Soltaevar Velca - Enduring Echoes

Key events from Soltaevar's past

From letters to journals to thoughts and everything in between, certain character story development requires free-form writing as it does not happen in a particular location. Thus, this little corner of Khy'eras can be used to jot down ideas and stories.
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Soltaevar Velca
Character
Head of Mistfire Trading Company, Fellsgard, Tviyr; Cat slave; and Turco of House Velca.
Level
05
72 / 72 HP
51 / 51 MP
0p / 0g / 1s / 10c
Race: Kerasoka
Class: Bard
Posts: 56
Joined: November 9th, 2019, 7:57 pm
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Soltaevar Velca - Enduring Echoes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

Last edited by Soltaevar Velca on March 7th, 2020, 11:23 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Word count: 13
User avatar
Soltaevar Velca
Character
Head of Mistfire Trading Company, Fellsgard, Tviyr; Cat slave; and Turco of House Velca.
Level
05
72 / 72 HP
51 / 51 MP
0p / 0g / 1s / 10c
Race: Kerasoka
Class: Bard
Posts: 56
Joined: November 9th, 2019, 7:57 pm
Has thanked: 2 times
Been thanked: 1 time

Re: Soltaevar Velca - Enduring echoes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

Bhelest's Curse - 17 years old - 30 AoV

Soltaevar bolted out of the house and into the street. He’d escaped - and his main thought was to find others to play. “Soltaevar!” His mother’s voice. “Take Amariine with you.” Sol scowled; his sister, at just eleven autumns was much more needy than he was at seventeen winters.

The younger girl ran out of the house and reached to cling to her older brother. “Nésaaaaa,” he whined just before she ran into him. “Don’t hang on me like that!”

Amariine stuck out her bottom lip. “But toronnn, Amya said to stick close to you,” she argued. She wrapped her small arms around his waist tightly. "I'm not leaving you." Looking up, she gave Sol the expression she used when she wouldn't be budged, her violet eyes wide.

He sighed deeply. "Fine. You can come with me, but don't be whiny around my friends, okay?" Amariine nodded, beaming at him. She trotted alongside him and he wandered the stone streets in search of others. He stopped at the larger trees and bridges, usually popular meeting spots, but no one seemed to be around.

Sol leaned over the railing of a bridge, looking into the clear water. Amariine stooped at his feet, reaching into the water to run her fingers in the stream. "Nobody's out. Wanna race back home?" Sol said, looking down at his little sister. "I'll even give you a five count head start."

Amariine nodded, her strawberry blonde hair blowing in the slight breeze. "You're on!" She picked up her heels and was to the corner before Sol finished his count and began to run.

He'd turned the second corner when he heard the scream. The Varni of House Nura knelt on the street, shrieking with her head in her hands. Pausing, Sol knelt to help her, before he heard a loud groan down the street. He hadn't taken more than a step before the sensation of being burned overwhelmed him.

Worse than a sunburn, worse than touching an over-hot pot; the closest thing he had to compare was when he'd gotten too close to the midsummer bonfires and breathed in the hot smoke and steam rising from the wood. His throat had been sore for over a week, even with Amya's healing magic, and he coughed near smoke for several months after. That feeling, of being burned from the inside, but so much worse - it raced through him. The pain felt like something was being burned out of him, stripped bare.

He couldn't say if he'd screamed or if he had just been held in a rictus of pain until it faded. Coming to himself, he wanted desperately to find Amya and feel her cool hands as the healing magic washed over him. Tears dripped off his face, landing on his shirt. As he began to run, he remembered: Amariine.

Even with her head start, she couldn't have reached home yet. Sol traced the usual route home; it was usually the fastest, but Amariine might have tried another way as a shortcut. He called her name, voice weak and gasping for breath. Passing a house, a volley of arrows arched from its roof, and Sol pressed tightly to the wall.

He kept moving, but flicked a glance up to see the archers. One clearly targeted him, bow held up and arrow nocked. The arrow pinged into the stone an arm’s length from his feet. One more corner before home, he thought, and tripped as he scrambled to round the corner.

