#troupe. road so far

[witchernjal]

closed starter for @witchertorsten

location: lostlands note: ay fellas is it gay to help your friend if he has 1 arm

To say the least, Njal had not thought that any of them would make it back. After what they had endured, he was entirely convinced that they would all perish on the battlefield. It was what he had always expected for himself. It was what he had hoped for really. If he was to go, he would have at least hoped he would have went down fighting. Thankfully, he lived to fight another day. He was in better condition than Torsten was, that was for sure. His natural instinct was to let his dear friend acclimate on his own. If he were to check on the other witcher now, he felt like it would seem like he thought the other was fragile and that just wasn't the case. However, he had stayed away from some time now. It felt only fitting that he visit now in hopes that Torsten was maybe in better spirits. Not that he would know if the man was in bad spirits in the slightest.

As he walked into the room, he immediately caught sight of the missing appendage. He moved to sit across from Torsten, arm resting on the back of his chair. "So what are your plans when this barrier goes down?" There was probably something in Lysara to help with the other's missing limb and he knew for sure that Torsten had thought about it just as much as he had, maybe even more.

[witchernjal]

Sermons were never something Njal had been interested in. He was sure that was the case for most Iskarans. They were all brought up to worship deities that were nothing like the One God that seemed to be spoken of. He had only stopped to listen to hear what folks like this guy were rambling on about. To his surprise, he had not been interested in the slightest. He had really thought that he would be able to gather something from it. Maybe their gods in Iskaldrik were ones he could turn from. Alas, it seemed they were right about the violence. He wasn't even sure what he was thinking in the first place. Njal had never been the kind of guy to look for a silver lining. When one was pessimistic, that just meant it was less disappointing when you were let down.

That wasn't this guy's fault though. It was a boring sermon because he just wasn't interested in it. He'd give the priest with the sword the benefit of the doubt. "With passion'd breath does the darkness creep..." He spoke in response. Just because he hadn't been interested didn't mean he hadn't been listening. A moment passed before he spoke again. "False faces amongst us?" It wasn't accusatory towards the man that had spoken the words and more towards the general public. There had to be someone praying on their, and the High King's, downfall somewhere.

open location: The Lostlands, Sunken Ruins notes: smells like sermon

If word of mouth was to be believed, the High King had been taken and now more than ever, the people of Iskaldrik were lost. Desperate and confused. Magic had already taken so much from their ignorant society of pagan warriors, one by one the congregation had grown as the pious peddled hope that befit the needs of common people. Iskarans venerated violent deities that demanded they fight and sacrifice, but the average person only wanted a season with fair winds, and a crop without plague. The blight was a product of sorcery, an infection that was allowed to take root in this world because magic went unchecked.

"The Old Gods will call to you, From their ancient prisons they will sing. Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts, On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight, The first of My children, lost to night. With passion'd breath does the darkness creep. It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep."

If they had learned nothing else, then Nikandros hoped they knew that the Dark One awaited around every corner. Wanting, scheming, and conniving. These Iskarans would need to learn the lessons from their past; several had joined ranks with the Legion of the Dead, a noble effort - no sacrifice was greater than theirs.

As the crowd dispersed, Nikandros gathered himself amid the ruins that were half claimed by the bog. A decorative sword hung at the Inquisitor's hip, but it was really only for ceremonial purposes. Freedom was within their grasp, all that remained between him and Lysara was the troublesome wall of prismatic light.

"Did you enjoy the service?" Nik had been holding one every day since they landed in the winding caverns of Ymir's Spine. He prayed over the blighted youth and offered a coin for their passing before they were set upon their pyre. A prayer to see them off, then holy flames to cleanse them before they landed upon the other side.

[lillymakesart]

my new OC: cempaka!

she is based on the story/universe that my friend @haydardotjpg's OCs indra and yuwei exist in! pls go checkout haydar's art he is amazing!! his ocs can be found more easily on his ig but if you're lazy this is his oc indra (cempaka's one-sided love interest) and yuwei (indra's fated lover)

also, cempaka means "magnolia" in malay!! (she gets a flower name bc my name is lilly which is also flower c:)

bonus first iteration under the cut!

i accidentally had "poinsettia" flower in mind when i did this iteration instead of an actual magnolia, hence the color scheme. but yeah, this is as self-insert as it gets LOL like she's literally MEEEEEE but still very different and i love her as she is <3

[engineerzuleima]

who? open where? haven's wall when? the road so far plot drop

Haven’s Wall stands tall at the strigoi’s back as she eyes the distant shimmering dome with narrowed eyes. Anyone passing by will have noticed the thin layer of snow sitting at her shoulders, demonstrating that she has been standing in the same spot for hours at a time without moving and they would wonder why. The truth is simple: she had sent some of her conjurations to trail the borders of the magic dome to try and understand its circumference. Word had already spread about how the magic covered the entirety of Iskaldrik, and the more word spread, the more curious she became. Iskaldrik is in no way round, and yet the dome always seemed to be just that: a dome. The curiosity needed to be satisfied, and if she finds anything of help, the better. 

