Fantasy AEON OF HEROES ― Application

[Arkangel]

Untitled Character

Profile

General Information

Race

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Gender

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Age

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Height

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Class

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Origin

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Description

Scorching Inflorescence

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Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

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Regrets

Past Failures

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[AI10100]

Kyreth Ranolus

Profile

General Information

Race

Azelthyrian

Gender

Female

Age

249

Height

171 cm

Class

Archon | Healer

Origin

Avalon

Description

To Survive the Fall

Born in the rare days of shaky peace, Kyreth opened her eyes in the City of Avalon— built to protect those who had been slain and driven away by the arrogance of the Aeslengardians. Despite the horrors that her parents had witnessed, barely having escaped with their lives during the initial massacre of Azelthyrians in the Abyssal Dungeon, they continued to soldier on. They didn't quite coddle Kyreth and allowed her to grow into her own.

It was an oversight. To be lulled into the feeling of safety and peace. Kyreth was young and bright-eyed but this would be taken swiftly from her in the form of what would be known as the Third Divine Conflict. The Nephilim, in their endless greed, came upon the city, bringing with them death and destruction. There was no safe area to flee to and so her parents bravely pushed forward to help with the protection of the city, taking up arms they had not touched in years to fight for their right to live. It would all be for naught, Kyreth would find out, as the fall of the City of Avalon would be finalized the moment their Ukrethian allies had pulled back.

Kyreth hid with other non-combatants in safehouses; though how safe they would continue to be was debatable. The next events were a blur to the young Kyreth but her mother had returned, bloodied and harrowed, but alive. There were others with her and they were ushered away— run. The city was destined to fall but the people must survive. They had to. And so, the group weaved their way through the battlefield, using passages Daedalus had hidden away across the city as a form of escape. This would not be a foolproof plan, however, as the group became smaller and smaller— either because they had become separated in the chaos or because someone had to stay behind to cover their tracks or buy them time and simply never came back.

The escape was successful but the danger was still present. Kyreth overheard the adults talking during the night about how the war had overtaken the entirety of Paymonia. There would be no place to hide where they could be safe; their only option was to keep moving. If they made themselves scarce and unnoticeable, there would be a chance for survival. Kyreth's mother suggested a return to the Abyssal Dungeon. They could use the Vile Beast activity as some sort of smokescreen from the Nephilim. And so, they set out to a hometown Kyreth had only heard of from stories. They hid and ran, fought with everything they had and every child in that group would learn how to fight quickly or else become dead weight.

They arrived soon enough and Kyreth's mother led them inside, using her old memories of her childhood home to guide her. The Vile Beasts were problematic but they hadn't grown numerous just yet— not in the upper floors at least. The group settled down there in hiding for the remainder of the years, only leaving when they needed to for resupply. Slowly, her mother molded Kyreth as a healer just like herself and the holder of the chaos root before her and so on. Her mother taught her of what it means to be one— the way that they could control magic to allow others to thrive but to also protect when necessary. And Kyreth listened. She listened and practiced rudimentary medicine while she did not have access to the chaos root. She was in no rush to lose her mother so she strived to make do with learning about elixirs and tinctures in the meantime.

However, the time came far too soon for Kyreth's liking. She, her mother and another gatherer left the dungeons to resupply, hunting in the forests around for herbs, plants and meat when a Nephilim had tracked them down. Thankfully, there was only one of them, armor gleaning with a wicked intent. They had managed to take the Nephilim down, thankfully, but her mother had been injured in the process— seared by the blood of their enemy and its holy nature. Kyreth wished she could have done something but anyone with sight and a brain would have known that nothing could see her mother— she was on borrowed time.

So, thinking fast, Kyreth's mother transferred her chaos root to her daughter. Carefully, as the light of life drained out of her slowly, her mother left one last kiss on her forehead and apologized for leaving her but entrusted her with the belief that she will survive this ordeal.

And so, Kyreth remained.

It would be decades before the group left the Abyssal Dungeon after hearing about a new war— this one waged by someone who had actually slayed gods. Still, their extremely wary nature had caused the group to not settle down and keep among themselves. Once the war had passed, however, the group found themselves in a relatively smaller village in Exultius that they decided to make their home. The villagers readily accepted them— though appeared wary of their Aerouant companion— but allowed them to stay nevertheless. It would be here when they would continue to thrive, a small seed left from the ashes of Avalon.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

Kyreth's home was gone.

It had been destroyed all those years ago by those blasted Nephilim. Even if an era of peace had entered the nations, Kyreth held her breath. They had believed that about the time the City of Avalon had been made too— and everyone knew what happened to that. Now, it was a graveyard that a Greater Vile Beast had made its home. There would be nothing to return to but shattered memories.

Many would argue that Avalon lives on in Exultius— that it had never truly died even if the city had fallen. Its ideals had been, after all, the reason for the revolt. That it may have changed names but it was still there. Yet, Kyreth could not bring herself to agree with this sentiment.

Her family, too, was gone.

Kyreth knew she should be thankful for the group she was with— they had become her family when her mother had died. They only had each other to turn to. They grew up alongside each other and cared for the elderly until they passed. To them, race had not mattered in a long time— it mattered not what their blood was but that they had gone through everything together.

They were the remnants of Avalon. She knew that they couldn't be the last survivors of that massacre but they hadn't met any for the longest time since then.

Still, Kyreth couldn't feel at home. Not anymore. Even in the safety of the kingdom erected by the Godslayer, she felt ill at ease. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't settle down. She felt like she was still at the Abyssal Dungeon, still at the temporary camps in the forest, still... still not at Avalon. It could never be home for her, loathe as she was to admit it.

And so, she turned her attention to adventuring. Bidding farewell to her closest companions who had managed to settle down, Kyreth took to using her chaos root to aid adventurers— becoming a temporary healer for those in desperate need of one. She flitted from party to party, gathering as much experience as she could yet never settling down.

Among adventuring parties, she would be known as that odd Azelthyrian who offered her services for a meager amount of money. She was even deemed even more useful due to her more intricate knowledge of the Abyssal Dungeon— paired up with her own Vile Beast that she had tamed, traversing it became a little bit easier with her around. Though, Kyreth did often warn parties about the place due to the ever-increasing concentration of Vile Beasts on the lower floors.

It was clear to anyone who was observant and had worked with Kyreth that she was doing this for experience— both for her chaos root and for herself. She appeared to have a goal in mind; something to cling to in moments of desperation, in moments of near death. Kyreth wanted to become more powerful and she sought this by helping. Perhaps it would have gone faster should she have become a more offensive fighter, but she wished to carry the legacy of her mother. The Ranolus family protected by supporting others and she was eager to continue that.

And maybe, in some far-off dream, she would finally be able to find a place that she could call home.

Regrets

Past Failures

To become a healer is to leave behind a trail of corpses.

One healer cannot be perfect. Any adventuring party who set out to make a name for themselves or to earn money knew the risks that came with the profession. Grave injuries, life-altering psychological damage, and death. Even the most careful and most well-balanced group were still at risk of that.

And as such, Kyreth would be witness to many more deaths in her centuries of living.

She would accompany bright-eyed adventurers, novices really, and watch helplessly as they lose the happiness from their eyes as they trudge back to the city with one less member.

She would accompany daredevils and their loud arrogance of wishing to defeat Vile Beasts. Oftentimes, they would be chaos root holders themselves, wishing to make their mark on the world. Yet, Kyreth would press a hand against one of their companions, pouring magic into him to stitch up a wound she knew he couldn't recover from— not when he had a hole in the middle of his body. Kyreth simply bought enough time to transfer his chaos root away as a legacy to his friend.

However, all that to say, Kyreth only truly regretted one moment among many.

Kyreth was visited by the leader of a party, asking for her aid. She went over the contract with him and their target— a small adventure of Vile Beast hunting for those that made it to the surface— and accepted it after everything was set. Once she had prepared herself for the venture, she met up with the group and had finally gotten to know them. Her blood ran cold upon the realization that the Protector of the group was none other than a Nephilim with her armor gleaming and face hidden. Still, she simply grit her teeth and gave her a wide berth. This was just a job, there was no avoiding complications such as this. She observed the group and they appeared to get along swimmingly, laughing and planning like a well-oiled machine.

They claimed that their healer had left due to complications with his family so they ended up requiring another one to compensate. Just a temporary venture, nothing more, as the healer promised he would return once everything was solved.

They treated her well even as an outsider and tried to include her as best as they could. The Nephilim seemed to have noticed her apprehensiveness so she didn't make any attempts to engage which Kyreth had appreciated. In any case, Kyreth had to admit that the adventure was fun. It was a months-long adventure that forced her to face her own prejudices and preconceived hatred.

During this time, she even befriended the Nephilim. It left a bitter taste on her tongue but... this was different. This one was her ally and she was... kind. Kyreth found out more about the Nephilim's life— the horror of how her brother had been taken away due to his inability to develop a chaos root. It appeared that even the Nephilim suffered from the consequences of their own superiority and she left because of that. From then on, the two had become closer and closer.

Shame that it had to end before it could reach any fruition.

The group had been scattered by a group of Vile Beasts. Kyreth only had the Nephilim with her and the latter fought and fought fiercely. Neither of them were truly the offensive-oriented members of the group but their last stand was something ingrained in Kyreth's mind. The blood, the smoke, and the decisive blow that caused the Nephilim to fall to the ground.

