A Change of Winds | Private Roleplay
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Posted 2023-08-27 05:19:43
Even exiting his tent was a shamble. His hair kinked messily in the dewy morning, a lousy statement along with the bags under his bloodshot eyes – obvious that he had been rubbing at them. Though his uniform spoke differently. Black as the night sky, even the metal features were a dark silver, practically a matte black from certain angles. The sharp-lined appearance of his outfit made it clear that it was tailored for his wear only, unlike the dreary uniform before. Above his heart stood not only the emblem of his commander position but also that of Prador, an insignia of the royal family. If he had seemed intimidating last night in a uniform of sweat and blood, he was sure to be terrifying now. A black colored glove enclosed his left hand, adding to the moody look, though it only symbolled to his scarred right hand – the only thing Pierre hated about it. His face was finally refined unlike before, the blood stains finally washed away. Even the way he walked was different under the impression of the uniform. A figure caught the corner of his eye. Mel. Pierre was always the first up, compared to the other soldiers, but even he was surprised by Mel's early-bird mindset. Had she even slept? In her one hand, a makeshift breakfast for him, her other, a makeshift breakfast for her. He didn't realize how starved he was until he plucked it from her hand and took a bite. "You might want to fix your hair." She paused, startled by her own bluntness. A motherly habit that she adapted to after seeing the princesses's behavior toward him. His scarred hand tremored upon her statement, forcing it to settle with the use of his occupied hand. "You shouldn't have overdone it yesterday. How many did you summon?" "Who are you to speak of what I can and can't do?" He ignored her question. Luckily for her, his tone was light and even almost playful. He was quick to catch her attempts to start a conversation, knowing very well that she had to have something on her mind to keep carrying on like this. He shot up a dark look, the purple features of his eyes becoming more prevalent in the pink and golden coloration of dawn. Such a look finally made her speak of what was on her mind. "You should've seen the look on the poor girl's face, commander." She belatedly stated her dawn-colored eyes glinting. She was all but two years older than the woman she had just met, yet she acted like a mother. He hadn't seen that look in a long time, a vital flaw he had once been familiar with. Her demeanor was pungent and assertive around men but after seeing a tormented lady, possibly a figure that reminded her of her past, it seemed to cause a crack in the stone wall around her empathetic heart. "Good. Hopefully, she learns to reserve her spirit for the battles ahead of her." He spoke through a mouthful of unfavorable bread and cooked mystery meat. He sighed. It seemed like the breathed expression didn't leave him from last night. "The royals would've done the same thing. If that were the case more than one would be dead. I did them a favor. Plus, here, I wouldn't have to clean up the mess." Pierre wasn't one to explain himself but something about Mel's look made him try to justify his decision. Though the sympathetic look he once saw was soon to melt into guilt. "You didn't," He uttered, swallowing a hard lump of dry food. The slimming of her lips gave him his answer. "He is Pradorian. I had to give him a respected burial." "He is a traitor," He was quick to counter, swiping at the fluffed strand of hair that fell in his eyes. Silence fell between them, a time for the birds' morning song to elevate. Another tug at the dry bread was enough to break it. "Can I trust you to wake the others? Or will I be faced with more problems like this?" Stoney ash eyes laced in purple devilishly twisted to her. The scars littering her face and neck tightened in seriousness, a subtle, partially hurt nod before she turned to walk to the barracks. |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-08-27 19:25:50
Her pale eyes snapped towards the fellow captive that spoke, her expression morphing into a heavy glare as soon as her gaze met his. "Are you insane?" she hissed in a deathly quiet tone. "You saw what they were willing to do to Mikhail, you think that you will not join him if they catch you speaking the Lirian tongue?" The language would get him killed. She was certain the title would get her killed. And in the light of day, she doubted she would be afforded the time for a proper burial, or pyre. "If you value your life and the ability to see those you love again, you must act the part of a Pradorian citizen, no matter how long ago you left that life." Her words were to all of them, but mostly to herself. There was only one left that she loved, outside of the men that sat around her. She would get them back to Liria, if it was her final act alive, but that would require cunning and planning above anything else. She could not protect them if she was dead. As the entrance of their meager tent was drawn back by the woman who had tended to them the night before, the semi-circle of men before the young captain turned to watch the newcomer warily. She was the first among them to move, her small stature, aching and weary, standing as tall as she could force it to in front of their captor. Neither spoke, even as the soldier, Mel, if she had caught her name correctly, held out the armful of linens she had brought with her. Rough spun tunics and frayed, patched up leggings, enough for easily double their number, though perhaps not enough to fit any of them comfortably. Still, it would keep them decent. For a while at least. Even the smallest of the sizes provided would leave her swimming in the