Tag to @Lion !

---

It was a new life. The grassy expanse of the Sionad tundra stretched out before her, the endless blue of the sky above her. Small dwarf flowers dotted the landscape, taking advantage of their small window they had to bloom. It was beautiful, but it made her feel achingly small. A speck on the open never-ending sea of green.

And on the open tundra, she was indeed a slight figure. A woman not past her late twenties. Even under the old, oversized oiled men's coat wrapped around her, it was clear she was a petite woman, with a skinny, boyish build. Her dark, dirty blonde, honey coloured hair was braided into a thick plait that fell in front of her shoulder and over her breast. Her pale complexion was smattered with freckles, but also bore yellow-brown bruises, fading but not yet healed. She wrapped the coat tighter around her as she surveyed the land. She had little with her but the clothes on her back. She carried nothing, now, from her past life.

Almost nothing.

Though beautiful, however, the tundra was an unfamiliar landscape to her. It was not the shaded forests, rich with plants, fruits and animals that she knew how to collect or trap. Her stomach cramped. This was the way to freedom, there was no turning back. But she had to eat. She had to get to Hyolite. She had to survive. She had promises to keep.

So, with a sigh of resignation, she started heading towards the only option she could sight on the horizon. A lone traveler. She would have to take her chances.

__________________QUICK STATS
Name  Lorelei Astor-Caldwell [Rastognlir]
Age  22
Gender  Female
Species  Human
Ethnicity  Connlaothian
Height  5’5”
Occupation  Noblelady
Residence  Folkvar, Bellkrath
Sexuality  Lesbian (Homoflexible?)

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Lorelei looks like nearly the perfect young lady. She has a pretty face with delicate features, fair creamy complexion, and large seagreen/blue eyes. Her light blonde hair is thick and long and wavy, but usually kept up in a neat updo. She has a slim, youthful build and attractive curves. From a wealthy family, Lorelei is usually quite well-dressed. And, even though she thinks the decorative function of women is a tool to distract from their minds, she knows how to make herself look respectable and attractive and comes across as very put-together.

Personality
UGH, the patriarchy, amiright?!

Lorelei can behave as well as the most gracious young nobleladies: bright, charming, witty, educated, and clever. But it’s something of an act. The glossy, socially-acceptable exterior covers Lorelei’s more radical tendencies: The problem with Connlaoth, if you asked Lorelei, isn’t the conflict between mages and non-mages, but the common oppression of all segments of common society (mages, women, the working classes and peasants) under the heel of a fundamentally unjust feudal and patriarchal system. A system that must, if the nation ever hopes for a meaningful peace, be destroyed. However, her private passion and zealotry on this matter betrays some of her youth, idealism, and naivete. Lorelei, who has been relatively sheltered from the war, has no first-hand experience with revolt or revolution.

Aside from her political and philosophical beliefs, Lorelei is intelligent and observant. Though kind in her convictions, she can at times be a bit sharp in her interactions with people. She’s quite blunt, unless she’s “acting the part” of a Proper Lady as she terms it, doesn’t see the point in sugar-coating things. It’s possible, though, that she thinks she’s too clever, resulting in her sometimes being a bit insensitive and meaner than she intends. Particularly to her sisters.

Abilities
Lorelei is smart, quick, and very well-read. Like most well-raised young ladies, she also has various artistic and musical talents: she can embroider and play the lyre and nicely recite poetry. She’s also a fairly skilled and persuasive writer of essays and pamphlets denouncing the oppressive societal structures that underpin Connlaoth, which she does under the penname, “K.L. Woodsworth.”

Relationships
Mercuxio Rastognlir - Bethrothed/husband

Lord Astor-Caldwell - Father, 57, Alive. Lord Astor-Caldwell is a wealthy man from the higher strata of nobility in Folkvar. In addition to his substantial and productive lands, Lord Astor-Caldwell has significant trading and shipping interests.

Lady Astor-Caldwell - Mother, 50. Originally from an old and prosperous noble family from Bellkrath.

Miriel Ator-Caldwell - Sister, 27, spinster.
Ashton Astor-Caldwell - Brother, 25, Knight.
Brooke Astor-Caldwell - Sister, 19, unwed.

Name TBD - [Former] lover. A slave brought to Connlaoth from somewhere in the north, she was Lorelei’s personal maid before the two fell in love. After Lorelei agreed to the marriage her parents arranged for her, she was sold to hide the family’s shame, much to Lorelei’s dismay.
***I am open to someone playing this character! PM me if you’re interested!


History
Raised in southern Folkvar, Lorelei’s life has been sunnier than most of the nation’s during the time of war. Sheltered between the coast and the southern mountains, her life has been relatively untouched. Of course, like everyone, she knows many who’ve gone to war and not returned; she was forbidden from attending the university in Uthlyn because of her parents’ fear of political unrest; and has had an otherwise scanter upbringing than she may have. But for all that, the war has been somewhat far away for Lorelei; seen only on the face of her brother when he returns home. Her life, instead, has been spent like most proper young ladies: tutors and music lessons and socializing and all that. It has been, though, a bit boring for the bright Lorelei. And, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, she always felt somehow different. However, during her teenage years, she found the avenue that would consume her passions. Deep in the library, she found old writings about different political systems. Noticibly non-Connlaothian political systems. Ones that, to her, seemed far more just. More egalitarian. At around the same time, a slave from the north was gifted to her household and made the personal maid of Lorelei. The girls were the same age and took to each other immediately. The slave told Lorelei about tribes in the north, matriarchal with common ownership and peace. Then several things came together for Lorelei: her vision of a juster society and her final understanding of just what it was that made her different. The girls fell deeply in love with each other and the vision of a world they built together.

When Lorelei’s mother came to her to propose her marriage to the upcoming Duke of Bellkrath, Lorelei thought it would be the perfect solution for them. After all, servants usually came along with ladies into their husband’s home. They would have a position, away from her parents’ watchful eyes, and could continue on much the same as they had. What Lorelei didn’t know was that gossip of their daughter’s affairs had reached her parents ear and that, during her wedding, they had arranged for the slave girl to be sold and sent away, disappearing with her their family’s shame.

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[[Tags to @Draconian . Sorry, the temptation to title this like a bad romance novel was just too high!]]


The rolling Connlaothian countryside passed by in what should have seemed an ideal pastoral landscape. Midday sun bathed the hills that were painted yellow with rapeseed and light green with young wheat and barley. Hedges of dark green trees and shrubs subdivided the fields and black streams cut shallow-sloped valleys into the gently undulating hills. In this corner of Connlaoth, for this short moment in time, one could almost pretend there was no war. That the country hadn't been ravaged year in, year out by Calent's senseless battle against his own people. And with each passing year, an end seemed increasingly unattainable. Out of sight. With every atrocity, each side entrenched themselves deeper. With each death, the idea of peace with the enemy – whoever one's enemy was – less and less palatable.

Even for one who had no 'allegiance' in the war, that much was clear. Maybe it was especially to the incidental people caught between the warring camps that an end, a halting of the violence, seemed utterly out of reach. Helpless as they were, it seemed, to influence any outcome.

That, at least, was how Lady Dahlia Gray felt, watching the hills roll by. Helpless. The war had come and upended every corner of her life. It had taken her husband, drawn into its torrents her oldest son, and compelled her to send her two younger children where they could live in peace, but as refugees, to a saner country from whence she may never see them again. And yet life went on. Unbelievably, stubbornly, and perhaps inevitably life went on. It grew in her now.

It had taken Dahlia some time to believe it. In the midst of all this chaos, loss, and destruction the idea of a new life seemed frankly unthinkable. And though she was hardly too old, only in her early thirties, she'd considered her childbearing years behind her. She had three beautiful children – all of whom were separated from her earlier than they should have been – with a husband she had loved deeply, and who now was gone. It had never occurred to her that she could have another. Even if she understood 'the physics' of the matter. But there it was. Here she was, on a public coach traveling from her home in Uthlyn to Highheart. At least the truth was hidden beneath her overcoat; she doubted anyone else on the coach suspected or had noticed. But without it was clear; she couldn't pretend anymore: Dahlia, several years widowed, was with child.

She resolved that she had to tell him. Lord Edward Draven, a man who would one day – and sooner than not, in all likelihood – be a duke. She'd wrestled with the decision considerably; it would be a scandal. It would upend his life as well as hers. But she couldn't keep it from him and be content with herself. And she knew, deep down, that Edward wouldn't want her to. Nor, she had resolved, was she coming to him now with the offer – should he ask – of being his wife and mother of his children. Only to give him this child, if he wanted it. She suspected he would; maybe that's why she was making this journey. Otherwise, what would she do? Give the child to the Church, perhaps. It wasn't an idea that she loved, but it would be more protected there, she thought, than with her. And Dahlia simply did not think she had it in her, raising another child after she had sent her own away. How could she? It was possible, if she asked, that one of her siblings would take in the child. But she had more or less effectively cut off her family after Lily and Riley left for Serendipity.

Well, one step at a time. First, she had to face Edward.

All of this was passing through her mind when there was a shout and the coach came to an abrupt halt, the horses whinnying in distress. Whispers of fear and distress passed amongst the small group of travelers in the coach, as well. What was going on? Why had they stopped? Was it trouble? When the bellow came from one of the driver, "Highwaymen!" followed shortly by the sharp sound of a gunshot.

