@All: In response to a couple of inquiries, I've gone ahead and relaxed the posting requirements significantly. I don't want them to prevent anyone who's interested in the game from submitting an application.
@lasseram: Interesting. Look forward to seeing him written up.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Syndl
Perhaps this is a silly question, but its one I'm having a hard time wrapping my brain around. What process does Oargev use when recruiting this "team"? You imply that he pulls these people by random and I don't think that is what you intended. Should the characters be exceptional in some right to catch Oargev's attention? Does he openly recruit volunteers? (That seems unlikely because you hint at secrecy.) I may be nitpicking, but it does speak to the type of character I'd come up with. Originally, I was leaning towards a roguey-street smart rascal. But, after some thinking, I wonder if the character shouldn't be more established in her field and thus have a name for herself.
No, this is definitely a good question, and one that I haven't fully thought out yet. The short answer is that the threshold requirements for Oargev recruiting someone are that:
1) they be present at the Cyran refugee camp for Oargev's speech, and
2) Oargev be aware of them as more-or-less capable and potentially dedicated to the cause.
I think exceptional is an overly strong way to rephrase requirement 2): this will be covered further in game, but at the time of the speech Oargev has reason to believe that those gathered at the refugee camp are the majority of all Cyrans left alive. It's everyone he has to work with, in short. Beyond that, note that there are lots of possible was to catch Oargev's attention: off the top of my head, you could:
-have information of some kind for Oargev upon applying to the camp,
-already know Oargev from before the Mourning,
-encounter Oargev while he's travelling to the camp,
-approach him directly after the speech and spontaneously volunteer to help, etc.
To my mind, what should most affect your character concept is the fact that he/she is willing to take the oath (if not necessarily sincere about it--that's not in the flavor text, after all!), not the fact that they're in a position to take it in the first place. Does that make sense?
@Pumpkin31415: sounds interesting. Just make sure not to make her too pulpy: character development will be an important part of this game, after all, so there needs to be room for her to develop, even if she's always outwardly calm and collected. Luckily the Mourning is good at shaking the foundations of a character.
@all: In response to a couple of inquiries, i've gone ahead and relaxed the posting requirements significantly. I don't want them to prevent anyone who's interested in the game from submitting an application.
Personally, I think 1/day average posting rate is better to aim for. But I'm a PbP addict that hates to wait days for others to respond so that I might post again. Either way, speed and momentum is important for the flow.
Plus, I currently find myself having vacation.
Anyway, trying to pull strings of thought together, given that Oargev was abroad, I'm thinking to be part of his entourage maybe, as of yet unsure as to what kind of person but shaping as we go. Where was Oargev, and why? Is there an answer for that?
What a fantastic way to pass the day. After reading through fluff for three days and then going though your previous game I think I finally found a concept I liked and I think fits. Also woot longest app I've made to date and its not even done yet.
Ali uses a gloved hand to try and stifle a yawn. She drags herself past the threshold of her bedroom. She really can’t sleep alone. It seems every time she closes her eyes for five minutes she’s bombarded with another nightmare. It’s either the men with a million faces, the boy/girl in the ditch, or worst her father. Despite a severe lack of sleep she still manages to smiles when she looks at her collection. Her walls were lined with books; almost every patch of wall was covered in books to the high ceiling. It was a big apartment too. The dragon below can bugger the dreams, all this was hers and she earned it. Her hand lightly brushes her locket, all of it. Breakfast would give her some energy, she hopes, so she heads for the kitchen.
Even here the walls are lined with books, these being a collection of both rural and high cuisine recopies from around Khorvaire. Not wanting anything too fancy she pulls a copy of Ghallanda Goodberries. In short time Ali is taking her breakfast and a copy of the Korranburg chronicle through the glass doors leading to her balcony. Like every day she takes a moment to look out at the city she loves, the cultural center of Khorvaire, Metrol. A wispy smile takes form as she watches the light of dawn dance with the rooftops. Nothing would ever change the beauty and magic of this city, this nation. Sitting to enjoy her breakfast she idly flips through the pages of the chronicle until she sees what she is most well known for her bi-weekly article with the running title Five Things Every (blank) Should Know. She’s has taken some flak from some because of the over simplified article, but it was popular and she hoped it let the people Khorvaire see that the person on the other side of the sword wasn’t just something that needs killing. She sighs and closes the paper deciding she would rather look out over the city than read about the war right now.
Too soon it is time for Ali to go do her part for the ‘war effort’. She quickly checks herself in the mirror. The woman who looks back is the same one who has every morning for four months. It’s been so long she might even be starting to miss his face. Or maybe she was just missing her. She could change it but there isn’t much to dress up for. Instead she fixes yet again the bags that form under her eyes, and straightens her hair back out. She turns away from the mirror and with a couple quick snaps of her
Gloves of prestidigitation at will.
fingers she is fresh and clean. Not as luxurious as a bath perhaps but much better for her already tight schedule. On her way out the door Ali stops before two pegs on a small patch of wall not covered by books. From one hook hangs the holy symbol of Aureon and Boldrei to which she offers a prayer. On the next hang the symbols of Dol Dorn and Olladra. She kisses her finger tips and then places the fingers on both of the symbols. It’s a tradition she’s adopted from a collection of rural Aundair communities. It meant to be a charm to protect the home and grant strength and fortune to those away. It’s also supposed to ward off changelings. Never fails to give her a giggle. Then with a sigh of resignation she’s off to ensure more innocent people die so someone they’ve never met can sit it a fancier chair.
****
Hours later Ali is finally finished her classes. The class of future officers of the Cyran army slowly starts to filter out. Cyre seeing the merit in training their officers to understand the enemy, she ensures that all her officers are taught at least a basic cultural overview of the enemy. Because of Ali’s history of voicing her opposition to the war, and her refusing to stop writing about Cyran culture for publication in other countries the government made it clear it would be a good thing if she showed support for her country, and the people risking their lives for it by teaching these military courses. She did support Cyre and Cyran troops just not the war. Still she relented because as much as she didn’t want the people of the other countries to die she also didn’t want those of her county to.
Ali is getting ready to rush off to a publication meeting and get away from this horrible place, when one of her students approaches. This one’s name is… Lieutenant… oh she can’t remember. That’s one of the reasons she teaches cultural studies and not of history, no head for names. She shrugs and decides to settle for, “Do you have a question…?”
“Lieutenant Jenkins ma’am.” She quickly volunteers stammering while shaking his head. “And no. I mean yes, I do have a question if you don’t mind.” She pauses seeming to want Ali to confirm or deny is she minds.
Ali raises an eyebrow and wonders how someone this timid became an officer. “Well I have a few minutes now if it’s a quick question or if you need something from today explained but if it’s something that will take longer than that it may have to wait until tomorrow.” As she talks she opens a drawer, pulls out a letter, and quickly slips it into her garments.
“N No. It’s not short that is. A Are you s sure you can’t talk today?” The woman almost a foot taller than and twice as wide as Ali is so distraught her eyes start to water at no apparent provocation.
Ali quickly checks and is glad to see the lecture hall is empty. She thinks she has an idea what this is about. In the right circles its known she helps those who need it and have particular reasons to fear being found out in Crye as it is now. Ali tries to sound reassuring letting Jenkins know she’s willing to help without quite saying it, “Alight then,” Ali turns back to the desk and starts writing something as she continues, “I was going to have dinner with a friend but she’ll understand. You can come see me at my apartment then. We should have time for any questions you have then.” Ali hands the girl a scrap of paper with her address and a time. She adds, “It is always nice to see a student taking a larger interest in culture.” She then quickly exchanges goodbyes with Jenkins and they both leave.
