It's my turn to keep the wolves away The sound of metal against metal resounds throughout the training grounds where those who have been enlisted in his majesty's army practice their swordsmanship.  The soft twang of an arrow hits the ground when it misses its target, others thud against the hay bale, hitting its mark.  Overseeing these soldiers is a tall, muscular man who looks worn and ragged, yet his eyes are stern and almost cold as they sweep over his soldiers.  He is the grand Marshall, Louis Gottschall, loyal subject to the king.   His voice resonates throughout the grounds as he chastises a soldier on his poor form.  To be expected, of course, from the soft hands of nobles forced into the role of a killer.  Louis will shake his head before taking up a pamphlet where he'll continue reading off the names of those families expected to answer the kings call to arms.  Those who reply will be tasked with finding either a sword, bow or rifle to begin their training either alone or with a partner.

Jahi

Everyone who meets the draft conditions has until the 21st to attend this training session!  Should you fail to, your characters name will be added to the bounty sheet.  Those who are added have an increased chance of bounty hunters invading their threads uninvited.

Helayne Ilirum

A few weeks had passed since Halfdan had given her the letter summoning her father and eldest brother to war. The shock of it, the anger, had sent her into such a fit of rage… To think of it now brought a flush of shame by her brash reaction, but she’d soon seen the opportunity in it. Her village had passed horror stories of things coming in the night for centuries down. She had vivid memories and horror stories of her own. Her father had disappeared in the night before she was ever born, only to be discovered mutilated by one of her brothers days later. Women had gone missing in the night as long as she could remember. One day it all had been taken, no longer sated with a here and there claiming. Only annihilation had sated the beasts then. Hel had lost everything that day, and here was a chance to seek out some answers and possibly find the ones responsible for it.

Every meager possession she’d owned had been strapped to Freya’s dapple bay back, Sif flying far overhead as they made their way to Odersten, a city larger than any she had ever seen. If she’d thought Kaisermont was overwhelming, it was nothing to what this place was like. Her long silver blond hair was bound tightly to her head, hidden beneath a floppy hat she managed to convince Halfdan she’d needed. Her breasts, though not much to brag on, were bound tightly against her chest with leather and sinew. She already wore men’s clothing most of the time, her shirt was just a little baggier to help her disguise. Her main concern was her shorter stature compared to some of the other men she’d already encountered.

She stood with the other men now, gathered in the training grounds. Looking around, she was a head shorter than some. It brought a sense of unease. She kept to the edges though, trying to remain as much a shadow as allowed. It did not take long for her older brother’s name to be called. ”Heimdall Ilirium!” His name was like a spear to her heart, the pain overwhelming. Doing her best to smother it down she stepped forward. There was something she thought about finding a weapon? Forcing herself to focus she reached for a bow and quiver, something she was most familiar with and stepped towards the archery range.


ooc: Just a note that Hel is pretending to be male to join in. Totally open to others being suspicious of her eventually or mocking her for her smaller size >3

art by soar

"Dimitris Markai."

As his calling was left to linger on the open air, he could almost hear the grating of several pairs of eyes turning towards him like stiff, unwilling hinges. The name of Markai, the curse that it was, would draw unfavorable attention, he knew, yet he wasn't quite prepared for how many scathing glances he would earn as he merely tipped his helm and bid a silent wave of his hand towards the marshal, one that may very well also remember him from the years before. There was a small wave of whispers, minute in volume that called him coward. Deserter. The steel of his gauntlet closing his fingers into a light fist was his only audible reply.

"And where were you, pray tell, when Dunmeath came under attack?"

There were so many here. An even gaze observing from under the metal vent of his visor. The smell of leather and steel was rampant, sparsely decorated with the occasional flowery cologne that announced the frivolity of nobility. The possessor of the smell also happened to have the askance as well. His every fiber screaming hostility and judgement. Had he a sense of emotion or anything more than dry, brittle humor, he'd have snorted and found the notion one of hilarity. He'd have clapped a jarring hand on the fine silk clad, narrow shoulder of the young man (who, in truth, was probably his senior by several years) and tell him to leave such sentiments for his bedroom, that they did nothing here. But Dimitris didn't have social graces. So he didn't teasingly scold the mockery of a soldier that faced him.

Instead, he continued to eye the man as he assumed a fighting posture. He recognized his form and stance, one he had often beheld in the courtyard of his home. A fencing pose, the weight of the sword now in his hand forcing the outstretched arm to quiver in the effort of holding the weapon. "Away." Would come his reply, along with easily brushing away the clumsy jab with the longsword's point against the back of his hand as it came. "You look ridiculous. This isn't a rapier. If you're going to try and fight me, at least learn to properly wield your sword - or pick one up you can actually use." He knew this was for training, but he'd have thought that the majority would at least know the difference in blade types.

Attentions could not help but to drift over the faces present, a fair few recognizable from gatherings of nobility. Those he had briefly tended to when it came to affairs of the house. Even then, within the eyes of the damned, they hardly seemed suitable for this sort of thing. Ill experience of the youth shining ever brighter in mere glimpses of their chosen practice sparking a short breath to slip free. This king would only be sending them to their deaths - whether from their own quests for glory or the refusal of those ‘more important’ to stand in their place. Either way their fates would be sealed.

