#fharzai

[ramessesxwadjet]

@fharzai Location: The Dreamscape Notes: bb dream druid seeks out old dream druid

Fharzai's presence was always something that eased Ramesses' mind. As one who could manipulate dreams, one who was so not used to the world, the Ankhurian could only take a deep breath as he stopped in his rambling to the other. There'd been so much happening, and Ramesses had felt like he'd simply...withered away into the shadows. He wasn't brave, not like Fharzai. He wasn't wise, not like Sakkara. And his thoughts and hopes about joining the Legion in Amon Sûl, to see if he could cleanse them of the Blight internally – well, it seemed so stupid and naive, he had to tell Fharzai all about it.

"The Legion can't be cured, I know that, because then who would fight the Blight? But what if – what if we could sever the Calling? You know, if we could...mute that connection that they feel to it, because isn't it the Old Gods that control it? We could save them from dying for...years and years."

[alrikhart]

"It is for us to decide what we do with our lives, you know how I'll live mine." Fighting. There was nothing else and the more the pattern made itself available to them, the more clear it became that one battle would just be replaced by another. Alrik's place was in the field, winning the wars that others would lose - he'd died fighting in his last life, if the Wheel repeated itself then he'd die fighting in this turn too - and with a smile on his face.

He saw it, briefly, the image that the dreamer shared as he pressed his lips against Alrik's forehead. He never cared for the Tower, he'd known even when he lived in Iskaldrik that there were darkfriends waiting within, cut one down among the ranks of the Scholars of Juno, and now they had to be a part of the release of Valerius. The reality was that while Fharzai ingratiated himself and remained within the Tower, his life was in danger every day. The servants that filled his bowls of incense, the nobles he lectured about their antics, even the witches that shared his confidence. "So, that's a no, then." Alrik said, a sheepish grin at the corner of his mouth as Fharzai offered a very long-winded way of saying that he didn't know. "It's nice," he said, "finding out that you don't have the answers to everything-" his calloused palm curved the edges of Fharzai's jaw, "but something terrible is coming." Alrik confessed, "I can feel it."

He did what he could to not wonder about Alrik's end. It'd be too revealing, plus Fharzai feared that too much curiosity will result in his dreams creating signs that the Veil Warrior he was closest to faced immediate peril. "But not how we live. Fate is certain, but we aren't bound by the choices we've made in a previous turn of the Wheel, or the horrors we've faced then. I will always shine light on you, because that is how I choose to spend my time in this life. Because even a warrior as strong as you are needs saving."

 The threads that bound him to Alrik continued to thicken, and Fharzai was starting to struggle why he ever resisted the witch's pull. It must've been Fate drawing them closer, perhaps even a repeat of previous patterns. Their souls had met for certain once before, who's to say how many other times they've collided through the generations. "No, you haven't, and neither have I despite how it may feel sometimes. It's comforting to know that the numbers of hearts we can rely on grows, no?" Fharzai laughs gently and sighs into Alrik as he presses their foreheads together, enjoying the warmth his closeness brought. Even in the cold of the night, Fharzai felt like Alrik burned like a furnace. "It's … different for all of us. Trickier for those of my circle. Our dreams can be prophetic and open to interpretation. I sometimes don't realize what they've meant until I'm in the moment in the waking realm," he explains before placing a kiss to Alrik's forehead, letting him see the Tower as Fharzai had so many decades ago. A white pillar, bathed in light and elevated above the landscape, it's glow fading and brightening as many moons and stars orbited around it. "The Tower of Olympia was my calling, and since I embraced it I've served many moments that have collectively branched into Lysara's current state. I can only interpret the pattern as I see it, and my point of view is limited because I keep my eye on Lysara. There's hardly ever absolute certainty in our interventions, but we do our best with what we have. At least, some of us do."

[alrikhart]

@fharzai location: Eterna, wherever Fharzai is most likely to be workin' in Eterna, castle, home, etc. notes: uwu

The limp was gone, the nightmares had faded, but the shadows remained. In the end, Eterna was not unlike Yggdrasildal - there were the rich, the poor, the thuggish, and the guilds with many crossovers between. The harbor was nice but it was much too hot here. Honestly, how did they survive in this heat? Alrik thought the boats were impressive, they were more refined and much larger than the Iskaran ships. It was strange recognizing merchant vessels from Bjarnheim all the way over here, like the notion that the two worlds were so closely together together seemed just absurd on all counts.

Alrik cleared his throat as he leaned in an easy, languid fashion against the frame of Fharzai's door. He propped himself upright once he had the other's attention, opting not to sneak up and startle him. He took a beat to appreciate the view, he was still getting used to seeing Fharzai in person, rather than the dreamscape.

"You know what I had to do to get up here?" Alrik mused, "Security around here is tight." Finding where Fharzai was toiling and getting in had been part of the fun, an easy flex now that the witch and hidden one were fully back on his feet. "You busy? I had some stuff I wanted to ask you about." He approached, idly turning the ring his father had given him ages ago around his finger as he did.

