"Well, he certainly keeps his hands clean, doesn't he? The biggest fish usually do. Never do anything yourself you can't get a disposal underling to do for you. Come on. Let's get a drink. Might overhear something useful. Still have a few hours before we meet Granny."

The words were spoken by one of the two figures passing under the streetlamp. Spoken in an undertone, to the woman who walked alongside him, but Quinlan might just be able to hear them. The man was unmistakably Serenian. He had the lithe build and fair skin typical of the race. Human, but even more notably, he had tousled hair of bright blue and green and aquamarine eyes spoke of the faerie blood that set Serenians apart from their neighbors to the south and north.

A noncommittal noise was the only response the man got from the woman walking alongside him, who could hardly look less Serenian. Umber brown skin and big, coiled black hair that could only rightly be described as a mane set her clearly apart from the fair Serenians. But in a bustling trading town like Sevelea, neither of the pair stood out significantly. People from all over Serendipity, and some from farther, came to do business in the sprawling old city. Of course, it wasn't only legal traders that dealt here.

Selevea's unique political structure made it a den of illegal trade and activity. Goods ranging from smuggled weapons, dangerous magic, intoxicating botanicals, stolen treasures, to human lives. The latter was what brought the pair passing under the lamplight. Buying and selling human lives (or non-human, for that matter) was, of course, perfectly legal in Serendipity. Foreign lives, not Serenian lives. A facted that rankled a foreigner like Zahi Akello. But that didn't mean there wasn't a market for pretty, young Serenian girls. Of course the poor, forgotten, defenseless children of the street had always gone missing, from time to time, with few taking notice. But a steady stream of respectable young girls, some as young as six, had been disappearing from their homes and families. Sold, it was said, to Essryn and other places abroad for their exotic looks, or even domestically to those who didn't fancy a foreign slave. Girls, and some boys, had disappeared from all over the country, but rumor led them here.

Here in Sevelea is where they hoped to find the orchestrator of the whole dirty business.

Because however much things may or may not have changed for Quinlan in the past years, Zahi Akello found herself in a very different position indeed. No longer a Soot Wolf, no longer a criminal, Zahi Akello was now a detective in the service of the Queen. It had been a strange turn of events that had led her here: After her ascension to Red Jackal, her expulsion from the Soot Wolves had nearly cost her her life. 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.

A less easy line to walk, however. Her connections did prove useful to detective work, that was true, but anyone who changes sides has to be extra vigilant. Zahi maintained contacts in the Soot Wolves, particularly with Huxley, but did not know what fate Rufus had in mind for her. But she was certain she would find out, eventually.

In Sevelea, at least, she did not have to worry as acutely about him. This wasn't Soot Wolf territory. The Thieves' Guild operated here. They had, in fact, a meeting with a representative of the Guild - 'Granny' - later that night. That doesn't mean she'd let her guard down, however. As they passed under the lamplight, Zahi felt a pair of eyes on her. Her own odd, mismatched eyes glanced sideways at the figure. And for the briefest moment her eyes met Quinlan's, but her expression remained unchanged; as though she'd glanced at a stranger.

Because if there was anything Zahi Akello did not need, it was that asshole Connlaothain bloodmage, Quinlan Duirne.

There was little Constance could do as Erwin hauled her to her feet and dragged her towards the newly torn-open exit from the pavilion. Even in the fear and chaos, though, her instincts wanted her to pull away from Erwin and do... What? Something. People were mad; trampled by horses, trampled by each other, a man brought down by a crumbling, smouldering beam from the roof. And the fact wasn't lost on Constance that whoever did this, this was exactly the way that the Order of the Blue Star had operated. Hit and run guerrilla attacks. Fire, smoke, gunpowder.... Gone before the first flame was noticed.

But they did not target civilians. They never targeted innocents, targeted a festival.

Right?

Still, familiar images swam through Constance's mind, but from the other perspective. Watching from the shadows as the locked barracks was set alight. Running as poisoned smoke filled a mess hall. As a laden bridge collapsed in a crumbling explosion.

But those were soldiers, a voice said at the back of her mind. They were killing us. Innocent or not. We had to fight.

The question hung in her mind, though: Who had organized this?

But she wasn't thinking it for long once the guards had Erwin and Constance shepherded brusquely outside. Constance stumbled, choking from the smoke, away from where they were trying to smother the flames licking up Erwin's side. She only saw the scene of the Duke and his guards vaguely, out of the corner of her eye, before her attention was drawn away. And she froze on the spot.

Because the fire wasn't contained to the pavilion. The stalls and stands of the festival had also been targeted. And while panicked people poured out of the pavilion and away from the stalls, more and more people were seeing what Constance was seeing: The wind was carrying the fire dangerously close to the town. The town full of people's homes and shops and livelihoods and lives.

A strangled choke shook Constance's chest as she stood, glued to the spot, watching the fire. A guard was talking to her, asking if she was well or not, but she couldn't hear him. Slowly, her eyes moved from the fire to the clear, blue skies above. You could stop it, Constance. The voice pinged at the back of her head. You could darken the blue skies. You could cover the land in rain. You could do it. You know you could, Constance. You know.

But she couldn't. She couldn't... It was wrong. And it was dangerous. The urge to do it, though, to use her magic now was the strongest she'd ever felt. She knew mages who'd gone mad, unable to control that urge. And she'd always considered herself lucky that she had never suffered as they did. But now she was rent by it. She couldn't answer the guard. She couldn't move. All her energy was focused on not using her magic, eyes fixed on the clear blue skies.

"Get the Duke and the Lady out of here!"

The guard’s command rang out above the din of panic in the pavilion, but there was no way for any of the guards to act on it. The pavilion was complete chaos: people pushing against each other, horses spooked and rearing, everyone pushing to get out of the now burning center of the fair. Constance was temporarily transfixed by the scene: it was chillingly familiar. The fire that had turned the mage camp into a heap of cinders. That had killed many more than had escaped…

But Constance had been forced to think on her feet these past years, and she’d just mentally collected herself when the black-coated stallion reared, sending Erwin sprawling directly into her. The impact made her stumble, but Constance moved quickly enough to grab the duke by the arm in attempt to steady him. His momentum was stronger than skinny Olive, though, and rather than stop Erwin’s fall, she was pulled down with him.

Horse hooves stamped down dangerously close to Olive’s head after she hit the ground, and the boots of panicked festival-goers closed in around her.

Above, the flames reached the roof of the pavilion, and a burning, fire-eaten beam crashed onto the crowd below.

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.


__________________THREAD TRACKER
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Complete Threads

__________________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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