Closed Framed (Trente)

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Center of scholarly knowledge and shipwrighting, Zeltiva is a port city unlike any other in Mizahar. [Lore]

Framed (Trente)

Postby Wrenmae on May 13th, 2013, 9:40 pm

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Spring 1, 513 AV


The pre-dawn light of Zeltiva reflected only in the horizon. Glittering off distant waves, they might as well have been an offering of gems on some distant knoll. The orphanage was a silent edifice, protected in all its conventional entrances. Backed by Hadrian and holding the auspicious leader of the Martial Society, it had grown in game within Zeltiva. Few, however, noticed the shape clinging to the wall beneath a window, patiently waiting as his familiar snuck through the unconventional entrances, reformed, and opened the window for him.

Inside, Wren’s form shifted again, the light skin of the Symenestra receding to his usual color as his feet seemed more clumsy on the wood. Zan wordlessly floated in front of him, slipping beneath doors and scouting ahead till they found where they needed to be. Trente was sleeping alone, fitfully perhaps now that he knew Wren had achieved the upper hand in their little…encounter during the ball. Still, it had been more than ten days since the incident and, at least tonight, he had let himself rest too easily.

Zan slipped beneath the door without a sound, taking human guise only long enough to open the door for his master. Wren swept in like a cloud, at once filling the room with his poisonous presence. For a moment or two he held, still, listening to the settling of the orphanage, the souls sleeping beneath his feet. Zan hovered near his head, and reaching up, the mage grabbed him and placed the familiar on his belt in the form of a small bottle of water. The contents, unobserved and unnoticed, were black as pitch.

Trente’s sword was close to his bed, the habit of a warrior to never be far from their weapon. Wren approached the bed on that side and drew his blade snake-quick. Trente was many things, but oblivious was not one of them. The moment he heard metal scrape against metal, his eyes shot open. He took only the stock of the figure above him, the glimmer of a blade before rolling the opposite way out of bed, scrabbling for the dagger beneath his bed on the opposite side of his sword.

Wren let him move, kicking his rapier across the room with a dull clatter.

Brandishing the blade, Trente measured the merit of simply leaping from the window. With a breath, however, he noted the way his assailant held the blade. He turned to move only to receive a blade in his back for the trouble.

With two quick movements, Wren had circled the other side of the bed and hemmed in the swordsman, hold his blade with a practiced ease. Trente adopted a fencing stance, prepared to fight his way out tooth and nail. He would not die. He could not allow himself to die.

And as the glimmer of fading moonlight strafed into the window, Trente could see the cold glare of Wrenmae…the man who had killed a Waveguard, held the city in terror, and was lauded as one of its heroes.

Wren had come for the warrior.

And Trente only had the dagger that had led him to the mage as his weapon

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Sig by Shausha


This PC has the Blight gnosis. As such, you as a player need to be aware of what that consists of. Wrenmae has an invisible aura that amplifies sickness and disease. Wounds may become infected, small sneezes may become coughing, and a slight fever may become more serious. A nuit's body will also break down faster in the presence of the Blight. These effects may not be immediate, but within the few days following your encounter, the symptoms will manifest. Some sooner than others. I cannot control your character, so creativity will be left up to you. Best wishes and stay healthy!

Special shoutout to Fallon for my new CS
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Trente on May 18th, 2013, 5:05 pm

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Trente's mind blurred with sudden wakefulness, heart pumping faster than his pounding head could quite fathom gracefully. In the first several moment of terror his adrenaline filled mind knew not any option save to fight and flee. A cold and inevitable truth captured him, however, as he let his unarmed hand grope backward at his possibilities and found, in that unsettlingly quiet darkness, only cold solid walls barring the only escape not bladed and swift.

Trapped, in a matter of moments. Unsurprising, for Trente knew who hunted him this night, the haunt of Zeltiva, which moved like water when he fought, and like lightning when he struck. He had cornered Trente expertly, as he did everything else. What truly betrayed his identity, however, was the poised silhouette, so evocative and proud. So much charisma had been commanded by no other of Zeltiva that winter, not even the Lord of Counsel herself. His presence was unmatched, even in diseased halls of his own making, where children lay dying below.