[agnesisolda]

starter for @fharzai.

where: where best suits my sweet fharzai and zenmichael

when: a lil bit of time after standing stones

note: uwu

She hadn't appreciated the disdainful way this druid had called her genasi the entirety of their quest, it made her ears ring and her lip curl, but in comparison to such shortcoming, he was worth so much more as an ally than one she would bash heads with. Corruption, it set her soul apart from any ordinary dúnedain, and considering this one's ripe involvement with the Queen, with the dream realm, and with the standing stones as a whole it was any wonder Fharzai did not disregard her entirely. She smiled to herself at the presumption that perhaps there would be unities yet when needed most; her loyalties resided with Hekate and such goddess would protect her opportunities even if others disagreed with them. The great presider over the wheel of fires, she who fueled the upper world in which Agnes resided, inspiring flames of creation that manifested as Agnes' appetite to uphold and protect those with no voice. She hoped, considering their unity to repair the standing stones, that Fharzai would not currently turn his back on her.

"Your resilience surprised me," she cared little for formal greetings, getting to her point the moment the dream druid ventured by her; her Astorian lineage in this life had forced her to endure many curtsies and bows to those who did not deserve it. "Your courage, however, did not." It was very compliment sandwich vibes, but she'd spent so long surrounded by monstrous creatures, fey beings, and various animals when once she left the Arches, that Agnes sometimes did not know where or how to begin.

[shewolfaurea]

Person: @fharzai Location: Strolling near thee palace Whenever she finds herself venturing out from Haven, she often drifts towards the markets of Eterna. Queen or no queen, Aurea has always found it hard to find time to treat herself to anything. She was too busy thinking of other people, often coming back with trinkets for Aradia and Althea. Today though she is there on business, or at least to sort of make up for how curt she'd been with the man the last time he'd been in Haven. "Believe it or not, I'm here for advice." She explains as they walk and she figures he has a ton of it. Outside perspectives are something she values from specific people.

[lotharx]

starter for @fharzai.

where: progress day

when: day 1 or 2 ya kno

note: hello my son in law and fellow red hand, this will get better

Their paths seemed only insistent to cross when on the battlefield, whether that was in Fharzai's genuine dreamscape or here, in this scope of the world. Lothar hadn't ever had the chance to truly chat with the dream druid, and considering he was never a man of many words, Lothar often didn't know where he'd start if given the opportunity. Fharzai had done a lot for the Iskarans, it seemed each battlefield Lothar was, so too was Fharzai, and yet he was of the Queensguard, too. He was one amongst the crowd of those Lothar scrutinized, but one who could sway how the barbarian truly felt about Lysarans as a whole it would seem.

"Fharzai," Lothar greeted gruffly, nodding, "So we finally meet outside of battle," the barbarian wasn't necessarily known for smiling but his tone was softer than normal, borderline kind.

[thequeendomhq]

"A good story you don't really write, it was always there, you just uncover it."

A summary of short stories and perspectives following the events of the Iskaran refugees traveling from their Kingdom to the Queendom of Lysara.

Alessia Hart - "Untitled"

In which, Alessia is abducted from Nornwatch Keep and transported to a broodmother below Isengrim's Embrace.

Someone screamed in the back of her mind, someone who was running in the woods and magical, someone who bit the ear off a Witcher and defeated any trial Ymir’s Spine threw at her. Every morning when she woke up the familiar scream was more desperate. Still, the witch could barely hear it over the cries of wailing newborn creatures and roaring Mother.

Alder - "The Tale of a Fallen Blade"

In which, Alder becomes attuned to his new sword, and from it forges a new purpose.

The vision ended in a flash as the man took a deep breath and used what was left of his strength to charge forward only to meet the cold touch of her cursed blade, and Alder opened his eyes to the world of present. He could feel the sweat running down his face, the wet feeling of his shirt’s cloth, but more than anything, he could feel the will of his blade, the power which it ensued, and the need for a master to wield it, one that could be no other than him for he’d saved it from the unworthy hands of the Forsaken Legionnaire. Now it was finally his, and so was its wish for revenge - a new purpose.

Alrik Hart - "Alone"

In which, Alrik travels from Nornwatch Keep to Hrimthur's Outpost and is separated from the refugees along the way.

The gentle flames of a soft fire stirred before Alrik’s blurred eyes, the smell of roasted meat came next, and last was the choir of a song he remembered his father singing when he was young. He leaned against something warm and sturdy, smelled worn leather and mead. The All-Father had welcomed him home and in the sweet quiet of mental stillness his father had not died and his sister had not been taken. Memory returned and panic followed, but another’s arms held his beaten body close.

Arros - "Burnt Child"

In which, Arros joins the Legion of the Dead following the events of Isengrim's Embrace.

You drank from the goblet, you heard the screams, the roars, the unnatural and sickening calls from the other side, you were certain you had more poison than blood running through your veins. You hurt. Like someone’s taken sanding paper to your bones, bruises riddling every inch of you that has blood enough to call itself alive, because you damn fucking sure don’t feel like you are.

Aytaç Gökhan - "ᛗᛟᚢᚾᛏᚨᛁᚾ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ"

In which, Aytaç (slays) remembers who she is, a daughter of Manetheren and one of Hrimthur's Heirs.

the questions spiraled within her head, offering no answers to her. each question spurred on another question, which brought forth another, and another, and another. perhaps if she found afshin, ormir, her father — perhaps they would know something that she did not. some clue that would lead her to answers that she seemed so desperate to find for herself now. but what would she tell them? what would she offer them of all that she had learned? would she be forthcoming, or would she be selfish once reunited?

Etienne Ulven - "Frost Pears"

In which, Etienne reflects on the events over the last couple of months while enjoying a prized snack.

Etienne doesn't know if it can just be him again. For when he's alone with himself, he's standing in a room with a stranger. There's this thing under his skin and it is so wild and it is hurt, bleeding from the wound that'd reopened. Grieving his father a second time while cursing that he'd never just told him about all of this, dealing with the frustration he had all of these questions to ask a man who was no longer there, it hurts.

