[Other OPEN] Noble Magic [IC] [M]

[Daydream]

Noble Magic

​

​

​

King Perseus Velaro IV

Dust was gathering in the Royal Apartments. Hobart, head of housekeeping, had insisted on them being cleaned for years after there had been anyone to live in them. The King had stopped that just over a year ago. He trailed a hand over the sturdy oak desk, it was not ornate but a blocky, square thing with a golden Velaro inlay in the centre. This had been his Aunt's study and she was a forthright, simple woman with little time for the usual royal trappings. He smiled, remembering her chastising him, her 'gaudy' nephew with a penchant for bright colours and flashy accoutrements.

"Boy, will I ever come to visit and find you not moping around a dead person's room?"

He turned, pulling the old man into a tight embrace. "Uncle Balbus!"

"I'm not your Uncle." He said, with a warm smile.

"I am your King, and you shouldn't call me boy. Even if only because I'm thirty-six."

Balbus Gallo, Duke of South Soldoro: dressed in a light traveling cloak and tunic, both the dark purple of his house. His Majesty, Perseus Velaro IV, King of Soldoro: dressed in Velaro red with accents in gold. The most powerful people in the country stood across from one another in a dusty study. Balbus was getting old. His once brown hair was grey, and he was thinner than he had been in his prime. Perseus showed his years now too, his once clean face sported a beard the same shade of auburn as his hair, and the lines on his forehead had deepened.

"I wasn't expecting you. You're not usually one for the summer season at court."

Balbus' smile dropped. "When I had no response to my letter, I had thought it best to see you in person." Perseus was about to speak, Balbus held up a hand. An affront, had anyone witnessed it. "I know, I know you're busy. This fool idea of yours. This… Game? You could choose another consort and have an heir in an instant!"

Perseus' face grew cold. "You know that I cannot."

Balbus sighed, shaking his head. "Perseus. You don't want to. That's the issue." Anger flashed across the king's face. There was an all too familiar hum of static. "Easy. I understand. You know I understand." The old man's voice became a rasp.

Perseus pulled out a chair for him to rest on. "The Velaro legacy is one of spirit, not blood."

"She would have said the same thing," Balbus gestured around the room as he sat, "Your Aunt Demetria." He took a breath. "Regardless, I knew I wouldn't change your mind. I came here to support you. I know the noble families of this land as well as, if not better than, you. The question remains: how do you choose?"

Silence hung between them. A bird flew past the open window, and cast a flickering shadow.

Perseus spoke first, "You've spoken aloud my dilemma. Do I choose someone the court approves of, who will have an easy reign? A wise and clever tactician? A voice for the people? A pious and humble servant of The Goddess? Some miraculous combination of all?"

Balbus considered. "Perhaps you'll just know when you see them." The cathedral bells began to ring. "But we should be prepared for any eventuality."​

​

​

​

​

Dawn rose over Avilla, the early light touching bunting, flags and festival stalls. The eve of a city preparing for celebration. Guards trooped from their guardhouse by the docks to stations along the city streets. Every year, as young nobles arrived for their summer at court, the city's populace crowded out to watch their arrival from across the country. Their mere approach to the palace had become something of an event. A grand parade that lasted almost a whole day. Some of the noble families played up to it, made a spectacle of their entrance, others tried to be less conspicuous. Whether intentional or not, the show of the event caused unrest among some citizens, seen as an egregious flaunting of wealth and status – thus the need for an increased guard presence. Some of that sentiment indeed remained, but there was more excitement too. A new ruler for Soldoro. The potential for change lay just over the horizon. Some animosity could be cast aside, for just a moment.

As the sun poured its gold over the land, the gates of Avilla swung open. The city swelled with song and excitement, the scent of wine and beer drifted through streets on the sea breeze. A new heir. A Velaro, but only in a name assumed. Change, for better or worse, would be upon Soldoro with the turning of the season.
​

Introduce your character to the roleplay by describing their entrance to the city. Consider how they enter, and if they make a spectacle of it or not. How are they feeling about this moment, and what are they thinking? Have any of their family come along? This a chance to explore their motivations compared to what has been impressed upon them by family members. Are they in this for the crown, for fun, or something else entirely?

