Nuraku
Details
Full Name: Nuraku
Birth Name: Alphonse Eriksen
Birth Race: Rathor (Rakura Beastalt)
Common Form: Black Wolf
Original Sex: Female / Feel free to mis-gender.
Original Height: 8' 2"
Original Weight: 350 Lbs
Age: 29
Birthdate: 48th of Glade, 491
Birthplace: Atinaw
Profession: Advanced Mercenary / Hunter
Housing: The Great Outdoors
Partners: None
Titles: None
Factions: The Black Remedy, The Bloodless Kin
Fluencies: Vithmi, Common
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: None
Appearance
Having lost her traditional form, Alphonse exists perpetually in the form of one animal or another. The most common among them is a large, jet black female wolf. It was the den mother to a pack of wolves, and its eyes are a bright silvery blue. Its paws are wide, suitable for a colder climate, its claws somewhat sharp, but thick and black. The wolf has two tall triangles for ears upon its head, and two rows of sharp ivories within its jaws. The wolf stands at about three feet by the shoulders, with another several inches should the head rise, and upon its hind legs it can easily stand taller than someone only about six feet tall. The wolf moves with a steady trot of spindly limbs, peering about for danger as it goes.
Another common one form is that of a male white ermine, a stoat. In this form, she is weasel-like, thirteen inches long from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail, and covered in luxurious, soft and thick fur. The small size allows her to be nimble, and she can often be seen wielding a butter knife that glows red between her teeth. She moves with a hopping gallop wherever she goes as an ermine.
Formerly
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Big, looming, and quiet between her words, Alphonse tends to unnerve the average commoner with her savage appearance. Black fur from head to toe, and a wide muzzle brimming with sharp teeth and pantherine upper fangs exposed past her lips, she has a height that towers over most to leave her standing out in a crowd. Large, yellow eyes that reflect the light in the dark give her gaze a piercing, wild look, and the huge horns jutting from her forehead, as well as the smaller ones curving from her upper jawline work to further sell the dangerous appearance--her body is a weapon, and it advertises that fact.
Body tensed with natural, animalistic muscle, her arms and legs are toned and hard beneath that thick, soft fur. Conforming to the configuration of paws, her hands possess large pads upon each digit, as well as the palm. Often, she can be seen wearing a chainmail hauberk, a huge flamberge strapped to her back.
Were one to touch her body, they would find it very warm due to how hot her soul burns, a clear sign that she bares the Black Sigil, which is hidden beneath the fur on her chest. The rune of Summoning trails beneath it, again hidden by the thick fur.
Body tensed with natural, animalistic muscle, her arms and legs are toned and hard beneath that thick, soft fur. Conforming to the configuration of paws, her hands possess large pads upon each digit, as well as the palm. Often, she can be seen wearing a chainmail hauberk, a huge flamberge strapped to her back.
Were one to touch her body, they would find it very warm due to how hot her soul burns, a clear sign that she bares the Black Sigil, which is hidden beneath the fur on her chest. The rune of Summoning trails beneath it, again hidden by the thick fur.
Quirks
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Animus
Apprentice Animus - Transfiguran
Alphonse often felt she never fit in, wherever it may have been. Her attempts to be something were stifled by class, and superstition, for she was Rathor of Rakura, a pest animal associated with far too many negative concepts. Transfiguran is a sudden, harsh reality. It locks her out of her original body once undergoing her first Mold, such that she could never shift into it again. The implications for this mutation are severe and far reaching, making it hard for her to persist through society. All she retains is her capability for speech, which is nearly freely available in each of her forms by default for those with lungs and mouth. She cannot even access her original form partially for other abilities, save for being able to Imprint upon animals while within any of her forms. The benefit yielded to her is such that smaller animals down to the size of a mouse incur no additional cost, as there is no longer a mass difference to account for, and she no longer needs to be within her original form to imprint upon animals. Large animals will still incur a scaling cost difference.
Sigilic Pyromancy
Apprentice Sigilic Pyromancy - Shrivenbreath
Never able to channel a Flame Lance properly, Alphonse could not figure out why until it dawned on her. Rather than channeling her Flame Lance like a javelin, Alphonse can instead draw the flames from the back of her throat and shoot them from her mouth. This ball of flame jettisoned from her mouth has the exact same functionality, speed, and power as her Flame Lance.
Apprentice Animus - Transfiguran
Alphonse often felt she never fit in, wherever it may have been. Her attempts to be something were stifled by class, and superstition, for she was Rathor of Rakura, a pest animal associated with far too many negative concepts. Transfiguran is a sudden, harsh reality. It locks her out of her original body once undergoing her first Mold, such that she could never shift into it again. The implications for this mutation are severe and far reaching, making it hard for her to persist through society. All she retains is her capability for speech, which is nearly freely available in each of her forms by default for those with lungs and mouth. She cannot even access her original form partially for other abilities, save for being able to Imprint upon animals while within any of her forms. The benefit yielded to her is such that smaller animals down to the size of a mouse incur no additional cost, as there is no longer a mass difference to account for, and she no longer needs to be within her original form to imprint upon animals. Large animals will still incur a scaling cost difference.
Sigilic Pyromancy
Apprentice Sigilic Pyromancy - Shrivenbreath
Never able to channel a Flame Lance properly, Alphonse could not figure out why until it dawned on her. Rather than channeling her Flame Lance like a javelin, Alphonse can instead draw the flames from the back of her throat and shoot them from her mouth. This ball of flame jettisoned from her mouth has the exact same functionality, speed, and power as her Flame Lance.
