collapse

* Welcome!

CLICK HERE if you're interested in joining, or if you'd just like a little more info about Blood Rites.

News
« Winter Icon Contest
« Update to Caste Additions
« Nov otM Voting
« Dec otM Noms
« Dec Snowfall Challenge
« Nov Snowfall Results
« Nharkava Petition Vote
« Secret Santa Signups
« Oct otM Winners!
« Nharkava: Intent to Inherit
« Nov otM Noms
« 2018 Winter of Writers
« Sep otM Winners
« Oct Nominations
« Fall Cleaning Event
« Aug otM Winners
« Sep otM Noms
« Dhemlan T Petition Vote
« Glacia Petition Vote
« Fall Icon Winner
« July otM Winners
« July otM Voting
« August otM Noms
« DT is under Petition
« Revamp of Succession Article
« New Production Member
« Hayll is open for Petition
« Removal of Co-Plot Leads
« NEW Awards Board
« Chaillot is open for Petition
« Shalador is Open for Petition
« June otM Winners
« Glacia is under petition!
« May otM Winners!
« June otM Nominations
« May otM Voting
« Superlative Category Poll
« Seasonal Icon Contest
« April otM Winners!
« March otM Winners
« Current Petitions Snapshot
« Tacea Petition Vote
« DaM Petition Vote
« Glacia is open for Petition
« DaM is open for Petition
« March otM Noms
« Spring Icon Winner
« Territory Changes & Updates
« Feb otM Winners
« Tacea is Under Petition
« Tacea Open For Petition
« Nharkava Open For Petition
« Spring Icon Contest
« Happy 8th Anniversary
« Advancing Character Ages
« Dhemlan Terrielle is Open for Petition!
« Change to Territory Petition Requirements
« Jan otM Winners!
« 2017 Snowfall Results
« February otM Noms
« 2017 Superlative Winners
« 2017 Superlative Love Letters
« Winter Icon Winner
« Tacea is Soft Closed
« Disallowing "Underage" Characters
« Revamp of Craft Article
« New NPC Registration Process
« The Value of Jewels

Fall, 193 Years after the Purge

* Important Links

* Chat Box

Guest Friendly. No advertising please.

* BR Councils

* COTM and TOTM

* COTY and TOTY

Character of the Year


Thread of the Year

* Affliates

Affiliate with Us

Blood Rites RPG

Listed At

RPG-D Nerd Listings

Our Affiliates

   

* Credits

RSS Feed  Facebook  Tumblr    E-Mail

Canon: © Anne Bishop
Board's Plot: Blood Rites
Points Scheme: Mother Night
Ratio System: Blood Rites

Blood Rites best viewed in Firefox.
Established February 2010
by Jamie, Gina & Bowie.


* Plot Information for Shalador

The capital has been destroyed, replaced with the spewing ash and liquid lava of Shalador’s Eldest Sister. The surviving factions and Clans scramble for a new leader and a way to save the jungle Territory from the remaining volcanoes. The Black Widows, long held at arm’s length, have stepped up to guide, by force or willingly, the Territory towards salvation.
Culture of Shalador
Shalador's Unification
Tribes of Shalador
Tribal Heirarchy
Tribeless

* Welcome Guests

You are currently viewing our forum as a Guest. While you can see all we do, you can't participate. Please think about joining, we love new players. Click Here for more information.


Author Topic: riders of the storm  (Read 640 times)

Description: tag: Aikanos, Cassiel, Camaxtli, Itzelian, Cassiel, Juliet, Xelara, Xipila, and others (in no particular order).

Offline Erisian Maboya

  • Character Account
    • red2black
    • pq
    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

    • Posts

      84

    • goddesses don't speak in whispers they scream

    • View Profile
riders of the storm
« on: Mar 26, 18, 09:04:48 PM »
Ruins of Aztlan, Elaho Province, Shalador.
One Year and One Day After Eldest Sister's Eruption
Spring, 193 AP.

Thread takes place at the same time as flesh, bones, skin, and soul.


One Year after Eldest Sister’s awakening came at Spring’s dawn. A festival for those claimed by fire was held. Fall was the season of the harvest, the season of the dead but the tragedies victims and heroes deserved their own day, their own celebration made in equal parts of mourning and grief. It would go on for three days and began at sunrise of the first.

Remembrance for the dead. Mourning for those that lived. Pride in the stories of those that had shone in ways worthy of holding space in history. From Aztlan’s ruins, and through cities, and villages across Shalador tales were sung through tears, smiles and sobs. Leaves of spellscribed paper were tied to branches ascending through the canopy, scribed with prayers and offerings for the departed they still held dear.

