#veilcrest | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thequeendomhq · 4 days

Text

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.”

Some time during the Dark Age –

A griffon shrieks – its large, dark wingspan making a shadow over the sun. It lands a few feet from a woman, an Elvhen, dressed in dark armor. “Revas,” the woman greets the Griffon, who, after a moment, turns into a rather large mimic of a dog, pressing its head against the Elvhen’s chest.

She laughs, her hand scratching the cheek of the large griffon, the momentary pain forgotten. It had been a long day, the barren land that she had just come from finally burnt and left behind.

Those who had survived the onslaught of what eventually would become Eastreach had dragged themselves towards the safety of the broken Tower, towards any place where an Old God and the Dark One’s power could hopefully not reach. What they did not expect was the desperation that followed, the death that would rise in these places that only knew how to kill or be killed. More and more took the Joining, more and more would begin to understand their sacrifice, and more and more became ghouls.

“Isseya!”

Another’s voice pulled the Elvhen from her thoughts, her hand dropping from Revas’ cheek even as the Griffon gave a huff of annoyance.

A sandy colored Griffon landed a few feet away, a man sliding off its back, “Andoral has been sighted, coming for the islands – what do we do? Valeria Mordecai and the witches have made it to Eterna. They’ll never last against Andoral alone.”

Isseya glanced at Danaro, then to his griffon, “Valeria has the palantír. She’ll know. Take Shrike and wait for me by the ruined Tower. We will fight the Old God head on.” Her words were strong, but even she was just an Elvhen – just one soldier part of the pattern. The Light of the Laurelin still shined within her, blades that were conjured out of nothing that she would send flying towards the Darkspawn that dared to rear their ugly heads, and she was of Sylaise – she would sacrifice blood for her goddess, and pray that those she fought for would continue on.

The city that would become known as Eterna currently lay in waste ahead of her; broken and shattered buildings, a Tower with white marble that was stained with fire and missing pieces that had fallen into the bay below – the city Valeria Mordecai, the future queen, would rebuild stone by stone. It was a ruin from a previous age, the original name perhaps lost to time. Isseya turned towards Revas now as Danaro and Shrike took to the sky, flying towards the battered city ahead.

“Ir abelas, Revas,” Isseya’s apology was quiet, but the Griffon was noble – it would never turn from such a fight, and the Legionnaire would never ruin his honor by sending him away. She reached for his back, climbing onto the Griffon as she looked at the Tower far off in the distance. “Lasa ghilan, Sylaise,” she whispered, and the two launched themselves forward, the shrieking of a dragon the only answer to the quiet prayer.

Amon Sûl, a few weeks before the fall of Iskaldrik –

“Veilcrest has always been the reason. It’s a stain on all of Taravell. We can’t destroy the Blight without ridding those who worship Lusacan–”

“You’re talking about a full on war with the Queen and all her followers, it’s madness.”

“Taravell has forgotten about us, we’d have no support, not even–”

“You’re right, but if they knew we were marching to our deaths? They’d support us even less–”

“–Or support us more. Lose Veilcrest or the Legion? They’d be fools to choose them over us!”

Voices continued to shout over one another, the halls of Amon Sûl no stranger to strife and disagreement. Legionnaires had been stationed here for years, those they dragged in, blighted and dying, and somehow survived the Joining – they had yet to leave. Even now, as different officers stood arguing around a large table with a map of Taravell, there didn’t seem to be any moment of respite.

“Every minute we wait is another minute one of them could regain power. There are forces at work for all of them, nevermind the Dragon of Night.” This Legionnaire did not wish to speak the name Lusacan; names had power, and this one held fear in his heart.

“It’s not like they’re thanking Him for giving them a hobby, they–”

“Well what about the Darkspawn? Nornwatch has reported increased activity, they’re responding to someone–”

“Enough.”

One voice seemed to silence the others, the Legion Commander standing now at the head of the table that the others stood at. The officers placed their arms over their chest in greeting, some looking annoyed they’d been interrupted, others chastised.

“We do nothing.” Silas’ eyes were darkened with exhaustion, the commander moving towards a door. Voices called after him, but they were ignored as he shut a door behind him, closing off anyone who would enter the room that led to the staircase for the tower. Up and up he went, silent and weary. No one noticed the tiredness in his voice, or perhaps the way his blue eyes were always watching with an unknown emotion. No one dared question him, and those that had were admonished before they could ever finish their declaration. What good could the Legion be if they spent half their time in single combat, fighting over leadership?

Silas continued to walk the steps of the tower, the stone echoing every movement, every rustle of armor, every sigh – until he reached the top. The hilltop fort was one of the few things for miles around, and within the tower lay the only thing that Silas wished to look at. He walked towards the center of the room, a pedestal rising as he approached. Upon it was a round, crystalline stone. It glowed unnatural colors, twisting and turning, like it was whispering some quiet words as Silas got closer. The Commander pulled off one of his gauntlets, and he reached forward to place his hand upon the glass stone.

The voices quieted, and Silas’ eyes turned white.

Aventia, Borderreach, Present Day –

“Oi! Get the hell out of my house!” An older man brandishing an axe chased after a young man, who was frantically gathering his clothes and sprinting out of the backhouse that he’d been caught in. The farmer’s daughter was left laughing in her beloved’s wake, watching as he ran, ass out, towards the woods.

The young soldier stopped when he reached the treeline, a laugh on his lips as he thought about nearly getting axed by the farmer. Pulling his clothes on, he searched for the bow and arrow he’d set down. The woods were quiet, and as he trudged around, it wasn’t until he noticed how quiet that he took pause.

Not a single bird chirped, not even an insect dared to make a noise.

This farm was settled on the edge of Aventia, the inner town itself a little worse for wear after being on the very border of Iskaldrik and Aetheron’s magical barrier.

Suddenly, the ground started to shake, the young man falling backwards onto his bum as the noise suddenly became unbearable. Trees began to crash, creatures scuttled from their hiding spots as they sprinted past. The soldier couldn’t move quick enough, scrambling to his feet and discarding his bow and arrow as he raced away, back towards the village.

The farmer still had his axe, holding it up, “Hey! Ya little fucker, I’m gonna…” he cut off as the barrier started shifting, creatures shrieking and the forest seemingly coming alive as it groaned and creaked.

“Run!” The ground continued to tremble, the farmer and his family gathering their horses. They raced away, despite the barrier…shrinking?

The soldier stopped, watching as it got smaller, and smaller –going further away.

Eventually, the crashing noises ended, and silence fell upon the farm once more.

He huffed out a laugh, unsure why they’d taken so much care to run the other way. He started to walk, following the tracks of the horses. It wasn’t a long march back to the town of Aventia, but the hoof prints he followed eventually were paired with…something else.

Blood splattered in the mud, large sliding tracks that showed where a horse had fallen, where another had been dragged – and a severed leg was all that remained as he continued to walk. His weak stomach simply made him gag; an untrained soldier, he’d barely seen war. Aventia was a town plagued with pressure from the Iskaldran border, used to seeing witchers catch runaways, smugglers pass through with those they’d rescued. It was a strange town, but it had always been relatively peaceful – only because they avoided conflict as much as possible.

