#backstory things

I made some changes, I wish I could make it more like it is in the game, but the contexts are so different that I had to make creative changes. So:

Milianne, or just Mimi, was a very problematic child, her parents were hung for being connected to a "pagan cult" and then she had to start living alone, she used her appearance to make various characters, kind of how she changes appearances in game, but in a more grounded way. After some years she turns into a very skilled thief, and she rans into Bleck and Nastasia, having a fondness to shiny and valuable objects she tries to steal something from them, but gets caught because of Bleck's knowledge of the prophesy and the role of the people it mentions. He promises that if she joins them she'll find fortune, and the value of it would be so great that she'll never have to steal again.

O'Chunks was a fisherman, but not a normal one, he had a strong boat with enough firepower to kill sea monsters, and that was his job, he was the captain and wanted to go after all the biggest creatures, but one of them was too violent, too tough, and eventually he and his crew sank, in the waters almost all of them were killed, but as if the monster was conscious of who ordered them, he left O'Chunks alive to suffer the loss, and after some time in the water, Bleck finds him, and he promises to help him avenge his lost crew.

Characters: Ivaurault, mention of Armand @thedarknesssings, Dauvaunt @pocket-panda, Osmont @klynk-klank

Crack!

The sound of a lance striking a target splits the silence, cutting through the evening air like a knife. Above the sky had already turned dark, the moons already starting to peek over the spires of Ishgard; most people, especially those fortunate enough to reside in the grand, sweeping estates, had long since retreated inside for supper.

And yet a young boy of perhaps eleven or twelve summers continues to linger on the grounds of the Courcelle manor.

His sharp green eyes are fixed upon the target in front of him, as though it had personally offended him. His breath heaves in his chest as he steps back, his lance in hand. Sweat trickles down his skin despite the chilliness of the air as he brings the dulled point of his weapon to bear on the training dummy once more. Another crack! fills the air, causing the older elezen coming out of the manor to wince.

"Master Ivaurault," the servant begins, taking advantage of the pause before the boy could line up another strike. "Lady Courcelle has requested that you come inside. Supper is almost ready."

The boy glances over towards the servant as he speaks, but rather than set down his lance, he shakes his head with all of the stubborn indignation that a child can muster.

"Tell Mother that I am training," he declares. "And am not hungry." This was, in fact, a lie; one easily proven by the rumble of his stomach at the thought of food.

Get this, okay, GET THIS: he fucking sniped me from some other fucking Toreador who apparently was friends with the Prince. Which is why he couldn't get permission to Embrace me???

I mean yeah, he Embraced like...6 people before me and like abandoned then and Santa Marta couldn't support that many dipshit neonate Toreador but like...

The bitch was a Harpy! And then took out his frustration with my Sire on me for DECADES because he didn't get there in time.

Many, many years after the last of the practitioners were said to have slipped into a comfortable obscurity, lancers known only as “men-of-rags” began to crop up in the more populated parts of the surrounding regions.

Their behavior was simple. They dressed in simple clothing, like that of poor farmers, fishermen, or simply beggars. They lived a daily life in squalor, and were almost always homeless and of the drifting sort. However, if the time came that their slovenly, seemingly (and actually) uneventful existence was threatened, they would not hesitate to reveal their skill with the polearm, and that they had kept up their training even in the absence of a master to guide them.

Even as the true nature of many men-of-rags began to surface, they were still welcomed by many places they went. For a time, the majority of the men and women who wore the unofficial title at least tried to adhere to the code they’d followed as proper warriors of the school: Protecting the feeble, shedding blood only in protection, never in anger, and never in disdain.

As time went on, the men-of-rags slowly began to realize that, with the collapse of the school, they no longer needed to conduct themselves in the way their teachers would’ve approved of. They instead sought to lead existences in which they would be entirely unburdened by the concerns of others, whether they be individuals or bodies of law. Disturbingly, at this time they’d long adjusted to the idea of using their teachings to intimidate or otherwise cut down those who tried to obstruct them. It was from this that the man-of-rags began to spread as an obscure legend of sorts. Travelers would do their best to exercise extreme caution around any vagrants they met in their travels, for, according to superstition, a vagrant could actually be a man-of-rags, a sort whose ire could be earned without much effort.

However, with changing times the men-of-rags experienced a swift decline. The collapse of the school as a whole, coupled with the slow ostracization of their kind, resulted in few taking on any students and even fewer bearing children to pass the style down to. By the time the generation before my great grandad’s rolled around, the men-of-rags had all either retired or simply died off, and by my father’s, the legend had been all but forgotten.

