King

Once more for the people in the back.

I won't be transferring over my characters or this setting (Umbra). So, if you'd like to continue, go ahead. If not, that's fine too. : )

I am happy about this.

All good. That scene has been passed for a good bit now, so I think it would be wise to come up with some kind of alternative instead of revisiting it. For example, you two could decide in the outcome and then continue that specific aspect of the storyline in a separate thread.

I plan to get a post out this Friday. But if you're itching and ready to go, feel free to skip me and I'll just work around what's been set up. No need to postpone any longer on my behalf.

It was only by the gift of the lightning in his blood that Paris’ eyes kept up with the she-wolf’s movements, blindingly fast and wickedly lethal. It was as fine a dance as any the crown prince had seen in his life, beginning and ending so quickly, not even her victim’s bodies had realized they’d been rent asunder. They came undone at the seams in a disgustingly glorious mess, blood and gore spilling out across the ground in tides, turning it muddy. More interesting, however, were the micro-transformations the woman had undergone in so short a time. Paris’ eyes drank in her claws, her fangs, her feral eyes and smiled appreciatively. She’s beginning to understand her role, he thought, relaxing more comfortably in his saddle. What I’m truly purchasing from her. The crown prince’s jade eyes lifted, flicking his gaze across the way. It landed on the chieftain, eyes wide, body tense with the realization that neither he nor his men could truly contend with the deceptively small, fragile, sword-carrying woman. “A true ruler’s power does not come from their own hand, Bojack, but from the hands they command. You see now what kind of brutality I could have unleashed on you and your tribe, Bojack, had that been my desire. What manner of death and butchery would have met your women, your children. And yet,” he continued, raising a gloved hand with dramatic purpose, “I speak of deals and negotiations to be made. Things that would, both immediately and overtime, improve the quality of life for you and yours.” Gently urging his steed forward, Paris closed the distance between him and the chieftain. He circled around the remains piled high at the center of the walkway, though his eyes did adjust so that he could appreciate the vulgarity of it more closely, before returning to the mountainous man. “You spat in my face mere moments ago, and I would like to think that I have gracefully wiped it away. There needn’t be any further violence between us. Those men, they looked well-versed in killing, and I would have liked to have had their skills and knowledge for our forces. You’ve robbed us of that talent, all for your pride, Bojack. But, I trust that my she-wolf’s display has made you more open to reconsider your, mm, previous stance?” The chieftain’s gaze flicked to Okina, then back to Paris. The grip on his axe was white-knuckle tight, as if he might shatter the notched wood to splinters. Perhaps, if Paris had given him another moment to consider his options, to let the devil of pride whisper in his ear, Bojack would have swung his mighty axe at the prince. But Paris could see that possibility glowing in the man’s eyes, true as an oracle divined the future, and raised his gloved hand once more and snapped his fingers to draw the she-wolf’s attention. “Okina,” he called out softly, lovingly. “If the chieftain does not kneel in the next ten seconds, I want you to bring me the heart of every child in this village. Even the newborns. But use your claws, she-wolf. Not your blades.” There was an emptiness in his voice, bitter and cold as the frigid winds of a desolate tundra. “No, wait,” Bojack snapped. “Wait!” The chieftain lowered his axe and slammed it into the earth. And then slowly, heavily, brought himself down to one knee. Those that surrounded him gawked, for they had witnessed the unthinkable, but they too fell, one by one, then in scores, until every soul in the village bowed before their crown prince. “You’ve done the right thing,” Paris said as he spurred his steed, driving her forward toward the chieftain’s long, wide house. “You just can't see it from down there.”

