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Author Topic: Michael Dyslin  (Read 1065 times)

Description: Warlord Prince. Tiger Eye to Summer Sky. Played by Mischief.

Online Michael Dyslin

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    • Role

      Master of the Guard

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      Sabbah Court

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      Dena Nehele

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      Mischief

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Michael Dyslin
« on: Jun 01, 18, 09:21:36 AM »
The Basics

Character Name: Michael Rawley Dyslin
Nicknames: Mike if he really, really likes you. Mikey if you want to get punched in the face.
Age and Birth Year:  764, born 570 years before the Purge
Race:  Half Long-lived
Caste:  Warlord Prince
Birth Territory: Hayll
Home Territory: Dene Nehele

Birthright Jewel: Uncut Tiger Eye
Offering Jewel:  Cut Summer Sky

Role: Trade Master
Faction: Concord Interterritorial

Appearance

Play By: Tom Pricone
Distinguishing Features: Michael is a man who walked away from the Purge looking older than he did going into it. Rich brown-black hair is mostly a premature gray though he’s only in his mid seven-hundreds. He has a ready smile that has left laugh lines etched in his features. His ribs bear a tattoo: three names written in the elegant script of the Old Tongue - his wife above, his son below, and between them is his daughter’s, right next to his heart.


Personality



Personality: ‘Velvet over steel’ is a phrase that had been used many times over the centuries to describe the Warlord Prince Michael Dyslin. The words are apt. Michael is a hard man, prone to occasional fits of temper - but he knows the difference between hardness and a lack of compassion. He has shaped his life over the years to give that famous temper safe outlets. Nothing, ever stops him from accomplishing his goals, but he refuses to sacrifice his principles along the way.

Michael works hard to focus the drive and violence of his Caste into better use than being subsumed by his rage. He transmutes it into focus and into purpose - into a sheer force of will with which he sees his chosen tasks through. These days that takes the form of managing his small branch of Concord Interterritorial, arranging purchases, scheduling shipments, and arranging storage for those cargoes that had to wait until a better time to bring a better dollar. Michael is not a betting man, but playing the Auctions was not much different, and he got his thrills as much from saving a buck and making a deal as he did from his workout and training regimen and the occasional bar brawl.

He is genial, though, and has a soft spot a mile wide for children and the helpless - by circumstance at least. The helpless by choice get nothing from him but disdain and a wide berth lest his temper causes him to do something he might regret. Michael has an easy smile and a wry and somewhat low sense of humor. A good dick joke never fails to raise a chuckle from him, and schadenfreude is always good for a solid laugh.

When it comes time to focus, though, he is steady and unyielding. In business, he is ruthless, pressing every advantage and giving nothing that is not absolutely necessary - though he is never unfair in his dealings, either.

Every now and again, the memories of his past find a way to circle around and haunt him. Then and only then is the Prince's rare turn of melancholy evinced, and as his Caste leads him to transmute regret into anger, anyone who doesn't want to fall on the worse side of a blistering lecture or furious silence would be better to avoid him.

When the rage takes him that way, he only knows two ways out of it in lieu of a Queen’s touch. One is to give in. These are the days he finds himself a good fight and goes round for round with whoever will humor him. The other is simply to give. This is when he forces the rage away so as not to scare the children, rolls his shirt sleeves up, and gets to work on the streets: Building shelters, financing new schools, furiously cooking a soup-kitchen worth of food and seeing it served. These things each brought him a tiny measure of the peace that had been his for fifteen sweet years, and together, they took the edge off.