Hope, fragile and fraught with worry, laced worryingly hot air. Psychic scents echoing the nation’s shared trauma weighted the very atmosphere. Tensions between members of Shalador’s numbered Tribes and organizations were plentiful but there were no serious fights. Anger was but a side effect of so much grief, inevitable though quick to wane in light of the common anguish of those assembled, respect for the lost was more important than any divergence in family, Tribe or faith.

The next morning was oddly cool and many in the burned city woke complaining of strange dreams, and visions of loved ones long gone. Sisters of the Hourglass and Brothers of the Vigil passed warnings to those they served and prepared for coming change hinted at to several but made completely clear to none.

A light snowfall touched Nayarit. Warming spells not often used were needed by those who woke for the second day’s service. By noon it had warmed, but far less that it should’ve.
Come sundown a deeper chill claimed the land. Some of those gripped in suspicion and respect for Eldest Sister and her capacity for ruin chose to leave Aztlan before the three days of ritualized reminisence ended.

Most, unafraid of the dead who had every reason to grieve their own fates cut short, continued participating in the ceremonies set forth and in whispered soothing words into whipping winds.  All save the lips of the Priestesses, Black Widows, and Queens who all lead different sorts of services were still.

That second night was to be devoted to service, prayer, and communion meant to soothe spirits unable to find rest. Not all the Territory’s satellite services went on past the first day.

Aztlan, the disaster’s epicentre, knew no displaced citizen not permanently scarred by loss and so her services were extended as were Tikal's. Even those who did not travel to the ruins were able, at smaller temples set further away from the ruined site, to try and find a measure of peace and purpose on eve following their grim anniversary. They did not mind the rain that began falling when evening took hold.

Two hours past sunset a storm that would fuel the first of the season’s floods was raging and  seemed to be reaching its peak. Priestesses made clear those who needed shelter and rest from the elements exorcising their bereavement were no less than those whose souls needed communion more than cover from a tempestuous sky.

From those that stayed to pray they gathered from spiritual reservoirs of the assembled through the dangerous downpour. Most Black Widows ended their work, turning to make sense of what warning shook their webs and weave wards about that theirs to preserve. Queens? They prepared, commanded, and readied for flood, fire, or worse.

Three hours past night’s fall? Tempest winds raced, howling as they cut through the wood. Power charged the air and served as proof their weather came from beyond. This was a feeling those who survived the purge or knew well enough its tales recognized well.

Clouds swirled thick around the mountain waking from its year of tumultuous slumber.

Unearthly violet lightning arced in wide circles about the volcano that destroyed the nation’s holiest temple and city and it didn’t stop. Forking bolts of light served as a beacon and a bullseye marking the trouble’s origins.

Unlike before, the people near the charred remains of the Territory’s holiest city turned into its largest burial ground were given time to ready their Craft for fight or to preserve the flight of those not fit to stand their ground against furious rivers of flame. The Winds the Blood could ride wavered, unstable as the air they breathed. The skilled risked it, more chose still obstructed roads and used their magic to advance towards safer grounds.

The rest of Shalador knew rain, knew storm, knew fear. Her Queens felt the very earth trembling out the rhythm of forgotten yet familiar songs. Out of the Abyss, racing for home, rode a Mad Court on a wave of providence and promise. 

From Eldest Sister’s mouth great plumes of ash rose. Heralding disaster they were lit with embers of the destruction promised in her rumblings. Electricity crackled through tenebrous tendrils. The greatest of Shalador’s volcanoes, dormant no more, roared to life. With the sudden eruption the sky was filled with the liquid flame that had consumed Aztlan.

As if in a dream, illuminated by crackling energy and unearthly orange and red glow, the flowing fire the defied gravity froze. Darkness consumed its surface, creating a mirror of obsidian suspended in air. Lava coiled within cracking lines through the ebony shine before the fire was swallowed completely in blackness.

An invisible force of cold struck the strange plume turned solid and sent black glass raining over Eldest Sister and those who’d dare be near her shadow to honour the fallen.








Offline Aikanos Soto

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • warlord
    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

    • Posts

      8

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #1 on: Mar 26, 18, 09:06:16 PM »
One mile outside border of Aztlan ruins, Elaho Province, Shalador.
One Year and One Day After Eldest Sister's Eruption
Spring, 193 AP.

Thread takes place at the same time as flesh, bones, skin, and soul.


Before the war, Cass’s responsibilities rarely touched his life at home with their children in the village they so loved. Since that day Nova Marzena saved him, his family and so many others from what was only the first battle in a drawn out, bloody civil conflict. He’d never believed the charges against the girl whose wit, strength, and skill with a bow spared and protected their canopy.