Until now.

Smoke rose from one of the nearest farms, the entire home and field burning. The ground rumbled once more, and the young soldier had to lift his eyes to see the town of Aventia under siege. Creatures that he’d never seen before were climbing the wooden walls. Archers who hadn’t seen battle in many winters attempting to shoot them off. Screams echoed through the valley, and the young man suddenly wished he hadn’t left his arrows behind.

Pulling the shortsword from his belt, he took a breath, ready to charge forward to help his home. A noise from behind him made him pause, however, the ground shaking with every step that seemed to come closer and closer.

He turned, eyes lifting up to a monstrous creature that was born easily from nightmares. The ogre roared, and the young man fell backwards, eardrums shattering from the sheer proximity. The last thing he would see was the ogre’s axe swinging down.

OOC Information:

Enjoy some spicy Legion things and a first insight into what those in Amon Sûl have been arguing about for a while…

Legionnaires will occasionally have visions of a blighted dragon in their dreams. Infrequent, but it leaves a bitter taste upon awakening.

The barrier surrounding Iskaldrik put up by Aetheron has shrunk.

The town of Aventia is located in Borderreach, you can find it on the Lysara map.

Aventia is under siege by a massive amount of darkspawn. News has spread towards Feronia and the edges of Northreach, and news will slowly be making its way down through the Silverlands and Lysara to Eterna. This is the first time in modern history that a large, seemingly coordinated attack has been made against a capital town by darkspawn.

Lady Severian, a silver faiman and the ruling noble, has called for aid from Lórien’dal, Caer Glas Keep, Feronia, and Eterna.

Aventia is not known for its modern defenses, only its strategic location and old but sturdy stone walls.

#tqh: troupe 2 #tqh troupe 2: living stone

8 notes · View notes

casimirnoctis · 3 months

Text

starter for @agrcn.

where: within veilcrest

when: the night before valerius storms eterna, 90 years ago

note: alexa play one of us from tlk2 soundtrack

Tears of blood had marked a turning point for Casimir, if he could not be an obedient soldier under the thumb of his uncle's army, then he was ordered to leave Veilcrest at once. Casimir lingered as he looked upon his things, if Queen Lavinia was to stumble upon him again there would be no tears left from his mother, the exiled prince would merely be met with retribution for his defiance.

Valerius and those within his inner ranks had planned to leave once night fully blanketed the realm; Eterna would supposedly cower under the damnation of an undead army. Casimir had barely packed away his things, what worth of his could fit in a small knapsack, so many ancient truths and wonders that Casimir forced himself to walk away from.

He couldn't leave without speaking to one last person; his siblings and mother had disappeared, but he knew Agron was gathering his own lot to walk next to Valerius; he'd been the vampire's most favored warrior yet. "A true soldier; are you ready to bleed like one? To die like one?" From what little truths he knew of Agron's past, this was a dream come true to Valerius' progeny and prized soldier, adorned in obsidian and gold Agron was the true testament to an army primed for the Church of Night's bidding.

#❖ feat: agron.#agron 001.#flashback.#❖ interactions.#silencing his barks

7 notes · View notes

alucardrakul · 3 months

Text

@etienneulven location: Lostlands notes: in the swamp jestie

Things couldn't possibly have been worse.

Alucard had been separated from the King and the others when the mountain collapses, he'd watched Etienne fall through the caves, and by the time he'd caught up with the King's Army, Riandur and Vicoya were already sent to scout ahead. They battled a disgraced legionnaire, faced off against Aetherians, and slayed a blighted dragon.

Alucard bit his knuckle, Vicoya and Riandur were just so cool. The King had been taken which was- well, not really his problem or his priority. Insensitive, maybe, but the Legion of the Dead didn't have a nation.

At least he'd been part of inducting their two newest recruits, a princess and a witcher.

In the swamplands Alucard knew to be weary. He'd traveled this way years ago on his way from Veilcrest to Nornwatch Keep. They were deceptive because the terrain was vastly different here and as warm as it could be, the Lostlands were just as unforgiving as the Wastelands.

Alucard hovered in front of the prismatic wall that sealed the Iskarans within their nation and let his red gaze wander over its surface. He caught sight of Etienne's reflection and turned in the air, excitedly, shocked to see the boy at all. Which, since this was Alucard, just looked like a slow turn in the air followed by a nearly emotionless stare.

"You're alive."

#etienne.4 #etienne.iskaldrik #etienne.lostlands #tqh troupe 1 #tqh troupe 1. lostlands

16 notes · View notes

strigoisak · 13 days

Text

Person: @vicoya Location: Lil Path between the Keep and the stables It's not like Isak doesn't have friends. Back in Veilcrest he'd had.....Well he'd had Dracula's friends technically. And then when he'd ventured to Eterna he'd made...Colleagues with other physicians, alchemists, scholars, and the like. Carys probably counted as at least an acquaintance. Other members of the Legion in Ankhuria were also kind of coworkers but he had been fond of them in his own way. Vicoya though, the redhead was actually so kind that Isak didn't quite know what to make of her. Which was why with whisperings of her birthday, he couldn't not acknowledge it and so inside the pocket of his coat, there's a particularly pretty leatherbound journal. "Do you have a moment?" He asks as he falls into step with her on the path, his hands in his coat pockets.

#vicoya 01.

3 notes · View notes

strigoisak · 24 days

Text

Person: Fellow Legionnaires Location: Caer Glass Keep, library In Ankhuria, during the day, he was mostly holed up in the library and it was hard to admit, but the library at Caer Glass was better somehow. Probably because there wasn't a layer of sand on literally everything and the abandoned atmosphere almost reminded him of being back in Veilcrest. That was something he mourned almost more than the actual bond with his sire, the castle's library, Vlad's lab. But he has to make due with what he has and he had gone to the keep on purpose, he can't complain. And because he'd gone there on purpose and because from a logistics standpoint, morale was indeed impacted by camaraderie, when someone enters the library he tries to look up from whatever he is doing. And goes back and forth on if he should say anything to someone no doubt just passing through or perhaps grabbing something and retreating to their chambers. Totally casual, he looks over his shoulder from where a book is hovering before him via telekinesis to look at whoever had slipped into the room. "Hi." Nailed it.

#open starter.

5 notes · View notes

alucardrakul · 4 months

Text

@hiddenlilja location: Haven (Technically I think Feronia is still alpha? She's old now tho) notes: last call before damnation

Fresh off of telling his father that he had joined the Legion of the Dead, Alucard made for what would be his last stop before he was posted at Nornwatch Keep. The dhampir was inherently uncomfortable in any social setting, but this one was already more intense because he couldn't shake the notion that the wolves here didn't like him on principle. Alucard did his best to appear friendly and approachable, he'd smiled at those who passed him by and he made strong eye contact to inspire something akin to intimacy... but so far nothing had worked.