****
Ali relaxes on the balcony and rereads the letter she’s been waiting months for.
My dear Ali,
You can stop worrying I’m fine. I’m sorry it’s been so long
since I last sent a letter. We ended up chasing the enemy
too far out and got caught up in a bad storm, stop that I
just said I was fine, and it was quite the job to get us back.
were docked at Seaside and I get a chance to rub elbows
with all the classy people you’d expect while we take on
more supplies. I managed to find a copy of your article from
the chronicle two weeks back. Every one of them should
know “you”, very modest though I guess I’m not the one
to argue it. I miss you. I wish you were here or I was there
or something but then that’s nothing new. I’m rotated in
just another two months and we’ve survived longer than
that before. Work hard on whatever you’re working on now.
I love you.
Yours always,
Sam
Ali opens the locket she always carries with her. Inside are a picture of a man and woman clearly in love, neither looks like the woman it belongs to. Ali brushes her thumb across the woman. “I miss you too Samara.” Ali says in a small voice.
It’s not long before there is a knock at her door. She returns both the locket and letter to their respective places on her person. When she opens the door she finds Jenkins there. She looks much as she did earlier, ordinary if a little bland and disheveled. “Come on in. We can talk out on the balcony.”
Jenkins bobs her head and follows Ali into the house only to stop and gape when she sees the number of books decorate the large apartment. Ali smiles, she is quite proud of her collection. “Three thousand three hundred and forty eight, if you’re wondering. Not all here of course there are also some in the places I keep in Wroat and Korranburg. The rarest I keep here though many first editions and a dozen or so books that exist only here. It might be the largest private collection in Crye, maybe Khorvaire. Ignoring Zilargo of course. Feel free to browse if you want.”
Ali walks over to a small bar as the girl gazes about. “Would you care for something to drink? I have a fairly good vintage of an Aundair red if you would like.” Jenkins only vaguely nods still taking in all the books. After Ali pours two glasses she walks back to the balcony. “Come now. I assure you the view is even better out here.”
When Jenkins comes out to join her Ali hands the glass to the tall woman and motions her to sit. As Ali does so herself she decides it’s best to give Jenkins a little push. If not they’ll spend the next hour sitting in silence looking out over the city. “So what can I help you with Ms. Jenkins?”
The look of surprise and fear that flashes across the woman’s face you would expect Ali had just turned into a werewolf. She had not so Jenkins is forced to reply as painful as it seems to her. “I w was wondering… h how you… became a professor.” The last words come out rushed and are clearly not what she wanted to ask. Still Ali thinks it’s best to go at her guests speed so she decides to make it the long version hoping the time and wine would eventually make her comfortable enough to ask.
Leaning back and turning her gaze to over the city before she begins she’s struck once again how beautiful this city is. “Well I’m sure you know I’m a changeling. I’ve been openly living as one for about ten years now.” Ali’s hand raises and brushes the back of her neck where she knows there is an arcane mark that reads
Changeling is written in an arch above her name. She wears it whenever she considers herself ‘Home’ which would essentially be in one of the three cities she owns residence and Cyre as a whole. He gets applied and dispelled by a good friend in House Sivis.
‘Changeling Ali’ and does so regardless of what form she takes. “I wear this to show I’m proud of what and who I am. I wasn’t always so comfortable with myself however. Much to his shame my
Father who literally gave birth to Ali.
birth father he conceived me and was a male passer with a fairly public life. To my fortune he decided not to just shed himself of me.”
Ali’s eyes take a far off look, “I never did get a straight answer out of him as to why. It certainly wasn’t love, or maybe if was in his own way.” She waves off the depressing thoughts. “Anyway he kept me to term and then did everything in his power to hide me until I was old enough to consciously control my changing. Then he did what comes so naturally to passer parents and beat an understanding into me that I was only to ever wear one face. Once he was content I was sufficiently taught that lesson he did everything he could to rid himself of me if not permanently. Again to my fortune he happened be one of the richest men in Khorvaire that doesn’t have royal blood or is a member of a house. And yes you might have heard of him but I’m not going say who even if he is dead. He was a hateful bitter old man but I’m not going to out one of us unless they come out themselves, not even him. Anyway because he was wealthy my being sent away meant me spending my childhood in one boarding school or another. I won’t bore you by listing all my alma maters suffice to say my schooling was extensive.”
Ali takes a sip of the wine and notices how interested Jenkins seems to be in the story despite the fact it is not quite what he asked for, at least not yet. “I wrote my first novel at nine. It was dreck but it was mine and it was a way to express myself.” She waves a hand towards the interior of the apartment. Her eyes take on a hollow tone for a second as she talks about it. “It’s in there mixed in with some of the greatest tales ever written, though only one other person has ever read it. I continued to write though I never really had any real gift for creative writing. Being the fortunate person I am I continued living like that only ever wearing the one face my father chose carefully being sure I aged at the correct rate for humans until I was fifteen year old.”
Her hand moves to brush the outside of her locket. “That’s when by chance someone found out what I was and to my infinite surprise at the time didn’t try to burn me at the stake. That person even accepted me, not in spite of being a changeling, all of me. At this persons encouragement I started to experiment and started wearing new faces. Only in private at first then as I got more confident in public. By the time I entered the Metrol University I entered with a face other than the one my father had given me. All this had made me curious of the history of the people my father had taken so much trouble to hide from me so while I was working on graduating the school of arts I used my free time to learn what I could about changelings. As it turns out there was very little to hide. What there was was always written about changelings not by changelings. Don’t get me wrong there are likely changelings that have made contributions to the sum of written knowledge but since they write under aliases it’s nearly impossible to identify them. To be honest I only ever confirmed one book written by a changeling and that was by tracking it back to its source.” Ali smiles remembering how proud she had been when she cracked that particular puzzle. “I have a sighed copy in there as well.” She can actually see it from where she sits through the open doors. It’s a large novel that read The Sky and Wind. It was about the relationship between a changeling and half elf. It was actually quite popular and was one of Ali’s personal favorite reads. She turns back to Jenkins. “Of course I can’t tell which it is either.”
“So with little written material I had to rely on those few changelings I was able to track down myself.” She says continuing her tale. “Finding a changeling isn’t exactly an easy thing to do. Becomers are the easier of the two main types. Hard to find them still but easy to spot the holes they leave if you know what you’re looking for. While still occupied with my schooling I managed to find half a dozen or so changelings and another half dozen people who had known changelings personally in some manner. The Becomers were more than willing to brag to a fellow changeling and the Passers so I would leave them alone. Not that I was trying to out them if they wouldn’t but I was young and very persistent.”
“It all accumulated when I graduated. At the same time I came out and I released my first book for wide publishing. You’ve most likely heard of it
The book was a collection of three accounts of changeling life. The first was Ali’s own account of her life. The second was an interview Ali held with a Passer that had lived forty years keeping his secret. Last was an interview with a human who found out her mother was a changeling when she was dragged from their house and hung. All of it is fiction, though only Ali knows that. She knew she would need something to make people sympathetic to her. It was all so she could live out in the open and not hide.
