Saravok Manetheran

{Here}

Sarevok comes from a long line of sizable men, and he is no exception. Beyond simply being tall, Sarevok had inherited the broad shoulders typical of his bloodline,giving him a wide appearance as well and making him an especially daunting opponent when in a full suit of armor by size alone. Fortunate enough to have filled out in good proportion, it can be hard to tell at a distance that his size is anything worth mentioning as his legs and arms both seem to fit properly with his overall build. This proportion also provides him a good center of gravity for one his size – his legs not being too long or too short for his upper body.

Stemming from these high and broad shoulders are the arms of a trained fighter; strong,etched muscles trained and sculpted by years of training and then a life of furious battle. Upon his left bicep, on the front side and wrapping nearly halfway around his arm, he carries a scar from a broken sword blade that he received for his carelessness in a battle-field dual with a fellow traveler who had accepted the same contract as him and didn't wish to split the reward. While he has suffered many an injury and indeed gotten many a scar over his life, most of them have healed fully. Those scars which he carries to this day all link back to a moment frozen in his memory from the reminder of his exceptional carelessness, luck, or skilled opponent depending on which marking you ask him about.

His hands are sized such that he would be able to quite safely palm a basketball or, should the situation call for it, swing a claymore. These are decorated with many smaller, more difficult to see scars and blemishes, marking him a long-time marksman and providing account of his countless hours both in training and on the battlefield – you can only fire so many shells before your gun inevitably backfires or you cut yourself while cleaning the sharper bits. The undersides of them are marked with the rough calluses naturally gained from a great deal of time spent using your hands.Despite the worn appearance of his knuckles and his calluses on the undersides,the area behind his knuckles is surprisingly well-kept and shows no markings at all, and the skin there is smooth. It has always been remarked upon by Sarevok himself actually, who will frequently joke that the tails of his gauntlets must have been made by a better smith than the rest of his armor.

His torso has always gotten him reasonably far with women;it is the area of his most obvious muscular volume besides his legs. While not modern day “maximum bulk” body builder sized, his muscles certainly do not lack definition. His pectorals are pronounced and structured, his abdominal area is firm and strong, but this is all covered with a rounding layer of padding from many a chocolate shake and a particular love of Malt Pork – rounding not in the sense of a beer belly or anything that sags,but more in that the visual appearance of his build is less angular or hard edged and more smooth.

To the lower right side of his torso, just below his ribs, is a small nearly circular scar with rough edges from a puncture wound also received in his travels as a mercenary; this at the hands of a zombie wielding a broken pipe. He had not seen the creature,or rather had not noticed that he was still alive in the mass of bodies,covered in mud and human fluid after days in the sun. The beast’s last act of defiance was to lunge forward while Sarevok had his guard down and attempt to impale him on the broken off jagged metal pole – an act that nearly ended up killing Sarevok weeks later due to infection. That day taught him that even if you think it’s dead, it pays in leaps and bounds to be wary around anything that might have the capacity to still try and eat you.

His legs are tall and strong, used to carrying the weight of armor as well as his own rather impressive size. They are his proudest feature, physically, and have carried him through more scuffs than he can easily remember. Though they suffered more than their fair share of injuries in life, only one scar has stuck to them; a single horizontal slash that tore across both of his thighs,granted to him during a period of capture by a group of Dark Cultists to the North while Sarevok was young. This particular wound stuck with him his entire life and required he push himself greatly to recover the full use of his legs

People always commented on his eyes for their crystalline blue color, like two shimmering sapphires of flawless quality staring out at you from a rugged face. Their color follow a sunburst pattern, radiating half a dozen shades of blue in a tight spectrum that catches the light well. He was once considered rather handsome, but has since found that the ideas of physical beauty have changed to things he does not fully understand in the world. His face is somewhat broad to match the rest of him and possesses a strong, usually stubble covered, chin beneath a wide and inviting pair of lips that can crack into a full-faced and warm smile. His nose is straight, having never been broken since he became a traveler, and his unkempt brown hair reaches down to his eyebrows and over his ears. All in all he has a very charming face, disarmingly so for a man who makes a life out of fighting monsters and odd jobs, and it is a friendly presentation more often than not.

Vocally he possesses a rather low cord, falling at either a low baritone or a high bass. He his articulate and clear-spoken, considering his voice to be his greatest potential weapon as it might enable him to have no need of real weapons. The low, calm rumble of his voice has been attributed by many as very soothing and placating when combined with his facial features, and was always part of what made him effective at defusing tense situations when need be.

{Here}

Saravok didn't have many friends growing up, so those which he makes and keeps tend to be very close ones over time. He is the kind of person who is blunt out of trained necessity, and has a very low tolerance for people who don’t just speak their mind but instead seem to want you to guess at every single thing they say. As such his associates are usually similar of nature, and can be called honest to a possible to a fault. If you asked him how you looked, he will tell you. If he wants to sleep with you, he will inform you of this and figure you will either roll with it or say no, and that this outcome wouldn't be different had he wasted the time of beating around the bush. If he thinks your monologue is idiotic, he will interrupt it to tell you so, though he might let his weapon to the interrupting for that one.

