A Change of Winds | Private Roleplay
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A Change of Winds | Private Roleplay
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Posted 2023-08-19 20:37:35 (edited)
THIS FORUM IS RESERVED FOR Superb AND Maladi idalaM |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-08-19 20:39:05 (edited)
Name: Percival Conwyn Rafferty Nickname: Pierre Age: 30 Gender: Male Sexuality: Hetero. Rank: Commander of Prador Powers: Summoner/Amplifier (with a minor heightened sense of smell) Strengths: Ambidextrousness, Coordination, Dutifulness Weaknesses: Impulsiveness (physically reactive to movement), Stealthiness, Using his right hand for CQC Likes: Bonding with his team (a more hidden like lol) Dislikes: Floral scents Skin Tone: Warm Fair Skin Hair Color: Brown with natural reddish highlights in the sunlight Hair Style: Quite messy if not slicked back neatly, often with untameable curly strands no matter the style Eye Color: Deep dark eyes with moderate purple tones near the pupil, easier to see in the sunlight. Height: 6'1" Figure: Lean and muscular Marks/Disfigurements: Scars along his right hand from summoning constantly, has symptoms of mild shakiness and pain every now and then. |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-08-19 20:48:52 (edited)
Titles;; Demon of the West Wind Name;; Adelliah Luciana Coatylian Morganstern Nickname;; Leah Age;; 27 Birthdate;; Third Harvest Moon of 1062 Gender;; Female Sexuality;; Heterosexual Strengths;; Charisma, agility, strategy, research Weaknesses;; Emotional awareness, strength, CQC Powers;; Can control wind and turn into a coatyl dragon. Hobbies;; Playing the lyre, reading Parents;; Peter and Magnolia Morganstern, deceased Relationships;; Kaitlyn Pyrenoch, best friend Physical Description Human Form Reference image commissioned from Inkspook! Skin tone;; Pale olive Complexion;; Scattering of freckles across her face, shoulders, and chest Hair Color;; Raven black Hair Style;; Long, to her hips when loose, commonly braided over her shoulder Eye Color;; Pale silver Height;; 5'3" Weight;; 130lbs Birthmarks;; A serpent curling around her upper thigh Tattoos;; Feathered Wings tattooed on her back, wrapping around her sides and ending just over her pelvis Coatyl Form Reference image commissioned from Luz Dourada! Primary Scale Color;; Burgundy Secondary Scale Color;; Golden Brown Tertiary Scale Color;; Charcoal Underbelly Scale Color;; Burnt Umber Eye Color;; Molten Silver Wing Type;; Bird of Prey Primary Feather Color;; Egyptian Blue Secondary Feather Color;; Olivine Tertiary Feather Color;; Citrus Yellow Down Feather Color;; Burgundy Horn Type;; Eland Horn Color;; Walnut Brown at base, paling with age towards the tips |
 💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |
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Posted 2023-08-20 19:20:06 (edited)
A rescue, they'd called it. A bloodbath, she called it. A raid, in the dead of night, slaughtering the Lirian people she slept alongside. Friends. Family that she had made. Nine years—ten? She wasn't certain anymore—later and they suddenly cared. The royal family suddenly cared. Her village had never been a thriving trade center or a source of rare goods, so she had never been surprised that no aide had come for her or the others when they were first captured by the Lirians. But the events tonight had surprised her. How had the soldiers known which of them had been born in Liria and which had initially just been captives? She may not have been born in the rivaling kingdom, but she had considered herself a Lirian for many years. They had been her captors, true, but they had become her friends. A family she had chosen when hers were dead. She had been fed, clothed, granted a roof over her head. They asked her to fight in return, and she had resisted for years. It was only, ironically, when a counter-attack on her new home had occurred that she took up arms. She had been rushed away with other civilians, and in the aftermath of the carnage, she had agreed to join their forces. The night haunted her worse than when her birthplace was destroyed, and she was certain this night would as well. Whatever it was that marked her as different from her comrades, her friends, she wished had never existed. Joining them in death would have been a mercy over this. Perhaps if she had been stronger, had better control over her powers, she would have been able to fight back, to protect the people she loved. Perhaps the royals would declare her a traitor, and execute her quickly. Had she earned an afterlife with the divines? She hoped so. She believed so. The road they traveled was rough, and one she recognized. A precarious path through the mountains that separated the two kingdoms. Impractical for full armies, but perfect for an ambush group prepared to bring back prisoners. Sorry, she thought to herself with a roll of her eyes. A rescue team prepared to bring back their suffering