Alucard's smiles looked more like snarls, and the piercing red gaze of a creature that didn't need to blink could only be called intimidating, but not intimate. Wearing the black armor of one of the Legion of the Dead, the cloak of the Church of Night of Veilcrest dragged behind him, stitched in gold embroidery with the sigil of Lusacan the dragon upon it. A symbol of the blight, but a beacon for the path that Alucard had walked before enlisting in the Legion.

"We may be the only dhampirs for miles." Alucard commented as he sat next to the stranger perched at the corner of the bar, gesturing toward the bartender who, instead, pretended not to see Alucard at all.

#w/lilja.1 #int. w/lilja #int. w/lilja.lysara #int. w/lilja.haven #int. lilja.flashback #flashback

3 notes · View notes

alucardrakul · 5 months

Text

@riandur location: Nornwatch Keep notes: (he lives for the drama)

A flash of a wailing horde, laughter like a chorus of cicadas rattled the peripheries of his mind's eye. Wherever Alucard looked, there was more to see and yet his mind could take in none of it. An acrid taste coated the tarmac of his mind as a hollow cry echoed against the abused barren of his unconscious synapses. Heat seared at the expanse of Alucard's spine alongside a hunger, unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It burned through his core as the lurking presence of a gaze that Alucard could not place remained upon him. Thousands of lies, a city in flames, and at the core he saw the face of High King Orhan.

A rap at his chamber door brought Alucard's red eyes open into the dark, cracked velvet interior of his casket. Soon the tell-tale sound of said doors being flung open told Alucard all he needed to know about the person that entered. The triggered mechanism turned gears installed under the stones of the Keep's floor, painstakingly placed in the years that Alucard had spent as a legionnaire at the end of this barren world.

Gas lanterns cracked to life as the chamber was cast in the warm glow of their Stone panels lifted as they ground against one another in protest, groaning as the mechanical arms exhaled steam, turning the lift that raised Alucard's coffin from the hidden chamber below. From the long shadows the lanterns cast, howling echoed off the Keep's walls as the feral barking of wolves punctuated the cold air about the drakul, rousing their master from his slumber.

Metal ground against metal as the coffin was tilted upright, raised by propulsion, and the mechanical arm at its back. A hiss resounded as steam was pushed from either side of the limbs and the sleek, black coffin ceased its ascent. Its cover slid away to reveal the stoic features of the dhampir within, hard as the cold, dead earth beneath their feet. Telekinesis lifted him from his deathbed as the dhampir drifted from his coffin the simple, black clothes shifted about his frame as if they were moved by a gentle breeze, a brush that fluttered the curls atop his head.

Alucard's armor came to him in pieces, his plate, weaponry, and the signature cloak emblazoned in gold with the symbol of the Old God Lusacan under a bed of stars. An echo of his heritage in Veilcrest's Church of Night; Alucard drifted through the air as his plate fastened itself to his frame by will of the dhampir's telekinesis, finery concealed until the cloak was latched and draped across his back. The proud symbol of the griffon writ across his chest plate as he floated still, a foot off the ground, as he looked down at arguably his only friend in this Keep: Riandur.

"I was napping."

#int.w/riandur #int.w/riandur.nornwatch #int.w/riandur.iskaldrik #tqh troupe 1 #tqh troupe 1:nornwatch #w/riandur.1

4 notes · View notes

thequeendomhq · 5 months

Text

THE ENGINEER ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. UTP SPECIES. Strigoi FACTION. Tower of Olympia OCCUPATION. Inventor / Master of Artillery

In Lysara, the metropolis has taken leaps and bounds over the last century. Eterna now stands at the forefront of what the world can accomplish when science and mana work in tandem. You aren’t without your involvement in this. A disgraced warrior from the Deadlands, you put Veilcrest behind you because despite being dead you never considered yourself a monster. You wanted immortality, fear of the Abyss came after, and worry about a being that no one had ever seen like the Dark One, sounded like something meant for a children’s storybook. You weren’t easily fooled, and now you had centuries to work and toil. Queen Damodred Mordecai saw your worth, an artillerist and creator, one who’d seen the rise and fall of enough innovation to know errors a mile away. The city boomed, plans were drawn, checks were revised, and your eyes were behind it all. Every gun mounted on every vessel, every wall erected to prevent incursion, Damodred passed, Arethusa rose, and you remained as the master of artillery and advisor on all things mechanical. Every blueprint and schematic, every high rise and tower. Checks and balances, weights, and measurements. Eterna was moving beyond bricks and mortar, one stone out of place, one valve left open, and disaster could spark across the city.

CONNECTS

THE RIGHT, HONOR, REDEMPTION, LIONHEART, SANCTUARY, AND THE BLAZING: Members of the Queen's Court

NOTES

N/A

#the engineer #strigoi

2 notes · View notes

thequeendomhq · 6 months

Text

THE SHADE ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 25+ SPECIES. Dhampir FACTION. UTP. OCCUPATION. Vampire Royalty

From the shadows, you were born and to the shadows you returned to every night. Heir of darkness, regent of disorder, your mother is Queen Lavinia Noctis. Daughter of the night, first general of the Old God Lusacan, ruler of Veilcrest, and regent of the Deadlands. You grew up amidst machinery, medicine, and technologies that the human world lost so long ago that the common tongue no longer has names for them. These things interested you more than the appointments your mother wanted you to make, the priestess of the Lusacan who was ever-vigilant in her search for his prison. Stories abound of the glory days of shadow and darkness, but you were more interested in what the world looked like today. Battles were for the boring and the drab; you grew up in luxury, and decadence was all you truly craved. Your mother wanted a soldier, a warrior like the siblings lined beside you and the many that had died before you. One of many, the chipped cup in an otherwise perfectly matched set. She told you the Blight was rising, that a war was coming, and when you professed your disinterest, you were cast out. A stranger amidst your people, a prince turned exile in the blink of an eye - a pampered child with tears of blood and nowhere to go. What would become of you now?

CONNECTS

N/A

NOTES

N/A

open.

#the shade #dhampir

1 note · View note

thequeendomhq · 3 months

Text

NAME. Zuleima Guerrero AGE & BIRTH DATE. 268 & November 11th, 2756 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cis Female & She/Her NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Strigoi FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Inventor & Master of the Artillery FACE CLAIM. Daniela Nieves

biography

( tw: abandonment, gore, murder )

You leave Veilcrest in disgrace, a grim amusement filling hollow lungs. Everything known is left behind, including the life you had chosen when you had been young. It’s a choice not many would make, going against sire and master, against culture and conditioning, principles holding steady in the face of the unknown. Behind, you left all that is known: your work, your connections, the life that you had built from scratch.

It did not matter.

You still had time, you could rebuild your life anew.

You have always been a builder, ever since you have been born.

You build yourself a future out of scraps, a life out of abandonment. An insignificant orphan in the Deadlands, no one thought you would ever amount to anything but a quick meal or a passing amusement. Unimpressive height, wide eyes and an innocent face, there was nothing about you that did not scream prey. Not the way you stumbled upon your words as you rushed from one sentence from the next, head overflowing with thoughts that could not escape your lips fast enough. Not the useless empathy that had you reaching out to fellow orphans with dirty knees and bringing them close to share a morsel of food or two. Not the seeming eagerness to please all that would look your way, always running underfoot of inventors and craftsmen, asking a million and one questions as you carried what they told you to carry, hammered what they told you to hammer, mended what they told you to mend. Hours of effort were spent underfoot, asking questions upon questions, only for all of them to end the same way: with a door closed before your face, and the cold streets of Veilcrest calling you home to the dirty alleys.