He is,despite his blunt attitude, a very caring individual who goes to great lengths to protect those he cares about. He had no issues throwing himself in the way of danger to this end, even if it results in him taking grievous bodily harm –if the choice is to get stabbed or let his friend get stabbed, he will always take the hit for his comrade.This ‘guardian’ mentality does not entirely stop with his friends; he will frequently suffer injury himself or put himself in risk of injury to protect those who can not protect themselves. To him it is as simple as the fact that he is strong where others are weak, so it is upon himself to protect those who need it.

This attitude of a protector frequently makes others think him to be level-headed, which is only a partial truth. While Saravok has an analytic mind in day-to-day events he is prone to furious outbursts in combat situations. This does not actually conflict with his desire to protect those who need it in most circumstances as he finds that most enemies, when faced with the choice between attacking the civilian or the screaming man with the shotgun, will choose to attack him over other targets.

Saravok has a certain affinity for fine alcohols, and has the ability to drink most people under the table with ease. He drinks purely because he enjoys the taste,but is rather particular about what he will drink as a result. Unfortunately for his bank account he has expensive top-shelf taste for most anything but Mead, which he will happily consume largely regardless of quality as long as the honey balance is right. He has been known to accept payment in beverage form for some smaller jobs or as thanks for his protection, though he will keep to his top-shelf taste for the former while graciously accepting even what he would call ‘Troll Swill’ for the latter, which he will usually then use as a weapon in some form or another.

It has been said, frequently, that Saravok is stubborn, and this is true. He has survived on his own merit and skill for a long time and this has given his way of thinking legitimacy to his eyes – and a general unwillingness to do things how someone else suggests if that suggestion doesn't fall in line with his own train of thought. While he can be brought around with sound logical reasoning, it requires that the suggestion which varies totally from his own thoughts be provably (or at least convincingly) ‘better’ than his own plan. This has inhibited him from working with others on missions before, as his own style of solving problems is sporadic at best as he has very few notions of traditional training. Instead he often prefers to improvise solutions and frequently does so in unexpected ways,such as his uses for low-quality alcohol given to him as thanks.

Being a large and physically fit man who has avoided too much facial scaring, it is worth mentioning his tendencies in relationships. While not believing in anything so absolute as “totally hetero/homosexual,” Saravok would place him self at right about 85/15 on that particular slider bar, and be unapologetic about it. He will admit freely when another man looks good or has a particularly good physical trait going for him,but beyond that he is a stalwart and unabashed lover of breasts and booty. He, however, likes to do the chasing and not the other way around. Women coming onto him makes him assume certain things about them which make them unappealing compared to one who lets him make the first move, as he is fully aware that while he is indeed big and strong, he does not exactly visually reek of‘upstanding gentleman’.

{Here} Since the advent of firearms, Saravok has been a fan. Though he originally started off using a spear and later a sword, he really hit it off with his first shotgun and has been using one as his primary weapon since then. He loves the way that a shotgun combines something of the big and bulky style he has long been a fan of, while also offering some added range as well as the newly beloved 'Click-Click BOOM' of using his weapon, assuming it is a pump. He likes non-pump shotguns just as well, finding the streamlines appearance attractive.

He is considered a 'Bruiser' by fighting style, more concerned with blocking a lot of damage and being able to take more of it than his enemy can, while dishing out enough to be a threat. If he thinks the fight is even or in his advantage he will fight extremely head-on, often rushing straight into combat and assaulting the enemy immediately, taking cover behind battlefield objects when he can in order to avoid enemy attacks while blocking those that are unavoidable. While he does prefer to keep some distance between himself and his opponent, he has a tendency to close the gap in even fights due to his former affinity for swordsmanship. Regardless at to whether or not he finds the fight a fair and even one, he will always attempt to maintain a distance beneficial to him; he will close gaps with very long range fighters, he will do his best to maintain a gap with close-ranged ones such as melee combatants.

In the event that he considers a fight uneven, against him, he will take a much more cautious approach and plan out his movements to a much higher degree, often starting the fight from a stealthy or unexpected position. He also has no personal issue with hiding during a fight, making his opponent search for him only to find him by walking right into the barrel of his shotgun. While some consider such tactics cowardly and dishonorable, he is of the opinion that preserving one's own life in a bad situation ranks above such ideology.

Generally speaking he uses a mix of ranged and martial techniques, mostly focusing on his firepower at a range and either using a blade, the gun itself, or his hands in a close-up situation. This style is brutal and, though he enjoys a good fight, he doesn't waste any time attempting to bring them to an end; short, swift, and to the point. He has also been known to keep vials of oil and/or gifts of alcohol he deems unfit for human consumption for use in combat for the purpose of setting his enemy - or parts of the combat area - on fire.