They were being ambushed.

[[Tags to @Lion!!!]]

The world was moving. This way, then that way. This way, then that way. And the world wasn’t only moving, it was… fuzzy. And heavy. And moving. This way, then that way. This way, then that way. But try as she might, Zahi Akello could not manage to open her eyes. Or, for that matter, muster much of a will to move. She was… fuzzy. Her eyelids and her arms felt were made of lead. She should just sleep. That was easiest. The appeal of it weighed down on her like a warm, heavy blanket. It would be so easy…

Where was she again? Even in her muddled consciousness, Zahi was aware that she didn’t know. She didn’t know where she was.

This way, then that way. This way, then that way.

Something in her brain tried to raise the alarm. But it was hard. Zahi felt so… relaxed. And heavy. And fuzzy. But where was she? What was the last thing she could remember?

Quinlan. She was with Quinlan in some dingy tavern room. Drinking whisky. Why had he been there? Zahi racked her muddled mind. Selevea. They had been in Selevea. It streamed in Zahi’s mind like reflections on water. Moving this way, then that way. This way, then that way. They’d been hunting traffickers. Human traffickers. No. They hadn’t been. She had been there with Tallinn. Quinlan had been… no. He hadn’t been involved. In the end, he hadn’t. And worse, he had helped Zahi and Tallinn bring the trafficking operation to light. And crumbling down. Just one last night, that’s what he told her. One last night together. One last drink. One last drink together before they disappeared from each other’s lives.

One last drink.

”He put something in my drink,” without realizing it, Zahi mumbled the words out loud. And with a groan, she turned where she lay, rolling onto her side. She sleepily ran a hand over her face. With another groan and an unreasonable amount of effort, she opened her eyes. The brown, then the hazel. And immediately she blinked, screwing her eyes shut again. Sunlight streamed into her vision. She took a moment to adjust, then opened her eyes again. It was a small, clean room full of bright sunlight and surprisingly fresh air. She was in a narrow, hard bed under loose and scratchy linen and, she realized, partially dressed in only her smallclothes. Where was she?

Then she raised her head enough to look out of the window. There was nothing. Wait, nothing. Just onething. An endless blue sky, and rolling blue waves.

With a start, Zahi tried to get up off the bed, but barely managed to raise herself before the heavy effects of whatever had put her to sleep plopped her right back onto the bed.

”I’m going to kill him.”

[Tags to @Draconian]

Unbelievable.

Unbelievable!

This was just... unbelieveable! Zooey "Pigeon" Ansbacher looked at the night sky, shaking her head. She couldn't believe it. Zooey hadn't been happy since they came to this awful, war-torn country. It definitely did not bring out the best in people. And first and foremost, it really didn't bring out the best in her sister. Dolores' plans had been a bit on the dodgy side since they'd sailed the Cloud Skimmer into Connlaoth. But she'd really gone beyond the pale this time! Someone needed to tell her. Okay, okay, maybe it'd been a bad idea to tell her - to yell at her, really - in front of the rest of the crew like that. Zooey could understand why Lo'd be unhappy about that, fine. But, well, she wouldn't have had to if Lo hadn't stormed out of her cabin while Zooey was pointing out to her the teeny, tiny little moral problems with her new 'business plan.' So, yeah, yelling at her in front of Tommy and Cora and Viscount Pennywhistle... Sure. She got it. But she would have apologized!

Once her sister saw sense.

But no no. She'd been told, get on board or get off. What was Zooey to do? Lo wouldn't listen, and maybe if her little sister really left, she'd realize what a big mistake she was making. So off she'd gone, her and Cassiel, and it'd be a bit hairy, too! (Looking back on it, Zooey couldn't really believe that Lo'd let her fall for so long. Nearly all the way! She could still hear her angry sister's taunting voice, "What's wrong, can't you fly, little Pigeon?") And then the Cloud Skimmer had... gone. Zooey waited in place for it for a few days. Dolores would realize her mistake, give up on her insane plan, and come back for her little sister.

But two days had passed, and nothing.

So now it was on Zooey to find her. That meant needing to get to the eastern coast before Dolores did. It would be hard, but since Lo needed to first collect her cargo, Zooey fancied she might just have a chance. She was determined to have a chance. Oh, she was so mad at her sister. She wasn't going to get away with this! This meant, of course, that they needed transport. Preferably something discrete. It hadn't taken long in this land to realize that her and Cassiel stood out a bit. They needed horses and a wagon or carriage or something.

Which is what brought them here now. The pair - girl and, well, cat-dragon - had been casing the area for a day or two, trying to find something suitable to take. They'd nearly made off with a wagon and two horses, but they knew nothing about horses! Couldn't get them to go! But tonight they were sure of their chances. A single man who already went around with a limp, on his own, was making a delivery or something - who knew, who cared? - and when he and his wagon left the farm, that's when Zooey and Cassiel would strike.

Okay, it sounded bad, but it was for a good cause!

They didn't have to wait much longer. The man appeared again, leading the wagon out of a dimly lit barn. He boarded the front and started off down the dark, forested lane. Perfect. They watched as he went down the lane, until he was far enough away that the farm wouldn't hear anything...

This was the moment. And they were on the move. Cassiel flew out in front of the horses, flying low so no one would see them until he was a few meters in front of them. Then the cat-dragon leapt in the air in front of them, wings spread, and let out a nasty growl. The horses spooked, and during the commotion, Zooey slipped onto the wagon front next to the man. She couldn't fight him, of course, even if he was lame. But she wouldn't have to. Without a word, she crushed a little vial in a cloth, and covered the man's face with it. Grimacing, Zooey held him there until, finally, his body went limp.

Perfect!

---

"You think he'll help us?" A strange, not-entirely-human voice.

"Eh, he'll have to, won't he?" A girl's voice.

"I hope you're right."

"You worry too much. Ey, he's kinda cute, though, inni'he?"

"I don't think you should be thinking like that... Look, he's moving. I think he's waking up."

When the young man woke he'd find himself in the back of his wagon. Which, by all appearances, was empty except him, and four curious eyes that were watching him. One hand was tied with - if Zooey could say so herself - a really very good knot to the back of the wagon. And one of his legs was, well, tucked under the girl's arm!

__________________QUICK STATS
Name  Zooey "Pigeon" Ansbacher
Nickname  "Pidge," but she HATES this.
Age  Early 20s
Gender  Female
Species  Human(-ish)
Ethnicity  Mixed
Height  5'3" / 163 cm
Occupation  Smuggler Crew
Residence  The Cloud Skimmer

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Zooey's appearance reflects her mixed, whirlwind upbringing. Though she's clearly mostly human, her ethnicity is entirely unclear. And she couldn't tell you herself! Caramel skin, large brown eyes that are so dark they're nearly black but with flecks of gold and turquoise, and hair that is a mess of curls and coils making a mane that doesn't quite reach her shoulders and, though mostly a mix of dark browns, contains the odd turquoise curl. A tad shorter than average, Zooey has a fairly athletic build; after all, it's a lot of work crewing a ship! An odd feature about Zooey that suggest she might not be one-hundred percent human are her ears. Rather than normal ears, or even pointed elf-life ears, Zooey has what could only be described as "goat-like" ears. Long and covered in soft brown fur, they're angled back and downwards; only if Zooey is very surprised do they perk up in alarm. She's a bit sensitive about them, though, and they were a constant source of teasing when she was a child.

It could be said that Zooey looks like a bit of a tomboy, but this is more out of practicality than anything else. She wears boots, trousers, and either a tunic or shirt, maybe with a bodice. But Zooey tries to add a bit of a personal touch to it; she quite likes bright colors, and might add a green sash here, a purple belt there, a yellow scarf, etc. Furthermore, she wears at all times a set of gold cuff bracelets and a necklace with a simple oiled leather cord and a pendant of jade shaped like a fishing hook. The bracelets were a gift from her sister on her sixteenth birthday, and Zooey treasures them. The fishing hook she doesn't really know the meaning of; it was the only thing of worth she had on her when Uncle Joe picked her up. But she likes to tell herself that it's from her real parents, though.

Personality
A bit of a goof. She's also very superstitious. A side-effect of growing up alongside sailors. Also probably because she can be a bit naïve. Growing up a smuggler, her ethics might occasionally seem questionable to others, but she has a good heart, and acts sometimes as the conscience of the Cloud Skimmer.

Magic/Abilities
Unlike her "sister", Dolores, Zooey has no particular magic skills. However, she has a dead-on sense of direction that inspired her nickname and ship name,  "Pigeon."

Relationships
Cassiel - Cassiel is an odd mix. The size of a rather large cat, Cassiel can only be described as half-cat and half-dragon. His head and body are more cat-like than dragon-like, though his ears are webbed like a dragon's and his canines are rather too large, but his hind quarters become decidedly dragon-like, with a thick dragon's tail, a series of spikes down his spine, and bat-like dragon wings. His fur is an inky, purple-black that mixes into oily-black scales with a purple-green sheen. He has large cat's eyes of golden-yellow that are curious and intelligent. Indeed, Cassiel is at least as intelligent as Zooey, and fully capable of talking! Zooey found him as a "kitten" and he's been by her side ever since.