Memoirs of the Children of Change. As it turned out the buzz of me coming out, since so few changelings do, fueled interest in my book. My book in turn helped gain enough support from the academic community that I wasn't chased out of academic circles.” She shows a little grin remembering how amazing it had actually worked out.
“The book gained particular notice from the Library of Korranburg. I was approached with an offer to receive funding for a larger endeavor. The Library wanted me to write the first written academic account of changeling culture. They were willing to see I had means to move across all Khorvaire chasing everything I could about changelings without being drastically impeded by the war. Obviously I accepted, it was once in a lifetime chance.”
Ali gets up from her seat but motions for Jenkins to remain seated. She continues talking as she enters the apartment. “I learned a lot during my travels. I can confidently say short perhaps the Traveler no one knows has met more changeling than I have. From them I learned about changeling culture but as changelings are want to do they also sucked up vast amounts of information about any culture they came into contact with.” She knows exactly where what she wants is but she moves slowly for drama’s sake. “The gnomes think they are the most learned people in Khorvaire and they are. However if changelings where as rigorous in literary pursuits as they are our collective knowledge would dwarf the Library.” Reaching up Ali pulls a white box down from a shelf comprised entirely of such. “I also found things; a rumor here, a whisper there that suggested changelings might be much more than even we know. Those are the things I’ve never written down or told anyone, they are my nightmares alone.”
“Still,” She places the box on the table beside Jenkins and rests one accusatory finger on the top, “this almost got me killed.” She sees the nervous Jenkins move away from it. Placing one hand on either side of the lid Ali slowly lifts and reveals the contents. The seemingly harmless pile of paper within holds the dread title Changeling Culture. “In it are none of the dread secrets I found. In fact inside is nothing more than any good Becomer parent teaches their child albeit in a more academic tone. While it was met with a great amount of acclaim from my peers in academia it also made me the enemy of many changelings. They felt that I was revealing our peoples secrets which if blaspheme according to many.” Ali sighs as she replaces the lid and retakes her seat.
“Perhaps they’re right and it is. Still if it’s ever going to be ‘okay’ to be a changeling the rest of Khorvaire needs to understand us. We can’t continue to be feared and shunned. It’s not exactly a rare belief that changelings are minions of the dragon below sent to steal children to feed to our dark master. Can you believe that! That’s not even the worst I’ve heard.” Ali hands are balled into tight fists a rare show of anger from her. “Changelings have the potential to rise above the lies. Who else has the ability to flourish in any culture?! Still, we are considered monsters no better than lycanthropes to the ignorant.”” Her rant is met with silence except the odd chirp from a bird. Jenkins is looking like this was all a very poor idea and Ali's glass of wine is looking emptier then it probably should.
She sighs and slowly shakes her head the tension leaving her. “Sorry. I’ll stay away from that topic. Back on topic a lot of people were not happy with me. I got a lot of hate mail for a very long time. Evidently someone was angry enough to send an assassin.” Ali shudders at the memory and her hand moves to squeeze her locket. “That would have been the end of me if someone hadn’t been here.” Ali had lost many nights sleep in the last seven years especially without Samara there beside her.
She’s closes her eyes and falls silent. Finally she speaks in a very quiet voice. “My father wasn’t so fortunate. I hated him I really did. Still…” She falls silent again before continuing. “Much to my surprise he left it all to me, all of it. Maybe in his own way...” The truth is the feelings of guilt and the ramifications that because of her someone died, someone who had raised her, made her lose even more sleep than the fear. Ali slept very little now a days.
She lets out a little cough. “Anyway, with the assets I gained from my
The whole story is that when her father died she was a loss for what to do with the estate. The property she gladly sold never wanting to see again but it felt wrong to just sell the business her father had put his life into. She was incredibly lost and stressed because of it on top of everything else. Because of everything she became deeply depressed and fell out of society for about six months. This period was what started her chronic nightmares. The problem with the business was eventually solved when one of her last remaining changeling friends said he was looking to settle down and was willing to buy half of the business and run it as a partnership. Ali had no idea why he would want to do such a thing but she was immensely grateful for it. Lan is the most cunning changeling Ali had ever met which is saying something. She has pretty much given him free reign with the business. Since he’s taken over the business has seen steady growth.
father’s estate I was able to live more comfortably, while still helping my people. I managed to become a columnist for the Chronicle. Now a changeling’s words reach all the people of Khorvaire without lies. I still want changelings to have a better why then having to hide what we are. We can reach so much if only we try to grasp it.”
“My travels around Kohvaire allowed me to learn much about the people of Khovaire, all of them, not just changelings. I started doing guest lectures and was even entertaining the possibility of taking on a more permanent position at Metrol University. It’s rewarding to teach those that might be the ones to stop all this war and senseless killing.” Ali’s voice takes a sour tone as she continues, “Unfortunately our dear government felt it would also be rewarding for me to teach. So with some subtle threats they convinced me it was in my and those I care for’s best interest if I started helping good people get killed.”
“Which brings us up to date.” Despite her misgivings about her current career path Ali smiles turning to Jenkins. “Which also brings us back to why you are here. Now I can think of only a couple reason you would listen to all that. The first option is that you're interested in furthering your understanding of cultural studies. I seriously doubt that’s it though since you asked for no further elaboration of my travels or the people I met though. Which leads us to the second possibility which is you fancy me. In that case I’m very flattered but I’m blissfully spoken for. She would probably feel compelled to hurt you if you were here for that reason. She’s very possessive of her man.” Okay not strictly true. Samara has never been the over protective type and she would probably just laugh at the idea of Lieutenant Jenkins here actually had the back bone for such a thing. Jenkins was making it so easy though and Ali liked to have a little fun every once in awhile. “Or…”
Ali lets it hang a moment waiting for the girl to jump in and boy does she. She almost rips her jacket trying to get in to pull out a piece of paper and starts stammering a mile a minute. “N N No. Not that y your n not… N No I m mean I I read y your a article.” She pushes the article toward Ali. Ali knows without looking it’s the article from the Chronicle two weeks back. Its title is Five Things Every Changeling in Trouble Should Know. The fifth point on the list was her name and how she could be contacted from Metrol, Wroat, and Korranburg. Ali wasn’t going to abandon her people just because many of them chose to abandon her. Jenkins continues, “A A And.” She closes his eyes for a couple seconds and when she opens them the eyes that were brown are now an imitation of Ali’s swirls of black and white. Evidently Jenkins chose not to follow the means Ali had listed.
Ali gently pats the back of the girls hand on the table and smiles. “It’s alright. I was just joking she wouldn’t hurt you. I’m going to do what I can to help you but I need a couple things first. I need you to tell me what happened to the real Jenkins and I need to know what you’re in trouble for.”
Ali was not the daughter of some changeling merchant mogul. It is true that her father gave birth to her. However her father was anything but rich. Ali was conceived in an ally of
Karrnath
Lakeside to pay for a cheap bottle of rum. It was a miracle that she managed to survive to term however. The first years of Ali’s life were spent like a rat pup ferreted away in some hole in one alley or another. Her father would sneak back with food. From the time she was born however he father had always sat with her and told her stories. His stories were always about changelings living it wealth and luxury. Her life was stories and running, stories and running. Still in spite of everything she was still a happy child.