You had nothing, you were no one. Just another sheep of the flock, just another prey to be devoured.

No one thought you could become anything but the prey you were, and yet—

And yet, you built yourself into a predator.

People see what they want to see, you learned from a young age. A wide-eyed orphan, a girl desperate for attention. They saw someone small, easy to dismiss, so they didn’t turn your way as you did as they asked, did not see the spark of cleverness in your eyes as you taught yourself to read from context, learned schematics by heart, built a reliquary of knowledge out of the barest of scraps.

You were just another orphan in the streets, after all, what need was there to know the reason behind your actions?

None, they thought, until they couldn’t.

Once an orphan, always an orphan, but even orphans haunted by malnutrition and malnourishment grow, despite all odds.

And you grew.

Not in height, never in height, but in cleverness and viciousness, numbers coming easily and then lethally.

Numbers are a funny concept, you learned. Easy for you to learn, to calculate at dizzying speeds, yet seemingly useless unless properly applied. What is the calculation of speed? Or mass? Trajectory? Sums and equations, seemingly inapplicable in real life, but connecting everyone’s every action. A simple calculation to tell you the density of a man’s skull, the speed needed for your sling’s projectile to bury into their skull through their eye.

As easy as one plus one, as quick as the space between a blink and the next.

Your first kill was a thief bothering a bored warrior that had not decided whether to kill him or not. It gained you an apprenticeship, your thinking amusing enough to gain the interest of someone you would have never dreamed of crossing paths with.

Your first kill earned you a new life.

From orphan to warrior was not a step you expected to take, but you were always meticulous in your actions, and any escape out from the streets was worth taking. Unusually sized for a warrior, you were taught to use your size and your calculations to your advantage, learning where to strike with your sling or war hammer, learning how to subdue and kill with swiftness over power.

Precision was key, so precision you learned.

It was your precision that earned you the dark kiss, and you did not hesitate to take it despite the whispered stories of the Abyss and the Dark Ones. The whispers fell to deaf ears when they reached you, the concept of gods and anything or anyone beyond what was known sounding more like childish fairytales than anything worth remembering. You had never had time for indulging in fantasies, so why waste the offer of a lifetime because of them?

There was no time to waste, so you didn’t waste it.

From orphan to warrior to strigoi.

One brick unto the next and the next. Slowly, you built yourself the foundations, until they were steady, until only you knew how to make it fall.

Then you got to work.

You found the answers to all the quick questions of your childhood, to all the unanswered inquiries or half-assed answers given to you by inventors and craftsmen that had not thought you worth their time until it was them that were not worthy of your time and the knowledge you collected.

Numbers are a funny concept. So much of existence is based around them, and yet, many are baffled by their existence. Complicated equations lead to glazed over eyes, boredom and disinterest from most, but they drew you in like a moth to a flame.

A newly minted strigoi, blood was not the only thing you thirsted for. All the knowledge that had once been denied to you, no longer was, and you reached for it with grasping fingers, drinking it all in until you found your place amidst the formulas needed to craft guns and buildings alike. For nearly two centuries you toiled in Veilcrest, carving a niche and a name for yourself, building a life on your foundations as a warrior and creator. Your sling was demoted to a backup weapon, replaced by guns of your own creation, your hammer was strengthened, meant to withstand your new strength rather than break on your inhuman grip.

You built yourself a home and you were happy.

Then you learned of Valerius Noctis’ plan and you were stopped in your tracks.

Of all the senseless, stupid decisions.

Your life had been built on the foundations of warriorhood, on the blood of the people you killed to gain renown, but you never considered yourself a monster. Your prey had always been carefully selected, efforts made not to take collateral damage. You understood the necessity of violence for protection, but violence for violence’s sake had always been too illogical for your support or your liking. And you could not see Valerius Noctis’ plan as anything but violence for violence’s sake.

You would not abide by it.

Regardless of your opinion, an invitation to join Valerius’ troops reached your abode one nightfall.

A denial left your home before dawnbreak.

Your fall from grace in the Deadlands was as easy as that.

The life you built after nearly two centuries destroyed by your own hands in less than a fortnight.

You were seen leaving Veilcrest less than forty-eight hours after rejecting Valerius' invitation. There was no use in delaying your departure, not when your sire could call at any point and demand you to change your choice.

Thankfully, your creator did not see you worth the effort.

You left Veilcrest unencumbered, and headed for the rest for Lysara.

Through mountains and peaks you traveled, the journey harsh even for you, but the company of a newborn wyvern made it easier. She was not big enough to mount when you found her, a lonely starving thing that had just escaped her egg, but that did not stop you from feeding her and taking her with you.

You knew a thing or two about loneliness and starvation, after all, and you would not wish it upon any creature.

It took some time to leave the Deadlands. It was the first time you left Veilcrest and it came with the realization of how little you had truly seen.

For six years, you wandered Lysara, growing to love the lush lands and the people more than you would ever love Veilcrest. A seed was born during your travels, burying itself in your heart as you saw the sort of lives that could not happen in Veilcrest and realized that you wanted to protect them.

You had never wanted to protect anyone else before.

It was a curious sentiment, and one that led you to settle in Eterna. You found a home in the Tower of Olympia, a mere six years after Valerius Noctis’ attack and your fall from grace, and you never left. For years, you did what you did best: you toiled and worked and built. Weapons, comforts, luxuries, buildings. You built and designed, delighted by the new sort of knowledge available to you, ignoring the wariness of those who had been there for Valerius’ attack. You understood their fear, their wariness, so did not confront them, well aware that your bedside manner would do nothing to dissuade them from their assumptions.

Five years into your time in Eterna, your life shifted once more. This time, the foundations you built were not meant to launch you into higher heights. You had just wanted a home, but Queen Damodred Mordecai saw your worth, and you had found a home that you wanted to protect. An invitation was delivered from the Queen of Lysara, and this was an invitation you accepted.

Your work changed after that, no longer a solitary enterprise but one meant to be done in harmony with the Queen’s Court.

It was different.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

Your work changed, but you did not stop building, creating. Your playground expanded and soon you turned your eyes into the city and beyond, finding inadequacies on the city plans, improving what was there and building what wasn’t, creating protections that had not been there before, raising walls and building guns meant to protect the home you found after so long seeking.

Yours is a careful work, one meant to be done with the precision life taught you and the numbers that come so easily to you and a handful others. It’s a never ending work, one that even with your immortality you are unlikely to see complete.

That is what makes it worth it.

personality

+ Ingenious. Empathetic. Meticulous. – Grumpy. Workaholic. Vindictive.

played by ori. est. she/her.