clothing. As if that insult were not enough, upon being dressed and dragged from the barracks tent so it could be broken down for travel, they were offered not the breakfast the soldiers themselves suffered through, but merely the scraps they had left behind. Not that it mattered much; with the deaths of so many of their own, the five remaining survivors turned to fasting in their mourning. A Lirian tradition, but one they clung to regardless of their captain's word in the barracks. Even she couldn't bring herself to break the cycle that was as comforting as it was harrowing. Their fasting would likely last until they reached the capital, or at least one of the larger cities surrounding it. Something she was certain the soldiers would not complain about. More food to go to them as they marched on. Day by day. She and the others sat around the ashes of last night's pyre, out of the way of the soldiers breaking down camp. A process they were all greatly familiar with, but not one they would willingly join in on. The remnants of Mikhail's body were scattered among the charred logs of the fire, but even if they had the means to transport them, she knew it would not be allowed. And even if it was, Mikhail would vastly prefer to rest on the Lirian side of the mountains. It wasn't until Mel informed them that they would be leaving for the capital soon that she stood, looking to the men under her charge with a single nod. All they had to do for the time being was be obedient. |
 💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |
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Posted 2023-08-28 22:44:23
"No sir," She responded. "No?" He countered, leaning back in the seat that was already making his back cramp. Although he wasn't one to naturally ask obscure questions, it was his job to get the loyal survivors back to the royal family, and that unfortunately meant having to worry about them. "So be it," He settled, folding up the now-dry sheet of paper and sealing it closed with wax. He stood abruptly, swift enough to force Mel backward. If they refused to eat, then it was nothing more than his soldiers getting more resources. It was only a matter of time before they realize their mistakes. They would soon beg him for a meal, and it would depend on his mood at that time whether he would comply or not. Just as long as they stayed alive, he wouldn't care about the situation. Mel's hand automatically sought the letter in his hand, but he pulled it away. "I shall choose a different messenger. I need you to lead a group through the southwest trail. I will take the southeast trail. Leading a troop this big would be like leading a lamb to slaughter." They exited the tent, soldiers jumping to action on collapsing it like it would be their last task of the day. A swift handoff was all it took to get the letter to the messenger, his gate unchanged as he headed to his horse. "I shall get them ready then," She didn't speak of the horses but rather of the survivors that she visited just this morning. "Focus on your duties. They will be with me for this travel." A worried look tormented her scarred face. She could only hope that all of them would survive on the long travel ahead of them. … Mel was quick to leave, possibly to escape Pierre's agitation. Taking most of the soldiers and bigger supplies with her, she marched her horse and her soldiers to the southwest trail, a more dangerous trail compared to the one he would be traveling. That left him with a much smaller group than before. Plenty of soldiers to fight a mini battle if needed, plenty of horses to carry supplies, and plenty of survivors to appease the royal family. Pierre sat atop his horse, the stallion already snorting with excitement for the travel. A sword was trapped against his hip, another blade sheathed into the horse's saddle. Both were useless to him, as his summoning power was much more powerful, but in a time of need, it was a good resource to have. The contrast of his black uniform against the horse's dark grullo coat was quite the eyesight but wasn't troublesome enough to catch the attention of enemies. It seemed as though, amongst the other handful of tasks he had to fulfill before their departure, taking advice from Mel was one of them. His hair was now slicked back neatly, kinking ever so slightly in the soft breeze of the morning. It was a completely different look, along with his outfit and polished face, compared to last night. The soldiers formed lines in the front and the back of the traveling group, the Pradorian survivors in the middle. Atop another steed sat a soldier, the main guard that led the survivors, peering back at them with dark eyes every few minutes to make sure they all were still there. Though they were lenient enough to not tie them up to the saddle with rope, it didn't mean that they would refrain from cutting them down if they attempted to escape. Pierre, on the other hand, started at the back. His horse took eager steps with its head high, energy maintained by a strict hand on the reins. Purple eyes glistened from the sunlight that gaped through the forest top, more apparent than what the lantern light had once revealed. His gaze grew occupied with his surroundings. The way his eyes jerked at every sound made it apparent that he was much more cautious than the other soldiers. It took a slight unnatural noise to force a kissing noise from his lips, the grullo steed lunging forward toward the front of the group. Allowing his impulsiveness to take hold, his reactiveness was like a mother hen protecting her chicks. Once his energy deescalated, his horse following suit, he maintained himself in the middle of the group, steadily riding next to the survivors. |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-09-07 07:32:08