Like many of the very bottom rung of society the war didn't touch touch Ali and her father much. It was always something far away and of little concern when they were preoccupied with surviving the day. They didn't exist as far as society was concerned. The population of Karrnath however were all to willing to suspect any changeling. Their training made it all the worse when the pair didn't run fast enough.
Ali was forced to grow up quickly and proved to be a bright child. By seven she was looking after her father as much as he for her. By eight she was carrying him. By nine it was her turn to bring food and make up stories for him. He died one month three days after new year in the year she should turn
Ali never learned her actual birthday so she just counts from the start of each year.
He died while both of them were sleeping. He had gotten harder and harder to wake up since he’d gotten sick, so it was only after an hour of Ali getting more and more frantic before she finally breaks down. No one knows how long the daughter clung to her father after that. Ali’s first memories after that are of hating him with everything she had. She was kicking him. He’d left her. He was useless. He was always weak and hiding. It was his fault she was here. His fault she was hungry. His fault he died and she was alone. She kicks him one last time and uses her forearm to wipe away the fresh tears.
Then she just walks away. With every step she wears a new face, every possible combination she can think of. This draws the attention of many of the adults she walked past, she didn’t care. She was a changeling and she would have her due. She would earn it with whom and what she was, and she would never hide in a gutter to die.
Before she left
Still Karrnath, also the city her father died in.
Karrlakton the first thing took as her due was a blank book, a quill, and a pot of ink. The acquisition of such earned her a black eye, a cut lip and a stabbing pain when she clenched her right hand. The only things she really knew was changing and stories. She had to get a story out before she could make her plans. Her father had never taught her letters so all she could do was stare at the blank pages overcome with tears of frustration that the story wouldn’t leave her.
It takes her three months to learn her letters. Then finally she was able to get rid of the story. It had horrible spelling, and was pretty much one run on sentence. It was contained however and that’s what was important. She wanted to throw it away but she couldn’t. At least with it in the book it wasn’t in her head anymore. She was able to plan then. The only things she knew were stories and changing, so she knew anything she did would have to have at least one of them. With either she needed to learn more words and languages so she makes that her task.
And so she absorbed as much as she could for the next six years. She did remarkably well for not having any formal instruction. Still there was limit to what one could do in her situation. While she was learning something had been growing within her. Whenever she had to talk to the impoverished she felt the same feelings of hatred she felt for her father. She had clawed her way up from nothing. They were all to weak or lazy to work for something more.
Finally by a stroke of fortune she stumbles upon her first step into her birthright. It takes the form of dead boy lying on the side of the road. Ali is just making her way to a new town when she finds the boy. He’s wearing a fancy school uniform that Ali knows belongs to the
The school is about half a mile outside a small town. The school is named Salian Academy and the town Ventan. Both were about halfway between Kalazart and Metrol in Cyre.
school just a mile farther down the road Ali takes the boys face and clothes. She only expects it to last a short time the boy’s parents would surly spot her she knew. Still a month of school was more than she would get otherwise.
Soon Ali found that the dead boy had everything. He had school, he was rich, popular, and he had Samara. They had an arranged marriage to join a failing family with only the tiniest fraction of royal blood together with the boy’s family’s money. Ali then learns that the boy had an estranged relationship with his father, his only parent. They hadn’t seen each other in years. He had everything but he’d done nothing to earn it. He put no effort into his studies; he only coasted on his father money. Ali wouldn’t do that she would earn everything the dead boy had.
First the boy went from loafing about with friends to spending almost all his time studying, writing. In this way she was convinced the boy’s father would actually be happier with Ali than the dead boy. She never did get any confirmation for that however only actually meeting him twice before the man was killed. Her other focus was making sure Samara loved her. Ali was sure she could make Samara happier than the boy did. This was tested when Samara caught Ali changing. Ali thought her new life would come crashing down. In a moment of inspiration this was the first time Ali came up with the story that fused her existence with that of the dead boy. Samara defied expectations and believed the story and accepted Ali. Ali knew then that Samara loved Ali not the dead boy. To this day Samara is the only person who Ali feels she’s deceived. Once Ali had told the story and Samara believed it, it had become the truth. Ali still feels bad about it but knows that Samara’s life is better because of it.
Since that point its always been Ali’s and not the dead boy’s life.
TL/DR: Ali loves Samara because Ali trusts her, she makes Ali laugh and feel safe, and because of the passion of her beliefs.
Samara ir'Asilan was born the daughter of a minor noble family with a shred of royal blood being their last family holding. The family was now a military family by birth. Samara was the third child and first daughter to the family. There was very little family holding to go around. They made a marriage contract for her very young, with a merchant tycoons son.
Both Samara's older siblings and her father served in the Cyre navy before she did. All three of them were killed in a counter attack while they were laying siege to Arythawn Keep when Samara was seventeen. Because of this she now carries a seething hatred of Thane and the Flame. Unlike many professed sailors Samara isn't all that fond of the sea. She joined the navy because of family tradition. Her ship is the Dire Albatross, and her rank is
Samara tends to be friendly as a standard attitude. She views herself as a protector however and will quickly resort to violence when she feels she's protecting something. She also prefers to be called Sam with Ali being the only one that calls her Samara regularly.
Ali never intended to love Samara. Love was never much of a priority, never played any large role in any of her plans. Of course she was only fifteen when she found the dead boy. She thought she'd had her whole life planned out since ten. The dead boy was a circumstance too good to pass up though. Ali couldn't just let the opportunity go unused. She never felt bad for what she did to the dead boy by taking his life, he was dead what did he care. Where he took everything he had for granted Ali was more driven, she would earn everything she got by her second birth. Samara was one of those things.
The only way to earn the dead boys fiance was to make it so she actually wanted, and was not forced to, marry Ali and not who the dead boy was. Ali went about this in the way she'd tackled everything in the past six years. She made a plan. Ali believed it to be going fairly well. That is until Samara walked in on Ali
Ali did this even with the risk it presented. 'Changing' reminded her of what she was and all it meant.
changing. Ali lied. There was no magic moment where love consumed Ali but what followed this is what lit the spark. Samara's first reaction was understandably shock. Next instead of running of to turn Ali in however Samara started to console her. In a life of running Samara was one of two people who pulled her in to embrace her.
Ali still had high walls though. It was enough to make Ali more curious about Samara. They started to find more time to spend together. The relationship went from an arranged marriage to one of friendship. Anything more was a taboo subject between the two. Samara never pushed Ali away, but she always evaded when anyone talked about their engagement. Samara was Ali's first true friend though so Ali was surprisingly happy with just that.
Over time Ali got used to her new life. She slowly stopped thinking she would have to run. She got comfortable and love was starting to have a higher priority to her. Again there was no big reveal moment; over time Samara simply started meaning more to her. Samara made Ali laugh. She accepted Ali for what she was, and Samara even encouraged her to wear different faces. Samara's belief that some fights just having to be fought, even though Ali didn't agree, seemed noble to Ali. Samara believed in standing up for the little guy, and fighting for your country. Ali didn't believe standing up equated to taking up arms, or that it helped the little guy to have someone protect him, but she she still smiled and her heart beat a little faster because of the passion Samara held for her beliefs. When Ali was feeling down just Samara's presence would make her feel better. Most of all Ali knew Samara would always do what she thought was right, and Ali didn't want to believe Samara would leave her. Ali trusted Samara.
