#He looks the same when he’s a master but with shorter boots and no bracers and no cape and all the diamonds are gold | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bedlamsbard · 4 years ago

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Part 14 of the other side AU concept! I know roughly when I want to pause and go back to section one to do revisions for AO3, but until then, concept writing, as I’m enjoying how low pressure this is at the moment. This section is for very important family feelings.

Previous: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

About 6.5K below the break.

***

Ezra woke up sluggishly, aware immediately that he was on a starship and that he wasn’t in his usual bunk. He could hear someone else breathing in the same room, but that could have meant anything; since the Chimaera had crashed he had been sleeping in the same makeshift barracks as the remaining death troopers. He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to reach out into the Force and disappoint himself after what had undoubtedly been another dream of rescue. He had had a lot of those over the past six years.

Eventually he opened an eye, frowning up at the surface of the top bunk above him – not the ceiling of the Scylla wardroom the death troopers were all sleeping in. He turned his head slowly, wincing as the movement jarred pain up and down his neck.

Kanan said quietly, “How are you feeling?”

Ezra sat up so quickly he practically concussed himself on the top bunk. Groaning, he clapped a hand to his forehead, staring at Kanan as the other man unfolded himself from his meditation cushion and came over to him. “You’re real,” Ezra whispered.

He put his free hand out to grab Kanan’s arm. Kanan was solidly real beneath his fingers, muscle and flesh there beneath the fabric of his shirtsleeve. He didn’t look the way he usually did in Ezra’s dreams, either; most of the past six years didn’t show on his face, but his hair was cropped shorter than it had ever been except for that last day, his beard cut close against his jaw. That familiar scar still cut across his white eyes, taking a nick out of the top of his nose. The metal bracers on his forearms were unfamiliar, painted green with the claw symbol from his old pauldron in white on them.

Ezra hung onto him, trying and failing not to cry. “You’re real,” he said again, then managed to wake up enough to remember the events of the previous day and a half. “It was all real.”

He crumpled forward into Kanan’s arms with rather less dignity than he would have preferred, his tears quickly soaking through the shoulder of Kanan’s shirt. Kanan held him closely, a solid, reassuring bulwark in the Force; all Ezra wanted to do was bask in the warmth of that strength. He was real. He was real. And here – they were all here. He was on the Ghost.

“You were – gone,” he said irrationally, the words muffled by the fact he still had his face buried in Kanan’s shoulder. “You were dead.”

“I got better,” Kanan said gravely, with hint of his old humor. “It didn’t take.”

Ezra finally raised his head, wiping a hand over his tear-streaked face. “You were dead,” he said again. “You’ve been dead. I – I felt it. And I felt – I felt you come back. But how –” He thought about the World Between Worlds again, the way he had a thousand times over the years, trying to decide if it would have been as awful as Ahsoka had claimed it would be if he had just done it, grabbed Kanan the way he had her. He touched Kanan gingerly with his mind, wondering if he could sense the strange energy of that place on him, but all he could feel was Kanan.

“It’s a long story,” Kanan said. “And Hera had probably better tell most of it, since she can decide what’s too classified to talk about and I probably shouldn’t.”

Ezra frowned. “But it’s – you, isn’t it? From – from then.” He couldn’t say the words out loud, not when he still had nightmares about it. He thought he probably always would have those nightmares.

Kanan nodded. “Yes.”

“But – I felt – back on Lothal – the Loth-wolves –”

Kanan arched an eyebrow.

“It’s why we went to the temple, when the Empire was tearing it up – studying it,” Ezra tried to explain. “I saw – I felt – you, back then. If you weren’t dead –”

Kanan sighed. “Ezra, I don’t have an explanation for everything,” he said gently. “The Force works in ways that we can’t always understand – that we aren’t capable of understanding. And – I know this one pretty personally right now – the Force doesn’t understand space and time in the way that we do. Space and time don’t exist in the Force in the same way that we live it. More than one thing can be true at the same time. And death doesn’t mean the same thing in the Force that it does to us – not when we’re in this form, at least.”

Ezra flinched. “I don’t understand,” he said, always a safe thing to say with Kanan.

“I don’t either,” Kanan said. “The Jedi teach that we are the Force made flesh.” He lifted his hands, flexing long fingers bared by his fingerless gloves. “We occupy this flesh, but it isn’t what we are. We’re the Force, and the Force is more than one thing at once. It’s all things at all times. It’s one reason we can see possible futures and the past as it could have been, and the present as it might still be somewhere else.”

Ezra scrubbed a hand beneath his eyes again. “I don’t understand,” he repeated. “But – I’m really glad you’re here.”

Kanan grinned. “So am I.”

Ezra hugged him again, hard enough that his abused muscles protested, then sat back heavily on the bunk. “And I feel like I got tossed around by a krykna,” he groaned. “And then stepped on by an AT-AT.”

“For what it’s worth, you don’t look it,” Kanan said, and Ezra groaned again.

“I’ll wait on that until someone else can weigh in,” he said. “Are there clothes around here?” He looked around vaguely, trying to remember what had happened after they had arrived at the Ghost. He was clean, so he must have showered; he was also wearing a shirt and underwear that weren’t Imperial-issue, and he was sincerely hoping he had put them on himself. He blinked again, finally realizing that he was in Kanan’s cabin.

Kanan leaned over, picked something up, and passed him a pile of fabric. “That should fit,” he said. “There was some guessing involved, but we were all feeling optimistic.”

“You have no idea how glad I’ll be not to wear something that doesn’t have the Imperial seal or the words ‘property of the Galactic Empire’ on it somewhere,” Ezra said. He ran a hand over his hair, then pulled the strips of leather free and finger-combed it before he pulled it back again.

Kanan started to get up. Ezra grabbed at his arm and said, “Don’t –”

Don’t go, he almost said. Don’t leave me.

Kanan stopped. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said gently. “I thought you might want some privacy.”

Ezra shrugged vaguely. He had been living in a durasteel box for six years and then being watched every time he was outside that box, and he didn’t have a good grasp on the concept anymore. Either way, the idea of letting Kanan out of his sight for more than a few moments felt like torture just now.

He got dressed while Kanan sat on the meditation cushion, pulling on the boots they had gotten him – more or less identical to his old pair, which had died an ignominious death a few years ago on one of the planets Thrawn had dragged him down to. It felt unbelievably good not to have a single piece of Imperial-issue gear on him, not even the blaster he had brought with him from Chimaera Camp. It was there; he just didn’t want to put it on, not yet.

When he finished and turned back, it was to find Kanan offering his outstretched hand. Ezra froze, his eyes fixed on what lay across his master’s open palm.

“You don’t need a lightsaber to be a Jedi Knight,” Kanan said, “but it’s always nice to have one.”

Ezra reached for it, stopping with his fingers hovering just over the hilt. He could sense the kyber crystal there, attuned to him and eager to be back in his presence. Then he looked up at Kanan, startled. “Jedi Knight?”

“You’ve had your trials,” Kanan said. “Even if I wasn’t here for them.”

Ezra bit his lip, fighting back the urge to start crying again. He took the lightsaber from Kanan, weighing it in his palm before he turned it upright and ignited the blade. It hummed between them, green plasma illuminating the shadows on Kanan’s face. They lay calmly, with nothing odd or unnatural about them, except the reflection of the blade in his white eyes, like a ghost of his vanished vision.