Likes:
  • Children - having children, his precious twins, with his beloved wife changed Michael forever. An only child himself,  raised as the very unwanted black sheep of his family, in his children he saw a chance to provide the love he’d never received, and he was determined to provide the best in life. His beautiful children were only fifteen when they were taken from him in the Purge, and in the aftermath, he saw too many children who had lost their parents as he had lost his children. Part of what held his cracked and fragile chalice whole and in this world instead of letting him slip off into the Twisted Kingdom was the choice he made in the aftermath. Children were the future of the Blood and he is going to see to it that any who crossed his path had somewhere safe to go, something warm to eat, and before he was done, somewhere to live where they would be loved and cared for. Even to this day, tucked away in a small town in the Short-lived Dena Nehele, Michael remains a patron of orphanages and schools - and the occasional street urchin who crosses his path finds themselves given into caring custody, or their parents given what they need to provide a better life. He cannot make a difference everywhere, but his own little slice of the world is and always will be as much a haven for the young against the cruelties of life as he can make it.

  • Learning - Michael was a consummate warrior and he believed the mind was as much a weapon as any other facet. His devotion to bettering himself drove him to seek out new knowledge whenever possible. Every few years he sought out a new tutor in some knowledge, lore, science or art. The discipline of educating himself brought him a kind of balance, and when he was alone with his books, it was easy to lose track of the edge of pain that always rode along the fringes of his consciousness. Besides that, he was good at scholastic pursuits. There was little that he found beyond him if he applied himself, and that was reward enough, most days.

  • A Good Ol’ Fashioned Fisticuffs - The deadly instinct of a Warlord Prince was never far from the surface, and Michael was no exception to this. His jewels, while not terribly light, were not particularly dark, either - which he counted as a blessing in some regards here. He found it easier to control the violence if he had regular outlets for it. He liked a good fight, it got his blood flowing and if he pushed himself as far as he could without letting go of his vice-like grip on his temperament, he found that it eased back on the throttle of violent emotion for days afterward. He left his Jewels out of it, and he never let it go too far, but there were a couple bars he wasn’t particularly welcome in anymore, even after he paid damages. Fortunately, there were always more bars, and always someone who needed the kind of lesson that could only be taught with fists and a few bruises.

    Dislikes:
  • Child Abuse - The other side of the coin to his protective instinct regarding the children who crossed his path was the single-minded, crackling cold fury that rose within Michael at the first sign of a child being harmed without need. He had set more than one parent or guardian straight in his time on proper ways to interact with the only innocents the Blood had, and on the very rare occasion that he had to repeat the lesson, there was never a chance to need a third. Prince Dyslin is not a man with no blood on his hands and he would add to those stains gladly if it meant stepping in between a child and harm at the hands of those who were charged with their care.

  • Wilful Ignorance - There is a difference between not knowing about something that should be important to one and refusing to learn once one is aware of what knowledge they lack. Michael is not a man to look down on the uneducated, but when someone has a chance to learn, to better themselves, to gain the tools they need to better understand a situation or something in their purview, and does not take it, it sets his teeth on edge. When someone goes out of their way to ‘not know’ a truth that is in plain sight before them, it gets them a very short trip to his shitlist. The patience of a Warlord Prince is not an inexhaustible thing, and willful ignorance was the quickest way to bring that patience to an abrupt and sometimes painful end.

  • The Indifference of Good Men - All that is needed for Evil to flourish is for Good Men to do nothing. This sentiment resounded with Prince Dyslin as one of life’s Great Truths. Michael abhorred slavery. The very concept set his teeth on edge. It was not the only Great Wrong in the world, but it was one of them that he was frequently faced with in his dealings with Hayll. He made what small cautious inroads he could, but was often stymied by his greatest enemy - Indifference. Men and women he would otherwise respect turned a blind eye to the growing slave trade in Dena Nehele. Rilandra Vlas’s acceptance of it was why he refused to have the slightest bit to do with the Queen and her Court.

    Fears:
  • Falling in Love - Michael had truly and unabashedly been in love with his wife, Maricia. They had been peas in a pod, even having similar backgrounds and had been a true case of love a first sight. Michael passed his first Rut in her bed, and with the exception of those Ruts he has undergone since her passing, has never bedded another woman. Michael loved truly and deeply when he allowed himself to. Very certain that he would not survive the loss of another love, Michael keeps even those women of his association at arms’ length. But, the Warlord Prince knows he is young yet and fears the day when Mother Night tempts him into love again.

