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- Character Biography
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Vellerot
They had once called it a village.
Laughable, really. It was a stretch of road around a two-day ride east from Vel Stratholm that held a scattered collection of five farmsteads spread out by a mile each. In the Revolution, it had been the site of a skirmish, a quick and bloody affair that had left the area abandoned in its destructive wake. Some homes still bore the scars, leaving behind nothing but their burnt-out husks, while others stood, merely abandoned.
It was another tip-off; the words 'suspicious activity' writ large and began to loom over the heads of Anirians with every passing incident.
Between the combination of ambushes and well-laid traps, the powers that be were no longer willing to send small units to investigate, nor were they willing to send Initiates alone, not after the last disaster.
Marcia had been one of the unfortunate Initiates caught in the aforementioned disaster, alongside Cawdor, Bletzin and Limont, the latter of whom had turned into the saviour of the day, saving them from the grim fate of anti-magic experimentation and interrogation fodder. She might have been more grateful were he not so damned smug about the entire thing. His constant shit-eating grin had long since erased any goodwill he might have earned with his bravery and quick wits. It was a small mercy that he wasn't assigned to this mission, with only she and Bletzin present from the incident.
Cawdor had been called to the Cortosi front, having come out the other side in one piece despite his soft demeanour. His value as a healer couldn't be understated, nor could his calm conduct in the face of their adversaries. Ultimately, Marcia had been impressed. Didn't think he had it in him.
The two missing Initiates they had been searching for in the debacle had not fared so well. Beckeln was still under quarantine, with assurances from on high that he was alive, but in grim, hushed tones. Not a great surprise given he had been stripped of his magic and rendered a disfigured abomination of spores and flora. Gosia Lubin hadn't surfaced much either, although she wasn't regarded with the same level of secrecy, the girl was harbouring enough mental wounds to render her a liability on the field.
Not so long ago, they would have tossed her back out to wreak havoc.
At least now they knew better what 'suspicious activity' would likely mean: small pockets of disgruntled Anirians with the sole target of Dreadlords. They might have obscured their identities, but not their accents or scars. Too grizzled to be commoners with their one year's service under their belt. It had narrowed the culprits down to aggrieved former-Guards, but the size and scope were still unknown.
They were here on the pretense that it would be another trap, in the hope that they could capture some of the bastards alive and interrogate them. Marcia was hoping to get personally involved with the latter, as no doubt Bletzin was too. There were two groups of four, a Dreadlord and three Initiates, set to search the abandoned houses. Even if they didn't catch any of them, they could, hopefully, piece together the way their enemies worked, their methodology and the means they possessed. Anything was better than nothing.
While Limont wasn't there with his smug, prick face, it still wasn't ideal company. Vittoria was present, existing like an old wound whose pangs of pain would never entirely subside, but was fortunately on the first squad alongside Wylls, Bletzin, and others. Unfortunately, her group was being led by none other than Heller, who held the most smug, prick face of them all. The two accompanying Initiates were capable enough, even if Marcia wasn't a fan of either and vice versa.
Henry Ashcotte was a towering boulder of a young man with all the grace and wits of a boulder to boot. The definition of dumb muscle, but with none of the charm. He came from minor nobility and, while lacking a signature arcane trick, was adept at wielding general magic, although he tended not to use it in favour of a huge maul. 'Why think when can smash' was probably his motto.
The other was Aluze, a sardonic girl who was about as pleasant as sitting on a cactus bare-arsed. She possessed a vision
beyond that of mortals, able to see much further and with astonishing clarity, even through walls that depended on the material. It went hand-in-hand with her preference for the crossbow, which was also on brand with the girl's mannerisms, keeping everybody at a distance with an acidic tongue and hateful glares.
"I can't believe they've pulled eight of us for this," Aluze commented with a wrinkling of disgust in her nose, crossbow strapped to her back and arms folded across her chest. "What a waste of resources."
"Well, we can't have Cat and Marcia getting captured again. They need the big boys and girls to keep them safe," Ashcotte grinned, hefting the shaft of his maul from one hand to the other as both groups milled around in final preparations to begin the search.
"Fuck off."
"Piss off."
As much as Marcia and Bletzin didn't get along (which surprised precisely nobody), their responses came in vulgar unison, and they both shared an awkward glance in the aftermath. Their shared suffering hadn't suddenly made the pair friends by any stretch, but at the very least, it had put their active animosity on ice.