#the engineer #strigoi

1 note · View note

thequeendomhq · 3 months

Text

NAME. Casimir Decebal Noctis AGE & BIRTH DATE. 237 & Born in the Winter of 2787 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Dhampir FACTION. Thieves Guild OCCUPATION. Vampire Heir FACE CLAIM. Danny Ramirez

biography

( tw: blood, death, cult stuff)

Not the first heir to darkness and certainly not the last, Casimir was born within the crystalline darkness, sequestered within the damned city of Avernalis Civitas. A mind which grappled with uninhibited wanton, something that always reached to pluck fruits of knowledge from each stem of advancement, to stain each fingertip cherry red. Faithful zealots in flowing robes surrounded his adolescence, the priming process for what was to be his legacy, his future. Elemental arcana and volatile aetherite were amongst the wonders which surrounded him, technologies which long preceded humanity and were long obscured from it. For Casimir and his siblings, this was a birthright, something quotidian as life stretched on, but it’d been a challenge to tinker with and understand as their Mother, the Queen, revealed and demonstrated these advancements to them.

Sigils of the Old God Lusacan, stitched in gold hues, littered under a motley of stars, painted the draconic deity in a hue of ethereal brilliance but Veilcrest had always been blanketed in darkness, stark blackness this void of color that siphoned everything unto it. Queen Lavinia spoke of ash riddled skies, consecrated fealties, and of lands freely charted, uninhibited by a sun that had been blotted out by the Cataclysm’s innate destruction. A romanticized picture, something that spoke of power to wield, of a humanity to lord over, and of never-ending darkness to garner.

Where these conspirations for glory days fell on deaf ears, Casimir found his attention redirecting to the machinery and medicines the Queen and her fellow generals had locked away from the world. Advancements that predated he and his siblings, technology that threaded back to the Age of Enlightenment, to before even Lusacan was raised from the abyss. Queen Lavinia’s machinations prompted her to preen soldiers and warriors, those who would cut down any in opposition of Lusacan and their co-conspirators. A dhampir was condemned for an unusual childhood, but under the flock of vampire royalty, under the black sacrament of undeath, it proved utterly bizarre.

Raised under the horde of his siblings, raised from his own abilities, Queen Lavinia was often infrequent around the obsidian halls of the castle. Locked away, the high priestess of Lusacan often toiled away for endless hours, her vigilance eternal as she sought to free Lusacan from the prison he was concealed into. More than a warmongering general, Queen Lavinia’s devotion bordered on acute obsession; the Dark Ages had fallen away long ago but still she persisted and those she brought unto the world were only seen as gadgets to unfurl the design of bringing former glories to present greatness. Impressionable in his youth, and a savant for the literature that scattered the vast library within the castle, Casimir had countless hours to learn and drink in what legacy was painted for him. Indoctrinated into the Church of Night, like all within the fog laden sanctum of Veilcrest, Casimir was bestowed with the hefty ideal of the blight and what it meant for his damning future.

His birth, like all dhampirs, was symbolized with blood-streaked tears, and his life would continue to reinstate this sanguinary rite perpetually as he grew into maturity. Tinkering with the scientific innovations which surrounded him, immersing himself in the rituals of the Church of Night, Casimir persisted for he did not know of anything else. Veilcrest was his homestead, the dense fog and sullen clouds overhead had been the entirety of his livelihood. The dhampir could have spent countless ages scanning the empirical novels, toying with the machinery of ages long past, but Lavinia’s purpose grew famished and a war resided on the brink. Spoils abound surrounded him, both in depraved decadence and in unyielding advancements that Casimir was privy to. The young dhampir cared little for the plight of their kind, to maim and kill for the perpetual blanket of darkness that his mother and Queen felt was best to serve them.

Warriors and soldiers were venerated in their dominion, Vlad and Valerius, the other generals scattered amongst them each looked for, or sought to raise, those with such sanguinary drive. His Uncle was just as disconnected as his mother, those who sought to teach and advance; two who had little time to nurture and provide. Vlad had fallen away from the cynosure of Veilcrest’s limelight long before Casimir had reached true maturity, an enigma much like his mother, the warlord sequestered himself away; unpredictable and volatile. The Blight fed these inhibitions, dripping darkness and conspiring notions that imbued all within the Deadlands. A veneer of displacement resided over his mother, over Valerius and Vlad, over the others who lorded over the draconic deity that was long misplaced within this present age.

Many filtered through Veilcrest’s dominion, those directly reared from Vlad and his many brides, those plucked from society under Valerius’ careful eye; aspiring generals, those with a taste for blood that could only be satiated under the attentive eye of vampiric warlords. Casimir’s disinterest was palpable, strength was an innate abundance to the dhampir and he cared little to march onward in support of the Blight; royalty did not grovel and kneel in the dirt, they did not dirty their hands with the trivial plight of blind grandeur. The Dark Ages was far away and no romanticized retelling from the Queen and her generals could pique Casimir’s interest. Valerius was conspiring to rise over Lysara again and the Queen had called her children together in preparation of what was to come, to enlist them into the undead army her brother was to raise.

Casamir’s lip curled at the thought; where the Queen and her warlords thought greatness was yet to be achieved, her son had looked around at the spoils locked away within her home and saw greatness abound. Technologies to aid the world, machinery to enlist a purpose that did not destroy; Casimir had sat on an ornery throne, content in spoils and luxuries, blinded by a birthright that was just as easily stolen away. He may have been the son of Lavinia, but as he refused to kneel for Lusacan’s purpose he was just as easily cast away. Cruelty was snarled out from his mother, contemptuous gazes were spared from his siblings, all primed for war, and all Queen Lavinia could do was sing in condemnation as bloodied tears spilled from her eyes:

“The Old Gods will call to you,

From their ancient prisons they will sing.

On rapturous wings does deceit take flight,

The first of My children, lost to Light.”

Cast out, on a twisted rendition of one of the Vanguard’s entreaties, garnered with abundant disappointment; it spoke a silent promise that Casimir was no longer welcomed into the vestige of darkness that was Veilcrest. All the advancements that enraptured him, all the spoils that held him in such decadent levity, he was to leave it behind as he spat at the inheritance of war. A pampered child spurned by exile, Casimir marched one way and the army under Valerius’ command, approved by Queen Lavinia, marched another. Casimir had ventured from Avernalius Civitas before, prompted by appointments from his mother, on hunts for the location of Lusacan’s chambers, but this was the first time he’d felt the broiling scald of the sun on his shoulders. For those who would not choose to kneel under the draconic glory of Lusacan’s deliverance, dozens more were primed for Casimir’s place.

He learned swiftly that even though he did not walk the path of Night, with the Church, that he was to be scorned even by those he, for lack of better options, chose to be a part of. Tossed blindly into a world that condemned his kind, Casimir was forced to toe the shadows, be an apparition rather than a person carved into purpose. Any reared under the dark obscurity of Veilcrest held an innate disdain for human life but Casimir was ever curious; a glutton not only for the blood that would satiate him but for the information that was in vast abundance in the world outside his mother’s dominion. The peak of Westreach greeted him as he stepped from the icy clutches of the Deadlands to a far more hospitable region.