And so, she waits for the shadowy grims to return from their scouting, considering the magic before her thoughtfully. Zuleima has never come across anything like it on her long life, and part of her wants to know the mechanics and whether it can be replicated to protect Lysara. A bigger part of her, though, worries about the implications of unknown magic in the hands of the Aethereon empire. 

“You know I can hear you when you move, right?” She asks the watcher. “Don’t you have better things to do than to creep on a random strigoi?”

[hiddenvaldis]

who? @agrcn where? Caribellan streets when? during the road so far drop

“You don’t look like the usual sort,” Valdís muses as she falls into step next to the armored man. The armor is a good make, solid craftsmanship. Worth a pretty penny in the market, but easily recognizable too. Probably a heirloom or important enough that jumping the stranger for it would be too much of a hassle in the long term. That, and it’s really not worth getting into trouble in Caribella. The man is clearly not a pirate, the armor is too heavy and fancy for most raiders to take out in open sea and risk rusting, and he is altogether too clean for someone who calls the port home. “Lookin’ for a bounty or for passage? Or somethin’ more interesting?”

[steadythora]

who?: @heroic-ignus where?: the current refugee frozen dirt patch when?: after all the king's road stuff

There'd been a lot she had to face down during their last mission, and she faced every challenge without hesitation. Minus those seconds she allowed that wench to alter her thoughts, Thora got everything she hoped out of her travels. Now, her grief surrounding her parents' deaths was more of a dull ache, the bulk of her emotions worked out through her slaughter of goblins, darkspawn, and the few hits she got in on Lilith. Still, there was a debt to be paid. Though Thora had lost much, she'd never lose her honor. TEK was someone she knew would understand her point of view. "I know you might not deem it necessary, but I do need to thank you. They said it was you who lifted the rubble from me when the mine collapsed," Thora said, still a bit surprised by that fact considering she thought she saw a much larger shadow than his. Then again, she did hit her head pretty hard. "So thanks. For that and..." As Thora trailed off, her hand curled into a fist. Lilith had targeted them both outright, but it was only her mind that got afflicted during the fight. "Vicoya still wasn't sure what her visions meant, but I'm guessing the greedy bitch stole every blade she wielded, including the one you plundered. She might've added mine to her collection if not for you so I owe you twice over."

[thequeendomhq]

The Stumble Inn

“Our hero- Our hero- Claims a warrior’s heart-”

“I tell you, I tell you, Manetheren comes.”

“With a Heart wielding power Of the ancient King’s heart-”

“Believe, believe, Manetheren comes.”

“It’s an end to the Dark One, So beware, beware, Manetheren comes.”

“For the darkness has passed, And the legend yet grows. You’ll know, you’ll know, Manetheren comes.” - A ballad by Alessandra Fraioli

In a Lysaran staple on the outskirts of Eterna, a warm fire crackled from the heart of the Stumble Inn. Last call round the fire and there were only a few wayward standards left but the dedicated barflies that would be peeled off the tavern floor come dawn. It was they, and those just packing up their kits to see themselves home, enjoying the bard’s final song as Alessandra Fraioli played her gilded lute.

She, too, was a staple of Eterna. An artisan of the Great Game, her status in The Harmonium is unknown to all, elusive, secretive, and sought after from Caribella to Sinaria. Now and again Alessandra stopped along the road without notice, bringing with her a small crowd as she played her lute into the small hours of the night.

For now, she set the lute aside as her violet eyes appraised the crowd, soaking in their applause as another drink landed in front of her. Alessandra didn’t need their coin, as far as the world knew her debts were paid - considering her rates, they had to be. As the crowd died the ambiguous elvhen creature smiled, some called her a faiman, others claimed her from a distant line, but like so much of the bard’s life, her nature was shrouded in mystery.

“To end the evening, I offer a tale: be weary gentle listeners, lest it send you to your dreams with a scare.”