Fharzai - "Long Night"

In which, Fharzai dreamwalks during the events of "The Last Night" and is attacked by Munin.

For the rest of the night he fought for his life, trashing his place in the process. It hurt to be slashed and it hurt to be so violent, but what other choice did he have? By the time morning came, he’d managed to smash the blight’s body with a chair until the wood splintered in his hands. Even when the creature stopped twitching and the pain from wood fragments in his flesh matched the sting of the gashes across his body, Fharzai continued to pound as if the nightmare could walk again at any moment.

Freydis - "I Knew My Heart Would Break"

In which, Freydis is guided through the mist by a cat sith and decides to walk the path of one of the fey-touched.

Tove allowed her head to fall back, the twining antlers that had sprung from her tilting back and tangling with the loose strands of the willows she had planted to replace the cairns of her parents long, long ago mingling amongst their prongs and brushing against the skin of her shoulders and her tearstained cheeks. They reminded her of her mother’s golden hair, the sound of her voice telling her: “You were enough, before and after. By any name. You were always enough.” 

Froy - "Froy's Oath

In which, Froy reflects on the road so far and bids farewell to his nation once and for all.

"My brave boy," she began, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "In every storm, there's a moment of calm. Find that calm in your heart and let it guide you. Don't let fear anchor you. Sail with the wind, and trust your compass."

Lothar - "ᛏᛁᛗᛖ, ᛞᛖᚢᛟᚢᚱᛖᚱ ᛟᚠ ᚨᛚᛚ ᚦᛁᛜᛊ"

In which, Lothar polishes his ax and wipes at the violence of the past.

The violence of life, how he’d become everything he sought to destroy. What worth was a lucky shot? As never ending as violence was, luck was not in such abundance. Lothar peered down at the runes that were indicative of this - lucky shot - a cruel mockery considering how unlucky his life truly had been. Riddled with scars, perpetuated by loss; the memory of everything he’d once ever cared for had crumbled beneath the Aetherians and his knuckles now turned white as he thought of returning. He’d made a promise, to those captured, and even those lost, that he’d be back to avenge them all.

Luna - "Untitled"

In which, Luna joins the Legion of the Dead.

The werewolf had found where she belonged and she knew she wouldn’t face the darkness alone, not with her trusty stead Steve the forest cat by her side.

Ormir - "Bite the Hand"

In which, Orhan calls on his trusted advisor after sobering from his madness.

A moat of clarity found Ormir then, shivering in the deepest reach of the wastes. Despite Orhan’s better sense, in full knowing the depth of his wounds and the voracity of Ormir’s unending cravings, he’d fed him. Perhaps some part of him had always known that the stray he’d brought in from the frozen wilds would someday draw blood, and kept him close, anyway. For reasons Ormir couldn’t understand, he’d let the rabid beast into the nursery where his children slept, and sat idly as they were reared in its image, sprouting fangs of their own. Perhaps Orhan had understood the torment of all of his family’s transgressions and loved them still. Their prize was admittedly hollow and their peace stolen in his absence.

Riandur - "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance."

In which, Rian reflects on the past and his current station of Field Officer for the Lysaran branch of the Legion of the Dead.

Someone needed to do it, and while Riandur had grown from the young man who had simply enjoyed the feeling of blood on his hands, that did not mean he was kind. The Legion had been his punishment, and within it, he'd found a different kind of family. People that he would die for, or die beside, and the idea that he had found some sort of place within – well, he wasn't going to squander it. Gone was the youthful hope that Rian had carried once, muscles and scars that were simply a story.

Rykard - "Untitled"

In which, Rykard reflects on the past few months and his time travelling the King's Road.

To die with a blade in your hand was considered a great honor in the land of Iskaldrik. They say that when a warrior’s battle in this realm is over, a new one begins elsewhere. Valhalla, they called it. An afterlife filled with feasting, fighting and fucking, what more could a warrior need? As if gorging oneself on violence was not enough for one lifetime. The boundary between bravery and stupidity was nebulous at best and Rykard was never the type to back down from a challenge. So he left at dawn with the King's entourage. 

Shenuvun - "Memories in the Widllands"

In which, Shenevun reflects on the past and returns home at long last.

Shenuvun slips out of the hall where they had all been gathered that morning, and looks back at the masses, taking the view in before turning back towards the door and rushing out into the wilderness. The farther she is from people, the less measured her steps grow, until she is running, barefoot and careless, through the wilds, the Weave urging her forward and forward until it tells her to stoop. 

Prospero - "Untitled"

In which, Prospero comes to during the events of the "The Last Night" at Nornwatch Keep.

Once he opened them again, there had been so much blood. Prospero’s hands had always been covered in blood. Why was it never his own?

Vicoya - "Sacrifice"

In which, Vicoya works herself to the point of exhaustion, coming across a rose and a stranger in the process.

Through blurred vision, she watched as the flower began to stand up straight, and color began to return to its perfectly pink petals. Then she watched a single drop of red fell onto it’s soft surface, before slowly trickling into the center of the rose, weaving through the small gaps between the circling petals as if they were a beautiful maze. Then another drop. It’d come seemingly out of nowhere, until she felt the cold sensation of liquid freezing on her face. A shaking hand reached up to swipe just under her nose, and it came away red.

