À Jeorvo...
Il semblait y avoir une division substantielle entre les participants de cette soirée. En fait, c'était presque une scission parfaite. La moitié des invités semblait dans leur élément, et marchait avec l'air de vieux, vieux argent. Ils portaient leurs foulards comme on aurait pu porter leurs médailles, et bavardaient, même ris, avec des étrangers parfaits, comme une élite dirigeante, se prêtaient à ignorer le fait que la plupart de Jeorvo affamé hors de ce manoir.
L'autre moitié ne semblait pas si naturelle, en comparaison. Sous les yeux azurés vigilants de la panthère, ils semblaient se déplacer difficilement, comme s'ils étaient là par erreur, comme s'ils faisaient quelque chose de très mal en étant présents. Leurs écharpes semblaient faire faucher leurs constitutions, comme si elles portaient un grand poids : beaucoup portaient des vêtements de choc, d'un design résolument moins sophistiqué.
De ces groupes, la femme qui s'est approchée d'Elise Callan appartenait, assez clairement, à la première. C'était une petite femme toute d'albâtre, avec de hauts os des joues et des yeux qui cousaient dans des anneaux obscurcis. Ses lèvres étaient minces et pâles. Son nez était petit, son corps lithait et svelte. Elle était le résultat d'une reproduction élevée, ce qui était évident. Des traits comme le sien venaient rarement de quelque chose que ce soit, mais de cousins nobles se mariant, essayant de garder la richesse au sein de la famille.
Et elle portait son foulard comme pour souligner ce fait, dans un nœud de rosette, enveloppé étroitement autour de son cou mince et délicat.
Et pourtant, malgré l'influence évidente de la richesse, elle s'habillait de façon déconcertante: dans ce qui aurait pu autrefois être une robe de mariée en dentelle ostentatoire, avant qu'elle ne l'ait porté dans la rage. Des morceaux de dentelle décorative accrochés à elle comme des mauvaises herbes flétries, et des portions ont été déchirées ou éclaircies au point d'être transparentes, particulièrement sur son dos.
Mais malgré cela, elle s'est portée avec un air régal inhérent, alors qu'elle se tenait au-dessus d'Elise du côté du canapé.
Elle lui sourit, ses lèvres pâles enroulées dans une petite salutation polie. Et il aurait pu être convaincant, aussi, si ce n'était pas pour le bleu vif et pâle de ses yeux, comme de l'eau encore gelée profonde. Ils ont flippé avec le genre de dédain la noblesse réservée aux gens qui se sont levés au-dessus de leurs stations.
"Bonsoir," elle a salué, d'une voix qui était petite et douce. Son accent était étrange, lacé avec trop d'influences étrangères à compter, mais certainement pas originaire d'une région de Coake.
"Mon nom est Akelda Serkan," elle a commencé, étendant sa main poliment vers le bas, avec une telle délicatesse qu'elle semblait s'attendre à ce qu'ils seraient gracieusement à l'un-autre, "Et je ne crois pas que je connais la vôtre, mais vous devez être un guerrier très formidable d'être ici," elle a dit, d'une manière qui semblait impliquer sans mot,"parce que vous n'êtes clairement pas ici sur d'autres mérites.
De même, l'homme qui est venu saluer Sir Isaac Dorovich était clairement aussi de sang riche, mais d'une race différente et moins malade. Alors qu'il y avait peu de doute que les parents d'Akeldas avaient partagé un nom de famille avant leur nuit de noces, cette peau de gentleman était un bronzage sain, et ses yeux de noisette étaient allumés avec une appréciation intime de toutes choses décadentes. Sa famille n'était pas gentiment, ils étaient riches par le commerce.
Il n'était qu'un pouce ou deux à la taille d'Isaac, mais ce qu'il manquait de hauteur, il s'est fait dans un style indulgent : sa silhouette toujours si légèrement bâclée était enveloppée d'un costume blanc exquis, tellement propre et lumineux qu'il semblait presque jeter des ombres sur les tenues des autres, les rendant ternes par comparaison. Il marchait avec une canne, un bâton de bois dur sombre couronné de la ressemblance ivoire d'un corbeau en arc, griffonné au moindre détail.
Ses cheveux étaient noircis - il combattait très clairement l'apparition de gris- et peigné dos, et ses traits étaient doux, et pâteux. Il avait l'air amical, et parlait dans des tons chaleureux et familiers alors qu'il fermait la distance entre lui et sir Isaac.