  • Not Making a Difference - Maybe it is left over from his own harsh childhood. Maybe it is just an intrinsic part of him. Either way, Michael dreads that he is not enough, could not do enough to counter the darkness in the world. Prince Dyslin is his own harshest critic and his own most driven taskmaster. He has his work with the children. He has his slow and steady rebellion against the institution of slavery - his never-ending stream of carefully chosen men and women who he bought and freed. But he has to take care not to make enemies by doing so, and that of necessity limits his ability to do as much as he would like. There are few nights when his last thought as he falls asleep is not But, was it enough? He had been helpless to stop the corruption spreading through the Blood before Witch’s Purge. He now only prays to the Darkness that when Mother Night tallied his works at the end of his days, he would have made a difference. Maybe there didn’t have to be another Witch.

  • Losing His Personal Agency - Michael’s work with buying and freeing Hayllian slaves, hearing and recording the story of each who was willing to share their tale, made him very aware of just how easily he could lose the freedom which was so precious to him. He had not been given much in the way of choice as he grew up. Being a ‘filthy half-blood’ in Hayall made him not just different, but lesser. That was not so far a step from many of the stories he wrote down in his little leather journals. He wanted, needed his choices to remain his. Even the difficult ones, the ones he didn’t want to make. Sometimes, when the nights are hot and his bedsheets tangle around him, his dreams take an unpleasant turn, and when he wakes up, he spends several minutes imagining that the collar he felt around his neck is just the echo of a dream.

    Craft Strengths:
  • Princely Efficiency - Learned from his grandfather, who felt that even a mongrel needed the skill to earn his way by, Michael excels at this particular bit of PrinceCraft, for all that he is a Warlord Prince himself. While he was still no match for an efficiency-focused Prince at the top of their game, he could hold his among most Princes and used his skills to make sure his office branch of Concord Interterritorial flowed without the slightest hitch.

  • Hunter's Mark - Perfected for use on his daughter and first Bonded Queen, Tabitha, Michael’s Marks resist every attempt to be erased or masked, even by the darker jewels. It still must be renewed every few weeks or it fades as any other Hunter’s Mark would, but while it lasted, it was a beacon to him, like a lighthouse in even the stormiest of seas.

    Craft Weaknesses:
  • Vanishing and Conjuring - For reasons he has never known nor been able to determine, Prince Dyslin lacks any real depth to his psychic cabinet. He can vanish a few things into it, all small. A couple of knives, a few days’ packed rations, a blanket and a healing brew for emergencies. Anything else he vanishes goes away, certainly, but it isn’t coming back, and he can’t vanish anything large at all. Similarly, with the exception of his two knives which he has trained with for more five centuries, it takes him between several seconds and a minute to call something in from his magical stow-away.

  • Sight Shielding - Mike would be the first to tell you with a laugh that his Sight Shields are just as good as anyone else’s - as long as he is standing still, that is. Moving renders him into a rippling blur - better than nothing, but unless one was at a fair distance and not looking too hard, it is fairly obvious that SOMEONE is moving across one’s line of sight.


    Life Story

    Family:
    Mother: Aribella Dyslin. Tiger Eye to Summer Sky. Witch. Deceased.
    Father: Orric Rawley Tiger Eye to Summer Sky. Prince. Deceased.
    Wife: Maricia Dyslin. Rose to Summer Sky. Healer. Deceased.
    Daughter: Tabitha Dyslin. Purple Dusk Birthright. Queen. Deceased.
    Son: Willem Dyslin. Rose Birthright. Warlord. Deceased.
    "Nephew": Gabriel Silvarin Green to Gray. Warlord Prince.


