HEXAMORE ✦ The Arcane Heresy | SIGN-UPS

psych0pomp

the Best Intentions & the Worst Outcomes
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
  1. Look for groups
Posting Speed
  1. Multiple posts per week
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Online Availability
Wed-Sat, you're going to not hear from me or hear from me really late. Sun-Tues, I'm VERY available. But I also like sleep. WOMP-womp.
Writing Levels
  1. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Nonbinary
  4. Transgender
  5. Agender
Genres
Fantasy (all but High,) Scifi (Futuristic to Space Fantasy,) Scifi (Cyberpunk and Beyond,) Modern Fantasy (Supernatural Investiagtion to Obvious Fantasy World,) Steampunk, Mythological, Weird Western, and Horror.
vpfkk8J.png
]
HEXAMORE is an RP set a low magic, dark fantasy, eldritch horror-filled, and steampunk-leaning world. Hundreds of years after a catastrophe that led the arcane to be banned and the users hunted, society has finally begun to achieve some sense of normalcy. So much so, that there is a yearly festival and pilgrimage to the Spine of the World to remember all that has been lost and found again. Across treacherous wilderness filled with abominations and loomed over by the stone titans that once terrorized Hexamore, your story begins... But first, maybe we should find out why you're here, to begin with.

THIS ROLEPLAY will be run using DnD character sheets and the DnD Beyond website. Don't worry if you don't have access to it, I'll make a campaign in the builder for you to make a character. I find that DnD is a great system to keep things balanced, diverse, and occasionally let Lady Luck turn the tide. Things don't always go as planned, and I enjoy the dice rolls reflection in that. So, without further ado, let's get to applying.
  • Make to read at least the red section in the lore thread. I also recommend the orange section.
  • Any questions you have, please float my direction via either PM or within the interest check thread.
  • Since we are making characters in DnD Beyond, I don't want a hard-tac character sheet. Instead, this one will be set up as an interview made by Magister Jila Goldsong on your qualifications for escorting the macguffin.
  • You don't have to be entirely set in stone on the class or exact character beats, but I at least want to see the broad strokes of your character.
  • This is basically to get to know if your writing style fits the tone of the RP.
  • Character portraits should be art, but more realistic looking. Look at the various graphics I used. Things along those lines. I'll also take photography but it has to be fantasy/medieval. If you need help, let me know.
  • There's no hard deadline for submissions, considering it's the holidays, but I will give some notice as to when we're ready to go.
  • If I get too many submissions, I may be choosey. So, if you're on the fence about a few things, make sure to annotate the various things you'd be willing to fill.
  • Yes, you can post WIPS here, just let me know when they're no longer WIPS.
  • You can format this any way you like, just make sure I can view it on mobile. And also make sure to keep my written text, but you can format it any way you want.
  • Answer where you're prompted in red as your character, and you totally can format the red out, (and I recommend it) I just wanted it to stand out. And if you want to say something in OOC, put it in a spoiler. For instance, your character is an arcane user, but they don't mention that at all. Slap that in a spoiler at the end of your IC character response.
  • I'm looking forward to seeing what you guys come up with!

INSERT CHARACTER PICTURE SOMEWHERE WITHIN THE TEXT

FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

Write about what your character did. It can be anything. They were there. They just got into town. They barred themselves up in their house. Etc. It doesn't have to be long.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldsong sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkrot, and this one was just another face.

If you'd like to note your reaction to the house, being summoned, or even say how you were summoned, go ahead. The biggest thing to note is why you think you were summoned. A good time to talk about the possible renowned, affiliations, or maybe you just know someone.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over you. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

Feel free to respond in any way you want.

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborm, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

This is where you might want to elude to what class(es) you want to play and where you might want to focus, skill-wise. If you straight-up lie, please put what you're thinking in a spoiler tag at the end. Also do so, if you're being vague.

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"

Whatever your character's background might be. Again, lying in a spoiler tag.

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing." The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

Feel free to choose anywhere in Hexamore. You don't have to use the already named cities and towns. You can make your own. I just created a few to give people the idea of what commerce and citizenship is like.

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

You can answer this any way. I'll take any classical fantasy race, elf, dwarf, orc, halfling, gnome, etc. If you want to get a little wild with this, you'll have to run it by me first. You can also be pure human. They are rare, but they do exist.

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget you were there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

Tell the truth or lie. But if you lie, again throw it in a spoiler box. Embellishing to sound better is fine. Who doesn't in an interview?

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

Weapons, fighting style, etc. You can also mention any important equipment you have on you.

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Character Name up and down.

Give a brief description of your character and their mannerisms. Think about how they would feel in this moment. You're in a fancy government house, being interrogated by a flighty magister and now being scrupled by a curmudgeonly guide.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

Money is perfectly acceptable, but you can have any reason. Relative on the pilgrimage. Someone you're looking for. Maybe you didn't make it in time, and this is your chance to join.