Several year's earlier Trente would have struck out, and be riposted deftly down in a split of a tick, but time had allowed him awareness of others temperament, though limited. Hound would not simply kill for revenge, no, he would talk to Trente first, a conclusion arrived upon out of desperation, not true wits.

"Touché." The word came quick and conceding as Trente let the dagger angle forward, better positioning itself to parry (if it were a rapier, which it were not,) inadvertently betraying his inexperience with the miniature, yet expertly balanced, lakan that drew such vital blood before.

"Has the shrouded hound come for revenge or the hound, shroud? Does my night stalker not wish me to know my murderer before he strikes?" His words were rushed, and perhaps even practiced with the pointed profession they streamed upon. The blade still constantly resetting before him. Uneasy in untrained hands, unsure of it's own weight and length.
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Wrenmae on May 19th, 2013, 7:13 am

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Wrenmae stepped forward, poised just at the edge of Trente's range. His own blade was angled forward in such a way as to appear almost unpracticed. It menaced the wall beside Trente rather than the swordsman himself. But Trente was aware how fast the murderer moved when he wanted. It was an illusion, a poor one as they'd fought before, but the confidence in him was overwhelming.

If there was anyone who might think themselves the equal to a god, it was he.

Pallid moonlight fell on his face, outlining the harsh lines there, the scar Trente had carved in his face.

"Good morning, Trente," Wrenmae greeted cooly, "A wonderful Sprint morning isn't it? The first, a time of new beginnings, of journeys." His eyes were points of furious ice set in his skull. Outside, the moonlight was fading in the wake of the soon to rise sun. He had to work fast.

Trente's face did not change when the identity of his attacker was revealed. Certainly he'd expected if any were to come to him in such a way, it would be Wrenmae.

His eyes traveled briefly to the dagger held out, and he sneered, "Come now, a dagger Trente? It was never your kind of weapon...never nimble or noble enough to be anything but a trap."

He stepped forward twisting the blade and thrusting it out toward Trente. The swordsman, stepped backwards than forwards, parrying the blade outward and back around the murderer. Wren's other hand shot forward and grabbed Trente's wist, locking his outside dagger as the long dagger in his hand slid around his fingers like water, used the parry as momentum, and spun in, burying the pommel into Trente's stomach.

Doubling, Wren pulled his hand back around his back and thrust the man back against the wall, holding the blade up again.

It happened swift...too swift, and with enough grace that it was obvious he'd held himself back in their previous bouts...or at least vastly improved since the swordsman had carved the mark on his face.

"Now, Trente," Wren said with a barley restrained snarl, "You saw fit to try and ruin my plans, my life here...so I'll return the favor." He cocked his head to the side, almost glancing back and out of the window at the city below. "How did you imagine this ending?"

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This PC has the Blight gnosis. As such, you as a player need to be aware of what that consists of. Wrenmae has an invisible aura that amplifies sickness and disease. Wounds may become infected, small sneezes may become coughing, and a slight fever may become more serious. A nuit's body will also break down faster in the presence of the Blight. These effects may not be immediate, but within the few days following your encounter, the symptoms will manifest. Some sooner than others. I cannot control your character, so creativity will be left up to you. Best wishes and stay healthy!

Special shoutout to Fallon for my new CS
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Trente on May 19th, 2013, 6:31 pm

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His handsome face felt the sting of the uneven stone wall, and his gut the sharp burn of a deft pommel strike, which in the confusion took a long moment to decipher from the sting of a blade. Trente felt little relief, his life was still in much peril.

He took several quick breaths, then with a strained voice he responded, "now, let us not forget who assaulted the others life first. You cannot claim revenge for a squirrel that you began under your own sick prerogative." His voice influxed and a wide breath filled his longs as his elbow strained behind him. His attacker was more tense than last they met, for all of his cool charm and even steps. He would not be lulled into a false sense of security this time, not overtakes by trickery.