Ezra deactivated the lightsaber. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, his voice a little shaky.

Kanan put a hand on his shoulder, smiling. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said.

Ezra put the lightsaber carefully onto his belt, then hugged Kanan again. When he pulled back, he said, “Hey, does this make you a Master?”

Kanan blinked. “I guess,” he said; the thought had clearly never crossed his mind. He slung an arm around Ezra’s shoulders and said warmly, “Come on, let’s get some food in you before we have to decide what to do about Thrawn and the Yuuzhan Vong.”

“Leave them to each other,” Ezra grumbled, but he didn’t mean it; he was more than half-afraid that Thrawn had somehow already talked himself into an alliance with the Vong. His impression was that the Vong didn’t believe in alliance, only domination, but it wasn’t as though he had all that much to base that on. The only time he had ever actually interacted with the Vong they had been trying to kill each other; he had seen enough of what they left behind to dislike the wreckage, though.

He leaned against Kanan’s shoulder, drawing strength from him. It almost felt as though no time had passed at all; they could have been back on Lothal or Garel or Atollon, the future still open and brimming with possibility. As nice as the illusion was, though, Ezra knew it was just that. For a Jedi, six years was nothing; a heartbeat; a breath; an eye blink. He and Kanan had walked back into what they had been without much more than a moment’s thought; the distance wasn’t there, but it didn’t meant that the time hadn’t passed.

He started to pull away, then glanced down, distracted, and said, “That’s not your lightsaber. I mean – that’s not your old lightsaber?”

Kanan released it to touch two fingers to the top of the hilt, then said, “That’s part of the long story that’s classified.”

Ezra felt his shoulders slump. “Because I’ve been with the Empire for six years.”

“No, because it’s top secret and involves another universe.”

Ezra blinked at him. “Um – wait, you mean Sabine was serious about that?”

Kanan arched an eyebrow, bemused. “Hera or I will give you the highlights later. Come on.”

Ezra followed him out into the hallway. It looked unchanged from how he remembered it last, just slightly battered, with the scent of fresh paint and hot metal heavy in the air. He said, “Is Sabine painting her armor again?”

“If you’d woken up a little earlier you’d have heard her banging away at the portable forge in the engine room,” Kanan said. “I think she’s personally offended about it.”

Ezra bit his lip. “Do you know anything else that can cut through beskar? A lightsaber can’t.”

“Not off the top of my head,” Kanan said thoughtfully, rubbing a thumb over the edge of his left vambrace.

Ezra glanced at it, wondering if his vambraces were beskar and if so, how he had managed that; he had gotten the impression from Sabine that it was the worst kind of sacrilege for anyone other than a Mandalorian to wear beskar armor.

He still felt tired, sleep alone not being enough to erase the previous day’s exertions or do anything except make his aches and bruises settle more firmly into his abused muscles. Ezra rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and winced as the motion pulled at his bad shoulder.

As he had half been expecting, everyone else was in the common room; Hera and Zeb looking at a hologram of the Yuuzhan Vong encampment and Sabine sitting on the floor surrounded by paint jars and pieces of armor, Chopper peering over her shoulder. They all looked up as the door slid open.

Ezra froze, self-conscious. Looking at them, he could tell time had passed in a way that was less obvious with Kanan; all three of them carried the passage of years that Kanan lacked. In the previous night’s bad light, he hadn’t noticed it, but the harsh overhead lights picked out the scars dimpling the fur on Zeb’s left arm, the laugh-lines at the corners of Hera’s eyes, the sharpness of Sabine’s cheekbones. It dulled the fiery reds and oranges of her hair, pulled back for the moment as she worked; she already had flecks of paint on her chin and the front of her tank top.

“Hey,” he said awkwardly.

Hera got up as Zeb shut off the holotable and came over to hug him. She was a tall woman, and Ezra was relieved to find that he wasn’t taller than her now. She was also reassuringly sturdy as he returned the embrace, with a spray of small scars along the line of her left cheekbone and at the corner of her eye, as if the visor of her flight helmet had shattered and cut her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him, stepping back but keeping one hand on his shoulder.

“Like I got stepped on by an AT-AT,” Ezra told her. His stomach rumbled and he flushed, but all she did was smile. “How long was I asleep?”

“It’s about dinner time anyway,” Kanan said from behind him.

Ezra stepped out of the doorway so that Kanan could move past him into the common room, pausing to kiss Hera briefly before he crossed to the galley beyond. He stepped around the tarp Sabine had spread out to protect the floor from her paints; Ezra resisted the urge to follow him just so that he wouldn’t be out of his sight for more than a few moments.

Hera released him and moved back so that Zeb could lift Ezra off his feet in an embrace that took the breath out of him. “Took you long enough,” he said after he had set Ezra back down and made an attempt to ruffle his hair, which didn’t work as well now as it had a decade earlier.

“It’s not my fault!” Ezra protested before he remembered that it absolutely was his fault. “Okay, I mean – what, did you want me to bring the Chimaera back? Because Thrawn did, and he thought I could do it, too.”

Zeb scowled, presumably confronted with whatever the Seventh Fleet’s return would have done to the war at any point in the past six years, and clapped Ezra on the back again, making him stagger.

Sabine got up, wiping her hands down the sides of her pants; they didn’t leave a mark, so the paint on her palms must already be dry. Ezra eyed her warily, then did a double-take and said, “Wait, did you already change your hair since last night?”

She shrugged, unrepentant. “I was doing my armor anyway, so I thought I might as well.” She punched him lightly in the shoulder and said, “Besides, you’re one to talk.”

“My hair’s fine!” Ezra yelped indignantly. Then he grabbed her and pulled her into a hug, bemused by the unexpected novelty of not having her armor dig into him. “And that’s my bad shoulder,” he added, releasing her.

Sabine looked startled. “Since when do you have a bad shoulder?”

“Since I got shot in it!”

“When did you get shot?” Kanan demanded from the door to the galley.

“Several times,” Ezra said; he vaguely remembered telling them about the time he’d been shot in the head – he’d managed to knock the blaster off-center, which was the reason he hadn’t had his brains blown out across the Chimaera’s starboard hangar deck. Aside from that particular occasion, most of his blaster wounds came from a combination of being shot by enemies and being shot by stormtroopers who didn’t particularly care if they hit him or what they were supposedly aiming at. He had found out the hard way that some stormtroopers actually could aim.

He rubbed a hand over the old injury and admitted, “This time was on the Chimaera six years ago, over Lothal. I wasn’t exactly at the top of the list to see a medical droid or a doctor afterwards.”

He looked away so that he didn’t have to see the distress or pity on their faces, though he could still feel it reverberate in the Force. Kanan broke the sudden silence in the room by saying, “Dinner’s ready.”

Ezra excused himself to go to the refresher, which still bore the obvious detritus of Sabine’s hair-dyeing endeavors. He stared down at the residue of dye swirling down the drain as he washed his hands, uncomfortably aware of how much it looked like blood. He’d washed blood off his hands before, quite literally; he knew that the dye remnants were lighter and brighter, more orange. It still made his spine crawl.

He forced himself to look up at the mirror instead, which didn’t make him feel any better. Being back on the Ghost made him expect to see the boy who had last been here six years ago, not the man with the lines at the corners of his eyes or the scars where a razor bug had nearly cut his throat. He had two days’ worth of stubble on his jaw, too, patchy on his scarred cheeks and chin. Ezra met his own eyes, then looked down at the sink again. Most of the dye had washed away by now, at least.

