Legend of Ransera

Æros would enter the training room to find Seværys on the floor, stretching his slim limbs. He was in the middle of an inner thigh stretch, one leg extended to his side with the toe pointed up as the other was bent in a tight squat. His torso was doubled over the extended leg, but his face turned sidelong to smile at the other prægustator's words.

"Well, salve to you, too!" He chuckled, rising from his stretch. His torso was (mostly) covered by a red and gold leather jerkin, which revealed slender but toned arms of sunkissed bronze. Black leather trousers clung to his slim shanks, and cuffed, flat-soled boots adorned the feet that now strode across the padded floor to greet the newest pair of prægustators.

"I hope you don't mind I invited someone to join us..." He glanced over Palæmon's shoulder to see whether his other sparring partner was close at hand. Not yet, it seemed, so he returned his amber gaze to the face of the Sælyan firstborn.

"An acquaintance of my sister's who was keen to meet me and who expressed interest in the martial arts. I hope it isn't an imposition, but it seems his schedule aligned with yours and, well, it was all rather last minute, so..." He clapped his hands, and wrung them together nodding.

"Yes, if you want to try to get a few blows in before he gets here, we can always, hup!" His eyes darted to the door again, and he sported that same dashing smile as he trotted over to offer his hand to their Umbrian guest.

"Good morrow to you, sirrah! Vespera speaks very highly of your singing and I'm interested to see how your blade-dancing fares. We're in private, so you may call me Sev..." It was not out of haughtiness that Seværys declined to introduce himself. It simply wasn't necessary and it felt artificial to pretend otherwise. He turned, however, to gesture to his other sparring partner.

"This is Palæmon and Æros. They share a body. I'll let him explain if you're not acquainted, but they were prominent in your amatus' domain until recently, so perhaps you've crossed paths?"

Finn (now oft called Farstrider, though it had only been a prototype before it caught on) was still learning how the politics of Solunarium worked. That Vespera had sought him out was, of course, full of varied currents, but it had allowed him to sing under the failing eye of Aværys' scepter once more and now to spar with her brother. From what he gathered, before the arrival of Arkænyn, Vrædyn had been the heir apparent and Seværys heir presumptive until such time as Vrædyn's branch of the family tree flowered and bore fruit.

Status was complex here, and status shifted. Finn was rarely certain of his own. At least when veiled, he knew he spoke and acted with the authority of the Vigilia. As Arvælyn's fiancé, he certainly had another layer to his status as magnatus which was more honorific than anything, and it was now generally known he was one of two Empyreal Lords, which certainly bore religious and social gravitas, but also political if he knew how to wield it. He didn't, though.

And he would always be human. Even if Aværys no longer believed in the superiority of his birth race, the Re'hyæan elves weren't about to grant blanket equality to all other races. But that was an ongoing headache...

Finn enjoyed the walk from his villa in the Luxium to the Palatium Furiarum. The desert heat warmed his muscles, and he thought it would be impolite and impolitic to vault into that place. While he thought a balance between the two thrones would be best for Solunarium, the Hungers and Ambitions would fight for whatever scraps of advantage they could. He wouldn't be the one to give offense and give cause for retribution or restitution. If anything, his relationships with Luxian powers was intended to be a backdoor bridge between them.

His Sentinel shadow was allowed to follow him in, which was a good sign. He didn't know if it would last, but training with Vespera's golden guards was another one of those bridges. Finn was unveiled, but wearing black training leathers that left his arms bare for range of motion. Even unveiled, his aura and symphony were guarded by command of Zalkyriax, who would brook no snooping into those who were close to his throne. There was a - for now - mostly ornamental blade strapped to his back. Its hilt was black, and capped with gold. Its carved handle guard was draconic - presumptuous, perhaps, for its provenance. He sought a kinship with the spirit within though he was far from having the skill and power to bond with it properly. When he did, he wouldn't have to wear it to have it on hand.

Something passed between the Sentinel and the guards at the door, and Finn just made eye contact with his shadow and they shared a curt nod. He would be safe enough with the golden princeps.

Finn managed to bow and say, "Your Serene Highness," before Seværys closed the gap between them. Up close, he was struck that this prince, a distant cousin, had a face that most closely resembled that of his own amatus, more so than even his half-brothers. Bloodlines were strange. "Sev. Then you must call me Finn. Thank you for having me. Your sister's admiration has made the Luxium a happy place for me once more." He turned his gaze toward the spiritually conjoined Sælyans, wondering how to address them. He quirked a smile and offered, "My lords."

It would be strange to think that it was Aeros looking out from those less familiar eyes, but Solunarium was full of strange things. He didn't think too deeply about it, though. Despite necromancy being responsible for saving first his hand and then his entire arm, both necessary procedures for a continued career in music, the practice gave him some discomfort. Too many dead things walking in the Warrens, perhaps.

"My blade is at your disposal."

“Ah. So, you do know each other…” Seværys realised through a slight grimace. It didn’t take a Sembler to sense the tension that had entered the room with Finn. Just an empath would suffice, and Seværys was both. Fortunately, it was considered impolite to ward against rudimentary mundane senses in polite society, so he gleaned enough to wonder whether he’d regret this last-minute invitation.

With the pleasantries (?) aside, Sev would answer Palæros practical questions. It was a sound enough query, albeit one to which he hadn’t given much thought.

“Well,” He clapped his hands together, “You’ll forgive me if this is presumptuous, but I would venture to guess I am the strongest fighter amongst us. Palæros has already copped to being weakest, which is understandable given he’s learning to command one body with two souls. Finn, I know you have an entire career as a bard, which surely assumed a great deal of time and focus.