    History: Michael Dyslin was born the first and only child of Aribella Alexis Dyslin. Michael was the "unfortunate" by-product of Aribella's rebellious phase when she was only a little over a hundred years old. Aribella Dyslin was a country girl, from a village in Ulma on the border of Dena Nehele. Feeling stifled by her family and their rules and insistence on "proper living", Aribella acted out in one of the most unacceptable ways she could think of. She took a man from just over the border, the Short-Lived Orric Rawley, as her lover. Her tryst with him lasted almost six years - until the unlikely conjunction of bad timing and occasional forgetfulness regarding contraceptive brews on each of their parts resulted in Aribella's pregnancy. Despite her mother's urging, she refused to just use some craft while she was pregnant and 'accidentally' lose her child. And when he was born, the boy's lighter skin meant that he would never blend in even a little.


    To hide the shame of her actions, her family moved to the far side of Hayll, settling in Cirta. They gave out the story that one of her lovers (who she, of COURSE, would deny paternity to if he dared to even show up, and had told him never to come around) had been himself only three-quarters long-lived and had not admitted to this flaw before she had taken him to her bed. The boy, the family told people was a throwback. It didn't make Michael's existence any better, but it kept the shame just to him and his no-name father and painted his mother as the victim of a vile deception rather than the rebellious tart she had been acting.


    One could imagine that this arrangement did not leave him a happy childhood, and one would be right to do so. His family excluded him from every public facet of their interactions and he spent much of his earlier life as a shut-in - the family's shame properly hidden behind closed doors.


    The Warlord Prince did not appreciate this exclusion. His temper was sharp and burning, and he lashed out with words and occasional blows at the world around him. His mother despaired of what to do with him until her father took him to apprentice on the family's horse farm. The man instilled a discipline in Michael that he would never fully shake. His methods were questionable, and the boy went to bed hungry or with bruises many nights, but he DID learn to control himself, to behave in a civilized manner, and to use his anger for something besides hitting things.


    He learned to achieve a zen, even achieving flow from time to time as he organized files, crafted contracts, arranged schedules for his grandfather's workforce and learned the abilities of each man he was working with so as to best use each person's skill. Efficiency became both his meditation and his escape, a way to let go of everything except the here and now, the numbers and words in front of his face. Michael was good at what he did, and when his grandfather passed, he'd earned his place in the company that fell to him. He was not the public face of the company, and with his complexion would never be - but he wouldn't have had it any other way. If he'd been what people thought of when they thought of his company, their prejudices would have come between him and their money, and that would hardly be efficient profit generation at all.


    He was thirty-five when his grandfather retired, a disease of the mind making him infirm before his time His mother stepped up as the public face of their company, and he took over the reigns of the office entirely. That was when he met Maricia.


    Maricia was the Healer who he hired who specialized in animal husbandry. They needed a vet, and she was a damn good one. She was also a half-breed. They bonded over that fact at first sight, and their hearts followed in the moments after. Maricia changed everything for Michael. Some of the protective ice that had built up between him and the world cracked and melted in her arms.


    The two of them became engaged five years later, and their lives were quiet and happy enough. The pair were contented with their animals and their work, and Michael spent a decade secretly building a home for her on lands his mother had gifted him as a begrudging engagement present. She did not approve, but she could not deny that it neatly solved the problem of marrying off a mix-breed son.   


    When he eventually revealed the stone house he had built and Crafted for them, Maricia demanded that they be wed on the spot. He talked enough sense into her that she agreed to wait a week so that the marriage could be readied for and performed properly. It was at the time leading up to their union that his mother told him the name of the man who was his father.  He was not surprised, he had always suspected, and rather than being angry about it, he simply kissed his mother's cheek dutifully and thanked her, before returning to his marriage preparations.
    ----------------------


    Michael lived a quiet enough life with Maricia. He was a not an overly violent man, for a Warlord Prince, but having a woman to love and cherish and above all, protect drove those passions only ever higher as time went on. He would brook no disrespect to her, and in their few centuries together he had several altercations with fools who thought he could be discounted as the defender of her honor because of his own heritage. He came off worse in more than one of those fights but even then, 'you should see the other guy' was not an inadequate summary of how the matter had gone.