“Our story begins with the Mad King: Orhan Gökhan and the Iskaran curse. The Hand who traded his soul for status, the Princess who consorted with the blight, and the Heir who runs from every battle.”

“This is not the romantic tales constructed by my dear friend Sappho, nor the idioms by the mythologist Homeo. We venture into a realm of cruelty and savagery because our neighbours have never known any other way.”

“It’s a common tale, and a sad one really. Cruelty begets cruelty and violence begets violence. Brave, stubborn Iskarans running with their tails between their legs. Fleeing like dogs from a storm stoked by the flames they long ignored. Aetheron has returned, those with a bastion in the sky: they who broke the world returned to mend it, to right the wrongs of the past as liberators and saviors.~”

“~Magic did not break the world. The Dark One did. Witches did not cause the Blight. The Dark One did. Can anyone tell me who is more friendly with the dark, those who’d sentence good people to a life of hard labor and imprisonment - or those who would break their chains.” Alessandra laughed, “~I know what I would choose. I would not choose to damn someone by virtue of their birth, but I might send them to the Tower: I might introduce them to the Laurelin. I might take their hand and help them along their path. Any Lysaran worth their salt knows the adage of the Legionnaires: there is only one battle that matters, the battle between the light and the dark.”

Alessandra seemed to settle into the tale, she’d stood in the halls of Yggdrasildal under a glamor of disguise, had played the harp for Arethusa and held tea with the Divine. Rumors one and all, she played the Game she’d been born for. “It was quiet in the Southlands, save for the distant toil of pickaxes against silver, the fog stretched silence over the land with fingers akin to the ore that the Iskarans forced their own people to mine.”

“When suddenly! Fire bannered across the sky, it drenched their shores, washed like the tide, and BROKE against the land. Liberation at last! Came the cry of our kind, for the first time in an age Iskarans ran while the miners chased after them, brandishing the weapons of their indentured servitude, screaming ‘WE WILL NEVER BE TAKEN AGAIN!”

“Orhan Gökhan.Mad King Orhan Gökhan.” She whispered so the crowd would be forced to hear. “The Mad High King Orhan Gökhan, when he was just a boy his father called him soft, delicate, because he preferred to torture his people rather than see him restrained. His father needed an heir though, a boy you see because as we all know, in Iskaldrik, women aren’t fit to rule.”

“The Mad High King who killed his only friend: poor Cnut was a noble son, as good as they can be as far as Iskarans are concerned. Orhan had him restrained and poured hot oil over him just to set him on fire, and watch the boy burn. He’d never seen it up close, and he liked it.”

“Then came the Raven Feeder, the dark sword of the Astorian battlefield. One look at the Mad King’s tactics and he saw his opportunity, finding a crossroads and selling his soul: yes, a Darkfriend of all things. That is what his people say. One that has had the Mad King’s ear for years. In the shadows he whispers the will of the Dark One, bringing forth entertainment for the Mad King’s sick delight. To his credit he has no penchant for cruelty, his constitution so weak that he shrinks at even the sight of a dog. But even cowards can have ambition.”

“Ambition to…. Do whatever they must to get their way. To placate Madness with a madness of their own, this is why they say The Hand speaks for the Mad King, but he speaks also for the Dark One. Sitting idle while magic stays in chains and witchers assault the Iskaran people.”

“They say that the Princess inherited her father’s madness. One look at her and you can see it written all over her face. They say that as the people of Iskaldrik fled screaming, she delighted in their terror, and at Nornwatch Keep they whispered of her butchery. Carving away at blighted flesh, eating it raw like some ghoul skittering about the dark.” A man in the corner lost his supper as Alessandra spoke, “She, perhaps, is most dangerous of all, because unlike her father she’s a pitiable creature: a woman born of Iskaldrik, someone who can hold nothing in her hands but an ax she wields like a monster. Cannibal and fiend, the Princess did not need to sell her soul to become a darkfriend, she was the Dark One’s by choice.”

“Last is the great coward, the sniveling son that looks nothing like his father.” Alessandra smiled as she said this, “An heir that can’t hold the crown, who can’t even hold a sword, and was sired from the seed of a servant. Why else would his mother have run if not to flee from the Mad King’s ire? It was the road or certain death, torture, or perhaps worse.” The distasteful look on Alessandra’s face was mirrored by the people. “Worst of all is that he knows, he knows he’s unworthy, he knows the Hand serves the dark, he knows his half-sister is a beast, and he knows that the man who is not his father is mad. What’s worse, I ask you? To be born a mad beast, or to simply allow its cruelty?” Alessandra shook her head, “At Nornwatch the Heir was not seen, not a trace of his steps, save perhaps for when the fighting was done - hiding behind the shelter of the Mad King’s name.”