{Here}This character is one who has existed across multiple universes, games, rules, editions, reboots, iterations, and over a decade and a half. So far pretty much every point of his story has been meld-able into just about any other universe, and it turns out that Fairy Tale is no exception. Given the length and depth of his story, I felt it more natural to allow it to come out on a user-by-user basis to those who take the time to get to know him, rather than post a good 50 page history section on this app. Judai knows quite a bit about him already, and helped me mold the important aspects of his character into the Wings of Fairy Tale world, so what will be found here is more a very broad overview of his history in an incredibly brief form.

Saravok was born not knowing his parents, as the child of slaves kept in a mining outpost at the base of the mountains. For his young life he was an orphan, put to work first at menial tasks such as errand or message running and later to more and more physically intensive tasks such as hauling water, lumber-jacking, construction, and eventually working deep in the mines as his body grew and developed. His body having long born the scars of his situation in life, his oppression began to weigh more and more heavily on his mind and soul. One day a particularly violent overseer took issue with him and Saravok, not fully realizing what he was doing, slammed his pick-axe into the man's skull, killing him outright.

It did not take him long to recover from this flash of anger, however, and he took the overseer's clothes and spear before quickly making his way out of the mines. Finding a barrel of water to clean his face, neck, and hands with he managed to escape from the mining outpost - but not before paying a visit to the office of the man who owned him. The man didn't look up, seeing nothing but a mine manager's clothes, and found a spear through him for his carelessness. Burning the records building on his way out, Saravok soon discarded the uniform he wore - trading it in for a simple set of leather clothes - but kept the spear.

After traveling far enough to feel safe, Saravok began looking for work of any kind that kept him above ground. Given he had no real skills at that point beyond an iron-clad will and a strong body, he found this work as a mercenary and put his spear to use guarding trading caravans or tackling bandit gangs a few members at a time. Eventually he came across a job which offered him a sword as payment, and he accepted the weapon gratefully - retiring the battered spear who had served him well yet still reminded him of a past he'd rather take no part in. It was after acquiring this weapon that he learned of his magical abilities, accidentally requipping out of need in a fight where he bit off more than he could chew. He didn't understand his ability, but he knew that he could shift from the sword to the spear when he needed to, and he made use of this for some time before having the ability explained to him. In the same year Saravok found himself in a city with a merchant who dealt in firearms, and he managed to trade in both of his blades for what would soon become his weapon of choice; the shotgun. Now he has settled near the city of Crocus, and if I believe correctly he is about to run into a certain member of Angel Wing with a recruitment attempt...

{Spoiler}Draconis always knew there were certain things he couldn't tolerate from his people. He also always knew there were certain things that he shouldn't tolerate from his citizens. Like the situation he found himself in currently, for example. The thing was, he just couldn't seem to think of a way out of it for the life of him, even as a thousand thoughts twirled around his mind every second as trumpets blared into the air and streamers were tossed from the roofs of nearby buildings. Where did they even get trumpets that quickly? Why do Arcadiens arbitrarily own streamers? Who is that? The last thought was directed at a man he had just become aware that he was walking towards, loose robes hanging over him like curtains, a mighty stole draped around his shoulders with silk ravens taking flight on the ends. Where did they find a priest that fast?
He found himself standing next to Aurelia, the young cleric who had, for better or worse, altered both his Empire and his visions for it in seemingly insignificant ways at its very founding… such seemingly small seeds that had blossomed into such unforeseeably large ripples. How many ways had she changed this country she had been absent from without either of them realizing it? The priest was saying something, but Draconis was more aware of the way that his breastplate seemed tighter than usual, or that it did not seem to shine so brightly as he had last remembered it. There were small dents in it, he noticed, alongside a seemingly impossible number of small scratches. He should have had a new one made a long time ago, with it looking like this. He frowned down at it, and then became aware of the priest looking at him expectantly. Aware of Aurelia looking sideways at him with a small frown and something else on her face, – was it disappointment? – aware of the nearly overwhelming feeling of a hundred thousand sets of eyes on him, their owners all seeming to hold their breath with expectation. Damn it.

“Yes, I do.”

Draconis had made great speeches, sweeping proclamations, grand utterances which has toppled nations, both caused and stopped wars at one point or another, and dragged out of men more strength than conventional wisdom said was possible. He had fought in every kind of battle, from open field to tightly wound forest to being on both sides of a wall during sieges. He had seen and performed great magics of the plane; had seen dead men rise from their resting places, seen the earth torn asunder beneath mens’ feet, seen fire rain from the Heavens, and lightning fill the sky as though it were the end of an Age. Never had he expected three simple words, uttered at a bare whisper, to cause a greater sound than any he had ever heard before, but as they were carried away from him on the currents of wind and time the city seemed to erupt around him in a grand cacophony of voices cheering, singing, and bellowing exaltations for the day so loudly that there seemed little need to send out riders with an announcement as surely the entire Empire must be able to hear this proclamation.