    Michael was with Maricia when news that Eyriens had invaded Hayll reached them. Maricia made him promise then and there that he would not go marching off to war and make a widow of her. His joke that it should be fine if he went and came back healthy then did not go over well. Truth be told, Michael knew from his studies that war was a messy business, and the sort of thing that he wanted nothing to do with. Countries didn't win wars, they waged them and their people endurred them. But there were no winners. Several of his distant cousins were part of the initiative led by the Black Widows and the Warlord Princes of their country. Any reservations Michael had had about staying behind evaporated when the reports came back from the warfront. It wasn't any part of an {{honorable}} man's war to kill women and children.  When the retaliation came five years later, Michael took Maricia deep into the woods to a place he had yet again prepared in secret and a head of time. The weathered the worst of the reprisals there, and returned after a few years to rebuild their business.


    Michael was in his mid-five-hundreds when Maricia changed his life a second time. The world, even in his short life, had twisted and become a darker place. But into this, a bastion of light was born. She gave him twins. Tabitha and Willem. The boy was a warlord, and fiercely protective of his sister, but Tabitha... She was a Queen. And not just any Queen, but the one who Michael was born to serve. She was just nine days old when her Caste manifested, and Michael came home to her Psychic scent in the air. He literally tripped up the step from the porch to the front door, and just sat where he sprawled as his wife stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Mine." He'd said with the stupidest smile on his face. He held out his hands; demandingly but with gentlest of voice he commanded, "Give. Give me my daughter."


    He hardly put her down for two weeks, and then only after Maricia convinced him that it was bad for her to be carried about all hours of the day and night. Then he'd been aghast, that he might have possibly done something to harm the Queen who he was supposed to guard against all harm, forever, with every breath and heartbeat. Maricia had had to console him by giving Tabitha back to him, just to prove that he hadn't somehow broken the baby. He was insufferable for months.


    Tabitha growing up around horses nearly killed Michael a dozen times over from heart attack. She learned to ride before she could safely walk. She could outrun her father on a good horse by the time she was six. By the time she had her birthright, he couldn't even ground her and be sure she'd stay grounded without him being there the whole time. Not that she was in trouble often - not with him. Her father lived for her and was wrapped around her little finger.


    When Tabitha was thirteen a boy broke her heart for the first time. Michael broke his arm. And slept on the couch for four months after Maricia healed the poor boy and explained to her husband every way in which his response was unacceptable and how Michael could not do that  again. Michael disagreed. It took him more than a season to realize that Maricia was really serious about this. This did not stop him from secretly teaching Willem (who was as Bonded to his sister as Michael was) a few dozen ways to hurt someone without maiming them. You know. Just in case.


    When Tabitha was fifteen, Michael's life changed forever again. That... That was the year of the Purge. He had grown ill after chasing down a lost foal all night in the rain. He was unconscious when the Storm that nearly ended the Blood passed. Even in his insensate state, Michael was aware of his daughters last breath and her single, agonized scream which still haunts his nightmares. When the WitchStorm passed, only Michael still, slow and feverish, drew breath. His daughter was gone entirely, not even a whisper in the Darkness. His wife and son were dead.
    ----------------------


    Michael had scant memories of the next couple of decades. What he does remember was pain and darkness and the stench of alcohol. The occasional glimpse of bloodstained hands. The occasional look of fear in someone's eyes.


    He walked the edge of the Twisted Kingdom, chalice trembling, for long years. What brought him out, he could never fully say. What he does know is that when he woke up, slumped in an alley, he was facing two children fighting over a bit of rotten bread. This... that.... something was wrong... his sluggish mind tried to figure out what was wrong, and it took him long enough that it shamed him to admit to realize that the problem was with what he was seeing. Children. Fighting. For food. Spoiled food. This... He could do something about this. Something good. Right now he needed to know that he could still do something good.