“Where are they now…?”

“Why, in the Lostlands. Knocking at our borders, and crawling from the dark. Iskaran dogs, draped in hunger, blight, and sickness. This is the Dark One’s missive: to see his curse spread across our Queendom, and perhaps he’ll succeed.”

“Who’s to say?”

“Who will be the hero of this age?”

“Who will stop the Dark One before it’s too late.”

“Yes, that’s right: this story is unfinished.”

Alessandra landed on the floor from the table and scooped the hat up off the edge from where she’d placed it down, she walked toward the door and held it aloft before hesitating.

“~ and don’t forget to tip your barmaids,” she tossed a wink toward the owner and disappeared into the night.

Lost in the Lostlands

Vast and expansive, the Lostlands are a treacherous swampland, uninhabited by humans and known for being a region of great mystery and danger. Technically a region of Iskaldrik, the remote area is difficult to traverse and protected by mountains on almost all sides. It was once said that it was here where the Isseya discovered the secret of the blight, and here where the Old Gods first traveled as they took to laying waste to the continent.

Despite its northern region, the air is thick with humidity, and sulfur pits churn beneath the murky bogs, releasing toxic gasses and mingling with the perpetual fog that lines the stagnant waters. Visibility here is obscured as a result and the veil is remarkably thing - making it easy for creatures like spirits, devils, and demons to press against it.

From the loose sediments beneath the muck, twisted, gnarled trees with protruding roots like skeletal fingers ride from the murky waters. Their branches covered in a dense canopy of moss and vines block out much of the sparse sunlight from above. These trees tower above, spiraling and twisting upon one another, casting the bogs of the Lostlands in shadow and perpetual twilight.

What ground that the troupe finds is a deceptive mix of soft, sucking mud and shallow pools of stagnant water. Poisonous insects dwell within, taking advantage of the still waters as necrotizing illnesses linger across mosses and fungi alike - which says nothing of the peril surrounding even the amphibians. Beneath the surface are treacherous sinkholes and quicksand pits, one wrong step can lead to disaster - or the loss of a limb in a hasty escape.

Dangerous creatures teem in the waters: venomous snakes move silently through the reeds, and predatory alligators lurk just below the surface, their eyes barely visible above the waterline. Occasionally, the guttural croaks of unseen frogs and the haunting calls of night birds break the oppressive silence, watching the troupe as they make their way through the dark fog.

Elven ruins predating the broken veil poke out of the water’s surface, some buried, completely as the bones of this old world. If the stones ever knew what they were, they’ve long forgotten now. Sporadically littered across the Lostlands, the air around them holds a sweetness, but is overpowered by the scent of decay and still waters.

Now and then wisps of light blink over the horizon, visible even through the fog. The witches spared this advice to those who traversed this region: do not stray from the path, and do not follow the lights: If you are approached by a stranger, do not give them your name, do not accept their help, and do not offer to help them.

In the Lostlands compasses spin wildly, the only true sense of direction can come from following a predetermined path.

Those who wander may be lost forever.

At one such ruinous bastion, the camp has settled amid the fog as they await the distant rise of lanterns and revelry. The King would rendezvous here, the legionnaires claimed as much, as had the witchers who knew this terrain well. It was here that prismatic light began to filter from the sky above, it fell like a dome over the fog and landed in the distance, a beacon at the border of the ruined village.

Magic, clearly, but what kind? One soul was foolish enough to try and was reduced to ash.

The Iskarans were trapped within their own borders.

The Quest

As the women of The Ones Taken by the darkspawn battled their way from the catacombs below the wastelands, traversing the frigid tundra and contesting a region with a sundered veil: they might have died several times, but the five Daughters of Manetheren awakened something within themselves: Hrimthur’s Heart. The scouts for The King’s Road made their way through the mountains. An avalanche had already divided his forces, some were cut off from the King’s Army, while another was sent into an underground system of caves, these were The Ones Lost. 

Together at the mouth of Ymir’s Northern Spine, at the foot of Isengrim’s Embrace, The Ones Taken and The King’s Road were reunited but were halted by Magister Anthin and her siblings, along with her daughter - the five-headed dragon Tiamat. Their Archon told them to conquer Iskaldrik and to find out everything they could about the Blight, a task that soon became personal as Anthin’s brother was revealed to have contracted the taint. 