Since strife spread like a plague between the tribes, Aikanos’s life had grown much more formal, and it was a world to which he was ill suited.

His wife was the Chief of one of the nation’s Great Tribes. She was expected at events such as the three days of remembrance and grief to be head at the borderlands of what once was Aztlan. In the shadow of the Eldest Sister who was held captive in a fitful rest the Territory gathered

The Warlord was private as he was a man who found peace in working his body along with his mind, and neither thing fit in well with his wife’s world of subtler games and skills. The rules of her world meant that it wasn’t enough she be somewhere, those closest to her were expected to attend as part of her aura of influence. Lord Soto didn’t like it, but like any good male he did what was necessary.

Cassiel promised that if at any time he felt too suffocated by proximity to the place Lana and Trina were stolen from them, they could leave. She’d make an excuse, but before she could do that it had to at least look like they’d tride. Peace beneath Shalador’s self appointed Guardians was a tenuous thing easily rattled.

Grasping his wife’s hand, fortified by strong tobacco in his pipe and the stubborn resolve of a father facing the site of his imaginable loss but on the second day, when the rains began, his fortitude wavered. The trauma of Aikanos’s past collided with his present’s and he’d needed the aid of a calming brew to be readied to leave. Cass made good on her promise. He cursed and bit back tears when it became clear the Winds were made unstable by the deluge still gaining strength.

An hour later they were less than a mile from where they’d started and the tempest’s fury beat at their backs. Everything in Aikanos’s body screamed that they weren’t moving more quickly. With every step he took, the Warlord felt as if something hungry followed in his shadow. It reminded him of the false calm that fell over a battlefield at night. He begged his wife and those she commanded to move more quickly.

The usually stoic hearth husband’s increasingly rattled nerves were clear to any close to him. As a boy he’d had a brush with death thanks to a sudden flood much like the one the pouring rain promised. Then, almost at the same time, Aikanos, Cassiel and their companions froze.

Sulfur’s acrid scent overtook all others in the forest. Lord Soto’s stomach dropped. He watched his wife turn back towards the ruins. As if powered by a will not his own, Aikanos turned to follow. His blood ran cold at what loomed through vine and branch in the distance.

Eldest Sister stirred and from the sky called omens of a psychic storm. Though it was muffled by the terrified pounding of his heart, Aikanos heard Cassiel’s orders. He followed them without hesitation even though his limbs felt like lead and his tongue lay dead in his mouth like a lump of stone and steel.

Offline Cassiel Soto

  • Character Account: Inactive
    • te2pd
    • hwitch
    • Faction

      Soto Tribe

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Dany

    • Posts

      11

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #2 on: Mar 26, 18, 09:58:10 PM »
Grief was a badge that the Chieftain wore in solidarity with her Jewels.  The loss of her children had been a blow that Cassiel was certain she would never heal from.  But just because Cassiel was wounded and bleeding out didn't mean that those who relied on her could wait.  No, her beloved husband and remaining children needed their wife and mother just as much as her Tribesmen needed her. 

Traveling to the place of Remembrance had been a challenge.  Not only because Cassiel wasn't feeling the desire to be out, airing her grief but because her beloved husband was struggling with the trip.  But she couldn't make the trip without his quiet strength beside her. 

Before they had left Cassiel had promised her beloved that if his discomfort should go too strong, they would leave.  And she wouldn't question him.  But they had to try.  They had to speak to their brothers and sisters.  They had to show to everyone that they, too, were suffering.  However, that would not stop Cassiel from looking after her husband.  With a loving hand on his cheek, the Chieftain smiled at her beloved and nodded.  "It's time now."

As the rains came, Cassiel knew that her husband would need to go home before he said the words.  Aikanos was a strong male, he was resilient and his love for her overruled almost anything.  But Cassiel knew her husband.  She could sense the building tension in him.

The rains were a problem.  Not only for their trip home but for her husband's anxiety.  She knew of Aikanos's fears as well as she knew her own.  As the rains grew harder, Cassiel stayed closer to her husband, her gentle hand finding his whenever she could. 

Something in the land and the air changed just as the torrential rains picked up.  The rain mixed with the ancient, stirring lava created acrid steam and smoke that choked them as they made their way home.  Not only was the lava stirring, something was waking.  Something just as powerful as the volcano itself. 

With firm commands, Cassiel ordered her people to move.  They needed to get out from under this cloud of death before it found them.  Gripping her husband's hand, Cassiel shouted for those who followed them to pick up the pace.

