Ravenloft: Prisoners of the Mist

Within the swirling Mist (IC) => Biographies => Topic started by: Eters on October 11, 2019, 05:22:35 PM

Title: Evandra Redheart - A Blade's Path
Post by: Eters on October 11, 2019, 05:22:35 PM

By the silent water pond, close to the fires of the camp lost within the mist, sat the swordswoman. Her mind drifted to that which she learned from her recent ventures, her experiences past and present. The visages of her companions flicker before her, and a sense of disappointment haunts her. For they all grew in their own ways yet there she was, no different from the first day she walked the mists, lacking the grace and wisdom of her peers, their strength and dedication to their ways. Lost she was, like a dog thrown into the torrents of fate, paddling desperately to keep up.
Her heart sank and as the gloom of how little she achieved clouded her mind, she turned to the sole thing she had on her which she knew how to use. With a firm motion, her hands rested upon the adamantine greatsword’s handle, and quickly she drew it. Her eyes mesmerized by the beauty of its craft, its golden gilding while, making it inferior to the rest when it came to cheer strength, gave it a charm which never eluded her. 

Yet but a sword it was to her, she knows nothing of it, a brute she was, letting herself fall to the whims of battle and the call of animalistic instincts. But more than that she wished to be. A murmur, then two, and in her own madness, the woman began speaking to her sword. An apology over the past in which she ignored it’s meaning, never seeking to learn what a sword truly is, to transcend the status of a simple tool, and rise it to that of a lifetime companion.
The light of determination returns to the eyes of the one who, was lost in the woes of her failure just a moment ago, and with a confident stride, she walked into the mist camp anew, knowing where to start.

Title: Know Thyself
Post by: Eters on October 11, 2019, 05:31:51 PM
Know Thyself

Before one can begin their walk towards the mastery of the way of the blade, they must first learn to cope with themselves, and discover their strengths and weaknesses, their perfections and flaws. For in such, a balance of the self will be found, and within that balance, the foundation upon which swordplay can be built.”

With those words, and lady Arianwen’s advice in mind, the swordswoman sank deep within herself, an inhale, an exhale, slow and repeated. Her mind is full of worries, doubt, but all is banished with the simple, natural motions. An inhale, an exhale, and the world becomes weightless, off her chest it goes, all that once rested upon it, a burden finally liberated from. Before her she sees herself, or rather, various versions of herself. The Child, The Teenager, The Farmer, The Thug, The Bandit, The Berserker, The Monster, The Coward, The Fearless, The Lover, The Insecure.

Each sing their own song, and confess their weakness and strength, the child praised her innocence, and grieved it’s loss, the Teenager praised her youth, and grieved it’s loss, the Farmer praised the easiness of the way she lived, the peace that is now gone, swallowed within the mists, The Thug praised her wits, and to the voice of honour and pride she scowled. The Bandit praised her riches, and cried at the sight of it all fading within the pockets of the Vistani merchants. The Berserker praised her rage, indominable strength and will to surpass all odds, it beaconed for the loss of the self to the instincts of nature, and the notions of control and self-restrain disgusted her. The Monster screamed for the blood of the unworthy, the traitors, and stood as a shadow of the Berserker. The Coward wishes it all to be over, it murmurs for her to let go of her sword, and instead find a strong man to marry, yes, a life of righteousness and safety. To that the Fearless objected, and for the glory of slaying the toughest of foes it heralded. The lover simply blushed to the Coward’s words, “Hehehe, Lewd.”
The Insecure’s voice, barely audible, spoke intelligibly, of distant ramblings.
Within her mind, the voices raised, each calling their path the right one, each luring for her to follow along. Be a Coward, be a Berserker, be a Monster…

An inhale, an exhale, and the voices are silent, subdued, cut down by the sharpest of all the blades, her very will , keen and resolute, gave her peace.

“I am a sword.”

Title: Between Two Flames
Post by: Eters on October 15, 2019, 02:55:50 PM
Between Two Flames

“Balance is the key of a proper cut, to apply little strength makes it shallow, and too much turns it to a hack. Balance is key, in form and in mind. To cut true, your mind must be clear, your thoughts stable, your breathing calm, your will keen, void of doubt.”

The words resonate within the swordswoman’s mind as she finds a peaceful corner within the camp hidden in the mists, away from prying eyes and idle chatter. And in an almost ritualistic fashion, begins setting the stage for her exercise. Tree branches, dead leaves, although damp due to the cold of the winter, eventually pile up enough to form two camps around her. A spark, and patience, and both in due course ignite.
With the same ritualistic, respectful mindset, she unstraps her sword from her back, and takes her stance, as taught to her. Knees slightly bent, arms upwards in a high guard. The flames flicker, crackle to her left and right, a modicum of warmth to her side while the cold of the mists behind her beaconed, reminding her of the danger she lives in.