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffling smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Describe whatever you say or do next, and then you can end it.
 
Last edited:
Marcellus;Quicksand;LB;

MORDECAI SELAPHIN


FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

With Jasper tucked safely in her satchel, Mordecai recalled with no real fond affinity the noise and frivolity. Accustomed to far quieter climates, the liveliness of the city was as unappealing this time as it had been the first time she'd left home, but not quite so much as it had been during the festivities. Necessity was often a cruel mistress, but one did what one must.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldsong sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkrot, and this one was just another face.

The note in Mordecai's possession was clasped in her hand now, Brander's elegant scrawl etched across the page. He had doubts she'd need the recommendation, her own reputation preceeding her from her days taking bounties, but this was no small task, and Mordecai had wanted every possible advantage. Already, she had confirmed her place among those summoned, but nothing was guaranteed.

Approaching the woman at the table, Mordercai cleared her throat.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over at her. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

"Mordecai." She answered bluntly, "Mordecai Selaphin."

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborm, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

"I'm a ranger. I've run bounties before, as well. Hunting, tracking, scavenging. Fighting, if need be. Trained up in the mountains with the Othgalu tribe... and then did a small turn with a druidess in the valley, as well."
Not lying here, but certainly leaving a few things out

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"

"Nothing formal, no. Just the training... Wild's where I picked up most of what I know."

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing." The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

"Outside the forest of Glenn."
Bold faced lie, but played off well enough to suggest she's told it more than a few times.

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

"Same as you, it would seem." Mordecai answered, gingerly, offering little else.

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget anyone was there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

"Hunting, as I've said. Foraging, as well. Forest is comfortable to me, and I can track better than most. I speak my fair share of languages, know a bit of natural remedies and how to bandage a wound and tell the difference between what's edible and what's poison."

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

Reaching back, Mordecai patted the bow strung there - a red oak longbow, meticulously polished and pristine, with intricate carvings along the limbs and grip, "Echo here. And a few blades, as well."

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Mordecai up and down.

A feeling of discomfort snaked along her spine and her emerald eyes dropped to the floor briefly, fingertips gliding along one of the arrowheads in the quiver on her hip. Being scrutinized wasn't a popular sensation for the young redhead, and not least of all for the slim chance she might some day come up familiar. But for her size, which by most standards might not have been terribly impressive, she was the spitting image of her father, down to the freckles dotting her pale skin. Something else trickled through her mind, a familiar anger, but she pressed against it all the same and looked back up, giving the stranger a nod in greeting.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

"Ran late getting here. Figured it was a good enough opportunity to join the pilgrimage elsewise. And the coin'll buy a lot of arrows."

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffling smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Looking at the hand, Mordecai remianed where she was, and gave a small nod in return, "Works for me. Cheers."
 
c63e61a6e28b8329898255304640bcb0.jpg
FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

Beckett was never the celebrating type. This whole thing seemed altogether too much for an annual celebration. Hiding from the bustling activities on the streets he’d made himself at home in a run-down tavern with some cheap ales. So many cheap ales that Beckett had run his pockets empty. That barely slowed him down though and he quickly gambled a few more drinks from the other sad souls to sate his appetite. When the celebrations had reached their peak Beckett had reached his and with a boorish thud dropped his head onto the table to settle in for the night.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldenwing sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkrot, and this one was just another face.

These rich homes were a foreign sight; a far call from the shack back home, or the tents pitched on the road. Beckett felt as out of place as he must have looked as he stumbled into the meeting room, wiping the hangover from his brow and looking for the nearest seat. Old Harris finally came through, Beckett mulled in his thoughts. His boss had promised him a good job for almost a decade and it looked like the cantankerous bastard had finally come through on his word.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over you. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

“Beckett. Might ‘ave been told Mudfeet though.”

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborm, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

“Uhhh,” he stumbled on his words trying to think of the right ones “Can do a lot I guess? I know how to scout and fight.” It sounded better in his head. “I’m used to the bandits. Know how to kill ‘em and hunt ‘em.” Beckett struggled to try and make himself greater than he was. “Listen lady, I’m a sellsword; I kill folk and protect others. I ain’t some fancy guide.” Nailed it.

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"

“I used to gather peat.” There wasn’t much else to say about his upbringing, at least not if he intended on getting the job. Beckett stumbled his way through most conversations anyway, this wasn’t going to be any different. “Then I beat a man to death after he tried to rob my Ma. Smashed them in the head with a rock. Old Man Harris hired me. Said I was strong and I ought to use it for something better than peat.”

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing." The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

“I’m from out n’around Paladign. To the North-East. Small town, Getchin.” It was a disgusting mire of a place and predominantly poor. The homes were ramshackle and most made their coin through tuber farms or heavy-handed business.