“I, however, am the firstborn son of the Princeps Legatus. My trajectory from birth has been martial in nature and that path has been… aggressively focused. Though I am on indefinite leave whilst His Starlit Highness wishes me to tarry here, I am a Tribune of the Luxium.”

“Yes, yes, Seværys, you’re a one-man-battalion. Let’s see some blood, shall we?” Heckled a Moonborn lordling that Palæros would instantly recognise as Marius Val'Levriel Victrian, another of the tasters employed by Arkænyn. He was leaning against the entry arch, waggling his fingers in a wave to Finn’s attendant sentinel.

Seværys cleared his throat.
“Yes, well. What I propose is that you two begin with a friendly duel, that I might gauge your abilities and decide from there what would be the most practical use of our time together.”

"One gets used to the veil," he said with an apologetic smile. Where once he had been expressive, now he lived in a city and in a stratum of society that required more self-control, and then behind the veil he practiced something that one might read as stoicism. The veil empowered in a way, the protection of anonymity.

When the moonborn elf asked after the practicum of the day, he turned his attention to Seværys. He smiled and nodded; though he had only wanted to be a lover, not a fighter, life had demanded otherwise. His skill was now nothing to scoff at, further refined with the Sentinels and, of late, with Vespera's golden legionnaires. 'Twas true, though: he had not been raised a one-man army as had Seværys and he might never be.

Just as he was about to respond in the affirmative, they were interrupted by another moonborn elf. He was familiar, but Finn daren't sample his melody to connect him to some memories. Instead he bowed as if to a relative equal. Were he vastly more powerful in the scheme of things, Finn would know him for certes. If he could get away with such cheek with Seværys, it were better safe than sorry.

When their tutor moved things right along, he nodded and smiled amiably and turned toward Palaemon. The blade on his back stayed where it was, and he reached as if for the hilt of a sword that wasn't there at his side. But his Rune drew upon the power he fed it, and as his elegant musician hand closed, it found purchase and pulled forth his pact weapon. It was a well-made longsword without great ornamentation. Finn felt as though it was like him: plain and serviceable.

There was a flicker within him, a hunger that was not the hunger awoken by Aværys. He quelled it, the flicker of rage against his emblem. They were sparring. The young Sentinel didn't know whether Palaemon was telling the truth about his abilities or prevaricating, but if he had learned anything from the Vigilia, it was to be vigilant. He moved deftly into a guard stance; if he was not graceful, there was perhaps some beauty in the economy of movement. Though he had grown brawny, he was still agile.

His eyes cut to Palaemon's, and he waited for the sparring match to begin.

As the combatants took their battle stances, Victrian circled like a panther, granting a wide berth until he was standing at Seværys’ side. Taking the golden prince by the arm, Victrian leaned close to whisper into his ear. Seværys seemed disinclined to shift his focus away from what lay ahead of him, but deigned to lean close and nod before gesturing to the spar as it began with a salvo from their fellow prægustator.

!

Message from: Pharaoh

Note: For the purposes of this sparring session, we are going to engage in a little contest to decide the winner. From this point forward you will have two rounds of posting to engage with your opponent. I will assess each post in consultation with your character sheets and determine how you both exploit skills relevant to the fight. Based on your skill levels and what I read in your posts, I will assign bonuses and detriments and ask you to make a roll. Whoever has the highest score inclusive of bonuses at the end of this exchange will be deemed the winner of the match. The bonuses and detriments will be imposed at my discretion and will not be declared unless such is requested after the conclusion of the contest. This is a contest of quality (and a splash of chance) not quantity and for grading purposes, I would like to limit the word count as follows: Any post exceeding 600 words will incur a penalty of -1 for every 50 words beyond that cutoff. For example, a post of 650 words will receive -2 on the roll. A post of 700 words will roll at -3 and so on. For the sake of fairness, I will not answer questions about this contest in DMs unless both of you are included in the conversation. If I feel one of you is broaching information that might compromise the fairness of the contest, I will start a group message to address it or simply decline altogether to engage. Write well and may the odds be ever in your favour!

From the centered stillness of his guard pose, he was able to quell Khyan's hunger of vengeance. That was, it seemed, all he was anymore: vengeance; and they remained bound through Aværys' conferred power. There was apparently no such thing as 'til death do us part when the God of Ambition sanctified a vow. But Finn was his own man, and he returned to the calm necessary to fight effectively. He would seek some redemption or release for Khyan at another time.

The soul-bound blade felt like an extension of his body now, as it was an extension of his soul. He waited for their sunborn arbitrator to signal the beginning of the match, but he needn't have waited. The ghost-driven Palaemon suit lunged, twirling past him. The commandeered body seemed to have a dancer's grace, which begged the question whether muscle memory was truly so important or if it was the soul that remembered. He would have to ask his instructors on the morrow when he had his regular drills with a Sentinel blade master. Aeros had been a dancer; Finn was a musician. That part of his mind analyzed everything as if it were music: the drum of his heart; the susurration of his breath; the pounding of feet; the swoosh of tempered steel through the air.

All his drilling paid off, however, and his focus narrowed to the moonborn elf and himself, their blades, the ground, the air, the combat. He turned with Aeros, and his blade caught what was incoming. His goal wasn't to stop the blade still, but to turn it aside, and as he was turning already, he borrowed some of that kinetic energy, converting it into torque. Taking a step forward, to follow in Aeros' path, he kept his blade moving, attempting to catch it with his crossguard and disarm him.