He dried his hands and went to join the others in the galley, struck suddenly by the savory scent of freshly cooked food. “That’s definitely not grayweave,” he announced, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

Kanan turned a bemused eye on him, his eyebrows quirking. “As the person who made it, no, it’s definitely not grayweave.”

“You’ve been eating grayweave?” Sabine demanded, appalled.

Grayweave was a single-cell-organism-based food that could be manufactured cheaply off any kind of organic matter; the Chimaera had had a dozen grayweave reactors onboard in case of emergencies. As far as Ezra was concerned, “food” was pushing the description, but it was better than starving. Marginally.

“Star destroyers only carry supplies for three years,” he explained, pushing off the door and coming over to sit down at the table. “They did some hunting and trading whenever we were near a planet that could support life, but that’s not that easy when you’re talking about forty thousand people. Or even twenty thousand.”

“Mmm,” Kanan said neutrally, setting the last bowl on the table and sliding into a seat next to Hera. “I’ve eaten grayweave. I think cannibalism’s preferable.”

Hera elbowed him and made a moue of disgust. “Let’s not talk about cannibalism at the table, shall we?” she said, half-standing to ladle fragrant red broth from the steaming pot at the center of the table into her bowl of noodles, then Kanan’s. She handed the ladle off to Sabine, sitting on her other side, and started adding toppings from the array of small plates that filled the remainder of the table as Kanan did the same.

Ezra would happily have eaten the noodles with or without the broth and toppings, but he waited until the ladle came around to him anyway, then added some of every topping. There was thinly sliced meat that cooked in the hot broth, several kinds of sprouts, pickled vegetables, some spiced dried seaweed, and something that he vaguely recognized as a kind of dried sea urchin that started to disintegrate as soon as it touched the liquid. Other bits of reconstituted vegetables floated in the broth, whose spicy, savory steam filled the air.

He took the cup of tea that Zeb poured for him, took a few sips, and tried not to sigh in sheer relief before he found a place for it on the crowded table. It had been a long time since he had tasted anything with actual flavor.

Even though he had eaten Kanan’s cooking before, he still wasn’t expecting how spicy the broth was. He managed to keep from coughing and had to drink the rest of his tea before going back to the broth and noodles, managing the eating sticks with more difficulty than the spoon with his deep bowl. The noodles cut the heat of the broth, as did some of the toppings; after a few minutes Ezra got back most of his facility with the eating sticks and settled down to the food. After the long day and night they had all had, all five of them ate in near silence except for occasional requests to pass the teapot or for some of the plates of toppings. Kanan got up once to get more noodles for those who wanted them, which was nearly everyone; they’d all had a long day.

Afterwards, once the dishes were cleared away for someone to scrub out later, they returned to the common room with cups of tea or fruit juice. Ezra took the juice because he found tea fine with meals like the one they had just had, but hadn’t had anything that even vaguely resembled a fruit or vegetable in years.

Hera leaned back into the curve of Kanan’s arm, holding her teacup between her hands, and said, “We need to decide what to do about the Imperials.”

“Leave them here and go home,” Sabine said promptly. When they all looked at her, she shrugged and said, “What? This is a little bigger than we’re really equipped to deal with – we’re out here to do reconnaissance, we’ve done it, let’s pass it back to New Republic Intelligence to figure out the rest of it.”

“We are New Republic Intelligence,” Hera reminded her. “And I can’t exactly tell General Cracken or the Provisional Council that we didn’t even bother to talk to Captain Pellaeon or ascertain that Yuuzhan Vong really do have hostile intent.”

“They felt pretty hostile to me,” Zeb grumbled, at the same time Ezra said, “Oh, trust me, they have hostile intent.”

Hera flicked a glance at Kanan, who said, “I don’t like what they do to the Force. And I’m not happy with the idea of leaving the Imperials here to deal with them, or going without knowing more.”

“Ezra?” Hera said, turning towards him. “You know both better than any of us.”

Ezra scratched at his hairline, trying not to be bemused at the novelty of being asked for his opinion. “What do you want Thrawn for anyway?”

“To try him for crimes against civilization in front of a New Republic tribunal,” Hera said promptly.

“Has that ever actually worked?” Sabine asked.

“Do you pay any attention to the news back on Lothal?” Zeb demanded.

Sabine shrugged. “Why do you think I asked? Can you name a single Imperial officer ranked higher than commander who’s actually gone to trial instead of being disappeared into one of the Republic’s black box prisons without a trial? Or just getting a slap on the wrist and then released back into the wild?”

Zeb opened his mouth, hesitated, and then closed it again.

“Ezra?” Hera repeated.

He turned the cup of fruit juice in his hands, then admitted, “I’m a little worried that Thrawn will talk to the Vong into some kind of alliance. I don’t know if the Vong would go for one, but –” He shrugged helplessly. “He can be pretty persuasive. Not that persuasive,” he added in case anyone got the wrong idea about him, “but to people who don’t know him.”

He took a sip of the juice before he went on – he thought it was redberry, sweet but with a rich, almost bitter undertone to it. Redberry was uncommon on Lothal, so he had only had it a few times before. “For what it’s worth, I think he’d have another mutiny on his hands if he tried to sell it to the Imps, but if he’s just trying to get an advantage out of the Vong –” He shrugged again.

“I agree with Ezra,” Kanan said. “I think we’ll have to go to the Imps.” As Hera sighed, clearly resigned, he added, “Just think how much fun you’ll have telling Captain Pellaeon and all the rest of them about the Empire collapsing.”

Hera huffed out a laugh and sipped her tea. “There is that. We’ll comm them in the morning.”

Ezra nodded reluctantly. Part of him wanted to leave Pellaeon and the rest of them here – at least until someone else could sort it out, he supposed, since that was apparently an option – but that was the selfish part of him, not the Jedi part. He sat and drank the rest of his fruit juice in silence as the conversation turned to other things, letting himself relax into his awareness of them all around him, of Kanan’s steady presence in the Force. When there was a brief lull in the conversation, he said, “How is Kanan here?”

Hera flicked a glance at Kanan, who turned his head in response to her attention and said, “I thought I’d leave it to you, since I was more or less an accidental byproduct of your op.”

“What kind of op were you on?” Ezra demanded. “I know Kanan said it was classified, but –”

Sabine laughed. “Oh, it was weirder than that.”

Hera sighed and drained her cup before setting it down on the table. She leaned her head briefly against Kanan’s shoulder for a moment, then straightened up and said, “All right. I need to go back a little before the op and explain about Warlord Zsinj first –”

Afterwards, a little overwhelmed, Ezra went to go sit on the Ghost’s ramp and look at the jungle. No one onboard being stupid, it hadn’t been left down the way it might have been on Lothal or some other safe harbor, but as long as he was actually there he didn’t think it would be a problem. He wanted to enjoy the novelty of fresh air on his face and listen to the living sounds of the jungle – nowhere near quiet, just like the grasslands back home had never been truly quiet. He pulled his knees up to his chest and looked out at the darkened woods, hearing some kind of avian crying in the distance and the scurry of night-dwelling creatures as they moved from tree to tree. Somewhere about a kilometer off, a predator howled to the three moons above and was answered by a chorus of its kind, all of them singing for the sheer joy of it.