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

“Orc, I think. Not real sure.” It was close enough. He was big, burly, and far from handsome. No one would doubt it.

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget you were there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

“Lady I told you already. I kill folk and protect others. I can read and write, but not good, and I don’t do good talking to people, let alone rich people like you. I’m strong though. Been fighting hard for a long time and I’m damned good at it.”

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

“ ‘Ave got my shield and spear, and a great ax for when I’m fighting something big and strong.” The trio of weapons was resting on the floor. All three of them had seen heavy use and the heater shield by far the most. “Got some half plate too, buried in my pack.”

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Beckett up and down.

Slumped in his chair Beckett looked the man up and down in return. In comparison, Beckett was underdressed and dirty. He was taller though, and broader with the large build heavy labour makes in a man. His face was pudgy, with deep sunken eyes and a constant scowl. Beckett was the spitting image of a veteran who’d gone too long without work or purpose.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

“Money. Nothing else.” Beckett quickly offered. At least he seemed to be able to speak this man's language.

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffling smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Lifting himself out of his chair, Beckett wiped his hand against his dirty trousers in a failed effort to clean it before shaking the magister's hand. “Thanks, miss. Appreciate the work.”
 
8e2af4b7804c5227067a1d2f3a73402d.jpg
FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

Meanwhile, Shuren spent those few days after the Pilgrimage left in the city's custody. She had caused a brawl on the streets when she caught a groping hand, but instead of simply letting it go from her strong grip, she had twisted the man's arm tightly behind his back and shoved him into someone else, starting a chain reaction, forcing her to defend herself with punches, kicks and throws. When the authorities arrived to bring the brawl to an end, she answered the call of who caused it without a fuss. She had underestimated the effect the ale had on her. The delayed effects on her body caught up with her, but it was no excuse. Shuren spent her time in her cell reflecting over what she had done. She could've let the hand go, or just ignored it and moved away. At least she took the blame when it came down to it, and no one had been killed, but her stunt had cost her a spot in the Pilgrimage. The cell was empty, cold, and quiet.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldenwing sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkrot, and this one was just another face.

When she was let out of her cell, she was handed a nondescript letter that there was a job involving the Pilgrimage, the name and location of Magister Jila Goldenwing, but no signature. However, it was enough to get her attention and come to the office voluntarily. Shuren assumed that she would be further processed. They would likely press her for information and put it into a record as a formality. Presumably they would be given a report. The papers on the Jila Goldenwing's desk didn't interest her, as it was clutter expected of a bureaucrat's office. It certainly smelled like one with the dusty papers and wooden polish. The mechanical songbird was a curiosity, though she couldn't fathom the use for such a thing. Shuren straightened her posture in her dirty tunic and pants.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over you. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

"Shuren Fenstrider." she replied curtly. She was wary of the open tone the magister assumed.

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborm, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

For now she would answer questions to try and clue in where this conversation was heading because she still didn't know what exactly the job was. "I've learned to defend myself well enough. All I need is a short sword." Shuren patted her sides trying to think of more to say. "I'm quite agile, but don't take me for some flower. I also tend to notice details other tend to miss."
She's a monk in the true sense of harnessing ki, rather than as merely a fighter that knows martial arts, which she's trying to sell herself as. She is being vague in that she is specifically trained in acrobatics and perception.

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"

Shuren remained wary of the magister's open attitude, but again, answered her question. "I was a mason by trade, and then served in the militia before becoming a mercenary. I've also served on a ship as a crewmate."
Lie. Being part of the militia is a given as her village is a monastic commune. The martial arts training includes masonry and farming work as part of their drills, as well as meditation training to harness ki.
She'd rather not risk drawing the attention of Inquisitors who discovered her monk upbringing, and trying to explain how ki magic differs from arcane magic isn't worth the risk. The monastic commune also doesn't want its location known, so any hints of a monastic origin avoids that line of questioning. She will not openly admit to being a monk to people she distrusts.

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing." The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

"Basinpost." It was a small and bleak backwater port settlement near the mouth of the river that ran into Wyrmrots proper. It was where most of the trading happened between the monastery and the outside world. Basinpost considered those that traded with them inland to be simple peasants only, so there was no risk outing the monastery or its exact location. Shuren also knew Basinpost well enough in case the magister decided to try and catch her on a lie with details she might not know about.

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

Shuren chose not to answer, staring ahead, pursing her lips. Her likely halfling ancestry had affected her early days when she was abandoned at the monastery, and though the prejudice that she would be weak was unspoken, she had to work hard to prove herself. It had been useful in her perception training, hearing and noticing other disciples that hid from her. Despite the fact the magister had the power to put her back in prison, her question was too invasive. If the magister hadn't offered the caveat, she would've answered, begrudgingly, though the question reaffirmed that this was a one-sided conversation.