Personality
Having lost much of her coarseness in recent seasons, Nuraku is somewhat patient, if reserved. She has been humbled by her trials, and now has a very jaded view of the world. She is kind, and honorable, seeking to do the right thing no matter the cost. More than anything, she wants to make an impact upon the world, to cleanse Dranoch from Sil-Elaine and elevate the revolutionaries she supports. However, to do so she must contend with her own inadequacies.
Unlike other mages, Nuraku has been taught to actively buck the hubris and superiority that stems from power. She is weary, and conscious of psychological changes upon herself. The stubbornness she was born with has transitioned to a moral groundedness that she refuses to be swayed from, unless it is for the better. Even so, she understands the necessity of killing in warfare, and the gravity, even danger of the ideologies she has seen traveling Atharen.
Nuraku is playful, even proud of her stature should she dwarf another, and eagerly bullies others in a playful manner. She likes to nearly knock people off their feet with a pat, sometimes threatening before offering a smile and a laugh. Like a cat playing with its prey, only she really does tend to care about the people subjected to her torment.
When it comes to sciences, Alphonse struggles with mundane things like math, but more approachable subjects like biology and medicine appeal. It has to have a functional, active element for her to excel that she can clearly see. This is why she's pretty good about navigating the Marks of Control she was given, since cause and effect is very easy for her to learn from.
History
Origins
► Show Spoiler
From dirt and dust, Alphonse left the place where she began her existence. She knew it well, but it never bode her well; she was kinless, and so she could not aspire to anything. It was suffocating to have ones passions torn asunder day in and day out, an orphan with nothing but ambitions that could not be quenched.
She set her sights on anywhere. It didn't matter, really. She'd go through city after wretched city somewhere else if it meant finding one bastion of goodness in this hellscape of a world.
Clink. As she'd left Atinaw and strayed into Daravin for an untold number of days, her toes bumped something in the dirt. Bending down, she'd picked it up and brushed it off. A board of wood, dirty and grizzled with age and abuse, two twangy cords hanging from it like tails with two more still attached. Her claws plucked at it. Plink.
"Huh, plinky thing."
There was booming in the distance, echoes of the sinful thunder rolling through the canyons. Down the path steps a twirling clawed menace, each bony tendril plucking platinum plinths.
Twang and twuck, pluck and plack, it's not a good song, but it wasn't bad to her. Best these beast hands'll ever craft, in fact! The wicked savage smile on her lips tells all the story you'd ever need in the din of her clamoring riffs banging down the doors that used to be your ear drums if you'd only pass her by.
Her mouth opens, lashing tongue yawning forth. Rasping voice scorches sensibilities, a low hum to this dainty world of fragile frills.
"Chorus for the porous, skin so delicate.
Feelin' lonely take the ferry-e-e-eee,
Rag em, plug em, all night long,
crash and burn with me-e-e-eeee,"
Wooden plank of busted rank, the flimsy instrument holds its own under her deep dipping dabbling digit dance.
"Found you there under red sky song,
Feelin' lonely on the ferry-e-e-eee,
Sing along, fling and wrong, all night long,
Toss and turn with me-e-e-eee."
The muse paused, a mind wandering with meek pondering of notes washing across the board with the same chill as death's still, bony paw.
And then it began, again.
"We were feeling fine, for a time,
Just a moment in the afterglow-oh-oh-ohhh.
Won't you come back to my vine,
But what do I know-oh-oh-ohh."
Schrpchknptew!
"Fuck'n frickthing cheap-kish'n bozz flffck!" Over the shoulder and unto windy mountain road went splintered plinky tinky thing. "Was never meant to sing them things anyhow. Kinless were right." She carried on, from land to land, but after a long time traveling those overgrown roads, all was not right. She could hear it. Something on the wind, in the ground, and all around.
Eyes of amber rose skyward. Wide and embracing the sky, wings of fire blotted out the sun. The woman's beastly ears fell flat to her skull, and she grabbed her horns to duck out of the road as thundering hooves raced up the mountainside. As the others raced by, an elf broke from the group to accost her from her huddled position beneath him plastered to the grassy hillside. "Curse m'luck!" she hissed beneath her heightened breath.
Her head went down, low to the grass to not catch a lick of attention. Everything rumbled as those big beasts raced by and kicked up the stones. When they were gone, her eyes rose above the cresting path, listening for more of those people.
"Bozz," the woman swore under her breath. "Elves." Her lips curled, showing teeth as she clawed her way back up onto the path and watched them disappear, fire blipping at the sky on the horizon as they chased whatever monster they'd had their sights on.
She'd peered on from afar. "The hodge is that fiyah?" Taking hold of her horns again as her fur bristled, she turned tail and started walking down the path away from their lot when a small elf boy about waist-high whimpered and limped on by, too tired to walk.
"It took mommy," wailed the little boy, his screams on cue to wreck her mind with that noise.
The Rathor stood there, eyes looking left to right. She stepped aside, and waved her arms to point down the trail towards the fighting fire-o-mancers. "Well then, it went that way." But the child ran forward and hugged her dirty, fuzzy leg and the woman's first thought was...
Eww, this'n snivelin' brat frick'n shffk I hate n'h why the child in the MIDDLE of nowhere, an' what the kill it now get it off.
But what she said was "Calm down, you don't need a mother to be strong. Look'it me."
You're a horrible person.
The child cried louder.
Her eyes tore from him and she stared in the direction the child came from. "Hey!" she hollered. "Is this thing's daddy around!" An insistent squeeze around her leg made the woman grunt, and she finally relented, setting a big ol' paw upon the little cretin's head.