He would use his skill to it's full effect to accomplish what he wished, but what was the rogue's goal that cold spring morning? He spoke of new beginnings, a queer thought of a man about to extinguish a life and move onto carry out life as he had before. No, he planned change, but did that change involve destroying Trente, or using him? Was Trente to be his squire, his sacrifice, or something even darker?

"I am no plotter, like you, I never planned the ending of this game of yours. You are the only one playing at swords, here. I have a true life in Zeltiva, as the others you murdered had, unlike you who seem to have no purpose at all. Are you delusional, or is there really a goal here, as I had once believed? If it is to strengthen Zeltiva then you must only look around, with clear and sane eyes, to see you have done quite the opposite."

Yes, Trente thought, trap him in dialogue until somebody stumbled upon the holdings. Trade tongue for time.

"You seem to suffer the same weakness of the scholars of Zeltiva. You believe that your complex thoughts are above the common rabal, that you have unlocked valuable secrets," he coughed from the lingering pain in his abdomen, "that none before you could grasp.

Truth does not lie in your higher thought, or your twisted views driven by undeniable insanity. Truth is what one sees before them, common sense, driven by practical goals."

Did Trente believe what he was saying? That was hardly the point. It would so happen that Trente did believe life was simpler and easier for those that lived practical and common lives, it sure kept them from stalking the alleys and killing wave guards, or making pacts with gods to demolish cities. He could not truthfully deny that he too had the itch, however. He itched to mean something, to share the insight which he knew was superior to others.

Trente knew something horrifying, that if he chose to beg for his life with tact, to pledge himself to his assailant then he would take him, as an ally or a slave. But, dignity could not allow. Wrenmae, or whatever name he chose to hide behind this meeting, would always be the weak slasher of Zeltiva in Trente's eyes, for he acted out of fear of the world. The evidence of this was clear in his methods. He was terrified of something he could never understand in the cold world, so he conspired to rip it out by the roots. Oh, how much Trente hungered to know what that thing was, it would be his ticket out of the murderer's grasp. He conspired to ask, when the time was right.
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Wrenmae on May 21st, 2013, 5:42 am

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"You speak well, swordsman," Wrenmae admitted with only the hint of a smile. It touched the edge of the scar across his face...and he seemed to notice that, scowl darkening, "But you misjudge me, I think."

Up came the knife in a blinding cascade of light, cutting into Trente in the same way his sword had cut into Wren, marking him in the exact same way. Crimson rubies cascaded from the cross, falling carelessly to the ground at Trente's feet. The duelest tensed his muscles, almost expecting another thrust, but it did not come.

"In more than five hundred years since the world was torn asunder, did it ever bother you that we remained so distant from each other? The pockets of what were established hiding holes, spots on the landscape festooned with walls and widely different cultures. We go no further toward unification than where we were...the world does not progress, only stagnates. Three centuries of stagnation...if we give civilization time to rebuild for at least two. We know so little of the world, and we clash against any culture that rubs us too hard. Do I make Zeltiva weak? Or do I reveal how very vulnerable they are? One man, Trente, I...one man brought the city to its knees in terror. If that is the strength of Zeltiva, imagine if I had wanted to destroy it!"

He was almost sad, desperately drilling his philosophy against a soul that would not yield to it, would not shift.

There was a moment's pause and Wren sighed, bringing his hand up across Trente's face. There was a moment where it roved across the contours of his brow, his nose, his mouth. He may have been tempted to bite, but the suggestive pressure of the blade against his chest held him steady. Taking away the blood smeared hand, Wrenmae stepped away from the duelist.

"Your life in Zeltiva is over, Trente...mine as well. Due to your...investigations, I've been forced to expedite my plans. Now, I could simply vanish, but that leaves far too many questions...doesn't it? I'd rather not look over my shoulder when all this is over."