He looks like this!
Art Credit Eric Scales

"Uncle" Joe Ansbacher - A Yoreiqi sailor who picked up Zooey living as a sick orphan, left to starve on her own in port town after all the orphanages turned her away because of her "devil's mark." He took her in and raised her more or less as his own, alongside Zooey's "sister", Lo. Uncle Joe himself was adopted as a teenager by a Serenian sea captain, Joseph Conrad Ansbacher III and brought onto his ship to work as the cabin boy, slowly working his way up to first mate. "Old Joe Conrad", as the Serenian captain was always called, had passed away before Zooey came aboard the ship, but Lo and Zooey took his name, just as Uncle Joe had done.

Dolores "Hawkeye" Ansbacher - Zooey's "sister" and captain of the Cloud Skimmer. It's her air magic that keeps the Cloud Skimmer afloat, as it were. Zooey and Dolores, despite not actually being related, are pretty typical sisters: always at each other (and Zooey was always teased and dismissed by her big sister), but at the end of the day, they fiercely love each other. [More on Dolores here.]

History
She has one!

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Hey guys!

I would love to start a thread again with my sad, sassy, sharp Dahlia. Dahlia's a minor noble lady from a big, rowdy family. Her husband, and childhood sweetheart, was killed in the early years of the war and Dahlia has kind of never really recovered. Which doesn't mean she just mopes around all day - she's a strong one! But now her oldest son has been conscripted, her two younger children have been sent as refugees to Serendipity, and she's secretly pregnant with child of the Heir to Highheart? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I'd love to pair her up with someone with a bit more levity, and preferably someone who'd get under her skin a little bit. No firm plot ideas - I'm open! Dahlia lives ALL ALONE IN HER DEAD HUSBAND'S ANCESTRAL HOME - POOR DAHLIA! She needs some excitement. :-)

Let's plot!

Tags to @Lion !

---

A thick blanket of white ramson blossoms blanketed the forest floor, glowing in the slanting rays of the early morning sun. It wasn't, of course, really a 'forest.' Not in the true, wild sense of the word. No great, deep expanse of trees and hollows and glens that one could disappear into. Trees that whispered, if you could listen, the story of a nation. The ramson, more accurately, blanketed a wood. A fresh, sunny wood  on the outskirts of Wulfbauer Keep. Her home. Her prison. Her home.

Constance Carwick, or "Olive," was no longer a skinned-kneed child running through these woods with the stableboy. Though she had been, once. And she was no longer a fugitive, disappearing in and out of the woods to stay alive. She had been, not long ago, though not these woods. She was no longer a prisoner, in one sense. And in another, she was more a prisoner now than she ever had been. Constance Carwick wasn't, actually, even Constance Carwick anymore.

Constance Carwick was now Constance Therrien, Duchess of Wulfbauer, the wife of Duke Erwin Therrien. Though, in her mind, she was Constance "Therrien," "Duchess" of Wulfauer, "wife" of Erwin Therrien. She couldn't drop the quotes in her head; the sense that it was actually real, and not some shadow play. But then, it was a play, of sorts. Constance and Erwin were the actors, the Keep the stage, and the entire duchy the audience. But it wasn't a play, however inauthentic it may have been. A marriage of convenience - for him, that was - to avoid a scandal and a simple way to join the Carwick fortunes with their ancestral lands, now ruled by the Therriens. The latter she didn't really mind; that was the way it was for her sort of people. Not mages. Nobility. It was the former that left Olive unsettled.

Especially now.

A warm, wet nose pressed into her palm, dragging her for a moment out of her reverie. Offering some momentary relief from the deep, heavy loneliness that weighed on her. Her green eyes glanced down at the red-and-white border collie at her heels, ruffling its ears. She bent down until she found a short, fat stick, a little soggy from the forest floor. But it would do. The dog Kipper ran in an excited circle of anticipation, until Olive sent the wet piece of wood soaring through the forest, then the dog took off like an arrow. For a moment, Olive smiled, but it quickly faded. The loneliness welling back up inside her.

Olive let out a little huff, then at first crouched, then finally sat down with a plop on the green floor of the wood. Very unladylike. Her head was in her hands, pushing against her face in frustration. She didn't let herself engage with these feelings all the time. Not even most of the time. Outside of these now daily solitary walks, Olive did not give herself time to feel sad, or to feel alone. She kept herself busy with financial planning with the Lord of the Coin, political planning with the Duke, and clandestine orchestrating her other endeavours with Astrid, Bairn and through Bairn, with Silas. Silas who was still free, but unsafe. Outside of this time alone in the wood, with only Kipper, Constance kept herself very busy. She didn't know what else to do. But for all her pull and clout now, as Duchess, and for all that being married entailed, Olive had never felt more alone. Or more trapped. Even now, when in a very real way - that proved her "marriage" didn't warrant the quotes she placed around them in her mind - she was not alone.

Her chest clenched in an irrational panic at the thought, and for a moment she had the familiar sensation of drowning. But it passed, and pushing back her honey-colored bangs, Olive took her head out of her hands and looked up. It was only then that she saw Kipper standing stiff, tense. Eyes fixed threateningly on something behind her. Just over her shoulder. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and before she could turn around she heard a deep male voice.

"Well well, little mouse, what are you doing so far alone in the forest? Don't you know it isn't safe?"

Not long ago, her reflexes would have been quicker. When she had been always on guard, always wary, always ready to fight for her life. But the relative safety of Wulfbauer had, perhaps, dulled those reflexes. Because just as Olive tried to turn to face the voice, she felt large, strong arms suddenly enclose around her, one pinning her roughly against the stranger's chest, the other clasped firmly over her mouth.

__________________QUICK STATS
Name: Dahlia Gray, neé Treyburn
Age: Early 30's
Gender: Female
Species: Human
Ethnicity: Connlaothian
Height: 5'4"
Occupation: Minor Noblelady; since she's widowed, she runs her own estate
Residence: Uthlyn, Connlaoth
Sexuality: Heterosexual

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Dahlia has long, curly ash blonde hair (something like this), usually kept in one heavy braid or bun or, when she's busy about her own home, tied back into a 'poof'. Her eyes are grey, bright and clever. She has a pretty face with high cheekbones and a short, straight nose, with a complexion that is fair but not pale. (Though she is known to get freckles in the summer time). Always one to keep herself busy, Dahlia has always had a fairly fit physique, though this has started bordering on (too) thin since her husband, Kerry, died. She dresses in a manner typical of a lady, neither spurning nice clothing like some of her siblings, nor going to any excess. She wears two wedding rings: the official, standard bejeweled gold ring, but also a slim ring of rosewood that Kerry carved when he unofficially proposed to her when they were kids.

Personality
Dahlia has a sharp mind and, like many of her siblings, a strong will. She's pragmatic and fairly independent and, growing up, was notorious for listening to neither her parents nor her older siblings. For for all of that Dahlia always had a fairly good disposition, rarely getting in too much trouble and helping to look after the kids who were younger than her. She always had a good sense of humor, though it is frequently a little snarky, and frequently played jokes or tricks on her siblings. Dahlia is the type to never really rest, she always has to be busy, busy, busy. Growing up that meant she could have been running around with the boys, practicing a craft (she continues to be something of an amateur potter and glass-blower), or reading a book. Her independence and need to keep busy was largely how she coped with her hectic family and it made her fairly unflappable. In general, Dahlia isn't too fussed about high society or etiquette or all the pomp that goes along with nobility - indeed, Kerry and her used to come back from parties and spend half the night making fun of all the stiff and stuffy nobles. Nevertheless, she understands how to act in formal social situations, and is perfectly able to carry herself with the grace and politeness expected from a noble lady.

A lot of her light-hearted air and sharp sense of humor has been consumed, however, by her grief over the loss of her husband. Though she never lets her children, or younger siblings, see her grieve or lose her composure, Dahlia almost always feels like she's falling apart now and has not infrequent bouts of either crying or losing her temper (something she rarely did before). Still, she's coping the best way she knows how: putting on a brave face and keeping herself busy, raising her family and running the Gray estate.

The loss of Kerry also dramatically changed Dahlia's views on magic. Dahlia used to be fairly liberal, if somewhat ambivalent, about magic and magic-use. She certainly didn't believe in persecuting people or hunting them down. This all changed after her husband's death. Dahlia has let her personal grief trump whatever ethical considerations she once had. Now the mages can all be put in camps or killed for all she cares. These feelings fall apart a little when confronted with a mage that she knows personally, but in general her emotions on the matter don't listen very much to reason. That said, Dahlia is far from supporting the Grand Duke in the war. If anything, she holds him – and the rest of the government-military system – in equal contempt to mages, if not higher (the Grand Duke especially). From her perspective, all sides are just as responsible for her husband's death and the disruption of her family.

Magic/Abilities
When not busy with her responsibilities as the de facto head of an estate, a noblewoman, or a mother, Dahlia takes solace in both pottery and glass-blowing and she has a small studio adjacent to the stables that her in-laws converted for her when she joined the family.

In addition to glass and pottery work, Dahlia also enjoys baking. The more elaborate the better. She's not as good at cleaning up after it, though, and the kitchen is usually an explosion of flour and eggshells after she's been through with it.