This had created an opening for Kyreth and her pet to escape. And she thought about it. That traitorous part of her that refused to do anything with the Nephilim spoke and she listened. It was only a moment but a moment was all it took for a Vile Beast to pounce on the fallen Nephilim. The others had found them then and they managed to defeat the Vile Beasts.

Kyreth knew it was too late but she desperately made her attempts to heal her. Even when the Nephilim's blood made contact with her own skin from her desperation, even with the burning sensation inflaming her hand, Kyreth continued to make her attempts. But the Nephilim stopped her. With some of her last strength, the Nephilim bade farewell to her party members and revealed her face for the first time.

Kyreth took a break from her adventuring then. She would return later on but the pit of guilt in her stomach would never disappear.

 

[Juju]

Rubiliaxx, the Crescent Blue

Profile

General Information

Race

Aerouant

Gender

Female

Age

864

Height

173.7cm (human) 769cm (dragon)

Class

Vanguard

Origin

Avalon

Description

as scars say

A child of Avalon, Rubiliaxx bore witness to the wonders of the greatest mortal city in its golden age, and the tragedy that brought it to ruin. As one of the few survivors of the great Aerouant slaughters, the scars of conflict and loss run deep. There is an old and long forgotten saying among her dead people, that a dragon's scales hold their story, just as the rings of an oak speak its silent tale. Scarred and battered, Rubiliaxx's hide speaks only of a long and bloody history of survival and grief.

The most telling of all is the damage to her head, faded with time and yet gruesome to any familiar with the weaknesses of the Aerouant. Long ago, back when she still fought, she suffered a near-fatal blow at the hands of a Chaos Root. The resulting damage left one eye partially blind, nearly shattered her horn, and left half of her jaw as a broken mess. Although she managed to heal her horn and bones, the trauma of that day...the loved ones she lost, the infanticide she couldn't stop, haunt her more than any scar. Perhaps that is why her horn never healed right, losing its beautiful glow, or why she experiences a sharp stab of pain when opening her jaw widely.

Broken in both spirit and body, Rubiliaxx spent most of the last great age in seclusion. She had completely given up on this world and its violent people, even losing her will to protect her dying kin. She spent her days rotting in a secluded roost, slumbering in troubled thoughts as she waited out the call of death. It was only when a young mortal, over the course of their little young life, that challenged her nihilistic thoughts. Moved by the burning glow of their dying hopes and dreams, Rubiliaxx seeks to carry on the mortal's legacy and give this world, and its mortal denizens, one last chance.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

Some fight for the sake of the world, and yet what if one's world, the cherished ones who hold so much of one's heart and memories, have been utterly torn away? Everything one knows crumbles around them, and yet the world moves on. Rubiliaxx faced this madness after her colony of Aerouants, who had sought nothing but survival in an age of fear, was destroyed by Dragonslayers. She lost her closest friend and soulmate that day, along with an entire generation of children and newborn she had tried so desperately to protect. The little ones she had cared for, the hopes she had fought so fiercely to grow into fruition, were all crushed beneath boots and slaughtered before her.

What is left to fight for? she would ask the silence of her den, All that I bled for, killed for, are naught but the ashes of memory. What was it all for?

The silence gave no answers.

It was only until many ages had passed that something broke the oppressive silence. A young human, barely an adult, had come to her territory to challenge the legendary dragon who lived there. The dragon was furious, but had long vowed against bloodshed and denied the challenge. The human annoyed her enough that she eventually accepted the duel, beat them swiftly, and kicked them out of her territory. Silence returned, until a few months later, when the same human returned for a rematch. Once again, they were swiftly defeated and dropped outside the territory.

This pattern repeated every couple months or years. The young human grew into a warrior, and then into a knight. As their power grew, they still returned to challenge the dragon. With their new Chaos Root, they nearly defeated her several times. Although the human had annoyed her at first, Rubiliaxx began to look forward to their visits. She would wander out from her den, waiting and watching for her little friend's return.

Then one day she noticed something unusual. She had spotted the human far on the road -- past the village Rubiliaxx had seen founded but never visited -- yet her friend was taking longer to arrive. When she smelt blood on the breeze, Rubiliaxx left her territory for the first time in ages. She found her friend, wounded and surrounded by bounty hunters. Driven into a rage, Rubiliaxx broke her vow of passivity and burned every single attacker until there was nothing left but scorch marks and charred corpses.

She rushed to her friend and did her best to stabilize the mortal wound. While she panicked, trying everything she could to keep them alive, the human told her that the reason for this visit was to tell her of The Ashen Knights and the great dream of the princess. They had been chosen to help found a new nation, better than the one they had left. The knight didn't know when they would be able to visit again, so they wanted to say a proper goodbye.

Dying, the young knight entrusted Rubiliaxx with a vial of element-infused mana and their fading wishes. Even when bleeding out from wounds caused by their kin, the knight spoke only with hope for a brighter tomorrow, that goodness would triumph over the sins of the past. Rubiliaxx buried the knight near their typical sparring area, surrounded by blossoms and close to a peaceful waterfall. She took the invitation given to the knight and left her territory for the last time.

The knight's unshakable hope for a better future, their faith in the princess' dream, moved Rubiliaxx for the first time in years. Unwilling to let her friend's dream die, she seeks to carry on their will and serve the princess. For the sake of her friend and all the love they carried for their fellows, Rubiliaxx has decided to give mortals another chance.

Regrets

Past Failures

Rubiliaxx is haunted by nightmares of that night, when their peaceful hideaway was found by the monsters who had forced them to take shelter in such a remote place. She remembers the smoke rising in the sapphire sky, and the roars of pain and anger that carried across the stone. She fought tooth and claw against the Dragonslayers and their wicked weapons, even as familiar faces fell to the ground and the precious sanctuary she had worked so hard to create was reduced to ruin before her very eyes.

She remembers the bite of steel in her flank and the sear of magic that did little to match the fierce blaze in her chest. As one of the strongest fighters in the community, she had posted herself as guardian of the nursery, shielding the terrified children inside. The Slayers would leave no survivors, so as her beloved Solsong desperately tried to gather the children for an escape, Rubiliaxx viciously threw herself between the innocents and their would-be murderers. Just slowing them down would be enough. If Solsong and the young could make it out, it would be enough. Her own survival mattered little.

As her wounds increased, Rubiliaxx was eventually overpowered and fell at the hands of the raid leader. Powerless, she could only watch as the murderers rushed past, abandoning the dying dragon to instead target the children. Courageous, yet no fighter, her beloved Solsong threw herself in the way and was struck down. The screams of the young ones followed.

The sight of it was enough to rouse Rubiliaxx' broken body into one last attack against the slayer leader. The dragon carved through the lesser warriors until they came to the leader. Fangs met flesh, but no more. A blast of magical energy exploded across her face in retaliation, shattering her jaw, blinding her eye and nearly destroying one of her horns. Dying, Rubiliaxx's vision faded away in a blur of red, the sound of muffled screams growing quieter and quieter. The last thing she saw was the blank gaze of Solsong, dead beside her. At least they would be together soon.

By some cruel machination of fate, Rubiliaxx did not die from her wounds. She awoke some time later, after the slayers had moved on and the fires had become ashes. Surrounded by carnage and death, the fierce will and dreams that had once driven Rubiliaxx had died. Even in her broken state, she forced herself to honour the corpses of her community before the crows got to them. After it was done, Rubiliaxx dragged herself to a quiet den and waited out the next few decades for death to finally find her.

 

[ERode]

Chen Tang-Ruo

Profile

General Information

Race

Bestiard

Gender

Male

Age

34

Height

191 cm / 6'2

Class

Vanguard

Origin

Mutou-Kagyou City

Description

Scorching Inflorescence

War, what a wonderful thing!

To raise one’s status through training and valor, to bathe freely in the blood of the enemy!

His father had gained the right to purge Paymonia of the detritus of the divine, had fought side by side alongside the Godslayer during the worst of the Fourth Divine Conflict, where mortals were stacked up seven feet high and farmlands turned arid from the lakes of blood that ran. But his father had lived, lived to fight once more, earned through violence and war the right once more to progress his lineage with the wealth and accolades earned through greatsword and fang, through Chaos Root and inborn strength.

He chose to do one thing, and to do that one thing well. That was what Tang-Ruo’s mother spoke of, as she raised her child. Both his parents had survived the Nephilim hunts, both of them knew of how a single Vile Beast could end a tribe. They had travelled far to be graced by the protection of the Godslayer, that benevolent warlord who upended the arrogance of the gods and brought for a new era of prosperity and power. To them, even when mention of divinity was banned, they still worshipped, worshipped the immortal Godslayer, who gave them all the opportunity to rise above the roots and the mud, to become respectable even amongst other races.

Was there any other path in life for Tang-Ruo, except to follow in his father’s footsteps?
Was there any greater calling, than to serve as the knight?

…

He chose to do one thing, and to do that one thing well.

And his duty as a knight saw him relinquish his title as a knight.

Tang-Ruo, where everyone saw the rise of another Fang of the Godslayer, gave up his sword and his armor, his Chaos Root and his career. He did this in quiet, offering no explanation to his family or his comrades, then disappeared from Exultius.

Some thought him mad. Others wondered of the corrupting influence of that peace-making Prince. Still more decided that the vacuum he left meant greater possibility of promotion and glory for themselves.

His father disowned him. There were other sons and daughters of the Chen family who could fill the gap he left behind.

But deeper roots remained.

And his loyalties had yet to fade.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

What was it that he sought?