His face bubbled, twitched, moved like water or slow moving syrup. It shifted, built, his hair changed, his form shifted, and in minutes, Trente looked upon a man who was frightfully similar to himself.

"It's a work in progress," Wren admitted with a shrug, "What do you think?"

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This PC has the Blight gnosis. As such, you as a player need to be aware of what that consists of. Wrenmae has an invisible aura that amplifies sickness and disease. Wounds may become infected, small sneezes may become coughing, and a slight fever may become more serious. A nuit's body will also break down faster in the presence of the Blight. These effects may not be immediate, but within the few days following your encounter, the symptoms will manifest. Some sooner than others. I cannot control your character, so creativity will be left up to you. Best wishes and stay healthy!

Special shoutout to Fallon for my new CS
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Trente on May 21st, 2013, 7:26 am

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Cold unyielding wall pressed firmly against his left cheek as his right felt the searing part of firm flesh at Wrenmae's vicious touch. His knuckles whitened about the foreign dagger, as his warrior pride did about his very core. There was no pleasure in the brand, but instead and overwhelming sense of familiarity, the likes Trente had only felt once else in his entire existence - when he bed the only women we had ever honestly loved. But, there was no pleasure at the tip of his blade, only blinding pain.

No thrust came to end Trente's existence, and when Wrenmae abated Trente was defeated. He had not be bowed from life, not broken as a raped whore, but instead he felt the hot flow of blood from his beautiful face, which he did not pine over, and never would. He had been defeated, by the superior man, and that knowledge ran deeper than he wished to admit.

His eyes were closed, a surprising fact, and it took a conscious decision to lax the muscles of his face, to let his eyes slide open. With shaking hands he fed the weapon fixed to his palm to the bed and let it go, breaking the potent bond which it held. A bond which Trente had never realized with such strength before that moment. But now he understood he had not been in true solitude since the moment he had accepted it, and that his distant companion had stood by his side throughout that elongated duel he had shared with Wrenmae. He understood, with surprising clarity, that Imass was aware that Trente faced Wrenmae, the blood he drew, the scar he carved, and now... his defeat. No. Surrender. The Akalak would know even more then Wrenmae could the depths in which Trente had lost, that something essential within him had been struck by Wrenmae's swaying presence.

Trente willingly left the dagger set upon the uneven sheets, and with it he left any intention to resist.

His shaking hand retreated, and breath finally came again, harsh and trembling. Eyes closed without command, and did not open till after Trente spoke words he felt compelled to speak, as if it were decided by a higher power than himself. Perhaps, Trente thought, by Wrenmae. For was he not a higher power?

"I know your secret, Wrenmae. I know that you did not bring Zeltiva to its knees this awful winter of endings, but instead a god lay his festering hand upon Zeltivan skin.

You have revealed to Zeltiva only that it takes one foreign wicked hand to open the doors of atrocity for thousands. Millions if you count your prey that have yet to be born, those that will suffer under your legacy in years to come."

So intimate his whispers came, so quiet in the morning sounds. Robbed of wickedness or slander, only what seemed toned as undeniable fact, completely and utterly nonthreatening.

"Your efforts were not completely misplaced, however. There is no soul in Zeltiva that will answer the cries of your soul, none that will truly do as you desire of the world. Save me." He turned and looked into his own eyes, and did not realize the craft as magic, but rather a trick of the mind which he thought supremely fitting. He, in fact, had words he rather meant to share with himself.

How his eyes swirled and mimicked their origin, in ways that were his and ways that were not. The same pain lurked in a knowing gaze - eyes that witnessed that which others could not, the darkness around them. Eye that saw beauty that could never be, and perceived the painful distance between desire and reality.

"We will never have what we desire from this world. Not truly. Some are born with purity within, and most darkness in its stead, clung to their heaving breast. We were born pure, and know truth, and that so few others posses either. So guilty are the unclean that they bump about in their common clothes, and speak their common speech, creating an illusion of civility.