One foot in front of the other. That was how she would survive the long trek that was achingly familiar to her. The wildlife around them chirped and skittered and growled and hissed, moving on about their days despite the intruders in their habitat. Insects buzzed around them, attracted to the sweat and grime that clung to their skin in the thick humidity they swam in. The forests were heavy, but they weren't endless. According to the grumblings of the soldiers surrounding them, their camp for the night would be in a clearing along one of the cliffs closer to the Pradorian kingdom than the Lirian one. At this pace they'd likely arrive in the capital in a week's time, if she remembered the geography of Prador correctly. Though she was a soldier herself, she'd never been sent in any invasion missions, truly marking this as the first time she'd been in Prador since she was initially captured a decade ago. Her heart ached at the memories of an old home long lost, but even more it ached for the new home she was forced to leave behind. Friends, comrades, a life built and lost. Again and again. Would she never be allowed her peace? Step. Step. Step. Step. Mud and dirt and twigs and leaves slowly gave way to gravel and slabs of hard stone as they climbed further up the mountain, towards one of the many peaks in the range. Trees thinned out, and with the open air came whipping winds that lashed at the humans disturbing the peace of nature. She let her eyes drift shut as a soft hum bubbled in her throat, bringing with it lyrics of an ancient tongue, neither Pradorian or Lirian in nature. Far older than either kingdom, a language of the Divines, or perhaps just the first of their kind that walked this earth. Words whose meaning had nearly been lost, if not for the few who still spoke it in earnest, and dedicated themselves to its preservation. It was, in fact, her first tongue, passed to her by her father long before she ever learned Pradorian as a child. Though she'd yet to meet another soul that understood her when she sang those songs of old, she refused to allow the language to die alongside the rest of her family. She fumbled with the tie around her hair, pulling it loose and separating the braid keeping her hair in check, allowing the wind to pick up each gentle wave as she sang alongside its whispers. Step. Step. Step. Step. Her legs burned and her throat stung, but without her hobby she was convinced she would have allowed the soldiers to run her through long before the sun began to set far in the west. Their path had evened out some time ago, and soon promised to turn downwards, at least for a time. But before that luxury, they were afforded a different one. Rest. The cliff they'd come to could only be accessed by the way they'd just come, if one were to approach from Liria. The soldiers would see a rescue party miles away, not that one would have even been formed by then. They were also in an advantageous position to receive messages from Prador, should any situations have arisen in the kingdom that required the attention of their commander. They could have easily reached another suitable camping spot, she was sure of it, but this one was far and away the most tactically sound place to rest. It was unfortunate, then, that the cliff they were on overlooked the coast of Prador. Even from this distance, she could see the still, undisturbed ruins of what was once the village she spent her childhood in. "What happened to you, Saman?" she murmured to herself, desperately scanning the docks for some form of life, some betrayal of the truth she'd always known. The coast was nothing to the Royals. Rebuilding would have required too many materials they could place elsewhere, in areas that benefited them far more than their people. It wasn't just Saman, either. Numerous villages, some she recognized, some she didn't, had been left to rot away after the Lirians had raided them and captured their people. Captured. More like liberated. She could never remember a quality of life in her childhood that she had enjoyed as a citizen of Liria. The skills that they all had developed, that had been overlooked by the Pradorian crown, had been praised and cultivated in their new homes. Fishing families settled in Lirian coastal towns, some providing food directly to the capital. Textile workers made their way inland, into large cities with thriving trade centers. She had settled in a quiet mining village, where she could assist the local blacksmith and silversmith, just as she had with her father. It wasn't home, but she adjusted fine. The ruins of Saman had been buried so deeply within her mind, seeing them after all these years nearly made her want to throw herself off the cliff in sheer agony. They hadn't been prosperous, but they had been self-sufficient. When did that stop being enough for the royal family? |
💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |
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Posted 2023-09-15 23:40:52
He was more curious than agitated, but his slimming lips and narrowed eyebrows made it seem like he just spotted a pest. Even with the taming regulations that he implemented; she still somehow found a sense of hope in it all. Pierre couldn't help but allow her astounding behavior to increase his expectations. He knew very well that having that much spirit could become something significant in the upcoming battles, though he wasn't naïve enough to ignore the fact that war could break anyone, no matter how vivacious. The bubbling hymn that swarmed daintily from her throat made the nature around her shutter, the song entangling the branches, grasses, and roots of the struggling forest like it was something the area was deprived of all these years. What she spoke was neither Pradorian nor Lirian, but was rather something the Divines gave their humble humans long ago. A mere form of tongue that