The bustling port town of Marinus Bay shrouded him, a creature innately illusive to the shadows faded into the oblivion of the bustling streets. Traders and market owners comprised the stretch of the town and Casimir watched intently as life strolled on; exchanges and deals happened before his very eyes, secrets filtered past his ears, it was the world at his very fingertips and the dhampir was unsure of how to immerse himself within. Everything he’d ever known was in ghastly opposition to Lysara’s beacon of trade and enlightenment; he’d mastered the art of shadows and levitation, wielded darkness in his wake, but faltered at the blinding brilliance of a world he’d yet to truly overturn. A spoiled brat reduced to an exiled prince, his only advantage was the inherent predacious lineage that allowed him the strength and stamina to simply endure.

Westreach was a stepping stone, he’d watched as dwellers slipped from its reach, as traders set up shop and merchants levied their ware. Westreach was a mere drop in the bucket, something which seemed everflowing as the world, in its blinding revelation was seen in a newly fastened vision. Dexterous and agile, Casimir made his way through the smaller settlements that dotted the plains, there were vineyards to emulate former luxuries, and spoils of the population dotted amongst the fertile plains. Under the dark tether of his former life, shapeshifting was a second nature and it proved to allow him unto many places others could not chart; where lands and borders were secured with militant visions, Casimir could slip by as a rat stowed away in a bale of hay or a raven soaring high above the land.

He’d found himself seeking for the depths of familiarity and though Iskaldrik could not emulate the cavernous bleakness of Veilcrest, the chill resonated with the waste of the Deadlands and Casimir found himself curious as to what he could discover within the tumultuous Kingdom. Seemingly unbreakable stone jutted from the icy domain and the city of Yggdrasildal was the hub of wealth and entertainment. Through the grapevine it was noted of Valerius’ imprisonment, his scattered forces and a war that had since failed and passed but Casimir still did not hear the call of his mother; even in tactical loss she remained silent towards her son who did not choose to die for Lusacan’s teachings. He’d learned to get by; peddle pilfered goods and recycle royalties that lent himself a fare wager. Casimir learned an auspicious code, something branded from his own wiles and smarts; he learned that even in the jewel of Yggdrasildal that there were better profits elsewhere. Iskaran lands only emulated a chilled remembrance of a place he’d not ever return to and though he was given a chance to be a part of greater Fates, Casimir remained only to pay his respects to a new god. Tossing his coin into the pool that rested at Loki’s feet, sequestered by the cisterns of Iskaldrik, Casimir entered a newly chartered chapter in his life; he was a part of something that wasn’t about patrons of darkness and demise.

Cunning and strategy lent to his new endeavor, where once he loosely traveled with the one who’d seen his thieving purpose, Casimir soon found comfort in the solitude again. Spoils and riches were best shared in fleeting moments, and much to his elusive birthright, he remained an apparition of the shadows; a perfect emulation of the Thieves Guild.

personality

+ articulate, captivating, purposeful – idealistic, resentful, headstrong

played by gia. cst. she/her.

#dhampir #the shade

0 notes

thequeendomhq · 4 months

Text

NAME. Eridani Jigna Maheswari AGE & BIRTH DATE. 28 & July 13th, 2996 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cisfemale & She/Her NATIONALITY. Sinarian SPECIES. Witch FACTION. College of Bards & Tower of Olympia & Nightingales OCCUPATION. Agent of Minerva FACE CLAIM. Naomi Scott

biography

( tw: Death during childbirth, stillbirth )

Andromeda had grown up wealthy, fed by silver spoon in the lands of Sinaria before she met a humble merchant trying to make ends meet. Jayesh Maheswari swooped the young heiress off her feet and they were quick to marry against the wishes of their families. Andie’s mother didn’t approve, of course. This was a simple, nomadic man with little to his name and Andromeda was heir to one of the wealthiest empires of Taravell. But Andie cared little for the money, shunning away her family in the process for their disapproval. Eridani grew up only with the words and teachings of her two parents, her simplistic witch of a father and a witch mother who adored a life of travel and humble adventure. Nothing could quite daunt the couple, not the wars of Astoria and Lysara that they passed through, not the feywilds of the Silverlands nor even the darkness of the Veilcrest where you could hear the song of wyverns. If her parents weren’t afraid, neither was Eridani. Andie’s family ceased making attempts at contact and the once-heiress was happy to live and raise a daughter with what her husband earned as a traveling merchant. But when she became pregnant again, 9 years after Eridani’s birth, a moment that should have been of joy quickly became a moment of grief. Eri’s mother died in the throes of childbirth and her baby sister arrived stillborn; a hopeful family of four became a grieving family of two.

17 and bright-eyed, brimming with potential, Eri’s father couldn’t bear the thought that his only living daughter might never have the opportunities that her mother did. Jayesh sold a piece of his late wife’s jewelry and pushed his daughter into entering the College of Bards as early as they’d allow her. Overflowing with curiosity and a growing thirst for knowledge, Eri did. Two years learning to study charm and diplomacy was intriguing, and fulfilling, though it was not enough. The potential of the magic running through her veins remained virtually untapped. She was all that her father had left in the world, and so she had every intention of making him proud. She turned her eyes to The Tower, though not before her grandmother had finally caught wind of her existence and of Andromeda’s death. There was a mixture of grief and joy in those old eyes and warmth in the wrinkled hand that reached to cup her cheek. Eri had known pain and difficulties in her life but it had made her gentle to family; she couldn’t look into her grandmother’s eyes and give the woman anything but her sympathy and understanding. With a sensible allowance gifted to her by her grandmother, Eri hoped to instead give her father everything monetary but he did not accept. He smiled; he called himself the richest man with nothing but the pride and love that he held for his daughter. 19 was the age that Eridani said goodbye to her father from the door of The Tower and set out on the adventure of studying magic.

At 25 years of age, Eridani cautioned her father to have every care and to be safe as he journeyed into Iskaldrik for trade. He returned to Lysara months later, safe and happier than ever. He began to speak about a woman and that was when hope blossomed in Eri's chest that her father had found love and joy again after so many years. Work and studies in The Tower were difficult; Eri was forced to remain behind as her father continued on his nomadic ventures. Still, she searching for information on the woman her father had found. A widow, like her father, and with a grown child. A son around her age. Eri remembered her lost sister and the ache in her chest each time she thought of her, each time she saw siblings playing or heard them speaking fondly of the other. All the moments that she wished that she would have known that bond, and all the grief for losing the chance. Her future step-brother’s first letter came with one of her father’s. Jayesh Maheswari had found the second love of his life. High up in The Tower, smiling wide, Eridani worked to compose her first of many long letters to the man who would soon become her brother in all sense but blood. 26 was the age when Eridani held her head high as the witches of the Tower named her Olympian, Agent of Minerva. She had no extraordinary or defining talent for magic, no ingenuity in her mind to rival the brightest of her class, but Eridani had learned the merits of hard work and dedication from her father. Her power had been enough to enter the halls of The Tower and her dedication to succeed had seen her through every trial within until she rose above. In her unwavering attention and determination, she had mastered psionics quicker than most and sacrificed a life outside The Tower's studies for it. The monetary allowance that her grandmother sent by men from Sinaria increased to an unseemly amount by this time, though Eridani had never once asked for a penny. But with her decision thought out, the newly minted Agent of Minerva used a mixture of knowledge, magic, and now new riches to further her connections and fit into the illustrious and influential circles that were otherwise difficult to penetrate. The security and the betterment of her Queendom would become her life’s mission. The desire to give all the safety, joy, and love that Eridani had known to others was the calling that she had chosen for herself. 28 now, Eridani had proven herself worthy of her titles and set her eyes toward Iskaldrik. She wondered of her father, her stepmother and the man who had become both a brother and a dear friend to her through their letters. Her father would not allow her to risk a visit so it was all that she could do to move heaven and earth and bring her family into the safety of Lysara and to her. Her efforts were in vain. Tragedy struck the kingdom quickly, devastation that couldn’t be properly understood through just letters or whispers. Her father’s and her stepmother’s letters stopped. Through her channels and friendships with the Nightingales, Eri learned that they were gone and only her brother had survived. Family, no matter how little, had once been everything that had made life worthwhile. Eridani had lost sight of that in all her ambition and thirst for knowledge. Missions abandoned early and her sights set on finding one missing man, the witch promised herself that she would never make that mistake again.