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget you were there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

"Dispatching archers and light infantry is my specialty. With heavier armored opponents, I'd rather work with another to force an opening. I don't have much experience against magic users. "

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

"Through practiced technique with the sword, unhampered by armor." Shuren's frustration was getting through. "The best defense is not getting hit. The rest comes down to good strategy."

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Shuren up and down.

She disliked being here, and regretted for starting the incident that led her down this path. She remembered how much she had been eager to go on the Pilgrimage as her rite of passage. She hoped that her experience in the outside world would unlock new potential in her ki and she could bring that knowledge back with her. Now she was flanked by a nosy bureaucrat and a curmudgeon that seemed to appraise her like chattel. Everything around here was clutter, from the loose books and papers, the trinkets, the stream of questions, and the incessant need to analyze everything. Home, everyone had very little in terms of possessions and talked rarely. As the buildings sunk, the monks would build up. There was no attachment to the work. Everything would eventually be replaced. Shuren closed her green eyes, breathed in deeply, and stretched. She was had a strong physique working as a mason to build the temple as it was sinking, her muscles remembering the countless hours of laying mud brick, going through the patterns of lifting and gliding the towel. Her black hair was cropped short just above the shoulder. She patted her down some more to get rid of some of the dirt on her tunic and on her pants. Shuren realized her straw sandals had tracked in some mud on the carpet. When the man partially unslouched and reached for something in his pocket, Shuren shifted her stance slightly.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

It appeared none of them received a report of her imprisonment, or didn't care. "I missed the Pilgrimage. I was told this job involved it in some way, and that is why I'm here. That doesn't mean I still don't want to get paid, but I want to experience the Pilgrimage for myself."

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffing smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Shuren understood the implications immediately, and everything started to make sense, though it took a moment to process, looking completely astonished before noticing the gesture. Her opinion of the magister changed; she asked so many questions because the mission was important to her. She shook the magister's hand carefully in a firm grip, and looked Jila Goldenwing in the eye. The magister met her look. Shuren nodded and left.
 
33a4011fd7eb2dd672cfa2a7ae7a60ec--character-reference-character-ideas.jpg
FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

Maxwell had never seen anything of its like in his entire life. Food and drink were everywhere, some being handed out for free. There were games set up in the streets, alongside elaborate performances packed with people. People in their ridiculous hats and odd clothes, dyed in vibrate colors. He had asked a fellow reveler about their costumes, and he told him that it was all about the falchion in Faelkroft. Maxwell didn't understand how a sword had anything to do with it, but this was a very different place from where he was raised.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldenwing sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkrot, and this one was just another face.

Maxwell leaned back in the chair, rubbing his full belly while the lady talked to her fake bird, and burped. He didn't care if the people here let their swords dress them, or if they talked to fake birds. They had given him food, and he thought that he could deal with a little quirkiness. He wondered what Master Yio would think of this place. The woman had more wealth on her head than most people would ever have anywhere else. The house was so big it was ludicrous, filled with useless things only meant to be looked at. What a waste, he thought. Entire villages to the north starve and get raided by bandits, while these people eat their fill and care for nothing. It wasn't fair, but that was life.

His master had sent him here, to Faelkroft, to answer a summons on behalf of the monastery. He had passed his tests and won the tournament against his fellow disciples and was chosen to answer the magister's call.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over you. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

"Maxwell."

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborm, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

See them fight, eh? He had to admit, he was curious to see their skill in combat. The little fighting he'd witnessed outside of the monastery was embarrassing to watch. Apparently, hacking at someone like they were chopping down a tree was considered fighting to most people.

"I'm a student of the martial art, trained by Master Yio himself. I'm also studying the great art of cooking, whenever I get the chance to."

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"

"Well," he frowned, "I can read and write. I don't know much about history or politics or the like. Master Yio, and the other masters, mainly teach how to strengthen the body and mind. I'm also learning to cook in my free time as I said before."

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing." The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

"Oh, no, not here." He gestured at his drab clothes, smiling. "I live at the monastery in the mountains just east of the Spine."

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

"Don't know." He touched his ears. "I have the ears, but my master always said I had the wit of a gnome and got into twice the mischief."

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget you were there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

"I'm good at the fighting art. I work hard and love a challenge. As for weaknesses? Master Yio says I act without thinking sometimes, and that I'm too impatient."

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

He held up his hands, grinning. "A true warrior needs no weapons." He snorted. "But, of course, I've been trained in all sorts of weapon techniques. If I need a weapon, I'll just take it from my opponent."

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Maxwell up and down.

His smile widened, locking eyes with the swordsman, pale yellow eyes glinting in the light. Maxwell was familiar with this, the sizing-up. He'd seen it from his masters, from his brothers and sisters in the monastery before a fight, and even from the common folk whenever he ventured down the mountain to the small village in the Spine of the Earth.