Wasn't that nice?
They had once called it a village.
Laughable, really. It was a stretch of road around a two-day ride east from Vel Stratholm that held a scattered collection of five farmsteads spread out by a mile each. In the Revolution, it had been the site of a skirmish, a quick and bloody affair that had left the area abandoned in its destructive wake. Some homes still bore the scars, leaving behind nothing but their burnt-out husks, while others stood, merely abandoned.
It was another tip-off; the words 'suspicious activity' writ large and began to loom over the heads of Anirians with every passing incident.
Between the combination of ambushes and well-laid traps, the powers that be were no longer willing to send small units to investigate, nor were they willing to send Initiates alone, not after the last disaster.
Marcia had been one of the unfortunate Initiates caught in the aforementioned disaster, alongside Cawdor, Bletzin and Limont, the latter of whom had turned into the saviour of the day, saving them from the grim fate of anti-magic experimentation and interrogation fodder. She might have been more grateful were he not so damned smug about the entire thing. His constant shit-eating grin had long since erased any goodwill he might have earned with his bravery and quick wits. It was a small mercy that he wasn't assigned to this mission, with only she and Bletzin present from the incident.
Cawdor had been called to the Cortosi front, having come out the other side in one piece despite his soft demeanour. His value as a healer couldn't be understated, nor could his calm conduct in the face of their adversaries. Ultimately, Marcia had been impressed. Didn't think he had it in him.
The two missing Initiates they had been searching for in the debacle had not fared so well. Beckeln was still under quarantine, with assurances from on high that he was alive, but in grim, hushed tones. Not a great surprise given he had been stripped of his magic and rendered a disfigured abomination of spores and flora. Gosia Lubin hadn't surfaced much either, although she wasn't regarded with the same level of secrecy, the girl was harbouring enough mental wounds to render her a liability on the field.
Not so long ago, they would have tossed her back out to wreak havoc.
At least now they knew better what 'suspicious activity' would likely mean: small pockets of disgruntled Anirians with the sole target of Dreadlords. They might have obscured their identities, but not their accents or scars. Too grizzled to be commoners with their one year's service under their belt. It had narrowed the culprits down to aggrieved former-Guards, but the size and scope were still unknown.
They were here on the pretense that it would be another trap, in the hope that they could capture some of the bastards alive and interrogate them. Marcia was hoping to get personally involved with the latter, as no doubt Bletzin was too. There were two groups of four, a Dreadlord and three Initiates, set to search the abandoned houses. Even if they didn't catch any of them, they could, hopefully, piece together the way their enemies worked, their methodology and the means they possessed. Anything was better than nothing.
While Limont wasn't there with his smug, prick face, it still wasn't ideal company. Vittoria was present, existing like an old wound whose pangs of pain would never entirely subside, but was fortunately on the first squad alongside Wylls, Bletzin, and others. Unfortunately, her group was being led by none other than Heller, who held the most smug, prick face of them all. The two accompanying Initiates were capable enough, even if Marcia wasn't a fan of either and vice versa.
Henry Ashcotte was a towering boulder of a young man with all the grace and wits of a boulder to boot. The definition of dumb muscle, but with none of the charm. He came from minor nobility and, while lacking a signature arcane trick, was adept at wielding general magic, although he tended not to use it in favour of a huge maul. 'Why think when can smash' was probably his motto. The other was Aluze, a sardonic girl who was about as pleasant as sitting on a cactus bare-arsed. She possessed a vision
beyond that of mortals, able to see much further and with astonishing clarity, even through walls that depended on the material. It went hand-in-hand with her preference for the crossbow, which was also on brand with the girl's mannerisms, keeping everybody at a distance with an acidic tongue and hateful glares."I can't believe they've pulled eight of us for this," Aluze commented with a wrinkling of disgust in her nose, crossbow strapped to her back and arms folded across her chest. "What a waste of resources."
"Well, we can't have Cat and Marcia getting captured again. They need the big boys and girls to keep them safe," Ashcotte grinned, hefting the shaft of his maul from one hand to the other as both groups milled around in final preparations to begin the search.
"Fuck off."
"Piss off."
As much as Marcia and Bletzin didn't get along (which surprised precisely nobody), their responses came in vulgar unison, and they both shared an awkward glance in the aftermath. Their shared suffering hadn't suddenly made the pair friends by any stretch, but at the very least, it had put their active animosity on ice.
Wasn't that nice?