    He concentrated. Yes. It took a long time, longer than even usual, but he called in the rations he kept in his psychic cabinet. "Hey there," Michael said, pitching his voice to be gentle. It was hoarse with disuse, and took him two more attempts to be heard over the the squabbling pair. "Hey - You don't have to fight." He sent out his senses and nodded as he caught their Castes. "Attend me, Prince." He called on the most basic of Protocol that even street children would recognize. "And you too, Lady Healer." The two turned amber eyes on them, dirty golden skin showing scrapes as the two stopped. The Prince ended up with the bread in his hands, which he quickly put both of behind his back. "Come here. Do not make me chase you," he said, dropping visible Summer Sky shields on either side of the alley. At least they couldn't get far. "Prince, is that any way to treat a Lady, let alone a healer?" The boy opened his mouth, but a raised eyebrow made him shut it again. "And you, Lady, either you are trouncing around without an escort, or you're fighting with yours. Which is it?" He waited expectantly, and with his answers in hand, he lifted his rations. "Are you hungry? Come, then, and eat. While you do, you may tell me about why you're at each other's throats. Who is supposed to be feeding you?"
    ----------------------


    Thus began Michael's new quest in life. Those two children and a few dozen others in the city he washed up in, he found homes for. Then, he set his mind to work. What could he DO? Wandering a market it occurred to him. Trade. It was needed everywhere. So, he set to learning. He apprenticed himself to a Hayllian trade master whose company only barely survived the Purge. He needed the help and couldn't afford to turn his nose up at a half-breed who was willing to work twice the hours for half the compensation of anyone else. So, Michael learned the business. He lived in a single room that he rented from the man who employed him, and every penny that didn't go to his survival went to the city's orphanage. He continued this way for another twenty years or so, but it was too hard. His wife had looked more like the Hayllian half of her heritage than he did, and so did their daughter. So many of the young women that he helped reminded him too much of her. He couldn't stay any longer.


    It was about then that he took up the study of genealogy. He would hate to leave behind his beautiful homeland... but he had another land that he had right to claim as his home. Orric Rawley must have had a family. It was possible that some descendant of his had survived the purge. Perhaps he was not quite alone in the world, after all.


    He emigrated to Dena Nehele and spent the next fifty years moving around from province to province trying to track down his father's family line. Everywhere he went, he set himself up with a job working for some trading company or another, and for them, he worked hard. He revamped several companies from the ground up to make them more profitable, and whenever he got his kickbacks, they always went to the same things: orphanages, education grants, impoverished families, and the search for anyone left in his father's line.
    ----------------------


    As such things often went, it was only when he had finally given up that he hit pay dirt.


    He was working out of his office, living in Caecian District at the time. He had found a job, a good one, working for Concord Interterritorial. The company had made a damn good name for itself, and he had sought out their branch in the area to offer his services to. It had only taken him seven years to rise to the top of the small office, working as its trading master. They had offered to promote him further, to a branch closer to the border, but he'd found a comfortable place to live and further promotion would have taken him away from his other projects. He.... distinctly did not like that idea, not at the moment, so he politely declined, and let them know he was happy where he was. There were so many children on the streets he still needed to help. He wasn't walking away for at least another couple of years.

    So, he was hard at work when the name of a coach driver that they had contracted for some work crossed his desk. The last name was not a common one. And it meant something to him. Silvarin. His father had a cousin of that name. He did some looking into Gabriel's background and nearly fainted when he saw the boy's father's name: Samvil. It HAD to be the same man.


    He set out that afternoon, sending a messenger to ask Gabriel to meet him for dinner on a day of his choice regarding a somewhat important but not time-sensitive matter.


    It's only been a few years, not even ten yet since Gabriel came into Michael's life, but he, and his son, are the man's only family, and though he doesn't let anyone close to his heart, they've managed to grow closer than others. He stayed in Caecian longer than he usually stayed in one place, because it gave him an excuse to work with Gabriel as often as the man was there. It was silly and sentimental, and he knew it, but it gave him an odd bit of peace in his aching spirit to have the man and his son near.