He guessed that this Soren fellow wasn't much impressed by what he saw. A lanky kid, messy white hair, and common clothes well-worn from the harsh journey from the mountains. The man probably thought him a beggar just trying to get a handout, he supposed. Maxwell didn't blame him if he did. Compared to everyone else in the city, he would've thought the same thing.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

"My master sent me to help. In helping others one helps themselves, master always says."

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffling smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Maxwell stood, and shook the magister's hand, bowing his head in respect. Then he snatched up his tattered and oversized cloak draped over the back of the chair and left the mansion. He walked down the long winding path leading to the estate's front gate and paused. He cocked his head to the side, frowning.

"Was I supposed to follow that Soren fellow?"
 
Last edited:


FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

Cale draped his arms leisurely along the edge of the bar, the heel of his boot hooked backward through the tarnished brass. The sun was getting low, and so was his coin. The last few nights had been good money for the entertainers in the town. Pilgrims often liked to purge themselves of sin before taking up their righteous journey through the wilds. This cleansing could take any form of debaucherous behavior the patrons dreamed up. These activities were often accompanied by song, dance, and storytelling late into the night. All services with which Cale would happily oblige, so long as the wine was flowing and the metals with which his patrons paid remained unalloyed.



"Fabeldof.'s Law: An unfortunate hazard of a rapid influx of capital is one tends to spend it just as fast, if not faster than they earn it..."
-- Th'Uld Book O'Dwarven Ekonomiks Vol. III.

173c78d2f0e2be84b24c90a9ad0eec1d.jpg
The last few beams of sunlight began to reach through the window catching him at eye level. Squinting tiredly he pulled on his cigarillo and watched the thick gray clouds slowly ascend and dissipate. This town had been good to Cayle. The streets of jovial celebration and hearty laughs of the townsfolk had drowned out the memories of a time before.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldsong sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkrot, and this one was just another face.

Cayle trained his gaze upward to the lumber struts of the vaulted ceilings above and the ornate iron chandelier that hung from the main beam. An impressive piece in its own right. Wall to wall, the house was filled with less than subtle reminders of the magistrate's well-established and honorable membership of high-society, or at least that was the image she hoped to project. Perhaps it was more style than substance.

He considered for a moment; had he chosen a different path, perhaps he too could have enjoyed the trappings of a life lived as an esteemed servant of the realm. The skillsets of their trades often seemed to align.


'The brighter we burn the sooner we flame out... ' Cayle reminded himself as he smothered the smoldering shard slowly against his palm with a muffled *hisss*, then flicked the ashes over his shoulder, as if to blind his demons.

He allowed the rim of his hat to slide down his brow with a nod of his head. He unfastened his heel from the foot rail of the bar and with a stuttering step propelled himself unsteadily from the counter. A few of the members in attendance give pause to sneer at him for these disturbances. Garic Wind'slo a career sailor, turned privateer(and particularly awful card player) goes a little further. He could tell from the look on his face, he was still smarting from their game the other night. Or he'd been turned down for this contract. More likely both. The jagged vertical scar across his lips seemed to hook the corner of his ugly grimace into a look that one could consider hostile.

Cayle brought his shoulders stiffly to his ears, in an ambivalent greeting before making his way over to the magister's table.

"Your honor," he uttered in a scorched, gravelly voice. Followed by a pointless attempt to clear his throat. His tone suggested he were speaking allowed the distinction in the context of a greeting for the first time.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over you. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

A humm of thought trailed into a cough as palmed the top of his hat and brought it to rest on his chest. His voice hushing just enough that anyone out of three feet might not hear.

'Cayle. "Dotorre". Sulphardt.'

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborm, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

Cayle began to gesture in a convincing but apathetic manner. As if putting together his sentences by hand. "Well... As my, title might suggest I am a...Highly specialized worker. While not a..." His voice went lower to where he could be heard by the Magistrate but his lips didn't seem to move. "Dotorre of medicine, I've managed to plug a few holes in my day." He quickly flashed a worn, burn piece of parchment and some fishing wire before stuffing them back in his jacket.

"I'm more what you would call, a jack of all trades, both student and educator " Cayle flittered his fingers compellingly" I like to accrue knowledge, it's something its' a somewhat of compulsion: the landscape, its people, and its..." Fumbling for a moment "Curiosities."

"I dont hunt or track in the conventional sense. But I've been known to be very good at finding out the right information at the appropriate time and applying my tools to get the desired result."
His eyes had begun to trail upwards as if he were reciting from memory. Before bringing his gaze back down again to meet the Magistrates' "In the most lawful way possible of course. Do you catch my drift?" Cayle punctuated this sentence with a reserved chuckle, allowing a moment for the prospect to process his words.

To any onlooker uninvolved in their discussion, it would be easy to judge this man as a grifter musician from the wrong side of town perhaps even a bit roguish. But despite his dusty appearance and gravelly voice, his demeanor was somehow inviting. Something about carefully chosen words coupled with that, absurd body language made him unthreatening; trustworthy even.