But, you have known this all along have you not?" His intensity never wavering from his eyes, from Wrenmae's. "Darkness surrounds us, fills the saintly, and it is left to us unfortunate souls born with understanding to bare this sin of society. Could one wonder at why we falter under that strain? Shatter like you, my brother. Or why we hide behind masks like I? Hide in lofts, and in the bowels of dark ships, sailed by darker men..." His words trailed off, as if something that had not broken surface in some time within Trente rose, a behemoth taking a long awaited breath, the silence of it filling the room, barring either from speech.

His focused returning his eyes darted over the form before him. He did not give his usual sardonic smile when he answered, "To your question, yes, I am quite impressed. This is, perhaps, the most truthful guise I have ever seen you don, brother. I hope you learn to prefect it in time, it suits you.

There is, in fact, a close likeness of myself no doubt still in the bedchambers of a priestly Larice Celfensio in Ravok if you ever wish a precise study, and find yourself in the city of evil. Not false to its name, I would add. It has its gems, however, or that it did before I plucked them away." His voice was frankly regretful about those last words, a tone he reserved not to share, yet it came none the less.

In truth the man was aside himself with pain, and loss of precious blood, a flow that would stop when it stopped, but his heart spoke words more truthful than he had allowed himself even in Mura. In Mura he had pretended, for the Konti's sake, and partly his own, that he had desire for purity, to be like them. With Wrenmae he understood a deeper truth, however, that purity was the rare pearl born innately to a man, one that had to be concealed and bulwarked far from the eyes of common folk save it be carved out by force and stolen away.

Trente could not bring himself to ask what Wrenmae had planned for them both, the surprise would come only if Wrenmae chose to share it. No doubt Trente would understand soon enough, in any case. Instead he let his eyes return to his own, as the case was, and smiled. Something unexpected and inexplicably serene occurred, despite the blood and the sorrow that surrounded their circumstance. Trente revealed in that moment an easy acceptance of Wrenmae, and himself, so profound was the expression that no words could capture it, no memory could hold it. The moment existed privately, far from Tanroa's grasp, or any of the gods.

This pearl of purity, which Trente was so certain Wrenmae also possessed within him shown with glory, not of what the gods created, or their brilliant and powerful forms, but a simpler charm of man born from something unclaimed by gods, something exclusively humane, but not common amongst them all. A rarity... a purity.
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Wrenmae on May 21st, 2013, 8:31 am

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If souls were harp strings, held taught over the body of the world, theirs would resonate in the same harmonious note, throbbing like the sound of sunrise....heard only by those who knew what to look for.

In truth, Wrenmae had never thought so far ahead. Vayt's work was always the dark accursed veil he'd donned of necessity. Power and its path always led to mare hardship and heartache, and he had never truly embraced the mad passions of the Plague god, not fully. Not till Trente looked him in the eye and smiled.

They were not born brothers, but in one time perhaps, they had been the same person...

So it was without surprise that the menace melted off his face like smoke on a stiff wind, replaced so profoundly by cautious bemusement that it might have seemed comical in any other situation. Trente did what Vayt could not do, what Rhysol could not do, what no one else in the world had ever done.

He validated the storyteller's existence.

Philomena, his mother, saw him cursed. Imass saw him as a monster...his niece, Kit, knew so little of him...adopted brother Alric as well, Johanne...sweet Johanne, she never knew.

Trente stared into the heart of that perceived darkness and embraced it, called it brother.

And it brought the world in sudden and blinding focus, like crashing continents or mountains grinding against the sky.

Taking another step away from him, the dagger vanished into its sheathe. He wandered around the bed quietly, picking up Trente's own rapier and sliding it into his own belt.

"Never let yourself be claimed by a god, Trente," he said at last, punctuating each word with such care, he might have been praying, "Be polite, but always refuse them a mark...they make you their tool, their mission, and often you forget where you've been and who you used to be." He looked down at his hands, let them drop.

"For my part in bringing sorrow to you and your house I..."

He looked at Trente, the defeat there, but the strength that had slowly come to replace it.