He bent down to kiss her, the final seal of the ceremony that he had been unable to think of any way to get her out of, and he saw her – not just registered that she was there, but really saw her – for the first time in a very long while. Her hair, long and flowing and getting caught in the wind to sweep out behind her, the soft lines of her face, full lips, and her eyes which had become weighted with knowledge and power beyond her years. He suspected that those eyes looked very much like his own, though he hoped she would never lose that small spark, so deep in her gaze, of innocence. He had seen the full horror of war, had seen what the most wondrous magics of the plane did when they met flesh and steel, and it had long since caused that spark to blink out in his own eyes. Instead he had inherited the dull smoldering of authority above question… of Sovereignty… and he could only hope and pray that he could protect her well enough to avoid that for her. As their lips came ever closer to touching, a single unified thought flashed across his mind.

Why does this feel right?


* * * * * * * * * * *

Draconis Arcadien was what pretty much everyone would have called “an important person.” You didn’t have to know him, his name, who he really was or what his title was (or titles, as it happened), or who, if anyone, he worked for: you could gather that he was important simply by looking at him. The way he walked with his back perfectly straight, or perhaps the way his shoulders were always squared away, or maybe even the angle at which he held his chin could tell you this. The coat he wore, rich deep blue silk with real gold embroidery, or perhaps his well-trimmed and tailored breeches with golden knots of tassel tied down the sides of them, or maybe just his tight fitting knee-high darkened hard-leather boots could tell you he was rich and if not a noble himself then certainly of a rank with many of them, perhaps the most influential of them. What you really had to pay attention to with him was, as with the highest of people, the smallest of details: the way his sword was angled on his belt was easy and ready to reach and draw, his clothes were all snug enough to show off his exceptional body but also just baggy enough to make hitting anything vital some very difficult guesswork, and his eyes… his eyes were both what set him apart as important while also letting you know he was no noble by blood. Nobles had a certain shine to their eyes, a certain coyness and deceptiveness, a certain easy way to be read even if the reading only tells you they aren’t telling you everything they could, but not his eyes. Nobles rarely had a flame in their eyes, deep and smoldering. Nobles rarely had the calm confidence normally reserved for dead men in their eyes. Nobles very seldom had that peculiar glint in their eyes that let you know, with no room for doubt, that they could and would kill you and sleep perfectly fine that night. No noble had eyes that contained all of these details, and Draconis Arcadien’s spoke of not merely winning a few duels, but of having seen death, stared it in the face, and exchanged a knowing nod and wink with it. No, Draconis was no noble – he was a soldier.

But men had died attempting to figure out what difference it made.

That turned out to be the biggest difference it made: deadliness. No difference in real rank, no difference in real power, no difference in real authority. Draconis was a soldier, but took no orders from the highest of noble lords or even the king. Draconis was a soldier, but was always given a seat near the head of any table he chose to sit at – and he always sat at them by choice. Draconis was no soldier, but where nobles had authority in politics and laws and marriage and alliances, he had authority in men and horses and steel and blood. Draconis was no noble, but if you had to choose between one of the great houses and him as enemies, you were a wiser man to choose one of the great houses and make friends with the man they said had a farther reach. None of this would really have been that problematic: there had been strong generals before, great warlords, this much was nothing new. No, it wouldn’t have changed much in the little city-state of Celion if not for one fact that many of the real nobility found incredibly problematic.

Draconis Arcadien was fully aware of all of this, and he liked it.