When they arrive, their things will be taken to their chambers in the palace. Usually, a noble's suite befits their station (a Contessa and her family would have a much bigger suite than a Baronet) and any family who have chosen to accompany your character will be housed in their usual apartments. However, those elected by their family to be a potential heir are all being housed in the same suite this year, with equal sized rooms and shared dining hall. The King insisted on this, as he wanted all the prospective heirs to feel as though they have an equal chance. And while the young nobles are free to invite as many personal retainers and bodyguards as they feel are necessary, only one shall be permitted to stay with the potential heirs (any beyond this can be housed as you see fit). This is not intended as a slight, extra security has been provided.

Each room is finely, if plainly, appointed with oak furniture and an en suite bathroom. The common room is furnished luxuriously with divans and chairs in Velaro red and trimmed in gold, and they rest atop plush rugs. There are bookcases and tables, and primrose oil scents the air. The adjoining dining room has two long mahogany tables. On the wall, a painting depicts the arrival of Queen Artemia Velaro I, to the shores of the land that would eventually become Soldoro.

There'll be some time to mingle and meet the other potentials in the shared quarters, before the grand ball this evening. But if your character would prefer not to, then they can simply prepare for the evening's festivities.

Welcome to Avilla, young nobles!

[/CSS-DIV]

 

[Junier]

ACT I

- Scene I. -​

Six feet underground, the catacombs of the North waged in a ceaseless war.

Sometimes she came her to 'trance,' to put herself in a state of mind conducive to reflection and nothing else. To wander with the dead as they clutched shields to chests, charged, and sprung one another with the most ferocious of magical blows - turned to ashes, then reappeared, ready to do it again, ad infinitum. Until their pallid figures refused to take even incorporeality and their obstinacy to fight took no form. And, until then, that sense of duty would drive her in her worst times, those where she doubted her form and her standing.

Although she had given up when she was younger on finding a de Saro - all the necromancers had de-materialized with the decomposition of the bodies to puppet. A young soldier stumbled on a wilting jut of bone that, in his lifetime, was a weapon long discarded yet familiar, the realization of which loosed some raw emotion from the boy to send him tumbling through Rane and onto his knees. It was a curious disruption of the 'loop,' whereas the scene in the corridors under the Sarica Basin was restless combat. Everyone under Artez seemed to struggle — the soldiers were young and wide-eyed like fawns whose antlers came in premature, gnarled fixtures of weapon carved only to account for channelling. The boys' armor were hardly reinforced, and when they were, lightning lashed across the exposed metal - Rane readjusted her focus to the train of her dress in avoidance of what became of that one, and what would continue to become of him.

The noblewoman picked through the army of souls and faded sounds of clashes and explosive impact, resigned to the reality of failed coping. And of war, whose sense of finality and low-sung dirge of duty and destiny should have steeled her when those things were more relevant to her than ever. So the second reality set in, as she reached the rungs climbing up the stone walls and out the drudges of the trade city. The cold iron on her bare hands wrenched her from her trance and into the entombing silence.

She could not approach this like a war, because it wasn't one. It was something entirely different, a siren's song that promised many things that weren't as they seemed; the tournament was not as it seemed. Rane had approached politics through action - appealing through action, enforcing through action, intimidating through action - and the anxiety came not from the method, tried and true, but whether it was enough to actually take away some semblance of victory for herself and her family. They were de Saros because the Saro River ran with their blood, down into Sarica Lake, down through The Sarica, past Artez, and into the Lady's Sea. These were the components of a coronary driving a beating heart, the systems of veins through ligaments of earth and paved terrain that made up Soldoro - Soldoro lived through those that had died. The Saro ran with the blood of her family, all of those who died on its banks for the glory of their nation, for their own sakes.

It was all interconnected; you lived even as you died, down in these forsaken corridors.