"Haaaahwuughh. Daddy was taken by the monster w-when, w--w-when... !" The boy struggled to get the words out, so she ruffled his elf-fur before prying him off her leg as gently as she could, holding him at arms length.
"Kid, I can't help you-" Her words were interrupted by a terrible sound.
"REEEUGuhhwah-"
Alphy's eyes flashed to slits, and she shook him. Hard. "Get a hold of yourself, ya shrike!" Shut him up real quick, or at least into a sniveling mess she could better deal with. "Look, you can come with me 'til we find someone else to take care a ya."
"Hssf. Hn. Hff. Y'really mean that?" Devil's eyes looked a lot calmer now, more devious than anything. Alphonse had a damn plotter on her hands.
"Of course I do!" muttered the beast woman. "A Rathor's got her honor to keep!" Like she had any to begin with. "So quit'ch yer yappin' and let's turn the page on this silly book of life." Her words seemed to confuse the child enough to still him into silence, so she picked him up into her big, fuzzy arms and cradled the despondent tween elf like he was a damn infant.
So little Brannon is asleep in her arms when she walks into a village and what's the first thing she hears? Racists. A whole lotta racists. "That Rathor's stealing a child! Aaaaaah!" Pitchforks and hoes, and other implements charged for the woman, and she held him out like a shield as he flailed in a panic.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, he ran away and I'm bringing him back! Calm your udders!" rasped the woman, passing her impenetrable elven shield to a woman who seemed so eager to take the brat off her hands.
"She's tellin' the truth!" shouted Brannon as everyone else instantly shouted, drowning him out. The pack of wild animals were on her in an instant. A shovel dinged her noggin and a hoe chiseled her backside.
"Ow, ow, t'ch! That hurt!" The woman snarled then, and swiped at the nearest shovel, snapping it. Her roar shoved them all back. "I am NOT in the mood to deal with you dumb-as-cow-dung farmers!" She pointed to the kid, who was wailing. "You made him fuggin' cry!"
Somewhere in the scuffle, her nose had been thoroughly rammed, so she smeared the blood from it and snuffled the rest up her nostrils as the pain ached. Her breathing was heavy, but as she looked side to side, the townspeople seemed to have gotten a clue. The racist wench came forward with her head in the sand, at least metaphorically. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry, it's - we're all a little on edge, and we thought you might be one of the bandits come here from Atinaw."
"Do I look like a bandit ter you!?" hissed Alphonse. "Do I sound like some holly-snatcher!?" Oh, she was pissed, and she had fangs to show it, but in a gruff little display of loathing she rolled her eyes and sat on the ground where she stood, shutting them and tilting her nose to her lap, big wide elbows above her crossed legs, paws at her hips. "Look, I don't want trouble, came here ta find a new life and ya best BELIEVE I'm no evil monster with fur and fangs. I'm a good monster with fur and fangs, and if you've got a bandit problem, well, pay me room and board to stave em off for awhile, and get that child a home!"
"As if we'd let one of your kind live here!" shouted a sneering, foaming-at-the mouth elf-racist from the pack of dogs.
It was hard not to be angry, but Alphonse groaned her frustration none-the-less. "Not forever, just awhile."
A hand moved to lay upon her head between those horns. "Oh, don't listen to old Gayler," came the soft words of the racist wench. The Rathor peered up as the hand moved away, a determined grin on her lips.
"Well that's music to my ears, lass," said she.
"So when's somebody gonna tell her it's a Dranoch and not bandits?"
The crowd locked up and gasped, the racist wench squinting her eyes tight as everything boiled over. She squeezed her fists and then jabbed a finger laden with rage at the girl who'd spilled the truth.
Alphonse threw up her hands and rose to her feet, pushing past everybody gathered 'round her. "Nope, I'm out. Not geared nor trained to slay bloodsuckers, bozos."
A hand reached forth from the crowd and grasped a painful of her fur. It was Brannon's. "No, good monster cat thing, don't go! You can fight them!"
The Rathor stopped. "Good monster cat thing?" she repeated, scowling down at the little boy.
"Black Remedy! Join the Black Remedy!" shouted the boy, but the crowd absorbed him in a hushed panic. She vaguely heard him say 'weapon' as a huddle of concerned bodies shielded him from divulging such forbidden words.
"Can we stop acting like animals here and actually speak what the fuck is on our minds!?" shouted Alphonse. She reached in and grabbed a squirming body, eyes of conviction staring into the flailing elf's soul. Poor thing was of timid stock, and hiccuped rather than spoke. She was sure he'd start defecating as a defense mechanism from how pale he was. "Black Remedy. What's-it? Tell me!"
"Haaah. Hhahuuuuh-"
"That one's a coward he'll faint before he tells you anything!" came a shout from the crowd. Her claws released him, but she snatched another from the crowd.
"So you'll tell me then?" rumbled the giant beast woman.
"Fire," said the man. "Magic fire and some old god 'n if you look, hff, lemme down I'll talk!" She released him, but kept her paws on his shoulder. Hoes and shovels were starting to float about in her vicinity again, but she didn't care. "Next town over to the East, ask around. Just say you want to join to a few folks and stop at the inn for a night, they'll find you."
"Fine," said Alphy. She was curious, and, rising to the bump of farming implements she walked from the crowd and looked back to Brannon, shooting him a smile. "I'll go find that weapon kid, and when I get back, you bet'cha I'll get that damn Dranoch."