he, more than once, listened to as a child yet could never seem to get the hang of. Nearly enchanted by the spitfire's song, it took a sudden stir from the horse beneath him to draw his attention away. A heavy snort and slamming hooves split through the air. He couldn't tell at first what stirred the practically bomb-proof mount. Had it been the wind? It wasn't until Pierre's hand started to cramp that he realized how tight his grip was on the reins, virtually strangling the connection between him and his horse's head. The twisted scars that were etched into his knuckles and palm, snaking up into his wrist like a parasite, ached painfully. Attempting to pry the fingers free, a sharp pain was quick to torment his temples. It was a familiar but agitating ache, one that he knew well enough for it to be from his nine contracted demons. They desired to be summoned. Especially the one that complimented the wind. A sharp gulp was all it took for it to disappear, drawn away by the subtle breeze. A soft purr to the disturbed grullo horse and a forced lightened grip was enough to soothe him. Mel was right about yet another thing. He must've overused his summoning abilities yesterday. Eyes dodging from the humming girl, who soon allowed the song to fade away anyway, they drifted toward the campsite that his troop was meant to call home until the next sunrise. Like the last campsite, it was nothing more than a clearing, big enough for the small troop but small enough to stay well hidden. Beyond it, amongst the quite astonishing views that he would allow his soldiers to enjoy, stood the ruins of a village that once breathed with life. When was the last time he laid eyes on those ruins? Not long enough. With a clenched jaw, he chose to ignore it. To ignore it as he did the day it fell in the hands of Lirians. If it didn't make the scars on his hand ache, it stirred his mind. In his opinion, the view was nothing to gawk at but rather was something that egged on lethal memories about old decisions. The soldiers were quick to make a home out of the space they were given. Hurrying to lift the tents that would shelter them in the chilly night ahead, they sought their well-deserved time of relaxation. Many of the exhausted soldiers gathered around a makeshift fire, led by the sole proprietary cook who was already busy whipping up some makeshift mystery broth. The flames flickered with grace, tamed enough to not draw attention but significant enough to cause banter amongst them. Their content, quiet, and focused behaviors seemed to dwindle the more their chuckles filled the thin air. If not hungry by the fumes of the cook's meal, they were hungry with the thought of women. They eagerly spoke of their partners who waited for them at home, some who were expecting a child, others who merely missed the touch of another. None of which he understood himself. |
Superb #71174 |
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Posted 2023-09-29 14:55:26
The sun bounced off of blinding white marble as they finally approached the towering walls of the capital city. She has never been to the loud, bustling, epicenter of the Pradorian populace before. Seas of people parted for the soldiers, as reverent to them as she would expect them to be to the royal family themselves. She could feel countless eyes on her, but she felt no need to bother herself with scouting out the masses. These were not the people she had been dragged along to see, and she was unlikely to ever make the acquaintance of any one of them. Thus she trained her gaze to the spires and turrets or the castle on the horizon, and other gilded properties that flanked either side of it. The ancestral homes of the founding families; the Blood of Dragons and the Blood of Prophets. While the latter was thriving, colorful, and warm, the former had nearly fallen into decay. The sight of it made her blood boil. She knew the family of dragons had disappeared in her grandfather's time, but to see such blatant disrespect to their memory in such a short amount of time, she realized the raided villages were not the only things low on the royals' list of priorities. There would be no Prador without the Blood of Dragons. And many believed Prador would not stand if they did not return. There were many courses of action that she expected to be taken, but she had to admit being brought to the soldier's barracks was not high on that list. She realized, of course, that the royals would not want soldiers and prisoners coated in the stench of the forest contaminating their halls, but at that point in their journey, a warm bath seemed all too good to be true. They weren't able to linger, not that she would want to when surrounded mostly by complete strangers, but it was still the greatest comfort she had experienced since the attack. And now that they were in the capital's guard barracks, there was an abundance of resources afforded to them, including properly fitted clothing. Not perfectly fitted perhaps, but being able to walk around without constantly adjusting everything she was wearing was a wonderful feeling. Unease settled over her as she and her troop were led through the palace grounds, up the grandiose staircase, through the heavily decorated foyer and into the throne room. The king and queen sat regally overlooking all else, with their children arranged around them. Apparently the return of "prisoners of war" was an important event. As if. Her jaw was set and she held her head high, standing with her comrades with a calm expression as she watched the royals closely. The princesses had become giggling messes the second they arrived, and following their gazes to the commander that brought them here, she had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Of course. Spoilt rich brats with shallow interests. |
💀 Maladi idalaM 💀 #1568 |