Sometime later. . . The scarce, delightful days Kalmuli and Gareth shared had become more commonplace following their bonding in the gardens, stretching into weeks, albeit busy and tense with preparations for the coming ‘storm’. Reports from the imperial crisis halls had indicated predictably unnatural readings in the ambient magical levels throughout the Dominion, and the usually swelling in coastal leylines that always preceded the Whispernight’s arrival. It would be coming any day now, blocking out the sun with its terrible clouds of black and gray, rotting the earth, raising the dead, filling days and nights with terror and misery. Standing on one of the many balconies of the estate, this one just above the primary entrance, Gareth found himself pondering the powers that be as he studied the defenses of their ruins-turned-city, their progress, but more cynically, how much there still was to do. His legion had worked themselves ragged this last month, building barracks, spellforges, and high, strong walls that would turn away both beast and undead. They had woven powerful runes into the brickwork, worked it deep into the foundations, and inscribed them on nearly every piece of equipment that would see combat. And yet, it never seemed enough. More walls to be built. More soldiers to be trained and equipped. More wards, more runes, and more sorcery. The air of Altus Arcanium was thick with the taste of industry, hot steel and fresh magic. It reminded Gareth of muddy battlefields just beyond the trenches, where the northern warcamps-- more cities unto themselves --fed and outfitted thousands. It reminded him of home. “It’s coming along well, I think,” he said, standing a little straighter, his shoulders a bit squarer, as he felt Kalmuli’s presence draw near. It was one of the many, subtle changes that had introduced itself to his life. He could feel when she was nearby, long before he heard, saw, or even smelled her. Gareth wasn’t sure when the change had occurred, but he took no issue with it. “There’s still more to do, but I suspect they’ll have all the measures in place before It arrives.” I hope, he confessed more privately. Glancing to his right, Gareth smiled at the woman, so heavy with pregnancy it seemed their son, too, would arrive at any moment. He forewent the usual pleasure of reaching out and rubbing her bulging stomach, cupping the underside in his palm as if to carry its way, before thumbing near the navel in that slow, gentle manner he knew made her ears flicker with delight. For now, she would need to make do with a smile. “Let’s just pray you don’t give birth to the boy while we have those monstrosities bearing down on us, yeah?” Perhaps during the ‘eye’, after the initial assaults had fallen quiet. Yes, that would be fine. “What does your healer say?”

I suspect there a many druid covens throughout the land. One of my characters, Gareth, actually comes from a line of druids. There aren't any official tribes that I can point you to in the lore, but you're more than welcome to create your own!

You’re more than welcome to. Drop me a PM on the forum and let me know what you’re thinking.

It is both known (by some) and rumored. Known by certain individuals in the government-- typically those closely involved with the organizations charged with seizing these individuals. Rumored amongst the general population, ranging all the way from being slightly accurate to wild conspiracy theories. Older children that have been orphaned are, are you suspected, subjected to a very thorough military indoctrination process and essentially brainwashed into the perfect soldier. Those with exceptional abilities either physical or magical often go on to recruited into a number of domestic and foreign black ops programs. Children that are born handicapped undergo a similar evaluation process, with those deemed too unfit being selected for ritual sacrifice/and or experimentation. TL;DR - you assumptions were correct.

“A good time would be a rather strong way of phrasing it,” Rafael replied, a teasingly devious grin visible only by the soft, dim light of one of the library’s many self-contained lanterns. “I did run into an old friend of mine a little bit after you and Zenahriel departed. We hadn’t talked in a while, the fault of which, I confess to you, is entirely mine, and so it was. . . well, it was delightful to see her.” The emperor’s face softened with nostalgia as he thought of days and nights long-since past, the pain, the pleasure, the joys, triumphs, and failures that had unfolded over the course of years. It had been good to see Her, though. “We managed to say a great deal, a great deal that should have been said years ago, and so it was nice to move on from that chapter in the long, winding story that is our relationship.” Pausing a moment, Rafael rapped his fingernails against the fine wooden table, quick and rhythmic, clickity-clat, then smiled. “Of course, there’s the matter of my favorite mage making her appearance. I’ll admit, I was. . . mm, well, speculative of your attendance.” He raised his had before she might take offense or think it a statement on his, or that of his wishes’, importance to her. “I’d hoped that you wouldn’t be in the middle of one of your grand adventures, or perhaps knee-deep in research. I would have understood, naturally. It’s not as if this is the only time we will, can, or should see each other. But, it brings me no small amount of joy to see you so beautifully dressed.” After a while longer of comfortable silence, Rafael rounded the table to stand more closely beside her, extended a pale hand toward the girl, still coddling the great tome that had, since his arrival, been forced to share her attention. “Come,” he said to her, the softness of his voice unable to mask the authority of his demand. Even with one so dear to his heart, it was not in him to make a request. “Let me look at you more closely and admire more appropriately what you’ve become for this evening, now that we’re alone.” It was the first time in all his memories that could recall describing a situation with the mage and such. Even this far from the celebration halls, the music seeped through the heavy tile floors, the stone walls, from the page of every book and the spine of every tome. It was soft and gentle, barely a whisper on a breeze, but it resonated in him called to her. Rafael smiled.