Offline Xipila Espinosa

  • Character Account: Inactive
    • te2pd
    • bw
    • Faction

      The Coven

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Erica

    • Posts

      36

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #3 on: Apr 04, 18, 08:44:08 PM »
She stood on one side of the river, having already set up her tent.  She wasn't sure why.  She'd felt.. drawn.. to this spot two weeks before.  She'd known she should be here.  She'd set to making more rations, and had stocked up on clean water. 

Even with that.. she still wasn't sure of exactly why.  But she'd learned a very long time ago - for her, anyways - that she should pay attention to her instincts and visions.  So the collection of water and the creation of rations had been undertaken.

It was as the rain began to pour that she felt the culmination of that tingling nerve.  It was when the crackle of energy in the sky gathered that she looked up, studying the obvious signs of power there in the sky.  Perhaps she was meant to die here, and this hut was meant to stand as a place of refuge for survivors.  Or perhaps she was meant to be here to help those running away.

It didn't matter, either way.  She was where she was meant to be - and it was only that thought that kept her from turning away from the Eldest Sister and fleeing as fast as she could.  She'd been led here, and she would by the Night remain.  So she took her deep breaths, unrolling a few more furs for any guests that might arrive.

She wove her protection spells, hoping they would hold against whatever.. horror.. would come sweeping down from that mountain.  And when she had done all she could.. she knelt at the canopy before her tent, her hands flat against her thighs as she began to whisper her prayers for the souls of those that had come before, those that would pass today, and those who would come tomorrow.

Optimism was important - she had to believe that there would be souls that would arrive tomorrow.  And the day after. 

Karana...  She could only hope that Karana was safe.  She could only pray, and wait - despite and because of the ice cold terror that washed through her as she stared up at that forming storm. 

Offline Taracena Omah

  • Character Account
    • green2gray
    • bwh
    • Role

      Second in Command

    • Faction

      Healer's Guild

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      DragonGirl

    • Posts

      10

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #4 on: Apr 13, 18, 10:01:52 PM »
Taracena had come to mourn the dead. She had been lucky and had not lost family, The Omah village was far in the west and had not been particularly affected, but Taracena had many friends among the fallen. Having survived the Purge and being part long-lived in a short-lived Territory, Cena was used to loss. She had grown accustomed to pieces of her heart being ripped from her chest and had learned healthy ways to process death. It was a big part of her profession, after all. So while she had come to the ruins under the sleeping Sister to mourn, most of what she was here for was to help others do so. She had walked through the crowd, offering a touch of assistance anywhere that it was needed and taking breaks when the strain of all this loss grew too great.

The desire to grieve and honor the dead drew many out into the cold, and Cena had run around all day, putting warming spells on shawls and homes. There were probably better things for a Gray Jeweled Black Widow Healer to be doing, but the busywork kept her mind off of all the loss. When the storm picked up after sunset, Cena flew up to the tallest rooftop she could, eyes roaming over the city as she felt rumbles of...something. Rain blew into her squinting eyes as she looked up towards the Eldest Sister as purple lightning rent the sky. Her fingers tightened on the slick tiles she crouched upon as a gust of wind that felt more like Wind threatened to hurl her off. She pulled her wings in tight, creating a shield around herself to keep the pounding rain out of her eyes. Those brown orbs turned up towards the mountain and she felt her heart stop as ash and smoke started billowing from that peak that had brought such destruction the year before.

SHe watched for a whole thirty seconds, incredulous that it was happening again. She had seen omens in the Webs but had not wanted to believe it.

People will die again. Taracena though, followed quickly by, no, not this time.

She launched herself back into the sky, using Craft to control her flight as she flew straight into the storm, into the districts closest to the base of the volcano and the people who were closest to the destruction that was about to descend upon them. She landed with a ripple of Gray power by a group of people running.

“Go! I’ll cover your retreat!” She shouted, pulling her scarf up to cover her nose and mouth as the steam and smoke and rain all combined to make the air a choking mess. The small family didn’t need to be told twice. As they sprinted in the opposite direction, Taracena took to the sky long enough to get to another crumbling rooftop, then focused on the oncoming threat as the sky was lit up by fire. Taracena threw up shields around the whole area, preparing for the rivers of molten lava that had descended upon the city the last time, not pausing to think lest terror grip her and make her stop. Except the fire did not come. Instead it seemed to freeze for a moment in the sky then begin to tall as daggers of obsidian falling at high speed from above. Cena braced for the impact and felt her shields absorbed the first wave of falling shards. The power of them made her skid back across the roof, but she widened her stance, letting her consciousness spread over the neighbourhood feeling for other people and trying to work out how many were left and how fast they were moving. Her eyes, unneeded for that, rose towards the sky again as more lightening raced across it.