personality

+ self effacing, hardworking, ambitious – passive aggressive, devious, suspicious

played by dany. est. she/her.

#the sparrow #witch

0 notes

thequeendomhq · 4 months

Text

NAME. Alucard "The Drakul" AGE & BIRTH DATE. 139 & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cis Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Dhampir FACTION. Legion of the Dead OCCUPATION. Legionnaire FACE CLAIM. Gavin Leatherwoood

biography

i. CHILDHOOD

Born under a blood moon in Veilcrest, nestled in the heart of the Deadlands, the son of Vlad Drakul was silent as he came into this world. In the years that followed, Vlad would boast to his fellows and those who flocked under his banner about the son who’d never cried but instead stared at the world with infernal, contemptuous eyes. Where Vlad saw a child filled with conflict, Diana saw a son with a particularly sensitive soul - one that had been born with the blight in his veins but was inherently different from the world that lay at his feet.

Vlad Drakul was an enigma, a warlord of significant renown who was a steadfast general alongside Queen Lavinia Noctis in the age of the Old Gods, serving at the hand of Lusacan himself. The Dragon of the Night rewarded his followers with the gift of the dark, with eternal life, and power well beyond those of the living world. In the years that followed Lusacan’s destruction, Lavinia took the opportunity to lead their people - while Vlad became a recluse whose military reputation hinged upon former glory. Engineer, scientist, and military genius best known for his casual cruelty and enigmatic nature, Vlad was unpredictable and made his decisions on a whim.

Veilcrest stood at the height of scientific innovation, with practices of engineering, medicine, and scientific advancement that were leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of the world, Diana Voltair had originally come to Veilcrest in search of a cure for the blight that ran through the veins of her brother after he’d become infected by the taint. The exchange was a fair one, Vlad cured Diana’s brother, but the cost was that she would remain in Veilcrest for one year. Not one to be taken prisoner, if she was to remain in Veilcrest, then Diana would be instructed in the physician’s arts so that she could take what she learned from within Veilcrest, and bring it to the rest of Lysara.

Despite the odds, Diana came to fall in love with Vlad, and by the time the year was through, the raven-haired dhampir, Alucard was born. His early, formative years were spent watching with curious eyes as Diana tinkered over medical devices under the watchful eye of Vlad. One year, rolled into another, and as the dhampir grew he was his father’s pupil and his mother’s assistant, but by the boyhood age of nine years old, Diana chose to make a pilgrimage of everything that she had learned. It was her mission to cure the blight and find those who’d been tainted by it to help them wherever possible, save ghouls and perhaps even the darkspawn who’d been considered monsters for so long. The latter was beyond even Vlad’s abilities, but Diana was resolved to help all that she could.

Alucard would always remember the night she left, how chill had left the castle with an eerie silence, the mist that hung over the cold mire - freezing breath with every battered sigh. Vlad had not wanted Diana to go, that much Alucard knew, but his father did not stop her from going. That was something that the dhampir would always blame him for, Alucard had begged, but that hadn’t kept her - perhaps if they had both humbled themselves in front of her then perhaps his mother would have chosen to stay.

News of Diana’s death came before the year’s end. In Astoria, they had burnt her for being a witch in a rural village long before the process became widespread. Her ashes were returned to Veilcrest and neither Vlad nor Alucard were ever the same.

ii. DHAMPIR

In the years that followed Vlad Drakul retreated from the affairs of state, instead of a feared advisor to Queen Lavinia, he became a well-known playboy. Outrageous parties, uncommon bedfellows, and more “husbands” and “wives” over the years that most cared to count. Famous beyond the borders of the Deadlands for turning those willing to make their way into the home of the handsome, gregarious vampires, people flocked for the chance to bend their necks to the budding flock of the former warlord.

Alucard was disinterested, ashamed in a way that he didn’t know how quite to manage it. He blamed his father for his mother’s death, and he blamed himself simultaneously. If Alucard had tried harder, if he’d pleaded more, or maybe even gone with her then maybe things would have gone differently. Fate didn’t care for maybes or should haves, the reality was that Alucard’s mother was gone and his father’s castle was defined by outrageous parties and boundless self-indulgence. Alucard himself remained in the observatory, mapping the stars, or in his mother’s old lab, tinkering and experimenting with the works she left behind. In his father’s library reading manuscripts and looking over blueprints from an age long gone.

A descendant from the first order of Lusacan, Alucard’s formative years were defined by the zeal of the loyalists who still awaited the return of the Old Gods and the reverence of the blight that entangled the Deadlands. Dark, entropic vines coiled about the frigid land, creeping vines that crawled over the old stones of the ancient homes, and over the mountains that were both an easy source of food and natural protection. In his youth, Alucard was a fervent loyalist of these lands, Queen Lavinia Noctis, and those of Lusacan’s faithful - his aspirations saw him in the temple to the Old God, scrubbing stones despite his status, polishing surfaces, and speaking the old draconic tongue of reverence and devotion.

Impressionable and young, beyond the Deadlands Alucard had not seen the extent of the blight - in particular, the darkspawn that lurked at the peripheries of the world, waiting for their time to return to the banner of the Old Gods. He only heard of the Dragon of the Night, Lusacan’s glory, and the promise to someday return to Avalon and claim the golden light of the Laurelin in the name of the dark. This was the fervency that Alucard took, to be a knight in the vampiric army, to train under the tutelage of the finest warriors that Noctis could offer. Malleable and eager to stand under the glorious light of the dragons of their past, Alucard and others of his make were an easy mark for Valerius Noctis to bring into his covenant. A world reclaimed in the name of Lusacan, the Elysian Throne, and the people of Lysara subjected to the whims of the vampires. Alucard pledged his sword in the uprising of Valerius Noctis when he called to arms those who wished to rise against the tide of Eterna.

iii. UNDEAD

A young knight in the army of the undead, with Lusacan’s sigil - a dragon before a sea of stars - emblazoned upon his black armor, Alucard marched against the people of Lysara. With the green-blooded forces subjugated under their banner, they descended from the Deadlands and swept over Northreach, into the Queenlands, and to the gates of Eterna where they used sophisticated forms of weaponry to lay siege against Queen Damodred and her people.