Sol picked himself up, skinned hands stinging, to see what he’d stumbled over. Amariine lay in the street, arrows sticking at odd angles out of her small body. He screamed, falling to his knees and shaking her, begging for her eyes to open. Her small chest didn’t move; her strawberry blonde hair had patches of dark blood that it had begun to soak up. Sol heard an arrow clatter down next to him and he realized the archers were hunting him.

He ran down the street, focused on the house where his family lived. Someone tackled him, sweeping him off his feet. He raised his hand to strike when he realized Amya was the one who had shoved him. “Amya, Amariine -” he choked out, the tears flowing.

“I know. Run!” she pushed him down the street that led away from the city. He ran the best he could, panting heavily.

“But Atya! The house!” Sol cried, as it became obvious that the path Amya had guided him to was away from their home.

“Atya insisted on defending it. We’ll go back when the madness settles,” she said, steely resolve in her voice. Sol nodded, but couldn’t help stopping for a look back. Amya prodded him to move.

Atya stood there, in front of the house and several armed men. Sol recognized the gestures Atya made, the same ones as when he called fire to heel like a well-trained dog. This time, however, no welcoming flame came to his call. One of the men rushed forward and punched Atya in the face, the force pushing him partway through the front doorway.

Another rushed forward, with a bottle stoppered with a lit rag. He threw the bottle into the house, and a cloud of flame and smoke erupted from the front window. A second and third flaming bottle were tossed into the house, and someone shoved Atya’s unmoving body in through the door. “Atya!” Sol cried, softly. Amya stood unblinking for a moment before grabbing Sol’s arm and pulling him hard.

“We must go, now, before they realize we weren’t in the house,” she said in a low hard voice. They ran, Sol just keeping pace with his mother. As they stumbled into the forest, someone called out. They stopped, and found a number of others had escaped similarly, with similar losses.

One of the Fae that Sol remembered seeing around the Elvalur and Isil houses approached. “My people have built a city, deep in Ninraih. I have promised to lead these people to it. Will you be one of the number?” Sol stared at the Fae, wide-eyed.

Amya didn’t answer, staring back in the direction of the city, now beginning to billow with smoke. “No. We must stay.” Her voice was distant, her eyes focused on something in the distance that no one could see.

“Amya, is that -”

“We. Must. Stay.” Amya’s voice held a heavy finality. Sol hung his head and moved to stand next to her. The Fae nodded and the group turned away, melting into the trees. Sol put an arm around his mother’s shoulders, and it was then that she collapsed onto him, sobbing.

After a while, when Amya’s cries had slowed, Sol held out his hands to his mother. “Can you heal these?” he asked her, his scraped skin still raw and bloody.

She looked up at him with empty eyes. “No. The magic...it’s gone,” she said, tears beginning to spill out of her eyes again. Sol embraced his mother, terrified. No house, no father, no sister, no magic - what would they do now?
Word count: 1210
User avatar
Soltaevar Velca
Character
Head of Mistfire Trading Company, Fellsgard, Tviyr; Cat slave; and Turco of House Velca.
Level
05
72 / 72 HP
51 / 51 MP
0p / 0g / 1s / 10c
Race: Kerasoka
Class: Bard
Posts: 56
Joined: November 9th, 2019, 7:57 pm
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Re: Soltaevar Velca - Enduring echoes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

Relocating to Fellsgard - 19 years old - 32 AoV

“Amya, we need to go! The river’s cresting!” Soltaevar shouted. The rains had been terrible the past two autumns, as though Ny’tha and Ixaziel wept for their lost children. Two long years had passed since that time. After Sol and his mother had fled Órlbelle - after Atya and Amariine had fallen - they’d eked out a shelter on the banks of the Ordinuad River.