He sat there for more than an hour, drinking in the living Force of the planet around him and just thinking. There was a lot to think about, and as tired as he was he let most of it wash over him, acknowledging each thought and concern briefly before letting it flow away. Some of them he would come back to eventually; others had just needed that one instant of acknowledgment. It wasn’t meditation, but it wasn’t entirely not, either.

Zeb and Hera both came down to check on him, though neither spoke to him. Kanan didn’t, but Ezra could feel him in the ship up above and knew that Kanan could sense his presence just as well – better, probably. He was listening to the predators howling to each other, letting his mind roll out to touch them lightly, when he heard Sabine’s step behind him. She sat down beside him and didn’t say anything, her gaze fixed on the jungle.

Ezra listened to the predators a little longer, identifying each individual by sound and trying to match it to its presence in the Force. They weren’t like Loth-wolves; the individuals didn’t read as strongly to him, especially not from this distance. He thought that there were six of them, a family group.

Sabine waited for him to draw himself back into his own skin, flexing his fingers against his thighs – he had shifted into a more comfortable tailor’s seat at some point. Then she said, “You know, we weren’t a crew again until Kanan came back.”

Ezra glanced at her. She had her blasters holstered on her hips, but wasn’t wearing her armor, which was probably still drying after its recent paint job; its absence made her look uncomfortably vulnerable. “What do you mean?”

Sabine didn’t look at him, her attention still focused on the trees. “After Lothal – we were still friends, still family, but it was like we just…fell apart. Hera and Chopper and Zeb went off to the Rebel Alliance, I stayed on Lothal – Hera was with Starfighter Command, mostly, though I know she had a naval command at one point. Zeb’s got a commission in Special Forces. Rex and Kallus are still with the Alliance too, but it’s all different divisions. The Alliance – the New Republic now – isn’t anything like what it was six years ago.”

“Is it better?”

She snorted. “Now there’s a government, if you can call it that.”

Ezra didn’t know much about the government except that the Empire’s had been a disaster and Lothal’s was a joke, so he left that for someone else to explain to him in detail another time. Probably Zeb, who was a politics junkie even if he pretended he couldn’t care less, or at least he had been six years ago. That might have changed since. “Why did you stay on Lothal?” he asked instead. “Why didn’t you go to the Alliance with Hera and Zeb or back to Mandalore with your family?”

“Oh, I can’t go back to Mandalore.” Sabine’s tone was light, but Ezra could sense a shadow to the words.

He turned to look at her. “Why not?”

She looked down, picking at a place on her knee where the fabric had pilled under the constant friction of her armor. “Didn’t I tell you when I went to Yavin with the rest of you back then?”

Ezra shook his head. “I don’t think so. You just came with us. It didn’t seem polite to ask why.”

Sabine grimaced. “It has to do with the Darksaber.” She picked at her pants again, then sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her calves. “If I stayed on Mandalore – or went back to Mandalorian space – I’d be a threat to Bo-Katan, because I carried the Darksaber and used it in combat.”

“But you gave it up.”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. As long as I’m alive, I’m a potential rival to her. There are a lot of people in Mandalorian space who’d prefer me to her – or, well, they’d prefer anyone to her, I’m just convenient because I actually have a claim to the Darksaber. And that was before everything else happened.”

Ezra frowned. “Everything else like – what?”

“Mandalore isn’t really something the Empire can leave alone for long,” Sabine said after a pause. “That’s why they had to have a loyalist Mandalorian viceroy, not a moff, not some outsider. The Saxons kept the clans at each other’s throats for years, not to mention all the weird little splinter cults that have been around for a thousand years – three thousand in some cases. Even when there was still a duke or duchess of Mandalore, back during the Republic, it was always very…tense. And that’s putting aside the fact that the last duchess was a radical. Mandalorian politics is – was – a lot of trying to keep quarrels from turning into blood feuds and blood feuds from turning into civil wars. But if the clans ever have an external enemy, then all of that gets put aside. It takes a lot to get the clans there; it doesn’t happen much more than once a millennium. Bo-Katan was starting to do that. So the Empire tried to wipe out the clans. And Mandalore.”

“Your family?” Ezra said cautiously.

“They’re fine,” Sabine said. “Krownest got hit, but not as bad as Mandalore itself, and it’s not as though my family has never had to rebuild before. All of Mandalorian space is a mess from what I’ve heard. I’d go back, but – that would be seen as a challenge, no matter what I meant by it. So I haven’t gone back.” She shrugged. “Tristan came and visited me on Lothal once.”

“Why did you stay on Lothal?”

She shrugged again. “I didn’t want to join the Alliance and Ryder needed the help. He’s governor again, by the way.”

Ezra nodded absently.

“I thought one of us should be on Lothal,” Sabine said eventually. “We expected some Imperial retaliation, but they were distracted by Mandalore, and then what happened on Scarif, then the Death Star and Yavin – they left Lothal alone, mostly.”

“That’s good,” Ezra said, feeling some of his unease unknot in his chest.

Sabine stretched her legs out again and leaned back, bracing her hands on the ramp. Somewhere in the jungle, a night-avian hooted and some tree-dwellers set up a chorus of croaking sounds.

“What I was trying to say,” Sabine said eventually, “is that this isn’t easy for us either. I know it probably feels like nothing changed or that we all went on without you exactly the same as we had been, but – everything changed. And we weren’t with each other anymore. I mean, Hera’s a general, and all she does – all she used to do – was order people around. Zeb was off with the Pathfinders and they’re the ones who do all the secret missions for the Alliance – the New Republic – you know, cutting throats and blowing stuff up and giving locals money so they can buy vibroknives and bombs to cut throats and blow stuff up. And I was on my own, mostly. And Kanan – Kanan just didn’t have any of the last six years, because he’s still – he’s exactly the same as he was back then, because he is the him he was back then. But none of us are. Even Chopper’s not.” She slanted a glance at him. “No one expects you to be, either.”

Ezra looked down at his lap, running his fingers along the shaft of his lightsaber hilt. He felt his kyber crystal warm to him, the faint hum in his mind turning into something close to a purr. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“So you’ve got time to figure it out now,” Sabine offered.

“Yeah, except for the extra-galactic aliens who want to kill us all,” Ezra said harshly.

She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t let Hera or Zeb hear you say ‘aliens’.”

He’d forgotten that it was considered a slur amongst a large portion of the galaxy. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Mmm.”

Ezra sighed. “What’s it been like? Being back with them, I mean.”

“Hard. Sometimes. Easy. Sometimes. Back at the beginning, none of us knew how to be around each other anymore, except Kanan, and we weren’t reacting the way he expected. It was a mess the first month, after we left Ryloth – Hera and Kanan had to take Jacen to stay with Cham Syndulla, and then they had the wedding, and we had to leave early because General Cracken didn’t want the Provisional Council to find out until after we’d actually gone –”

“Wait, what wedding?” Ezra said, sitting bolt upright. “Who got married?”

Sabine grinned, bemused. “Kanan didn’t tell you? He and Hera got married about three days after they got back.”

Ezra rubbed a hand over his face, not sure why he was surprised. It wasn’t as though Kanan and Hera’s relationship hadn’t been an open secret, but he hadn’t thought – well, Kanan getting killed had obviously changed things.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” he said instead of commenting on that. He glanced up as a shadow passed over the moons above, expecting a coralskipper or one of the Vong cruiser-analogs, and was relieved to find it was just a cloud.