Relationships

The Grays
Karol "Kerry" Gray: Husband, deceased. Also from a house of lower nobility, Kerry and Dahlia met as preteens and were sweethearts from a pretty young age. Since her family was so crazy, Dahlia turned to Kerry for something positive and stable. Kerry was friendly, smart, and a bit of a joker (though always in a good-natured way). Since there was no major objections, being two nobles of similar rank marrying, they were married in their late teens and had their first child a few years later. Like nearly all Connlaothian men, Kerry was also a soldier despite his generally tolerant views on magic and gentle personality. As tensions in the country grew, he was obliged to spend more and more time away from his family, until finally he didn't come home. The full details of her husband's death were never given to Dahlia. The army officer tasked with delivering the news simply said it had happened during a "skirmish with mages."

Miles "Milo" Gray: Son, 15. Always somewhat quiet, since the death of his father Milo has become a fairly serious child. His disposition is enhanced by his appearance, with dark hair, fair skin, and gray eyes. He's very responsible, considerate, and thoughtful and cares a lot about his younger siblings. Dahlia and Milo were always exceptionally close, but Milo has become a bit withdrawn in recent years. Since the national draft was announced, Milo was conscripted only days after his fifteenth birthday and is now serving in the Connlaothian army. Though Dahlia pulled every string and connection she could to ensure Milo would serve as the assistant to a commander in a, hopefully, less dangerous position than typical cannon fodder.

Lilly Gray: Daughter, 13. Lilly is whimsical and full of life, with curly flame red hair and bright blue eyes. She's the least serious of the three children and frequently wonders after her two solemn and earnest brothers. Lilly was the closest child to Kerry and was an absolute "daddy's girl" while he was alive. After her brother's conscription, Lilly was sent away to live with a trading contact in Serendipity with her younger brother Riley.

Riley Gray: Son, 10. Riley is still very much a child. But a rather astute and forward one! He is, honestly, quite precocious. He has straight, sandy blond/light brown hair that's a bit of a mop, blue eyes and a decent amount of freckles. He sticks pretty close to his older siblings. When he's not with his siblings, he spends most of his time with his small hunting kestrel. As the youngest, he is in some ways the least affected by his father's death, and undertakes great endeavors to lift the spirits of the rest of the family. After his brother's conscription, Riley was sent away to live with a trading contact in Serendipity with his sister Lilly.

After her own upbringing, Dahlia strives to be a particularly attentive and present mother. Though she far from coddles her children; rather, she tries to treat them like the independent, rational creatures that they are.

Helen Gray: Mother-in-Law, late 50s. Helen's husband, Kerry's father, died a few years before Kerry, fallen victim to an aggressive illness. Helen is kind-hearted and quiet, but doesn't have the wherewithal to manage an estate now that the men are gone and leaves this mostly up to Dahlia. Helen had three children, all lost at different ages (one daughter when she was a child, another daughter during childbirth, and finally Kerry), so she considers Dahlia as her own. Dahlia, in turn, is much closer to Helen than she is to her own mother.

The Treyburns
Darryn and Rose Treyburn: Parents. While Dahlia isn't overly fond of her parents, she's less at odds with them than most of the rest of her siblings. Mostly she just rolls her eyes at them. Though very occasionally she feels bad about the large rift between her parents and their children and will make an effort to visit/humor them. Occasionally.

Redly Treyburn: Brother. While Dahlia thinks that Redly is, in general, well-meaning and loveable, she finds his 'fathering' attitude exasperating and has little patience for it.

Jana Treyburn: Sister. Dahlia has always had a tense relationship with Jana. As a child, most of her ire at her older siblings for always excluding her (in her mind) was directed at her sister.

Braxton Treyburn: Brother. Dahlia has always liked Braxton best of her older siblings. Now that they're all adults, she views him as one of the "not crazy" siblings, even if he is a bit of a boar.

Trevian Treyburn: Brother. The closest to Dahlia in age and also very much a "middle child", Trevian is probably the sibling Dahlia identifies the most with and has the easiest time relating to. However much of a scamp he can be.

Oscar Treyburn: Brother. Dahlia has a big soft spot for Oscar, which she's always expressed by teasing him mercilessly.

Jillian Treyburn: Sister. Dahlia has a bit of a soft spot for Jillian, especially since her younger sister spent more and more time in the Gray household visiting and helping with the kids. While she thinks Jillian is sweet and appreciates that she 'goes her own way,' she worries a bit that Jillian is a bit too airy and has her head a bit too far in the clouds. And from time to time loses patience with Jillian's focus on fantasy and fairytales rather than the world in front of her.

Florry Treyburn: Brother. Relationship to be determined in RP.

Janette Treyburn: Sister. Janette was only a toddler when Dahlia left the household, so she doesn't know Janette so well. In general, though, Dahlia is fairly unimpressed by Janette's acting out and poor attitude (in her eyes).

Cherie Treyburn: Sister. With Cherie being only a year or so older than Milo, Dahlia views her her a bit more as a child than a sibling, but she tries to make sure she treats her as a sister nonetheless.

Others
Lord Edward Draven: A friend, sort of. Also, unbeknownst to him, the father of her newest child after a one-night mistake. Edward first made an impression on Dahlia by befriending her son Riley, and later found him more entrenched in her family. Though she has understood for some time that Edward was a little smitten with her, Dahlia has no desire to become a duchess, and is (unconsciously) wary of letting herself be too happy, much less remarrying.

Bun-in-the-Oven: Result of aforementioned mistake.

History
Dahlia fell into the somewhat awkward gap between her sibling's ages. The youngest of the older siblings, she was mostly treated as the "little kid" by them when she was young. But by the time any more Treyburns came around, Dahlia was already five and too old to fall into the next age group of siblings. Hence she was fairly independent growing up. Active and intelligent, she spent a lot of her time with the household cooks and craftsman, trying just about everything from watercolors to blacksmithing, archery and shooting to teaching herself foreign languages, acting to floral arrangements. Finally, she settled on pottery, glasswork, and baking as her primary hobbies. Keeping herself busy, though, didn't mean there wasn't time to play jokes or pranks on her siblings. These were mostly focused on the older ones, perhaps partially in retaliation for not being entirely included in their "group."

Tags to @Draconian !

---

Dahlia Gray was alone. She stood in the morning drizzle, her clear gray eyes gazing down at a fresh headstone that bore on it the inscription:


It was only the second line that was freshly etched into the stone. The preceding line had been carved some five years earlier. And Dahlia had hoped very much that the following one wouldn't have been chiseled into the stone for some years to come. But life had become hard and unforgiving in Connlaoth. Even here in Uthlyn, a city that had experienced relative calm so far in what was beginning to feel like a neverending war. And when a company of sick and dying soldiers has been brought into the city seeking medical aid, the consumption they brought with them had proved too unforgiving for Helen.

Now Dahlia, who hadn't borne the name of 'Gray' until the summer of her eighteenth year, was the last left to inhabit the family's Uthlyn estate. A smooth, black speckled stone lay not far from where she stood now bearing the name of 'Lord Karol Gray,' though his body - consumed by the war- did not rest beneath it. One day she would, she thought, her eyes glancing over to it, and her name inscribed below her husband's, justa s Helen's was inscribed with hers. That was, if any of this survived the war. One day, God willing, her eldest son would inherit this house, this land, and whatever estate Dahlia could keep together in the intervening years. He was only a boy, only fifteen, but the war and the conscription had taken him away, too. Though there was some hope he might still come back.

And her other children. Her daughter, and youngest son. Would they ever come back? It had been only a matter of months now since she'd sent them away, south to Serendipity, away from Connlaoth, away from the war. Sending them one way had been hard enough. And though she wrote to them every day, Dahlia had no idea what happened to the letters. None came back to Connlaoth from Lily or Riley, and Dahlia could only assume hers likewise did not reach Serendipity. But it was the only thing she could do to protect her children. To protect Kerry's children. The last Grays.

A movement in Dahlia's belly reminded her that, actually, she was not alone. But this was no Gray. She frowned down at herself; she was only just starting to show. Who would this child be, she wondered as she stooped to arrange the lily-of-the-valley she held in her hands on Helen's gravestone. And what would she do with it?

That thought had just creeped into her mind when a sharp bark cut through the gray morning rain. The dog was Milo's, a wiry gray deerhound. But it was far from the only animal wandering the grounds of the small estate. Dahlia Gray might be the only person who lived here, but the small menagerie of animals - domestic and wild - that her children had amassed after the death of their father still roamed the estate. Dahlia couldn't find it in her heart to shoo them away. A tame fox here, a small flock of ducks, rabbits, a rather clever but sociable magpie, a hedgehog, a handful of cats and a handful of others that had stayed after the children had gone.

But the dog's bark caught Dahlia's attention. It was a warning bark. And it was followed, she realized with a chill, by the sound of someones inside the house.

@Draconian

---

A heavy fog lay over the damp countryside that John Jameson trudged through. The hour was somewhere between the last throes of the night and the first light of the morning. The sun hung somewhere low below the horizon, giving just enough cold gray light that John could see the fog, but little else. John knew little of the country in these parts, but a farmer had told him that down this road he should find a little in. The man had warned him that it would be a journey of some hours on foot, but John had merely smiled and thanked the man for his directions.

