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The Tempest King

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As Nino exited the castle gates, a man with long red hair caught up with her and began to talk to her. She looked back at him. "Oh, um.. Yes, I'm captain. I guess." She looked away as he said he understood her. How could he know anything about why she did it? She didn't know him. Maybe she had seen the man before, but she didn't remember explaining why she left.

She listened as he babbled about wagers. "I think this is no time for games. If you're with me, great! But we'll have to put getting to know each other off until we've successfully our town."

They hurried along toward the town gates.

Fefga's manor was not in a pleasant predicament at the moment. Truth be told, predicaments were rarely pleasant. He wasn't really sure why he'd just pieced those two words together in the same sentence. It made no sense to him. None whatsoever.

"Well, Ed, it appears we're facing the end."

Behind him, a massive black rat with blue eyes gnashed her teeth. Her tail swatted the air and her ears and whiskers twitched in agitation, and she rubbed her face in something like anguish. rat, and second of all, this is the worst time to be punching you. I'm so mad.>

And all he heard was a maddening chitter from the rat. Soren wasn't about to try and decipher the sounds tumbling out of her maw.

"It's been rough, trying to get back into the flow of things," Soren sighed. "Old Rath was far too merciful. I shouldn't even be here, never mind alive. Existential concerns aside, however," and he gave it a dismissive wave, "we finally have war at our doorstep. Just our luck to be caught trapped inside the mansion."



"Not that it matters. I have plans to wipe them out."

Ed squeaked. Loudly.

"Now, now, now, hear me out. As I just implied, I've been grappling with existential issues. What I failed to imply in the same sentence is my need to slake this thirst for blood. I think I have enough subjects to take my anger out on and, well, it'll busy them with something while their friends are dismantling the city."

Ed put her paws over her teeth, whiskers twitching. I'm willing to back out of this one. Soren, look at this. It's a hopeless cause. Oh, why am I even trying?> The rat punched herself in the side of the snout, grumbling.

Soren glanced over the masses of enemy troops below, all clustered around Fefga's manor like a swarm of angry ants. He hoped that was all they equated to. A swarm of angry ants. "I'd rather not be responsible for your death," Soren said, "so I won't tell you to fight. Hide away, if you must, and please take Orthrus with you." He nudged the two-headed hellpuppy at his side. "Not that I can promise everything will end well."

Ed chittered with a glum look. Don't let anyone get the drop on you.> Ed scuttled over to the puppy, carefully picked him up with her jaws, and skittered off in a most awkward manner to find a good hiding spot.

Soren looked down at the masses of enemy troops again. I'm going to die, he told himself. They will tear down this mansion and I will die.

And he grinned.

This was where years of miscellaneous magic studies would come in. The alchemy of laguz-style transformation, the structure of the magic of reason and how to create one's own design of spells, the elusive and reality-warping properties of The Door, it all had to come into play somehow.

He gathered up his tomes, his journals of research, his staff. Soren didn't know the current state of the mansion. Was the barrier still up? He knew Fefga had already fled the place. Well, if the barrier was still up, he could only count on his warped magic to find loopholes to strike at the enemy.

Opening the window, he commenced his assault from the inside. Wind rained down on the enemy, scythes swathing down from the heavens.

Imagine, if you will, a skinny peasant-boy roughly around 5'8" in height and about nineteen, twenty years old. Imagine him in rags, the kinds that a peasant or a serf or a slave would wear. Imagine that one of his arms bears the brand of a coiling chain, a mark of his lifelong servitude in Mordachean trades. He has no say in who he is or how he lives. He has no say in who his master is or will be, and he has no say in where he ends up in life.

Imagine that he has a head of fine, white hair that has grown down to the small of his back. Imagine that he views the world with red and green eyes, eyes that hold—not despair—but a queer sort of resolve despite the terrors inflicted upon him because of his status as a slave, underground or no. Imagine that he is fair, and limber, and swift, and his fingers work quickly with metal and magic.