War and death weren’t the romantic notions that Alucard had once believed, these people that his mother had been killed for had also been the people that she had died for. Their misery wrought something violent in him and casual cruelty defined the son of Vlad Drakul as he cleaved his way through fields of blood. Standing ankle-deep in temples of ichor, saturated by contemptuous rot - the scores of undead, wrights, revenants, and their subjugated green-blooded servants marauders and butchered at every turn. This was the beginning of a new age of the Drakul, the great legacy of his father would be carved with the new initials of Alucard The Drakul.

Along the road, Alucard came to learn the truth of war, the propriety of sorrow, and the misery that followed the blighted forces. Most shrieked at the sight of the undead, they spat on the memory of the Old Gods and cursed the incursion of the damned as Lysara moved to conspire with Taravell to put down the force of vampires that had cropped up. Olympians stood in stark defiance of the tide of the dead, their allies joined them, and as the vampires’s siege engines breached the walls of Eterna, the fighting spilled into the streets, and war engulfed the forces of both light and night.

A lost battle saw Valerius captured by the enemy, the undead conspired to see him liberated but as reinforcements swelled around Eterna, and without the rallying cry and power of the vampire commander, the war was lost. Battered and wounded, Alucard made it as far as a raft before he drifted into unconsciousness while the legions of the undead burned behind him. There he drifted amid the carnage of the Queenset Isles, flecked by water that burned at the edges of his fascia as seafoam sprayed over the sides. There the dhampir should have perished, an enemy of the Queendom, a scourge of Veilcrest - the Drakul, the son of Vlad The Impaler, but when next Alucard opened his eyes it was to the skies over Sicillia.

iv. BLIGHTED

The goddess Proserpina was sacred on the isle of Sicillia, under the shadow of the Tower of Olympia, the dead had long been revered as conduits on a rite of passage. It wasn’t the undead they worshipped or the blight, but the water that turned the wheel and pushed the pattern forward. On Sicillia, nobody knew who he was, he wasn’t Alucard, son of Vlad Drakul, but instead, he gave them a different name - Dane. A strigoi from the rural regions of the Wildlands was conscripted into an army to fight for a force that he had pretended not to understand.

On Siciliia he saw how the nation had been wounded, his injuries tended to as fresh blood warmed the infernal power within and righted his bones and injuries. Alucard could have remained there for a time, gazing down at the misery that permeated the scars marred by the war left behind. It was here that he heard the tales of old told from a different lens, how Andoral had devastated these shores following the Cataclysm, how the mad dragon Lusacan had charged against the elvhen of Avalon - how the rot of these Old Gods was still seen in the remote parts of this world. Darkspawn and all manner of blighted creatures.

Alucard could have returned to Veilcrest, back to his Queen, and back to the draconic priesthood and followers of Lusacan. Valerius’s forces were scattered, the vampire imprisoned, and his dogma dispelled under the crushing weight of his defeat. Vlad would be there in his castle, undoubtedly oblivious beyond the expanse of his leisurely pleasure. Instead, he went to see with unclouded, curious eyes, what was at the truth of the blight.

The calling steered him towards a village in the hills of Astoria that was under darkspawn attack, creatures spilled out from the mines, mindless and depraved. Alucard cut through them as he was joined by a legionnaire, Serral, wandering through the region, piling the dead once the darkspawn were slain and putting them to the torch. The land had been cursed, the farmers’ crops turned foul, and for a fortnight the legionnaire remained, so Alucard stayed with him. The Legion of the Dead was not without the stories of their past, histories from Ankhuria, and the legacy of the Old Gods.

Many farmers fell ill, and those who did not perish from the taint turned into something else entirely. The ghouls that rose were met by the sword of the dhampir, Alucard, and Serral, who’d insisted they remain. Darkspawn blood had seeped into the soil, but fire purged the ground and left it barren - but clean.

v. REBEL

Questions answered, Alucard chose not to return to the Deadlands but continued to travel alongside Serral instead. He said that he would in time, back to his home in Veilcrest, and the castle that had raised him; truthfully the thought of living once more under Vlad’s dominion of debauchery churned his stomach almost as bad as the thought of once more bending his knee to Lusacan’s priesthood, and Queen Lavinia Noctis.

Darkspawn still appeared in small pockets, largely in rural areas, dragging those that they could back underground before disappearing once more. Stories permeated the region but Alucard didn’t understand what for until he saw it with his own eyes; together Serral and Alucard followed one such raid before they came across the broodmother and her infernal horde. Intelligent and formerly human, the creature was an abomination of the light and the legacy of the Old Gods.

They managed to save those that they could but at the cost of Serral’s life. With his dying breath, beneath Alucard’s tears of blood, Serral gifted his sigil to the dhampir and charged him to bring it to Amon Sûl, the the Commander of the Legion would know what to do with it. Some that were taken from the mines managed to escape without a trace of the blight in their veins, others were not so fortunate. Just as before, Alucard waited, and those who did not perish on their own were put down quickly and humanely.

vi. LEGIONNAIRE

Amon Sûl, the hill of the wind, used to be a stop for every scholar in the nation. By the time Alucard arrived, it was a fortified relic that existed in the most barren wasteland in Taravell; amid the sands of Ankhuria, it was here that he met the Legion Commander and the forces of the Legion of the Dead. Alucard retold the story of Serral, the legionnaire’s demise, and the dhampir’s promise to see his sigil here and in return, the Commander offered the Drakul the opportunity to undertake the Joining.

Madness would be the curse, but for a creature like him, the blight already flowed through his veins, but the Joining was still deadly to any without the significant resolve that it would take to take up the fight against the darkspawn. When Alucard rose it was with an appointment, one he perceived to be a noble one: Nornwatch Tower, the bastion in the northernmost region of Iskaldrik.

At last, Alucard returned to the Deadlands to visit his father, detouring along the lengthy journey from Ankhuria to Iskladrik. In Veilcrest, Vlad’s menagerie had grown, he and many others believed Alucard The Drakul to have perished a decade ago in Valerius’s last battle for Eterna. In so many ways the young, devout warrior had perished, washed up on the shores of Sicillia as someone else entirely. Alucard looked at the former warlord with increased disdain, the violent criminal who was a shell of all that he had been, and could be. They exchanged words, and then Alucard put Veilcrest behind him, landing in Nornwatch Keep.

In Iskaldrik Alucard had expected a lively Keep, a bastion of noble strength, but instead, he found a crumbling ruin. Tinkering and engineering were in his blood though, and under the eccentric Archivist, Alucard took to learning what he could and to offer what the knowledge of mechanics he’d developed in his youth.

personality

+ intelligent, devoted, disciplined – reserved, dogmatic, inconsiderate

played by shane. est. he/him.

#the torn #dhampir

0 notes