- Scene II. -​

It was the sort of scintillating noon where Velaro Palace caught the light of the sun and cast it over the capital, itself filled with such acclaim and commotion that it rumbled through the grand hall. The infectiousness of the anxiety would be carried throughout the foyers and chambers and then onto the higher floors by the gaggle of chambermaids who hurried to the stained-glass view on the eastern wing to see for themselves. Though they were awfully silent, considering the tremendous agony before them — the people of the city having arisen in rebellion, pumping their fists to the sky, as the de Saros captured the palace grounds.

They arrived on horseback, among the floats and embellished carriages, and with total anonymity — no coat of arms, sallet helmets of silver brilliance — they went unnoticed. There were a few scattered hither amongst the parade picked out by the least enraptured of the crowd; they weren't humble soldiers in their full, glowing suits of armor, so at first, some onlookers thought them to be royal guards. On cue, they were corrected when nothing less than forty of the soldiers drew attention to themselves in stringent formation — twenty on either side of the procession — and to give meaning to it all, and if this hadn't frightened some of the horses already, a thoroughly massive steed manifested itself above the crowd, galloping across sky to land at the head of the parade. It was a ghastly-white, sixteen-hand behemoth of a creature whose mane turned to an intransible smoke as it moved, and the rider on its back raised both the navy standard flag of the de Saro family and her voice to an impossible volume considering the heavy masking on her face -- the call to action: "The Lady's People are the blood of Soldoro! Long live the Lady's People!"

It was a call to the cynical conglomerate on the fringes of the event -- the result was great fervor, chaos, and carousal, members of the crowd running after the soldiers in disregard of all the elaboration, echoing the chant — "Long live the Lady's People!" — their numbers accumulating as the knights of de Saro neared their objective. Until it was no longer a stream of people running along the sides of the great parade, but an inundation, the masses threatening to interrupt the paths of the other nobles. The guards did their part, but a collective eventually gathered at the foot of the palace stairs, and there was a bated eagerness to see what the captain of the royal guard, on the highest step, would do about it.

She laughed. "Ho! That was the novel entrance, your nobility!"

The target, she leading the charge, removed her helmet, revealing a swath of white-blonde hair and a hardened quality to her face in spite of a doll-like beauty applied through power and paint — her mouth puckered slight and small, her chin turned up, dignified, but her brown eyes looked upon the guardswoman, very hardily and very innocuously.

"A what?"

"It was novel; I have never seen a performance like that."

The noblewoman brushed bangs out of her face. "I presume that's a compliment, then."

The captain grinned in a way preceding laughter. "Yes, I'd say it is. But did you mean to invite the whole of Avilla into the castle, signorina?"

A beat. "I did not." She recuperated quickly and gestured to the crowd. "Ciao; thank you all. Enjoy the end of the parade."

Albeit with some confusion, it would disperse with guards' assistance.

In the meantime: "To whom do I owe the pleasure?" asked the captain with good cheer. And before the armored maiden could answer, "Is this Rane 'de Saro,' or Rane 'Branta,' or Rane 'Branta de Saro' — you'll excuse my confusion."

Her brow drawn, and with immense pride, Rane answered, "I go by Quicksilver."

"'Quicksilver.' So not 'Rane'?"

"Rane Quicksilver."

"Ah, a bardic name! Like one of those 'performers' we import."

Among the soldiers summoned into the capital, there were a few conspicuous coughs, followed by a spontaneous amount of productivity, as the men dismounted their horses. Castle servants had begun descending from the palace to assist.

The noblewoman at the heart of it all remained deathly unamused; in that vein, she reminded the guardswoman of her magic affinity as her actual "occupation," adding coldly, "I've learned to melt flesh without incantation — neither here nor there."

"Oh, I trust you are very powerful, signorina." The captain responded best with a bow and slight waver to her tone, adding, "You must have summoned the horse yourself!"

"Perhaps," Rane said, remembering her status as the "mysterious heir."

The captain, likewise, pushed. "What death spell makes flying horses? Did you melt it first?"

"Do you truly want an answer to that?"

"Well, I would like to know how you reigned the beast into flying you across Soldoro." In another hasten to interrupt, "You understand? 'Reign,' like Rane?"

(At least one of the servants found this indescribably hilarious.)

The flustered noblewoman took on a look of ferocity. "My men and I sailed here."

"You swam the horse to the capital?"