It was because of this trust that a two month before Samara was off to join the navy, and Ali to go on to further her studies at Metrol University she pushed what had always been taboo. Samara knew that it was something that had to be dealt with eventually but she still tried to evade. Ali still pushed, and finally they talked. Ali started by telling Samara how she felt, what she wanted, and finally she told Samara about her plan to come out as a changeling when she graduated. She told Samara because Samara had the right to know, if they were going to be together Samara would be marrying not just a
Technically and by admission.
woman but also to someone who might be labelled a monster by much of society. Both could make Samara's life very difficult.
Samara's response was trepidation when Ali told her of her plan. She was worried for Ali's sake. Still she admits she had feelings for Ali too but she was still unsure about the fact Ali was a woman... but she was willing to give it a chance. Over the two months the two of them managed to find a face Samara liked. That was the face Ali wore to Metrol.
Two years later they got married at an event suitable to Ali's high standards. They were able to spend a whole month together while Samara's ship was dry docked. Then they were back to sending letters with short patches of time together while Samara's ship isn't out of dock or Samara is on rotation. Ali is always careful to plan her research trips, when she takes them, around the time she knew Samara wouldn't be out to sea.
Ali looks out the window of her car as the night scenery whips by. She should sleep. Still she found the view better out in the night than what she would see if she did sleep. At least she was finally back to civilization. Late tomorrow afternoon she would arrive in Wroat and be able to focus on finishing her latest novel.
The novel would be a commentary on what Khorvaire labeled men and what they labeled monsters. The story frame work was written from the point of view of a House Tharashk representative in Droaam. Every even chapter however was written from the point of view of a character the hero had met in the chapter before. Ali having just returned from Droaam wasn’t sure she would disagree with many of the claims the inhabitants were monsters. Still that would hardly work; everyone was willing to write and a conniving ogre mage fighting the noble hero. Ali’s writing excelled in making the unknown relatable.
As miserable and disturbing as much of the trip had been it had also been illuminating. It had started when Ali, wearing the face of a half-orc named Vellice, met with her guide at the boarder house of house Tharashk between Breland and Droaam. Her guide was a venerable half-orc named Marik d’Onik. He’d been a little sour but once Ali got him talking her was a fountain of information. Their first stop was Graywall and then onto The Great Crag.
Ali tried not to think again how uncomfortable she found riding to be while she waited for Marik to answer her question. Finally he elaborates, “Nah they don’t usually eat each other. Not that it’s never happened but there are also stories of humans eatin each other on occasion. Awful hard to keep the tribe next door from slittin your throat if you go eating your family all the time.”
Marik takes another swig from his waterskin that she knows is filled with rotgut. “That’s pretty much a race only limit though. Gnoll won’t really think twice about gnawin on a human, or orc for that matter, or try anything else if its hungry enough. Hags, they seem to go out of their way to eat things that can cry for mercy first. I’ve made a point to never have dinner with one though. Gobos are case by case. Some of ‘em will, some won’t. Everything else except orcs and maybe medusi, who are more like the rest of us, will likely eat humans and the rest o’ the civilized races but give more consideration to the other natives… except gobos damn near anything but the orcs and medusi will eat them. Made me vomit though.” Ali shoots a look of horror at the man. He shrugs. Marik had made sure to tell her many times things were different here. Ali could rationalize it but it was still abysmal.
Her reaction seems to entertain some of the caravan guards they were traveling with. Before them the massive mountain that marked the Great Crag towered. It had been visible for over a day and they were only just approaching the city. Something catches Ali’s eye when they an hour or so from reaching the city. “What’s that?” She asks pointing to the discoloration spreading from the city walls.
“Thas the gobos, poor buggers. Cities to small for everyone so everything meaner than them pushes ‘em out to make a camp around the city.” He answers before returning to the dietary habits on some of the rarer natives.
As they get closer Ali finds it hard to hide her disgust at the camp. She had never been a fan of goblins. They were a whole race that seemed incapable of doing anything worthwhile. They all seemed to happy with their squalor and being the kicking bag for anything bigger than them. It wasn’t a matter of size either, put a halfling or gnome in a situation and you would get different results. No they were a race that was just too weak and too lazy to fight for anything better.
Ali’s mood after doesn’t much improve the duration of the stay in the city. However Marik had pointed out things she would have been able to see had they not gone. The first was a couple of medusa, one clearly pregnant. Then a harpy aerial dance in the sky above the city. There was more still after that. Still Ali was happy when the city was behind them.
Even before the her trek in Droaam she’d had to visit Sharn. She’d found visiting the ill reputed Morgrave university almost as unpleasant as Droaam. She’d needed to go to research another aspect of the story. In the second final chapter the main character, which the reader if supposed to sympathize with and use to measure the ‘monster’ point of views, is abruptly executed after a stay in a house Tharashk cell. In the final chapter the point of view of another member of the House in which it is explained how the main character had to be killed because he posed an aberrant mark. Ali had to learn about aberrant marks and the lives of those who had to hide them. Morgrave was the only place, except maybe the house specific schools, that had a ‘Professor of Aberrant Studies’. The trip to Droaam had proved to be much more enlightening than the arrogant ramblings of the man. Her own reading had revealed more than anything the man was able to contribute.
Ali pushes all the unpleasant thoughts out of her mind. Instead she thinks of home. Its seemed like forever since she’s been back or been able to read anything from Samara. Oh well, she’s almost back. It’s not like it was going anywhere.
Pic of Samara and Ali's most common form together. Yes the female identifying Ali's most common form is male because she loves Samara and Samara is straight. When Samara is absent Ali tends toward female, if slightly androgynous, forms that fit her whim.
****
A half mile out of camp Ali sat with her back to a tree. She stares down the small road leading south from the camp. There is no doubt there are many others doing the exact same thing she is. Should any of them look her way though they see a chilling sight. Her skin is like a rolling sea of clay, assuming traits at seeming random. Though there are recognizable features all of them look wrong together. To Ali it’s an act similar to stretching. If any of the others were ignorant enough not to recognize what she was, then they were cautious enough to keep away from whatever she might have caught in the mist.
As she watched the road her mind turns to earlier today. She’s been in the crowd for the prince’s speech. Ali had never been the diehard patriot sort. She loved Cyre for all it was. She’d loved it because it had earned that love, not because she was compelled to by existing there. To her it was like losing a particularly beautiful piece of art. Sure she would miss it. Ali had learned to value what she had and would grasp though, not what was irrevocably gone.
The Prince had a way with words, though the raw emotions of the crowd didn’t hurt his case. Even Ali had been swept up and inspired. It hadn’t taken long away from the crowd for her to recover her senses however. They were very pretty words. Words that would encourage the few tattered remains of Cyre to live for blood and the dead, instead of adapting and letting the dead lie. Ali was not so easily persuaded to give up her life though.
Still Ali watches the road. Given her feelings after the speech Ali had been surprised to find Oargev himself ask her to speak in his tent an hour later. She found others were called for the same reason. The Prince quickly made clear he was after blood. He evidently wanted the last heart blood of Cyre on his hands if he was right about those behind this ‘Day of Mourning’. She had offered her oath when he asked for it though the words were hollow. He wanted to use her, well she would do the same in turn. Ali had no intention of letting him throw away anymore live like Crye had in the war. First it was a crown and now a pile of corpses. He took life for granted, never had to earn the right to live every day.