"I'm pretty sure those men earlier killed it when it took my mom," piped up the kid who seemed to have really bounced back emotionally. "But there might be another someday!"
Alphonse kicked dirt. "Y'know, whatever. You want my help, ya beg me next time! Hate this place! Rrrghghhrowl!" The woman stomped off clear out of the village, tired and wishing she'd stay but not so up to living around these timid, frightened, broken people who seemed so messed up that half of em had to be mentally ill.
Instead, she slept over a log. Fun fact: it rained that night. The next morning, she got to a bigger town where people were still shifty as they come, but nobody was freaking out over a Rathor wandering through town at least. She'd asked around and used what little coin she had to rent a room. The next morning, she stumbled from her room with weary eyes, and a cloaked, hooded man with arms crossed stood leaning by the stairs.
She eyed him, tilting her head from where she stood. He didn't move.
"The village you passed through," rasped the man, his voice strangled and rasping. "The boy you brought back from the wilderness." He looked to her. "That which you seek now, a weapon against the Dranoch. Why?"
Alphonse ducked properly through the doorway and stood tall with her arms crossed, looking down upon him. "I'm looking for work. It's as simple as that."
The man looked her up and down. "No. Something more..." He smirked at her, his smile twinged with smugness that made the woman weary. "You want to make the most of your short life. You can't sit still."
He had her. It was true. "You haven't sold me on your little crusade just yet, elf," chuffed Alphonse. "Cut to the chase, what's your offer?"
The man lifted his hand, pulling the collar of his tunic down to show a gnarled black tattoo upon his flesh. A sigil. "The Black Sigil." He let his clothing go and held out his palm towards the ceiling, forming a bright flame upon it. "This is the power to make a life matter, given to us by our God ."
Flame danced in the woman's eyes. Possibilities twinkled like stars in her mind, and the woman who grew from nothing began to see whatever this was as a way to achieve her ambitions, though not without its risks, and her trust would still be hard won. Her paws slid further under her shoulders, hugging tighter. "You have my curiosity," she admitted.
"I will need more than just your curiosity. I need from you your word, that you will respect what we expect of you, Rathor."
A silence formed between them, but her head nodded once. "You have my word," she said. "I need training. An education."
"That will be provided to you," smiled the suspicious man. "In the Darklands of Sil-Elaine, there is a castle where you will be made a soldier, a Cleric of ash. We will go there together, can you leave now?"
Alphonse nodded, and got her belongings. After tidying up the room she'd been rented so graciously, she left with the man. Others joined them - new recruits? She kept silent, listening to their banter; she felt no kinship with them, but would that change? They left across Daravin, towards the coast. Out there, she was introduced to somewhere beneath the earth, where the people who'd come before had built something rather remarkable.
"What's this place?" Alphonse asked, driven to a quiet awe. Rusted metals lined the walls as they shuffled through an ancient concourse riddled with otherworldly lights.
"The only way in and out of Sil-Elaine. The country's on a lockdown, but the lords of the land haven't managed to snuff out this best-kept secret. Refugees come this way, a few of them, but our people remain under the heel of those flesh eating monsters." The recruiter seemed somber, but waved to the group as he boarded the train. "Come on," he said. "The train is leaving shortly."
Alphonse ducked inside, squatting just beyond the door as she looked all around in the tight metal cylinder. After a long wait, the train screeched and lurched forward, prompting her to shoot out a paw and hold on to a metal bar from the ceiling--"so that's what these'r for. I hate the feeling of this--damn." Her eyes were spinning circles, forcing a blink as she watched the dark sides of the cavern hurtle by through the window. "It's moving so fast."
"You'll get used to it. First time's always a bit jarring," remarked the elf. "Once you're there, you'll want to stay in territory held by the revolutionaries. Elsewhere, things are going to get dicey. The Dranoch use twisted magics to keep the populace under their claws, like cattle. It's no place to live--but that's what we're all about. We're going to change that, and we're risking our lives to do so."
"Aye, you needn't tell me twice. Those vermin sound worse than anything I've run afoul of so far, and maybe I'll be doin' good for a change helping you lot to mop 'em up." There wasn't much more to be said. Neither were the jolly, share-a-lot sort, at least not without a drink or several. It wasn't too long before they arrived in Sil-Elaine, and Alphonse wordlessly followed out into the gloom with the many recruits in tow.
The Darklands were unlike anything she'd ever seen. Such a caustic, forsaken place, and to think these elves built a castle here? The fortification was impressive nonetheless, and it really instilled within her a sense that there was something more to this legion of pyromancers she'd been caught up in.
When she arrived, they tested her sword arm. After knocking many a man on their arse with her strength, she'd earned their respect. Many of the men did not speak her language, but they could still share in the pain of combat and enlightenment, and she did not feel the shame of being kinless here. It was uplifting. She was starting to feel as if she belonged.
They gave her a sword. Foolsbane, she named it. Seemed proper to give it one, given the care she was taught to lavish upon the weapon, varnishing and sharpening the blade nightly under careful instruction. When they deemed her ready, the men taught her the oath, and she was given an audience with Aldrin, the sword strapped to her back as she knelt before this legend of a man who'd inspired so many to follow a strange message.
She held her head low, and recited it when he'd asked.
"From Oaths, Ordah.
Ordah is my comet-ment. Strength is me tool. Belief is me weapon.
I'm one blade among a million, pointed to th'forms of er slavers; meant to drive through eyr' necks. Ter rectify their scerdge.
I'm tha Cleric that'll cure tha land. I'm tha Wraith that'll cull tha deathless. I'm tha Revenant that'll hunt them beyond there graves.