The Godslayer brought forth a new era for all in Calvalon, but was felled by age nonetheless, his mind twisting into mania. His subjects knew this, of course, but the blade of the tyrant remained unmatched regardless, so they bow their heads regardless, as the golden era turns to pyrite. How fragile of a thing it was, the human mind. How unfair the laws of lifespan were, that the gods themselves established. To be laid low by divinity from beyond the grave, while other creatures were blessed with minds that could withstand centuries of experience and simulacra without end.

And the Godslayer was not alone.

War, that wonderful thing, leaves its mark upon the psyche, more certainly that it left marks upon the body. How could one appreciate peace, when the blood feuds of millennia dwelled within one’s marrow? How could one seek forgiveness, when the memory of oppression remained within one’s flesh? How could the future flourish, upon blood-soaked fields and a lineage of corpses? How could one heal the world, when Arts existed only to heal the most violent, so that they may thrust themselves into the maelstrom of combat once more?

Do one thing. Do it well.

He wielded sword and shield and did so to protect the nation.

Yet a sword did not erase the marks of past transgressions; a shield did not protect from the rot that ate at one’s insides.

So, he gave both away, in order to free his hands.

Tang-Ruo would always be a Vanguard. His Chaos Root had already been set into foundation of his soul. It is no longer his choice to make, when he activates his mark and becomes a tempest of carnage once more.

With open hands, however, he could choose whether he strikes or grabs, whether he pushes or pulls, whether he throws or restrains.

With open hands, he could dig through the dark earth, one handful at a time, in search for what was lost in the Third Divine Conflict, when the alchemical and medicinal arts of the Bestiards were at their peak.

With open hands, he would create elixirs to soothe the torment of the mind, to return one to the alacrity of their youth.

He would fulfill his duty as a knight. He would bring back the brilliance of the Godslayer.

Regrets

Past Failures

He was a Fang.

So, even as he questioned the commands of his King, he remained silent, obedient.

And when it was over, he was the only one left standing, drenched in blood and guts, a broken claymore in his hands as he watched the sun rise to give light to the madness of that frenzied knight. It was a silent daybreak, the breeze cooling the bodies as flocks of scavengers descended to pick off the softest parts of a mortal's face.

Yet it should have still been but an ordinary day.

...

If the Prince had not brokered a peace, Tang-Ruo would have never understood his own heart.

If the Prince had not been imprisoned for that act, Tang-Ruo would have continued as a butcher.

Yet all such things happened, and now, he knew naught of tarnished glory, only of the sorrows and tragedies sowed upon steel.

...

Do one thing. Do it well.

For three decades, he had not understood what that meant.

But now he did.

And the weight of those wasted years bear upon him like a boulder upon a hill.

He must push, and envision happiness regardless.

 

[Huntertabbysandshark3]

Azrialo (Azri) Vordarosel

Profile

General Information

Race

Aerouant

Gender

Male

Age

446

Height

195cm

Class

Archon/Caster

Origin

Avalon

Description

An old Shut In

Azrialo had never been one to.. get out much remaining in archived and buried in books for decades at a time, content with learning and reading through various arcane manuscripts and ancient treaties for this was where he was most comfortable, this changed however. when Avalon was destroyed Azrialo only managed to survive through sheer luck and a fair bit of arcane power that he'd accumulated.

Ambitions

a record keeper without a library

Without the archives and places to study and be alone Azrialo, was forced to travel and wander much to his annoyance being away from people was hard now meaning he had to speak with others and interact with them his talents as a caster became apparent enough and frankly he found it rather more enjoyable than being a shut-in without anywhere to go deciding to instead make his own records of his travels rather simply reading them,

Regrets

Past Failures

Azrialo biggest regret is the time he wasted, it took the destruction of his home for him to even consider traveling centuries wasted gone to dust rereading the exploits of others was it all worth it? was it all simply selfish? Azrialo isn't sure but he intends to correct it.. one way or another.. for too much time already been lost

 

[seasonedcat]

Elkeas, The Flightless Crimson

Profile

General Information

Race

aerouant

Gender

male

Age

241

Height

170cm(5'6)|464cm9(15'3)

Class

Archon|Archer

Origin

Twin Rocks

Description

Broken Promises

it wasn't long before the first promise was broken to him. From his den mother, he can remember how she held him as he cried, a nightmare he could hardly recall of parents who had no face to him. They had died saving him, is what he was told, and as he sobbed over the fading dream, she promised him one thing, 'you're okay, small one, I'm here. No one can hurt you here, I promise." He can also remember the day he lay among the corpses of his fellow orphans, deathly still, as he used a young girl's body to hide from the attackers. He can remember shaking her and the other mother desperately trying to wake them, but they never awoke.

he ran, and he was alone again. Every promise of a better future was shattered; all he knew was that he had to hide. And so he did. He survived alone, barely making it through, but he did. He would make it alone so that no one would ever break another promise to him. Of course, his feeble heart soon trusted again, but that was also shattered.

he has long since accepted that this world can not change, that to anyone but him he would be nothing more than cattle to slaughter. A title, some mere gold, or just bragging rights; that's all he was worth in so many eyes. So, if the world wouldn't change, why should he try to fix it? Little more drives him than pure spite. Spite to outlive the world that has doomed him from birth. Spite to the many who had tried to kill him and failed. And spite to every goddamn person out there that says it will get better. To prove to them that they were wrong. So he plays by the rules the world made around him because there is no other way to live in that damned place.

Ambitions

Spiteful Vengence

there was a time when he thought that people could change and the world could improve. When he was but a boy eating scraps left by animals or testing his luck with plants. Before he knew how to use a bow. When a man found him near death in a cave, who offered him a hand, only for Elkeas to slash at him. The man retreated and came back each day, leaving food. He was a hunter of some sort, each day bringing the promise, 'I won't hurt you.' It was the day that Elkeas believed that promise that he was grabbed, the man finally thinking he had the chance to kill the aerouant. With his hands bound, there was only one thing he could do: tear the other's throat out with his sharpened teeth.

covered in the man's blood, he took his bow and his other gear and found his way to the man's cabin. He lived there for a while, learning to hunt and learning to care for himself. He hadn't dared let himself use his dragon form since the day his den died, both out of fear and anger. Afraid someone would see and angry at the world that made him into this. He could not even fly, born without wings on his left side. Doomed never to soar by fate and punished to hide by the people who walk.

there was little that Elkeas could do but let his anger fester. The spite and hate he felt for the world could only grow. For many years, he desired to kill those who had killed his kin. That was until he stoped and saw a tree near the cabin he had been living in. It had grown to tower over him in his time here. He then realized that he would outlive the murderers. Then, he decided living was enough for the revenge he could get off of them; they would forever be failures.

it was this spite and hate for those who walked the soil that kept him going. As every hope he allowed to grow got stomped out by this world, he cursed it. He was doomed to walk it alone and would ignore the echoes of hope that filled his chest. He would not let this world hurt him again; he would not let another living thing that walked this earth hurt him again. He was alone, and the world would suffer for it. Somehow, some way. He would live to spite it all.

Regrets

Shattered Hope

a day came when Elkeas had let his guard down too much, the peaceful forest lulling him into false security. It was on this day that a Nephilim captured him. He awoke to chains and another man before him. Just like Elkeas, this man had been forsaken by fate. Born defective and without a chaos root, he was outcasted by his people, given only mercy by his mother, who ordered him to complete a worthy feat and would be rewarded a chaos root. Killing an Aerouant would be that feat.

however, to Elkeas's surprise, the man gave him a weapon and told him to fight him. He would not earn this victory without deserving it. So the two fought, but neither could kill the other. The Nephilim, to his surprise, ended the fight once the sun set, retreating outside the room he was locked in, even bringing him food. This continued for a long time; soon, the two began to talk to each other, and the days they fought grew apart.

as they grew closer, Elkeas became less of a prisoner; eventually, Elkeas came and went as he pleased, even exiting the house and returning. Like him, the Nephilim lived in the woods, so he did not have to fear other people seeing him. Elkeas did not know why he came back; the Nephilim had set him free, and yet, after walking for a while, he came back with a hunt for dinner. He had nowhere else to go, and he had someone to talk to for the first time in a very long time.

as time went on, their bond deepened. To them, they were not two races sworn to hate each other. The two developed as mates, unable to live without the other anymore. Good times were not meant to last. One night, his mother visited, and as Elkeas hid, the two talked. Elkeas's mate had a mission from his mother, and he had to go on, but nothing Elkeas said would change his mind. So off he went, and Elkeas was left waiting.

3 years was nothing in an Aerouant's life, but knowing that his other half's life was ticking down with each day was agony to Elkeas. When the fated day that he returned happened, it was not the happy reunion he had hoped for. When he returned, the other had obtained a chaos root. Elkeas confronted him about this, as he knew what his mother demanded for him to get one. The horrors that he described to Elkeas left him shocked. No longer was he allowed to see the other's face, and as he spoke, he grew deranged.

he would be allowed to keep Elkeas as a pet and return home, to Elkeas's horror, this was not a joke. As Elkeas grew angry at the other, the other grew furious; when a hand was laid on him, Elkeas went to leave, only to be met with a sword through his stomach. If he could not take him back, the other was to dispose of them. They fought again after so many years, just as feral as their very first fight. If the other had used their chaos root, they would have no doubt won, but maybe there was still the man in there who did not want to kill him or the one who did not fight unfairly. As the dust settled, Elkeas held their dying lover in their arms as they mourned another promise broken, another dream shattered. In his dying moments, he offered his chaos root to the other. He did not want to die with it. In his dying clarity, he realized the desire to be like the other Nephilim had driven him mad. That he did not deserve to be buried with it. Through sobs, Elkeas accepted it.

after burying the body and burning the building to the ground, Elkeas wandered around for a while. The only memory of that house was of the chaos root he now held and the Nephilim mask that hung on his belt. Some nights, he would even put it on before going to sleep, another habit he had picked up from living with a Nephilim for so long. Using hunting to hone his chaos root skills and hiding from humans, he wandered aimlessly. This was the last time he ever would trust a promise.