The torrential downpours and droughts made living by the river unpredictable and consequently unsafe. His mother stared at the water, dazed. Sol grabbed her arm and pulled her with him, up to higher ground. He’d taken what of their possessions he could, but some of the larger items - blankets, pots, and the shelter itself - had to be left to the ravages of the storm. A log came from upriver and smashed into the shelter, scattering its supports to the winds and carrying the bulk of it downstream.

Amya watched as their little shelter was swept away. Sol would have cried, but compared to the loss of half his family, it felt insignificant still. “This - we can’t live like this, Amya,” he said softly to his mother. She put a hand on his shoulder and hugged him to her, tightly.

“You’re right. There’s no Órlbelle anymore.” Her eyes shimmered as she looked at her son; at nineteen, he looked like a human newly become an adolescent. “We could go east, to Ajteire and the Fae, or we can try our luck in Fellsgard with the humans.” She fell silent, considering their options.

“Don’t you know sailors and merchants among the humans?” Sol asked, shifting his weight. “Besides, Ajteire is much farther, and the undead won’t leave us alone if we just ask nicely.” He’d had to keep torches lit around their little shelter to keep them at bay.

“Fellsgard it is, then, my son.” His mother looked up at the gray clouds, still pouring rain. “Although we’ll need to find a way to orient ourselves.”

“Let’s head toward Órlbelle. You said Fellsgard is on the coast, so if we have to, we can follow the coast line around. We can fish for food,” Sol said, encouragingly. He shouldered the pack that contained all that was left of their material possessions. His mother followed, glancing behind to check for any predators, alive or not, that might come after them.

At Órlbelle, his mother wanted to walk through the ruins of the city, to see what still remained, but Sol dissuaded her. The undead walked the roads now and the city itself seemed blighted, lost in the memory of the tragic events. They paused briefly at the stone cairn they’d built for his father and sister. Their remains weren’t there, but it still served as a marker. His mother took two small stones and placed them in their bags. “For us, when the time comes, so that we can still be together.” Sol stood by awkwardly as his mother wept and prayed.

For long moments, he waited, until finally, he touched her shoulder gently. “Amya, let’s go. Their spirits will still be with us as we travel.” Sol had no desire to be in the forested areas that surrounded Órlbelle when it got dark. They made it to the coastline just as the sun set. He took first watch, but let his mother sleep a little later than they’d agreed. The deaths of Atya and Amariine still weighed heaviest on her, and stopping by the cairn would have made her burden heavier that day.

Traveling the coastline was both easier and harder than going through the forests. There were no bushes and trees to block their paths or scratch them with thorns, but the sand sank under every footstep and rocks stubbed their toes. Nor were they immune from the undead venturing toward them; more than one night Sol spent flinging rocks at scattered undead, hoping to score a head shot and have peace for the night.

Finally, they saw buildings. Granted, it was an old dock and a fisherman’s hut, but any sign of civilization was a blessing at that point. They wandered through the town, keeping the coast to one side until they came to the lighthouses. Taverns buzzed with the whispers of Cecelia and her plans, her light, and her followers. Bhelest’s hand laid heavy on Fellsgard, but the current of gossip seemed to say that the city wasn’t giving up without a fight.

The lighthouses, with their flashes of light in the dark, seemed to be a symbol to which Amya could anchor herself. Somehow, she bestirred herself enough to seek out those acquaintances who knew the seas and merchants who knew where and when to trade. Sol never asked where his mother came up with money to invest in the merchants’ routes; he knew he had done what he could by singing songs he remembered in taverns on slow nights. The take was never much, but anything was better than nothing, and sometimes he’d get leftovers for them if the kitchen staff felt generous. “Almost a silver tonight, Amya!” or “I only got a few copper, but next time will be better. Do you remember another song I can learn?”