This time I’m not too far away to help. This time I stand until the last.

Offline Itzelian Maboya

  • Character Account: Inactive
    • boBR
    • queen
    • Role

      Queen in Training

    • Faction

      Maboya Tribe

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      halyonix

    • Posts

      25

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #5 on: Apr 14, 18, 06:16:02 PM »
Today had been hard.

The Maboya had lost too many on this day a year ago -- Queen, leader, Court… And, of course, they had to make not only an appearance at the event, but were expected to lead. Itzelian...was expected to lead. And not, at the same time. It was a weird limbo that she couldn’t decide if she was happy about or upset over. Maybe she was just upset all over anyway.

Today was not a day she wanted to be Queen. Today was the day she wanted to think about her mother and how much it still hurt and how much she still resented her mother. She didn’t want to be prim and proper, dressed up for the mourning masses, hiding her tears when all she wanted to do was be left alone. She had to be paraded in front of the remaining elders, receive condolences and make chit-chat, and it was really starting to get on her nerves, listening to all of these people talking about her mother and her aunt like they were either heroes or villains and didn’t anyone care what Izzy wanted today?!

Obviously not.

At first, Itzelian had stared balefully at the mountain that had taken her mother and aunt. Her entire life. And yet she was still living. Half living? What was living when your heart felt like it was just some dead weight inside of you that day? It didn’t always feel like that though, just today. She’d even put her hand on her chest to make sure it actually was still beating, that she hadn’t become some sort of...automaton or shadow.

Izzy let out a long, unQueenly sigh. Today sucked.

And it didn’t stop with just that one day.

Izzy, scoured dry of all caring by the end of it, went home, disrobed, and fell into bed with hardly a word to anyone else. She want to do anything but fall into the oblivion of sleep and put the day behind her.

But Mother Night had other plans for her.

She dreamed of monsters -- eyeless, ethereal things -- rising from the ground, wailing her name. Wanting her blood, just like her mother’s. Izzy’s wings...they wouldn’t work. She couldn’t fly. She began to run but the shadow things were always right behind her, wailing and writhing. Coming for her. Running those cold fingers along her skin. Sounding like her mother. Itzelian…

Izzy awoke, entangled in her sheets, screaming and sweating. Luckily, she hadn’t woken her nanny, else she would have to childishly explain why she was afraid of dreams still.

It hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like...a premonition.

Needless to say, Izzy was exhausted the next morning and the day dragged on. By evening, as the winds began to whip wildly, lashing the trees, Izzy begged illness and was able to escape back to her home. Her initial relief of being away from the milling crowd soured as the storm gathered and the feeling of dread built. With her wings pressed tightly against her spine, Izzy opened the windows to her room and began to pace, listening to the storm.

The first thunderous bolt of lightning made her cry out in surprise. It was so close! Izzy dared to look out the window and noticed that what she had thought was the oncoming night around the Sisters was actually thick clouds. And the lightning...streaking through those clouds…

Just like the day…

Shaking, Izzy backed away from the window but she could not tear her gaze away. Again...it was happening again. The mountain that had taken her mother hadn’t been satisfied. It hungered for more.

“N-No…” she whimpered. “N-No!”

Offline Erisian Maboya

  • Character Account
    • red2black
    • pq
    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

    • Posts

      84

    • goddesses don't speak in whispers they scream

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #6 on: Apr 21, 18, 02:45:52 PM »
Erisian Maboya was not the main source of the storm that brewed around Eldest Sister. She and those of her Court that survived with a traitor in tow were being propelled out from the well of all by something else and more. The puzzling answer to so many days and nights of ritual driven prayer thrust them out, clinging to their souls for passage home. 
Rarely were the answers to problems such as Shalador’s simple as death. This their Forest had forgotten.

True sacrifice was known by those who lived and came in many forms. Life and survival could not exist without survival of unfair choices. To give without expectation of personal reward, paying no heed to consequence, could bring joyous bounty but came at costs great and small. Living, that which the Mad Lady had been so eager to escape, was the only way to truly surrender for the Price of great need. What they’d summoned in spectral supplication was more than might it was miracle. All involved would spend lifetimes unravelling the depths of their own debts.

Echoing whispers stirred the aether touched only by those Blood of certain castes. Destiny whipped the winds of Shalador. Black smoke rose in thick, high reaching plumes from Eldest Sister. No more lava save for small arcs that sent huge embers rising to ornament the ebony clouds spilled forth her rage. Violet ball lightning burst like exploding stars within the toxic smoke’s depths. Rain came down in sheets throughout the Province. When obsidian shards finished their descent, embedding themselves in trees, roots, soil, stone, and some flesh, hail followed.