Alone with the distant braying of farm dogs and the gloomy hooting of owls, John made his way through the night, through still countryside and murky forest. It was a long and cold night, but John had walked without tiring. But John Jameson didn't tire like most men. He enjoyed the solitude of the journey; alone with his thoughts; alone with the fragments of his memory. He had nowhere in particular to go. He was simply going this way. It was an aimlessness that was not an uncommon sight in the war-torn land of Connlaoth. Young men who had been soldiers, who had been taught to fight with a purpose, either left by the wayside when they were injured too seriously to fight, but not seriously enough to die. Or else who had lost that sense of purpose, and abandoned their posts. But there was no place in Connlaoth for men who could not fight, or could not work. At least, not for men who weren't born into the upper classes that could live comfortably doing nothing, or else be sent to the university to become a scholar. They had become soldiers, many of them, before marrying and had no families to return to. No children to rear. If they were brave enough to return to their homes injured, they would have to face their family in shame. No longer a soldier, no longer a man. And so a lost generation began to grow across the country, the injured and disillusioned, left with no real future and no respectable present.

And John Jameson? Was he injured, or disillusioned? He truthfully wasn't sure. Had he been injured in the war effort? Yes, grievously. His shoulder was still quick to ache, especially in weather like this, but it was the large, ugly scar stretched across his chest that worried John. When he compared himself to others in his position, John couldn't help but think that - physically - he had come off in decent shape. And the looks he sometimes got as a man of fighting age, who appeared physically fit, was wandering the countryside and not fulfilling his duty as a soldier. And now there was even a draft... But John Jameson's injuries ran much deeper. It was a cold feeling that reached from the strange scar down to his heart. It was the memory of the sound of the first stone that had struck Einid with a sick thud. It was the image of the bloody child he had held for only moments in his hand; the boy who had let out a single wail, and then die. And it was the change he had felt when Enid, the woman he had called his wife, had died.

Who had she been? And, the more unsettling question he'd been left with...

Who was he?

This was the question echoing in John's mind when he finally caught sight of a single lantern light ahead. He breathed a sigh of relief. Even John Jameson was weary after the long night's walk, and cold from the smothering fog. He followed the light, until it led to a small, solitary tavern. Clearly a waypoint for travellers, though there must be a town not too far away. The tavern was quiet at this hour, but outside the door a solitary lantern hung, its candle melted nearly to its base. John pushed open the squat, damp wooden door, and stepped inside.

@visualspice

Dahlia Gray sat on the bed in the room the servant had led her to, her knees wrapped tight against her chest. A fire had already been lit in the Highheart guest quarters, and the small but comfortable room had a warm glow. But Dahlia felt very, very cold. It had taken considerable persuasion to convince the woman that what was best for her now was rest. That she couldn't go out just then into the dangerous night of the war. That it wouldn't do anyone any good. That guards had already been sent out, and servants with dogs, and the locals had been alerted. But she couldn't believe it. And she couldn't rest. She was safe inside the house of Lord Edward Draven...

...but her children were out there, missing in the night.

Her heart pounded loudly, echoing in her head, as her grey eyes stared glassily at the fire. How had this happened? She'd been worried since since they left. Then when the letter arrived from Edward, saying that he had them safe and sound and she need only come collect them... She'd arrived only a few hours earlier to do just that. Only to learn that they were gone.

Gone.

She'd barely had time to get the story from Edward. She'd been told only the bare bones: Riley and Lily had been there. Now they weren't. And, worse, Britta and another young lady were missing, too. Dear God, Dahlia thought, what had she done? All she could think was that she had failed them. Worried maids had quickly wisked her away, forced her to eat and wash after the hurried journey from Uthlyn to Highheart. And now she was told the best thing she could do was rest until the morning. But Dahlia couldn't rest. She couldn't sleep. She could only stare at the fire, wondering desperately where her children were.

__________________QUICK STATS
Name Zahi Akello
Age 29
Gender Female
Species 7/8 Human, 1/8 Djinn
Ethnicity 1/2 Essyrni, 1/2 Kishahn
Height 5' 6" / 168 cm
Occupation Detective, former Soot Wolf, (double... triple agent?)
Residence Arca
Sexuality Heterosexual

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Zahi is sleek, well-toned and athletic, but with the wiry build of someone who never had enough to eat as a child. She has an umber brown complexion and her hair is dark black-brown, thick and tightly curled and coiled so that, when unbound, it makes quite the mane. To keep it under control, Zahi frequently has it bound back in some sort of braid or knot. Perhaps the most obvious feature of the woman is her eyes; she has complete heterochromia, with one eye rich brown and the other a light hazel.

She dresses in an understated, utilitarian way, mostly in browns and grays. Linen pants, well-fit tunic, and sometimes also has a scarf either around her neck and shoulders, or covering her hair and shadowing her face. When needed, she has a mismatching array of light leather armor.

Covering her back, arms, and chest is an intricate pattern of tattoos, inked in black and gold on her dark skin. Though containing many images and symbols, the tattoos appear to be part of one theme. In truth, it is based on her memory of the inscriptions on an altar of stone in the forgotten temple outside of Zantaric, but she does not say this. In addition to these large and bold tattoos, on the ankle and shin of her right leg, as though it were crouched by her side, is a life-sized image of a stark, black rat. The true explanation for this is never given, though many are told.

Personality 
Zahi is a clinical, no-nonsense misanthrope. She views life as a matter of survival, principally hers. Zahi does not trust easily and her trust cannot be earned by authority alone; she's a closed book that opens for very few. Likewise her loyalty, at least to individuals, is bestowed neither automatically nor permanently. Zahi is fairly direct and candid and makes few overtures to diplomacy. Either she will hold her tongue, or she'll tell you what she thinks without sugar-coating or buffering anything. That said, she does not go out of her way to be rude or provocative. Her sense of humor is almost nonexistent (though not entirely, and shows up every so often) and she seems usually immune to sexual advances or flattery. When it comes to actual, genuine interpersonal relations, Zahi can be a little awkward; not well-trained in how to deal with messy things like emotions. But that doesn't mean she doesn't understand the importance of social relationships, especially in a job like the Blood Wolves, or now working in the Queen's detective service. And with colleagues she lets her guard down a little, understanding the importance of trust in such relationships.

When she was a Blood Wolf, she did her job efficiently and ruthlessly, relatively unaffected by the death of others. Despite this, however, Zahi does not like violence, per se. She views violence as a tool and, like any tool, one that will blunt with overuse. In particular, she did not like to use violence or intimidation any more than necessary in her role as the Red Jackal. She believes in leading through strength and respect, not through fear and showmanship. She has little interest in or patience for politics. But she did care about those under her, in her way, and takes her responsibility to them (and the rest of the Guild) very seriously. In truth, Zahi was never much of a 'criminal', except that it was the path laid in front of her. As antisocial as she is, Zahi prefers to work in the interest of the group rather than for personal gain. In this regard, her new line of work suits her best, though it's unlikely she would admit it.

Magic/Abilities
Due to her Djinn blood, Zahi is considerably stronger than a normal human, and has sharper senses. She is able to easily handle fire without being burned, and can take a flame from the hearth without it extinguishing. She keeps this ability very close to her chest, however, and few know of it.

Relationships
Behati Akello - Mother, Deceased. Originally from the Kishahn jungle, Behati was taken by traffickers at a young age and brought to Zantaric to work as a prostitute. When Zahi was still a young girl, Behati was violently murdered by one of her clients.

Yanai Aram - A drifter from Essyrn. Zahi's Djinn blood comes from Yanai. Of course, the two know nothing about the other's existence, and Zahi remains ignorant of her non-human heritage.

Unnamed Crime Boss** One of the key figures in Zahi's life was the crime boss who picked her up as a child. Staying with him from the later years of her childhood until she was a teenager (8 or 9 to 15 or so), she very likely would have died in the streets without him and during her time with him he ranged from a vague-father-figure to lover for her. Her feelings about him now, after fleeing from his side, are very conflicted.

** I would be open to people interested in playing this character!

Zahi also has had a long-term on-again off-again relationship with the Spirit Wolf, Bujari. It's super secret. She doesn't want to talk about it.

History
[Warning: Some mature content.]
Zahi was born a bastard child in a Zantaric brothel. Her mother, still a teenager when she got pregnant with Zahi, fought tooth and nail with the establishment's "proprietors" to keep the child, and was only successful when the rest of the women in the brothel backed her. As a result, as a young child Zahi was raised fairly communally by many of the women in the brothel. When she was seven, her mother was murdered 'on the job.' Knowing that, with the protection of Behati gone, an exotic-looking child like Zahi would quickly be seen as a high source of profit by the brothel owners, Zahi was spirited out of the brothel by two of the women who'd been closest to her. She was simply told that her mother was 'gone' and that she had to get away. Zahi wouldn't learn what truly happened to Behati until years later.