Ali could have done as much from her home in Wroat however. I could pay to have him removed and save many lives, She thinks darkly. His family’s war had brought this. Ali thinks back to the timid girl who died in the fog and she knows she shouldn't hesitate to get rid of him. It would save many lives, and likely hers as well. Still Ali watches the road.
Ali was no patriot, Samara was. She would come here instead of their other homes. She was not one to abandon her people. Ali would do her best to convince Samara that they should move on and live for themselves not the dead. She had no faith in that however Samara was to obstinate, she would want blood like so many others. Samara would not falter to die for her country. And so Ali sat watching the road planning how to keep Samara and everyone else alive. Ali watches the road for the only thing she can’t earn again. When she came walking down the road Ali would wear the face Samara liked, they would embrace, and that night would be theirs. The day after Ali would start saving 'New' Cyre.
OOC: Much of the above is rationalization. There is a incontiguity between what Ali wants herself to feel, reflected in her thoughts, and what she feels, reflected in her actions. If she was as ruthless as she wishes she was she would never have told changelings in trouble where to find her even if some might want to kill her with the information. Utilitarianism and ruthlessness was essentially Ali's coping/defense mechanism when her father died. Since the dead boy's life has become hers her heart has softened some. She still uses the mind set as a cloak to wrap herself in to feel strong. Not to say she's not utilitarian in much of her acts and thoughts, she is indeed a believer in the ends justifying the means. She tends to at least act more drastic when under stress or when feeling particularly threatened.
Ali is also a pacifist however. This goes back to her blaming herself for her fathers death. She was so effected by the dead boys father's death, a virtual stranger, as a result of her actions she fell into a deep depression. When she thinks about having Oargev killed above she is lashing out. Though she does hold him and all the other Royals responsible for the Mourning, and all the deaths of the war, she would not actually want anyone to die. It'll change quickly as soon as she sees how he cares for New Cyre and not just revenge. Ali holds a single humanoid life as more valuable than anything else, including those gone, and revenge. She doesn't see any life, if not person,
This is of course within reason she obviously values her own and those she cares for slightly more than others. She knows her limits, and she's not a take a bullet for a stranger type.
An example to put her belief in perspective. Does Ali support the Mourning because of it leading to the treaty? No, the Mourning was a horrible travesty. She is however, while still hating it, able to recognize the good it accomplished. Would Ali have used something that erased everything that was Crye, except the people, to stop the war? She would regret the necessity of it but yes.
As such in play she would argue that even Oargev shouldn't throw his life away over whats already gone. She also thinks there is a better way to find a new place in the world for Cyran's than re-instigating the war. Ali is not a stupid pacifist or utilitarian though. She knows she has her beliefs and other people have theirs. She wouldn't stop interacting with someone just because they killed someone, she's married to a soldier. She would advocate a different way than killing, but the actions of others are ultimately in their hands. She would even go an an assassination mission if it came to it, if only to try and keep the needless deaths to a minimum.
*****
I feel with Ali's current character it would be best for her development if Samara survives. Plus since almost everyone lost someone in the Mourning I think it would be be neat to have a foil who didn't lose anyone close to them. That doesn't mean she has to show up in New Cyre anytime soon like Ali wants though. Rumors of ships escaping Seaside, would keep her good in the short term. Long term she would need some kind of confirmation but even then that doesn't mean Samara will be able to come to New Cyre.
Hypothetically should Samara not survive Ali would
Though I think she would be a much more numb character, because for the second time the person she loved more then any other died and left her. There is already enough mopping and depression in New Cyre.
reason to help new Cyre, she just doesn't like to admit it to herself. The first is explained in the section above as it is true if Samara is alive or not. She also wants to get The Book that she left in Metrol. She can't willingly forget it after the Mourning anymore than she could when she first wrote it. No one else can see it though so she has to get it herself. She knows she's much more likely to get it if she has a bunch of butt kickers that have their own reason for going.
She likely would not be motivated by wanting revenge for Samara's death actually. Ali knew that, as much as the thought made her queasy, a soldier could die in battle. Samara chose to fight for her country. As far as a very depressed Ali would be concerned Samara died doing what she loved and a hero. No death could change that or lessen the feeling of loss.
Ali doesn't know who actually pushed the lever but the guy standing behind the guy standing behind the guy pulling the trigger is definatly the Cabinet of Faces.
First off, you've done an excellent job of bringing Graece to life through these vignettes. That part needs almost no further work, I think, save for filling in a few more details. So most of my questions will be about the world surrounding Graece, instead:
1. How long have the Merats been ennobled? In particular, were they granted their standing by a ruler of Galifar or a ruler of Cyre? What was the initial service that led to the ennoblement?
2. As the first vignette makes clear, after the Mourning the family is going to cling ever more stubbornly to the trappings of nobiliy. So: what is the ir'Merat coat of arms? Its words?
3. From what did the ir'Merat wealth derive, before the Mourning? Lands? A local monopoly on some industry? Or was it entirely inherited from previous generations?
4. In what part of Cyre was the ir'Merat estate located?
5. Which of Graece's parents married into the ir'Merat line? What did they do prior to this?
6. How big is the family? Siblings? Aunts and uncles?
7. Why Aundair? Is there some historical connection?
In addition, I have some more metagame questions:
8. I think I know where "Noblesse Oblige" is leading. But it takes place over a year after the Mourning. Do you have ideas as to how Graece can participate in adventures before this time? (If not, I can think of some, I'm sure--in fact, I just did as I'm typing this--but you might already have something in mind.)
9. There isn't really anything, yet, that indicates why Graece would have enough loyalty to Cyre--as opposed to her family, in particular--to take Oargev's oath. Thoughts on this?
That seems like enough for now--I have some more questions about Graece's childhood + study in Aundair, but we can get to that later.
Oargev was acting as a Cyran ambassador to Breland at the time of the Mourning (Grand History of Eberron, p. 261)--though presumably not the ambassador, since he was 21 at the time (Five Nations, p. 81--I can't find this in the Grand History). His wife at the time was killed in Cyre on the Day of Mourning (same reference), which suggests that this was a temporary position, not a permanent one. He would certainly have had an entourage.
First off: in general, you write very strongly, but please use more commas--reading some of your sentences left me out of breath.
Second: you have an excellent grasp of your character-the vignette definitely establishes Ali's personality, and you're very good at maintaining consistent characterization. I'm a little worried, however, that Ali has a lot of Mary Sue-ish characteristics. In particular, she seems a little too perfect. Obviously, some of this is a facade, and you hint a little bit at potential weakness when you mention Samara. And I'm mostly okay with the significant amounts of money, power, and fame you've endowed her with. I think what I'm most unsatisfied with is that the sum total of ideas expressed--the tolerance of warforged and goblins,the pacifism, the cultural studies stuff, the painstaking respect for your sources, the reference to the Flame as bigots--fits far too neatly with RL sensibilities. So, let's complicate the picture a little bit:
1. Ali has an absolute, irrational, unshakable prejudice against something or someone. If it was pointed out to her, her response would not be to feel remorseful and work on overcoming it, but to angrily affirm it and hold it more strongly. What is it? And please note that if you respond with "she hates intolerance" or something similar I will kick you from the game without a second thought. The point is that this should be something you disagree with your character about, something that makes Ali less likable.
2. One of the things Ali tells Jenkins in her narrative of her life is a blatant lie. She's done something shameful, something that benefited her--and continues to do so--at the expense of others. What is the lie, and what really happened?