 

[lucenti]

Saran Qacaye

Profile

General Information

Race

Bestiard-Human Hybrid

Gender

Male

Age

28

Height

182cm

Class

Caster

Origin

Eastlands

Description

Tomorrow‘s Dreams

Mooncrests were birds native to the Eastlands. Named for their greyish plumage and crescent-shaped tufts of hair, they were notorious for being difficult to handle. More often than not, they would rather starve to death than comply with their keepers' wishes. A hindrance, which only further increased the demand for the bird - or rather, its by-products.

Instead of trilling or calling to attract potential mates, males built nests to prove their competence. Using a special spit, they would weave the fluid into massive structures that would harden overnight. Material that, if properly harvested and processed, could be diluted in healing potions to increase their potency. In its natural state, however, the silk was still vulnerable to the claws of predators, so the birds built their homes on the undersides of narrow cliffs. A place only the moonlight and the cautious talons of Saran's tribe could reach.

His people were hunters and gatherers at heart. As many of them were blessed with the privilege of being able to soar through the skies, they scouted and obtained resources inaccessible for most hands. They were self-reliant, rarely seeking the help or contact of larger communities. Instead, they actively chose to produce most of their own necessities and send the few humans under their roof out to trade for everything else. Though they had a various methods for acquiring financial goods, their most profitable sale remained the processed silk. A rarity they could only obtain in limited quantities each year.

The tribe was by no means rich, but life there was free. It was something that Saran cherished, all the more so when he realised that it did not apply to everyone.

One day, a group of adventurers appeared on the doorstep of the tribe, begging for help as one of them was suffering from the poisonous bite of a lesser wyvern. A wound that would prove fatal if left untreated. Their healer and potions were of no use, but whispers of a miracle ingredient had them eyeing the rare silk. But as many merchants as they visited, they received as many refusals. So, with their last hopes gathered, the group made the arduous journey to the source, ready to empty their pockets for their lifelong friend.

However, their prayers would go unanswered, for as soon as the tribesmen saw the wounded one, their goods were locked away again and any treatment refused. No Nephilim deserved their work, and no elder could ever change their minds. Forgiveness was fickle, and all the more so when hearts still ached for the lost. They allowed the adventurers to rest on beds for a night, but that was the end of the tribe's mercy. They had to leave the next day.

Saran, who had seen the glimmer of hope in the strangers' eyes fade and die, could not stand idly by. That very night he sneaked into the warehouse, snatched a skein of silk and hurried to the guesthouse. Expressions of eternal gratitude were exchanged for a small piece of thread. The memory of the warmth in their smiles lulled the little child into a blissful sleep as he returned to his bed.

The next morning, the chieftain's son awoke to the sound of angry shouts and hateful accusations. Flying out, he arrived at the scene to see the tribal warrior surrounding the adventurers, with the Nephilim in the midst of them, guarded by their friends. The whispers of the nearby onlookers told Saran what he needed, replacing his earlier drowsiness with overwhelming guilt. Unsure of the trust he could place in these strangers, and having seen the desperation in their eyes the day before, his father decided to search the group's bags before they left. An inspection that proved worthwhile, for they found the potion Saran had left in their care.

No word from his own son could stop the leader in his wake. His attempts to clarify the situation fell on deaf ears as the battle began. Thieves could not escape unscathed, and the presence of the Nephilim only added to the sentiment. In the end, the adventurers were no more. Exhausted and injured, they were no match for the overwhelming numbers of rested Bestiards. Soon the sounds of celebration echoed through the tribe as the bodies were looted and promptly tossed over the cliff.

Saran watched as his father and his advisors made their way to the nearest water source to cleanse themselves of the blood. Disgust settled in the pit of his stomach, blinding him to everything else. What did the freedom of the sky mean if they were shackled to the hatred and prejudice of the ground? How could they not feel the guilt of their injustice weighing them down as they flew?

It was that moment that would be etched in the young hybrid's mind, even if he was the only one to remember it. Saran may have later given his father the excuse of wanting to discover the world as he prepared to leave the tribe, but in truth it was his inability to forget. Staying in a place where cruelty could so easily happen spoiled every good moment he could experience.

So in his eighteenth year, Saran took off. Carrying his mother's parting gift, her Chaos Root, he tried to do what his and many other people could not.

Making peace with the past.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

It was hard to cling to a dream that many called foolish. For every step he took, the winds fought harder to push him back. There were times when it would have been easier to turn back and return to his tribe. Admit defeat. When the cold treatment at the mere sight of his unusual appearance made him feel worse than any actual crime could ever do. Children told by their mothers to avert their eyes as he strolled through the streets, shushed for expressing their curiosity too loudly. Rooms too crammed for his features, pulling his feathers in all the wrong directions.

These moments made him want to crawl to the furthest point above the ground. The only reasonable explanation for why he found himself on the top of a mountain one morning. Talons dangling over the edge.

Through the fog, Saran could catch glimpses of the city in the valley below. Towers jutting up into the sky, the villagers nothing more than tiny dots. It was the same settlement he had tried to visit, only to fail miserably. A careless gesture that set off a chain reaction of terrible interactions. His attempts to prove them wrong only made matters worse. It was this embarrassing shame that caused him to retreat into the comfort of familiarity. To the untouched nature.

His journey had not even begun and it felt as if it was already coming apart at the seams. How could he work for something as grand as world peace if he couldn't even manage some sarcastic remarks?

The sudden touch of a cane poking him in the back jolted him out of his self-pity. Turning, Saran's second surprise was seeing the milky eyes of a priestess. Her pupils unfocused in the distance as she asked him to move so she could harvest the herbs growing beneath the trunk on which he rested. He offered his help for the inconvenience, she agreed, and their conversations began. Friendship blossoming somewhere along the way. From then on, Saran visited her daily. With her, he felt safe enough to share the vulnerabilities he had accumulated on his lonely travels, while at the same time revealing the visions of his dreams. He wanted to get settled into this new routine, but their time together would end as quickly as it had begun. One day, she announced that she had to return to the capital.

Anxious at the thought of having to continue his travels as before, Saran asked if he could go with her. She refused. He didn't understand. The priestess looked at him, as best as she could in her condition, and replied, "You still have dreams to fulfil."

These would be the last words they exchanged, but they were more meaningful than a simple farewell could be. Not only did she remind him of his original reasons for wandering the land, but the absolute faith in her voice made him realise: It was not the words of a stranger that should influence his actions, but the trust of a friend. That night, he parted from the mountain, more confident than when he first landed.

Saran was still searching for a way to create harmony between the races, where the question of "What" had less sway than the "Who". However, now he knew it was not something he wanted to do alone. It would take time, but one day he wanted to be doing something he loved surrounded by people he could trust.

A team, perhaps even a family.

Regrets

Past Failures

It was his first time in Mutou-Kagyou City.

It was also the first time he had been pickpocketed.

An unassuming boy was pushed to Saran's side by the relentless crowd of merchants and busy customers. He stumbled, leaning onto the taller figure. A curt apology later and he was off in the direction he had come, squeezing through the small gaps between the legs of the pedestrians. Moments passed before Saran noticed the lack of weight on one side of his belt and patted his belongings as the dots began to connect. Just fast enough to look around and still see the thief's back disappearing into the intricate system of alleyways that connected each end of the city.

Unfortunately for the criminal, he had to choose a victim who could actually follow him, despite not knowing an inch of his surroundings. Intentionally chosen corners, meant only to be passed by a child's figure, were rendered useless as Saran utilised the skies in his pursuit. He was used to the patterns that fleeing creatures took in their panic. Eyes sharpened since birth.

So it was not long before the man had the boy cornered, only waiting until the gaps between the rooftops were large enough for him to descend with ease. What surprised Saran, however, was the ferocity with which the thief defended his stolen property. Despite the obvious unlikelihood of keeping it. But when he noticed the state of his appearance and the trembling hidden beneath the layers of filthy clothing, his eyes softened visibly. Saran offered the boy to accompany him for the day. "Like a guide," he said. The boy was wary, but with no other choice, he accepted the offer.

The day passed without incident. Their time together peeled back layers of doubt to reveal the childs's inner curiosity. His smile grew brighter the more gifts Saran gave him. From snacks to toys he had dreamed of. In return, the man was shown the secrets of MKC. The curiosities in the strangest corners.

Their paths parted at the sight of the moon, the child now carrying fuller pockets and Saran's blessings for better times.

They would find each other again on the last day of his stay. At the same market, of all places. But what distinguished this encounter was the collar wrapped around the boy's neck. It adorned him in mockery, proclaimed his lack of will, and at the same time showed to whom exactly he now belonged. For a moment, as their eyes met, hope blossomed within the child. The kind soul who could be his saviour. After all, what else were wings good for, if not to reach places no captor could touch? Yet seeing the grimace on Saran's face, that spark soon faded.