Zahi fled Zantaric into the ancient forests outside of the city. For nearly a year, she lived wild in the forest, taking shelter primarily in the abandoned temple at its heart. Winter drove her back into Zantaric where she scraped by as an urchin. Not long after returning to Zantaric, starving and at the end of her rope, she was picked up by one of the town's rising crime bosses. At first this was out of pity and with no intention of 'keeping' her, but he soon recognized that a child had its uses. A child could go unnoticed where many adults could not; and so Zahi was taken under his wing. She would be sent to gather information, apply and deliver poisons, or other activities where an adult would be conspicuous. He kept Zahi close and, when she was fourteen, took her as a lover. As a result of this, when she was just fifteen, Zahi found herself pregnant. A disagreement with her 'boss' about whether or not to keep the child - he wanted to, and refused to allow her a potion that would cast it away - led Zahi to a crude, back-alley abortion. Though effective, the dangerous operation and subsequent infections nearly cost Zahi her life. When it was over, Zahi ran away from her boss and his organization and left Zantaric for good.

Zahi gradually made her way up to Serendipity and Arca. She joined the Soot Wolves at sixteen, shortly after arriving in Arca. After spending her first few years in the guild as a thief, Zahi was singled out to become a Blood Wolf. It seemed like a natural transition to Zahi after the work she'd done in Zantaric, and it was a position she took seriously and excelled at. She spent ten years as a Blood Wolf before accompanying the previous Red Jackal on a mission to a former friend of the Red Jackal that turned into an ambush. They escaped, but the former Red Jackal was badly wounded. Deciding that the botched job was due to the weakness of the former Red Jackal, Zahi waited and let the man bleed to death. Afterwards, she was promoted by Rufus to fill the position.

When the Soot Wolves were infiltrated by a shadowy outside group, however, Zahi ended up nearly killed by outsiders posing as Soot Wolves. She had ended up in the hands of the city guard, of a junkie detective who'd nearly killed her himself. But in the end it was decided that a skilled scraper like Akello, with deep connections to Arca's underground, might be an asset. So she'd been given the choice - or 'choice' as she liked to think of it - between entering Her Majesty's service, and death. Zahi might have had some lingering loyalty to the Soot Wolves, but none at that point to the current Red Wolf, and quite a bit more to her own skin than to any of them. It had been an easy choice.

Tags to @Cambie !

---

Too many  more sips of March beer, and Constance Carwick was going to end up a wee bit tipsy. For years it had been the task of her father, the late Duke of Wulfbauer, to judge the March beer at the duchy's Spring Festival. It was a task that should, in fact, be performed by the current Duke. But Erwin Therrien, the man who had practically fallen into the role, was tea-total. And this being the first public appearance of the late Duke Carwick's long-lost daughter, returned to "her" people from the dead, the task had instead fallen to her. Plus, everyone got quite the laugh out of a young lady judging barrels of strong March beer. It was a task that had always left her father, a hale and hearty man, a bit 'jolly' by the end. And the good-natured laughter that met her own trial almost made Constance forget what really set her apart from the other festival-goers.

Not that she was born of high nobility. Constance Carwick was a known mage.

But at the moment, it didn't seem to matter. At least not to the common people of Wulfbauer beckoning her on to just try their beer and asking eagerly what she thought. Or else, from those who were not brewers, shouting out their own opinions as to which beer was really the best. And what even made the best beer! She hadn't fared quite as well with the noble circles of Wulfbauer. They had, of course, made quite the show of welcoming her back. But Constance found the gestures shallow, with a few exceptions, and some of their words had left her sputtering. 'I can't imagine what it must have been like, having to stay with all of those... those people. Criminals and sinners and... Oh, I can't imagine. How you must have suffered!' It had taken all of her self control and a conscious effort to channel her late, and much better mannered, mother to avoid punching anyone straight in the face. But despite the awkwardness of socializing with other nobles, and despite her still somewhat lingering nervousness about making a public appearance... Constance had to admit: The festival seemed to be a success.

And what shocked her even more, what was completely unbelievable to her, but Duke Therrien was right... people actually seemed glad to see her. To see one last Carwick, in flesh and blood, alive and returned to them. The only beloved daughter of their old beloved Duke. She could barely believe it. Now here she was, in the central pavilion of the fair - a grand, if simple, circular structure of brightly painted wood with a pitched, spiegeltent-style roof - performing the duties usually reserved for a duke. And people were glad of it. Constance could imagine few things more surreal.

The pavilion was packed to the gills, but somehow the crowds parted as - from each of its two entrances - the prize stallions (at one entrance) and mares (at the other) were led into the pavilion to be judged by none other than Duke Therrien himself. The sound of hooves clopping neatly and in time filled the tent, sounding over the din of people's voices. But it was another sound that set the hair on the back of Constance's neck on end. It was a quiet, creeping, smouldering sound.

The sound of fire.

Then a shout sounded from outside, and Constance saw the first flame lick its way from where it was set on the exterior of the pavilion into the crowded interior. Others were starting to notice, too. Other people, and the stallions and mares, who were rapidly spooking. The beasts reared up, one coming down hard on its handler. To those outside, the flames were clearly spreading along the large wooden structure. The structure whose only exits were now blocked by the panicked animals.

__________________QUICK STATS
Name  John Jameson
Age  Early thirties
Gender  Male
Species  Human…?
Ethnicity  Connlaothian
Height  5’10” / 178 cm
Occupation  Ex-soldier
Residence  Connlaoth

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
John Jameson has the strong, reliable, warm presence of sturdy Connlaothian stock. His build is that of a solid, Connlaothian soldier: broad shoulders, a strong chest, trim waist, and muscular form; though he’s gotten a bit thinner since his injury than he was as an active soldier. His dark, curly blonde hair is usually kept short cropped and is accompanied by a neatly trimmed short beard. John’s warm brown eyes lend a kindness to his strong face.

Despite his presumably humble background, John carries himself with a posture and mannerisms reminiscent of a gentleman or an officer. And though he dons plain clothing, he keeps himself as tidy and well-groomed as circumstances allow since his recovery. Beneath his neat and very Connlaothian exterior, though, a large scar marrs his left breast. It is no ordinary scar, though. Smooth and hard, it’s etched in black and green and purple across his breast. Not understanding its nature, John keeps it disguised at all times.

Personality
Kind, loyal, and sturdy. John is a patient, well-mannered man with a strong, calm presence.

Magic/Abilities
John is a natural horseman and a good shot with a musket and a bow. An injured shoulder from his soldier days have diminished this skill a little, but he’s still a good enough shot. John is also a good ‘people person.’ He has good manners, a reassuring presence, and a trustworthy demeanor. He has the natural ability both to get people to trust him and to listen to him.

Those are skills John understands. What he does not understand is, after his long, drawn-out recovery, it seems that any new injury he suffers heals slightly too fast. Too easily. He has no explanation for this. One more mystery he lives with.

Relationships
Enid Jameson - Deceased wife, perhaps.
Aubrey - Son, deceased.

History
This is what John remembers…
...John awoke in a small, warm, and isolated home deep and hidden in the forest. He was weak, broken and in pain, but recovering. And with a searing, scorched scar across his breast. The person keeping him alive was a young, beautiful redhaired woman who was, she said, his wife. Enid. She cared for him with the warmth, love, and tenderness of a wife, but search his mind as he did, John could not remember her or the forest home she said was theirs. But, she explained, he’d been gravely injured in the war. Thrown by his horse, half trampled, and run through by the enemy, he’d been dragged much later, she said, from the battlefield. Left for dead. When Enid had heard of the battle and heard no word from her husband, she flew to search for him. The army medics had just kept him alive, but he was no more use to them. So they released him to her, and she’d been taking care of him since.

John didn’t remember any of this. Or any of her. But, he didn’t remember anything else, either, to contradict it. And the pain of his body seemed to attest to her story. Too weak to challenge it, John accepted his wife’s tale. What else did he have? But she had no answers for the scar on his chest that preoccupied him so, and evaded any question he gave about it. For many months he lay bedridden, with only Enid taking care of him, giving him healer’s drafts that dulled his pain and kept him, much of the time, in a healing sleep. Her kindness and gentleness lowered his defenses, and with him, he convinced himself he remembered more and more of the stories she told him of their courtship and marriage. How had he forgotten? With time, much time, he healed and slowly, slowly began working around the house; cutting timber and hunting for as long as his worn body would let him.

Somehow, John never questioned why they lived isolated in the forest. Why they were self-sufficient and unreliant on others. A town, he knew, was only just over a day away. But they never went… That was, until Enid became pregnant. Elated, she assured John that she would need no help. She was a healer; hadn’t she healed him? But in the final months of her pregnancy, Enid started rapidly failing. She was getting weak, couldn’t eat, and clearly sick. The lives of both his wife and unborn child, he knew, depended on getting help. Too weak now to fight him on it, John carefully loaded Enid into the timber cart and pulled her, himself, to the nearest village, desperately seeking a healer.

But the villagers had other ideas. Their eyes went wide, their faces white, when they saw Enid. Cries of ‘witch!’ quickly rent the air. Hysterical claims that his wife, his gentle Enid, had cursed the land with the Long Winter, cursed their crops and their wells. Angry shouts that she had been told what would happen if she ever returned. Before John could understand what was going on, a stone flew from the crowd and hit Enid with a sick thud in the head. The briefest silence and stillness followed before a volley followed from the villagers. John tried to fight them, but was held back as the villagers - whose help he had sought - murdered his wife.