So many names rang out.

Not all of them crossed off that list. Not all houses heeding the summons.

It came of no surprise that none would step forth on initial calling for Lyon. Of course the boy’s father had expected him to fill the role, however, after a particular incident he was hardly in good health. No matter what those lyrics may have claimed that man was in no shape for combat. So it is upon his name that Ajax would step forth without missing a beat, offering a short wave and answering the call for an, “Augustus Lyon.” Hardly would many of these men recognize the face of a house keeper, few he doubted would care to point out they knew he did not hold the goat’s name. If they thought to they would simply have to be silenced.

Such tasks held for another time. A faint mist swirling over skin as magic sought to subtly shroud flesh from the burning heat. Anything the marshal had to say falling upon ears not wholly willing to listen, the deer’s tongue held as an antlered crown merely nods in silent acknowledgment before shifting away. The sword already held at his hip a stark reminder of a long chosen specialty though there had been little announcement of just where one would be assigned. This Louis would no doubt work to find their strengths, allowing the devil a small chance to experiment with something he was less familiar with.

Unconsciously chasing the steps of another fingers would coil easily about a bow, the subtle rattle of arrows within their quiver a sound not beheld for years. This would serve as a useful refresher, he couldn’t do any worse than those who nearly shot their own feet. Even from here he could hear the way their blood pumped wildly in their veins at those near misses, how hearts hammered in the chests of those who still stood back and awaited their calling. But he couldn’t focus on that now, he shouldn’t focus upon it. It would only make that unbidden thirst rise.

So Ajax sought distraction. And it was to he that eyes would fall, upon the obscurities of an over sized hat. Something he himself would have perhaps taken to if antlers allowed such accessory - surely a far less exhausting way to combat the sun’s glower.

Fixing the stranger with that red tinted stare an easy - yet notably fanged smile - would cross his lips, “Heimdall was it?” The name he swore one had answered to, “How do you fair with one of these?” For perhaps they could make this exercise a bit more thrilling, not that there was much to gamble with but shooting targets and attempting not to harm themselves (or any other for that matter) should not have to be a complete drudgery.

note; imma throw auggie into hel's bloodletting thread so if she happens to hear the name call she can def know that ajax is not auggie if you'd like :3 (cuz at least the dumb boy will have given his name to her at some point lmao)

For the last few years, I'd faithfully served beneath his Majesty's banner when it billowed beneath the gales of war.  I saw the beasts who lay their siege upon the small farming village, the fires of their homes set ablaze, and the harrowing screams of terrified women and children in the chaos of gunpowder and blades.  In the sea of faces, I saw Arabella fleeing for her life though I knew she was safely tucked beneath her warm, cosy coverlet.  Each body I saw only forced my sterling blade to fall harder until we were forced back by sheer number.  They were too many and our men were slaughtered like sheep. I could never forget the terror of that battle.  The day Vufrien lost Dunmeath. Though I had gained sleepless nights and haunting visions, I also birthed a newfound determination.  Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that I'd been silenced in such a way from exposing the schemes of my parents.  Sickengly, I enjoyed holding a sword.  I found myself almost addicted to the adrenaline when it came to fighting for my life.  It suited me far more than tending to father's business affairs dressed to the nines and forced to smile for men that would sooner put his head in the ground than call him a friend.  All for a few coins. "Aethelos Beleveron."  My name had been among the first, however, it wouldn't be the last. I listened as the soldiers spoke to a white-haired man, the son of Dunmeaths former lord, I'd learned.  I also listened to the way he spoke to another of the drafted and I'd offer a wry grin.  "Perhaps they'd learn best from example,"  I offered as I approached, adorned in my military leathers and sword held properly in hand.  One arm tucked behind my back - the fencing stance - with my sword held up in friendly invitation.  "shall we?"

Helayne Ilirum

"Dimitirs Markai" Even where she stood, she could hear the hushed whispers, growing in volume as a man moved through the crowd. "And where were you, pray tell, when Dunmeath came under attack?" Tension lay heavily among the crowd, too much testosterone eager to prove their mettle and worth. The man stepped forward, easily facing his opponent, clearly with much more experience and knowledge then his counterpart.

Her attention was drawn to another name call, "Augustus Lyon". A cold shiver ran down her spine. She’d met the man briefly, caught in an intimate moment of her hunt. Would he recognize her this way? Hair wound tight, her face smeared in dirt, her clothes baggy, a light armor to try and conceal the feminine curve. Would he say anything if he did? The punishment for a woman here was surely death, but the terrors that would come before… she’d lived those moments before.

The man who came forward though was clearly not who she had met. Unlike the second, he made his way over without incident. Taking up a bow, he came closer, a wide fanged smile spreading across his pale face, tall proud antlers making him appear even taller than he already was. "Heimdall was it?" he asked, a gleam in his crimson gaze. All she could do was nod in return. Should she tell him she knew? Was she not doing the same thing? Perhaps he knew the man she’d met in some way. ”How do you fair with one of these?”

A playful smile dared to touch the edge of her lips, a small competitive part of her coming to the surface. Struggling to add some kind of depth and strength to her voice she spoke, "I fair well enough."


art by soar