These three have been friends for quite a while by the time Bowman of Wellwood takes place. Even still, the events of the story tested their friendship at points, to be sure!

Chase and Jacob met each other first. When they were about 9, Jacob had barely put a year between himself and the death of his father. He became a much quieter kid around then, keeping to himself a lot more. This enabled him to notice another kid doing the same thing, though for very different reasons.

Qi Shi Lisong, nicknamed “Chase” by his dad to give him a more Americanized name, didn’t speak a lot of English when he and his family first moved to Jacob’s hometown of Carlisle, Iowa. Things had been rushed to get them moved, so he and his little sister didn’t have a lot of time to learn much before the move. He was incredibly shy and also dealing with his recent asthma diagnosis.

Jacob approached this shy kid and the rest, as they say, is history. Jacob helped Chase learn English faster (a side effect of this being that they sometimes talk similarly) and they played together at each other’s houses. They’re very close, and a part of that is probably because they took comfort in the friendship that came about right when they needed it the most.

A few years later, Bobby Loran moved to Carlisle from Texas, a definite contrast to the other two more laid back kids. The three of them ended up hanging out more and more often as a coincidence at first, and eventually he was in the fold as well. The three are known among their classmates as inseparable most of the time, a matched set.

Bobby thinks he’s the leader of their group. Chase doesn’t care. Jacob shrugs and lets him think that. They give each other endless shit regardless, and they really are close.

"Doc, i-if I can’t figure this out..."

"Then that will be that, Daniel, and I will die."

The cold finality in the doctor's tone had Daniel trembling openly, his heart leaping terrified up into his throat. Anders Davinov had always had a way of stating the obvious that made it sound like an ironclad decree -- the smash of a gavel, and any doubts beneath it crushed to scattered pieces. On the bed, the elderly Mordesh stared with an otherwise impassive rigidity at his tiny red-haired charge; the blotchy purple of his skin seemed to shift and darken and lighten again, the lamplight thrown haphazard over gaunt contours as he spoke. Daniel had to swallow the fear down hard before attempting to speak again.

"I understand that, Doc," acknowledged the boy, his voice a soft quiver. Hands raked backward through his curls, standing them up on end. "But... but what should I do? We could-- I-I'm sure we have somethin' on hand, somethin' I could... I could...?"

The words trailed off until Daniel was little but a trembling orange wisp, standing vigil at Davinov's bedside with his hands sliding down his face. Pale and small in the low yellow light of the table-lamp, he clasped those hands together and squeezed his eyes shut tight -- his lips parted, tugging uselessly at air; the words caught in his throat and silenced him. Where were the answers that he wanted? What were the solutions that he'd learned? His own incompetence beat mercilessly from within his skull; he knew this, damn him straight to hell.

A raspy, mechanical wheeze answered the boy, inhaled laboriously through a withered windpipe and into blackened, shriveled lungs.

"We have what, Daniel. Think."

"I can't--"

"--You can." Davinov's tinny undertones rumbled out from the ruin of his chest. He hissed the words upward, pressing them out with the slow groan of a dying steam engine: "Your patient will soon perish. What do you have on hand to help him, boy?"

"Doc, please don't do this," Daniel broke down, tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. Shoulders sagged, his hands dropped to his sides, helpless and defeated: "What do I need t'do? Tell me, please, I don't-- I can't--!"

That bone-thin, talon-like grip was wrenching Daniel downward by his sleeve in an instant. The young boy staggered forward, palms planting onto the bed astride bony shoulders -- suddenly face to face with the small, shallow, rapid breaths creaking mechanically out from the valves and tubing of Dr. Davinov's throat. The Mordesh's grip was clammy and cold; his white eyes seethed with calculated calm.

"You will not have time to tremble in triage, boy. Listen now. You will be the savior, the light for the lost, and you must not be seen to snivel. They will look to you and you must flourish where they falter. Do you understand?"

"Doc, I just--"

"Do you understand?"

Characters: Laurent

"You wished to see me, Father?"

The words are quiet, spoken with a hint of a stammer; nonetheless, the priest in question looks up at them. A reassuring smile is flashed to the boy (technically a man, really, but it was hard for him to think of the shy, scrawny figure that way), and a gesture made towards the open chairs before the desk. 

"Laurent, come. Have a seat."