He knew the moment she died. The sensation was something like waking up from a dream. It took him a moment to understand where he was, who he was. But once he did; he remembered the child. He fought his way to the dead young woman - his wife? - and it was only an old woman who helped him now. The rest left, muttering darkly and cursing, some spitting at the body as they passed. But the crone told him to follow her quickly; she hated the witch as much as any of them, she told John, but that should not condemn the babe. If they worked quickly… But they could not be quick enough. By the time the old woman cut the babe, a boy, from his mother’s womb, it only had enough life to turn once, squint its eyes, muster a silent cry, then die.

The woman let John grieve, coated in the blood of the woman who seemed less and less like his wife and the babe that was most definitely his. When he mustered his strength, he took both bodies back to the forest home and gave them proper burials. Already this place seemed strange. Somehow fake. And he would not stay there. The last time he saw the still face of the woman who’d claimed to be his wife, she already looked like a stranger. But had he loved her? On his son’s gravestone, he carved the name that had materialized as though from the ether in his mind when he’d looked at the boy. Aubrey.

Then John packed enough to last him, enough to carry, and left the forest home, never to return. With a past that seemed more and more unreal behind him, and an uncertain future before him.


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__________________QUICK STATS
Name  Constance Olivia "Olive" Carwick [Therrien]
Age  Early twenties
Gender  Female
Species  Human
Ethnicity  Connlaothian
Height  5'4"
Occupation  Noblewoman and marked mage, Duchess of Wulfbauer
Residence  Wulfbauer
Sexuality Heterosexual (probably)

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description 
Olive is far from the Connlaothian standard of beauty. In a country that values voluptuous women with full bosoms and ample curves, Olive is skinny, flat-chested, and boyish-looking. If not downright twiggy. For all that, though, she has a face that could be called cute, with a fair complexion and a light dusting of freckles, and wide green eyes that are ringed with brown around the irises. Her hair is a dark, honey-colored blonde and is usually kept with long, swoopy bangs and in braids or in a bun to keep it out of her way; though as a student in Uthlyn, she'd once been bold enough to cut it into a bob.

After her years in the mage camps and on the run, Olive has a harder look about her than she once did. And, to match that, a criss-crossing web of scars etched into her back from a caning that nearly killed her in the mage camps.

Now that she's kept somewhat caged in her old role of the daughter of one of Wulfbauer's most beloved dukes, she can normally be found in well-made, if understated, clothing befitting a noblelady; though of course all tailored from the typical Connlaothian fashion to fit her boyish figure. Though, desperate to stay active and make herself useful in her detainment, she can also be found not infrequently in common clothes, helping out in the kitchens or other active, physical tasks to keep herself occupied.

The one thing she hates about all of these garments, though, is the Sign of the Church stitched into the breast of all of the clothing. The Mark of a Mage. Olive swore to herself after the Mage Camps that she would never wear it again. But fate had different ideas.

Personality 
Olive is, in many ways, conflicted above all else. Growing up, though she was raised strictly with the ideas of Responsibilities of the Nobility and responsible stewardship of the land ruled by her family, she frequently wished she could just be a 'normal' girl. But she was far from a 'normal' girl: a tomboy, a marked mage, and worst of all - the daughter of a duke. But she was always acutely aware of being her parents' only child, and of all the pressure that went along with that. Thus she oscillated between wishing she could just "be herself" and wishing she could be who her parents and her country wished she was. Because of this, even though she wasn't sure how much of a believer she really was, she frequently went to Mass, sometimes every day, as a way to be more like her parents' ideal daughter, or to make up for how different she was from most of her countrymen. Despite all of that, however, throughout her youth, Olive had a generally positive disposition - with the natural, easy confidence that comes from growing up in a very privileged position - something of a joker, irreverent, and at times overly friendly and outgoing. All of which, of course, were needed if one wanted to actually 'make friends' as a marked mage.

Life in the mage camps only deepened the sense of conflict in her. After years of wishing she were not a noble, inside the camps was the first time she found some value in her title and a way to make herself useful. Shortly after arriving, Olive found that she could hold some sway over the soldiers and guards in the camps; either out of respect for her nobility, or fear of punishing too strictly the daughter of a duke (and a vocal supporter like Duke Carwick). So Olive began using her position for the benefit of the camp whenever possible, and eventually became involved in the underground organizing in the camp to look out for the other prisoners. But along with an increased sense of responsibility, Olive's experiences in the camps also left her, in many ways, righteous and zealous. Betrayed by the country she'd been born to serve and the Church she'd turned to for solace, Olive became much harder and less forgiving than she once was; the war had transformed her into a person who, at times, she couldn't recognize. A person able to justify actions she would have once found vile.

And now that she's been returned to her 'home' in Wulfbauer, her lives have collided: the hardened mage who'd spent years as both prey and predator, hunted ruthlessly by forces that wanted to eradicate her kind, and killing them in turn now brought back to the gentle and comfortable home she had before the War, when she was a noblelady and a symbol of a fallen house, beloved by its people. More than anything, she feels like a trapped animal. But she hasn't forgotten the lessons her father taught her about the responsibility that go along with her title. Leaving her more conflicted than ever.

Magic/Abilities 
Olive has never learned to use her magic with complete control. While on the run with the rebels, she has used it sparingly when faced with no other choice. What she has been able to use so far is all weather-related and it is very easy for it to get out of hand. Over all, Olive does not believe that mages should use magic, but when cornered her ideals come after her own life and the lives of others.

Relationships 

Duke Erwin Therrien, Husband*, Duke of Wulfbauer
   * Eventually, depending on where a thread is in Olive's timeline...

Harlow Oliver Carwick, Duke of Wulfbauer, Father, Deceased
Growing up, Olive was very much her father's daughter. Without a son, Harlow did many of the things a father reserved for his son with Olive: hunting, riding, shooting, and the like; all much to her mother's dismay. Harlow was assassinated during the course of the war, without ever being reuinited with the daughter sent away to the mage camps.

Caroline Livinia Carwick, Duchess of Wulfbauer, Mother, Deceased
Olive had always been particularly at odds with her mother, who had hoped for several children and wasn't thrilled to end up with just one, boyish mage for a daughter. However, much of what set them at odds was Caroline's attempts to protect her daughter. Before they could reconcile, however, Caroline died of an illness during the Long Winter, not long after her husband.

Avery Carwick, Duke of Wulfbauer, Second Cousin, Deceased
Olive's second-cousin Avery was raised to be the Duke's heir nearly her entire life. The two were unofficially betrothed until the onset of the Civil War. After Duke Harlow was assassinated, Avery briefly served as Duke before dying in battle. His only brother, Caspian, was also killed in battle before he could even be made Duke, leaving the duchy with no heir and in turmoil.

Valerian Reine, Stablehand, Friend, 23
As the only child in a house full of servants, Olive spent a lot of time with the staff in Wulfbauer Keep while growing up. And though she frequently got under foot, the staff were always fairly fond of her. She was especially close to the son of the stablehand Bairn, and his son Valerian. Olive and Valerian (or "Vale" as she insisted on calling him) were the same age, and some of the only children in the Keep. He was her first and best friend, and at times felt like her only real friend.

Grace Chancelory, Ladie's Maid, Friend?, 60
The lady's maid of her mother, Grace was always very strict and (in Olive's mind) disapproving of her mistress's unruly daughter. However, since Olive's return to Wulfbauer, Grace has been her fierce defender and, in many ways, her most trusted friend.

History 
Growing up, Olive never liked being a noble. Olive didn't like to dress up or make lace or courteous small talk or any of the things her mother taught her. She liked to tromp around the grounds of Wulfbauer Keep, exploring and getting muddy, archery and riding horses; none of the things befitting a young lady. Worse yet, Olive was revealed to be a mage at the age of ten during a ball held by her parents in Wulfbauer. She was showing off for the other children at the ball when, in a game of ones-up-manship, she accidentally caused a small weather phenomenon without realizing what she was doing. It was a small and harmless occurrence in and of itself and no one was harmed, but it forever changed Olive's life. Her mother, the duchess, acted quickly to mark the child as a mage - the incident had been to public to pretend that it hadn't happened. Using all the clout as she could muster as the Duchess of Wulfbauer, she pleaded with the Church to let her keep the child in their home rather than send her away for the Church to deal with her, as long as there were no further incidents. Olive has no knowledge of these events, but her mother became much stricter with her trying to ensure that Olive stood out less than she naturally did - especially now that she was made to wear the mark. As well-intentioned as this attitude was, it caused high tensions between the Duchess and her daughter, who only thought that her mother's attitude was born out of embarrassment and trying to save face for herself, not a wish to protect her daughter. The relationship between mother and daughter eventually became so strained that Olive was sent away to Uthlyn, to study in the university rather than at home with a tutor; the hope being that some space would ease the tensions between the two women.

As tensions rose in Connlaoth following the murder of the former Grand Duke, Olive found herself under house arrest in Uthlyn while 'common' mages began to be expelled from the city and sent to the mage camps in the north. Eventually her parents, uncertain how to protect their daughter, agreed to her own internment in the camps. As she was a known, marked mage already under the eyes of the Mordecai, this action seemed the only option available to the family, and perhaps the best way to protect Olive. (Though Olive herself has only guessed at this). When an Adhara came to escort her to the camps, Olive went willingly, worried about what the repercussions would be for her family and her duchy would be if she did not consent or put up a fight.