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as one of his knees popped and his bad shoulder twinged. He offered a hand to Sabine, who looked at it in bemusement and then let him pull her upright.

“Come on,” Ezra said. “Time to let the Imperials know they’re going to have company.”

He closed up the ramp behind him as they went back into the Ghost, then climbed up the ladder to the cockpit. Hera and Kanan were both there, along with Chopper and a hologram of the Vong encampment. They both looked up as Ezra and Sabine emerged from the hatch.

“What is it?” Kanan asked as Chopper shut the hologram off.

Ezra had never been able to figure out if Kanan had somehow been able to sense what a hologram was showing in the Force – certainly he couldn’t do it himself, and he had tried. He shoved the thought aside to ask about later and said, “I thought now might be a good time to call Chimaera Camp.”

Hera glanced at the chrono and arched her eyebrows. “I thought we were going to wait until morning.”

Ezra shrugged. “I thought I’d ruin Captain Pellaeon’s night.” As far as he was concerned, Pellaeon had it coming.

Kanan snorted softly. Hera flicked a glance at him, then sat back in her chair so that Ezra could approach the comm board.

He plugged in the bridge frequency for the Scylla and only had to wait a few moment before a comms officer answered. The transmission was audio-only, no visual; the increased data transfer of a hologram made it more likely for the Vong to pick up on.

“This is Bridger,” Ezra said. “Put me through to Captain Pellaeon.”

The officer snorted. “Do you have any idea what the hour is? The captain –”

“Will want to hear what I have to say,” Ezra said flatly. “Come on, it’s not that late. You and I know he’s not asleep.”

There was a pause, then the officer grunted agreement. There was a moment of static as he transferred the call, then Pellaeon’s crisp voice said, “Bridger, I assume this is important.”

Ezra felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. He looked around at the cockpit, noting that Zeb had come into lean on the doorframe, his gaze fixed on Ezra. They were all here, back in the same place, and when they were together they could do anything. “Yeah,” he said to the comm. “It’s important.”

#cut scenes and concept writing #other side au tag #as always comments are appreciated #today in: bedlam tackles the 'what is up with mandalore and the darksaber' question from mando #I TOLD you I prefer working stuff out via fic than in meta

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wyldervane · 3 years ago

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Vindolme

Title(s); Vestige, Eye of the Queen, Undaunted, Mage Adept, Briar

Race/Age; Altmer male, approx. 200 to 210 years old Specialization; Templar (though he prefers 'light mage' or 'rogue') Skills; Cooking/provisioning (expert), Alchemy (adept/expert), Enchanting (Apprentice), Crafts (Woodworking, blacksmithing, clothier....ing?) (adept), Jeweling (Novice), Legedermain (lockpicking, pickpocketing, sneaking, etc) (adept/expert), Dual Wield (daggers, specifically; expert/master), Archery (adept/expert), Medium Armor (expert), Magic (expert/master), Speech/Barter (adept/expert)

Alliance; Aldmeri Dominion, though he aids the others in non-war related things from time to time Guilds; Thieves Guild, Assassin's Guild, Mages Guild, Fighters Guild, The Undaunted, The Psijic Order, The Briars, The Eyes of the Queen

Companions/Mounts; Ticks, a reprogrammed Dwemer spider; Laolan, a massive nearly-black wolf; Briadlhea, another massive wolf with pale white stripes; Aylied, yet another wolf but with fox-like markings that are swirled at the edges; Sisilien, a massive golden she-wolf. All the wolves are mounts, though he typically travels alone or with Laolan for long distances.

Personality; Very tired, and skittish about friendship/companionship, a great deal of trauma related to promises and the breaking of them so he clams right up if they're mentioned, but always willing to help. He has a strong moral compass and spares everyone he can, even if they really do deserve to die. Utterly devoted to Queen Ayrenn, and gets incredibly irate if anyone tries to imply he's disloyal or that he ought to follow them instead. He enjoys teaching people, especially when those people are actually interested in what he has to say- and even more so when they don't pry about his past more than he's willing to say. Can seem aloof and distant, but only because he doesn't want anyone getting too close. He actually cares very deeply.

Appearance; He's on the shorter side for Altmer, just under 6'0". His eyes are hazel-green, and like most elves, one can barely see the whites of them. They're also slanted slightly, again like most elves. His skin is a golden-tan shade, darker than most of his race, and he also has sharper teeth than the typical Altmer. His hair is very dark brown, and is just starting to silver at the temples. While originally he kept it incredibly short, lately he's taken to wearing it longer, down to his mid-back, in an effort to look more distinguished- though he'll tie it back if he has time before a fight. He has war paint only slightly darker than his skin in curving stripes along his cheekbones/just under his eyes, with thumbprint-dots just under it in the same color. He also has a 'van dyke' beard style. Typically he stands very straight, and with a hand resting on the hilt of one of his daggers if he has them with him.

Clothing; usually black with dark grey or blue, and gold accents. Almost always wears medium armor; usually a jack, bracers, and boots, as well as a padded set of pants and a warded shirt. Sometimes, he will also wear a hood and mask, or a cloak, depending on the nature of his mission. (He also has a variety of outfits for missions to specific provinces, but I am not going to list them all here.)

Magic/fighting style; he tends to use a pair of daggers, wielding them with acrobatic moves and swift strikes to outmaneuver enemies and slip through their guard. He will also use a longbow, particularly for long-distance silent takedowns, or supporting an ally from above- or dealing with other mages before they know he's there. His magic is very bright, almost blindingly so, which works to his advantage when facing opponents alone; the light doesn't affect him as much, considering he's the one casting. It works less well when he's fighting with others, as he hasn't perfected keeping the blinding effect to his enemies rather than everyone who isn't him. Usually, this magic takes the form of a spear or staff, and burns to the touch of anyone but the wielder; however, he is also fond of hurling fireballs at enemies' faces and calling on benevolent magic in his surroundings to heal himself or others (though others are far more difficult for him to heal, and he can only do so when not in combat). Occasionally, he conjures a brilliant bow, but he uses this sparingly- both because it drains him, and because it is rarely of tactical advantage. He can also call down a burning well of magic from the sky, which sends out waves of heat and light that damage anyone within a certain radius, at the cost of most of his magicka reserves.

Artist's rendition of Vindolme (please do not repost, this is my original artwork and it would make me very sad);

#art #my art #bios #ooc #vindolme #o hollowed body mine; vestige #eso

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creativerogues · 5 years ago

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Player’s Guide: Meet The Archmages of Capitol!

Well the Player’s Guide is coming together really well, and thanks to @dnd-chamyra-studies, as well as @paradigmanomaly and @nickle-snatcher for providing so much help on building the City of Capitol.

But without any further delay, let’s get into the details...

Archmage of Illusion, The Archmage Indefinable

The Archmage of Illusion never shares his actual name, and often creates elaborate illusions and personas to hide himself.

He’s a High-Level Wizard (obviously) with the magical capabilities to create up to 8 Illusory Duplicates thanks to his ability to cast Mirror Image at-will, and he’s almost accompanied by his Simulacrum, who can do the same...

He’s used many fancy names and personas to hide his identity: Example names include Salem, Owahl, Zakalis and Morgan.

The Archmage of Illusion became famous for being so powerful that when the rival Kingdom of Rassumurait attempted to sail to the shores of Capitol, he disguised the stars they used to navigate so that they ended up lost at sea and where forced to retreat...