The consequences of failure haunted the hybrid's mind. What if's which kept him from tearing the metal apart with his claws. The hopeful smiles of a group of adventurers turned to the blank stares of their corpses. Could he put the same burden on this youngling? More doubts filled him as he glanced at the collar. Another fear that cornered Saran like prey. What if the punishment for trying was to suffer the same fate? His wings twitched in pain and so he closed his heart and looked away.

As they passed each other, one with no freedom left and the other unwilling to risk his, they were strangers once more. Only now, far more personal insults stained the air between them.

A young slave and a guilty coward. The start of a joke that would never end.

 

[luciferin]

Tsunbuyla

Profile

General Information

Race

Bestiard

Gender

Female

Age

42

Height

191 cm

Class

Vanguard

Origin

Mutou-Kagyou City

Description

Scorching Inflorescence

From the grasp of ignorance, something simple. From that simplicity, chasing nothing but the most instinctive desire, something like freedom.

In the chaos of the Fourth Divine Conflict, shattered prisons and evacuated cities led to the escape of many convicts. One gang of such individuals, formed after years banded together in the name of escape and survival despite old grudges and hidden blades, happens upon a trio of Bestiard children orphaned in the wake of disaster. They are not hateful or intolerant, but they are not knowledgeable either. When they take the cubs from the ashes of war, tucked inside a nest of old clothing within their packs, it’s with the names Leopard, Lion, and Wolf.

They are raised with the most indulgent of vices, as much animal as man. When hungry, they eat bread from the packs of raided travelers and meat cut raw from slaughtered livestock. When angry, they bare their fangs and ball their fists, venting their frustration with pumping adrenaline and purpling bruises.

They are raised to be as criminal as the rest, with blood splatter staining their fur and stolen supplies strapped onto their backs. Devoid of shame, devoid of sin.

Until that perverse reverie is swept aside by the edge of a moon-limned blade, dancing like flowing waters and scattering petals as it cuts through the perpetrators of a most immoral life.

The swordsmen return to the Mu-Ka City with bounties in hand and the surviving child in tow, submitting the Bestian to their mentors in the Yamamoto Clan for reeducation. Like all who walked through its gates, to learn the blade was a process spent as equal parts servant and student, learning to seep tea for tranquility and sweep floors for humility. Standing in a lakeside pavilion, watching as the blossoms fall from the surrounding trees to ripple the waters below for the sake of tradition. Adopting a new name and reciting ancient verses over an exchange of wine bowls for the sake of culture. And most strange of all, dedicating the sword to an order that protected the poor even as it slaughtered and enslaved them.

Perhaps Tsunbuyla could be content there amidst a life of luxury and purpose, however strange. But there were eyes in the walls and a leash settling tight against her throat. Someone was always watching, commanding her to bend another's etiquette and bow to another's will. And every beast dreams of freedom, even if it lies in its cage, to some extent content. Even if it, itself, does not realize the origin of its frustration.

Realization strikes on a night, just as average as the rest. There is an annoyance, as always. An order to eradicate a threat to the city. But as the refugees are herded away, a shadow splits from the night to begin a bloody slaughter with the use of their Chaos Root, shattering the clan's lines and giving the refugees a chance to scatter before they retreat, vanishing into the night with marks exhausted. Less than an hour later, they crumple to a blade through the ribs. As the wolf waits for the death of its prey, they reach out a shaking hand. Golden eyes witness a final plea and turn to ignore it like one of many. At that moment, a promise is sealed by the brush of a blood-smeared palm and the rush of mana through once-barren veins.

"Do you not, too, wish for freedom? Would you not spare them the same now that you have the opportunity?"

That night, the jailhouse’s doors are left open, and a small group of prisoners vanishes into the night.

That night, a wolf is unfettered to hunt naught but for its own desire.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

But what, exactly, did Tsunbuyla desire?

She loved the pleasures of the mortal world, learned from her time in Mu-Ka. The warm curl of smoke in her lungs, drifting from a lit cigarette. The taste of roast meat and barbeque on her tongue, settling warm in her gut. And most of all, the dedicated study of the blade.

What she desired, however, was freedom.

So she walked the earth, settling wherever her blade could earn a blood price. Until the very crux of her Arts was stained with the same fervor, the same indolence.

"One sword to split the seas; two swords to sunder the skies."

Yes, that would do well. To become a weapon of slaughter, daring to defy whatever stood in opposition, whether they be beasts, kings, or the very heaven themselves.

Regrets

Past Failures

For there is no need for blessings, nor masters, nor higher existences. And in such a scenario, what need is there to bend to the will of another, no matter how brilliant, how noble it is?

So if she ever were to be leashed again, it could be by nothing, save for her own desire.

 

[Nifty]

Jacoliene “Liene” De Gunst

Profile

General Information

Race

Human

Gender

Female

Age

Twenty-Eight (28)

Height

181cm or 5’9”

Class

Hyreus, Hunter

Origin

The Capital, Exultius

Description

Soul of The Sightless

A simple human soul among many.

As a young and blind girl, she grew up wearing expensive dresses. Clad in her armour of fabrics, her household knew her as the helpless, weak and fragile little girl who was utterly dependent on her parents. The Duke and the Duchess spared no expense raising her to be a proper lady. Their doting parenting styles may come off as doting to others, but for their young daughter, Liene, it is nothing but a suffocating way of living.

On the eve of her birth, her parents were ecstatic to have a little girl. As the baby mewled in her mother’s arms, her father looked at the newly born with calculating eyes as if he was already planning the rest of her life in the coming twenty years. In the eyes of Liene’s father, The Duke of Prelidius sees every living being as a pawn to him, even his children.

The Duke, Rikkert De Gunst, is renowned for his undying loyalty to the Godslayer. The De Gunst family is a long line of strategists and profound war generals who served the crown during wartime. At some point during the Third Divine Conflict, one genius, De Gunst, developed a weapon now notably named after his family, the gun. Their cruel warfare strategies have been refined through each generation.

The De Gunsts are currently living through an era of peace, and these would typically be the times when the De Gunsts where their titles would be all they have left. Their warfare strategies would never be needed during peaceful times, which Rikkert always dreaded. So when the whispers of war and conflict reached his ears, the Duke smiled at the opportunity. Some say he was the one who whispered to the Godslayer the idea of spies within his kingdom. Eventually, leading the King to paranoia, if not leading, may be one of the causes of his already fracturing mind. While some violently whispered against it.

The Duchess, Eveliene De Gunst, is a woman from a refined family. The Duke was first drawn to her with her beauty and the prospects she offered. Her family business handles the most extensive distribution and the making of weapons. From gunpowder to steel spears, Eveliene was meant to inherit it all. Until Rikkert decides to welcome himself into her life and propose marriage, with his family’s well-known status and Rikkert’s charismatic skills, Eveliene entirely belonged to the De Gunst family. And all her inheritance immediately went to Rikkert and his future successors.

The Heir, Hubert De Gunst, is the most eligible bachelor among the ton. They are sought after by the power-hungry daughters of Exultius. Because of his status, mothers and daughters flock to him like flies, creating a cocky and entitled brother for Liene. The children of the De Gunst family are born with a golden spoon in their mouths and have been handed things to them on a silver platter. Pampered with attention and suffocating, strict training, they are expected to bear the responsibilities of the previous dukes before them. Hubert is precisely that child, the perfect son and the perfect heir.

The Spare, now known as the greatest disgrace to have ever stained the De Gunst name, is Jacoliene De Gunst. Jacoliene was born into a life she never wanted. She was better off than most of the citizens of Exeltius. Some say you were born to be in a family you were supposed to have, but Liene begs to differ. Behind their polished reputation and pearl-white uniforms is an unfulfilling life of pity and overbearing expectations. She dreams of escaping her dull life in exchange for a glorious adventure.

From Liene’s protected and sheltered life, she knows little of the world and would want nothing more than to experience life in her own way. However, with her parent’s protectiveness and perception of her as their weak little girl, Liene finds herself in an unfulfilling situation. No matter how much she protested and proved herself, she would always be met with dismissive looks and sharp grunts that let her know one thing: “This brat is very ungrateful.”

When she reached the proper age, her father had already aligned numerous suitors for her to meet, but with one look and realisation that she couldn’t see, suitors fled just as fast as they went. This infuriated her father even more, and he saw her as nothing more than a broken and useless pawn. That was the word he used when describing her: useless. This infuriated Liene, and it bruised her pride. If anything, this motivated her even more to be strong, stronger than her father’s expectations.

This led her to sneak out frequently, during which time she would develop her art of stealth, picklocking, and escape. The challenge and thrill she received from doing that were addicting. Something in her just feels complete when she does that. Every night, she finds relief whenever she's out of her estate. After years and years of ignoring her chaos root, burrowing it deep inside her for golden ruffles, silver pearls and her father’s demands, she felt an overwhelming amount of happiness when she finally rebelled. Mingling among the ordinary folks and joining their festivities was magical for Liene.

During those faithful nights, she found her current mentor, Leyola Briyis, a human member of The Bloodguard, who started as a ragtag group of petty thieves who grew to be a formidable group of fine assassins and spies. Leyola is the type of person who knows about every single person in the capital. Her vast knowledge and the secrets she keeps are far more valuable and enough to topple nations or put a virtuous family into a deep and shameful scandal. And ever since Liene has stepped foot into the capital’s famous festivities, Leyola saw an opportunity. Even with her years of experience as a Hunter, the De Gunst vault continues to be impenetrable.