He’d learned quickly that most humans knew little of Órlbelle and none cared who he or his family might have been there. After his first night, he gave his name as only ‘Sol Velca’, although the epithet “Fire-headed mite” became popular as he fell into a pattern of tavern visits.
Word count: 949
User avatar
Soltaevar Velca
Character
Head of Mistfire Trading Company, Fellsgard, Tviyr; Cat slave; and Turco of House Velca.
Level
05
72 / 72 HP
51 / 51 MP
0p / 0g / 1s / 10c
Race: Kerasoka
Class: Bard
Posts: 56
Joined: November 9th, 2019, 7:57 pm
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Re: Soltaevar Velca - Enduring echoes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

Fall of Bhelest - 21 years old - 34 AoV

“Bhelest has fallen! Nihegora has retreated!” Cries came from around the city. Sol was in the little run-down room he and his mother shared near the docks. His mother was hunkered under their table, wrapped in blankets. He dashed out into the street, hearing, “No! Sol, come back!” behind him.

The lighthouses burned the eye with their supernatural brightness; Ristgir’s light combined with their own amplification made them seem ablaze. Sol shielded his eyes as he moved through the city, looking for those he knew. A sailor who frequented the taverns on his nights lay in the street, blood and gore seeping from what used to be his head. Sol swallowed and moved on. The sounds of battle still rang around the city even as he ran.

He’d nearly circled everywhere he knew, when he heard the cry come out from the lighthouses. “Cecelia!” The inventor’s name was cried, screamed, shouted, chanted. Sol sprinted, afraid of what he might find. The body of the inventor laid on a wooden board saturated with blood, some of it frothy pink; an arrow sticking out of her chest told what had happened. Several men bore the makeshift bier to a dockyard to prevent anything untoward happening before her family could reach the body.

Sol ran home, suddenly overwhelmed by the death and destruction around him. He’d seen enough to last him two lifetimes, now, and there was no reason to loiter in the streets. He crashed into the room, nerves shot, and allowed his mother to hold him like a small child until he finally fell asleep.
Word count: 276
User avatar
Soltaevar Velca
Character
Head of Mistfire Trading Company, Fellsgard, Tviyr; Cat slave; and Turco of House Velca.
Level
05
72 / 72 HP
51 / 51 MP
0p / 0g / 1s / 10c
Race: Kerasoka
Class: Bard
Posts: 56
Joined: November 9th, 2019, 7:57 pm
Has thanked: 2 times
Been thanked: 1 time

Re: Soltaevar Velca - Enduring echoes

Post by Soltaevar Velca »

Mistfire’s expansion into Irtuen Reaches - 30 years old - 7 AoN
Part 1

“Domrhask? Dwarves? Really, do tell me more,” Sol said, signaling the barkeep to pour the sailor another beer. He’d been nursing his ale, listening in the taverns for information that could be useful. Sometimes he would sing still, but for a year or two his voice still cracked until it settled into his now-usual baritone; he’d taken that time away from the stage, even going so far as to dye his dark-red hair black.

“Aye, lad. Burst from those stone-faces the Mad Mage enslaved, full-grown, like.” The sailor took a deep draught of beer. “Taken over the city Domrhask, say they’re gonna restore it.” He belched, his mug thunking onto the bartop. A little beer spilled on his hand and he shook the drops off.

"There's this great ruddy tree what grows through the mountain, right through the stone. They make armor, weapons, even potions out of it." The sailor tipped back his mug. "Those dwarves guard it jealously I tell you! Outsider like you or me, no way we could get so much as a leaf," he said.

“Sounds like a very useful tree,” mused Sol, taking a small sip from his ale. “Do they use the leaves in cooking, do you know?”

“Nah, too dear. Leaves make a pow’rful healing potion though,” the sailor replied, slurping the last of the beer from his mug and smacking it on the bar. The barkeep glared but the sailor chose not to notice. The sailor got to his feet, weaving slightly. “Thanks for the beer, lad.”

“Not at all,” Sol said, with a small smile. He watched the sailor wobble his way to hall that led to the privies before turning to scan the room.

“Useful?” the barkeep asked, drying a mug before collecting the sailor’s empty. She leaned over the bar, her low-cut blouse exposing a generous amount of breasts.

“Marginally,” Sol said, looking away while he sipped his ale. “I appreciate your looking out for sailors and travelers to Domrhask.” He took a quarter silver out of his coin purse and slid it across the bar.