What does he look like?

He’s an older Halfling Man, lightly hunched in posture with wild curly grey hair with an arrow through it like a makeshift hairpin. He’s well over 3-foot-tall, even while hunched over, with gross old barefoot hobbit feet with excessive foot hair, his toenails have clearly never been trimmed, and he seems to have some sort of exotic fungal disease on his feet, even starting to develop small mushrooms...

Because when you literally always have a disguise or illusion on you, you don’t really need to look good or wash at all...

He carries a small wooden staff like a cane, and in his other hand he often holds a pipe.

The Archmage of Illusion is known for levitating in conversations with the other Archmages, so they can speak eye-to-eye rather than top-of-head to crotch; and he has a nervous habit of letting out a little giggle whenever he tells the truth.

He’s also recently become addicted to the Laumadorian Plant known as ‘Weeping Flak’, smoking it and adding it like spice and sugar to everything they consume, since Weeping Flak (also known as Bluegrass) is also known to increase one’s arcane powers for a short time after consumption.

Archmage of Enchantment, Father Jack

Father Jack? Well this handsome dwarven wizard used to get every girl he wanted into bed since his beard started to grow. You may be asking why the Archmages call him Father Jack, better pose that question to his 122 Sons and 99 Daughters...

He’s short, stocky, and very clearly dwarven to anyone that looks at him. His skin is slightly tanned from his days on the coast, and his face carries a big bulbous red nose at its center.

His beard seems quite magnificent, with ornate brass and bronze bands adorning their beard. Their beard is also very obviously dyed. There are streaks of grey that have been colored to match their original shade, but don’t quite match.

Another odd feature is his left eye, since he’s missing it, and it appears he’s had a chunk of solid gold carved to look like an eye implanted in the place of his left eye.

He wears a copper ring on one finger, a ring with intricate carvings on its surface, and this Archmage always seems to be followed by a smell of rum and alcohol on his breath...

Archmage of Conjuration, Archmage Butterfly

Her full name is ‘Clawed Butterfly’. A Conjuration Wizard who is always accompanied by her Faithful Hound and her Unseen Servant. She often chooses to use Misty Step rather than walking...

She’s feline and cat-like in appearance, she often wears an ombre-dyed hood that reminds you of a hunting cat. Meanwhile the feline tail of the Archmage winds and flickers with a mind of its own.

She has cat-like slits for eyes, and just to confirm; Yes, she’s a Tabaxi Wizard.

She has tattoos across her face, starting from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her eye, but barely visible under her tabaxi hair.

Her right arm is bizarre and unnatural: One of her arms is a slightly different tone, and slightly shorter in length than the other one, her right-hand having steel claws that appear to be artificially attached to her fingertips.

Her left arm is even more bizarre: She has an extra hand coming out of her left wrist. This extra hand is as small as a child’s and is blackened and seems to be of no use: A failed conjuration experiment perhaps?

She also has an eye on the palm of her left hand, something she hides behind her back in her always regal-looking pose while speaking.

Archmage of Evocation, Archmage Damascus Iados

A Tiefling Evocation Wizard with bright flames that flicker across the back of their hands, and smaller, heatless flames seem to flicker across their skin while the earth seems to tremor slightly while he walks.

In charge of the Tower of Evocation, Archmage Iados is a Tiefling Man with bright red skin, a bald head and two curling horns atop his head like those of a wild ram.

He wears blue and green robes that flow down to his feet, and every so often has heatless flames flickering across his skin before sputtering out on their own.

His left hand has three fingers, while his right hand has seven, and both hands seem to glow very faintly with a low white flame...

Archmage of Abjuration, Archmage Neskul Nyultin

Urban legends say that there used to be a Silver Dragonborn Wizard so skilled in the magics of Abjuration, yet so paranoid, that he stayed deep underground within his Tower, surrounded by a bubble of powerful magics, though when forced to go outside in-person, he sits cross-legged on a Tenser’s Floating Disk, with a globe of protective magics around him at all times...

Archmage Neskul Nyultin is a Dragonborn Wizard with glimmering silver scales, as is usually seen cross-legged on a small disk of force that floats above the ground. His legs seem withered from atrophy, and his body seems very thin for a Dragonborn...

A shimmering globe of arcane wards almost always surrounds him, as he’s almost always seen with his hands inwards, his fingers intertwined and seemingly always concentrating on the many spells that protect his being.

This Dragonborn Archmage has several scales missing and a long deep gash running along his face. He has two long, spiny and membranous ears, and a slightly off-center snout, akin to a poorly reset broken nose.

Upon his head sit two overly curled horns, and in his chest glows a dragonborn heart, a heart that glows bright enough to be seen beneath his scales and through the sphere of arcane wards that surround him.

After an encounter with a Red Dagger Assassin as a young Archmage, Neskul has become paranoid, as he knows the Red Daggers are master assassins that always get their target, one way or another.

This paranoia has caused him to become shut-off and shut-in, though he still teaches the students of his Tower through the use of Simulacrums, Projected Images and various other methods of magic, all while hiding himself away deep within the underground of his Tower of Abjuration...

Archmage of War, Archmage Leowynn Wynanthal

A High Elf War Wizard and Bladesinger, Archmage Leowynn is probably the most prominent figure in Capitol aside Archmage Iados.

An elf with pearl-colored hair that seems to glow in the light, with long and curved ears and incredibly long eyebrows with a small pointed nose. He has pale skin, his face having splotches the color of red wine, with exotic runes carved onto his forearms and a long thin rapier by his side.

He wears flowing robes that looks as if they’re made from specks of starlight, he also wears elven ear clasps made of spun silver and an engraved leather archery bracer on his left wrist.

He has many scars and callouses along his forearms, perhaps formed over many brutal sparring sessions.

But his hands can sometimes be the most fascinating thing about him. He has a recessive finger on each hand, and a Holy Symbol of the Black Hand of Bane branded onto his right hand.

Leowynn is maybe my favorite Archmage out of the lot. He’s the Archmage in charge of both the Tower of War that trains War Wizards, and the War College that trains up the regular infantrymen and soldiers.

He’s probably the most publicly seen figure, and his whole host of magic items, from Bracers of Archery to his Robe of Stars to everything else he carries, also makes him look the part of an Archmage (he’s also the only Archmage to travel to another Plane of existence...)

He’s also known for his spats and arguments with the other Archmages, since the War College has always had an uneasy alliance with the Edhel Halls Library, and with Archmage Leowynn being one of the few Archmages to of taken part in the War Underground between the Elves of the West and the Drow of the East over 50 Years ago, he’s probably the oldest Archmage in the King’s Council, but he seems to favor Archmage Iados and students from the Tower of Evocation especially...

Archmage of Necromancy, Archmage Froja Dundrek

Ya haven’t heard of the old tale of Froja’s head? Well let me tell ya!

There was once a Wizard called Froja who got sentenced to death for using Necromancy and black magics back when it was still a crime, before the War Underground basically. She managed to break free and sneak into the Archives of the Edhel Halls, the place that holds all the scrolls with the old magics in ‘em. She found a spell in those forbidden pages, one that granted her eternal life.

After she cast the Spell, she went in-front of the King himself and asked for forgiveness before demanding her freedom, he refused. Put her in Jail and chopped off her head the next day.

Well as it turns out, she’s still alive! And she now teaches other Wizards. But they still keep her head as a training object for young students...