The original blueprints of the first gun would fetch a sturdy price for some of Exultius’ finest vintage collectors. At first, Leyola was only meant to use Liene solely for the mission, earn her trust, steal the original blueprint, and leave. But as the two spent more time together, Leyola saw potential in the girl and proposed an offer she could not refuse: steal her family’s greatest protected secret for a membership at the Bloodguard. It was a test to prove where her loyalties lie, and at the end of the night, Liene did not hesitate to leave it all behind.

After she grabbed that piece of parchment, there was no turning back. She joined the Bloodguard and left her family behind. Trained under Leyola Briyis, she aims to follow in her footsteps and become the most excellent hunter the world will ever see.

What wishful thinking that was.

Ambitions

Wish of The Worthy

To be worthy of love, one must be compassionate and kind.

To be worthy of respect, one must be humble and dutiful.

To be worthy of trust, one must be reliable and competent.

To be worthy of everything, one must see one's soul for who they are. Liene searches and longs to be worthy of trust, respect, and love. Growing up in a household that looked at her as a helpless blind girl, she felt the pity of everyone around her, and it made her feel weak and useless. From the artificial relationships in her household, she never truly knew what genuine love, respect and trust is. And it starved her, driving her to earn more.

She would want nothing more than to be worthy. Worthy of what, you may ask? She wants to be a worthy teammate, friend, and daughter. Even though she has left her family behind, a tiny glimmer in her soul wants her father to see her for who she is. When she was residing within his walls, she wanted nothing more than to make him proud, and this was why she withstood everything her father threw at her, all in the hopes of seeing her as nothing but a useless daughter.

Another ambition she has is to become the most excellent hunter the world has ever seen. She wants to prove to her family and everyone who has ever looked down on her that she can be strong and not the weak little girl they perceive her to be. And to do so gently, without any bloodshed. This is part of why she left her family and guild, both groups have blood on their hands, and Liene refuses to continue. This is her main drive as a character. It is her reason to wake up every morning.

For someone who can never visualise the world around her, some people may think this has limited her experience with the world. But they couldn’t be any more wrong. Her lack of sight makes up for the rest of her senses. Many believe that the Chaos Root is an extension of oneself, and Liene is one of those people. Without her Chaos Root at birth, she wouldn’t have been able to survive and feel things much better. She could hear birds sing melodiously from a mile away while the sun's warmth washed her gently. She could feel the vibrations and the little steps that ants take; in a way, this makes her feel alive. Yes! That’s it! In a world filled with grim creatures and a grimmer history, the little things should be the driving force for all life, including Liene.

As for the souls she took during her time with the Bloodguards, she hoped to redeem herself one day. The souls she took prove she truly is her father’s daughter. The weapon of war that the De Gunst created resulted in many deaths. Even though her ancestors are guiltless for their actions, the blood is still on their hands. Liene is simply one of the many who were cursed to be able to comprehend the meaning of death and blood fully. And for that, she promises to atone for her sins every day by being a good person, or at least she will try her best to be.

Regrets

Guilt of The Innocent

Her greatest shame in life is her family. More specifically, the way she left her family. Even during her time with the Bloodguards, all she could think of was the embarrassment her family must feel to have a runaway daughter. Most families during the war have been through hell and back, and yet they would always find and perceive to find each other. Liene, on the other hand, is blessed enough to be born into a noble family, only for her to throw it all behind. Because what? They were strict and wanted the best for her?

From the sources and the rumours she gathered from the people, her family is drowning in shame because of her actions. But being part of the Bloodguard requires her to swiftly find the truth and gather actual information instead of rumours. She used her skills to check up on her family, and there they were. The scandal has caused her father’s staff to leave, and it will only go down from there unless the De Gunst is needed again; perhaps war will just be the thing.

It is the type of guilt she could never forget. Yes, they were tough and suffocating to her most of the time, but it doesn’t excuse the verbal abuse her father put her through. But something in Liene yearns the feeling of family. The rare feeling of her father’s reassuring hand on her shoulder during social events. The gentle kisses her mother would give her when she was asleep. And the endless teasing from her big brother.

She misses her family, and a small part wonders how her life would be now if she didn’t leave.

After joining the Bloodguards, it was during these times that she found just how cruel and conniving the world could be. She entered herself into a world of professional killers and secret keepers. Some have made morally wrong decisions, while others are tame and professional. All members of the Bloodguards are capable of both being good and evil. They do not work for the good or the bad; they only care about money. And so where the money goes, they go. Their hideout is located in the deepest part of Exeltius’ complex and maze-like sewers.

One whiff of the sewers, Liene immediately misses her life in silks and pearls. She would get warm baths and proper foot care at her parents' house. In a way, this is what Liene wanted: to experience the good and the bad in life, to truly live her life in a world of immortals and timeless beings.

As an assassin, her actions must be decisive, swift and courageous enough to take the killing blow. Liene is precisely that, but the guilt of the life she takes continues to take her even to this day. The shame and the heavy feeling in her chest will never leave her. The ghosts of her victims continue to bother her; during those times, she would justify her actions by telling herself that it was for the ‘greater good’. She believes that the spirits of her victims will rise from Sitra Achra and drag her down for all the sins she has accumulated.

 

[November Witch]

Mintha Lamiaceae

Profile

General Information

Race

Nephilim

Gender

Female

Age

317

Height

168cm

Class

Archon - Healer

Origin

Aeslengard

Description

Lamiaceae's Life

Brainwashed would be an apt term for this Nephilim. Born within the kingdom of Aeslengard, she was brought up in their religion. This included the exaggerations, lies and inflated sense of being that came with it. Meaning the twisted racial superiority was alive and well in Mintha at one point. Genuinely, did she believe that her race was superior. All this to say, this nephilim was like all the others. She believed in their righteous pursuit of religion and the acts her nation would commit. Those who didn’t have chaos roots? They were obviously unfaithful. Slaughter or jail them. Did someone question the religion or perhaps they didn’t follow the cultural training to the T? Slaughter or jail them.

A devout follower of the church, Mintha rose to be known among its members. She was fearless, relentless and determined. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for the Theocracy. She was determined, often putting the church before her own health, to the point of her own degradation in ability. Though she was simply praised for her show of loyalty and dedication to the church and their religion. In fact, she regarded herself and her health so little that she made herself sick often. To the point where it was endangering her life. Mintha was as devoted to the cause as anyone could be.

Though, that was all in the past. Over a hundred years ago, in fact. Mintha now, is attempting to atone for past sins and mistakes. Guit still haunts her, and has a drastic effect on her life. She’s harsh on herself, and pessimistic about anything to do with herself. Mintha’s temper is easily lost and tends to lead to one of two things. Explosive anger or silent internalization. The girl knows loss, and has seen the terror of who she once was. The reptile-looking girl now offers her healing services for free to any and everyone. In a vain attempt to repay the pain she’s brought to others.

At present, Mintha is someone who is quiet and reserved. She keeps to herself for fear of being hurt by the people looking for her. Or those people in question hurting anyone around her. Meaning Mintha is slow to open up to anyone, and is suspicious of anyone who is interested in her. The girl keeps the fact that she is a Nephilim hidden, as doing otherwise could easily end her existence. The fact that she has animalistic traits means it is easy for her to pass herself off as a Bestiard.

Ambitions

Mintha's Motivations

Mintha’s ambitions are enormous. In her eyes, they are nothing but a dream. Out of reach and unachievable. The girl wants to atone for her past sins. For what she turned herself into, and what she did to others. Essentially a sheep in wolf’s clothing, she feels as if she changed herself, and put herself in a position to feel superior to everyone else. Like she changed something fundamental about herself to feel better. To have power over others and be looked up to. Looking back, it’s obvious. But Mintha is disgusted with herself due to her past actions. As a result, she sees death as the only realistic way to atone for her sins. But while she is here and alive, she is going to do what she can to help any and everyone who needs it. Regardless of how much or little it helps the world overall.

Regrets

Lamiaceae's Laments

In the past, Mintha has done many things that would warrant lament or regret. The people she has harmed, directly and indirectly both come to mind. Namely, as she was a healer for the church, she would be one that people would visit. Mintha would refuse to work or even see people who weren’t devoted enough. Leaving many to suffer as no one else would see to them. Not only that, but how she talked to people, how she held herself and what she believed… Almost all of what she was before, the person she had been, was a regret. If only she wasn’t so blind… If only she wasn’t so foolish or brainwashed… She blames herself for it all. Granted, some of it is warranted. However, how much of it is really her fault? For being brought up in a system that teaches and rewards that kind of behavior, doesn’t most of the blame fall onto those enforcing it? While some may think this, Mintha blames only herself. After all, she had the choice to simply not believe it. While it may not have been that simple, the girl sees it in more black and white colors.

The suffering and death that directly or indirectly came from her is something she blames solely on herself.

 

[Auda]

Aldricor

Profile

General Information

Race

Nephilim

Gender

Male

Age

31

Height

178 cm | 5'8 ft

Class

Archon | Elementalist

Origin

Aeslengard

Description

Scorching Inflorescence

Pride was something innate to Aldricor.

His people were blessed by the gods, the divine coursed through their veins, and the power of the chaos root was as natural to them as breathing. The boy was regaled by the stories of the old and the now, how they sought to rid of the impurities that soiled the land. Thus, the Nephilim couldn't contain his excitement as he counted the days leading to the inevitable manifestation of his chaos root. It was by their god's design.

Cheers and chatter filled Aldricor's ears on that fated day. It seemed that everyone in his group was blessed by a chaos root and he, the exception. Instead of a mark on his hand, something else—something entirely new manifested inside the boy. He could feel it at the pit of his stomach, slowly clawing its way out of his body to make itself known. Aldricor's face was flushed deep red despite the cold sweat that covered his body. It was shame. He was but a stain to the pristine history of his people.

