"Huh, sharp words, spun from a velvety tongue."
(This profile makes use of AI art)
- Full Name: "Royal"
- Race: Bene Rexit Isldar
- Age: 75
- Gender / Pronouns: Male, He/Him
- Occult: Mundane
- Languages: Common, Dvalan, Sulvaley
Royal is not outwardly religious in any way, instead preferring to keep any worship away from the iconoclast ways of the Regalian norm; his ideation of what is good and bad is only kept to him as he seeks more to avoid any reason to clash, even if it means ignoring his ideals.
Royal prefers to be jovial when possible. Often seeking to raise others rather than put any down. This can often come across as insincere, despite Royal's best intentions, due to the rest of his race's propensity for a more reservist attitude and Regalia's general shit-behind-the-grin outlook.Royal will attempt to veer most questions about himself away but does religiously wear a shattered dueling sword from his family at his hip. While not explaining why and how it was broken, he will say it was his fault.
Appearance
Royal stands at an easy-going 6'2, not the tallest for an elf, but something that's worked to his advantage. Like almost all Isldar, his skin is pale and his hair white, yet he may occasionally work to dye it blonde should he feel inclined or simply wish to go a little more undetected. His eyes are the characteristic green; he almost always has a smirk or smile on his face, something unlike his race.
In addition, Royal appears to always have road dirt or dust on his face or, in general, all over him. He does bathe now and again, but almost obsessively, he seeks out a place where he may become covered in dust again. He smells heavily of cinnamon, a trait he suggests is due to the thin reeds he smokes, something he calls Serenity.
His build is that of a traveler, just lean. His clothes are ragged and worn, and he actively seeks out something more comfortable for himself to wear, often opting for looser fitting, more breathable clothes and a soft pair of walking boots.
- Strength: 7
- Weapon Throw Pack
- Brawl Stampede Pack (Racial)
- Break Down Pack
- Technique Parry Pack
- Cheap Shot Pack
- Bruiser Parry Pack
- Bruiser Stance (Free)
- Bruiser Agony Pack
- Bruiser Slam Pack
- Constitution: 1
- Rage Counter Pack
- Wisdom: 5
- Tech Armory Pack
- Tech Hook Pack
- Tech Defense Pack
- Tech Gravity Pack
- Exorcism Pack
- Dexterity: 0
- Soft Landing Pack (Racial)
- Arcane: 1
- Chem Cleanse Pack
"Alright, easy lad. Just a question." Royal snickered as he held up his hands defensively as the Dvalan boy slowly sat back down at his place across the campfire.
The boy was slender, like Royal, both roadstompers, yet he wore a woolen cap that curled up at the edges and his hair was a mousy red. Freckles smattered his face.
The camp lapsed into silence for a few minutes after that. The group of five all tending to their own bowls of soup. A beet base, it held chunks of rabbit in it to be fished out with bread. The eldest man, Dimitriv eventually looked back to Royal. Dimitriv was a hulk, his shoulders nearly as broad as his cart. but a kind man. A lucky meet on the road.
"Ssso…" He began, his accent pulling his words. "You are a walker, yes? From the North?"
Royal glanced up and adjusted himself in his seat, "Somewhere around there, yeah."
"I hear stories of grand cities…why leave?"
Royal felt his brow furrow, then loosen, an old scar on his back tickling with questions like that. Staring into the flickering flames, his memories danced in the firelight. The old man's question had probed into a part of him that he usually kept buried.
"Grand cities, yeah... But sometimes, even the grandest of places can't offer what you truly seek," he mused, stirring the soup absentmindedly with his spoon.
Dimitriv nodded sagely, the Dvalan boy glanced from one face to another, confused. The fire's crackling was the only sound for a while, the night settling in around the camp.
"Sometimes the road calls louder than the grandest cities' whispers," Royal mutters, his voice cracking the silence. "Spires of blood…wreathed in bones and set alight with dragon fire…like things your dreams would dare to paint." His head tilted back before staring up at the stars above him.
"This…one time, we were ordered to kill a Vael'shar Amirith…Sword Prince." Royal's brows knit as if trying to dissect some question in his head, "The way he moved it was like…death distilled to a liquid form. Barely had time to blink before another died."
The Dvalan boy's eyes widened in awe, Dimitriv raised an eyebrow, his intuition prickling.
"We were but pawns in a grander scheme," Royal continued. "We tracked the Amirith to a desolate wasteland, a place untouched by mercy. The spires rose from the ground like skeletal fingers clawing at the heavens. The air was thick with miasma." His lips began to move of their own accord. "We ambushed him, a group of nobodies against a Sword Prince. Foolish. His blade made us look like hardly more than ants. Ishka had her spine severed, Andrel found his skull split and only the spires bore witness to our demise," Royal said, his tone eerily present.
Dimitriv leaned in. "Well, what happened, Royal? How did you survive?"
Royal took a moment.
"I don't remember much after that," he admitted. "Just pain and the taste of blood. Survival comes at a cost some aren't willing to pay." Royal let his head fall, and his gaze stared back at Dimitriv. "Not like it makes much of a difference in the end. All end up as dust on the road."
The campfire crackled, and the stars above shimmered with their own tales. Dimitriv's brow furrowed, his eyes moving to the shattered sword at Royal's hip. "Your sword then... what happened?"
Royal's eyes met Dimitriv's, something glinted in them. "Shattered, just like the illusions we hold on to," he said, his fingers tracing the fractured edges of the blade.
As if on cue, a rustling sound crept through the woods surrounding the camp. The atmosphere shifted the air growing tense. Dimitriv and the Dvalan boy exchanged wary glances, a sudden rasp of steel on leather.
"And it seems like the road has its own tales to tell," Royal remarked, his voice low. The rustling grew louder and closer.
Dimitriv gripped the hilt of his shortsword, the firelight casting shadows onto the blunted blade. The Dvalan boy instinctively moved closer to the elder man.