"Ahhh, Dieu merci, un autre homme d'une nette sophistication! Comment allez-vous, mon gars? Il a offert la main qui n'a pas embrayé sa canne avec un air sportif. Il est devenu clair qu'il avait probablement fait son argent grâce à la monnaie sociale, le réseautage.
Antionis, Antionis Agrippa! Je suis dans le commerce du livre! », a-t-il ajouté, alors qu'il étendait son emprise, « Parle-moi de toi, mon homme! »
Le destin a peut-être été le plus gentil avec James Terna. Il n'était pas tellement approché, comme il s'est produit sur son partenaire conversationnel. C'était une femme qui n'était pas en retard de son adolescence, mais le travail l'avait un peu vieillie. Elle portait ses cheveux mousy dans une queue de cheval fonctionnelle, et regardait du mur qu'elle avait pris pour se pencher contre juste à temps pour repérer James.
Elle n'était pas habillée de façon particulièrement sophistiquée, soit : un ensemble de vieille salopette en jean et une chemise boutonnée vers le bas. Elle ne portait pas son foulard. Elle y regardait avec une sorte de scepticisme anxieux, comme elle le soupçonnait, à tout moment, de sauter sur elle et de l'étouffer comme un serpent.
Quand elle lui parla, sa voix était plus profonde qu'on ne pouvait s'y attendre, plus grossière: C'est une vue, d'accord. Quelle est votre histoire? C'est peut-être un peu plus impoli qu'elle ne voulait.
Name: Brande Ashbell, "The Vagabond Prince."
Element: Fire/Heat
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Appearance: Standing at 6'2", with broad, powerful shoulders and an equally powerful gait, Brande Ashbell has spent his life working towards what he perceives to be his profession's perfection. He is toned, but not particularly muscular, and light on his feet: his physique is tailored for quick combat, after all. His features are bold and angular, his cheekbones defined and his jaw pointed, and the same is true of his hair: a finely trimmed, blonde ducktail beard-and-moustache, tailored to a point, and a head of flaxen hair, combed meticulously back. His eyes are cool, and grey, a familial trait for which the Ashbell family were named.
In terms of outfit, Brande wears a banded, tanned leather cuirass, and a pair of complimentary leather wrist braces, over a black ruffled shirt.
A set of similar leather grieves compliment the ensemble, as does a sterling, silver rapier, which hangs from his belt. His pants are made of a light, baggy material to enable quick lunging movements. When travelling, he conceals most of this beneath a long, black cloak which he binds with a long, copper-coloured thread. On its hind, outlined in silver, a sword faces downwards, its tip piercing an eight-pointed star.
Theme Song:
v=WCaaJPEdAzQ
Nature: Brande is a force of nature, consumed by an obsession to meet and duel his perfect match, driven by his lifelong commitment to live by the sword, and die by the sword. Like his father before him, all Brande aspires to is the final, perfect fight. If you defeat him, his loyalty is yours... if.
He is the eternal showman, and like the element he's come to serve as avatar of, this beautiful flourish is part of what makes him dangerous: a combination of skill and recklessness.
Outside of combat, he's sharp-tongued but good-spirited, and once his loyalty is earned it's banked for life. He's a very friendly, very jovial man... until you draw your sword. In which case, "Are you feelin' lucky, amico?"
Backstory: Brande Ashbell is the son of Fiam Ashbell, who in turn was the son of Aviur Ashbell, one of the last knights to lose his life at Xaviar.
The Ashbells have a grand legacy, of fighting (and tragically, often perishing), in stupendous battles. For as long as their name has been floating around Coake- since the first of them arrived, from a distant, Mediterranean climate- the Ashbells have always been known for their military service, and their ferocity with a blade.
It is a long lived family, proud and- before darkness swept over the land- large. But most of them perished in the war, fighting to the last breath... most of the survivors were only children at the time, and many of them didn't start families. His father was the last Ashbell father
The Ashbell lineage dies with Brande.
But, at least, he will go out with style! Brande is distilled from a long history of swordsmen, all of different styles and disciplines. His father was a saberist, and his grandfather a student of the twin gladius. And Brande among them, a flamboyant disciple of the rapier, as- rarely enough- was his mother before him. The Ashbell were once famous for their massive collection of familial blades, and Esmeralda Ashbell was famous for having married her way into them, when she disarmed Fiam in an honour-based duel and stole his sword and heart in a single parry.