Troupe 1 Prompts:

Prospero 

You don’t remember how you got there, but one moment you were stumbling back to your chambers after a night of drinking the Legion’s piss-mead, and then in the next you were standing in front of the Keep’s gate. A dead legionnaire was behind you and there was blood on your tunic, was that you? You couldn’t remember. The addle of the drink tilted your mind as the stones and the snow began to turn; you emptied your stomach into the bank and then reached up to steady yourself, unlatching the gate in the process.

There was a moment where you stood there and stared, you should have closed the lock again. The wasteland was a dangerous place, especially after dark, but you only lingered and stared, stepping over the body of a legionnaire before you stumbled back to your chambers and collapsed in the comfort of your bed. 

Fharzai

Each night you wandered among the dreams of the Iskarans; kept from anything south of Ymir’s Spine, you were limited to the refugees of Nornwatch Keep. In their minds you sewed the epithets of the light, warming cold memories and tending to the lush gardens of dreams. Your mistake was thinking you were alone here, in thinking that the will of the dark would not find you. 

You crept into the mind of a legionnaire, Commander Deidameia they called her, and from the moment you landed you knew that you were not alone. Their dream turned into your nightmare as you were a child once more, scraped knees and worn hands knelt before shattered arches - the Keeper slayed and the bodies of countless Dúnedain strewn about. The blight crept in as a figure, shrouded in shadows stood over; their warning clear, do not tread here. The Keeper you’d known rose, lunged, and attacked. They shook you from your dream, and followed you into the waking world: a wright drawn from the dream realm bent on killing you.

Amaia (unfollowed)

Restless night have plagued you for days. Something coming, rising, and brewing. Dreams of the blight follow every legionnaire; it’s their fate to lose themselves to the madness of the calling, and descend into the deep to throw their blade at the hordes of the darkspawn below. Is this what was happening to you now? In the Tower you’re hearing the call of darkspawn, faint, and far away but it’s an echo that you can’t deny. 

In the north, something is rising, darkness is stirring and as you write to Amon Sûl, your letters will go unanswered. Caer Glas Keep has closed its doors, Caledon Moors Citadel is abandoned. That leaves only Nornwatch, the frigid and decrepit bastion of the north. Is this where evil stirs?

Luna

Far above the stone, you can hear Her call, she sounds wrong, somehow. The moon has been your friend since you were just a little girl, but now she’s calling your name like you’re a stranger. It’s quiet at first, but it grows louder; in the beginning, you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your sweet Mother’s melody. It was all for Mother. It was all for the Brood and you were all too happy to bring forth her beautiful sweetlings, to nurse them, dote on them, and snap when your hungry Brothers got too quick. 

But she grew louder. Too loud to be ignored. You knelt before your precious Mother when the moon’s call snapped at your spine. Horror bent you back upon yourself, twisted your shape as you tore at your flesh. Your human skin wasn’t good enough, you wanted a coat, nails would not do you wanted claws - and with a maw of razor-like teeth, you bore into your sweet Mother as her viscera melted across the tarmac of your tongue and her song - a harrowing cry for help, and a shriek of death, reverberated over the stones. 

Aytaç

Mother was beautiful, wasn’t she? 

You forgot your name, your past, and your ambitions for your future. At night you dreamt of the Dark One’s warm embrace, and through his eyes, you saw the face of a man you could no longer recognize. A Mad King, growing stronger, a man you’d spent your life idolizing but couldn’t place. Your Lord had set his dark gaze upon this King and in your waking hours you shook with the hope of being the one to deliver this familiar stranger into the arms of the waiting Abyss. 

Your kin came wailing into this world, delivered from the warmth of Mother’s heart - were you maternal? Would you someday be a Mother to a nation? It was an errant thought, one that lifted the song of the coming dawn from your lips as you remembered a girl who was more weapon than person. With a tongue like a sword, and a mind like a shield. Who was that girl? Where had she gone?  

A wolf’s teeth brought Mother’s screams into the deepest recesses of your mind, her pain was your pain, but then her song was gone. You were Princess Aytaç Gökhan, Iskaran shieldmaiden, and you would not die in this place.

Freydis

What use was a broken shield? 

You’d already answered that question. A broken shield still had splinters but Mother never looked at you like you were ruined. She only saw someone worthy and strong. Where others had fallen to the song, useless ghouls with peeling flesh and a feral mind. You would not be like the gray meat you carved away for Mother’s appetite, the morsels of rot that your teeth dug into to soothe your appetite. Better than the scraps that your brothers fought over, and valuable as the urchins that you brought forth from Mother’s heart.

When she died, you felt all the light leave the world. The cave grew dark, the fires felt cold, and in the heat of it all a werewolf tore through it all. It descended upon you, you knew this one, somehow you knew her - but a splintered piece of wood jammed into its mane was enough to send it reeling away before it could make a meal out of you like it had Mother. Her song was gone now, but her song echoed in your heart; not as anything sweet, but as a brutal reminder of the dignity these beasts had taken from you. A fractured shield in hand, the ax of a felled darkspawn in the other, even if it killed you, you would teach these beasts why your people named you Jarl Icefang.

Alessia

You who were born in the dark and smelted together with battered rocks and unabashed defiance. The light had come in, but the shadows remained if only to provide contrast. You were not the last to fall to Mother’s song, but you held out longer than most. Under the stones of Aetherite, you thought that going through the motions would protect you, but the blight was in the air you breathed, and here the Abyss sighed with open relief. 