"I'll be seen to my room now."

ooc; goal is for future posts to have more images. i was going to add a third scene introducing some important side characters, including rane's chosen retainer and her mom - i wanted to leave her more open for an interaction or something since i imagined that scene would transition right into the grand ball. in the meantime, let me know if the intro's a little too "out there" - i did want to make it more open-ended in how "chaotic" it really was to invite different reactions to it - and especially if the dialogue at the end with the npc is a little too flippant. but hey, first post!

 

[Groc]

In the parade of nobles coming by land, by sea, or even some by air, it was easy to miss the singular boat that had sailed downriver from Orotello. Not even a true ship, more of a glorified barge, its sole ornamentation was the flag of Sweetwater, a green banner depicting a single red apple inside a ring of silver. As the boat found a place to dock, a small company disembarked and made their way towards the palace.

All told, there were twelve guards, six on either side, while the young Lord walked at their front and the Baron's Champion walked at their rear. The guard at the front of the left column carried the flag of Sweetwater, while his counterpart in the other column bore the flag of Soldoro itself. The Champion was resplendent in his silver chainmail, a two-headed axe at his back and a silver rapier at his side. Each guard wore a breastplate of steel and, save for the unarmed standard bearers, carried a longsword at their hip. The young Lord was clad in all black, including his robe, with a green cape bearing his family's crest to identify himself. If not for that, many would likely have mistaken him for a scholar or accountant, albeit one with an armed escort.

As they walked along the streets, the Lord smiled and waved at the assembled crowd, seeming to grow more excited and bold the closer he got to the palace, even blowing a kiss to a small group of maidens. The Champion announced their presence to all assembled, his powerful voice ringing through the streets. "Make way for Trevor Silverman of Sweetwater! Lord of Sweetwater Acres, caretaker of crops, and the Champion of Fruit and Silver! Your food, your jewelry, and your coins are a blessing distributed by the grace of Sweetwater!" He made this pitch several times as the procession advanced through the city, and at some point the Champion had moved up behind Trevor, keeping an eye on the bearer of Sweetwater's flag, who had begun to falter somewhat in his steps.

Eventually the group arrived at the palace, the Champion going silent as they ascended the stairs. The young Lord grinned at the captain, bowing his head respectfully as he reached for her hand. The Champion never broke his stride, shoving the boy inside as the guards formed a protective line. "Captain," the Champion nodded to the woman as the standard bearer passed the Sweetwater flag off to another guard. "May I present the Honourable Trevor Silverman of Sweetwater."

The former flag bearer removed his helmet, shoving it at another guard before fumbling with his breastplate. The "Lord" moved to assist, helping to remove the armor and the padded leather beneath. With the armor removed, there stood Trevor, his dark hair messy from the helmet and his white shirt darkened with spots of sweat. He rounded on the false Trevor, who was already removing his cloak and robe.

"What was all that out there?" He snatched his robe away from the decoy, fishing his silver eyeglasses out of the inside pocket. "You were just supposed to walk along quietly, smile and wave to the people! Instead y'all went gallivanting through the city, flirtin' with the ladies and makin' a general as-"

"Sire!" The Champion snapped, drawing Trevor's attention. "I recommend you watch your tongue, especially in front of the lady..." He stared hard at Trevor, who gave one last glare at the guard before composing himself, fastening his robe and approaching the Captain, who seemed more amused than anything.

"My apologies, Captain." He nodded politely, now speaking with a more reserved and formal tone. "Thank you, Sir Champion, for the reminder. May cooler heads prevail today."

The Captain barked out a laugh at Trevor's shift in attitude and loss of accent. "My, oh my, the old bait and switch? It's been a while since I've seen anyone using that tactic!"

"The Sweetwater family is rooted in tradition, Captain. Use of a decoy is a tried and-"

"Thank you again, Sir Champion, but as you can see, I've been safely delivered." Trevor dismissed the Champion with a wave. "You and your men may go now. I believe I shall head to my quarters now, Captain. If you could provide me with a guide, I'll get out of your way."