From Oaths, Ordah. With Ordah, Strength and Belyf, we 'ill be free."
A silence followed, but Aldrin deemed it good enough, and they took her away to perform a ceremony for grafting the sigil to her wrist. It was a painful thing, like her soul was on fire, and she'd feel tingles of that burn for a long time, but she told herself it was worth it. They had her draw the Shrivenflame from that god-given blessing into her sword, Enkindling it with a warm glow. Only then was she allowed to rest, and she chose to sit within a recreation facility opposite a mirror, staring into her own eyes which had a dancing flame behind them, so subtle, so profound.
So this is your life now?
Give your life away, to some god?
You'll be deader than dead before winters end.
Resolve filled the woman, and she opted to learn all she could from the men at the castle willing to instruct her. She learned to twirl her huge blade above and keep the cowards at bay. Along with this, she learned to harness Sigilic Pyromancy, and she really did have a knack for it, even if they saw her as reckless. Soon a Sil'nori hedge mage named Tora offered to train her as a Summoner to shore up her weakness in bonding to other.
When she was given the rune and awakened to a certain spiritual enlightenment, her eyes felt heavy with tears, a weight beyond description pulling at her heartstrings until they threatened to snap. It was Tyrnac of Irothar who haunted her thoughts in those first moments, and it was he whom she sought to know everything about, his crackling flames sharing a kinship with the burning soul she now had within her.
After a few months, she was called upon by a Black Revenant.
"You told us you were born in Atinaw, with no blood relatives. You left since you lacked attachment to the place, and you wanted to be something." He started heavy and hard, but calm and direct.
Alphonse' eyes peeled. "Yes, sir."
"We're sending you back to Atinaw. You know the city. You know its dregs, its orphans, and its poor. Dranoch are escaping our grasp and spreading across the land like a plague. We want you to go there, and report any information you come across. Are you ready for this mission I have assigned to you, Cleric?"
Alphonse hesitated. Back to Atinaw? Her head lowered for a brief spell, but she nodded nonetheless. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Once there, begin a career that will not allow your skills to rust. Visit this bar to retrieve your mail once every fortnight. Address any letters to Veckler and leave them with the same tavern keeper. Write about the Dranoch as you would a friend, reporting on what they are doing, and how they 'seem' to be getting along. This will keep our dealings discrete. You are not to reveal yourself or engage under any circumstances without the order of a superior. Are you understood?" She didn't know his name, but the man was direct. She liked that.
The panther woman smiled. "Yes, sir."
"You will depart for Atinaw in the morning with your sword and belongings. See the quartermaster for supplies. Show him this missive with your orders, and burn it once you've seared the information into your mind." He scrawled upon a paper and stamped it with ink, passing it to her. "Malek be with us all."
"With us all," Alphonse repeated politely as she took the paper and left. The following morning, she followed her instructions and departed, saying goodbye to the elves she'd formed bonds with in battle. It was bittersweet, leaving the castle, but she knew she'd only grow so much under regimen. This was for the best.
But Atinaw? What a terrible fate, indeed. When she got to Atinaw, she began learning the trade of a mercenary, working for whatever sorry merchant or pompous lord she could. She watched, she listened, and she followed orders. There were no Dranoch, not yet, but well-penned letters were delivered to her contact that thanked her for her service. It was all she needed, really. She was content now. She had purpose, and even if she hated Atinaw, it was her city, and gods be damned she'd protect the place.
The order did not abate. In time, they started sending her elsewhere. In the end, she got what she wanted: seeing the world, and doing something about all those damn evil pricks romping around and making a mess of things.
She set her sights on anywhere. It didn't matter, really. She'd go through city after wretched city somewhere else if it meant finding one bastion of goodness in this hellscape of a world.
Clink. As she'd left Atinaw and strayed into Daravin for an untold number of days, her toes bumped something in the dirt. Bending down, she'd picked it up and brushed it off. A board of wood, dirty and grizzled with age and abuse, two twangy cords hanging from it like tails with two more still attached. Her claws plucked at it. Plink.
"Huh, plinky thing."
There was booming in the distance, echoes of the sinful thunder rolling through the canyons. Down the path steps a twirling clawed menace, each bony tendril plucking platinum plinths.
Twang and twuck, pluck and plack, it's not a good song, but it wasn't bad to her. Best these beast hands'll ever craft, in fact! The wicked savage smile on her lips tells all the story you'd ever need in the din of her clamoring riffs banging down the doors that used to be your ear drums if you'd only pass her by.
Her mouth opens, lashing tongue yawning forth. Rasping voice scorches sensibilities, a low hum to this dainty world of fragile frills.
"Chorus for the porous, skin so delicate.
Feelin' lonely take the ferry-e-e-eee,
Rag em, plug em, all night long,
crash and burn with me-e-e-eeee,"
Wooden plank of busted rank, the flimsy instrument holds its own under her deep dipping dabbling digit dance.
"Found you there under red sky song,
Feelin' lonely on the ferry-e-e-eee,
Sing along, fling and wrong, all night long,
Toss and turn with me-e-e-eee."
The muse paused, a mind wandering with meek pondering of notes washing across the board with the same chill as death's still, bony paw.
And then it began, again.
"We were feeling fine, for a time,
Just a moment in the afterglow-oh-oh-ohhh.
Won't you come back to my vine,
But what do I know-oh-oh-ohh."
Schrpchknptew!