It began in your dreams, across the Spine, the Dark One was searching. Hunting. There, hidden somewhere within, was an old adversary. You remembered the steps, the secret paths, and the signs to look for. Even in your dreams, the Old Woman welcomed you like an old friend, but this time when she looked upon you, she frowned. His eye had found her, and when you awoke it was to the scream of Mother’s dying breath - a werewolf ran rampant and wild. It tore through your Mother’s heart and broke you from the song of the brood; the dark descended now, it was now or never. Run. Fight. Alessia Hart, give it everything you have: otherwise, you will die in this place, forgotten and alone. 

Arros

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

A werewolf, broken from Mother’s song, tore apart that beautiful bond - and your first response was to shriek as your Mother’s writhing, tentacular frame, fell into a dead heap. You stood at the side of the Princess, for your next reaction was unabashed rage. You could feel it now, dark though it was, magic permeated the lair and flowed through the veins of the volatile, raw Aetherite. Your weapons were gone, so you felled the first beast that attacked and wrenched their twisted blade from their dead limbs to use it as your own. Arros, witcher, set your gaze upon your escape it’s time to leave this place.

[freydis-freydat]

Self-para/response for the fundamentals of dreaming prompt in The Road Quest (link to google doc)

TLDR: Freydis is coached by Vaelin on dreaming, covers aspects of Freydis/Tove’s first life, Glaceor’s backstory

[alrikhart]

@fharzai location: dreamscape notes: his leg isn't fucked up here :)

When Alrik closed his eyes, the druid was always there. Even without Fharzai's influence, Alrik thought he could conjure him now when he wanted to. When he needed him; lately, that had been more often than not.

There was a lightness that came in the waking hours when Alrik was liberated from his dreams, but the darkness remained, giving contrast to the scape that spread out from the hill in all directions. Clouds of pink and lavender, permeated by shallow rivets of a darker emerald and deep violet. In the distance a storm rumbled, flickers or thunder that sparked and flourished, a shadow stretched from their hill to the horizon - but it was a distant thought. One that Fharzai helped stave from Alrik's mind while he slept.

Idle, calloused fingers trailed against Fharzai's side as Alrik kept his cheek pressed to the top of the druid's head. Eyes fixed on the horizon as he ruminated over what was awaiting him in Lysara. What sort of life he'd have, and what he and Alessia would do when they were reunited. She'd spoken so often of the tower, but now when Alrik thought of his place in the world he thought of so many things; The Old Woman in the Mountains, the Legion of the Dead, and the Tower of Olympia. It wasn't possible to have everything, but now and again obscurity had its own appeal too.

Would that he could just dream forever.

"Will you show me something?" Alrik's head tilted from the horizon toward the man on his chest, unbroken legs stretched in front of him as the pain he felt in the waking world was a thing of the past. There was such an odd symmetry between not knowing the man at all, and feeling as though he had always known him. Fate was fickle in its machinations and, this feeling wasn't enough, he found he wanted to know him for real. All of him. "Anything, your past, your present - what you want for your future." Alrik thought briefly of his own story, "I'll share after."

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Fharzai AGE & BIRTH DATE. 275 & May 16, 2748 AC GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cismale & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Druid ( Dreams ) FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Druid Ambassador to Queen Mordecai FACE CLAIM. Josh Heuston

biography

( tw: n/a )

Fharzai's distant gaze was always attributed to childish wonderment. He had his head in the clouds, so there was nothing of importance behind his eyes. Those notions made it difficult for others to understand his gifts, or realize that Fharzai was already becoming acquainted with his abilities. No one realized how observant he was since he was misunderstood to be a flighty, unfocused brat too quiet for his own good. How could they think otherwise? Fharzai only came alive in their dreams.

His family caught on first, though it was the frequency with which the lost him that finally clued them in. Almost always he would end up at the Tower of Olympia, staring up at it as if enthralled. It happened so much that they had to consider whatever was happening in their house went beyond vivid dreams. When they slept, Fharzai would present in their dreams ready to play almost nightly. One night, his parents decided to embrace the experience. Instead of assuming their dreams were false machinations of their resting minds, they took everything for face value. They looked upon each other, their other children, and Fharzai in this dream state as if it were reality. In the morning when they woke, they asked him about the games they played which he more than excitedly raved about. The way he spoke as if the events just happened confirmed what they experienced was no mere dream. Their son was gifted in the mystical arts of the mind.

Suddenly, his fascination with the Tower or the offputting, prescient turns-of-phrase he was prone to toss out made sense. Fharzai had been chosen by the Weave to touch its threads as many enlightened witches had before him. His parents began to bring him to the Tower daily to explore the lower floor and maybe pick up a thing or two in the library. They petitioned the Sitters to provide Fharzai the guidance they couldn’t with each visit but were met with the same skepticism they once held. Fharzai didn’t weave new patterns like a witch would, but after many meetings and fantastical dreams of their own, even the Sitters had to conclude that the child was gifted. However, his calling was not to the Tower but instead to the Veil.

Fharzai was young and couldn’t understand, though the witch whom he would come to call ‘teacher’ explained it as well as they could to his parents. Being Dúnedain meant they would have to allow their son to belong to balance or his gifts would vanish. They resolved to let go so as not to interfere with fate, but it was Fharzai who clung to Eterna. He loved his family, friends, and teacher so dearly, but he also loved his magic. For years he contented himself with whatever instruction his teacher could provide as the call of the Arches grew louder with each passing day. Fharzai’s sleep became tumultuous when his mind ventured beyond. The signs cast shadows over the dream realm paths he normally walked, reminding him that the threads of fate would not wait for him.