The best way to describe Froja’s apperance is that of a headless corpse.

She’s a shadowy and shrouded figure, wearing boots and thick black leather straps around the ankles. She also wears grey patterned pants and a slender thin belt made of the same black leather.

A shimmering feathered shawl drapes from her shoulders like a pair of dark wings, and a brooch that seems to be made of woven strands of pure silver hangs from her left breast.

And above her shoulders is a collar made of woven tree twigs, the twigs and sticks thorny and withered black.

And finally, above this collar, where a head would be, there’s nothing at all! No head, and yet the body lives on...

Archmage Neskul has been at odds with Archmage Froja since the beginning, with Archmage Neskul begging Froja time and time again to reveal whatever magics and spells she used to maintain this life (or un-life) for eternity, never being able to truly die. And time and time again Froja had refused his advances, never revealing even a single detail about the spell she used to gain this eternal life...

Archmage of Transmutation, Drasaaria Argal

There once was a Transmutation Wizard so prolific that eventually any gold coming into her city was treated like scrap metal to her...

Archmage Argal is a Half-Drow Transmutation Wizard, and probably the only figure with a dark elf bloodline that’s tolerated by most people in the Capitol. When she joined the King’s Council, the uproar was tremendous, as the War Underground between the Elves of the West and the Drow had ended not a decade before...

But you wouldn’t think she’s a half-drow if you looked at her, because her skin isn’t dark... It’s metallic!

Her skin has a shine to it like a fine polished metal, and some might even mistake her for a statue standing in the room if you didn’t know her...

She wears very little actual clothing, but hold onto your thirst because she still wears clothes, specifically a pair of white gloves woven from the finest spider silk, while an ornate ear-cuff in the fashion of an orchid spirals around her left ear.

Her leggings have an opalescent sheen, and she’s also one of the many Archmages that likes to stand and walk barefoot...

Argal is another one of my favorites, and I knew I wanted to put a Drow on the Council because I just wanted to see what would happen...

And trust me when I say she’s no pushover, as my Players have found out time and time again.

That shiny skin she has: That’s Adamantine. Yep, she transmuted her skin to become living adamantine, so you try facing down a 20th Level Archmage with 23 AC...

And she’s also been known to horribly torture people the Council wants dead, or wants answers from. She’s turned a guy’s brains into mercury, polymorphed a guy into a robin before turning said bird into a tiny solid gold statue, she’s even wiped a Player’s memory clean using Programmed Amnesia... She’s a mean one...

She’s also one of the Wizards (alongside Archmage Froja) who’s at odds with Archmage Neskul, since he keeps asking her how she got her adamantine skin and she keeps refusing to answer him.

And due to most of the other Archmages just barely tolerating the presence of a Drow on their Council, that just means she trains up her students in the Tower of Transmutation even harder, which often results in the Tower of Transmutation producing some of the most powerful Mages...

Archmage of Divination, Archmage Ofyne Yuvidet

There used to be a Wizard so skilled in divination magics that she never bothered having a conversation, because she already knew how it was going to end...

Ofyne is a Human Wizard and the Archmage of Divination. She wears old dull blur robes over tattered clothing. She has long and frizzy graying-brown hair that falls just below her shoulders, with what looks like small woodland critters wriggling around in her hair...

Her body seems incredibly damaged. Her hands are stained multiple colors of brown and green, and acid burns that run along both hands.

On her right hand is a small blackened sixth finger that twitches of its own volition. She also possesses what’s left of a still-attached left hand. It looks like it was crushed but was never amputated. She also has a horrid burn mark running down from her left elbow to her crushed hand.

One leg seems severely deformed: Ofyne uses a set of double crutches to walk, but more often floats and flies around as she finds it far easier on her body. She’s also one of the Wizards that walks barefoot, and smells of burnt tea leaves!

She seems blind, her eyes pale and clouded over with cataracts in her old age, with bags under her eyes that suggests she probably hasn’t slept comfortably in many years...

She has no nose, instead having a big hole where her nose would be, and her mouth is permanently crooked, giving her a cocky smirk and almost wicked grin. However, Ofyne wears a prosthetic nose and mask made of silvery-blue mithral, which keeps the prosthetic in place while partially obscuring her face to prying eyes.

Small mushrooms emerge and grow from her neck and shoulders, she also has several scars around her neck, some apparently self-inflicted, almost like she’s had her throat slit multiple times and healed from every wound...

Ofyne (or Archmage Yuvidet if you want to call her that) is probably the most interesting Archmage. She hasn’t cut or groomed her hair in over 8 Years, and her eyes seem to glow when near poison or fresh blood.

She’s in charge of the Library of Saturnity in Fostin, ans she’s also one of the very few Archmages that’s actually allied with Archmage Neskul.

However, the Archmage of Divination is currently missing and has been missing for some number of months now, but this has yet to become public knowledge...

Ofyne is probably the oldest Human on the Council (aside from Archmage Froja and that eternal life thing she has going on...) and Ofyne’s seen a lot.

You’d think for a Divination Wizard she’d be fine right, no scratches at all because she knows the future...

Well when you have to take orders from the King, the Hand of the King, and a bunch of Archmages (lest you be straight up murdered), you’re forced into situations where you know you’re going to get messed up. (Google ‘The Seven Against Thebes’ if you want to see where I got some inspiration...)

And that’s all the Archmages!

And yes, I know there’s other Wizard Schools like the School of Invention and the School of Onomancy, but since those aren’t Official Subclasses yet, I’m yet to make them canon in my world, so no, there is no Archmage of Onomancy or Archmage of Invention... Yet!

But tell me what you think of the Archmages of Capitol, what are your first impression, are they to be trusted?

Let me know in the Comments with your Replys and Reblogs!

#dnd #DnD 5e #worldbuilding #Players Guide

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raeliyah · 6 years ago

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Exalted Secret Santa 2018

First, snippet -- with full descriptions, reference pictures, and links under the cut. Anon-asks should be enabled so feel free to ask me anything if you need more info!

If none of these guys strike your fancy, I also have the rest of my exalted characters, with reference images and descriptions, here:

https://refsheet.net/redkite7

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith Dawn Caste Solar Exalt of the South, longrider lawman, Righteous Devil gunslinger, Badlands Gentleman with a heart of battered gold, giant flirt

Qismet ibn al-Nusar, The Veiled Eagle Night Caste Solar Exalt of the west, self-appointed judge and executioner of corrupt supernaturals, leader of the Brotherhood of the Righteous Death, terse and broody

Zaela Tokari, Queen of Adrelith, of the Meridian Isles Zenith Caste Solar Exalt of the East, friend of Dragon Kings, precious cinnamon roll, youngest daughter, too young to be queen, too young to be Exalted, mousy and self-effacing but will stand up to everything from Deathlords to Elder Lunars in defense of her friends (no art yet)

Caleb “Wraithshot” Raith

Dawn Caste Solar Exalt

Caleb’s Pinterest Inspiration Board

Caleb’s easy. Think of every western trope and smash them all together. He’s a cowboy bounty hunter; a self-proclaimed lawman in a land where there is no law, riding circuit on a handful of towns in the South he considers his and protecting them from whatever evils lurk in the desert.

Physical Description

Caleb stands at 5′11″ and is on the leaner side at ~185 lbs. He’s fit, like a brawler (been in significantly more than his fair share of bar fights) or a ranch hand - someone who works at hard physical labor most days.