"Fuck'n frickthing cheap-kish'n bozz flffck!" Over the shoulder and unto windy mountain road went splintered plinky tinky thing. "Was never meant to sing them things anyhow. Kinless were right." She carried on, from land to land, but after a long time traveling those overgrown roads, all was not right. She could hear it. Something on the wind, in the ground, and all around.
Eyes of amber rose skyward. Wide and embracing the sky, wings of fire blotted out the sun. The woman's beastly ears fell flat to her skull, and she grabbed her horns to duck out of the road as thundering hooves raced up the mountainside. As the others raced by, an elf broke from the group to accost her from her huddled position beneath him plastered to the grassy hillside. "Curse m'luck!" she hissed beneath her heightened breath.
Her head went down, low to the grass to not catch a lick of attention. Everything rumbled as those big beasts raced by and kicked up the stones. When they were gone, her eyes rose above the cresting path, listening for more of those people.
"Bozz," the woman swore under her breath. "Elves." Her lips curled, showing teeth as she clawed her way back up onto the path and watched them disappear, fire blipping at the sky on the horizon as they chased whatever monster they'd had their sights on.
She'd peered on from afar. "The hodge is that fiyah?" Taking hold of her horns again as her fur bristled, she turned tail and started walking down the path away from their lot when a small elf boy about waist-high whimpered and limped on by, too tired to walk.
"It took mommy," wailed the little boy, his screams on cue to wreck her mind with that noise.
The Rathor stood there, eyes looking left to right. She stepped aside, and waved her arms to point down the trail towards the fighting fire-o-mancers. "Well then, it went that way." But the child ran forward and hugged her dirty, fuzzy leg and the woman's first thought was...
Eww, this'n snivelin' brat frick'n shffk I hate n'h why the child in the MIDDLE of nowhere, an' what the kill it now get it off.
But what she said was "Calm down, you don't need a mother to be strong. Look'it me."
You're a horrible person.
The child cried louder.
Her eyes tore from him and she stared in the direction the child came from. "Hey!" she hollered. "Is this thing's daddy around!" An insistent squeeze around her leg made the woman grunt, and she finally relented, setting a big ol' paw upon the little cretin's head.
"Haaaahwuughh. Daddy was taken by the monster w-when, w--w-when... !" The boy struggled to get the words out, so she ruffled his elf-fur before prying him off her leg as gently as she could, holding him at arms length.
"Kid, I can't help you-" Her words were interrupted by a terrible sound.
"REEEUGuhhwah-"
Alphy's eyes flashed to slits, and she shook him. Hard. "Get a hold of yourself, ya shrike!" Shut him up real quick, or at least into a sniveling mess she could better deal with. "Look, you can come with me 'til we find someone else to take care a ya."
"Hssf. Hn. Hff. Y'really mean that?" Devil's eyes looked a lot calmer now, more devious than anything. Alphonse had a damn plotter on her hands.
"Of course I do!" muttered the beast woman. "A Rathor's got her honor to keep!" Like she had any to begin with. "So quit'ch yer yappin' and let's turn the page on this silly book of life." Her words seemed to confuse the child enough to still him into silence, so she picked him up into her big, fuzzy arms and cradled the despondent tween elf like he was a damn infant.
So little Brannon is asleep in her arms when she walks into a village and what's the first thing she hears? Racists. A whole lotta racists. "That Rathor's stealing a child! Aaaaaah!" Pitchforks and hoes, and other implements charged for the woman, and she held him out like a shield as he flailed in a panic.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, he ran away and I'm bringing him back! Calm your udders!" rasped the woman, passing her impenetrable elven shield to a woman who seemed so eager to take the brat off her hands.
"She's tellin' the truth!" shouted Brannon as everyone else instantly shouted, drowning him out. The pack of wild animals were on her in an instant. A shovel dinged her noggin and a hoe chiseled her backside.
"Ow, ow, t'ch! That hurt!" The woman snarled then, and swiped at the nearest shovel, snapping it. Her roar shoved them all back. "I am NOT in the mood to deal with you dumb-as-cow-dung farmers!" She pointed to the kid, who was wailing. "You made him fuggin' cry!"
Somewhere in the scuffle, her nose had been thoroughly rammed, so she smeared the blood from it and snuffled the rest up her nostrils as the pain ached. Her breathing was heavy, but as she looked side to side, the townspeople seemed to have gotten a clue. The racist wench came forward with her head in the sand, at least metaphorically. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry, it's - we're all a little on edge, and we thought you might be one of the bandits come here from Atinaw."
"Do I look like a bandit ter you!?" hissed Alphonse. "Do I sound like some holly-snatcher!?" Oh, she was pissed, and she had fangs to show it, but in a gruff little display of loathing she rolled her eyes and sat on the ground where she stood, shutting them and tilting her nose to her lap, big wide elbows above her crossed legs, paws at her hips. "Look, I don't want trouble, came here ta find a new life and ya best BELIEVE I'm no evil monster with fur and fangs. I'm a good monster with fur and fangs, and if you've got a bandit problem, well, pay me room and board to stave em off for awhile, and get that child a home!"
"As if we'd let one of your kind live here!" shouted a sneering, foaming-at-the mouth elf-racist from the pack of dogs.
It was hard not to be angry, but Alphonse groaned her frustration none-the-less. "Not forever, just awhile."
A hand moved to lay upon her head between those horns. "Oh, don't listen to old Gayler," came the soft words of the racist wench. The Rathor peered up as the hand moved away, a determined grin on her lips.
"Well that's music to my ears, lass," said she.
"So when's somebody gonna tell her it's a Dranoch and not bandits?"
