Caelestis Role Play

                                                                                  History:

​

                                                                                                               “What should I do with you, Ivrael? Kill you?” The great Lord Garon. With his turkey                                                                                                       leg and his pint of ale, spoke through the side of his greasy mouth. Where he chewed

                                                                                                          liberally, disgustingly. Ivrael endured his haughtiness most stoically, but the man

                                                                                                           looked just like his younger brother and she hated the sight of it. Three noblemen

                                                                                                           stood beside the Lord, in their grey doublets and curt demeanor. One was a sorcerer,

                                                                                                               comely, who appeared to be in his forties. Who had  a hooked nose that was fitting for his face. He went by the name Vilfrid. 

​

                                                                                                                 “My Lord.” he interjected calmy, “Perhaps, there’s something different we can do

                                                                                                           with her.” Vilfrid was strategic, speaking slowly and carefully. He rubbed that

                                                                                                           prominent chin of his, acting like he was thinking. Ivrael knew he had been

strategizing his approach since the night before. 

​

                                                                                                       “Your brother..” Vilfrid began speaking again, testing the air for hostility.  “You never

                                                                                                                  liked him. He stole from you. Allegedly committed treason. And we all know about                                                                                                              his... peculiar tastes which tainted your good name.” Vilfrid and reputation, he was

                                                                                                             obsessed. And characteristics had a way of sticking to those you were constantly in

                                                                                                                the company of. Ivrael anticipated what would be sentenced. Death by beheading. Or maybe to be Half-hung, quartered and drawn? What would it be? 

 

                                                                                                                 “Calm down, Vilfrid. You look like a puppy begging for a bone. Look at her, there’s

                                                                                                                          not a shred of apology in those geoluhread eyes of hers.” Lord Garon scoffed,

adjusting himself on the ornate chair. He picked his teeth with his pinky finger. He was right, Ivrael wasn’t sorry. In truth, the lord’s brother deserved to die, along with his sick fixations. She was surprised the marriage lasted four years. 

 

“I don’t want to kill your little sorceress, Vilfrid. Nor her dwarven underling. In truth, she did me a favour. “ he smacked his lips, cleaning the sheen off them with a patterned handkerchief.

The dwarf beside Ivrael tried to suppress a sneer which was towards the guard who tightly held him by the arm. Attempting to subdue the vain attempts of the dwarf’s struggling.

 

“So what does this mean for you, little witch?” he blurted, not waiting for her to answer. “Now that your precious life is in my hands? What will you give me to save it?” He then offered her a compromise, as he put it. Which was really an ultimatum. That she’d be free of her crime and could continue her life as if it had never stopped. Because Lord Garon liked Ivrael’s abilities and advice. The information she had on which Lords were in debt and to avoid trading with. His new wife had a dowry that came with her, which replenished the debt accumulated from battles.

 

Ivrael peered at the provincial Lord and his entourage. Her mentor, Vilfrid, completely silent, gave Ivrael a meaningful, stern glare. As if to say, Take the deal. Compromise.

 

So she did. She endured. The same way she had when she was a beggarly, lice-stricken peasant once upon a time. After receiving one punishment, cruel and unusual to her, because even if it was only once. The mage had been maimed for a lifetime. Burns from hot iron were memorable. The smell of flesh, the oozing puss to deal with afterwards. She was scarred in places she could hide easily with clothing. Being able to cover them with lavish gloves and  collars made of sable fur. Even if it was as hot as the depths of hell itself, she still wore the lavish gloves and the sable fur. Sweating like a sinner and taking strolls through ivy-filled columns and blooming gardens. She was still able to stand by Lord Garon’s side and blend in with empty smiles and pointless greetings during lavish suppers. In the beginning, when she felt like she couldn’t take it anymore, Vilfrid successfully kept her distracted with the notion of once again receiving her salary and maintaining her reputation. Coin that was promised, and had been accumulating for a time and held by Garon.

 

She finished her sentence yet stayed in the small province in Krasimir. She dutifully continued her tasks. Reading logs, organizing the distribution of currency, and most importantly navigating the rumours of the Lord’s liaisons. Paying them until they were amended to keep silent about their flings, and the bastards which resulted from them. Soon she’d leave, but war changed things. The roads out of Krasimir were never considered safe, and during war, that much more. Ivrael saved for nearly nine years hoping to buy property in the land of Caelestis and was starting to lose her patience staying many years in one place. But her sorcerer friend, Vilfrid, often reminded her how ‘lucky’ she was. From the slums, to a mage, to an attendee in court. What person would kill the brother of a nobleman and live? It was unheard of. Vilfrid found out much later, after giving Ivrael’s dwarven friend, named Hogarth numerous pints of ale. He found out Ivrael was in a temporary craze at the time she killed her husband. When he found out she tried her hand at blood magic for the very first time. He didn’t speak to her for three weeks in a sulk. Until he succumbed and taught her strategies on how to control it. He was right, once magic is tainted by the forbidden craft, it can never return to the way it was. Allegedly. It will always be impure, contaminated. Oh, but the forbidden ways of the craft were splendid. The waters of it were hot, but if delved slowly, was absolutely mesmerizing. It was vampiric, corrupt, but intoxicating. Restraint was hard, but possible. And punishment always came with forbidden magic. She didn’t sleep for days sometimes, and she prayed desperately to Abys’ Oloth for slumber. But nothing. She was ignored by the Gods. That was how it went, some were chosen to be beacons of their power, but not her. Life wasn’t fair in that way. It was the root of her bitterness, but by now she was accustomed to the taste. 