Before he knew it, Aldricor was put inside a cell with no hopes of getting out anytime soon, but he found that he didn't mind it as much. The boy could tolerate the stale bread and dirtied water, the cold floor and insects crawling about. Even if a mark failed to appear on the back of his hands, Aldricor could still be useful. He'll be a willing sacrifice to help his people get closer in resurrecting their god. This was his punishment and repentance.

The thing he couldn't stand, however, was the other occupant of the cell. A Draculus greeted him with a smile when he first entered the room. It was Aldricor's first time seeing someone that belonged to another race, while the Draculus was more than familiar with the Nephilims. Feelings of distrust and disgust immediately sprang up and filled the small room.

Aldricor knew what he was signing up for—not that he had a choice in the first place—when he agreed—it was the only way—to be a part of the Nephilim’s research. He’d like to say that everything was a blur, but it wasn’t at first. He could feel every excruciating second he had spent under the hands of his kin. The first one burned like he’d never felt pain before, the second he hoped would be better, but fate liked to see him hurt, and his faith to their dead god was the only thing that kept him alive after the third. Aside from the torment, the only consistent thing was the Draculus welcoming him back every time he was dragged back to his cell, with the same smile they wore when they first met.

Aldricor didn’t have time nor the space to lick his wounds. If he wasn’t strapped on a table hearing the ways his body was going to be taken apart, he’s on top of his makeshift bed hearing about the Draculus talk about every single thought they had. It annoyed him to no end but interacting with them was worse. The only time he listened was when they were talking about their family.

‘The entire world was against us, but we had each other and that was enough.’ Aldricor unconsciously turned his head slightly towards the Draculus, ‘Still, the world is against us,’ The Draculus’ eyes met his and he immediately looked away, ‘and had us separated once again.’ Aldricor slept uncomfortably after that.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into-actually Aldricor didn't know how long it had been since he was put inside the cell. What he knew was that he was going senile. The first and only proof he needed was that he was starting to not mind the Draculus’ stories and even had to stop himself from replying occasionally. At night, when the Draculus inevitably talked themselves to sleep, Aldricor found himself staring at them at the corner of his eyes. Under the dim lighting of the cell, he couldn’t differentiate their body underneath all the grime and dirt. How their blood flowed and seeped through the cracked floor just the same.

‘I’ve been here for so long that I feel like I can understand what the rats are saying. Do you think I can ask them to sneak us the key to the door?” The idea was absurd enough that it was comical and Aldricor let out a huff of laughter before he could stop himself. ‘I honestly think it could work!’ He could hear the Draculus smile.

‘You’re dumb.’ he whispered back.

Whispers turned into sentences, and sentences turned into conversations.

One day Aldricor was rudely awoken by a guard, though that was the norm. What was weird was that instead of leading him to one of the laboratories, he was quickly ushered outside the facility. Aldricor hasn’t felt the sun in ages and the first time its light hit his skin, it burned. His eyes took a while to focus and when they did, they landed on a bloodied figure on the ground. It was a Nephilim, given by their armored—though one could barely call it that with its condition—body.

‘Congratulations.’ The guards that dragged him out said, and it was the last thing Aldricor remembered before everything went black.

The next time he woke, it was to the sight of the Draculus towering over him, face scrunched up in worry. This was the closest they’ve been, but Aldricor didn’t mind it as much as he minded the splitting headache that assaulted him the moment he opened his eyes. Once everything settled down to a manageable degree, he looked at the Draculus in confusion, hoping that they knew what happened. All they did, however, was look at his hands and Aldricor followed.

What greeted him was a mark of Nevrys. He quickly tried to rub it off to no avail. Aldricor thought it was a joke, until he felt it. He was instantly brought back to the beginning. It was something entirely new, and unlike the last time, it wasn’t shame that greeted him. It was power. Similarly, it felt just as foreign—wrong—as before.

That night, Aldricor recalled the stories of the old and the now, how he’ll be a part of their history, and wept.

It took a week—he dreaded every second—before Aldricor was led outside, officially this time. The sun greeted him first, then everything else at the same time. There were more people than he was used to and sounds loud enough to the point of overstimulation. Everyone had a different destination, but their feet moved just the same. Aldricor was lost the moment he made himself known. He was quickly escorted to another building, his steps in a hurry, out of beat. He was promoted from a test subject to a foot soldier. He was given an armour, but its weight was unfamiliar, and the helm felt as suffocating as his cell.

Aldricor’s life was filled with spontaneity, and on his third day, he disappeared only leaving his discarded armor behind.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

Being stuck in a cell for most his life, Aldricor yearned for a lot of things.

He wanted to see the world beyond Aeslengard. He wanted to experience the world with his own body without the weight of a Nephilim’s armor, to see the land without the lens of the past. He wanted to meet different people, to know their name and to say his in exchange. To hear their stories.

Aldricor wanted to be a Nephilim that apologized. To build a bridge—or at least the foundation of it.

Maybe a part of him yearns to come back, when he can proudly call Aeslengard his home once again.

Regrets

Past Failures

His first regret, though he was but a bystander, was when the mark of the Chaos Root failed to manifest at the back of his hand. Aldricor could still remember the immediate shame of watching his peers cheer—some just smiling as it was meant to be, while they showed of their marks with pride, and all Aldricor had to show was his inadequacy. Of the world not deeming him worthy of the gift, even as a Nephilim.

His second regret was a short and simple one, though it continued to haunt his thoughts even moreso than the first. The Draculus' name. He had no leads to who they were and where they’re from. All that's left of them was their image in Aldricor's memory, and how he has left them behind.

Aldricor's final regret was leaving Aeslengard. It was complicated thing. There was the feeling of freedom, but a part of him was anxious because of it. He wondered if it was fear that the path he took would lead to nowhere.

 

[Lathyrus]

Igris Chalara Raywood

Profile

General Information

Race

Human

Gender

Male

Age

20

Height

178cm

Class

Hyreus (Hunter)

Origin

Exultius

Description

An Indeterminate Excursion

In the early days of his newfound youth, Igris was anything but outstanding in character—the silent child who was oft seen peeking from behind the comfort of his father's form, intrigued yet intimidated; analytical yet acquiescent. With an absent mother who succumbed to maternal death, the widower was left to take care of his child in his lonesome.

Born and married into the working class, Igris’ father struggled to make a decent living for the house of two. With hardly enough money to make ends meet, the father, who would return home just to rest and provide the bare necessities before returning to work, grew weary of life; the only thing that kept him going was the memories of his late wife, the warm, gentle lover whom he wished to raise child and grow old with, and the byproduct of their consummation, who came to symbolize the source of his problems. A constant reminder of death, misfortune, stress, the father could not believe he would grow to resent him as much as he had. As a result of the ever-accumulating stress from bills yet to be paid and overtime shifts, the father's temperament became volatile… yet even as the root of his misery, he could not—would not—take away the life that stole his beloved’s. She would never allow it.

The next best option he could think of was to join the military, and so he did. Perhaps the financial support he would receive would mean that he would no longer have to slave away every day to survive, and he could take a lucky break from having to look after the pesky kid. Despite his shame as a father, he could no longer care about what would happen to him. He knew that his child would be in better hands under the care of another. All he needed to know was that Igris would, undoubtedly, be taken care of. What happened to himself was of no matter.

If he died, then he would die knowing he did all he could in life, and if he died, he could finally reunite with his wife. How he longed for her so.

Igris, left to the hands of the military, was brought to the Evernights to assess the situation. The Godslayer paid him no mind, but the eminent and kind Prince Wilhelm was quite the opposite. Not wanting to turn his back away from a child so impressionable and so young—young enough to be his sister's age, a potential playmate—who lacked parental supervision, the prince offered for the child to be under the care of the palace aides until his father returned from the military.

That day never came, but to be honest, Igris didn't care either way. In fact, he preferred things the way they were.

Several months had passed. Occasionally, the prince too would check in on him, hold conversations with him, and take him out to play in his free time, things his father never did. Because of that, the effortless acts of care that were second nature to Prince Wilhelm, a kindness that Igris had never known prior, the child quickly grew attached. On an unfortunate day, word came that Igris' father was killed in action, but it mattered to him not. To him, Prince Wilhelm was more a father than his father ever was, despite the fact that Prince Wilhelm was barely a teenager himself, and a busy one at that…

But, he, too, fell victim to death, decapitated by none other than the King Godslayer, who by this point was corrupt with madness. ‘Why?’ Igris asked himself. Why him, too? Was it some dumb stroke of luck, or was it fated that those around him were meant to die before their time was due? Was he the trigger, the catalyst? If so, surely it meant he, too, would be no exception. Then, he figured, all he had to do was wait for his time to come. So he did.

For days on end, which dragged to weeks, to months, he waited idly, occasionally performing mundane tasks that were asked of him. Then one fateful evening, on his way to gather some wood from the forest, with no one to accompany him, two Vile Beasts would lunge from the darkness, taking advantage of Igris’ distracted state of mind.

At last he could depart from the mortal realm, he thought, as they began to tear at his flesh, starting with his eyes. However, not too soon after, he would hear sounds of wailing, hissing, blood squelching, bodies thudding to the ground. He noticed the Beasts’ movements had ceased, and a strong hand would bring him up to his feet. Before the mysterious figure—a man, he presumed, by the weight of his fingers—released the grip on his wrist, he placed an item with his other hand into Igris' palm. By the feel of it, based on what he had heard from the Prince, it must have been a Chaos Root. How he had obtained it, Igris' did not know, and by the time he had opened his mouth to speak, he was already gone.