A rhythm beat out in the thunder, notes of a melody flickered in the air’s electricity. Magic long in its weaving unfurled across the Territory. The weight of it was felt by all, even Landen could taste it in the tempest. Danger and promise, equally thick, claimed the atmosphere. Jewels spent found themselves refilled. Souls in Offering were guided to their greatest potential. Others found the energies too much to bear. Everything has a Price. The volcano ceased the release of its furious, burning blood but continued to release its toxic breath, clouds of it collecting in expanding circles that swallowed the stars above the ruins of Aztlan.

Taracena’s shields protected many from toxic waters. So many had come to pray, to send love to their lost, to heal. The Black Widow Healer’s Craft saw to it that countless were spared further injury and she became a rallying point for those in the chaos unable to determine for themselves the best course of action. Lady Omah, beacon in the storm, drew many to the safety of her shadow. Her Sister of the Hourglass, Lady Xipila Espinosa, too pulled those to her haven - albeit a dfferent sort of seeker. To the Widow who’d spent a fornite in preparation for an event made to rock webs across Terreille, witches of every caste with heads cool in the chaos came. With them they brought the injured, the terribly frightened, and most importantly? The useful. Others followed word that the Soto’s Chieftan was leading people to the safety of Tikal’s palace, and all the protections woven into its making.








Offline Aikanos Soto

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • warlord
    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

    • Posts

      8

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #7 on: Apr 21, 18, 02:46:27 PM »
It wasn’t just the rain. The Warlord felt the wild thing that came to him the day he received his Yellow Jewel come to life. Every bit of power in his veins howled for danger and in reverence. Something was coming out of the Dark. A great gift that, like all their Mother’s Blessing, came at profound cost. That beast within him so rarely roused chased back the fears of his youth. The twice bereaved father was focused by the preternatural senses of a Jeweled Predator shaken from slumber; one well rested and unwilling to laze with such work to be done.

Lord Soto felt a rhythm familiar but new and heard a spectral chanting. His very heart beat its cadence through his being. These were translation in his body and mind of what he felt chasing their storm. Aikanos the man was terrified for the rain, for the lava turned glass to break on countless shields, and because he was a father witnessing the very disaster that stole two of his children. However, the fighting will that came to possess every Warlord when his need was great rejoiced. Those eldest parts of his essence knew there was purpose to the bedlam. Such was to be Blood, a thing so much more than meat and mind. Each and every member of their volatile race was a vessel for fates long unfolding.

Animated and sharpened by instinct, Aikanos squeezed Cass’s hand -  a silent promise of his return to center. A year ago none of them were ready for Eldest Sister’s unrestrained wrath. Cassiel, her Warlord, and many others like them had spent almost every day since wondering what they could’ve done differently on the day the forest changed forever to save more lives. None were willing to make the same mistakes. Reaching out on a shielded thread of Rose, he nudged his wife to let her share with him that which his sharp psychic senses felt. This was the easiest way to explain what followed, what had to be done, and the importance of holding sharp to their faith.

*I’m going to shore up the back, make sure we all get headed somewhere safe. Tikal’s palace should have fortifications. We’ll get them take in the vulnerable, the rest of us can rally around. They won’t say no, not to you.* After another squeeze of Cass’s hand, and a quick, desperate embrace, he left the sanctuary of her side and moved back towards the chaos. He went just enough to find the leader of the group trailing behind them. A chain of messages would be passed. Aikanos didn’t care how the powers that were in Tikal would feel about their arrival but he knew they were unlikely to turn away any crowd lead by the Chieftan of the Soto.

When war came to his doorstep in Nayarit, Cassiel hadn’t been there to take charge. Surrounded by reminders of his life’s worst moments or not, he didn’t have to know what exactly was coming that made his soul sing and his flesh tremble  - he just had to do what he did best keep his people safe, and follow his wife’s lead. Surrender to service was his gift. It was the witches of the crowds to which the real work would fall. Though a mixed crowd of Blood and Landen separated the Warlord and his Hearth Witch, Aikanos kept the Chieftan who held his heart and owned his allegiance in sight. 