"If you would provide us with a guide, he means." the Champion didn't budge, his dark eyes never straying from Trevor's. "My men will be going back, but I'll be staying on as Trevor's retainer." Trevor reacted with surprise, while the Captain watched in amusement.

"Of course, your nobility. But if you could clarify, purely for my own personal edification, is it Silverman or Sweetwater?" She smiled sweetly, watching Trevor break eye contact first and the Champion step back a pace. The Champion spoke briefly with the guards, and they left as soon as the decoy had donned his armor and hefted the flag.

"Silverman is my family name. Sweetwater is my home, where my father is Baron." Trevor nodded as a palace guard approached them. "If all goes as planned, I'll be replacing both by the end of the summer."

The Captain grinned widely, slightly unnerving Trevor. "We shall see." Was all she said, before turning back to the main door, ready to receive more noble guests. The guide saluted Trevor before leading him deeper into the palace.

"Remember where you are." The Champion muttered in Trevor's ear, making the young noble jump. "This isn't the farm anymore, boy, or even your father's manor. Keep your wits about you, and try not to be a disgrace to your family."

Trevor scowled, not dignifying that. "I'll be glad when all this is over." He muttered through clenched teeth. "One way or another, it'll mean I never have to deal with you again."

The Champion grunted thoughtfully. "We shall see." he muttered, then said nothing more. Trevor rubbed his temples to try and relieve the headache he was starting to get, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

 

[Songbird]

?Hot pies!?

Twitch.

?There goes Baron Nicchi's family.?

?Are the horses the only thing about tha' carriage tha's no' blue??

Twitch.

?Souvenir for your lady back home??

Twitch.

Every little shift of his ears brought to him another voice, another conversation within the bustling Fortibelle Park. Located near the edge of the plaza, the family had a prime viewing spot for this day. Carriages converged from three streets on their way to the palace, and the park's market stalls were nearly as numerous as the things they were peddling.

This was the first time he and his charge been to the capital. The latter's parents were worried that such a big event would be disorienting for them, but in the end their concerns were misplaced. Despite the quiet lives they lived, they acclimated to the commotion in no time at all. In fact, they then started worrying that the two would get themselves in trouble more than anything.

The entire family seemed to have an unfortunate predisposition for such things; and even dressed in modest clothes not unlike those of the surrounding commoners, the one he was brought to protect still drew some wandering eyes. He, too, had pulled some gazes to him?he wasn't the only magician in sight, nor the only one associated with a noble, but his ever-so-slightly-off appearance earned him some derision.

Regardless, they were eventually able to settle down and find a place to watch the parade, and locals and travellers alike proved perfectly amicable, although a few were disgruntled by all the extravagance. At the moment, his young protectee was working her way through a crepe wrapped around fruits and a sweet cream. Commoners must have had quite the appetite, because the snack could have blocked her face if she held it up any higher. He couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he wiped off some of the cream that got on her chin.

?Haah, here comes the Picallys.?

One of the mothers' exasperated sighs brought his attention back to the parade. More specifically, it brought his attention to the very noisy carriage rolling down Duke Fortis Road that he was trying to tune out. The vehicle itself was nothing to brag about, and the horses brought it along stably, but rather than inside, the one the mother identified as Jack Pically was... on the roof, getting down with his bad self to the rhythm of some upbeat, avant-garde orchestra.

The Pically family was headed by a marquis, she informed, and they were most all elementalists. Jack was the family's first son, and proficient with wind magic. Not only that, but he was the one creating the music. From violin and trumpet to piano and drum, there were no instruments in sight; they were all being emulated by the sole twenty-three year old's power. When the carriage stopped to merge onto the plaza with the other arriving nobles, Jack jumped off the roof and started dancing with a couple of the commoner girls until the time came for him to keep moving.

?Just like his father,? laughed the second mother.

?I don't know how Dominique stands having two of them around.?

As much of a showoff as Jack was, he thought it said a lot about how much control the Picallys had over their magic. His charge found herself impressed as well, albeit perhaps more by the music than the mage behind it.

The wagons immediately after were much less flamboyant. The noise died down, and the audience returned to their pattern of silence, cheers and awe, with few exceptions for those who were only present begrudgingly for some reason. So, their viewing continued peacefully until the young girl next to him whispered, ?Mother, here comes our carriage!? He took a glance down Estill Road; she was right, and this time it was the second mother who sighed.