He's rounding out the sharp edges of his profession to make them more palatable to those of the more orderly persuasion. Cayle is a Rogue with Bardish tendencies. His true weapons are his street smarts and knowledge of the occult. His intellect and charisma make him highly adaptable in different environments. Proficiencies in stealth and survival suggest that maybe his clumsiness and foolish behavior is more of an act than fact.

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"


"Certainly,"
his tone sincere yet humble as he subtly counted on one hand before continuing his pitch.

"I have attended five of the realms top Guild academies, at one time or another. Never saw fit to finish any of them during my three decades as a road scholar. My services vary depending on the contract my employer signs. But rest assured, I am very well-practiced. in my line of work."

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing."
The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

"Not that it's of any consequence," his interlaced fingers, come to a rest in front of him. Cayle breathed in deep before puffing up his cheeks lightly in a pursed lipped out-breath as his eyes scanned the map. "Somewhere in this region,". His index finger circles an area of several thousand acres in the northwest region of Wyrmrott. "A man is more than where he comes from, is he not?" His eyes soften and again that tired smile, starting with his eyes.

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

Noticeably uncomfortable with the question, Cayle waffles a while before answering. "Ahh. On account of my issues with itchy skin, comfort in dark spaces, and this..." he pulled open his eyes wide to show his extra eyelids. "I'm willing to bet my Ma and Pa were part lizard. Could also explain my tendency to err on the side of instinct."


Dragonborn Descendant

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget you were there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

All the time they'd been speaking, Cayle had slowly been working his way around the Magistrates table. Gently he grasped the chair closest to her and pulls it out. Flipping it backward so that he might comfortably rest his arms over the backrest, in front of him as he seated himself for a more candid discussion. With a nod, he leaned in closer, as if she were the last call companion sharing one more drink before hitting the road. " That's a very good question, an important question..." He paused a moment to gather himself before continuing. "I'm a bit, finicky about my night and morning routine. Nothing overly involved. But there are certain, steps I prefer to take which ensure my efficient operations during the day. If I dont engage in these activities, I'm off my game and can become a bit..." He danced his hand back and forth in front of him. "Off. Irritable. Discombobulated? You understand."

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

Cayle gestured to his temple his fingers in a shape. "Knowledge is an excellent weapon if you know how to use it, Your Honour." Clearing his throat, with a sheepish grin. "I've got a condensed library full of study materials in my vardo on the edge of town. That said, there are of course times for wetwork. Of which I offer many solutions for example:"

Cleaned leaned back and flashed the scabbard of a 9-inch stiletto blade on his hip. "Here we have quiet."

Rolling up the wrist of his jacket "Less Quiet." on his forearm to produce a wrist-mounted shuriken holder.

From under his arm holster, he produced a 6 round clock-work pistol and hefted it on his table to demonstrate its weight. "And that's loud. There is a louder solution but that is strictly for home defense as it is irresponsible to use unless it's an absolute emergency."


Blunderbus + Box assorted nails hidden in his Vardo.

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Character Name up and down.

The many roads he has traveled are etched into the lines of Cayle's face. The high cost of low living has taken its toll on his visage. His posture is slanted, favoring one side by choice. The stance of a quiet but confident man and an air of sincerity. His clothes are a patchwork of different styles that speaks to his vagabond existence: A workman's cap, the long button-up duster of some long-gone highwayman, a white collared tunic of some northern woodland origin, and a buccaneer's red sash and black leather belt adorn his waist to hold up a set of brown leather pants. His presence seems to quietly beckon others to stop and sit a spell, rest their weary feet trade tales of times past.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

"Please, allow me:" Cayle produced a small flame by striking some hidden match across the table and offered it to Soren. "I'm after something more valuable than money. These long treks, as I'm sure you know are as unique as the guides who lead them. Each offers new and exciting discoveries and its' curiosities. When you're on these journeys, there is an exchange of energy that happens which changes all who participate forever. So, while my services are not free, there is more to be had precious metals."

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffling smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Cayle stood from his chair and reached across the table. The magister's hand clasped with both of his hands as if she'd just honor him a gift. "Thank you for your confidence, your honor. You will not be disappointed. I guarantee it." Just before leaving he took one more look up to the vacuum tube bulbs of the chandelier above and leaned over her shoulder. "By the way, be sure to allow the capacitors in that chandelier to discharge fully before re-administering power. They have a tendency to explode, terrible damage. Awful mess."

With that, he trailed along behind Soren to prepare for the journey ahead.

 
Last edited:
FAELKROFT was a bustling port city and only made more so by the Pilgrimage having left town a few days ago. Slowly the banners were being removed, and the streets were being swept. Still, an occasional drunkard idled on by, face painted with mismatched markings. The night the Pilgrimage left had been quite the celebration.