Eventually, Fharzai had to heed his teacher’s warning and set out to follow the thread tugging on his spirit. He’d had enough dreams and visions to understand the signs, and now that he was no longer ignoring them his path seemed clear. He started at the Standing Stones, a site that spoke to each of his senses. That visit was his first time coming to the monument, and yet it felt safer than his home. Still, the Mist did not speak to him then. Fharzai understood, he simply wasn’t ready to peer further. There were things he needed to experience and learn before he could even begin his test, but he felt grateful nonetheless to witness a relic of his destiny with his own eyes. From there, Fharzai set out on a pilgrimage across Lysara, visiting each location of druidic stones. He knew he wasn’t just traveling to read the inscriptions, his visions conveyed a much grander weave pattern for his journey. Fharzai needed to learn about the world around him and the people who lived there. He communed with nature, ate with strangers, and opened his spirit to life itself. His dreams were vivid and grew in power each night as Fharzai came to embrace all that he was. By the time the Arches called him to their threshold, he was ready to venture into the Mist.

And so he did, only to be told his travels had amounted to little in the Veil’s vision. A taunting voice from a dream existing in the peripherals of his senses compared Fharzai to a plate pretending to be a bowl, teeming with liquid that threatened to spill over. It wouldn’t be enough to pour the contents out. The plate needed to be shattered and reformed to serve its true purpose. Fharzai was warned, and he agreed, so his trials in the Mist began with devastating intent. All of the Dúnedain required harsh teachings to be centered in the balance of the Veil, but those born to the Circle of Dreams needed to be more resilient than most. Fharzai would see more and travel further than most, the bounds of the spirit by far less stringent than those of the flesh. Walking the same lines as Manannán would be no easy feat, and his psyche would need to endure far beyond his natural lifespan.

Fharzai was made to confront every flaw and insecurity, his foils laid bare before him as tests he had to overcome. He had resisted the call and was made to answer for that too through confessions of every selfish desire he harbored as the Mist took him in, resulting in even more trials for him to overcome. Threads of Fate shot out from the Mist in every direction, showing Fharzai innumerable possibilities for the paths he may walk. Each vision conveyed a different future, however, their common thread was the burden each entailed. No matter the fluctuation, Fharzai was expected to carry the load of ensuring balance no matter the toll on him. This test had him live countless druidic existences against the most impossible odds. One lapse in judgment was all it took to disrupt the order of that thread’s tapestry, so failure meant starting over until he got it right. He couldn’t falter, because Fate would need Fharzai to be a bastion of light against the Dark Ones.

Again and again he was tested until the man he was had been chipped away, leaving only a proper Keeper of the Mist. Fharzai could see beyond, extend his heart, and do so all without becoming overly attached. His lot was to guide the world towards peace, progress, and prosperity and once the Mist released him he knew he would perform his duties well. But first, he needed time to grieve. All Fharzai could do at first was lay in the grass, stare at the sky, and weep. How many lifetimes had he seen? How many connections had been tied to his soul? How many had been severed in the end to serve as a stepping stone to his development? What darkness would he have to combat before his days ended? How much time had passed beyond the Arches while he was re-educated? Fharzai obtained by the trees surrounding the stones that his body had slept for a few seasons, nourished by the earth beneath him in that time even though his mind had endured eternities. After many sunrises, he found the resolve to carry on and perform his duties as a Dúnedain, leaving the Arches to resume his solitary travels to spread the sentiments of peace the Mist had taught him.

For years Fharzai lived as a nomad, following nature’s signs to various destinations all over Taravell. He met so many people and saw a great deal of different things. With mastery of his Circle, his spirit could travel even further when he slept, extending his reach to even those where his type of magic was rare. Through dreams, he could soothe souls and ease hearts, not to mention the signs he received while exploring the dream realm were by far more vivid than anything the natural world provided. Fharzai saw everything, more than he could ever hope to truly understand, but he never forgot a sign. Years, even decades could pass before a vision of his became relevant, but his mental capacity had grown in the Mist. Though he was haunted by what the Arches showed him, Fharzai intervened in every conflict he came across, affecting small-scale change by working strife into peace for any his consciousness could reach.

Of course, there were dreams of his own when he opted not to travel and simply rest. Many filled with the fantastical creations of the dream realm, others filled with signs from the Veil directing his path, but multiple nightmares combined the very darkness Fharzai witnessed in the Arches with fresh terrors. Fharzai couldn't tell if they were grim signs of their own or simple manifestations of his dread interfering with his fate, but they served their purpose. The shadows cast over his spirit reminded him that he wasn’t divine or omnipotent, he was simply a Dúnedain, a single agent of Fate. There were times when his dream-walking couldn’t assuage the worst impulses of the strangers he touched or his efforts to quell strife went in vain. People were plentiful and varied, so there was no guarantee that he had the right things to show or say to them. That was the hardest lesson that Fharzai had to learn. His duty wasn’t to solve every little issue, it was to maintain balance. If darkness intended to fester in one place then sometimes the best solution was to foster growth for light somewhere else. He wasn’t born to perform miracles, he was born to maintain order across nations. Sometimes he wasn’t equipped to solve every anguish, especially those born naturally from the mortal condition.