However subtle it tried to be, bright whites made up most of the cloth covering, and it was flanked by no less than twenty guardsmen?understandable given the passenger's position, but it reeked of regality. Between the sheer cloth and very complete guard, the undoubtedly luxurious interior was somewhat obscured?but there was no mistaking the cross spear adorning the side, with a large ring just between the shaft and head, nor the characteristic platinum hair of its key passenger.

Much of the crowd filling the area fell silent or near to it as the carriage came through; of course, not the first time they did, nor likely the last. On this occasion, it was because that very passenger out of four was war hero and countess, Alessa Graf, a beautiful saint whose boundless mercy extended even to Vestians during the war.

Or, at least, she was supposed to be in the carriage. Actually, he was, too. In reality, the former was currently under a simple guise thanks to her life magic and a set of clothes for such a purpose, and helping her daughter finish the dessert that was evidently too much for her. The four figures in the vehicle were fakes?not body doubles, but mere illusions riding in their place. That said, the coachman, guards and horses were the real thing, unaware of the family's little escapade.

The decoys were created by Alessa's daughter and the girl he was meant to guard, Marisa. She was a young girl with long platinum hair and sky-blue eyes much like Alessa, no more than ten years old or so at a glance; and she had such a strange brand of magic that her own mothers?both anomalies in their own right?were still discovering new things about it on the regular. For example, despite her childlike stature, she was nineteen, a year and change older than him.

The plaza and park returned to normal again once the Grafs' carriage was finally out of sight, confused and excited discussions drifting to his ears from the crowd. Things like ?Never knew she had a child,? or ?Wonder what the kid's like,? or ?I think that sausage and my stomach are fighting, and my stomach's losing,? among others.

Overall, the crowd seemed optimistic. He only hoped the other nobles wouldn't be worse?Marisa had a lot to live up to?but that was a bridge they'd cross when they came to it.

?Sasha, Marisa, you should get ready to go.? Marisa's second mother, Selene, was talking to them. ?Can't have them accidentally touching the mirages.?

One of the downsides to the particular magic Marisa used today was that almost any kind of contact made it disappear instantly. The price she paid for its range. The idea of the ?family? going poof right at the palace entrance briefly ran through his head as he dealt with the trash.

The last minutes of their family outing were spent enjoying the festive atmosphere, as well as Alessa telling Marisa and him about a few more of the noble families they were bound to meet. In the meantime, Selene looked to be doing something akin to meditating. He didn't have much of a sense for magical energy that wasn't like his own, but he figured it safe to assume she was working on a spell or two.

As the time slowly rolled by, Sasha decided to keep tabs on the more notable names Alessa listed off. That is, ones she seemed to emphasize.

There were the Archambaults, a family of ?Spiritualists?, as they styled themselves. However, they weren't death mages, but elementalists who devoted their training to embracing and quite literally embodying the power of the elements they specialized in. The baron loved to brag about his son and his ?meteoric growth? in the art. The way Alessa put it, they saw him as their ticket to fame and glory.

She mentioned taking special care around the Viggos, as well. Another elemental magic family, ?excessive force? was all Alessa really used to describe them. Sasha remembered that one or two of the countess' maids talked about the elder brothers of the name once in a while. Unfortunately, he also remembered that Alessa ordered the maids in question to return to her father's household in the barony before they even got to meet Marisa. Something about ?indecent fan fiction? or the like. Didn't make much sense to him.

And then there was the Judge family, the current Marquess known by Alessa for having married one of her best friends some years ago... who was thirteen at the time. Even she herself didn't pay much attention to the family's abilities because of that. But on the more optimistic side, they and their other friends still got together once in a while.

?Alright, kids, we're all set. Let's get back in the carriage before it hits the gate.? Breaking out of her trance, Selene made sure everyone was prepared for what was about to come, and Alessa's briefing was cut short. Looking about the area, it appeared to him that nobody even recognized their presence anymore.

?Warp.?

In an instant, all four were gone without a trace.