He took another breath. "Apologies would cheapen this. Everything that happened occurred with reason. Once I thought to make you the hand of a new Zeltiva, but I think we both see that this is not the city for either of us."

Outside, a rooster crowed, light spilling over the window ledge and slanting into the room.

"Get your things, pack them and go." He held out his own rapier, offering it to Trente over the bed. Trente took it with a slow nod and Wrenmae almost grinned. "One day we will trade these blades, but today you kill me in the harbor...you will be wanted for murder, so see to it that you are gone before they find you, your son as well. I do not need to say that if you try to stop me, I have means to prevent you. I was to tie you up, but I think I would rather give you time to leave with your son."

He moved to the window, looking out over the sleepy city, beckoning Trente to stand beside him, looking out over the buildings and slowly stumbling inhabitants.

"One day, the world will move again. People with grand ambition and ideal will throw this rotten time into a true age of man. There will be no AV, this 'after valterrian' shyke. We won't be the victims of godly battles any longer, but souls who can free ourselves from a culture built on the raped, the murdered, and the betrayed."

Pushing back from the window, he crossed to the door and paused, turning again.

"Brother, I do not seek your forgiveness for what I am to destroy...your reputation, perhaps your safety. But I do not do it with any malice. Of all the men I've met, you are the first to see me...you are the first to see good in the face of evil, rather than a curse a good man is not fit to bare. You are not my enemy, Trente Eclatante, nor will you ever be. Next we meet there will be no deception, brother, and I would hope we will share smiles again."

He crossed the room to Trente swiftly, tearing a small section of his own shirt to offer the bleeding swordsman. The act of offering it, and Trente taking it was wholly different from any interaction they had communed over before. It was gentle, almost apologetic. No words were needed. In the space of sentences, hatreds had become dust and alliances were built in their place. Strange, perhaps, but there was an uncommon kinship in the mere act of a smile.

He broke his gaze, walking back to and opening the door and pausing in the threshold. He did not turn, but he did speak.

"The world will keep turning and the time will trundle forward. Take your ambition and your talent, your dreams and your power...take them and change this world with me...when I am ready, I will ask you to stand beside me."

He turned back to Trente and a rare smile was on his face, Trente's face, illuminated in the sun.

"If you will have me, we will begin a new age."

And he stepped from the doorway...and was gone.

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Sig by Shausha


This PC has the Blight gnosis. As such, you as a player need to be aware of what that consists of. Wrenmae has an invisible aura that amplifies sickness and disease. Wounds may become infected, small sneezes may become coughing, and a slight fever may become more serious. A nuit's body will also break down faster in the presence of the Blight. These effects may not be immediate, but within the few days following your encounter, the symptoms will manifest. Some sooner than others. I cannot control your character, so creativity will be left up to you. Best wishes and stay healthy!

Special shoutout to Fallon for my new CS
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Wrenmae
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Trente on May 25th, 2013, 5:37 pm

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The defeated mutt had no words, only a nod as he pressed the cloth to his face. He looked into his own eyes one last time as Wrenmae stepped from the room, to put an end to himself, and Trente wondered to himself which had truly won that day.

The answer came as so blindly obvious that it made him desire tears and laughter all at once. Neither had triumphed with the blade that day, but with the heart... perhaps they both were more than they had been when they laid their heads to rest the night before.

He had to sit, to let his body mend, and mind steady, but he knew already that he wasn't to run that morning, no. Treading blood through the streets would get him nowhere, and further tricks from the cunning Wrenmae were not impossible. He would leave only under the protection of night after his wounds were healed, stomach and pack were full.

"Eclatante," Trente spoke out loud, testing the sound on his tongue, but it seemed as misplaced as the others. Wrenmae had no true name, not yet, but Trente would discover it in time. It perhaps would be Trente's new vow.

Mizahar was vast, more so than Trente could comprehend, and it only seemed vaster after the realms Hadrian had opened his awareness to, but something purer than the gods had drawn Wrenmae and Trente close. So close that certainty filled the rogue that they would in fact meet again.