This particular morning he was very aware of it, more than usual really, because it was in evidence. The city was busy today, very busy given it was near the time for the census, bringing farmers in from the countryside to try and find lodging in an inn or perhaps a relative or friend’s house before they were all full up and the only place left to rent out happened to be stable lofts. This meant the streets, normally holding a healthy amount of traffic but nothing you couldn’t work your way through easily enough, were packed curb to curb with people heading into the city. Anyone of sufficient rank would become obvious on days like this, and also easy to follow since the crowd always parted in front of them. Not always quickly or at a consistent speed, even for Markus or Viktor themselves, but it parted. Draconis had not needed to slow his stride since walking out the front door of the Zaelum manor, not one step, not one moment. There was no delay in the parting in front of him, and it made him acutely aware of just how far he had risen in the world from humble young farmer-turned-pikeman. And just how far that means I can fall, should I make a mistake. That too was the difference: one mistake. Nobles could afford mistakes now and then, few were large enough to knock them down very far. Draconis could afford none, not a single one. He was more powerful by himself than any given one of the Great Houses, and every one of the Great Houses was stronger than the king. He had ascended to a plateau that rested long stretches above where anyone else in this small country or any of its neighbors had, possibly, ever risen. The trade off was that his position rested not on a foundation a mile wide, but on the very tip of a rapier. One wrong move, one misplaced word, one careless letter, and he would fall with nobody to catch him who was strong enough to.
He shook his head, and the bubble around him got a little larger for a moment as those who saw what they took to be a sign of displeasure from him hurried to distance themselves just a little more should he decide to use the sword on his hip. Sometimes he dwelled on things too heavily on things he should not, especially at times he should not. A package had just come in, a very important one he had begun to think might be his one mistake he could not afford as it looked like it may never actually arrive. A small stone with the barest of carvings etched into it, mere rubble to an untrained eye. Try to break that small stone though, be it by hammer blow or forge fire or overwhelming magics, and it would simply lay there unperturbed. A runestone, Ber, had finally been found by his agents abroad and delivered to the usual place; an innkeeper on the edge of town who used to be in the army with Draconis, an old friend and confidant who believed in what Draconis was doing to the world without really understanding it. Someone who could be trusted in a world attempting to claw him back down into obscurity. Jah-Ith-Ber-Sol-Nah, a runeword that likely had not been crafted in the better side of two thousand years, granting the one who possessed it the ability to read and understand any text in any language and to learn what it was they read, proving it an instrument of unimaginable usefulness. Nobody knew who made the first Runes or how they combined their magical powers into Runewords, not even in the Age of Legends could you find writings on them that understood how they worked, all that they had known even back then was that they did work. That had apparently been enough for them, and to be fair it was certainly enough for him. Ber happened to be the final rune that he needed, having tracked down the others over the course of several years.
Then all you need is the book. Easy enough, when you put it like that. Never mind that he had no idea where to even start looking for the particular book he needed, but he would deal with that later, as he had just reached his location. Stepping through the door to his old friend’s inn, he made a soft vexed sound as he had to slow his stride for the first time that day. Two peasants, fresh in from the country by the look of them, mud from the cow pasture still on their clothes, were just standing in the middle of the room like star-struck idiots. His boots rang out on the floor, other patrons of the inn snapping their eyes away from him so as to not risk offending him with a sideways gaze, but these two simply turned and looked at him. A farm-boy and a farm-girl, the boy’s eyes widening with a sense of awe-struck fear, the girl’s widening like he was something out of a fairytale to her. He looked past them for a moment, saw that his friend had the package ready and out on the counter waiting for him, still with a hand atop it, before he returned his flickering gaze to the two peasants, a very small frown appearing on his face.
“Step Aside.”
Both words capitalized made several patrons in the room flinch as they stopped themselves from obeying an order not even directed at them. The boy – Draconis was pretty sure it was a boy – jumped out of the way with a certain alarming alacrity, even by what Draconis was used to seeing, but the girl just stood there. For a moment he thought that perhaps she was deaf, or daft, or had been kicked in the head by a horse at some point earlier in life making her ‘unfortunate’, but after just a brief moment longer, her friend or keeper seeming on the edge of reaching out and grabbing her, she had run her eyes over the whole of him and swept a curtsy to do most noble courtesans proud before saying in a perfectly cool, calm, and collected tone:
““Begging your pardon, sir,” and stepping to the side, slowly joining her partner. As he strode over to the counter and collected his package, giving Jerim a friendly nod, a promise between them to share a drink later, he re-evaluated how she had stood there. Not like a daft girl, not like an awe-struck farmer, but rather like a woman who had seen something worth weighing, possibly for the first time in her still young life. He spared only the briefest glance for the two on his way back out into the street before sweeping back towards his apartments. Something to keep an eye on… definitely someone to watch.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I knew they were people to keep an eye on Draconis thought to himself as he hurried down the stairs of the Zaelum manor from his apartments on the highest floor, heading towards the main entrance hall. Today he was dressed as richly as he had, trimmed and freshly attended by a host of grooms in the service of the Zaelum house. Two peasants fresh in from the country had stumbled blindly upon the book he so desperately needed, and he had no intention of letting it slip out of his grasp now that it was so close. Put on a strong show, jingle more gold in front of them than their entire village had ever collectively seen, buy the book from them for what was a fortune to farmer eyes, and proceed as planned. It was simple, it was efficient, and it was the plan. It’s a good plan, it’s got no way to fail unless these two are secretly some foreign lords or well versed in just what it is they have. He found both of those possibilities extremely unlikely, but had a substantially larger sum of gold set aside and ready should either happen to be true.
He turned the corner at the bottom of a stairwell and smiled as he saw Evangelli Zaelum before him, also dressed to her fullest. His hair was freshly cut and cleaned, hers was evened and done up with emeralds that sparkled even in the limited light of the inside hallway. His tunic and coat were both blue and gold, the family colors he had adopted for himself, while her dress was flowing satin in a deep verdant green to match her headdress. His boots were his best – rabbit fur lined, heavily engraved silver boots with more scrollwork along their lengths than would comfortably fit on most kitchen tables, the lines impossibly fine and precise, while she wore the latest Tairen fashion – dark lacquered things with elevated heels and pointed toes, set with what looked like real gold, and he was sure it was. The Zaelums were a very wealthy house, and a well established one, but his choice of Evangelli as a lover went well beyond use value: he had saved her life once and she had since returned the favor, and that kind of bond is not so easily shaken as some might believe. He smiled at her, and she smiled back at him, falling in beside him and calmly taking his arm as they strode into the entrance hall together, just as those two farmers arrived, escorted from the front gate by a small host of fully armored house guards. The girl, Aurelia, clutched the book to her breasts as if fearful that the guards would simply pry it from her hands. The boy, Fianne, attempted a calm and casual air of arrogance and disinterest as they were led into the house and it was perhaps passable… to other farmers. To Draconis and Evangelli, he looked like a mouse who had found itself being escorted into a den of hungry vipers and was trying to look unafraid while trying to find any way out of its situation.
Draconis welcomed them as they entered, leaving Evangelli standing next to the second story banister as he walked down the half-flight of stairs in the center of the large room to get a better look at the book being clutched by the cleric. That’s it! Look at the language on the cover, the size, the shape, the binding! That’s it! The excitement exploded in Draconis’ mind as he confirmed that it was, in fact, the text he was looking for in a slow, calm, steady voice. The urge to double-check that he was wearing the amulet he had recently crafted was almost overwhelming, but he knew it was there already and stayed his hands – hands which nearly shook from anticipation at the idea of having this prize so close at hand as he surveyed the two peasants, having never ceased in speaking.
There was a pause, the offer had been made, and he extended his hand calmly. Aurelia looked him in the eyes as she reluctantly handed the text over. He pulled his hand back, tossing open the cover and flipping through the pages, the runes inscribed on the pages seeming to fly forth into his mind at a lightning pace as he read and understood, comprehended the intricacies and pitfalls and shortcomings and brilliance of the tongue it was written in as the amulet grew cold against his skin under his clothing. He found it a wonder he was not having a seizure, or at least sweating horridly as he was unsure if the metal had gotten colder or if he had simply gotten warmer. He read a few passages and found that it was as simple as speaking in the language he had known all his life, that he had learned since he was a small child learning the letters by the fireplace at night after his chores were done and his mother had sat him down.
He looked again at Aurelia and Fianne, beginning to exalt their efforts and praise the world they had just enabled to grow, promising great rewards of wealth to make them giddy at the sight of gold. It even seemed to work on Fianne, yet Aurelia looked… sad. Reluctantly… she handed it over reluctantly… I noticed that, and it almost slipped by me in my excitement. Her eyes were downcast and glazed over slightly, or else staring at the book with tortured regret in her eyes. She didn’t care about the gold, it seemed, she cared about the book even while not knowing anything about it. Enough gold to go home a wealthy farmer with, gold enough to properly buy whatever farm her family has a lease on and more he thought. A grand prize to many, a prize that every single one of the people from his village would have gladly handed a book over for, yet she didn’t care about the gold: she cared about the book. He looked down at the book himself, examining it once more. The book… the knowledge it represented, even if it was impossible for her to learn the words without the same kind of artifact he possessed… but she cared about the book, not the gold. Kind of like how you always cared about the rusty sword in your father’s attic instead of the plow you swung every day he thought to himself, how readily would you have made this same deal? Enough gold to pay off the farm you don’t want to go back to? Coin enough to buy a few extra cows besides? What choice did you make, Draconis? Sword or Plowshare? What choice do you give her? The voice hardly seemed his own, inside his head. It wasn’t the plan. The plan was a good one, and it would work, he could hand over the gold and send them on their way; they were just peasants, they would never think anything more of it.