Finally: two minor nitpicks. First, I don't think there would be a Royal University of Cyre--Cyre, of all the Five Nations, is most wedded to the idea of a united Galifar, and so the only Royal University they'd have would be in Throneport. In my last game I used Metrol University, so go ahead and use that too. Second: why Sharn? Why not Wroat, or Fairhaven, or Arcanix? Remember that Sharn isn't even that capital of Breland: the amount of attention it's gotten in supplements is way out of proportion to its actual importance. (Sorry, this is a minor beef of mine.)
This seems like enough to start with, since you still need to finish the application...
I am intrigued. In all honesty, I'm not quite certain I have the time to take on another game just now, but this premise is interesting enough that I'd at least like to take a stab at making a character. If I can manage that... we'll see.
At the moment I'm pondering someone of Karrnathi birth, a former soldier (deserter?) who worked as a paid informant and/or arms smuggler for Cyre during the war, and now finds herself among the displaced Cyrans because Karrnath views her as a criminal and a traitor. I'm still mulling over details, but I think it'd make an interesting contrast to the native Cyrans: someone who lost their homeland through their own actions rather than an outside force, turncoat as opposed to patriot.
Of course, that begs the question: if not patriotism or revenge for Cyre, what's her motive? Why throw in her lot with the Cyran refugees instead of starting over in Q'Barra, or the Lhazaar Principalities, or one of the other nations? Need to figure that out.
If your pitch impressed me, your responses to applicants so far has only deepened that respect. Consider my interest piqued. I'll be submitting a character after I do a refresher on Eberron.
On another note, I'd like to mention that The Snark and I have played together many a time before, most relevantly in a (very) long running freeform game over on the GiTP boards - she's an absolutely splendid writer.
So yeah, hopefully you'll put in an application, Snark. It'd be good to play with you in a situation where our characters interact more. And hey, maybe your character won't be subjected to an unceasingly sadistic plot!
Taelin was sure every muscle in her body had been replaced with fire, her body burned so hotly as she lay on the floor of the soaking leather hut. The rains that came through the holes that hadn't been patch yet felt good what exposed skin she bore, as she could do little but stare up at the roof of the tent. That hunt had almost killed her--quite literally--and she was happy to be alone with her thoughts before one of her new drow kin enter the tent. He was young and handsome, his ebony skin offset by the typical white stock of hair on his head.
"(Sister you come now. The time to rest is over now we eat.)" Her Drow dialect was still a little shaky, it was just different enough from Elven to be a considerable bother. Luckily, she had been able to get across most of her ideas clearly, and vice versa, but some of their colloquialisms were still a bit out of her lingual reach.
"(That is the good. This one will join the family in short time. The body still has tired and rest. Gratitude.)" The drow--Kaes, they had told her was his name--sparked a brief look of confusion before nodding and exiting the tent. The sound of the rain began to soften in the jungle, accompanied by the slowing of the trickles of water that gave her a slight respite from the heat of the Dark Continent. Mustering all of the energy her nearly-broken body could, Taelin rose to her feet and haggardly lifted up the flap of her domicile, revealing the rest of her newly adopted 'family.' Karel was playing with a few of the drow children, the hound's sheer size almost dwarfing all of the young dark elves as they wrestled with him and tossed sticks out of the camp for him to fetch.
The women of the tribe worked cutting up assorted flora and some of the game that had been brought in from the last hunt--exotic fair the likes of which the average Khork would never taste in a million lifetimes. The many sat and maintained their weapons, many of which were the fabled drow long knife. Taelin had experienced the combination of finesse and force that the slender blade could bring to bear, and just about every male within the tribe was trained in its use. Kaes had taught her a few of its tricks, but the weapon was still too awkward in her hands to be lethal. The smells of the meal to come intoxicated Taelin and brought on a stinging hunger pang, her body screaming out for any kind of nourishment after the tribe's hunt.
One of the tribeswoman--Shadran--handed Taelin a wooden bowl with some kind of stew in it, which she began to devour before realizing that most of the tribe was staring at her wolfing down her meal. Her face turned beet red for a moment before the chieftain, Geytla, roared with laughter at Taelin's faux pas. The rest of the tribe joined in, putting Taelin at ease as she continued on with her meal. She was extremely relieved--not only because she hadn't offended a whole tribe of drow warriors, but in general at her whole situation. What began as a simple errand for the Crown--find the Pit of Nar'Kath, find out why Karrnath is interested in it, and either bring it back to Cyre or destroy it. Of course, only the drow knew far enough in the jungle to actually get to the locale, and refused to take her unless she proved her worth as a warrior of the tribe. Had she known that would involve chasing giants through the canopy (and keeping up with drow capable of navigating the underbrush better than most people can ascend a flight of stairs), she might have tried a different approach. Still, she made a good showing for a guttersnipe from Metrol, she thought, even if one of the giants almost tore her head off with its bare hands.
The lights of the camp were beginning to fade to cinders as supper waned and the tribe began preparing for a night's rest. Jotting some notes down in her journal, Getyla approached Taelin and took a seat next to her on the log she was seated on. He was young, having taken the tribe from his father after killing him in a duel, and was every bit as aggressive and passionate as Taelin assumed her own ancestors were thousands of years ago.
"(This hunt was a good. You do well for outsider. Tomorrow we go to the black place, that one must get her rest for the journey.)" His voice was quick but deep, giving it a strange resonance to it that Taelin found quite appealing. As she looked up at the night sky, the thought of tomorrow's expedition was in the back of her mind, weighing her with doubt. Even the drow, as fierce as they were, mostly refused to venture to Nar'Kath, which did not instill her with much confidence. But orders were orders.
"(This one thanks that one for its nice. Will rest now for next day.)" Giving a quick whistle, Taelin bowed to the chieftain and rose from her seat, Karel scampering over to her as she entered the tent that had been afforded to her during her stay. With any luck, tomorrow she would find the Pit and none of the people she had become close to remained safe during the journey. With any luck, agents of the Emerald Claw wouldn't already be there, but Taelin knew she had lost a lot of time getting the drow to trust her--maybe too long, but she silenced those thoughts and offered a quick prayer to the Host as she rested up for the next day's voyage...
"Let's all give a warm welcome to the Korranberg String Quartet, shall we? To begin tonight's entertainment, they're going to treat us with our own national anthem, The Song of Breland!"
The emcee gave an excited clap as the cultured and dolled-up gnomes on the raised platform behind him began tapping various bows and strings until, in perfect unison, they pulled a few dramatic, heroic chords across their strings as Breland's anthem began sounding through the ballroom. Just about all of the attendees--some of Khorvaire's most elite--stopped to listen, with the most patriotic (or patronizing) Brels joining in on the verses with a vigorous gusto. Taelin could hear above the crowd a rather portly nobleman, belting out the words in one of the most splendid baritone voices she had probably ever heard. It was quite a rousing tune, she thought to herself as she subtly tugged at one of the folds of her gown that had caught itself in one of the gown's layers. Her long, pink satin gloves gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, one hand holding glass of elven moonberry wine and the other clutching onto the small purse that Taelin had brought.