clansmen. As if she would ever feel comfortable in her homelands again. Surrounded by soldiers that had slaughtered her friends, and whose friends she had slaughtered in return. She had lost count of the battles she had faced or the corpses she had left behind. Some of them in these very mountain passes. There was a reason entire temples had been carved into the mountain sides in dedication to Alcarius, the divine of blood. There was a reason the range was known as the Crimson Mountains. There was a reason this very road was named Death's Pass. Despite the hope wishing to blossom in her chest, she knew there was no ambush ahead, waiting to attack the enemy soldiers and set her and the others free. Her team had been stationed the closest to the mountains; if anyone would have been ordered to set up an ambush, it would have been them. She could cause an avalanche with a flick of her wrist. At least, she could if the shackles binding her hadn't been charmed to nullify her powers. A gift from the royal family, no doubt. No, there was no hope left for her. It would take days for the Lirian generals to hear word of the attack, and by then it would be far, far too late. She would be dead. Or worse. |
💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |
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Posted 2023-08-21 23:43:13
The spray of blood across his fair cheeks gave the odd appearance of freckles, although the stench wasn't as pleasurable as it looked. Who would've thought the commander of Prador's royal army would allow himself to get so filthy? A well-groomed kitten, the princesses nicknamed him after his appealing neat nature and supposedly loveable looks – something he could only wish his troop would never hear. Yet, for some reason, this time, he wasn't quick to wipe the droplets off of his face, almost like it were a rebellion against their expectations. Had it not been for the shortage of soldiers, he wouldn't have brought himself to do such filthy tasks. It was just recently that the deficit of soldiers grew alarming, finally forcing the royal family to become involved in the rescue of their people. Well, not a rescue but rather the capitalization of what resources they had left. It was his fault when he guided his troops through the mountains that came to border Prador, unintentionally leading to many deaths, but it was theirs for not recognizing the problem sooner. If death wasn't from the illnesses that came and went in the elements outside of the kingdom walls, then it was the strategic ambushes from Lirians. As much as he hated the royal family's involvement in his decisions as commander, they were right with their order to scavenge whatever spirited Pradorians that lived on in the residence of the Lirian kingdom. While most soldiers manned the southern and western border, a hand-selected team was created to fulfill the royal family's eager needs in finding those that belonged to them. More soldiers for them, more inside intel for him. Win-win. A sound lifted amongst the now absent screams that still echoed in his ears. An irritating rustle that he wouldn't have noticed had it not been for its repetitive nature. Had his troops returned already? No. Their bantering would've been heard a mile away once they arrived in Prador territory. Crimson eyes were quick to disregard his concern. Oddly entrancing like the sunset, it was a color he had grown familiar with. A faint beauty covered in scars; one of his highest-ranking soldiers. A stone-cold warrior that he had once regretfully assigned a mission was now someone he heavily relied on. The stale, concentrated look in her eyes was sure to send shivers down the spines of anyone who dared to look in her direction. A leader of the southern troop, a messenger to him - a lowly trait she had adapted to of her own accord. Almost in a rush, she was quick to retreat to the dark-coated steed that awaited her, alongside it, his lighter-coated mount. Usually, Pierre didn't have to instigate a conversation with the makeshift leader-messenger, but her hurried pace concerned him. It was almost like she knew what he was thinking, as she brought herself to finally speak. "We need you back at camp, commander." The stiff uncomfortable clunk of her blood-stained armor didn't prevent her from fluidly mounting her horse, Pierre following the same movement onto his. "So soon?" He couldn't help but mutter, clearing his hoarse throat after realizing how soft-spoken he was. A swift glimpse from her, which he assumed at first was for the way he spoke, was enough to point out the ridiculous amounts of blood spatter on his face. A few disorganized swipes wiped away most of it but smeared the rest, turning into a devilish appearance for the commander. The horses found a steady gate alongside each other, their tongues licking at their bits in contented relaxation with ears perked in readiness. "Tell me. What am I needed for?" He finally broke through the sound of hooves and snorts. A stupid question, he'd admit. Although, the stupidity was masked by his regular gruff and assertive voice. "They are coming back." She always had a bad habit of vagueness that caused his short-fused irritation to kick in. "Who?" "The Recovery Battalion," A name he had given the hand-picked troop who sought out any captured Prador civilians, "have rescued some Pradorians." |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-08-23 20:19:20