The crowd locked up and gasped, the racist wench squinting her eyes tight as everything boiled over. She squeezed her fists and then jabbed a finger laden with rage at the girl who'd spilled the truth.
Alphonse threw up her hands and rose to her feet, pushing past everybody gathered 'round her. "Nope, I'm out. Not geared nor trained to slay bloodsuckers, bozos."
A hand reached forth from the crowd and grasped a painful of her fur. It was Brannon's. "No, good monster cat thing, don't go! You can fight them!"
The Rathor stopped. "Good monster cat thing?" she repeated, scowling down at the little boy.
"Black Remedy! Join the Black Remedy!" shouted the boy, but the crowd absorbed him in a hushed panic. She vaguely heard him say 'weapon' as a huddle of concerned bodies shielded him from divulging such forbidden words.
"Can we stop acting like animals here and actually speak what the fuck is on our minds!?" shouted Alphonse. She reached in and grabbed a squirming body, eyes of conviction staring into the flailing elf's soul. Poor thing was of timid stock, and hiccuped rather than spoke. She was sure he'd start defecating as a defense mechanism from how pale he was. "Black Remedy. What's-it? Tell me!"
"Haaah. Hhahuuuuh-"
"That one's a coward he'll faint before he tells you anything!" came a shout from the crowd. Her claws released him, but she snatched another from the crowd.
"So you'll tell me then?" rumbled the giant beast woman.
"Fire," said the man. "Magic fire and some old god 'n if you look, hff, lemme down I'll talk!" She released him, but kept her paws on his shoulder. Hoes and shovels were starting to float about in her vicinity again, but she didn't care. "Next town over to the East, ask around. Just say you want to join to a few folks and stop at the inn for a night, they'll find you."
"Fine," said Alphy. She was curious, and, rising to the bump of farming implements she walked from the crowd and looked back to Brannon, shooting him a smile. "I'll go find that weapon kid, and when I get back, you bet'cha I'll get that damn Dranoch."
"I'm pretty sure those men earlier killed it when it took my mom," piped up the kid who seemed to have really bounced back emotionally. "But there might be another someday!"
Alphonse kicked dirt. "Y'know, whatever. You want my help, ya beg me next time! Hate this place! Rrrghghhrowl!" The woman stomped off clear out of the village, tired and wishing she'd stay but not so up to living around these timid, frightened, broken people who seemed so messed up that half of em had to be mentally ill.
Instead, she slept over a log. Fun fact: it rained that night. The next morning, she got to a bigger town where people were still shifty as they come, but nobody was freaking out over a Rathor wandering through town at least. She'd asked around and used what little coin she had to rent a room. The next morning, she stumbled from her room with weary eyes, and a cloaked, hooded man with arms crossed stood leaning by the stairs.
She eyed him, tilting her head from where she stood. He didn't move.
"The village you passed through," rasped the man, his voice strangled and rasping. "The boy you brought back from the wilderness." He looked to her. "That which you seek now, a weapon against the Dranoch. Why?"
Alphonse ducked properly through the doorway and stood tall with her arms crossed, looking down upon him. "I'm looking for work. It's as simple as that."
The man looked her up and down. "No. Something more..." He smirked at her, his smile twinged with smugness that made the woman weary. "You want to make the most of your short life. You can't sit still."
He had her. It was true. "You haven't sold me on your little crusade just yet, elf," chuffed Alphonse. "Cut to the chase, what's your offer?"
The man lifted his hand, pulling the collar of his tunic down to show a gnarled black tattoo upon his flesh. A sigil. "The Black Sigil." He let his clothing go and held out his palm towards the ceiling, forming a bright flame upon it. "This is the power to make a life matter, given to us by our God ."
Flame danced in the woman's eyes. Possibilities twinkled like stars in her mind, and the woman who grew from nothing began to see whatever this was as a way to achieve her ambitions, though not without its risks, and her trust would still be hard won. Her paws slid further under her shoulders, hugging tighter. "You have my curiosity," she admitted.
"I will need more than just your curiosity. I need from you your word, that you will respect what we expect of you, Rathor."
A silence formed between them, but her head nodded once. "You have my word," she said. "I need training. An education."
"That will be provided to you," smiled the suspicious man. "In the Darklands of Sil-Elaine, there is a castle where you will be made a soldier, a Cleric of ash. We will go there together, can you leave now?"
Alphonse nodded, and got her belongings. After tidying up the room she'd been rented so graciously, she left with the man. Others joined them - new recruits? She kept silent, listening to their banter; she felt no kinship with them, but would that change? They left across Daravin, towards the coast. Out there, she was introduced to somewhere beneath the earth, where the people who'd come before had built something rather remarkable.
"What's this place?" Alphonse asked, driven to a quiet awe. Rusted metals lined the walls as they shuffled through an ancient concourse riddled with otherworldly lights.
"The only way in and out of Sil-Elaine. The country's on a lockdown, but the lords of the land haven't managed to snuff out this best-kept secret. Refugees come this way, a few of them, but our people remain under the heel of those flesh eating monsters." The recruiter seemed somber, but waved to the group as he boarded the train. "Come on," he said. "The train is leaving shortly."
Alphonse ducked inside, squatting just beyond the door as she looked all around in the tight metal cylinder. After a long wait, the train screeched and lurched forward, prompting her to shoot out a paw and hold on to a metal bar from the ceiling--"so that's what these'r for. I hate the feeling of this--damn." Her eyes were spinning circles, forcing a blink as she watched the dark sides of the cavern hurtle by through the window. "It's moving so fast."