They were just peasants; they would never think anything more of it.

Slowly he looked back to Aurelia, his eyes coming away from the pages, away from himself. They were just peasants. Just peasants? I was just a peasant once, but I chose the sword.
Then he found himself doing something unexpected. He was reaching into his pocket and speaking again, though he wasn’t sure what he was saying, exactly. Three signet rings in a little wooden box, and the cleric’s eyes lighting up and widening as he kept talking, explaining what he was giving them in exchange for the book. One choice for another, once chance earning a better one.
“Stars, Flower, or the Raven, then?”
The corner of her rose colored lips curved, very slightly, her eyes lighting with a comprehension of what exactly she was being given, gratitude easily observable in her expression.
“I confess a bias for the raven, General Arcadien.” She said, taking the ring calmly and turning to leave with Fianne, happy as a clam in a summer river too deep for divers. He had done it, an example of what he hoped to soon be the case the world over. He had made someone a noble by virtue of their actions, as a reward for true nobility. He had done it, and he had no idea if he even had the authority to do it. He turned slowly, walking up the stairs while Evangelli gave him a vexed expression even while she smiled, knowing what he had just done and what it meant to him. His head rose as he walked back to his rooms, his back straightened, and his shoulders squared before he made it back to his own door. Striding through it to settle down to work, a new thought crossed his mind: Of course I have the authority to do it; nobody can stop me now.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Wait.” She had said suddenly. A very simple word, ‘wait’, but one that could cause quite a stir in the right circumstances, and these were undoubtedly the right circumstances. Draconis could see the enchantment laid into the old parchment that was blurring its text, and knew that the only way to get rid of it was for Aurelia herself to dispel it or to get rid of Aurelia in a very permanent fashion, something he didn’t want to engage in. Her companion, Fianne, told her to drop whatever topic this was and move along, but she brushed off his comments like one brushes dust off the hem of your good cloak. Draconis simply watched her as she began, with her pauses and stutters, and wondered what precisely she was going on about. He didn’t have any plans to reveal his plans to someone who, regardless of favors performed or services rendered, was in actuality little more than a well-paid deliverer of goods. It seemed Aurelia was aware of that particular disparity of rank all too keenly at the moment, but she had taken her insurances with that enchantment. If listening got it erased, then he would listen.
He had admittedly expected some kind of faltering speech expressing the simple human desire to know more than one strictly needed to. He had expected a wavering speech delivered to the floorboards. He had expected so very little, and then her eyes snapped up to meet his as she started talking, locking her gaze against him in much the same way he had seen enemy commanders lock their gaze when they knew a fight was lost but stayed to the last man anyway – for king and country. Her words no longer waivered, no longer contained unsure pauses or timid explanations. Instead they came forward like a cavalry charge: straight, hard, and unflinching. When had this farm-girl become a true-blooded noblewoman? She spoke of knowing, yes, but not knowing for the desire of knowing. She spoke of inability to accept ignorance as an excuse for ones actions, of the need for knowing upon ones conscience, of believing in owning your own actions, your own life, your own virtue, so that you could look back at yourself in a year or ten years or a hundred years time and have no regrets, of the freedom of ever having to say “if only I had known.” Where had this milk-maid found this strength? Where had such a simple life come upon such boldness?