She did not have any higher hopes for this group. Certainly not as the only woman among their group of "rescues." There were five other Pradorians with her, males from other small border villages. She hadn't met them before joining the Lirian army with them, but the stories they'd shared of childhood on the fringe of the Kingdom of Prador had been all too familiar to her. Why would the crown care for those who were too poor to even be taxed? Though they certainly tried regardless. If it wasn't their wealth to be taxed, it was their time, or their goods. It was always something. Nothing for free, not even the right to exist. That was what her grandfather used to tell her, at least. He had lived by two universal truths: that the crown could never be trusted, and that Adelliah was destined for greatness. Some greatness she turned out to be. A prisoner twice and likely to die before her thirtieth year. "You were asked a question, missy!" a gruff voice snapped at her, jolting her from her despaired musings. Her pale silver eyes flicked upwards, staring at the Pradorian soldier through thick black lashes she innocently batted at him. It was a low growl she received in return as the soldier closed what little space was left between them. The plate male of his armor pressed uncomfortably against her chest, and his hot breath curled across her face, smelling of rancid, molding forageable mushrooms and fruit, and dried meats. "What's your name and where do you hail?" Her head cocked to the side, her braided hair slipping over her shoulder and dropping against her back. "If you know I am a Pradorian, you should know my name and where I hail. Perhaps I have forgotten that part of myself in all the years it took for the crown to respond to the death of my village." The soldier's eyes practically glowed with rage as he reared back from her. "Don't get smart with me!" he snarled, twisting his arm around to backhand her square across her face. The force threw her to the ground before her fellow rescues and the other soldiers milling about. As she felt her skin prickling with the blood rising to her cheeks, and the yearning of her powers straining against the metal cuffs binding her wrists, she took care to even out her breathing before pushing herself onto her knees. Or at least, attempting to, if not for the heavy boot shoving her shoulders down. Her nails dug into the dirt below as she glared skyward, unable to see her "rescuer" at this angle, but perfectly able to see his cruel smirk in her mind's eye. Especially as he did not let up whilst questioning the men, nor when the distant drum of hoofbeats caused commotion upon the others. |
💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |
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Posted 2023-08-24 20:31:43
Home base never lasted long, all but a few weeks at a time before they were forced to pack their things, a tactic to keep the enemies off their trail. They were merely a week into this stay. It was unusual for the soldiers to not relax around the campfire at this time, even weirder that the fire hadn't been ignited. Gas lanterns, an insufficient lighting source compared to the fire, were strewn about the camp, creating a moodier atmosphere. Although there was a stir amongst the men, a common agitation after a long day of travel, it wasn't until his face hit the minor lantern light that a different type of agitation stirred them. His light-coated steed huffed a rough snort, a habit of gaining acknowledgment with Pierre's arrival. Men who were lingering fixed their posture, a form of respect and recognition towards the incoming commander. Some, however, were too distracted by whatever they deemed to be of higher importance. Dismounting off of his horse was nothing spontaneous but was enough to gain further attention. The mere sound of his dismount made some spook from past experiences. The more he moved, the more soldiers he saw jumping to attention. Mel did the same, though instead of sending glares upon the men like Pierre did, she collected the horses and guided them towards water troughs, not wanting to become involved in whatever commotion she knew Pierre was ready to start. Pierre was a timely man – or so he thought – always seeming to arrive at the right moment. Now was another instance. There he stood at a distance, arriving soon enough to watch his men interrogate others. Arriving soon enough to witness the backhand to the petite woman in cuffs. It reminded him of the untamed childish attitude he had when