“A blade must be efficient, no matter the conditions, no matter the situation, no matter the odds. Cut through the rain, cut through the heat, cut through the pain and agony of death. Cut through your fears, cut through your anger, the rage and all the malevolence that it bears.”

Eyes close slowly afterwards, and she sinks herself in focus.

Before her, figures and shadows of foes she had to face, terrors of the mists, creatures of the night and skulks of the abyss. Behind her, the constant danger of the mists looming, reminding her that there is no escape. To her left, manifesting from within the flames, the figure of the Monster within her, and to her right, the silhouette of the Coward within her.


She reminded herself, as she stood between the desire to flee, the desire to go berserk, the looming death behind, and the threat, the enemy to the front, then began her routine, swinging her sword, time after time, diligently, while standing in the crossroads of her emotions. Each cut, meticulously performed, and repeated, until first lights of the sun force their way through the thick mists.

Title: Courtesy
Post by: Eters on October 18, 2019, 06:04:32 PM

On a knee she was, the swordswoman painted with the blood of herself and her foes. Head lowered, subdued, posture humble and respectful. Before her, the visages of her companions looked at her with pride, their gazes, speaking of how much along the path she has walked. Their lips, murmuring how proud they were. But the swordswoman, hungry for perfection, found no truth to that, doubt consumed her like a fire through the forests.

"You are unworthy."

Heavy, painful words uttered to her mind. Insecure she was, and behind her it stood, it’s silhouette to her left, slightly behind, its hand on her shoulder. A deep breath, a second, but it wouldn’t go away, only clinging tighter, crushing her will, sapping away the light of her companions’ pride.

A sliver of light in the night, catches her eyes, and as she looks up, her gaze embraces a form known to her, for that form was being, daily, pounded into her flesh, bones, and soul. It was that which she was dedicating herself to, a graft waiting to be added to her. It was a greatsword, a beautiful one in fact, with an unusually long handle, favouring the use of the Ssangsudo style which she was taught, it’s cross-guard medium in length, and its blade long, large and sharp. It was clear this weapon was made with her in mind.

"Evandra, are you worthy of this weapon?"

Her master and companion’s words, like a slap, snap her from her doubt, and like a prayer spoken to a fiend, banishes the insecurity tormenting her. The question resonated within her once more, tugging at her pride. It bit and shewed at it, cut and cleaved through it, yet within her she knew, that a long way to go was before her, and knowing of that fact, she spoke her answer.
Silence took place, for a beat, then two, giving time for the answer to put its weight, a few words follow, and the weapon is extended forward, given to her with no other questions. 

"It is named Courtesy."


Title: Intimacy of Pain
Post by: Eters on November 22, 2019, 10:33:21 AM
The Intimacy of Pain

A chocking breath, a quivering arm, a body broken to the ground. The weight of the sword driven on her chest, piercing her lungs was heavier than anything she had experienced before. The cold of death caressed her cheeks, then slowly sipped into her body, her eyes grew hazy and the darkness gradually filled her vision. The woman was meeting for the first time, pain in it’s most intense of forms. An intimate meeting, one in which the feeling displayed all its morbid colours. Crippling, stunning, antagonizing and brutally reminding her, of her own weakness, her own failure, and other than endure it, she couldn’t do anything else.
“This is what death is like, Evandra, remember it, never forget it, let it slip into your very soul and bind itself to it. This is the pain of weakness, and the only way to avoid it, is by growing strong.”

The words were vivid, in her ears despite her consciousness fading away, the lesson, harsh and brutal also carried within it the essence of survival, for any who dares claim themselves a warrior.

Her mind, often troubled and the battlefield for her many voices to clash, was silent, as if every side of her mourned this moment, the utter defeat crushing her. Yet her body and spirit, despite being broken and on the brink of death, thrashed, struggled, and fought with desperation.

The lesson was learned, but to die to it is ironic as no more lessons can be learned after it, so to life she clang, her body wrestling for dear life.

"I want to live, I want to live, I want to live !!!"

The many voices within her mind, shouted in unison, her instincts forcing her arms, despite the pain, to seek and push the weapon off her. A sad sight, a troubled sight, a graceless sight, that of one who clings to life before death. Suddenly, relief, and the weapon was out of her. Yet not by her own effort, but of the man that saw himself a mentor, to the cruel lesson of life.

And as the blessings of healing magic began soothing her wounds, and the potions sizzled and ate at her wounds, her mind slumbered into the mercy of unconsciousness with the shame of failure, and the disappointment of weakness.