Once again, Igris was alone. However, the thoughts of death that consumed him moments before were replaced with adrenaline, the rush of feeling alive for once in his life. Perhaps the fact that he was saved by another meant that there was still some meaning to life after all. Whatever the case, it was a wake up call for Igris to stop waiting for death, especially when there was something, maybe someone, out there waiting for him.

There was no time for him to be a coward.
When he was called for duty, he answered with more than just honor. An inferno burned within him hotter than any other day. His heart blazed in absolution, and he left his home without regrets or shame. A final chance to carve his way into doing the right thing.

Ambitions

Inner Aspirations

If there was one thing Igris learned throughout his lifetime, it was that no one could dictate his life more than he could his own. All his years of obeying the commands of others had led to nothing but trouble, but the downfall of those he followed without question. He used to believe that if he was born as nothing, he would die as nothing. However, due to a near-death experience, Igris now believes that not only does he have a life calling, but a life of his own: a path that he must make for himself, instead of taking the path predetermined by others and ruining himself in the process.

In reclaiming his life, Igris aims to prove to himself, and by extension his father, that he truly does have a life worth living, a life filled with purpose. What purpose that may be, however, he is still uncertain. Maybe, he hopes, he provides a valuable set of skills that could be useful to another, or that he was meant to carry the will and the legacy of the late Prince Wilhelm. Maybe his purpose in life is simply to outlive the expectations of his father, which was to measure up to nothing. When he does inevitably perish, however, maybe someone would remember him enough to recognize what he contributed to the world, no matter how little—it just had to be enough. That would be enough for him.

Regrets

Past Failures

Igris was never one to believe in heroism. It was not the fictional aspects of valor, but rather, the idea of hardening one's will to prevail against peril that, to him, was an unthinkable action, especially considering that he never felt the need to die for anyone or anything.

He knew he was born selfish. He knew, coming into the world, that he was a good-for-nothing boy who fell prey to the world's crooked system. As such, he envisioned—his future as clear as day—to be enlisted into the frontlines of direct combat, only to die a forgettable death. At least then he would have some likeness to his late father, who left him to suffer in a world that gave solace to no one, all for the sake of seeking a blind glory that Igris could never understand.

However, there was one truth that remained ever lucent: no matter the pain one had suffered, no matter the struggle one would face in an arduous attempt to manifest change, the chances of succeeding in their endeavors were scarce.

Even so, at the very least, in death one would be remembered; the blood of one spilled would never truly disappear, for there would always be those who would honor existence through remembrance.

There was no beauty in death, but there was comfort. That alone was enough for Igris to ignite the flame in his soul, to relinquish his burden from the person who would require his help the most.

Until the blight that rooted itself deep into his being would rot away his heart, he shall make use of his remaining days to walk the path of impenitence. For far too long had he idled away in indifference, in wait of an impending doom that would inevitably engulf him.

 

[Azukai]

Vinestria, Nature's Whisper

Profile

General Information

Race

Aerouant

Gender

Male

Age

224

Height

132 cm

Class

Hyreus - Hunter

Origin

Avalon

Description

Observation

The boy who does not speak. He is far too small and frail to have a future in this world. Furthermore, what Aerouant rejects his true draconic self?​

Vinestria had always been a peculiar hatchling. He was far too quiet and shared little interest in any bonding activities with his brood. Instead, his days were enjoyed in solitude, observing the various forms of flora and fauna which lived around and within Avalon's walls. From mentors' perspectives, Vinestria was considered a failure--an avoidant, unresponsive child without any means to contribute to society. But, it was only behind the closed doors of his home, did his true personality shine.

Night after night, he would come home to the hearth and gush about his findings of the day.

"Look ma, pa, this fat racoon I sketched could move really fast for its size. It could even climb walls." He began moving his arms and legs to demonstrate the racoon's movements. "I practiced its movements and now I can climb really well too!"

Some nights it was about the animals he had stalked, others it was about the various plants he had studied and even ate. Every night was the narration of a new adventure, which in turn, shed light on his true talents and growth. Both parents knew; Vinestria did not need a standard mentor to succeed. When it came to his investigations of nature, their child was a genius.

Physically, however, Vinestria remained much less impressive over the years. While his peers exploded in both size and strength, he was seemingly cursed with the body of a child. “Frail little baby boy, too scared to grow up into a real dragon.” The others would mock in passing, some even attempting to bring violence into the mix. But to the latter, he was immune. What he lacked in strength and size, he made up for in nimble speed. Vinestria was like a mouse. He bounded over impassable walls and zipped into alleys where he could vanish into the shadows. Nonetheless, agility did nothing to protect his heart.

Maybe it was the years of emotional abuse weighing on his emotions; or maybe it was simply an overabundance of hormones leaving him fragile for the day; whatever the case, his parents knew something was wrong when they came home to find their son curled in bed sobbing. "Is it a sin to not be like them? To not enjoy their competitive games? To not enjoy a form which only brings terror to the creatures I love? Does this make me a failure as an Aerouant?" He whimpered, once cuddled into his mother's arms. There, she began gently caressing the horns on his head, until finally, his father answered in a firm, yet comforting tone.

"Never change who you are." He bent over to stare his son in the eyes. "You are special, Vinestria. You are blessed by mother nature, herself. Soon, our world will be turned upside down, and it will be you who survives the turmoil, not them. They may be strong in society's eyes, but you, my child, you are strong in the ways of the world. You must surv--..." His voice trailed as he carefully contemplated his next words. "No...you will survive."

Regrets

Solitude

The young man who does not speak. With a body and mind broken and marred, he has accepted his weakness.​

As Vinestria crawled towards the door of a cabin, his expectations of seeing the next light were low. But with his body shattered, conscious fading, and open wounds filled with maggots and muck; there was little he could do but put his faith in hands of a stranger in the woods.

Nightmares plagued his addled mind--bloodied bodies lying in the streets, screaming mothers who begged for their children's lives--all a far cry from what he understood of death. For a brief moment, a memory pushed past the terrors and reminded him of what his mother had once said.

Death is like a warm light which guides you the great beyond. It is something that should be embraced, not feared; for when it is your time, you will know only peace.

Perhaps the lack of peace was what gave Vinestria the strength to fight for his waning life. To fight against the memories of the masked men who continued to haunt his dreams. Over and over, he remembered the chase through the forest. Their cursed roots, arrows, and steel which pierced his body and left him unable to escape into the shadows. In the end, it was the durability of a dragon, a torrential storm, and an accidental slip into a river ravine which had enabled his freedom.

When his eyes opened, Vinestria was still laying at the foot of the cabin door. His body was still broken, but his wounds had been treated and wrapped. By his side, a jug of water and loaf of bread rested on the dirt, though the latter had been partially tainted by the denizens of the earth. All in all, though, he was alive.

"Ah. I'm alive." He uttered with a smile on face.

"I'm alive." He said once more. However, this time, his voice wavered and cracked.

"Alive..."

For the second time in his life, tears began to flow down Vinestria's face. A guttural wail erupted from his chest.

In the end, all the skills he had learned over the years of observation, meant nothing at all, when all he could save was himself. When it meant that now, he was truly alone.

Ambitions

The Hunt

The Hunter who does not speak. With scales of bark and the steps of a shadow panther; he is the true predator of the woods.​

A Warden does not speak; expect to nature and to those whom share a lifelong bond.

A Warden does not kill without clear purpose and intent.

A Warden is unseen and unheard--a whisper in the woods

A Warden shall protect the balance of nature above all else.

Such were the tenants under which Vinestria learned to live--albeit rather painfully. For each word he spoke, five lashes to the face. For each step that was heard, ten lashes to the feet. And heaven forbid he step on a plant or spook a critter of the forest; the beatings would last the day. He did not hate his new circumstances, though. If anything, it suited him far more than life in the city. Here, he was free to engage in the lifestyle he loved, so long as the tenants were obeyed and his studies were completed.

His mentor, an elderly human, did not ever speak, nor did he allow Vinestria into his cabin home. All instruction was done through paper, or through physical demonstrations which gradually began to shape his aptitude over the years.

First, he learned how to move; to become a ghost who was unseen and unheard by the denizens of the forest. Then, he learned how to use a stave; a peculiar weapon for a stealthy hunter of the woods, but one that made sense given its dual purpose as a mobility device and weapon. Next, he learned about the flora and fauna; specifically, their value as medicine, food, or toxic ingredients. And finally, he learned how the kill; the hardest step of all.

Tears flowed down Vinestria's face as he hovered over the family of wolves; his claws marred with crimson. It had been a necessary task given the damage they had caused to the local population of prey, but such justifications were merely a means to an end. For countless decades, animals had been his only source of friends, and now they had been slain by his very own hands. In this moment, his training no longer mattered. Vinestria began to sob. Yet despite the noise he made, Vinestria was not struck.

"You, my child, are Nature's Whisper."

It was the first and last time, he would ever hear his mentor speak--a kind, soothing tone which exuded the love and pride he had for his pupil. Without a sound, he would vanish into the shadows, never to be seen again. Perhaps, he had known his time was nigh and had chosen to save Vinestria the pain of further loss, or perhaps he had merely wished to live his life in solitude once more.

Whatever the case, the vial of mana he left behind was the greatest gift he could ever leave--the strength to become a true Warden of the Woods.