Pur'Xia (persia)
Homeland Security: Low.
Economic Status: Mana Enhanced; rural.
Note(s): utmost Persian feel; deserts stretch as far as the eye can see. Patches of oasis' are rare though when found, they're maintained to keep their pristine state so that travelers remain hydrated.
Public Role-play
Feel free to inhabit the town/city and or simply play in it.
This land has yielded, but it has not broken.
The thin, arid air is also made to yield, a missile puncturing and dividing its stillness from the heavens. Twice, a gleam can be seen during its descent, a flash of mendacity in its inherent darkness. Indeed, be it a fool's play by the light or the heat, this missile appears no less brilliant than the heavens from which it falls,
glowing, verily, with all the ire of divinity.
Moments before the abbreviated buildings and masonry of this city, of this realm of man and wife and child, the harbinger halts. Its descent simply ceases, and from that moment continues much reduced. And it is then that he is seen.
Aglow in the lie.
[right:1wluira3]"Thus begins the hour of Avorevon, and the genesis of her Kingdom!"[/right:1wluira3]
His voice is a gale, leaving the flushed sculpture of civilization awash in his deliberate articulation and limitless ardor. There are none living and few deceased whose ears it does not reach, bringing the meek to prostrating themselves and the mighty to a knee of servitude. Thus empowered is this man, icon, avatar of what is to come.
And his boots purify the earth, daring those present to defile it further in insolence. An overbearing light what kisses him from stem to stern arrests all errant eyes and leaves static all bated breaths. The fullness, the very tangibility of his presence is the Kingdom; is Avorevon herself! To be awed! To taste and breathe of it!
A threshold yields, and the gathering place of tradesmen and travelers opens before him. In their varying states of reverence, exacerbated by recent despondence and sloshing flagons or left pure, they yield also to him. Stillness befalls the establishment; a thicker mire, still air, that his voice might carry more clearly.
It begins.
[right:1wluira3]"Henceforth upon crying 'kingdom', thy unworthy lips be graced with Avorevon's name! Over all you know, with border ineffably distant and might justly unparalleled, doth thy Kingdom reign!
"Those who would deny, make now thy claim...or live evermore shamed by fear!"[/right:1wluira3]
Sieghild Agnian Evonesten, Knight of Irmingard, Valkyrie of Avorevon draws forth his ire. It begins. Thus, it begins.
[spoiler:2fewhha8]The events here are continued from viewtopic.php?f=40&t=3614 , despite that I have yet to fully complete the linked thread. I am writing somewhat in the "future" now.[/spoiler:2fewhha8]
Although the exile had renounced his deity, it seemed that She had not renounced him; and Her thrall, the visceral and cerebral awe of Her presence, was not to be forgotten. Nor was the demise of Aubrey. And the more he mused on them, the more he began to impute the calamities of his life to Irmingard and Irmingard's greed. Even the very name evoked such disdain that, in time, after feigned devotion and false pacts, the exile might lather his blade too soon and from the disposed king never inveigle the secrets he soberly aspired to extract now.
And it was morning.
Late in the morning, and sultry. At this hour, the rays from a near window making aureate his face, Renouarte les Aubrey II was a wincing, supine thing. A violet incense was burning in the northern corner of the room, clasped to the stems of a plant that could not be native to Pur'Xia; and tarnished, lusterless statuettes were arranged on the dresser without any regard for the tenets of taste. Across from him by the door, curiously ajar, were the entangled legs of an envoy's wayward son and a torpid whore, the harlot's face bejeweled and upturned, her moans sparse and soft, her breasts ever beneath his caress.
These were the festive, ceremonial days. Lifting himself to the panes, Renouarte espied the plumed stalls of the bazaar, children in dance, the devout in every pose of prostration, wine sloshing in goblets, and the petals of rare desert flowers cascading to the cobblestone.
Vacancies were few.
He rose, dressed, armored. Despite him, the two clashed hips and the aroma of unrequited lust was nonetheless pungent, recalling to him not the amorist years of his youth but the ignoble debaucheries of the heir to the House of Balian. And any envoy, he thought with derision, was a lesser noble, not of veritably prized blood and capable only of inspiring his memories of the servile and the sycophantic. For a moment, he regarded the dagger in his grasp and the writhing man behind him.
. . .
"Will you be returning, sir?" the innkeeper asked, though Renouarte was more intrigued by the jade idols in the lobby.
"Yes, I -" and he was muted by the momentous declaration of a certain devil.
The edicts of subjection to another sovereignty, of imperious rule, of conversion to Avorevon all came. The exile Renouarte, he felt the vigor of his faith renewed - the ardor and the certainty that few mortals can invoke from without and even fewer can invoke from within. It singed his spirit, though conferred him an inexorable might. Avorevon did not forsake Aubrey Herself. Irmingard had been the lone malefactor.
The inn stilled, Renouarte concerned himself with what he knew: Irmingard, a professed valkyrie in flight, a vanished citadel, and the manacled, conquered kingdom of Rosinder.
When he burst into the bazaar, every reveler in the kind of stasis that precedes bedlam, Lenoa was already seized and drawn.
Among the waves of flattened and willingly downtrodden objects is a communal despair, as siphoned through the screen of servitude. With each passing moment, the gravity prevails. With each second, the full demonstrative ardor of his rule continues its descent.
And among the inexorable walks a champion, man among children, ignorant or defiant of the will of Avorevon—as exerted by Irmingard, diffused via her Valkyrie and his Knight. In the deadened air, through which the oppressive light makes divine his tempered harness, illuminating every errant strand of his grand, noble mane, walks the whole of this realm's dissent and divergence from order, embodied, incarnate, with lips moistened to cry against.
Agrona turns to this man.
Almost certainly, he would kneel. For what meets his eyes is not only the present fury, the peril of his milieu, but the eyes and will of Irmingard and of the superiority, the mastery of being that is Avorevon herself. Ten men would kneel—five would prostrate indefinitely, and the equivalent is levied upon one.
[right:1y0bcijl]"You who are not of these ilk, who claims no fealty to this realm, will meet no less certain an end if your lips betray you."[/right:1y0bcijl]
And the lie, the brilliance swells and recedes, a tide of awe. Of consummate power. Sieghild will not long abstain from action.
And so this was the dreaded Valkyrie of Avorevon, the knight who executed with implacable purpose his despot's will. A moment ago refulgent in the near-noon sky - and then seemingly at once, despite the nine hundred brows wed to the cobblestone, casting from his countenance all regard for the Pur'Xian docile - he first beheld the third heir of the formerly venerable House Aubrey.
And Renouarte, he received this knight with an impudent respect. In time, his scowls would deepen less.
"They only betray what I willingly concede: I knew Avorevon, too."
The bastard sword Lenoa sunk into a ravine between the stones, a knee of nobility, in the style of ceremonial knightings, warming the trodden way. But Renourate did not sever his stare from the Valkyrie, nor temper its verve; and to defy seemed less the exile's motive than to proclaim his worth, by posture of prostration, as a templar of Avorevon renewed.
"The legacy of Aubrey is a favor of Hers so long intact, so often invoked, that your king would could be tempted to wield it, and that you might deign to wield it as well. I offer my service."
Curiously, the former third heir did not strain his syllables of praise too harshly, nor did they bleed him of his pride; he had come to esteem the inveigler as the most certain and cunning avenger.
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