Caleb looks like he’s in his early 30s

Being the son of Northern immigrants, Caleb’s complexion is mostly pale, a reddish-burned tan anywhere the sun would shine - arms to the elbows, back of the neck, face mostly.

He’s also freckly across his face, shoulders and upper back, mostly from sun.

His eyes are clear honey-colored brown, more gold towards the pupil from the influence of exaltation.

Hair is black at the roots, growing out into sun-streaked brownish blond. He usually keeps it cut pretty short but if it goes too long without a trim it gets curlier. He likes a clean-shaven face but given his lifestyle he’s pretty much always got a day or three of scruff.

Caleb… basically looks like Chris Pratt.

He’s always got a smile of some stripe - warm, mischievous, leering, insincerely-wide - something.

He’s also very mouthy, and usually has something to chew on, whether it’s a piece of straw, a match, a toothpick, a cigarette (50% chance of it actually being lit), a twig - something. He’s never met a lollipop or chewing gum but he would love them.

Scars, see reference image: He's got a fair few that have never healed all the way. Added to that a nose which was broken in some bar brawl and never healed straight.

Left arm, from wrist to elbow: long nearly parallel white lines.

The remnants of pressure cuts through his right eyebrow, right side of his lips, and the left side of his chin, leaving gaps in the scruff.

A bullet-scar just above and to the left of his navel.

The remains of various slashes and stabs decorate his ribs. Most of these fade to nothing quickly, but he’s in fights often enough there’s always something.

The upper portion of his back is a mess of scars look like they were left from him getting dragged quicklike backwards over rock (because he was). A stylized rattlesnake tattoo on his right shoulderblade is only half-seen through the scars.

Caleb dresses in layers - shirt sleeves, a vest/waistcoat, and either a faded blue or red serape tossed over his shoulders or a brown longcoat. Pants are either canvas or faded denim, and boots are less cowboy-style and more combat- or motorcycle style with a heel for riding. He does wear spurs, but they’re blunted. He’s usually covered in trail dust and sweat, sometimes blood, despite efforts at cleanliness. Feel free to embellish the standard Cowboy gear with arabesque/middle eastern ornamentation, because it is Exalted…

He always carries two modified flame pieces (six-shooters… he’s got six-shooters) on his hips, and the belt’s buckle is large and obnoxious, mostly because he keeps a couple extra rounds of ammunition within it. He also has an artifact rifle (based on a Winchester M1873; lever action, but otherwise unspecified) named Medicine Man that is either slung across his back or is in a sheath on his horse’s saddle. He makes his own ammo for all his weapons. He is a student of Righteous Devil Style, having mastered up to the form charms, but his sifu disappeared and he’s not found another, nor is he skilled enough to pick it up without tutelage.

He does own chaps but whether or not he wears them on any given day depends on how hot it is and how much hard riding he’s anticipating. He has a hat he’s rather fond of, but it’s not anything truly special.

There may or may not be a bandana around his neck/on his person at any given moment, and he often wears a chip of blue crystal with an antelope petroglyph etched on it around his neck on a leather cord. It’s a token from his friend, a springs goddess named Rivela, and a reminder of a partner he lost.

He rides a buckskin warhorse named Dirt who he pretends not to be particularly attached to, but in fact he really really is. Dirt is his horse. Dirt adores him and is always trying to steal his hat. Dirt will also steal anyone else’s hat nearby, but he prefers Caleb’s.

Anima: Caleb’s anima banner is a hailstorm of bright burning metal, like large forge sparks, raining down on him and even appear to bounce off his skin and clothing. Golden smoke and flame rise from the ground at his feet wherever the sparks fall.

Full Description including Personality, History, Art, and links to Fic and Character Playlist Here.

Qismet ibn al-Nusar

Night Caste Solar Exalt Revenge-driven assassin, self-appointed judge jury and executioner of supernaturals who prey on innocents. Leader of a band of mortal assassins with the same motives.

Qismet's Pinterest Inspiration Board

Qismet's Character Playlist

Physical Description:

Qismet is shorter than average at 5'9" built lean and tough like an acrobat at around 150 lbs

he’s kinda touchy about his height

Qismet looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties.

He's darker complexioned, bronzed from a lot of time under the Western Sun

Examples: (Oded Fehr)(Cristian Codrin)(Avraham Aviv Alush)(Francisco Randez-also his face inspiration)

His hair is so dark brown it might as well be black, cut close but still has a bit of a wave to it.

Style example:(One)(Two)* Eyes are the same: so dark brown they might as well be black. Tend to go lighter, almost honey-colored, when he's channeling essence.

Qismet has fairly narrow features, a generous mouth with cupid's bow lips (see reference images) and a crooked nose, somewhat overlong. He would look great if he smiled but he hardly ever does. Eternal Brooding Face

Face Inspiration: Francisco Randez (One)(Two)(Three)(Four)

He has a thin blade scar vertically through his lips on the right side

Tattoos: One, on his right shoulder, the symbol of his assassin's order. Two, on his left bicep: a greenish kraken crossed out by two black swords (indicative of his vendetta against the Lintha).

Clothes and Accessories:

Qismet has two distinct "modes" -- his working guise, as The Veiled Eagle, equal parts vigilante super hero and feared villain, depending on who's looking, and his regular everyday self. The Veiled Eagle's identity is an open secret on his home island but if he's not in 'costume' the folk there know not to bother him as anything more than Qismet.

The Veiled Eagle:

As the Eagle, Qismet wears long open vests and tunics and leather armor (cuirass, pauldrons, greaves) in shades of charcoal to dove gray, with a hood and mask over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed, though the skin around them is usually darkened with greasepaint and charcoal. This outfit is patterned roughly after the Assassin's Creed styles. (Inspiration Images: (Mayan Armor)(Original AC Outfit)).

There is a single splash of blood red among the grays as a sash: normally wound around his waist or crossed from hip to shoulder.

Weaponry:

As the Eagle, Qismet also carries a lot of weapons. Most notable are his two artifact Moonsilver Bracers, the Eagle's Sheathed Talons. These artifacts are made of black siaka leather and covered with moonsilver filigreed plates making the shape of a mantling eagle. They extrude a long knife in combat and also serve as armor for his arms (they're basically Hidden Blades with Exalted flair).

He also wields the paired soul-steel short Daiklaves, Anguish and Agony (see reference image in refsheet.net gallery). He struck a deal with the spirits within when he took them from their former owner. They spend a night and a day of peace within a consecrated temple on the nights of moon dark every month, and in return he will never be chained by sorcery or necromancy until his Task is complete. If he fails to give them peace, they'll turn against him.

As Qismet:

When he's not 'working', Qismet tends towards sleeveless cross-front tunics and vests, loose-cut trousers and short fitted boots, thin-soled for good climbing. He still wears the red sash around his waist, knotted on one side, and always has the artifact bracers.

He tends towards cool, de-saturated colors (because they're cheap), but isn't picky: if it's free of obvious dirt and won't get in his way, he'll wear it. His lieutenant/lover Samira has been slowly stocking his wardrobe with nicer things since ostensibly he's an important figure in their region of the west and should occasionally look it. Really, have fun with clothing design.

He very occasionally wears a shark-tooth pendant, but he's not big on jewelry or adornment in general.

Anima:

A ghost-white and violet sea-eagle, whose head obscures Qismet’s face and whose movements echo the Solar’s.