The barkeep left it on the bar. “Maybe I could convince you to offer a different kind of tip?” Sol blushed; even though he’d reached thirty winters, he hadn’t had any kind of dalliance before. The fledgling trading company his mother had started - Mistfire Trading - could use every coin they could get and keep, but information was valuable as well.

“N-no, thank you,” Sol stumbled over his words. He downed the last quarter of his mug of ale and left, the barkeep staring after him. Sol walked down the street with his head down. Conflicted, he turned the situation over in his mind. Should he have accepted the barkeep’s offer, or was he better off keeping his forays for information strictly business?

It was still early enough that Sol could go into another bar and search for more informants. He found another tavern, lively and mostly full, and headed in. The barkeep here knew him from his younger days and gave him a nod as he made his way to the bar. “And what brings you here, Sol Velca?”

“Information. I’m looking for anyone who’s been to Domrhask,” Sol said, looking around. “And good to see you Wilhelm. I see business is good.”

“Oh, aye, but we could use a bard with a good voice, you know,” Wilhelm gave him a wink. Sol smirked as Wilhelm gave him a mug of tea, steeped dark enough to look like ale.

“You’re a good man, Wilhelm. If you can find me some good information, I’ll sing on your stage the next four days.” Sol took a deep drink of tea before extending his hand. The men shook on the deal, and began scanning the room.

“There. The bloke to your right, wearing the knits. Asked for rum. Bet he’s a sailor,” Wilhelm pointed out. Sol sauntered over and intentionally bumped into the man Wilhelm indicated. Jostling him, the man spilled his drink a bit.

“Oh, damn, I’m sorry. Let me buy you a new drink,” Sol said smoothly. The sailor grunted his assent as Sol took a seat next to him. “What brought you here, any rate?”

“End of a tour. Tell you what, I’m never going to that frozen shithole again,” the sailor said, looking over his shoulder as Wilhelm brought a second mug of rum.

“Where’d you go?” Sol asked, trying to look uninterested, like one making polite conversation. He sipped from his own mug, the tea rejuvenating.

“Irtuen Reaches and all those damn frozen isles. Not even sure what the captain was looking for, all that’s up there is those stony bastards and snow.” The man took a deep draught of his rum and shivered as though the memory itself carried a chill.

Sol ran a finger around the edge of his mug idly. He thought about moving on to another person before the man spoke. “Captain...he said something about them dwarves being miners, but I never saw the first bit.” He snorted. “Maybe someone told him ‘misers’ and Captain heard what he wanted to hear.”

Sol’s curiosity was piqued. “Miners? Of what?”

The sailor shook his head. “I dunno. Prob’ly something in those great big mountains of theirs. Salts, maybe? They got plenty of ice for sure.” He slurped from his mug. “Didn’t see much except ice, snow, and freezing seas.” Sol nodded.

“Enjoy your drink friend, and may you thaw quickly,” Sol said as he got up, acting like he was heading to the privies. Wilhelm raised his eyebrows at Sol, who shook his head. Both men began scanning the room.

A man walked in wearing a long coat that had seen a great deal of wear. The sailor Sol had spoken to stood up almost reflexively, and the newcomer nodded to him. “Perhaps that’s his captain,” Sol commented to Wilhelm. “I wonder what he could tell me about Domrhask,” he mused more to himself than the barkeep.

He saw the sailor speak to the man he presumed was a captain; the second man exchanged a word before leaving to come to the bar. “You look like a man of adventure. Any chance you might be able to tell me anything of the Irtuen Reaches?” Sol asked, leaning casually on the bar. “I’ll trade you a drink for any information you have.”

“Aye, I can do that, lad.” The man leaned over the bar. “Whisky for me, then.” Wilhelm poured two fingers of whisky into a glass, and took Sol’s mug to refill with tea. Wilhelm always hid the tea in a liquor bottle so that it looked indistinguishable from alcohol - a trick which had saved Sol a night on the cobblestones more than once. Sol nodded to empty seats at the end of the bar.