Offline Juliet Marche

  • Character Account: Inactive
    • yellow2te
    • witch
    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Reid

    • Posts

      12

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #8 on: Jun 01, 18, 05:36:26 AM »
A year and a day ago, Juliet had seen her Queen off to the Eldest Sister. Though she had demanded and received Erisian's promise to return, the Black-Jeweled Priestess Queen for whom Juliet had carried a child never did. Juliet had borne their daughter--a winged little girl named Yllian--in blood, pain, and loneliness. A lesser woman would have retreated within herself, accepted the cruelty of the world after yet another beloved person was taken from her, but it had never been Juliet's way to cave under pressure. She would not collapse like a building constructed on quicksand. Her heart had strong foundations, and if nothing else she could live to preserve Erisian's legacy.

There was Ylli to consider as well. Juliet loved her little Healer daughter, who was nearly a year old now, for all she sometimes sat and searched the unformed little face for traces of Eris and found nothing. Each milestone that her love wasn't present for--and she would never be present for them--was a blow. The pain lessened each day, with each new word or flailing gesture, but Juliet was sure she would never stop feeling guilty for that.

She left Ylli with a young mother of the Mitzi tribe to attend the memorial rites at the ruins of Aztlan. Her architect's eye wanted to pick out the familiar walls and shapes of buildings, but there was nothing, only ash, wooden fingers stretching up to a desolate sky. It was beautiful, in its own way. So, too, was the disaster brewing before the throng: smoke, violet lightning, arcs of molten stone that she could see even from her distant place. For a moment, she thought to stay, an impulse like staring into the void. Every man and woman who had left the salt mines of Pruul with her had vanished into that mountain or into Terreille. She was alone, and so, so tired of being strong.

But though she was alone, she was not alone. That itch to gaze long into the void of the black clouds, until they rushed out and swallowed her whole, receded behind the knowledge that the people around her did not want to die, that she didn't want to die, that she had the Craft and knowledge to guide them to safety. As she threw up a vague bubble-shield to protect her own lungs, she cleared brush, cutting a clear path towards Tikal for the retreating populace.

The worst part wasn't the devastation threatening a land so sorely tried. No. She knew that life was hardly fair and that justice was what she made of it.

It was that Erisian, having survived so much, had died for nothing.

Offline Taracena Omah

  • Character Account
    • green2gray
    • bwh
    • Role

      Second in Command

    • Faction

      Healer's Guild

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      DragonGirl

    • Posts

      10

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #9 on: Jun 15, 18, 07:36:44 PM »
Taracena held.

Her shields did not falter, for while she might be terrible in combat, she had been raised to protect. All Black Widows who had lived through the War had learned to do so, for it had been in great part thanks to them that the Eyrien hordes had been held back from their borders. Cena’s strength had been woven with that of others at that time as it was now. Not in a tangible way, for she was alone on the rooftop where she made her stand, but she had faith that there would be others doing as she did elsewhere, for always did Shaladorans band together in times of great need. It was their way and one of the many things Taracena loved about her Territory.

Holding back the storm took all her focus, leaving her little to nothing else. She didn’t have the peace to think about what this would mean, or why it was that the Eldest Sister was once again alight even after the sacrifice of a Black Jeweled Queen and her Court.

She just held.

When at last the streets in front of her were clear, she launched off the rooftop, jumping from building to building to guard the backs of the retreating crowds. The wind buffeted her, but she grit her teeth and kept to the sky as best she could, refusing to be knocked aside. She wore the Gray, it was her duty, given to her by the Darkness, to care for those Lighter than she. Her life had no more value than theirs and she would rather fall herself then turn tail and run.

Street by street, the fleeing people made their way towards the outskirts of the ruined city. Cena’s wings grew sore and tired and her Gray drained further and further until she had to switch to using her Green, but at last they made it to the edges of the jungle where the toxic rain was not falling so hard and stone was not falling from the sky. Taracena landed with a thump, crouching low to absorb the impact.

She turned to look around and saw that she was not far away from some sort of organized camp. Without pausing to catch her breath Cena turned and jogged towards it, stopping the first person she could find and saying, ”I’m a Healer. How can I help?”

Offline Xipila Espinosa

  • Character Account: Inactive
    • te2pd
    • bw
    • Faction

      The Coven

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Erica

    • Posts

      36

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #10 on: Jun 19, 18, 12:05:57 PM »
They kept coming.  She'd run out of available furs, but that was alright. Many of them had things they could use to lay out on.  She'd begun collecting large leaves, setting them near the injured.  She was no Healer, but she knew well enough how to organize.

She also paid attention to her Protection Spells.  Occasionally, something would 'ping' against them.. but for the most part, they held just fine.  Regardless, she reinforced whenever that 'ping' occurred. 

One poor soul was screaming, their leg splintered and cleaved in half.  She settled on her knees beside them, holding a cup of water laced with a sedative.  It was one she used for her moon days, when the pain was simply too much and she needed rest.  Hopefully, it would help whatever Healer attended the poor man. 