 

 

“Long Reign, Queen Nakiasha!” the now pot-bellied Lord raised his goblet, ordained with jewels he couldn’t afford. It was years later, he was older yet still arrogant. If someone would ever decide to paint this man, for his victories or for a simple family portrait. It would do them justice to draw him with a turkey leg in his hand and grease on his chin, because that was his manner of being. Always drinking wine and eating. Slapping the arses of chambermaids and young cooks, who always made an effort to scurry by him so they could escape his hands. She was thankful he had never tried this on her.  It would do him well to not forget she was still a mage. Not that she was  going to hurt him, Those days were past her now, it was a momentary slip up. Blood magic got the best of her, she was young and inexperienced. Married off and rebellious. Never again. It did not mean she didn’t think about it. She thought about it everyday. About lifting him, as heavy as he was, and flinging him off a cliff. Instead, she dreamily gazed at the fork beside the bloody deer meat on a silver platter. Her eyes were fixated, even during the noisy toasts raised around the table. Her anger was possessive. Consuming.  Pervasive. It only got worse with each day that passed without sleep and being under Garon’s authority. 

In the banquet, a good hundred people were already there. Rows of long tables had been arranged under the Krasimirian tapestries and garlands, and the tables were piled high with elaborate dishes served on elaborate table settings, among elaborate flower arrangements. On closer examination, Ivrael realized there was considerable more elaboration than food. It was odd. Ivrael listed it amongst the other odd things that revealed themselves, especially after the new reigning queen. Like for example, the countless missing documents and unrecorded currency. Currency that was missing in transit and unreported. Taxes unpaid.

 

“Now we’ve got a witch for a  Queen...” the Lord mumbled under his breath, lowering his cup. Ivrael peered over her chalice without drinking from it, remaining silently sat beside him. If there was no question, she wouldn’t answer. She knew his dislike for magic and wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of argument, because Lord Garon was notorious for his arguments. He didn’t like the mysterious spells and the unpredictable demeanor, that in his opinion, most mages had. 

“I bet you like that, hm?” he nudged her elbow, sloshing wine over and onto her lap. Ivrael flinched, gasping from the coldness of liquid on her thigh. The man guffawed and snorted, he was drunk and she immediately knew she couldn’t handle him in such a state. She glowered at him from the side of her eyes. Beside him, was his wife, and then Vilfrid sat, pretending to laugh. 

A moment later, the dwarf Hogarth appeared through the kitchen doors, looking flustered like he’d been walking too fast for his stocky frame. Ivrael, considerably bothered, rose from her seat sauntering over to him quickly, and when no one was looking, seized the dwarf by the ear, like a mother would a child. Then dragged him in through the loose kitchen doors. He elbowed the sorceress’ thigh to free himself. Ivrael hissed. 

“You’re not supposed to be in there, dwarf! What’s wrong with you? You’ve hit your head?” she snarled, rubbing her thigh and pointing a finger at him accusingly. 

“I was looking for ye! Cruel woman is what ye are. Had somethin’ important to tell ye. Ungrateful..” Fumbling with his ear, he wandered over to sit on a chair. Ivrael remained standing, with crossed arms, impatiently tapping her foot. The dwarf received a low, punishing gaze from her, through black lashes and a stern brow. The hearth’s fire blazed in a light that trickled into the irises of her devilish eyes. The dwarf thought the mage to be ugly. In his honest opinion, the tone of her skin and the unusual color of her eyes did not go well together. Her complexion was of a cool olive tone, and her eyes were too warm in contrast. The combination made her look rather sallow. He also didn’t like that she didn’t age as everyone else did either. From whatever spells mages used to be young. Hell, Vilfrid was nearing one-hundred-fifty years old and an expert at these permanent spells and Ivrael never disclosed her age to him. But he knew she was younger than Vilfrid.

“Tell me what you’ve found out.”

“Lord Garon is in debt.”

“I know.” she replied brusquely. She was his Mistress of Coin of course she would know. “He’s been transporting money to unknown places, it's gone missing but no reports to the crown. It’s strange. I already know this Hogarth--”

“It isn’t just that.” he cut her off. Gauging the mage’s reaction. “Your....savings have gone with it too. I heard the bishops speaking in the smithing stall. You’ve no money. Your...savings. The sentence is over and you’ve still no money. They’ve bested you-”

“Enough.” interrupted the mage.

Hogarth expected a flurry of curses, or the table setting filled with empty pitchers and extra forks to be telepathically flung from her rage. Ivrael turned to face away.

 

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. A plate rattled, glowing green, then ceased. 

What was she thinking? Hogarth wondered. 

 

Well, Ivrael thought of wringing the pot-bellied lord's neck and hanging him with the Krasimirian tapestries. But she wouldn’t do that. She also wondered if Vilfrid knew. 

“It’s time.” she finally said.

“You decide to leave now?” Ivrael had not left the land in many years but planned relentlessly. It was a bad idea. “You can’t go alone. Yer outta yer mind! There are Fiends, Spiders, Giants!!

“People have gone alone and survived.” Ivrael said storming towards the cupboards, opening them and putting provisions in an empty potato sack. Hogarth trailed behind eagerly, trying to take away the bag. Ivrael began to glow ominously, in a way Hogarth knew happened when she was angry. He let go of the sack. “If I stay here.” The mage held her breath, exhaling slowly and carefully. Attempting  to calm herself down. The chilling glow of alexandrite returned to her form like something elastic. All at once. 

“I’ll kill him.” she spat through her teeth, suddenly turning to him. “I will. I know it. I can’t take it anymore. So we’re going. I’m getting the documents.” That was that. The dwarf wouldn’t dare argue with Ivra, because it was in vain and she won every argument. Like his wife had, once upon a time. Sweet Lorelai.

Hogarth gauged a deep breath. Watching the mage flit about the room like a bee.  

 

“I’ll get the horses.” he relented.

 

And so they went. Under the hidden stars. Unseen from the drunk participants of the banquet. And only time would tell what would come of it.