Detachment came easy over time which increased his skills of observation. Fharzai could see the signs of conflict from miles away, though learned to intervene only when the threads of fate appeared troubled. He would provide clarity and then leave, over and over across all of Taravell. Eventually, the signs brought him back to the Tower of Olympia where his long journey started. Decades had flown by and Fharzai was a completely different person from the child who used to run around the ground floor envying witches. His teacher had passed, his siblings had aged and started families of their own, a new Queen sat on the throne yet the Tower remained unchanged. Fharzai hadn’t felt a pull so strong since the Arches first called to him. Eterna would be where he settled for a time, all signs told him there was great work to be done in the city where he’d been born.

Fharzai’s gifts were once again recognized, though as a fully realized Druid he had an easier time proving himself to the witches of the Tower. In no time at all he held a private audience with the Queen, and after hours of conversation, he was welcomed as an advisor into her court. Over time, he fostered deeper trust and understanding, demonstrated by his dedication to her queendom. Their values aligned and Fharzai interpreted signs across the Queenlands that positioned the Tower as a stronghold of light at that point in time. He was a servant of the Veil and gave his loyalty to the balance of fate above all else, but Fharzai has remained in Eterna for hundreds of years faithfully at the behest of generations of Elysian Queens. His position has provided him a great deal of influence over policy, granting him the ability to usher in peace to the Queendom at large as well as surrounding areas during his diplomatic missions. From the Tower, Fharzai can continue to extend his reach as fate demands which he views as imperative. No matter how many minds he soothes or conflicts he settles, the visions of darkness never leave him completely. He knows something is coming, his dreams are never wrong.

personality

+ compassionate, generous, dutiful – aloof, cryptic, invasive

played by zen. est. he/him.

[alrikhart]

@fharzai location: dreamscape (iskaran mines) notes: all good things start with horrific trauma

Most nights, he was restless because he found himself here again, blurring the line between unconsciousness and the waking world. Sleep was something he wished to avoid but was physically necessary; sleeping draughts helped, lulled his weary mind into the dreamscape, and for a few uninterrupted hours, he'd toss and whisper pleas for help into the dark of the night above him.

In the dark, it was hard to discern what was him and what was the cold echo of cavernous walls. Hot. Cold. The Iskarans had dug into the mountains, deeper than anyone should have gone, instead knocking at the halls of the damned. Murder, arduous labor, a sunless life, and hunger were enough to drive anyone towards desperation. In the dreamful hours, Alrik forgot what was and what wasn't; the escape he'd imagined and played over a hundred times in his head had to be a fantasy. Nobody got out, at least not alive; this place made monsters of anyone, he'd felt in the gray matter that squeezed between his fingers. In the shards of a broken skull that was splattered across the cavernous floor.

Where was Alessia? She was here - she must have been here? Had that been her? He should know if his sister was dead. He would have known if he had killed her, but then where had she gone -? It was dark and cold. So dark. The air lingered on his skin like damp, clammy fingers stretched greedily across his flesh. A breath fell from his lips as the haunting whisper of cruelty rattled like a hiss at the back of his synapses, it told him what was to come, and what was inevitable: the Norns had tied his thread long ago, and it was here in the depths of Helheim that he'd wander eternally. Cold and lost, nameless and forgotten.

Overhead, the infernal pitch of the cavern cracked open, and light poured down from above. Bit by bit it broke apart as the warmth of the sun washed over the miner's frame, bringing with it a chorus that rose from something Alrik couldn't place. For so long, hope was an enemy because it brought with it nothing but despair; there was a peace that came to Sisyphus's acceptance of his fate; the last hope of treachery against the Gods was to consign oneself to the trials ahead. But there it was, the sun, the sky, and when the ceiling of the mineshaft broke away, he found himself on his feet. Washed in the warmth of the day he stood before a man with gray eyes, a stranger.

"Who are you?" Asking how hadn't crossed his mind. He had no awareness that this was a dream, no control over what was happening around him, and no ability to truly question the changes. Instead, his fanatical mind went to what he knew, to the Gods he'd learned so much about growing up. If this was Sol, Mani had to be nearby, driving their chariots across the sky. There were stories about falling into pacts with deities, but Alrik did not think of himself first, instead another's name fell from his lips. "Where's my sister? Where's Alessia?" At his side Alrik's hands had balled into fists, mediocre magic met the arms of a blacksmith's son, but God or no he would not be parted from her.

[thequeendomhq]

Welcome to Taravell!

Amy.

The Stationary ( Luna Darkwood )

Bailey.

The Ego ( Amaia Vespillo )

Beca.

The Patient ( Brynn ) The Smuggler (Arkyn )

C.

The Temptation ( Magnús / Sébastien ) The Princess ( Aytaç Gökhan )

Chloe.

The Barbarian ( Rykard )

Dany

The Path ( Alessia Hart )

Gus.

The Fallen ( "Theon Epialos" Alcides de Contreras )

Ori.

The Hidden ( Valdís ) The Blighted ( Mikhael )

Theo

The Hand ( Ormir )

Payton.

The Shield ( Freydis )

Snare.

The Beginning ( Morgan Page & Tobias )

Zenmichael.

The Azure ( Elokian Liayar ) The Sphere ( Fharzai Salif )

Please review our new member's checklist here and send in your blogs!

You have one week to submit your blog. The skeleton will be reopened if the blog isn't received by next Thursday at 7 p.m. EST.

[alrikhart]

@fharzai location: an undisclosed location in the Lysaran wilderness notes: post-character quest <3

It was cold when Alrik awoke; his body jolted upright with a start. He sat upright and tried to get his bearings as Alrik tried to make sense of what had happened. Where he'd been, what he'd seen. Beowulf, Asbjorn, the four Alessia - Alrik's mind swirled, and then it hurt with the early etchings of a headache.