“I am sorry, but…before I allow these to pass into your hands willingly; I have to know your intentions. I cannot, on clear conscious, just…hand you something without knowing exactly what I am doing. So please…if lieu of anything else, I’d…ask you to tell me what these maps do, and why you want them.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his fingers together as he mulled her words over, keeping up that dedicatedly impassive face he had developed over years on the battlefield and perfected in the courts. She looked back at him as he considered her, and what she had just laid on the table. Not a very strong bid, there were no secrets to it, but an interesting one. One that pulled at everything he hoped to accomplish in his work with the world, his re-sculpting. One that gave him hope, if a farm-hand could turn into such a noble-woman as this then surely others could raise themselves as well… those who want to he added to himself glancing at Fianne. Letting out a sigh in order to cover his smile, he began with words just as simple as she had used to begin.

“Very well.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Draconis loved these parties, but not for the reasons everyone else pretended to love them. Most people hated them, really, and he wasn’t actually sure that anyone actively enjoyed them, strictly speaking. The only ones that possibly could were the very top of society, those great houses who stood head and shoulders above everyone else in this elaborately political city-state they found themselves in. More men than the King’s Guard, the official army of the land, more land than the government itself, and very likely more loyal followers could be rallied to any of the great houses than the King could gather in a time of need. As it stood, the most likely ‘time of need’ would be one of those houses deciding to get rid of the fat old fool. Seven great houses performing a delicate dance around that particular issue and a thousand others, their smiles seeming the most sincere out of the crowd… or certainly the least forced unless they were talking directly to each other. Everyone else, from members of formerly grand houses to the representatives of some emblems so minor it was a miracle of guard apathy that they even got in through the door. Entertainment, music, food and drink and sociability, these things are supposedly what they came for, but really the answer was both much simpler and much more believable than that, Draconis had come to realize, and Power was that answer. He chuckled to himself lightly at the thought, and a little harder yet to see it walking around in front of him, all these so-called nobles waltzing around pretending to speak meaningful words while trying to see everyone else’s’ marionette strings.

They all hated it, every last one of them, and you could tell if you learned to look hard enough; the soft grating of teeth in a smile, the unnatural curve of lips grinning, the forced movements of shoulders as they laughed. They all hated it because they all hated the answer or, more precisely, their lack of possession of the answer; the same reason some besides him enjoyed it – almost. More men than the King’s Guard, each and every last one of these houses, with more land and more followers, some even managed to collect their own tribute, but every last one of them got a flashing sour expression when they looked at him while he flashed knowing, toothy smiles back at them. More troops than the King’s Guard, indeed, but not more than him. More land than the technical government perhaps, but he could walk freely through any gate unquestioned, be waiting in anyone’s study without its owner’s own guards offering a word of warning. More loyal followers than the fat fool, certainly, but even the common people on the streets, even the beggars, would raise sword and plowshare; forge hammer and rolling pin; sewer’s needle and jagged stone for him. True, he could not put them all down like the dogs they were, not all at once and very probably not three or four at a time, but they would revel in watching the other houses burn on the horizon to the exclusion of realizing the flames beneath their own feet. He belonged here, this room, but this room didn’t belong in him; he had no real patience for it, no love of the manipulations of others for he had no need of manipulations, no love of the servitude so readily offered by the groveling weaklings who surrounded him with themselves for he had men loyal to him from before he was a known man. No, he had no need of any of this, and when all was said and done he very strongly doubted this room would still have its place any longer.