And Darkness bless, one had just arrived. 

She watched as the Healer stopped near one of those hurriedly running supplies, and she raised a hand.  "Here!  This man needs the bleeding to stop."  She rose to her feet, moving forward to reach for Taracena's arm.  That the Healer was a Dark Jewel didn't matter.  That Xipila was a Black Widow didn't matter.

What mattered was that they save as many people as they could - for in this moment, they were all one Tribe.  The Living.

"I have been having the worst of the injured brought closer to the tent.  I have healthier people gathering water from the river and running it through the purification spells.  Tell me what you need, and I will ensure it is done."

Had she been brought here to ensure this Healer succeeded?  Perhaps.  She knew that she had been brought here to ensure that survivors ... survived.  And that was good enough.  She hoped that Karana made it... she prayed that her lover found her way free of whatever hell had spawned.  But Karana was.. not the sort to run.

Her eyes refocused on Taracena as she dragged her thoughts from Karana, forcing herself to focus on the here, on the now.  That tinge of 'other' in her scent slowly fading as she forced her reflexive grasp on the Twisted Kingdom to loosen.

"I can arrange for whatever you need, Lady Healer, but I find I am a little out of my expertise on this."  Then again, who wouldn't be?  It wasn't as if this sort of thing could be.. predicted, or trained for.  She just didn't see how one could train for a Volcano deciding to erupt.. again.  Despite all that had been sacrificed to appease it.

"I am Xipila."

Offline Itzelian Maboya

  • Character Account: Inactive
    • boBR
    • queen
    • Role

      Queen in Training

    • Faction

      Maboya Tribe

    • Territory

      Shalador

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      halyonix

    • Posts

      25

    • View Profile
Re: riders of the storm
« Reply #11 on: Jun 27, 18, 02:22:56 PM »
Terror continued to wrap its icy fingers around Itzelian’s throat even as the storm shifted and subsided. While smoke billowed from the simmering volcano, the void left from its thunder was filled with a different kind of power -- thick, weighing, heavy like a blanket, imbued with a Darkness Izzy had never felt before.

She shook all over. She couldn’t stop.

“N-No,” she whimpered, still believing that the Darkness gathering was looking for her. It had to be, right? She was the daughter of Rian Maboya, niece to Erisian, and both of them had been devoured by the burning mountain in offering. Obviously, it hadn’t been enough, so it wanted Izzy’s blood too, right?

That’s what the terror said. That’s what Izzy believed.

From her vantage point, she could see streams of people moving towards the ruined city. Those rivulets of souls eventually allowed her to tear her terrified gaze from the black mountain and as she watched, curiosity eased the grip of terror. Some half-prompted memory stirred: “Panicking will get you killed faster than anything else,” said a voice, sharply. Camaxtli? Maybe. Or maybe her aunt’s words. Did it matter? It was true, either way, so who cared who said it. Her breath still came rapidly but just that half-memory allowed her a bit more clarity. Her fingers curled close to her throat as though she could physically remove the last bits of terror’s grasp that way as she watched those people.

When there’s danger, look for the helpers. They’re always running towards the danger to help.

Someone else had told her that once. And again, Izzy couldn’t remember who but it struck her now as important. She should be there, helping. As a Queen it was expected of her to… no, that wasn’t right. No, she wanted to help, not because she was a Queen but because she was a good person and good people helped others in...in...times like these.

Courage definitely wasn’t the absence of fear, she realized as she spread her spindly wings and prepared to launch herself in the direction of what looked like safety. “I can do this,” she murmured to herself, clutching her Blood Opal pendant. “I’m Itzelian Maboya, Queen of the Maboya tribe. I am my mother’s daughter and I can do this.” Words to bolster her. Words to remind her.

Trembling all over still, the young Queen of the Maboya took off towards the layered Shields of protection. The air was thick with smoke, making her cough. Her eyes burned from the ash even though she held up an arm to block it. When she finally made it to the center, her blurred vision made it hard to see exactly what was going on.

People were everywhere. Someone was screaming. That sound alone had Izzy tucking her wings tight against her thin body. Most of those around her seemed bundled up in blankets or furs, huddled to themselves or around loved ones. Other people scurried back and forth, tending, shouting orders, ferrying...supplies? Whatever they held in their arms. She couldn’t tell.

“I can do this,” she repeated to herself, though it sounded like she didn’t believe it now. Swallowing hard, Izzy found the first person who looked like they knew what was going on and said, “Um...ex..excuse me, I’m…I’m here to help. How can I help?”