Feilan had enjoyed the festivities; they’d partaken of the delicious food, drinks, and agreeable forms of entertainment, fully indulging themselves as they rarely had the occasion to do so. Thankfully, the commoners didn’t dare do anything that might truly offend them, as Fei’s bearing and apparel pointed to their higher standing. They had managed to get themselves invited to a noble-hosted dinner party, and Feilan socialized there freely, making plenty of acquaintances. Some of them were the type whom they could contact by letter in the future; most simply for casual exchanges of information (gossip) and a scarce few who could possibly be convinced to strike a business deal. All in all, it had been a very pleasant, if a loud and tiring event.

That was a sharp contrast to now, though. Magister Jila Goldsong sat at the end of a long wooden table. It was covered in scrolls, ledgers, books, and numerous letters both opened and unopened. The woman was tall but slight. Short blonde hair pushed back by a circlet inlaid with numerous gems. She currently spoke in hushed whispers to a small mechanical songbird on her shoulder which beeped back at her with growing cadence. The magister had summoned many adventurers to her estate in Upper Faelkroft, and this one was just another face.

Feilan had expected the summons, since the family of Yazath had been the one to arrange the meeting in the first place. Not only had they desired to become a guide, and so were on the lookout for any similar opportunities until they were finally chosen, this was also a chance for their family to solidify their foreign relations. The Magister Jila Goldsong had already been sent a letter signed by both the Lady and Lord Yazath, though of course Feilan carried another missive confirming their identity and purpose.

They strolled into the opulent estate comfortably; though their family could not match the effortless ease with which the wealth was displayed here, they were by no means lacking in comparison either. Feilan fit into such an environment; their armour was a combination of the finest calf leather (boots, trousers, belt) and expertly crafted metal (chain mail, gauntlets). Their militant gear was covered and partially concealed by a fine, intricate cloak, though their spear and shield were fully exposed.

Feilan attentively noted all the items on display, secretly covetous of some of the books they spied. They eyed the letters, though unfortunately couldn’t glean much of anything from their point of view. “Greetings, Magister,” they offered the woman a nod, and settled themselves leisurely into the chair in front of her desk. The bird perched atop Goldsong’s shoulder was a fascinating curiosity, and Feilan wondered at its purpose.

The magister finally perked up and glanced over you. "Right, right. I was expecting you." She narrowed her eyes. "I was expecting you, right? Um... what's your name? And what do you like to be called?"

“Oh, does the Magister not recognize a title-holder when she sees one?” they shook their head in disappointment.“I am Feilan Yazath, as you should have known and certainly expected,” they reproached her.

She tapped her brow in response to the reminder. "That's right, how silly of me." She scribbled on a parchment furiously. "What were your skill sets again? I want to make sure this group is well rounded. The new guide, Soren... um... what's his last name, sorely lacks what Liege Stormborn had. He's a good tracker and swordsman, but I worry with him being..." She trailed off. "Oh, and Liege Stormborn, if you could see them fight. You'd know why they were chosen." She paused. "Oh right, back to you."

“Whether it comes to exchanging words or blows, I can hold my own. I’m skilled with a variety of weapons, both melee and ranged. And,” here they lowered their voice, and leaned closer, “I have been blessed by the divine,” they tapped the barely visible bonemeal smudged around their eyes, showing exactly who they were claiming to have a connection to. Feilan reclined back comfortably.

“But don’t spread that around, hm? I do so dislike getting hounded by all the riff raff,” they winked cheekily, tone laced with amusement and slight exasperation. As forgetful as the woman was, perhaps even information of this significance would slip her mind; even if she was the type to relay to all sundry what Feilan had confessed to her (which they doubted was the case), they had ways of dealing with such a fallout.

"Oh. How very interesting. Right, Bubo?" she asked the mechanical sparrow which just squawked. Sighing, she turned back. "Occupation? Any squire-ing? Or tutelage? Or education you may have received?"

“As the heir apparent, I have been thoroughly educated in history, politics, diplomacy, and leadership. I was rigorously trained in combat by the best of them. I have participated in some jousting and did quite well. I enjoy sports and competition, in case you find that relevant.” There wasn’t much more to say to that, and Feilan didn’t; they considered the quality and nature of their education to be self-evident.

"That sounds far more interesting than my bureaucratic upbringing." The magister then leaned forward and grabbed a map of Hexamore. "Where are you from? Here in Faelkroft, or..."

“The great fortress city of Vranecliff,” they proclaimed proudly. While not ‘great’, it was a decently sized city (though smaller than Faelkroft) bordering the Middlelands and Dragon’s maw. However, the fortress part was more than right as it was built partially into the tail end of the mountain range bisecting the two-city states. That coupled with its clever design made it near impenetrable to attacks and able to withhold against even some natural disasters. Vranecliff was known for its weapon manufacture and trade, mining and construction, and had one of the best existing militias. Any knights, soldiers, bounty hunters, mercenaries and the like who could reliably claim to have been trained and/or served there, were believed by some to be a cut above the others.