    Show Us What You've Got

    Character in Play: It was hot out. That was what Michael remembered most vividly about the minutes before he met Gabriel. He’d invited the man to dinner, and Gabriel Silvarin accepted, setting the time for three the next afternoon. Michael had written back, suggesting an outdoor café he was fond of. Now, he was regretting that choice. Sighing, he gave in and shaped a bit of Craft to create a bubble of cool air around himself and a second one around the table. He’d ordered ice water while he waited and had a second glass waiting for Gabriel as well. Michael was on his third refill when he sensed the approach of a Dark Jeweled Warlord Prince. On guard, Michael stood cautiously to greet the fellow, a firm handshake offered though he couldn’t help looking Gabriel up and down slowly. “You’re a hard man to find, Prince Silvarin. I’ve been looking for you for a hundred and fifty years, give or take. My name is Michael Dyslin. Well met.” He watched the other man closely for his reactions.

    Gabriel wore a smile, but under it, there was an edge of tension, one not unsurprising for a Warlord Prince walking into a situation he was not entirely prepared for. He took his hand and shook it, then joined Michael at the table. “You can call me Gabe, most people do and I don’t care much for formalities.” He said, reaching forward to pour himself a glass from the pitcher and taking a long drink. “I take it this isn’t about business with Concord, because I don’t think they were around a hundred and fifty years ago? What then? Did my son break something of yours?” He said it as if that was something he had to ask frequently: the resigned air of a man raising a teenage Warlord Prince.

    “Gabe it is, then. You can call me Michael. Your son?” Somehow Michael had missed that Gabriel had sired a child. He tried to cover the surprise in his expression by taking a sip of water. “No. This is actually about your father. Or, rather--” He set his glass down and folded his hands. “Look. I’m terrible at this. Let me try that again. I did come across you because of your work for Concord, but the reason I want to talk with you is because - If your father was indeed one Samvil Silvarin, then you and I are related.” The man’s voice was neutral, but this close it was hard to mistake the pain and hope warring in his eyes. “My father’s name was Orric Rawley. He was a cousin to the Silvarin family.”

    Gabriel looked suspicious for a moment as he spoke, but then his eyes slowly got wider and wider. “You’re a relative? Of my father?” He leaned forward, studying Michael with the intensity of a predator for a long moment before sitting back with a surprised, “Huh. I didn’t even think to look for family after they returned to the Darkness. They never spoke of anyone else.”

    Gabe found his gaze returned in equal measure before Michael replied. “I am. I’d be something of an Uncle of sorts, if family titles were in use.” Michael felt something in his heart tense. He was about to put it all out there. The most vulnerable he’d allowed himself to be in two hundred years or near enough. And it was to this stranger who could use that as a weapon if he chose. Michael sincerely hoped he did not choose. “I lost everyone in the Purge. My family. My Queen. My entire life and nearly my sanity.  As far as I can tell, you and I, and your son are the only survivors of any part of my family line. If you are willing to let me, I would like to know you. Perhaps your son as well, once you’ve judged me no threat.” The Warlord Prince held his breath as he waited for Gabe’s response.

    Gabe hesitated for a long time and then leaned forward, his Gray sliding out from under his shirt to glitter in the sun. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? I’m not interested in games, Prince. I don’t like them and I don’t like people trying to tug on my heartstrings or interfere with my family. Why should I trust your intentions?” And then, after a moment and a breath, he added. “I’m sorry about your Queen. I’ve… misplaced mine.”

    Michael kept his wince internal, and he managed, barely, not to growl at the accusation inherent in the questions. They were, in fairness, reasonable ones, and Michael had even expected them. The man took a deep breath. Then another. “I am sorry about your Queen as well… though if you decide not to flay me before we’re done here, I would be interested to hear about how a Queen is... misplaced.” There was a growl that accompanied those words, though it was very clear it was not aimed at Gabe. Michael had a sinking feeling the slave trade would be involved in any answer the other man might give, and that turned his stomach and sunk a knife into it at the same time. A Queen should never…. Could never… Oh yes, the growl was there alright. It took another deep steadying breath before Michael could continue. “As to my intentions and my honesty, boy, I’m not a fool.” He reached into a leather courier bag and lifted out a file, which he passed across the table. “That right there is every bit of paperwork and documentation I’ve found on my family in the last hundred and fifty years. The relevant bits are in the envelope at the front of the folder.” His hand clenched a bit more tightly than necessary on the handle of the pitcher as he poured himself another glass of water. He continued, voice oddly intense. “Beyond that, though, I am prepared to set aside my barriers and let you look for yourself. A man who dislikes games and the people who play them is a man I can respect, Prince. I didn’t come here to play any, Gabe, and I am willing to do what it takes to prove it.”

