Post by Allana on Jul 27, 2009 0:33:52 GMT -8
-Vilena-
((ooc: I put together a little background on my most recent character, hope it makes sense its awfully late.
The signet ring felt heavy in her hand, though the ring itself was small in mass. Tiny and cheap, remnants of its gold plating still hid in the recesses of the brass emblem set upon it. Nearly worn smooth on its edges, the crest still bore the image of her household, a winged serpent hurling a single bolt of lightning. Her father had once told her it was a "Thunder Wyrm." He had told her it was a mighty dragon too, but she had learned. It was a lesser dragon, only dangerous when crossed in quantity, and represented in nearly the cheapest of metals.
It represented House Amarael well, she thought. A sour smile swept across her features. A minor house, which through time had preserved itself only by swearing fealty to other households, all of whom were minor nobles themselves and served in the shadow of still greater houses. Ever the pawns of pawns.
It was cruel fate that she now held the ring. She felt neither old enough, nor wise enough to be the head of any household, even one so insignificant as Amarael. She was the fourth sibling of seven children borne to her immediate family. Political wrangling among those houses just above them had seen at least two of her older siblings dead, and perhaps a third. One of her brothers had been bold enough, or perhaps stupid enough, to mediate a blood feud between two stronger houses. He did bring them to a truce of sorts in earning the wrath of both sides. Which side killed him still was not clear. As for her younger siblings, her youngest brother was more of a minstrel than a leader. And her younger sister had a acquired fondness for sniffing the powders smuggled from the Sea of Spores. Her other two siblings, she knew only that they had disappeared suddenly. Runaways, murdered, or perhaps fleeing the imminent collapse of their house.
Even worse House Raytine was wavering. While small in power, and hardly of note alone, their shard of influence had sheltered Amarael of late. But, only five days gone she'd heard the young lord and current head of that house had suffered an accident on a hunt outside Giran and been gored by a Windsus. She much doubted the likeliness of the accident, and suspected that the young lord's ambitious brother played a part. Lineage decreed that he would be the next in line. He was a cruel young hot tempered wisp of a man who would undoubtedly lead his banners in a open attack on a rival house. But she knew his adversary, and knew they had tetrarch backing. Such a fight would annihilate wavering Raytine entirely and lower them to equal or lesser standing than that of Amarael, which would offer no protection.
Battle was a subtle thing among the houses, rarely fought on the battlefield. It was carried out on rooftops by solitary blades, unleashed from shadows in an empty corridor, or placed in a cup on a servants tray and served during afternoon tea. Those lordlings who failed to understand this, had no business leading. She much preferred the battlefield in truth. There was a simple honesty in facing your opponent head on and dismembering him openly in the light of day upon a battlefield. There was no mystery there, no pretense over tea and biscuits. Steel and skill were the jury and executioner.
With a soft sigh she tucked the ring away. At times she could almost hear the scraping of the pieces across the checkered surface of Aden. She was playing blindfolded. Was she about to align herself with a queen, a knight, or another pawn? It was difficult to tell if this piece in the game could even offer the protection she needed, but failing to move was not an option and almost certainly meant destruction.
((ooc: I put together a little background on my most recent character, hope it makes sense its awfully late.
The signet ring felt heavy in her hand, though the ring itself was small in mass. Tiny and cheap, remnants of its gold plating still hid in the recesses of the brass emblem set upon it. Nearly worn smooth on its edges, the crest still bore the image of her household, a winged serpent hurling a single bolt of lightning. Her father had once told her it was a "Thunder Wyrm." He had told her it was a mighty dragon too, but she had learned. It was a lesser dragon, only dangerous when crossed in quantity, and represented in nearly the cheapest of metals.
It represented House Amarael well, she thought. A sour smile swept across her features. A minor house, which through time had preserved itself only by swearing fealty to other households, all of whom were minor nobles themselves and served in the shadow of still greater houses. Ever the pawns of pawns.
It was cruel fate that she now held the ring. She felt neither old enough, nor wise enough to be the head of any household, even one so insignificant as Amarael. She was the fourth sibling of seven children borne to her immediate family. Political wrangling among those houses just above them had seen at least two of her older siblings dead, and perhaps a third. One of her brothers had been bold enough, or perhaps stupid enough, to mediate a blood feud between two stronger houses. He did bring them to a truce of sorts in earning the wrath of both sides. Which side killed him still was not clear. As for her younger siblings, her youngest brother was more of a minstrel than a leader. And her younger sister had a acquired fondness for sniffing the powders smuggled from the Sea of Spores. Her other two siblings, she knew only that they had disappeared suddenly. Runaways, murdered, or perhaps fleeing the imminent collapse of their house.
Even worse House Raytine was wavering. While small in power, and hardly of note alone, their shard of influence had sheltered Amarael of late. But, only five days gone she'd heard the young lord and current head of that house had suffered an accident on a hunt outside Giran and been gored by a Windsus. She much doubted the likeliness of the accident, and suspected that the young lord's ambitious brother played a part. Lineage decreed that he would be the next in line. He was a cruel young hot tempered wisp of a man who would undoubtedly lead his banners in a open attack on a rival house. But she knew his adversary, and knew they had tetrarch backing. Such a fight would annihilate wavering Raytine entirely and lower them to equal or lesser standing than that of Amarael, which would offer no protection.
Battle was a subtle thing among the houses, rarely fought on the battlefield. It was carried out on rooftops by solitary blades, unleashed from shadows in an empty corridor, or placed in a cup on a servants tray and served during afternoon tea. Those lordlings who failed to understand this, had no business leading. She much preferred the battlefield in truth. There was a simple honesty in facing your opponent head on and dismembering him openly in the light of day upon a battlefield. There was no mystery there, no pretense over tea and biscuits. Steel and skill were the jury and executioner.
With a soft sigh she tucked the ring away. At times she could almost hear the scraping of the pieces across the checkered surface of Aden. She was playing blindfolded. Was she about to align herself with a queen, a knight, or another pawn? It was difficult to tell if this piece in the game could even offer the protection she needed, but failing to move was not an option and almost certainly meant destruction.