A breath came, and then it went. Alrik's eyes adjusted to the low light of the predawn as he saw the faint lines of trees and old stones, casting their shadows across the canvas of the tent.

Fharzai looked peaceful, perhaps rousing, but Alrik could not yet say. At least, not in this light. He reached toward the druid, expressing some gratitude for all the other had done for him as late by affectionately brushing his fingertips along Fharzai's temple and into a gentle stroke that grazed his hairline. Alrik felt himself smile, something that rarely happened without a conscious decision on that part. As quiet as the assassin could manage, he grabbed his trousers and crept barefoot and shirtless from the tent.

The runes on his body had changed, some of what had been taken from him had returned, but with new, more intricate, patterns that Alrik could only recognize from the dream he'd just been roused from. The stones here were well-hidden among a rocky outcrop and after the day of slipping around them, and deciphering their designs, they'd retired. Alrik gave himself a once-over, then he stepped into his trousers and went about gathering wood to rebuild the fire.

Knelt before the coals of their fire from the night before, Alrik turned one hand over another as he drew together threads of fire. This alone would have raised the hair on the back of his neck a few years ago - witchers could follow threads of magic, the most skilled could recognize the intricacies of a weave and trace it back to particular casters. It was a rudimentary beginning, but he turned his hand toward the pit and watched with satisfaction as the fire caught over the coals and began to eat at the fresh logs.

Alrik heard stirring, then the telltale sound of the tent opening as he peered back at Fharzai's bushy-eyed face as he poked his head out of the tent. "Did I wake you?" Alrik asked as he rubbed his hands together, unbothered by the chill of the morning. Lysara was too hot, he didn't know how anyone here lived like this.

[alrikhart]

"A generosity I've only come to recently appreciate." Alrik hadn't put much faith in dreams, not until recently, where his thoughts had been perpetually plagued by the dark, now there was a light that brimmed at the edges. "I'm fine." Curt and dismissive, he hadn't let the creatures get close enough to do any serious damage. His wounds had been cleaned, and others needed more assistance than him. "You're a dream druid?" His thoughts went to Fharzai and then to Beowulf.

"I gave him...a better dream," he explained to the other after a moment. An Iskaran, perhaps Alrik was more prepared than most as the Blight crawled from what used to be his homeland. "I know it would be, but not all can afford to wait, I don't think." The dream that Ramesses had given the dying man had been brief, but a respite against the horror that clawed at the edges. Death would take him, but he'd need to be burned.

"Are you injured?"

[alrikhart]

@fharzai location: Hrimthur's Wasteland notes: The first night after the last night

The sun set over the refugees' first night since their last night at Nornwatch. Caked in ash and weary, Alrik didn't fight the pull of rest, in uncharacteristic fashion he jumped at the opportunity to close his eyes. Somewhere in this dream realm was a man he could press for information on Alessia, his sister was taken and somewhere out in this gods-forsaken-wasteland she was alive. Alrik knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that Alessia had survived the attack, he would know if she was dead.

In nothing but rags the witch opened his eyes to the dark of the cavern once more, years' worth of grime clung to his skin as he pulled himself to his feet. Made of resolve, Alrik closed his fist and found the talisman that he'd been given when last the druid had come to break him from this spell. Where Alrik had remembered Fharzai in his waking hours, dreams held a different power, consigned to these caves again and again, now he shouted-

"Fharzai!"

Alrik pressed forward as he shouted again, clutching the talisman tight as the world dissolved around him. Disintegrating as he trudged up the hill that Fharzai had set him upon before. This time the mountain followed, blight followed the hill as the grass and the tree atop it were eaten away by decay. "Fharzai!" Alrik shouted for a third time, "Show yourself!" The witch had no power over this realm, but the other had been certain of himself before. "I know you're there." Quieter now, more to himself than anything, "I know you can hear me."

[alrikhart]

@ars-gratia-auden location: Silverlands, Lysara notes: meeting time!

Alrik sat hunched over a weathered makeshift table as the fading winter sun prepared to dim over the horizon. The silver trees of the aptly named Silverlands shimmered overhead, their shadows moving across his back as Alrik held the piece of whittled fruit in the light. His knife, edge for rune carving moved with some intuitive precious along the curve of the skin.

Rune carving was a precise art; for the witch, it began when he was still just a young boy at the side of his father's forge. Iskaran symbols for valor and bravery, for resilience and protection. It wasn't magic, it simply was, and belief was strong enough to make up for where everything else lacked. In the ridges of Ymir's Spine the young witch continued his practice as he trained beside his sister, in the long march from Iskaldrik to Lysara, Froy taught him some of what the druids inherently knew. At Fharzai's side, he wandered from stone to stone, dreaming Beowulf's dream until he began to see the path ahead of him.

As precise as rune carving need be, a stone was more forgiving to force.

There was a sigh as the delicate skin of the fruit was knocked imprecisely and what the witch had been attempting was ruined. Instead of lobbing it into the field, Alrik set the knife down and took a hefty bite. A fruit could be discarded but a mistake like this done upon a limb would not be so kind.

Alrik's eyes darted toward an approaching elvhen, he did little to acknowledge them but tipped his head idly. "I've a whole bushel if you're passing through." It sat at the end of the log, more victims for Alrik's apparently clumsy hands.