    Gabriel didn’t speak, he just took it all in. Eventually, he reached for the folder, pulling it towards him and studying the papers slowly as if the sun wasn’t cooking them both. Then again, considering he wore a Jewel dark enough to wipe out a Territory, he was probably perfectly cool. At last, he looked up and nodded. “I don’t need to look inside your head, and, honestly, don’t want to. That never ends well for me with someone who survived the Purge. Tends to make me a bit… jumpy.”

    He closed the folder. “As to how I misplaced a Queen… well, let's just say that my Lady, whoever and wherever she may or may not be, is as elusive as she is prone to danger. If I ever actually find her, I’m sure it’ll be one hell of a story.”

    “I’m perfectly happy to avoid ‘jumpy’ if you are, Prince.” Michael chuckled darkly. “Mother Night save us, lest Queens and their need to dive headlong into danger at the oddest moments drive us quite mad.”  Spoken like someone who knew the feeling well. “So, are you willing to tell me about yourself?”

    As Gabe began to answer, Michael, finally feeling a touch of peace he hadn’t known in so long he had forgotten what it felt like, sat back with a smile to listen.



    Player Name: Mischief








Online Michael Dyslin

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #1 on: Jun 01, 18, 09:27:16 AM »
General Random for Jewels, pretty please?








Offline phinneas

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #2 on: Jun 01, 18, 09:29:20 AM »
Per Discord confirmation:

Weighed by Mother Night...

You've risen from the Darkness twice blessed with an uncut Tiger Eye Birthright Jewel, and were gifted with a cut Summer Sky Jewel at your Offering.

&

Congratulations!
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Online Michael Dyslin

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #3 on: Jun 01, 18, 09:31:23 AM »
Thank you muchly!








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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #4 on: Jun 01, 18, 10:46:56 AM »
Could I also have five family rolls please and very much thank you?


Offline phinneas

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #5 on: Jun 01, 18, 11:18:00 AM »
1. Purple Dusk - Sapphire
2. Rose - Purple Dusk
3. Tiger Eye - Summer Sky
4. Rose - Summer Sky
5. Tiger Eye - Summer Sky
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Offline Rated Em

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #6 on: Jun 04, 18, 04:51:46 PM »
*thumbs up references to concord interterritorial (cid, rabin, and co ~) and michael working for them*




Offline DragonGirl

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #7 on: Jun 04, 18, 08:21:38 PM »
approved for Gabe bits and eventual Elenor connections.
Home is behind, the world ahead, And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night, Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead, We'll wander back to home and bed.







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Offline Mischief

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #8 on: Jun 04, 18, 08:38:02 PM »
Ready for Review, please!


Offline phinneas

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #9 on: Jun 05, 18, 07:50:36 AM »
Added to the queue.
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Offline Haloriel

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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #10 on: Jun 06, 18, 04:09:22 PM »

This application has been reviewed!

Check your private messages for feedback. When you have made the requested changes please reply to this post and let us know you are ready for the next round!

"The difference between true nobility and false is this. One is gold put to the use of paving stones. The other is tin polished to ape a service of silver. Both are cruel."
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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #11 on: Jun 06, 18, 11:14:20 PM »
Alrighty. I think I am ready for take two, pretty please and thank-you.


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Re: Michael Dyslin
« Reply #12 on: Jun 06, 18, 11:42:31 PM »
"The difference between true nobility and false is this. One is gold put to the use of paving stones. The other is tin polished to ape a service of silver. Both are cruel."
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