"Bubo, could you mark that on the map?" She asked. The bird tapped a spot on it, and her eyes went wide. "Oh, how silly of me." The magister scribbled again in her notebook. "If this is too personal, you don't have to answer. What are you descended from? I, personally, am elf descended. I didn't get the pretty ears, but I did get a metabolism not to bat a lash at."

Feilan raised a brow, highly dubious at this line of questioning. “Dragonborn-descended, obviously,” they drawled, waving a pointed hand at their pair of horns. This motion showcased the small black scales covering the backs of their hands. Smatterings of such scales were present elsewhere on their body (wrists, elbows, nape, spine, hips, knees, feet), though not currently visible. Their eyes were obviously slitted, their canines elongated, their nails pitch black. They were taller than most, though not overwhelmingly so, and built deceptively wiry.

The magister nodded and grabbed a few more things off of the desk. She almost seemed to forget you were there before her dark blue eyes shot back up. "What else, what else," she trailed off. Bubo alighted with a trill. "Right, this may seem pedantic, but what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

“I am well versed in social situations, especially those pertaining to the high society. People tend to recognize my position of influence and act accordingly,” the ‘unlike yourself’ was heavily implied despite their even speech and polite expression. After a short moment, Feilan continued. “On the battlefield, I prefer to engage in melee one on one. I am powerful and tough, but not particularly nimble.” A subtle twist of their lips and a twitch of their eyebrows proved they were getting tired of explaining the same thing over and over again in different words, but they merely waited patiently and expectantly until the Magister’s next inquiry.

Bubo took that moment to fly off, the whirring of gears echoed through the vaulted, narrow room. The light from the outside came in through shuttered windows that were nearly eight-feet tall. "You know, the journey is treacherous. How do you protect yourself?"

“Why, do you happen to believe these are just for show?” they questioned, gesturing to the shield strapped to their back, the sheathed sword and flintlock pistol hanging from their belt, and the spear slung across their shoulder. “If you’re still worried that I’m some pampered child who had only ever dueled in a structured environment with their tutor or lackeys, let me reassure you. I have personally taken down several bandits and the like, so my prowess is not only a theoretical talent,” Feilan’s words were boastful, but their tone was dry and matter-of-fact.

"I promise this is almost over. I just need one more thing. Our new guide, Soren Something, has been having a look at all the possible recruits. Bubo went to go get him. And..." she trailed off as the chittering of metal gears re-entered the room. Bubo landed on her shoulder and was followed by a fairly average man with the cut of a sell-sword and a few of said swords to boot. He pushed his brown hair fully out of his eye line to reveal copper orbs that were cradled by the Marks of Mourning. The man slouched, maybe not used to the decadence of the room or to look less intimidating. He looked Feilan up and down.

Feilan turned in their seat to gaze at the newcomer, not at all bothered that he was standing while they were sitting down. They held the man’s gaze evenly – when it was finally directed there after his tactless perusal – quirking a curious brow as they waited for Soren to have his say. Despite the brief encounter and the man not being a noble, Feilan had a slightly better opinion of him than the Magister; at least Soren acted in accordance to his position and occupation.

The man pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, much to the cringe of the magister. "Why're you here? Money or...?" He didn't beat around the bush as the magister had.

“I eventually want to become a guide myself. Since I have not been selected so far, this seemed like the next best thing,” they shrugged elegantly. Pressing a finger against their chin, Feilan added, “Ah, but you could also consider it a diplomacy mission from my family, I suppose,” they admitted.

Soren shrugged. "Works for me. I told you I only need warm bodies."

The magister frowned. "And it's my job to give you the warmest of bodies. Well... not too warm." She turned to you while Soren exited, puffling smoke. "That's actually the problem, Liege Stormborn has fallen ill and their group doesn't know what to do. So, you'll be escorting Soren to them, and then you're free to take your gold and leave. I worry that I might get duped, but..." She extended her arm. "You seem like good people. Welcome aboard." She bobbed her hand, inferring she wanted it shook.

Feilan narrowed their eyes at the blatant insult. “You dare-!” they hissed, but cut themselves off, sneering at the woman.“I would not steal your paltry sum of coins, Magister,” they assured, voice deeper in their aggravation and offense. They stood up, lifted their chin, and ignored the outstretched hand.

“Perhaps you should worry about competency rather than goodness,” they remarked waspishly, the heavy stare directed straight down at the woman’s eyes making it clear Feilan was doubting her aptitude. They peered down at the hand still suspended midair, waving around ever so uncouthly. Frown of distaste marring their features, Feilan briefly squeezed the offering. Then they turned sharply on their heel, cloak flowing elegantly around their feet, approached Soren, and stared at him until the man got moving.
 
Last edited: