Once were Princes

The two elves set out on a quest, under the guise of Dáire escorting Raen to an ancient city of the Elves, for an ages old ritual that he must attend.

Tviyr was the first boundary to be created when Fellsgard was freed from Bhelest. There is a diverse magnitude of adventurers that trek through this countryside. Decorated with grassland, coastline, forest, and jungle, it's quite the vision. Read more...
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Fëanáro Larkain
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Fëanáro Larkain »

Farro hissed a long stream of curses under his breath as the arrow that had been certain to kill the prince, collided with a shoulder when the big lout jerked away from the woman before him. He had long felt that Kaxitaki sat upon his shoulder, but apparently that was not the case this day. He withdrew from the shattered window, all hell breaking loose below him as some fled, others flanking the downed prince, and the chance of getting another shot was slim at best now.

A cry for his death went up as he snatched up the quiver and knives he’d left beside him on the slate floors. A crackle raced across his skin a moment before the world flashed gold all around him. For an instant, he thought he may have been hit across the head or something of a similar manner; but he still felt the solid floor beneath his feet, only now he could see nothing but the swirling, glittery golden swarm that encased him.

The world continued to vibrate outside his glittery prison, the sound of many feet on the cobbled street to the front, and back of his stake out becoming increasingly clear. Farro’s heart rate kicked up another notch and he froze, evaluating his options in that fleeting moment. If he stayed put, he’d most surely be apprehended and dragged before the nobility, if he were to try feeling back out of the building, he may crash right into those who were hunting him down like predators at this very moment. He couldn't be sure if the magic cast upon him was merely blinding him, or acting as a beacon to expose him.

In that instant he cursed his involvement in the war, and the battles that had ultimately cost him his mastery over the worlds’ magical energy. Evasions and escapes used to be so much simpler. Not that he could blame this mishap on lack of magic, he’d simply not been alert enough to anticipate a magic wielders keen eye.

Concluding that unless he wanted to break his neck tumbling down some very unforgiving stone steps, he’d have to remain put. Deft hands retrieved blades from all obvious holders, sequestering them in hidden slots, pockets and sheaths on his person. Other bits and pieces that may prove useful were also squirreled away in unseen and unlikely places. He had no intention of dying, at least not easily.

In the off chance that the spells was upon his vision alone. Farro fumbled around, as silently as possible in his condition, to the side of the room and slumped down on the floor beneath an old blanket he spotted on the neighbouring chair upon his previous scouting. You never know, some folk would really be stupid enough to to think he wasn't a pile of rags.

The clomping of heeled boots sounded on the floor below. “Check the top floor” One particularly stern voice snapped, the sound of approaching feet now growing ever louder as they ascended the stairs. Keeping his breathing shallow and silent, he lay there, listening. He distinguished at least five individuals searching the old town house, all having varying accent tinges, but the old Órlbelle undertone silkily laced each one.

“Why do we care if we catch this would be assassin? That man’s no Ta-Aryon.” The voice young, and full of disdain.
“Shut up Sóa, do you want to be blamed for hiring him?” Another hissed, a soft thud reaching his ears, no doubt the latter inflicting some manner of pain on the former.

The first man grumbled something unintelligible as they scaled the last few steps and stepped into the open space in which Farro cowered. A man snorted derisively, “You look like an overgrown fae, all sparkly and shit too.” The second voice said, Farro could almost picture the sneer twisting the males mouth. The first man chuckled coldly as the blanket he had been hiding beneath was ripped off and strong hands clasped his upper arms, yanking him off the floor none to gently. Farro looked around, the cloud of gold was now losing its opacity by the second. He turned his head to the one hold his arms and smiled, one that promised nothing good was about to follow.The man blanched as Farro tucked, and spun out of range, small throwing knives appearing from beneath his elaborate cloak and finding homes in the mens feet. Both hit the floor like felled trees, screeching loud enough to bring the whole damn assembly of elves to their location.

Agitated voices erupted on the level below almost immediately, several further pairs of feet rapidly heading his direction. Now able to see the edges of time beaten room, he spotted the discarded bow by the window, catching it in a hand as he hopped onto the sill. The cloud around him was still too dense to see the going on’s below as the sun hit and reflected off the millions of particles that comprised it. Turning his attention to the matter at hand once more, Farro felt around the upper sill, fingers searching for suitable purchases. Transferring his weight onto his arms, he hauled his body up towards the steepled roof and the escape that awaited him.

Or he would have, however, yet again a steely grasp clasped around one of his limbs, wrenching him back down and off balance, causing him to fall right into their waiting arms. He smirked out at the sea of angry faces as unyielding hands clasped his arms behind his back, had he been kindling, he may have just caught fire then and there.
“And here I thought we were having a fun game of tag.” He raised his brows, doing a good imitation of youthful innocence which was so at odds with what flowed from his mouth,” Sorry about your feet boys, all is fair in love and war and all that fun.” He grinned, looking around at the others again, just as a large fist collided with his temple, darkness rising up to meet and swallow Farro whole. He slumped heavily in the mens vice like hold.

“Take him to the Arato’s and Aranel.”

Farro was dragged, unceremoniously and unconscious before the Arato’s, who congregated close to the crumpled form of the Cundu.

“Here’s your Assassin.” Said a towering Elf, a stern scowl on his face as he dropped Farro at their feet in a heap.
Word count: 1087
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Raen Silver
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Raen Silver »

There was a hush after the arrow had flown that had tried to kill Dáire still stuck from the man's chest ... though not all were silent.

"This is a great betrayal," said a woman, stepping forth. She was dressed in fine silks, gleaming with jewellery "I am Varni Myantha of House Núrin and I say this is an omen. No person here should be recognised as heir ..."

Before she even finished there were cries, mostly in protest, but some seemed to support her. It was truly a people divided.

Raen glanced up to the man who had asked for his coat, and looked around. "One of your own kind, whatever his rank lies here with an arrow chest! How can your outdated titles take first place?!" He asked frustrated.

The older woman had seemed to lead these proceedings, learnt heavily on her cane as she looked over Dáire. "This will be dealt with. And because the rite demands it, Cundu Dáire Elvalur I now speak: we recognise this man as Ta-Aryon of Órlbelle."

The other Arato looked over over the gathered Elves. "House Isil recognises this man as prince, .... but not the heir., not the Ta-Aryon" He said, with some finality.

Raen suddenly became the focus of a lot of attention and he didn't give a fig about it. His friend, as much as they has ever been friends, lay with an arrow in his chest. "Whatever! I don't ..."

The man who had called his dissent spoke out. "If he is named Tar-Aryon, then he will have a target on his back from many foes who do not believe that any Elf or such should be ruled by one man or woman alone."

Raen closed his eyes, then put his hand on Dáire's. "House Telemna does not recognise Dáire as heir to the crown." He said, after a moment. "I'm sorry, Dáire. If you could die for it; then what is it worth?"

The older woman let out a long sigh. "The most Noble Houses of Órlbelle - City of the Veil have decided. Dáire Elvular will not be named Heir Apparent to this crown." she shook her head, as if wounded. "Now we have to decide if another will try and claim the title, but first ..." Her eyes, like all others, turned to their captures, would-be assassin. "Let us here what you have to say, child."
Word count: 405
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Fëanáro Larkain
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Fëanáro Larkain »

Having risen back to consciousness some point through the prince’s rejection from his birth title, Farro now found himself staring down an old crone of an elf. Her watery eyes still held steely resolve within them as she stood above him; she evidently held no fear. Maneuvering himself so he now sat crossed legged, Farros face twisted into a self satisfied, cruel grin as he watched her. The firey depths of his eyes sparking as annoyance, both inwardly directed at those who foiled his escape, boiled within. He stayed silent for several moments before he chuckled low.

“What is there to say, old one? I must be getting old myself. I missed.”

Silence ensued as the old one simply stared at him , no doubt down in the dirt where someone of her rank would believe one like him belonged. “Are you waiting for me to appologise Arato?” He all but spat the word at the elder, rank meant nothing where he came from, at least now it did. He remembered the old days, just as well as he was sure she did, however, he’d known the other end of the scale. He caught himself rubbing a spot on his thigh, his subconscious recalling the shredding pain that had taken him down all that time ago - all far too easily. He couldn't believe none of them had tied him up. Did they believe him defeated?

He felt like a prized bull in a slaughter house auction as he took note of all the eye that sat heavily upon him. The clouded grey gaze of the Cundu met his own, the male looked sallow, haunted as he finally seemed to focus on Farro, “Nothing personal Elvalur, I just like gold coins more than I care for your life.”

Disgruntled muttering rose around them from the surrounding crowd of pompous nobles. Farro took personal pleasure in upsetting people of such station. Purposely moving such a way not to attract attention, Farro withdrew several small throwing blades from a conceal folder of leather within his long boots. It took but a few expert and deft flick of his wrist and the blades with flying, point of hilt and burying themselves in three nobles legs.

Howls of surprise and pain, soon lit up the otherwise still evening air. “Well, if there’s no Ta-Aryon, there’s no need for me to party crash any longer.”

Several angry elves much taller than his meager 6ft height launched in his direction. In a well practiced sequences of actions, Farro ran to the edge of the courtyard. All those in his path peeling way in fear of what he may do should they not, his smile widened at the small win. Leaping with feline grace, Farro cleared a surrounding wall before scaling the worn sandstone and crumbling mortar sided building on the other side.

“Elven arrogance know no expiration it appears” He said down onto the crow below having reached the roofs. Dodging a poorly aimed arrow, he set off across the roofs, letting them believe he had truly left.
Word count: 515
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Soltaevar Velca
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Head of Mistfire Trading Company, Fellsgard, Tviyr; Cat slave; and Turco of House Velca.
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

“Much as I am loath to admit it, this would-be assassin has a point,” Soltaevar grunted, as he dislodged the knife that had pierced his shin. “Elders, you have called us here, away from our homes and families - for what? A ritual to name an heir to a throne that will never be restored?” He stood up, his eyes fixing upon the Arato of House Surá. “A man lies here, gravely wounded, because you wanted to play at being nobles once more, for your own pleasure.”

Soltaevar glanced down at Dáire before bringing his gaze back to the assembled elves. “You saw - we all saw - that this man knew naught of what his heritage would have asked of him. And why should he? There is no throne, no crown for him or Órlbelle - or any other who might claim the title as Ta-Aryon or Ta-Aranel.”

Soltaevar swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. “Here I had thought the humans were masters of depravity, but truly you have proven me wrong. Not that I need say so, or that my position, such as it is, holds any weight - not even with myself - but House Velca recognizes no heir to the dead crown of Órlbelle.” He focused on Dáire and the Telemna next to him. “I do recognize a man in need of healing and protection. Telemna - I apologize, I do not know your name - shall we try to move your friend here out of the open, and mayhap to find healing and succor?”
Last edited by Soltaevar Velca on November 25th, 2019, 2:16 am, edited 1 time in total.
Word count: 261
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Dáire
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Dáire »

Dáire sat mutely on the ground, only somewhat aware of the activity that continued to hum around above his head. A weight settled around his shoulders, allowing a warmth to seep into his muscles and bones, that he hadn't realised he had needed. He peered down at his own hands, systematically turning the travel dirty and worn limb over; almost as though he were surprised to find them there. The long, calloused fingers shook with the fine tremors that wracked the man’s body as he evidently fought to make sense of all that had just happened.

Someone, he had no idea who, dropped down to his level on the ground. His rich, slightly accented voice rolled over Dáire like a balm, soothing frayed nerves and allowing him slowly to comeback from the state of dazed bewilderment he’d slipped into.

He suddenly became aware when the ground beneath him vibrated, as the body of his would be killed was dumped but a few feet away from him. The man looked unphased, red hair gleam like crackling embers in the low light as he sat up, looking at those around him with an unfaltering, arrogant and defiant manner. He caught a glimpse of the man’s unusual golden eyes, the sight giving Dáire pause, something about them niggled at something in his memory. Nothing was forthcoming, but the more he watched the man smirk at his captors, the more he suspected they had crossed paths before - long, long ago he thought.

In his foggy mind, Dáire wasn't able to keep track of the man as he made his escape, gone in a flurry of red hair and muted clothing, disappearing over a roof peak and out of view. The man that had been crouching beside him, the same deep baritone spoke out again not far from where Dáire still sat. His senses - and pride, slowly coming back online, Dáire groaned as he hefted his feeble feeling body back upright; legs less than steady causing him to list to one side, before Raen braced him with an unyielding hold upon his upper arm.

Words were being spoken all around him, instinct told him he needed to be alert, that it involved him, but only the odd phrase penetrated his thoughts yet.

“....being nobles once more...humans were masters of depravity...” Dáire’s face fell into a scowl, confused, tired and having never been one for politics, he didn't feel inclined to begin involvement now either.

“...heir to the dead crown of Órlbelle...” The simple phrase sent ice traveling down his spine once more, the fog in his mind clearing rapidly, and the sequence of events that had just transpired around him, hitting him in the chest with needle sharp clarity.

“I reject any claim or demand that puts me anywhere near your elven title!” He seethed, voice booming out in what had been a fairly quiet lull in the proceedings. He shrugged out of Raens hold, the movement sending flames of searing pain out from the wound that was still oozing on both sides of his shoulder, fresh warm blood trails making their way down his chest beneath the tunic. “How dare any of you arrogant fools plot to get me here, if you ever see me again,” A cold, mirthless chuckle escaped him as he moved back, sweeping a malevolent glance around all the unknown faces that surrounded him, “You will be wishing to all the idols that you never set eyes upon me in the first place.” his gaze settled firmly on one particular Arato, eyes narrowing as he looked the conceited male over, the threat towards him in particular, remaining unspoken.

“Dáire! Toror!”


His sisters sweet - and increasingly infuriating voice called out to him. He levelled a contemptuous glare on her, a sick sense of pleasure snaking through him as she shrunk back from the fury that he barely held leashed. “You, “ he all but spat at her, she looked like she may something, but wisely changed her mind “you are no one to me. To allow me to believe you dead all this time, you and whichever one of our parents thought to leave me forgotten, is inexcusable. I don’t want to hear from you ever again, llé naa n'uma nossé (you are no family)”

A small voice at the back of his mind told him he’d regret this - that he should retract what he had just said; but the pain in his shoulder and the ache of betrayal and loss was so strong, an agonising pulse in his chest, that in that moment he didn't care.

His head spun dizzyingly as he stumbled towards a half-crumbled arch that would provide an escape from all the heavy gazes that followed his every step. He didn't know where he was going. He’d never felt more alone. The Hart no longer felt like a home, an elegant building on the out-side but full of deception and liars within. The guilt he’d carried for decades, that had shaped his life, now felt pointless. Worse than pointless, it had effectively wiped out all the reasoning for any major choice he'd made within his long life. He growled darkly to himself as he blundered down another street, his feet instinctively carrying him east.

Dessielle stood, almost frozen to the spot as she watched the towering figure than had once been a brother. one that she’d once loved dearly, stumble his way out of her life. He’d publicly denounced her, uttering the old elven words that were a brand of shame. Spoken when one cast another out of the clan. The animosity in his cold gaze as he had spoken them, left her in no doubt that he meant every word he had said. She recognised nothing of her brother in that man. Quiet murmurs and fleeting glances were made, no doubt at her expense, as the pivotal day she and her mother, the late Tari of the Elves, had spent numerous days planning out now crumbled in a mess at her feet. No Ta-’Aryon and no brother by her side.

Stepping forwards, she straightened her spine and postured herself, just the Tari had taught her to."I claim right to Ta'Aranel"
Word count: 1058
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Raen Silver
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Raen Silver »

There were gasps from the crowd as this woman stepped forward, all eyes suddenly turned to her.

The woman spoke first. "If the heir refuses his role, then one of his bloodline has the right to his place." She intoned. "I Zaleria, of House Súra, recognise you, Princess Dessielle, as Heir Apparent to the Crown of Órlbelle."

The angry man beside her lifted his chin. "House Vulma recognises no heir." He said, with conviction and anger in his voice.

Suddenly, all eyes were on Raen. The young Elf looked down at Dáire, then at the woman who had made her proclamation. Surely it was better for her to have an arrow in her than the man he had known all of his life? "I erm ... I of House Telemna ... well, I recognise this woman as Heir to the crown of Órbelle."

There were cries; some of support, some of dissent. But the old woman banged her came on the floor. "It is done!" She said, loudly. "The Noble Houses have decreed it. Dessielle, she turned to the Elf with an incline of her head. You are hereby recognised as Heir Apparent to the throne. Should our Kingdom arise again in your lifetime, you should be recognised as Queen." Awkwardly, she got to one knee. The man beside her did the same, reluctantly. He might not have agreed with it all, but he seemed to respect it.

Many others did the same. Some did not

Reen looked down at Dáire. "We should leave ... unless there is something you want to say to your sister?"

Never before had the young Elf felt so out of his depth. He wondered what Dáire would say.
Word count: 285
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"There is no greater gift than that of verse well given."
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Soltaevar Velca
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

Soltaevar snorted. “Such self-indulgent twaddle! If she is fool enough to want the recognition of a position that no longer exists and will bring her naught of good, she may as well be welcome to it.” He crossed his arms. “As before - House Velca recognizes no heir to the dead crown of Órlbelle, for all that’s left of her is in our memories.”

He turned to leave. “Strip me of my title as Turco if you like. I have no need of it. My name is my own, and I’ve made my own standing.” Without a second glance, he strode out of the circle. He was of a mind to find Dáire, who seemed a more sensible sort. His Telemna friend might be welcome - if he proved to be less swayed by the talk of the Elders.

Huffing, Soltaevar kicked at a loose stone. He supposed the Elders clung to their old ways because that was all they knew - yet he and his mother had learned quickly that to live in a new city, they must adapt to a situation where no one knew of the reputation of House Velca. His mother had never referred to herself as Varni or lamented the loss of position; she had called herself simply Mrs. Velca, and only regretted the loss of her husband and child. The flame of anger rose anew at the contrast the Elders provided - their unbending ways would see them perish.

Much better now to see if he could find a traveling companion or two and leave. Then he could go amuse himself with a commission from his friend Dash O’Dell. The man was an excellent collaborator and his work was nonpareil, plus he had more than once taken a ridiculous idea and turned it into a work of art that left Soltaevar amazed at his friend’s talent. An idea crept in; Soltaevar grinned. If the Elders wanted a ruler for their dead throne so badly, perhaps he could give them a princeling...feline.
Last edited by Soltaevar Velca on November 25th, 2019, 2:17 am, edited 1 time in total.
Word count: 343
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Vanessa LaNore
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Seeker of Legends
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Re: Once were Princes

Post by Vanessa LaNore »

Vanessa gasped awake and shot her hands out on reflex. After several deep gulping breaths of air her heart started to slow and began to blink rapidly to restore her vision. Everything ached, and she was certain even the finest drink would not relieve her headache. She gave herself a small shake and reached out to the tenuous thread connecting Kip to her control.

“I am here again,” she projected over their link, receiving a weak pulse of acknowledgement back. She’d need to dismiss Kip soon, since she certainly wasn’t going to be empowering anything without several hours of solid rest and recovery.

Vanessa stood and oriented herself, realizing Kip was still hovering above the stone pillar, or at least nearby. She wondered if the ceremony had continued while she was knocked out, or if some other danger had arisen. She started to move back to her tree hollow when an insistent tug pulled at her link. She moved her awareness and saw that Kip was drifting westward, as if following a small group of people.

‘Ceremony must be finished, best to follow along outside the bubble then,’ she thought to herself as she stiffly started to walk parallel to the magical barrier. Everything ached and felt out of place, and the constant thrum of blood in her head was not helping matters. She really hoped they'd caught the bastard, or at least saved Dáire's life.
Word count: 239
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