No blood was spilled between them, but the interaction was cut short when darkspawn attacked the party. The magisters vanished as Tiamat took off over the mountains, in clear search of High King Orhan: their plan for him was clear, he’d be brought back to Yggdrasildal, but kept under their control. 

The Ones Lost made their way through the caves, battling frostbiters and giants before their leader stood in their path. A blademaster and spellsword, the storm giant was once a trusted ally and friend of King Hrimthur, resolved to smite them where they stood, the group managed to escape through an eluvian. The Sword stood in the giant’s way, securing the others escape, and awakening something within: Hrimthur’s Heart.

With a blighted dragon slain, The Princess proved herself every bit her father’s daughter before a member of the party opened a door for them to escape - transporting the troupe to the Lostlands, rejoining those who traveled away from the High King. They now camp within an ancient ruin at the edge of the Lostlands, their way blocked by a prismatic field that is far thicker than the one they encountered previously. 

The Ones Lost moved as a smaller force, more capable of navigating the mountains, to reunite with the High King, but what they came upon was ruin and disaster instead. The army that Orhan had gathered was decimated with few survivors, as Tiamat ascended they pursued, but were halted by Magister Aelthryth: she declared herself The Blade of the Golden House of Minrathous, and in ten-thousand years she’d never known defeat. Bested and left for dead, The Sword lost his arm in the altercation before The Ones Lost were recovered by the divided forces and transported in critical condition to The Lostlands.

The High King has been taken by Aetheron, and the entirety of the Iskaran refugees have now gathered in The Lostlands, but they’re trapped within. 

The Legion of the Dead had dwindled over the years, and one of The Ones Lost remained sick with the blight: The Gaze. Secrets of The Joining were tightly guarded, but The Oathsworn and The Devout gathered what they needed from the blighted dragon before departing for The Lostlands. The Gaze underwent The Joining, as a witcher she was sworn to defend Iskaldrik, and as a member of the Legion of the Dead she was now sworn to spend the rest of her life battling the blight. 

The Princess stepped forward afterwards, willingly joining The Legion of the Dead after all that she had endured: it was said that the Legion could not rule, that they didn’t carry titles, perhaps she would be the first. 

The door is open for any other members of The Ones Taken to join The Legion of the Dead. 

Munin activated a phylactery ring and took over the body of a nearby darkspawn, he still lives, but will take time to recover his strength. 

Lilith used her blood manipulation to reconsitute her body elsewhere, she lives, and now holds a vendetta after one of her swords was taken from her: she still has six more.

ooc info:

The dramatic conclusion of TQH Troupe 1: Road to Our Queendom will be posted on Friday, June 21st at 8pm EST.

A barrier has been erected over the entirety of Iskaldrik, it is inaccessible by land, sea, and even underground. Imagine a very large, prismatic dome has covered the entire of the Kingdom. Anything that tries to pass through it is immediately incinerated.

Individuals making their way TOWARD the Iskaran refugees will be stopped by the barrier.

Refugees making their way FROM Iskaldrik will be stopped by the barrier.

They can communicate verbally across the barrier, but any spells will be refracted off of it. Painfully.

The story told by the bard has spread quickly across Taravell, public opinion is that The Heir may not be Orhan's son, High King Orhan has lost his mind, The Hand is a darkfriend, and The Princess is as unhinged as her father (missing eye binch).

The refugees are not yet aware of the bard's tale, but the rest of Iskaldrik will have heard it by now.

All the Iskaran refugees are now in The Lostlands together.

The Quests for Troupe 1 have ended, thank you all so much for participating, I had the best time <3

[blightedmikhael]

who? @ormir where? Haven when? During the weeks that the refugees were being monitored

It had only taken him a few days in Lysara for Mikhael to have the bright and startling realization that he had fucked up by getting to know the old man at the bonfire and after. The conversation had been a respite during the arduous journey, and he had enjoyed it enough to seek him out through the journey, but nothing had grown beyond a few amicable conversations. As fellow warriors, keeping the conversation going without delving too much into the despair surrounding them had been bolstering, so he had not made efforts to keep a distance from the Iskaran. Now that they were in Lysara and he had seen the human next to the Princess and who he assumed to be the Prince — and yes, Mikhael will be ignoring the fact that the Iskaran Prince is a Changeling until his dying days to avoid that specific brand of drama — greeting the Lysaran officials, he is regretting his choice. He already found himself drawn to Aytaç, he didn’t mean to involve himself any further with the same group that would have killed him if they had known of his status as a cambion. 