Now imagine him clumsily clinging to a courser's saddled back, a magic sword in his hand, trampling unfortunate items and persons in a supply camp behind Mordachean lines and spurring the horse to flee.

That's Aeolus.

Twenty minutes ago, he was bent over the figure of a sword, head bowed and one of the masters screaming for them to work harder, work faster, the army needed all the weapons they could and all the repairs available, and all the supplies that could be produced, and all the helping hands that could be open when the wounded flooded in. As he'd heard endless times before, a whip cracked over their heads, and he hardly flinched. He just worked harder. Faster. He was the only one who could weave this spell into this sword. The only one who could engrave runes upon it and infuse it with a spirit of sorcery without backfire—among a select other few, of course.

And, of course, the only ones who saw his opportunity to run.

He had a dream once. He dreamt that a woman had come to Mordache and spirited him away from his bonds. When he woke from it, he'd expected it to happen.

But it didn't.

So here it was. Plan B. Mordache and Sentria whetting their blades on Learania's bones.

Soon after, he took that sword and cut his way out of that tent. Oh, he wasn't too proficient with a sword, but he was fast and he knew how to call upon its magic. The place was in an uproar. His master shrieked, "The slave!! Get the slave!! Get the slave!!" and all sorts of Mordacheans were on him—if not troops, then other servants or other masters.

The problem with that scenario was that he was deathly fast.

He'd always a keen eye. He saw how men saddled horses, sat upon them, spurred them into a gallop. And while he did not know how to ride a horse, his acute knowledge was barely enough to drive him out of camp.

So there Aeolus was, clinging to a Mordachean courser for dear life with a magic sword in hand. Peasant rags and all. He would have taken a tome with him if he could, but his hands were busy enough with that thing. He highly doubted he could protect himself with a blade whose arts he did not know. Better to call upon the wind spirit within.

Not that he planned to fight—but maybe he would have to. Aeolus took a wide arc around camp, and eventually around the main army, galloping as hard as he could for Learania's side. Would they kill him? He was only in rags. Maybe they wouldn't even notice.

He whispered something to the blade, pointed it toward the attackers (he couldn't tell if they were Mordachean or Sentrian), and let magic blades clash with metal.

Also, horseback riding was extremely painful. He never wanted to do this again.

Roy was caught unawares of the green-haired swordsman attempting to stab him while he was attacking the black bandit, but Ziaram stepped in in the nick of time and interfered with the fatal strike. Due to Jaren's interference, his punch missed Ali's face, but it still made contact with the black man.

"Thanks, Ziaram. I owe ya one." the young lord said, allowing a quick glance over his shoulder at his companion.

His attention shifted back to Ali, who then pushed him away with a surprising force, causing Roy to take a few steps back to regain his balance. He glanced back up, hearing the bandit's words before he tried swinging down at him again. The redhead quickly pulled his sword up to block the strike, but the force behind the swing caught him off-guard, and for a moment, his legs had nearly buckled from the attack.

St. Elimine, what was up with this guy? Was it possible that this b*****d's power grew the angrier he got? What a formidable opponent. After a moment of silence of the two standing there, swords locked, Roy smirked.

"Looks like getting plowed through a wall and then crushed by an armored giant in that fatass's fort caused you to become forgetful. Is cursing all you're capable of, old man?" the young lord taunted before he pushed forward moments before hopping back to put some distance between the two.

Teach him justice? Never expected him to be fighting with the people that took him in? Man this kid sure had a lot of nerve. Someone must have whacked him on the head hard while he was gone. He certainly had a lot of nerve.

But enough of that chatter. The boy certainly was faster than Ziaram had originally imagined, but not fast enough. He brought his killing edge down to block the original blow, and started to move back once he saw him spin around, but he wasn't fast enough there. The sword cut right across his left cheek. Least he would have a scar now.

"Kid, you aren't going to enjoy this now." Jaren was still recovering from his spin as Ziaram lunged forward, and started to fake a slash to Jaren's chest, and then went for down to trip the fool with his own weight. Not only that, but a lash at his muscles down there. Once crippled, he wouldn't be as much of a problem.