How Brande longs to see that collection again, and his mother along with it.
Brande is a travelling swordsman. Despite his family's past wealth and prowess, he's a rolling stone, and not by choice.
Once, he'd been a wealthy youth, without a care in the world: he'd lived on the family estate, Serifina Heights, an expansive series of luscious courtyards and beautiful, antiquated architecture. It was there his father had taught him the way of the sword. It was an ancient rite of passage, starting when he was seven. To become an Ashbell man, you must pick an Ashbell weapon.
"Pick any blade from my armoury: as an Ashbell, you'll eventually be proficient in them all."
Serifina Heights is gone, now. A burnt ruin that still smoulders lightly in the hotter months. It had been South of Jeorvo, East of the Wisdom Mountains.
For fifty years, his father recounted, no element of darkness had ever stepped foot on Ashbell ground: it was as though they'd been granted clemency.
Five decades, untouched.
It was destroyed in a night. To this day, Brande doesn't know why: but one night mid-Summer, an army garrison descended from The Wisdom Mountains, and decided that Serifina Heights would be their bounty. The Ashbells and their staff, of course, raised arm against them: and had it been a fair sword fight, they might even have won. But when have goblins and orcs ever played fair?
The main chateau had already caught fire before Brande's father had realised he'd never stood a chance. In the final moments before the whole estate went up in flames, Brande was told to run, with only is mother's sword at his side.
Brande never stopped running.
Eleven years have passed, since that day, and the ruins of Serifina Heights are still there. Brande has visited them many times over the years. To meditate, to train. But he hasn't let his past dampen his spirit. Like his father and grandfather before him, his passion is the blade, and with said blade he's still steadily carving his way towards vengeance, and pursuing the glorious final fight his father was denied.
With his family gone, his estate destroyed and his wealth seized, Brande lives his life walking the land, now. Sharpening his skills, and pursuing the fabled "perfect opponent", the battle of his life.
So ill is his fortune, but so unbreakable is his spirit, the people he's passed have even given him a title: The Vagabond Prince.
Over the years, however, Brande's more "classical" approach to sword-fighting has changed, substantially. It as seven years ago, whilst he was camping out under the stars and among the ruins of his old home, that he discovered he had a startling gift.
He'd not long turned seventeen, and had been searching for any remainder of the old sword gallery left un-pillaged: hoping to find even a scrap of his once mighty inheritance. The search was fruitless.
He'd slept very strangely, that night. Most of the details of the dream escape him to this day, but from it he recalls a sudden, deep, agonising heat that had overtaken his body in the night, as though a fire had been struck within.
When he awoke, at first he was startled. But then, a strange peacefulness followed, as the soothing night's breeze assured him all was well. He found he felt a strange kinship with his dwindling campfire, fueled by the burnt beams of his childhood manor. Absentmindedly, dazed still from his vivid imaginings, he'd reached to prod the ashes with his sword: only to find that when he drew the blade back, the fire came with it.
Brande was an elementos. Brande controlled fire.
That was the night he christened his blade, in his mother's name: Esmeralda, the flamelash.
From then on, he took this as a sign that he was to persevere. His inheritance was not a collection of old swords, but instead a weapon all of his own, a flaming point with which to run the unjust through.
Brande has since made it his duty to use his power to the best means he can imagine: finding his perfect opponent. With Esmeralda in hand, he has trekked the land in search of swordsmen who can best him, all the time refining his technique, finely tuning his flaming-sword assault. All the while, dreaming of bigger opponents, better.
Before, he had sought to be the avenging angel of his family: but now he has the flaming blade to play the part, his aspirations have grown. He now wishes to cleave through evil at large, and put his skills to the ultimate test.
Recently, he had another dream, in the same spot he'd learned of his powers, beckoning him Northwards. He left as quickly as he could. Deep down, he knew. This is first step towards his destiny.
Goal(s): To become the greatest swordsman the Ashbell line has ever produced, and carve his way through the forces of evil with his flaming blade, Esmeralda, until he's fought his fated, perfect opponent.
Inventory: 
 One rapier, Esmeralda the Flamelash. When he's near a source of fire, he draws it to this sword's blade.
 A tinder box
 A set of matches
 Handful of cigars (he might be broke, but his tastes are still rich!)
 A shaving kit, complete with straight razor
 One waterskin, slung from the belt
 A messengers bag

Text Colour: Grapefruit (#DC381F)