It’s hard to avoid someone when they are both stuck in the same area, though, so he isn’t surprised when he runs into the nobleman a few weeks after the realization of his possible status.

“This trip made for strange bedfellows, didn’t it?” He asks as he greets the man with a nod, having decided not to act too differently in hopes to avoid him from looking into him. “And yet, here I am, still not knowing your name. My apologies.”

[uegg]

who?: open to anyone walking by where?: somewhere in east lysara? eastreach or the edge of the queenlands? wherever the boonies are when?: the time period when that bard's tale™️ is making its rounds

It was quite fortunate that Dantalion had been "missing" communications from the Synod to join up with the rest of the vanguard waging war at Lysara's borders. While his presence would undoubtedly turn the tides of the conflict, there was much more entertaining work to be done within the Queendom. Case in point, the same night Dantalion managed to get a clergyman in Sinaria to wish for him to reach Lysara, a small church to the One God mysteriously burned down upon his arrival. How could he possibly head to the battlefield when there were suffering parishioners to tend to?

"Do not despair. Buildings can be built again, but faith once shattered is much harder to mend. This was an attack on your faith, an attack that resembles the very violence this land wages on your righteous path. They cannot help themselves, for their souls have been tainted. I do not fault them for their sin, and neither should you. Instead, I lend my voice and support so that He may shine favorably on the crusaders fighting as we speak. In the wake of this tragedy, what is it that you want?"

Dantalion's dawn sermon was riddled with lies and incendiary rhetoric, namely the fact that it was his hellfire that torched the place with its cleric inside. However, the chorus chanting of the small crowd made him smile wide. Victory to the Crusaders! Victory to the Crusaders! "So it shall be, for the One God is good to the faithful He has never rejected my prayers." Fools, the lot of them, but at least the vanguard forces would have better luck in today's battles now that a bargain has been made. Though a crowd of believers was hardly a challenge for him to convert into darkfriends at this point.

With his arms outstretched, he walks through the small crowd, allowing them to feel the fabled "God-favored Crusader" with their own hands. However, he was primarily interested in the small crowd of horrified Lysarans gathering behind them. "There is no need to be shy. The words of the One God are for all to hear. His light can save even the most tainted souls. I implore you to bear witness to his warmth."

[lunadarkwoodx]

Who: Open Where: Camp, The Other side of Ymir's Northern Spine

They had emerged from a journey where they travelled through a Broodmother and the Darkspawn, into portals and voids, after fighting a villain with a crown of stars who put them into a deep sleep upon first meeting. They had poured over at Atlas and south was the decided direction to go, all of a sudden they hit an invisible barrier, have gone through hell and back they lit a fire and decided to cook some food before they tried to take the challenge on. "Any bets on why that happened?" A small quirk upon her lips.

[witchernjal]

closed starter for @freydis-freydat

location: lostlands note: obligatory death by snu snu tag

To be honest, he hadn't known what to expect of the missing women. They had been gone for such a long time that he was convinced they were never going to come back. If they did, it was going to be a damn miracle. Njal guessed he should have started believing in miracles. When he had awoken from his own expedition, he had been surprised to know that all of the women that had been taken were back with them in the Lostlands. There was one he hoped to see much more than the other. As much as he didn't know if they would classify each other as friend's, he had been interested in knowing if Jarl Freydis had made it back safely. That had been his first stop, even before seeing Torsten. Maybe that was sign enough that there was a semblance of care there. Not that Njal would ever admit to as much aloud.

As he came upon her, he let out a sigh and held his arms outwards. Definitely not for a hug because he was sure neither of them were those kinds of people. "Any fun, violent stories to share?"

[failbettergames]

Welcome to Chandley

Hello everyone, and thank you for the warm reception you've given to Mandrake so far! Here's Chris Gardiner, lead writer on Mandrake, with our first devlog.

When you arrive in the village of Chandley at the start of the game, Rosen – the village leader – greets you. "Welcome to Chandley! It's small, it's complicated, and everyone's got an opinion."

Chandley is one of the most important places in Mandrake. It has the densest concentration of characters, and because it's where many useful services are available, you'll spend a lot of time there. It acts as a window onto the wider world – this is a whole new setting, with its own mysteries and secrets to uncover. And it gives context to your arrival and actions as its residents react to them.