In the mage camp Valinarus, Olive found that her position gave her the ability to speak out where others couldn't and use her title as clout with the guards. However, this got her into a decent amount of trouble and when things came to a head in Valinarus, Olive found herself sent to  mage camp outside the borders of Connlaoth. Outside of the view of the country, the camp was particularly cruel and harsh. When the Church arrived, it used the camp's seclusion and distance from any curious eyes to perform experiments on mages en masse. These nearly always ended with the mages' deaths, leading to a violent camp uprising. While many died, Olive managed to survive and escape back to Connlaoth.

Her experiences in the camps, however, had changed Olive and she joined the growing number of escaped mages to form the Alliance of the Blue Star, a guerrilla rebel group striking out against the government. After three years of running and fighting, Olive finally bit off more than she could chew when a planned attack on a Hellvion ball went terribly, terribly wrong. The ordeal should have ended with her hanged, but instead she found unexpected shelter in her old home in Wulfbauer, under the auspices of the new duke.

Tags to @Draconian

---

War always left people desperate for distraction, for entertainment, for the odd chance of a laugh. And the men and women occupying the seedy little pub - rogues, drifters, soldiers on leave and their female companions (many working) - were no exception. And the current distraction was a young woman juggling old beer bottles. The woman looked, frankly, somewhat ridiculous. From bottom to top, she had on short green boots, harlequin tights of faded red, gold, and green, an oversized tunic with quarters of blue and white, embroidered with a frayed golden stars and a sun, with an absently smiling face, and to top it off a floppy black felt hat complete with a large white plumed feather. Whatever bird it came from must be from some foreign land; nothing like it could be found here. Her face, naturally fair, was accentuated with bright red, perfect(-ish) circles on her cheeks, pink lips, and thickly outlined coal around her eyes; the effect of which made her look something like a doll. It was the perfect look for a fool. Or, more specifically, for Foal the Fool, the Fantastic, Troubadour Extraordinaire! When one of the more cynical thugs in the pub threw another - full! - one at her, she deftly caught it, sending it flipping through the air with the others. That got a hearty round of laughs. She should remember that trick!

When the trick was over, she threw each empty bottle with an upward flourish to the bartender behind her. Except the full one. She threw that back to the man who threw it at her in the first place, throwing him a wink along with it.

"Come on, then, girl," a man called from the back. "Enough tricks. Give us a story."

Perfect timing. "Of course, m'lord," she answered at once, with a silly bob of a curtsy. "I'll tell the tale of Terrwyn the Terrible, fearsome dragon lord of the southern mountains, and how he was destroyed by the simple shepherd Adelmo. But to tell it," she continued, pulling out a large, velvet sack of deep blue. It was large enough to carry a person, and when the girl pulled aside the sack, it revealed the limp form of a dragon, deep red, and bigger than the girl was! A gasp escaped one of the painted women perched on a mercenary's knee.

"Shush, lass," the man hissed, "it's just a puppet."

Foal shot him a sly smile, then propped the 'puppet' up into an upright position. She crouched next to it, her right arm positioned behind it (where no one could see!), clutching the place where its bat-lke wings met its back. Like any good uppet, it sprang jerkily to life, golden eyes opening and rolling dramatically.

"It is I!" the puppet's mouth flapped up and down, while Foal's only just barely moved. "Terrwyn the Terrible! What was it I heard? These lowly mortals want to hear the tale of how I stole the beautiful daughter of the Fair Duke, and how I was smote by the crawling little maggot Adelmo the Shepherd?"

The dragon began the tale. Of how he was the petty and gluttonous tyrant of the southern mountains, taking whatever he liked from the people who lived in fear of his hellish fire: their sheep, goats, and gold. Until one day, traveling through the green hills that lay beneath his mountain, he spotted the virgin daughter of the Fair Duke of the North. She was normally a princess, but Foal adjusted the story for the local traditions of having dukes instead of kings. In fact, what was great about this story was how adaptable it was. And with the current audience, it took on a rather bawdy tone. Terrwyn the Terrible got quite a few laughs making rather crude euphemisms about just what he wanted with this pretty virgin daughter, while Foal made overly shocked expressions at his crass comments. They got more obscene until finally Foal clipped the puppet over the head, and he continued with the story, telling of how he grabbed the daughter of the Fair Duke and took her back to his lair high in the mountains.

Then Foal took over the story. "And when news reached the Fair Duke that his daughter lay in the clutches of the Terrible Dragon, he sent knight after knight to do battle with the beast. But one by one the dragon dispatched them," here the 'puppet' made exaggerated slashing of its claws and snapping of its jaws, "while the beautiful daughter of the Fair Duke lived in the shadow of his cavernous home, fearful and alone. Finally all the brave knights were either dead or too afraid to go forth to face the beast. Hope was lost in the kingdom, until..." The story continued with the poor, common shepherd boy Adelmo, who had glimpsed the Fair Duke's daughter once in his boyhood, and sworn his love for her ever since. When news reached Adelmo of her plight, and the fate of the many trained knights who had gone to rescue her, the shepherd did not cower in fear. Instead, he ventured alone to the dragon's black mountain, accompanied only by his trusty sheep dog. She told of how he won his way into the dragon's lair by trickery and smarts and how, when he freed the Fair Duke's daughter and they thought they would make their escape, they were cornered by Terrwyn the Terrible. At this point, the dragon puppet's wings snapped open, to some effect. She told how Adelmo fought the dragon fearlessly, but the dragon wrent down flame and fire - here the puppet sparked a small flame and pupped a little smoke - and how, were it not for his trusty sheep dog, Adelmo would have been smote down by the dragon. But thanks to his trusty dog, who distracted the dragon at the critical moment when it was ready to snap little Adelmo like a twig, Adelmo was able to hew the dragon's head from it's body. For all the ex-soldiers and mercenaries, she spared no detail of the blood and gore of it all. The puppet gave an exaggerated lurch, and fell stiffly and awkwardly to the ground.

"But in its final writhing," Foal continued seriously, "it crushed the trusty sheep dog, Adelmo's lifelong companion. Unashamed, Adelmo wept for this lost. But the greater task, he knew, was to return the Fair Duke's daughter to safety. And so he bore her back, only to win her love for his heroic feats. And when they returned to the Fair Duke's castle, seeing the affection his daughter bore the poor, common shepherd boy, the Fair Duke lived up to his name and married the pair himself. And that is how Adelmo, born beneath the open sky to a penniless shepherdess became the Duke of his people, ruling fairly and justly; and just as he'd won the love of his Duchess, so he won the love of his people. Until the day, as an old, weary man, he closed his eyes and ran into the fields after his beloved old sheep dog, reunited in the world beyond."

__________________QUICK STATS
Name  Foal ("Foal the Fool, Troubadour Extra-Ordinary, Conjurer of All Things Diversionary")
Other Names  Adaleide Grayling
Age  20
Gender  Female
Species  Human
Ethnicity  Mixed
Height  5'4"
Occupation  Troubadour Extra-ordinary
"Secret" Occupation  Wandering Do-Gooder
Residence  Wanderer

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Foal has, nearly always, a scrappy, dusty, hodge-podge look about her. Her dark brown hair falls to her shoulders, wavy and scruffy and her large, gray eyes are lively, curious, and bright. Foal's fair skin is often smudged with dust or dirt and a few freckles. She's of average build, with a slim, lithe figure. Though her figure is usually hidden beneath a hodge-podge mix of troubadour's garb, often oversized men's clothing and more than a little worn. In fact, her attire can, at times, look a little ridiculous: but automatically marks her as someone not to be taken too seriously. Which suits her just fine. Calf-high green leather boots, colorful harlequin stockings/tights, variously colored over-sized belted tunics, a cowl and a short cloak and, at times, even a feathered floppy hat. When she performs, Foal paints her face to accentuate her expression: red cheeks, accentuated pink lips, and eyes thickly lined in coal (though she does not paint her face white, like some).

She has a different get-up when she's up to 'good.' The baggy and rather 'in-the-way' hodge-podge clothing of the troubadour are replaced with more utilitarian, form-fitting clothing, mostly men's and still a bit shabby, but more suitable to action!

Personality
Need to play her a bit first...

Magic/Abilities
Foal has no "proper" magic, like a mage might, but she has lots of magic tricks! Sleight-of-hand, illusions, and the like. She knows several songs and poems and rhymes, stories tragic and comedic, jokes, shadow plays and pantomimes. She can play the fiddle and reed flute - both of which she carries with her - and, when she gets her hands on one, knows a few tunes on the harp.

Less expected of a troubadour, Foal is handy with a sword and with a bow-and-arrow, though she's not exactly a 'master' at either. Hidden beneath the saddle blankets of Aristoxenus is a mid-length sword that once belonged to her brother, and she knows how to use it.

Foal is also an excellent juggler.

Relationships
Terrwyn - Dragon. A small, dog-sized dragon (not including tail and wingspan) with dark red scales and bright golden eyes. Terrwyn is Foal's traveling and performing companion. He can produce fire and smoke, a handy addition to any show.

Aristoxenus the Wise - Mule. Pack animal and saddle mule, depending on what's needed of him.

History
Forthcoming...


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