But, it would not be joyous, nor would it bring happiness to the duo. Trails were coming, and it was time to prepare. Trente cringed as he learned more of the world, and Wrenmae had more to teach than Trente wished to learn. That was not for Trente to change, however.

He would learn... and Wrenmae would part like chaotic waves only to join again as something solid, and terrible.

Together they would be great, and tragic, as promised by the fate carved into their faces. Carved not by gods, but by man's hand. A mortal curse and promise, more powerful than the tainted knew.
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Wrenmae on October 24th, 2013, 9:49 pm

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The dawn had scarcely had time to settle on the city when the clashing of blades could be heard coming from the docks. Two men were locked in gritty battle, striking with both desperation and hate as they approached the open sea. One, Trente, wild-eyed and bleeding, pushed back Wrenmae. Both men were marveled as fantastic manipulators of the blade, but in this it seemed as though Wren was being pushed back.

Certainly rumors of the famous Wave Guard and the head of the Martial Association spread like some wildfire after Lady Maria's party, but having it come to this was nothing short of extreme.

Neither man spoke over the growls and grunts of exertion that drove them. Trente lunged in, stabbing out and Wren caught the blade with his own, pushing it aside. Wren only seemed to be defending himself barely, his brown eyes blazing as he was pushed to the very edges of the docks themselves.

People gathered, a distance away, watching the two battle...and certainly they were loud enough to draw attention. The Waveguard would be on the scene soon, and perhaps if they arrived, Wren's life would be spared.

But the blades clashed again, and Trente swept Wren's rapier wide. The Waveguard might have recovered, but he stepped out onto empty air, at the edge of the dock. His arms pinwheeled and for a moment, Wren looked panicked.

And then Trente grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back in, thrusting the sword through the waveguard and twisting it.

Wren blinked in surprise, spit blood as a crimson spread along the blue of his uniform. Numbly he reached toward Trente, but the swordsman simply pushed him into the sea, letting the water swallow up the Waveguard entirely.

When he turned away, he sheathed his blade striding back towards the city.

Already he could hear the Waveguards, their whistles shrieking on the winds. So he took off running, and he left the Waveguard Wrenmae...to die.


In reality, as soon as Wren's body hit the surf, it was a man no longer, but a Sarawanki that deftly sunk beneath the waves and vanished...leaving only the inky cloud of blood from the waterskin of lamb's blood Wren had prepared for the show.

Wren was already transforming as he ducked into alleys and tore away his clothes, ready to change into new ones. He had successfully faked his own death, pinning it on Trente...which would give him time to exit the city safely without the burden of suspicion following him.

"Live well, Zeltiva," he whispered to the city around him. "You do not want me to return here."

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Sig by Shausha


This PC has the Blight gnosis. As such, you as a player need to be aware of what that consists of. Wrenmae has an invisible aura that amplifies sickness and disease. Wounds may become infected, small sneezes may become coughing, and a slight fever may become more serious. A nuit's body will also break down faster in the presence of the Blight. These effects may not be immediate, but within the few days following your encounter, the symptoms will manifest. Some sooner than others. I cannot control your character, so creativity will be left up to you. Best wishes and stay healthy!

Special shoutout to Fallon for my new CS
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Wrenmae
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Framed (Trente)

Postby Taylani on November 21st, 2013, 3:42 pm

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XP Award!


Wrenmae:

XP Award:
  • +3 weapon: dagger
  • +3 socialization
  • +1 taunting
  • +4 rhetoric

Lore:
  • Regret and sorrow of being claimed by a god
  • No apologies for destroying reputation or safety.

Notes: These are comments.




Trente:

XP Award:
  • +3 observation
  • +4 weapon : Rapier
  • +4 rhetoric

Lore:
  • Trapped by the Haunt of Zeltiva
  • Acceptance of Wrenmae
Notes: These are comments.


Comments :
Short but sweet. Please feel free to pm me if you have concerns about the grades. Also don’t forget to delete/edit your grade request. .

TAYLANI
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