After all, the Mandrakes were once the overlords of Chandley, and everyone knows they're sorcerers. Some even say it was Mandrakes that turned the world upside down. So it's impossible not to have an opinion on one turning up at your doorstep. Nessa, the village smith, knows what it's like to be an outsider. She wasn't born in Chandley but arrived as a child with her father, fleeing a curse that befell their old home. Old Eseld, on the other hand, comes from fallen gentry, and insists on treating you with the archaic courtesies due your lineage (whether you want her to or not). And Kenway has a healthy scepticism of aristocracy. Chandley has got on fine without the Mandrakes, she reckons, maybe they should have stayed gone.

To manage this, Chandley has to feel authentic. Not realistic – we're not creating an accurate economic simulation, here, or depicting a specific place at a specific time in history. But it has to feel plausible, to have a convincing level of detail and, frankly, messiness. Our inspirations here are actual traditions, histories, and experiences.

At this point, I would like to talk about the duck race.

The duck race doesn't exist in Mandrake – it is a real actual thing that happens in the real, actual village I live in.

Every Boxing Day – crisp, cold, and at a frankly unreasonable hour given that we're all still recovering from Christmas – the locals deposit one thousand individually-numbered yellow plastic ducks into the river, and accompany them in an ambling procession as they wind through the village. This takes some time, as the river is actually a stream, and the ducks don't move very fast. Wellington-booted volunteers wade through the waters behind them, picking up straggler-ducks and hurling them towards the front, in what I presume is the historical origin of rubber-banding in Mario Kart.

At some point, the village's actual ducks try to muster a last-ditch defence of their river, only to flee, disgraced, before a yellow tide of inevitability.

The first plastic ducks to reach the bridge outside the church are hailed the winners, and the people who sponsored them get prizes. At this point, the village's troupe of Morris dancers begin their performance, clashing sticks and jangling bells, their costumes a-flutter with rags. They do this right in the middle of the main road, causing extensive traffic jams. When they deign to allow cars through again (that is, when it's time to go to the pub) one of them accosts the drivers, claiming that they have driven over his "invisible rat" and must pay for a replacement (the proceeds left over after acquiring a new invisible rat all go to good causes).

The rest of my family all grew up around here, and regard the duck race as something essentially mundane, rather than the sacred institution of glorious British eccentricity that it clearly is. To me, it embodies the best of village strangeness: communal, preposterous, utterly admirable and immaculately-organised; an immense effort that runs like clockwork every year and has become, by repetition, normal.

But that's only the tip of the local peculiarities, many of which speak to a more difficult and complex past. A bridge over the same river the ducks pass along each Boxing Day is named after the local 17th-century rector who was almost swept away while fording it in the rains. He had to be rescued, and the bridge was built to insure against future rector-attrition. In the churchyard there's a grave of another clergyman – a reverend – who died young, and the trauma of his parishioners is clear in the gravestone they raised to him: a monumental broken column of marble, upon which is engraved the warning 'BE YE ALSO READY.'

Within the church itself is the Witchcraft Tomb, on which two marble effigies of children kneel, each holding a skull. It contains the remains of two young 17th-century heirs of the local duke, supposedly killed by witchcraft. Two local women were hanged for the crime. Village life isn't always nice. Sometimes there are atrocities, or tragedies. In the last few years, peregrines have come to nest in our church spire. A camera has been set up, and a closed-circuit TV and chairs laid out at the bottom of the belltower. A dedicated cadre of residents come to watch them – every time we've been to the church the last few months, someone has been there watching the nest and hoping all will be well. Tragically, this year none of the fledglings reached adulthood.

These are the sort of details and textures, sorrows and celebrations that have inspired Chandley. Its rook-crowned tree, under which ceremonies are held and promises made. The long-running rivalry between its two largest families: the Iveys and the Isbles. The tragic loss of Rosen's first husband to the night. The secret Nessa keeps in her forge.  The empty, broken, weed-ravaged cottage that belonged to the last resident to practice the forbidden arts of horticulture…

So this is Chandley: small (in the sense of dense, and detailed, and intimate), complicated (by the knotty relationships of its inhabitants) and opinionated (because its inhabitants have a lot to say for themselves). We hope you'll enjoy it there.

[engineerzuleima]

who? @sakkarathekeeper where? trivia’s cove when? during the  road so far

Zuleima touches down on Trivia’s Cove on Cloudy’s back, humming distractingly as she pats the wyvern’s snout affectionately before dismounting. Working through the different flaps on Cloudy’s mouth, she frees the bag she had secured back in Eterna and nods a goodbye to the wyvern before turning and heading deeper into the woods, her humming turning progressively louder as she approaches Sakkara’s above. Sneaking on the Dúnedain is amusing enough, but she has learned to only do so at odd intervals, or the famous Sakkara of the Serpents would begin to expect the attempts. 