"You'll get used to it. First time's always a bit jarring," remarked the elf. "Once you're there, you'll want to stay in territory held by the revolutionaries. Elsewhere, things are going to get dicey. The Dranoch use twisted magics to keep the populace under their claws, like cattle. It's no place to live--but that's what we're all about. We're going to change that, and we're risking our lives to do so."
"Aye, you needn't tell me twice. Those vermin sound worse than anything I've run afoul of so far, and maybe I'll be doin' good for a change helping you lot to mop 'em up." There wasn't much more to be said. Neither were the jolly, share-a-lot sort, at least not without a drink or several. It wasn't too long before they arrived in Sil-Elaine, and Alphonse wordlessly followed out into the gloom with the many recruits in tow.
The Darklands were unlike anything she'd ever seen. Such a caustic, forsaken place, and to think these elves built a castle here? The fortification was impressive nonetheless, and it really instilled within her a sense that there was something more to this legion of pyromancers she'd been caught up in.
When she arrived, they tested her sword arm. After knocking many a man on their arse with her strength, she'd earned their respect. Many of the men did not speak her language, but they could still share in the pain of combat and enlightenment, and she did not feel the shame of being kinless here. It was uplifting. She was starting to feel as if she belonged.
They gave her a sword. Foolsbane, she named it. Seemed proper to give it one, given the care she was taught to lavish upon the weapon, varnishing and sharpening the blade nightly under careful instruction. When they deemed her ready, the men taught her the oath, and she was given an audience with Aldrin, the sword strapped to her back as she knelt before this legend of a man who'd inspired so many to follow a strange message.
She held her head low, and recited it when he'd asked.
"From Oaths, Ordah.
Ordah is my comet-ment. Strength is me tool. Belief is me weapon.
I'm one blade among a million, pointed to th'forms of er slavers; meant to drive through eyr' necks. Ter rectify their scerdge.
I'm tha Cleric that'll cure tha land. I'm tha Wraith that'll cull tha deathless. I'm tha Revenant that'll hunt them beyond there graves.
From Oaths, Ordah. With Ordah, Strength and Belyf, we 'ill be free."
A silence followed, but Aldrin deemed it good enough, and they took her away to perform a ceremony for grafting the sigil to her wrist. It was a painful thing, like her soul was on fire, and she'd feel tingles of that burn for a long time, but she told herself it was worth it. They had her draw the Shrivenflame from that god-given blessing into her sword, Enkindling it with a warm glow. Only then was she allowed to rest, and she chose to sit within a recreation facility opposite a mirror, staring into her own eyes which had a dancing flame behind them, so subtle, so profound.
So this is your life now?
Give your life away, to some god?
You'll be deader than dead before winters end.
Resolve filled the woman, and she opted to learn all she could from the men at the castle willing to instruct her. She learned to twirl her huge blade above and keep the cowards at bay. Along with this, she learned to harness Sigilic Pyromancy, and she really did have a knack for it, even if they saw her as reckless. Soon a Sil'nori hedge mage named Tora offered to train her as a Summoner to shore up her weakness in bonding to other.
When she was given the rune and awakened to a certain spiritual enlightenment, her eyes felt heavy with tears, a weight beyond description pulling at her heartstrings until they threatened to snap. It was Tyrnac of Irothar who haunted her thoughts in those first moments, and it was he whom she sought to know everything about, his crackling flames sharing a kinship with the burning soul she now had within her.
After a few months, she was called upon by a Black Revenant.
"You told us you were born in Atinaw, with no blood relatives. You left since you lacked attachment to the place, and you wanted to be something." He started heavy and hard, but calm and direct.
Alphonse' eyes peeled. "Yes, sir."
"We're sending you back to Atinaw. You know the city. You know its dregs, its orphans, and its poor. Dranoch are escaping our grasp and spreading across the land like a plague. We want you to go there, and report any information you come across. Are you ready for this mission I have assigned to you, Cleric?"
Alphonse hesitated. Back to Atinaw? Her head lowered for a brief spell, but she nodded nonetheless. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Once there, begin a career that will not allow your skills to rust. Visit this bar to retrieve your mail once every fortnight. Address any letters to Veckler and leave them with the same tavern keeper. Write about the Dranoch as you would a friend, reporting on what they are doing, and how they 'seem' to be getting along. This will keep our dealings discrete. You are not to reveal yourself or engage under any circumstances without the order of a superior. Are you understood?" She didn't know his name, but the man was direct. She liked that.
The panther woman smiled. "Yes, sir."
"You will depart for Atinaw in the morning with your sword and belongings. See the quartermaster for supplies. Show him this missive with your orders, and burn it once you've seared the information into your mind." He scrawled upon a paper and stamped it with ink, passing it to her. "Malek be with us all."
"With us all," Alphonse repeated politely as she took the paper and left. The following morning, she followed her instructions and departed, saying goodbye to the elves she'd formed bonds with in battle. It was bittersweet, leaving the castle, but she knew she'd only grow so much under regimen. This was for the best.
But Atinaw? What a terrible fate, indeed. When she got to Atinaw, she began learning the trade of a mercenary, working for whatever sorry merchant or pompous lord she could. She watched, she listened, and she followed orders. There were no Dranoch, not yet, but well-penned letters were delivered to her contact that thanked her for her service. It was all she needed, really. She was content now. She had purpose, and even if she hated Atinaw, it was her city, and gods be damned she'd protect the place.
The order did not abate. In time, they started sending her elsewhere. In the end, she got what she wanted: seeing the world, and doing something about all those damn evil pricks romping around and making a mess of things.