He walked, and he sipped his drank, and he talked, but mostly he smiled as he strode the gilded halls he had come to think of as his. He smiled at the bitterness in the eyes of his open enemies. He smiled at the fear in stench of those who thought themselves hidden. He smiled at the incredulous looks those too concerned with fashion gave him and his simple but well-cut silver silk coat and pants, with its lack of a highlighting trim and his plain but polished leather boots. He smiled because they were a set of sleep-clothes he had yet to wear, and had decided they looked well enough for his attendance here, where everyone else dressed their very best with some select exceptions. Kain Albera, his old friend, was one such exception who he happened to see upon entering one room and went to go join in his apparently vexing conversation. Clasping him on the shoulder and laughing at his face of relief upon seeing him, having been cornered by a group of particularly forward and inter-aggressive young noblewomen, Draconis took a look around the room and saw a flower sitting upon the wall. She looked back at him and he knew there was another who did not belong there that had not occurred to him. His smile to her was more considering, and his reply to her unspoken “see me” was an empathetic “Soon, Aurelia. Soon.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Grim news indeed, the weight that had just been set down. First they vanish for a decade and then come to him informing him of something that may very well herald the end of an Age. To be sure Draconis was not having the best day of his life. Varesh Nahlir, a man bound by the Zaishen Order for a thousand years or more for causing the last breaking, and now he was free to roam with his powers over reality returning to him more and more every moment. Troubling… very troubling… he thought to himself, lost in himself as he reviewed everything he had heard in his head. Then, all at once, he was aware he was not alone. He had heard the sound of feet turning and leaving the room and had been careless in his concern by assuming that the sound was that of the room emptying.
Instead he looked up to find Aurelia still standing there, he shoulders slumped, her eyes down, her face defeated with none of the spark of life and vibrancy in her eyes that he had grown accustomed to seeing. She looked like a woman slowly crumbling in on herself searching for something to say, and it struck him then: she was the one who had released him, a woman sworn to heal and to protect had been duped into unleashing an enemy as ancient as the dirt itself and with power as fast as the oceans. This was not the look of a woman defeated; this was the look of a woman destroyed. Her mouth opening only confirmed it.

“Draconis…”

The voice was hollow and dead sounding, the resonance of it no longer warm and kind, but cold and broken. She looked at him a moment, the sunlight from the window not fully reaching her and bathing her face in a pale shadow. This day of days she had called him by his first name, forgetting herself so much even before him where she had always done her very best to at least keep up the appearance of cool-headed nobility. This was not Aurelia Silvati… this was her ghost, burdened with the guilt of a billion lives that were only on her hands because she thought it so. This was the agony of a woman who would take every life lost to this man as her own personal fault, and who would die to that agony before long. This is not right. This is not the woman I know to be in front of me. She turned to leave and he found words once said to him spilling forth from his mouth before he was even fully aware of what he was saying.

““There is no shame in the instinct to unquestionably save a man’s life, no matter whose it is, Aurelia.”

His voice was still firm, still solid, still the rock of a voice that a sovereign’s must be, but it was also soft in the same way it had been the day he had heard those words, all those years ago when Draconis himself had saved the life of a man who later turned out to be a traitor, when Draconis was suffering the same agony she was, but already with the blood of a hundred men on his hands, by his own eyes. Those words had saved him, all that time ago, spoken to him by Reginald Albera… maybe they would save her now. Light I hope it to be so. She turned her head and for just a moment, just a flash, that light returned to her eyes and a smile almost too small to see waved across her face.

“Thank you.”

Then she was gone; gone but alive. It was just a barest second, but it was there and Draconis breathed a sigh he had not realized he had been holding. She will make it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Great things had simple beginnings. The greatest of great houses in history all started with no more than a farmer having a moment of valor, the grandest of rebellions always began with the smallest shove of disrespect by the most insignificant of guards in the most backwoods of townships, and the longest of wars always began with the pettiest of insults or the barest spark of glory. His lips pressed against hers and her hands came to rest around his neck as the roar of the crowed rang out around them and flower petals rained down amongst them, and he knew then that something grand was beginning; had begun the day that his path was obstructed by a farm-girl fresh from pasture. His own arms slid around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, and for just that kiss Draconis forgot everything: his empire, his armies, his wars, his rule, his people, his obligations, his pride, his own life. In that moment, just for that one kiss, he forgot everything it was that made him himself and focused entirely upon the simple rightness of her lips against his, the absolute certainty that he had never felt before. Their lips parted after only seconds that had stretched on for eternity, and his eyes met hers. The light was back, her smile was sincere, and he had found what had been missing for what now seemed as long as he could remember. Taking her hand, he led her to the town square where they had been expected to dance a different dance, to a different tune, just a bare hour ago. Taking up a formal waltz, his eyes still locked onto hers, Draconis Arcadien felt right for the first time in his life.


My dark-winged angel, let us show this world what it means to be great.