Taelin began slowly meandering through the ballroom; her contacts hadn't arrived just yet, so she had some time to enjoy some of the fine delicacies her hosts had provided their guests. Daintily picking up a small plate off of the deep scarlet tablecloth, she picked a few choice foods to indulge in as several admirers came up and asked Taelin about her latest venture into the Dark Continent. In between bites, she played off some of the stories that had been told about her--that she had learned magic under the tutelage of a giant (she just deciphered an old giant manuscript), that she had single handedly fought off two dozen sahaugin while her companions stole their idol (it was only five, but that was a tough fight regardless), and that she hunted giants and game alongside a clan of drow as a blood-sister (that one was actually true. And she never wanted to do that ever again). Answering their excited questions between bites of some kind of delightfully flaky pastry, Taelin bowed politely and excused herself, giving a courteous smile to her fans as she noticed a new entrant into the gathering in through a far-off door.
He was tall, broad, and his finely-tailored clothes strained to contain the mountain of muscle that they clothed. The orc confidently strode into the ballroom with a big toothy grin, drawing either confused not-glances from the more conservative of the attendees or polite waves from those who recognized him. Taking a glass of spirits from the nearest wandering server, he scanned the room carefully, conversing occasionally with a few of the other guests before meeting eyes with Taelin. She blushed and curtseyed, her carefully maintained hair only falling in her face a little on the way down. The orc, for his part, met with a bow of his own, and extended a hand with which he clasped Taelin's, planting a light kiss on her knuckle before letting her go.
"Ah, Lady Phaloni, wonderful to see you on such a fine evening. I trust the trip from Fairhaven was a pleasant one?" Every time the orc opened his mouth, Taelin couldn't help but be fixated on the pronounced canine teeth, nearly fangs, that the orc possessed. At the nape of his neck, faint azure lines poked out from the collar of his jacket, subtly shifting with the gleam of the chandeliers.
"Of course, Lord dThrakeran. I took one of the new airships--fantastic vehicles, really. Khorvaire may be ready for them, but I don't believe I am. The lightning rail is enough of a modern convenience for me, I should think."
"Now, don't tell me that the famed Thunder Guide Taelin Phaloni is afraid of heights? The same woman who dueled a Karnathi blademaster over the highest spires of Sharn is afraid of a little wind?" The orc gave a hearty laugh at this thought, clutching his sides and drawing more than a few eyes to the couple's conversation.
Taelin gave a coy smile to the orc, feigning just a bit of bashfulness to keep humility to those around her. "Don't be silly. The towers of Sharn don't move, Lord dThrakeran. At least, they aren't supposed to. Being that high up while throttling forward is not my idea of a good time, I'll admit. I'll leave the sky to House Lyrandar. I'll quite happy treading solid ground."
In the background, the string quartet began with a quick-tempoed jaunt, furiously sawing away at their respective instruments. The majority of the dancers cleared the floor, but the Cyran nationals--those who knew the frantic and hurried steps of the tago--flocked to the dance, whirling and twirling into dervishes of color and blur as the dance was set in motion. d'Thrakeran looked deep into Taelin's eyes and offered his arm, to which the elf locked hers with the orc's. As the two walked to the dance floor arm-in-arm, the orc leaned down and whispered in her ear.
"The bells ring tomorrow just after dawn. Berris and I will meet you at the rail station, but you need to get the Brelish troop movements." Taelin didn't skip a beat as she bowed to her partner, beginning the dance.
"Don't worry about this dance, Lord d'Thrakeran. You know I'm the perfect partner for it."
Taelin looked over the bow of the Krakenjack as the vessel rose and fell atop the green expanse that was the Thunder Sea. A crimson dawn peaked above the horizon--an ill omen for ships at sea, she thought to herself as the lights of Sharn began shining clearer and clearer as the ship carried on to its destination. The wind was calm; a warm, salty breeze that tossled Taelin's long blonde locks, but not enough to be any sort of bother. Between the gently rolling sea and the tranquility of the breeze, Taelin closed her eyes for just a few moments to focus herself, becoming at perfect peace with the world around her and mentally distancing herself from the sailors plying their trade to get the ship into port. The explorer had precious few moments like these, and it was the reason that Taelin hated sailing on elemental galleons. Impressive pieces of work they were, naturally, but for all the life bound to them, they simply lacked the soul of a mundane ship that was a slave to the wind and wave.
An especially hard wave crashed against the hull of the Krakenjack, splashing up and onto Taelin, pulling her back to the ship and those around her. The night stars were giving way to the azure sky of morning, and the Ring Above began glittering with light from the sun. Pulling a length of cord from the worn canvas satchel slung under her arm, Taelin deftly tied her hair into a loose ponytail and turned to face the deck of the ship. She would have never guess that a group of exiles from the Mror Holds could make halfway competent sailors, but Captain Lockerhelm and his crew had pleasantly surprised her, making up what they lacked in skill and grace with an abundance of vigor and an unbreakable communal trust. As Taelin made her way past the laboring dwarves around her to access her cabin, one of the holds swung open, the weathered and rotted wood almost smashing into her face. From it rose the ship's captain, Kiterian Lockerhelm, along with a few of the crew getting ready to switch shifts with those who had worked through the night.
"Ah, g'mornin', Mistress Phaloni. I was just comin' to find ye. Ye'll be happy to know that we'll be in port just ahead of this storm comin', just as I promised," the aging dwarf said proudly with a mouth full of missing teeth. He was stout--all dwarves were, Taelin supposed--but had an air of discipline about him and commanded tremendous respect from his crew. She had never asked why they left the Holds (from the songs they sang after a night of drinking, she could tell it was still a sore subject), but she had always pictured him as being someone important, even after his departure from his home. Whoever he was then, now, she was honored to consider him a friend.
"Wonderful news, Captain; I expected nothing less from you and your crew. But I must have told you at least a dozen times, you can call me 'Taelin'...'mistress' makes me sound so...sordid..."
The dwarf wore a hearty grin as he brushed passed Taelin, signaling to those working to head below decks."I meant nothin' by it, miss, I promise ye that. I wouldn't dream of offendin' one of my best customers. Now, breakfast is ready if ye would join the rest of the men down in the galley. I need to attend to...well, you know, captain things." Kiterian headed to the helm of the sterncastle, as the mention of food set off tiny pangs of hunger in Taelin's stomach. Carefully heading down the rigging that served as the stair to the decks below, she slipped into her cabin briefly, only to find her companion, Karel, still sleeping. Walking solely on the balls of her feet to lessen the noise, she creeped up on his sleeping figure before assaulting him by scratching at either side of his ribs.
"Time to get up, you lazy hound! You can't be sleeping all day now!" The hound sprung to life, giving a confused yelp before recognizing his owner, playfully wagging his tail as his tongue lolled out of his mouth. After a few happy barks, Karel rises to his feet, coming almost up to Taelin's hip. The wolfhound languidly stretches out, shifting back and forth on its front and hind, before facing Taelin with a joyful stare. The pair exit the room, Taelin careful to lock the door behind her as she does, and make their way to the ship's galley, where a wild menagerie of colors, smells, and sights in the form of crew had already sat down for the morning meal.
While it's true that Taelin's been away from her native Cyre for many years, it makes her no less of a Cyran patriot. Even in the depths of Xen'drik or captured in a Karrnath prison, she always knew that out there, the Purple Jewel of Galifar was waiting for her to return. Now, someone has taken that away from her, and the only link she has to her old home is Prince Oagrev and the settlement of New Cyre. If Cyre--or, at least its spirit--requires her service once more, Taelin is honored to do so.