That would be far too boring.

So humming to make herself known when she didn’t feel like sneaking on the other it was. 

Making it to the Keeper’s humble abode, Zuleima rattled her knuckles against the frame just hard enough to be heard but hard enough to bring the structure down. Though, with the rackety feel of the entire abode sometimes she wondered how long it would last. 

“Do we need to do the dance of you pretending not to be home, scales?” She muses out loud, head tilted as she listens for the Dúnedain’s heartbeat. “I can hear you.”

[temperednuvi]

“And yet here you are,” Shenuvun points out, her brow raised pointedly as she speaks. For all the warrior seems to be insistent in putting himself down and dismissing himself due to his apparent age, there is no denying that he had been a force to reckon with within the battlefield and she would not be forgetting that anytime soon. Someone who only cared for profit would have likely long have moved on to guarding merchants, and yet, here he is with the refugee group and without a merchant to guard. It was telling, but she couldn’t pinpoint of what it was telling. The conversation with the Princess comes to mind, and she wonders if she had truly allowed her social skills to fall to the wayside or if this was a result of her time in the minds. Perhaps it was both.

“I would love to say yes,” she admits with a grim smile, before shaking her head. It had been one of the first things she had tried, once things had calmed down and she had been able to, but it had been impossible to open a door beyond the barrier shimmering above them. “Unfortunately, it seems that we are stuck on this side until the Lysaran figure out what to do.”

She had a point when speaking of a regular person, but there was a difference when one was a part of his Guild, after all, it was an association for people who didn't value their own lives and other stupid brutes such as himself, when you thought about it. "People in my line of work rarely live too long, some of us are too stubborn to know when to retire... Me? I've been thinking of retiring since before I became a member of the Warrior's Guild, but money has a bigger say on this..." It was somewhat true, but there was more to the job than the simplicity of coins, although he knew most of the warriors cared more about that than the good they were doing.

Alder would remember her name, she seemed like the type to do great things in the future, he was sure of that, and that was something he was rarely wrong about. "Nuvi it is." He smiled towards her, satisfied with having met so many interesting people during this predicament. "So, Nuvi, that thing you did back then..." He spoke about the door she created to get them there. "I don't suppose you could use it to get us to the other side of the barrier, right?"

[hiddenvaldis]

who? @shewolfaurea where? Hole in the Wall, Feronia when? During the road so far drop

Rarely does Valdís venture as far inland as Feronia, the region too far from the ocean she is familiar with to be comfortable. There is no denying the temptation to explore the Northern coast of the Wildlands, but her fleet has yet to reach that far. It’s a rarity for Valdís to take a Standing Stone deeper into Lysara, but she can’t help the curiosity. She knows the refugees and their welcoming party gather at the edges of the odd magical bubble, and she wants to know more. Not enough to venture too close to the barrier, though, not when she is sure there are plenty of eyes on them. Instead, she finds herself in Feronia’s pub, sitting at the corner of the bar as her eyes lazily flicker through the crowds, trying to gather anything of note. Deep in her musings as she is, she doesn’t react much when a pretty stranger sits next to her, only raising a brow in amusement at the entrance. 

“Let me guess, you saw me across the room and liked my vibes?” She asks, an amused smirk on her lips as she raises her ale to her lips. “Or did I fail a vibecheck, and now we are honor bound to duke it out?

[steadythora]

who?: @vuldak-juneau where?: where all them refugees be huddlin when?: post quest

Thora was surprised to simply happen upon Juneau. Not because she expected the other to have been dead by this point, it was nothing as conscious as that. Kari had marked her scent which meant Thora should've received some sort of warning about a target being near whether they were actively on a hunt or not. Yet there wasn't even a single raised hair on the dire wolf's back as she looked right into Juneau's eyes. Kari was loyal and their connection ran deep, so all Thora could do as her companion sat and let her tongue lull out was look on in shock. "And what is it that you think you're doing?" Thora finally asks Juneau with an accusatory edge despite the other not doing anything to warrant suspicion. "Skulking about to find your next hiding spot, no doubt. You've made it far. I'd be impressed if I didn't know your true nature." Such jabs were always made with overt hostility, a feeling Kari always responded to in kind whenever Thora made them. However, her companion didn't move a muscle or display any signs of aggression. She simply continued to watch Juneau, completely at ease, as if she had no intention of hurting her at all. Peculiar behavior all around...