“So...what do you know about the Irtuen Reaches? Or Domrhask?” Sol asked, gently swirling the liquid in his mug.

---

“I’ll be on your stage for the next four days, Wilhelm,” Sol said to the barkeep when he’d finished talking to the captain. Wilhelm chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “It’s the sort of opportunity that I simply can’t pass up. I’ll have to head out as soon as it’s warm enough.”

“That good?”

“Better. The dwarves are miners, and in addition to raw and worked metal, they also have other minerals. Salts, a rock that burns like wood, a shiny glass-like substance they call ‘dragon tears’ - there’s so many things there that they may be willing to trade for herbs, spices, and other foodstuffs and goods from Tviyr.” Sol’s eyes gleamed. “If I can talk to the dwarves, and get them to agree to some decent trades, this could put Mistfire on the road to success!”

“I hope it works out for you, and your voice is ready for your performance tomorrow.” Wilhelm gave Sol a sly smile. “After all, I’m sure there’s people who’d come out to hear the “fire-headed mite” all grown up.”

Sol looked apprehensive. “You didn’t -”

“I did.” Wilhelm grinned devilishly. “Someone might have let slip that information to the town criers that came in a little while ago.” Sol groaned and shook his head, but smiled. He’d split the take with Wilhelm, and hopefully the man’s stunt would bring them a better purse.
---
The captain gave Sol a skeptical look. “You want to do what, now?” He raised an eyebrow at the young elf.

“I need to get to Domrhask. I’m willing to work for my passage there,” Sol said, trying to look capable.

“Are ye a sailor, then?” The captain’s face began to draw down into a frown.

“Well, no, but I’m a quick learner and I know a handful of knots already,” Sol replied, hoping to sound persuasive. The captain sighed and Sol felt the opportunity slipping through his fingers.

“Mornin’, Captain,” said a sailor walking toward the gangplank. “Ere now, what’s the Fire-headed mite doin’ by the docks?”

“Hoping to find a way to Domrhask,” Sol replied, with a faint smile. “Unfortunately I haven’t learned how to be a sailor.”

The sailor snorted. “That, ye can learn. Cap’n, this man can sing. Loud, too.” The captain’s face lost its harsh edge slowly. “He been in the taverns, Wilhelm’s place and then a couple others who passed ‘im round like a whiskey jug.” Sol tried not to look as confused as he felt. What did being able to carry a tune have anything to do with sailing?

“We could use a good shantyman aboard,” the captain said, rubbing his chin. “Alright then. I’ll take you to Domrhask. In return, you learn to sail as part of the crew and you sing out shanties. Fair trade?” He held out his hand to Sol.

Sol hesitated for a moment. “Shanties?”

“Work songs,” the sailor spoke up. “Keep a good rhythm, makes the work go faster.” Sol nodded slowly.

“Charley, you teach him as much as you can tonight on watch. You got a name other than ‘fire-headed mite’, then?” the captain turned to Sol.

“Sol Velca. Sol’s fine,” he replied, accepting the hand the captain had held out.

“We leave with the morning tides. If you’ve got your kit, Charley can show you your bunk,” the captain replied. “Watch rotates every four hours. You’re one of the crew now.” Sol nodded and picked up his two bags.

"Thank you, captain," Sol replied.

Charley took one of the bags, which clinked as he lifted it. “By the Light, what d’ye have in here?” He looked at the bag suspiciously.

“Jars of spices and herbs, mostly,” Sol told him. “My mother runs a trading company and she focuses on those. I’m hoping I can find some dwarves up in Domrhask interested in trading what they’ve got for what we have.” He hefted his bag on his shoulder. “Those don’t need to stay with me, but I can’t have them getting rolled all about and broken.”

“Aye,” Charley said, clearly thinking. “Put it in the hold then. Bound to be some straw or somethin’ we can tuck it in.” He led Sol up the gangplank to the weather deck. “Follow me. We’ll take care of this and then we’ll get you to rights.”
Word count: 1948
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