he initially joined the royal guard and the countless backhands he deserved from his sharp tongue. A spitfire like her deserved the same. Pierre wasn't quick to control the situation, rather, he held a hand to a nearby soldier who held dearly onto a water flask. Without a question, he was given what he wanted, soon to pour the cold fresh water in his hand, splashing away whatever blood remnants were left on his face. A refreshing feeling but one that unfortunately wasn't long-lived. Finally, he unleashed his gruff commander voice, though it was eerily softer than usual. "I would recommend that you acknowledge my presence," he uttered. The moment the sound of words evolved from his mouth, the rest of the distracted soldiers finally turned to him, although it wasn't enough to stall their actions. Pierre didn't demand them to stop the brutality. He didn't demand them to stop tormenting those too of Pradorian blood. No. He grew more offended by the lack of recognition rather than the sake of the rescued men made of skin and bones and the young, flushed-faced woman who laid in the dirt. His figure finally emerged in an ambiance of orange lantern light, his glossy skin apparent of his venture to wipe away the blood smears, although a thick smear of dark red blood along his cheek and jaw deemed it unsuccessful. His eyes were caverns of darkness in this lighting, an eerie black. His hair, slightly dampened from the water, was kinky and untended, an obvious need for a haircut. With a flicking motion of his chin, the soldier who laid a heavy boot on the woman's shoulder blades reluctantly alleviated the pressure. "Get up," He asserted. Watching her gasp for air was nothing to him compared to what he witnessed in his lifetime. If the look on his face could speak, it almost looked like he enjoyed her struggle. With no one there to help her stand, it was a mere game….no….challenge to see what strength she had left, fully aware of the flame in her eyes that grew by the second. |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-08-24 21:56:18
As the chain of her shackles caught against her chest, she pushed against the ground to lift her body up and slide back to be seated on her knees. She meet the commander's gaze with blazing defiance, and while she knew she should stop there, his smugness ignited her rage. She rocked into a kneeling position, and in a single, fluid movement, jumped into a crouch before properly standing before him. She would not be made a fool of in front of men she could crush with a single gust of wind. She did not expect the men brought in with her to speak up or attempt to defend her. She knew it was every man for themselves in a prisoner of war situation, and that's all they really were. She would stand on her own, and she would stand tall. Well, as tall as she could when she was roughly a foot shorter than the cruel man before her. What she lacked in height she made up for in spirit, however, as she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin upwards against him. "Perhaps you can answer me then. If I'm registered as a Pradorian, who am I and where do I hail?" Would they even acknowledge the ruins of her home? Of any of their homes? Ruins the royals allowed with no sympathy or concern for years? Saman had been everything for her. The little thatched huts were her home. the river and trees were her friends. That warmth of her family's forge lulled her to sleep in the frigid winter months. Saman had been her home, and she would see someone take accountability for its loss even if it resulted in her death. Although, being able to get a good look at the commander, he truly didn't seem much older than her. Perhaps he hadn't even been part of the military when the royal family turned their back on all of their fringe settlements. The night of the new moon kept the sky dark, and combined with the lackluster lighting of the encampment, hid the shine of anger and hatred misting her eyes. Or so she hoped, at least. She refused to show this man weakness. This man, or any other in this blasted military troop. They didn't deserve her tears, her anguish. Not after the slaughtered her friends in their sleep, or kidnapped her after having abandoned so many of their fellow Pradorians for a decade. She would be strong, and if they made the mistake of removing her chains, she would take the entire mountainside down on top of each and every one of them. And if they didn't... well, there were plenty of narrow passes she could throw herself off. Perhaps even pulling some of them down with her. |
💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |
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Posted 2023-08-25 19:32:44
