inspiration.
"Here is what I propose," Breccan began, "Do not speak of the ensorcellment to any other than myself or Grayfury. For one thing, we are still unsure what happened so the less said, the better."
The Second Marshal turned his eyes to gaze at both Wynn and Syr Aldebrand. He smiled slightly, revealing that he also practiced excellent dental hygiene, "As is obvious by how easy Wynn has considered herself to have become your wife, the Drakeri have very informal marriage traditions. Technically, a man may claim a woman to wife simply by taking her from her clan home. These days," Breccan added with another wry note in his voice, "we do require that the woman be willing. That was not always the case."
"I have longed to plan to do this, but have just not gotten around to it. Wynn, with your permission, I would like to formally adopt you as my lawful daughter. This would entitle you to a dowry that even a High House of Brydd would not sneer at. We can state that we have not advertised the fact as I simply had had no time to contact your clan for formal permission - which is true."
Here, Breccan paused and focused his attention on Salain, "This should remove any onus regarding Wynn's birthright. However, you would need to agree to return to Ironreaches Siege for the next Gathering of the Clans so that we may formalize your marriage under our traditions as well. As far as your suggestion that Wynn return as an envoy of Claen Gael, I would have to speak to both Grayfury and The Voice to arrange that, but I believe it can be done. On your part, Syr, you would also need to make certain of Gruudux's safety in your homeland. Few Morrighan survive the death of their wingbond with mind, body, and soul intact."
Name of Character
- Lord ? Baara: I would like to keep the last name. However, the first name is open for a player to determine.
Looking For:
- Male
Trade / Occupation
- Appears to be a diplomat who travels from land to land negotiating trade and other agreements. His alleged land of origin would be open / optional. His true origins is from the Obsidian Islands (far to the west or east depending on perspective), the "city" of Ys.
Synopsis
Lord Baara is the human personification of the evil entity of Tar'garath, the Shadowed One, Lord of Shadows, God of Chaos, etc. Essentially, Baara is a human that was taken by some of Tar'garath's dark minions and brought to the Obsidian Islands where the baby was put through a ritual that would embed a "sliver" of the Shadowed One's spirit within the child.
Note: The Deity, Tar'garath, is trapped in a virtual prison hemmed about by inordinately powerful wards, and spell-locks. He cannot escape and can only access the world via this blood-magic ritual.
The ritual and sliver do not transfer any major magical powers to Baara because that would make it easier for him to be caught by Drakeri, Sidhe, or Ddraig. The sliver is buried so deep that it would take major effort for anyone that can sense the Shadow to ferret it out.
Baara is a power-broker whose goal is to set one House against another while seeming to be helpful. He is often employed as a neutral negotiator / mediator.
Note: In personality and overt nature, I see Baara almost identical to Littlefinger from Game of Thrones. In fact, that's even the "face" that I see.
To be in a position to do his "job", Baara would about have to have been fostered or adopted by one of the more powerful Houses of the realms. Optionally, he could be from the continent of Vaalbara (one of the free states or even the Herian Empire). With the Herian Empire, think Roman Empire. He could easily claim to be the last of some great house or another that has settled in X because his house fell out of favor with the Emperor (no fault of their own, of course).
Rustio shrugged, "I use this power when tending gardens. Sometimes a stone or a quantity of soil must be moved. If given a few moments... I could move hundreds of pounds of material. Perhaps thousands, if I was given the time."
Akris could not stop the widening of his eyes. If this man was speaking the truth, then the people of Brydd were fools to ignore and worse, persecute those with gifts beyond the pale. He possessed a gift, taught to him by men who had safeguarded the ability for millenia, teaching it only to those who had earned the right and would someday safeguard and pass along the skill to those who had also earned it.
Akris could not imagine a world where people like himself were hunted...or, rather...he could not imagine what life would be like for those who chose to do the hunting. He did know that it would short and painful.
Zaiden blinked, before bending to replace the block in the floor. It pressed mostly into position, hardly giving a sign that it had been removed.
"This man could disassemble castle walls. Or cause the ground to swallow infantry or mounted horse. No wonder the Faithful of Ceros fear him and his ilk."
Zaiden looked to his sister.
"He is not too old to breed. He could be assigned a harem. We could grow an army of Fire and Earth."
Akris reared back at Zaiden's words. His demeanor not unlike a cobra before the hood opened.
"How...dare you..." Akris almost hissed the words. "You would be as bad as those who he is fleeing from?" Akris knew he was treading on a line with his behavior, but if they valued his opinion when it was useful, then they would also accept it when it was inconvenient.
"Magic is taught, or passed along...it is not bred like livestock and treated like stones in a slinger's bag or spent like money in a whorehouse..." Akris' gaze moved between the twins with equal disdain. "If he agrees to help us, then we make an arrangement, and we treat with him for his resource as we would for water." Akris took a breath and stepped back, not quite moving fully from between them and the old man.
"If you disrespect the gift you have, it may abandon you...fickle as any woman, sure as any Karma..."