OOC: I'll be doing this as my OC, is that okay? Okay. Also, I'm a bad writer. Excuse it. Also, my OC doesn't really have an alliance with anyone yet. I'm not sure what to do.
BIC:
Helmut warily raised his head and looked outside. What, he thought, could bring these men to battle? Helmut grabbed his bow off the wall and stepped out to observe the fight. There were bandits, roughly 10 of them, approaching quickly. A muted shriek came from a soldier, who spent his final breaths gurgling and choking on his own life's blood. This scene was a horrible one, indeed, with many souls meeting their inopportune end. Helmut took cover behind his tent and nocked an arrow, should he be assualted directly. He kneeled and waited.

"By the man God!"
Helmut dived out of the way as his tent collapsed. A defeated sentinel had been sent flying into his cover. After he had recovered, Helmut carefully aimed and shot a bandit through the leg. After putting his bow back, Helmut charged and tackled the incapacitated man to the ground, seizing his throat with an iron grip. "Who commands you, and why do you dare infringe upon me and these people here!? I do not know these people - but I do know that they fight with skill, and I wish to know who they are and why you're fighting them!"
When the bandit didn't answer, Helmut let him down to the ground and fled to the nearest civilized person he could see - a man with a war hammer out, fighting like hell.
Helmut decided to support him and fired shots from behind the man's back.

Blythe couldn’t help but continuously wonder what he was doing here, effectively imprisoned in Fefga’s Manor, surrounded by an army from a country foreign to him in a world that was still largely foreign to him that had also effectively imprisoned him from Magvel. Multiple layers of imprisonment by foreignness; how is one supposed to grapple with such a thing comfortably? The Troubadour had known that Learania was at war with two countries simultaneously while suffering internal political problems, and he had known the big capitol city was going to be under siege – precisely why he hadn’t ventured into the city. And yet his plan to travel North and venture across Adliana had not come into fruition quickly enough. Or rather, this large foreign army around the Manor he was now cooped up in had arrived much sooner than anticipated. Either way, Blythe was stuck. And considering the circumstances, it would have been better to be in the big city under siege by two countries. His life would be equally endangered, if it wasn’t infinitely moreso in his actual circumstances, but at least he could have been hired as a healer and actually been productive were he to be in Eyris instead.

But he wasn’t. He was here in the Manor with Cesario – yes Cesario is IN the Manor, unorthodox as it is to have a horse indoors: Blythe can’t risk someone randomly taking or possibly butchering his esteemed steed outside considering the circumstances, now can he (besides, he's heavily attached to the horse). Locked within one of the most interior rooms of the first floor of Fefga’s with his horse, Blythe was unaware of the fact that there were at least two other people in the same predicament as him. He was simply hoping this battle would end sooner than later and that eventually there would be an opportunity to flee from the area. So he waited… and waited… and waited some more until eventually he became exceedingly hungry and the growling his innards were making could no longer be ignored.

Ever cautiously, Blythe exited the room he was in and elusively crept towards the pantry, careful not to be visible to anyone looking from the outside inwards through any windows. Before he got particularly close to his destination, however, he heard conversation upstairs. Fear seized the boy momentarily out of the assumption that those speaking from inside the Manor were soldiers, but a slightly delayed interpretation of their discourse suggested otherwise, much to his relief. And so, the large onyx case he carries his most prized memento-staff around with in hand as a makeshift-bludgeon weapon, Blythe instead decided to locate the speakers rather than food. When he found them, one some sort of Laguz (‘that was the proper word, right?’ he couldn’t help think) who quickly scampered off, the other a Sage casting spells, going off of the possession of both tomes and a staff, the Troubadour was both surprised and relieved, placing his case back on his back where it belonged. “Nice to know I’m not the only person here,” Blythe said. “I’m Blythe, usually a staff-for-hire. Although obviously not right now.”