His harshened gaze lifted to the other salvaged victims, all men with bloodshot tear-driven eyes. Even with fear written all over them, their gazes still penetrated him as if he were the devil who slaughtered their makeshift families. He didn't slaughter them. He merely gave the orders. If anything, they should be grateful to be back with people of the same blood. His lips grew tight, a secure woven line that revealed his deep thoughts. Another sigh. His hands fell behind his back, clasping each other in a comfortable position. "I do not wish to hold you all captive. You are of Pradorian blood anyway. If you wish to leave, then do it. You won't see me any longer," He finally declared. Hesitation struck them all. It was all but a few seconds until a young man, possibly the most naive of the bunch, turned to leave, scrambling at the opportunity to return home. Pierre was more than generous giving him a head start. Finally, he announced the 'catch' that many anticipated out of instinct. "Treason," He started, his eyes finally latching onto the spitfire in front of him, though he didn't speak of her in this situation. His sharp-lined features, however, told her she was to blame for his next words. He resumed, his voice eventually falling back into a fierce but eerily delicate tone. "Treason against Prador and the Pradorian royal family. A clear act of treachery." His words slurred with venom like a restless rattlesnake. The sentence was so blunt, so abrasive, that there was nothing but silence afterward. The bone-chilling stillness didn't last for long. A nearby soldier apprehended the staggering man – who didn't make it too far anyway. An unsheathed sword finally illuminated the night sky, the freshly sharpened blade twinkling in glory. A whistling noise hummed as it sliced through the air, fiending for the taste of blood. It wasn't long until animalistic gurgling noises came from the man who decided to take a chance but failed. An honorable scream for having a severed throat. Like cicadas. A mourning shrill howled from another man, someone seemingly acquainted with the man who was executed for treason. Pierre's reaction didn't flutter, his eyes like steel on the smaller lady in front of him. He pitched his voice over the shrills, enough for her to hear him. "So, tell me, darling. Who are you and who do you hail?" His point was made. Pierre was smart enough to know that any fleeing rescued victims would rat out any and all information on the Pradorian army. His words weren't laced with lies, but rather an undescribed truth. The night seemed to grow frigid by the second, almost like it sensed the death of the Pradorian-blooded traitor. Pierre gave her no time to answer his question; not expecting one. An eased step forced him to turn away, finding Mel observing the situation at a distance. Following a path toward his tent, his figure was prompt to stall beside Mel, hunching to meet his breath to her ear. "Get them fat and happy. Guide them to the guarded barracks to sleep. We head out tomorrow." He paused his sharp whispers, glimpsing back to the six – no, five – rescued Pradorians. He averted his gaze, an intense whisper returning to Mel's ear. "Keep the girl safe. The king and queen will be impressed with someone as spirited as her. Makes a good soldier." |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-08-26 22:51:32
If they could not bury him, they would burn him. He deserved rest, no matter what the commander or other soldiers saw him as. Judgment was reserved for the divines, and Mikhail would not be left to cling to the physical world on her watch. As she felt a somber presence behind her, she turned to see her fellow mourning comrade place a comforting hand on her shoulder. But he was not the only one. The approach of another soldier did not escape her notice, earning the offender a harsh glare as she tightened her grip on Mikhail's corpse. "He belongs with the divines," she growled, her silver eyes glinting in the moody night lighting. "It is the decision of no man to deny another their council before them." She was surprised that the other woman declined to stop her. Even more so that she decided to help, perhaps only to hurry the two of them along. It felt like entirely too soon before Mikhail's funeral pyre burned out, and they were being led to a barracks area, for a restless and tormented sleep. She thrashed around as nightmares sunk their claws of terror into her mind. Cold sweat and hot tears drenched her face and caused her thin garments to cling to her form, feeling suffocating in her unconscious state. Her back arched unnaturally as her hands tangled in the blanket. She wanted to wake. She tried desperately to wake. And when she did, it was with a choked, anguished scream. She bolted upright, the muscles in her back locked tight until they began to spasm with pain from the tension. The pink and golden lights of dawn had just begun to peer through the canvas of their forced lodgings, but she had trouble believing she had truly slept at all. She thought her nightmares had been long under control. She should have known the night before would have brought them back. Maybe she should have tried to run after all. |
💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |