A Formal Army for the Birth of a Nation
Bastien De Rosieres
the Dionysian
Ambassador for the Hollowed Grounds / Artist

Age: 41 | Height: 6' 2" | Race: Ascended | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 5 - Strg: 20 - Dext: 22 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 10 - Int:
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#29
Appearing again with Rexanna after his jail time, Bastien writes:

Bastien De Rosieres, 33, Ascended. Outskirts.


Age: 7 | Height: | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
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#30
One of the guards looked at Sascha with a raised brow, but nodded when he asked his question. ”Sure thing.” he said, writing out what the young man said. It wasn’t like he had never encountered an illiterate person before. It didn’t mean he couldn’t fight after all.

The guard speaking to Niambh still didn’t seem thoroughly convinced. ”Sure but are you a citizen of the Greatwood or the Hollowed Grounds?” they grumbled at her, still not convinced of her sincerity. ”This is for defending the Hollowed Grounds folk. Far as I know, your people aren’t keen on us. May end up havin to fight your own kind you know.”
Eli Monnrow
Mercenary

Age: 41 | Height: 5'11" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
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#31
Monnrow marched up to the sign up sheet, his gait dripping with precision only a military man would have, a scowl etched on his features, not caring to look at anyone else on his way. Barging through anyone that stood in his path, he was determined to get his over with. He finally reached the sheet, scrawling down in a fairly neat manner.

Eli Monnrow, 33, Accepted.

He had no love for this 'queen' or her land, but he'd finally reckoned this might be a good way of getting some answers, answers he was seeking. Turning to leave, he looked at one of the guards, giving a firm nod as only a soldier would, without so much as a hello before he marched back off in the direction he'd come from.

It was done.
Are Jormsson
Cobbler / Leatherworker

Age: 31 | Height: 6'4" (193cm) | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
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#32
Warrior, hirdman, Einhärj, hero...

Follower, cobbler, coward, dog...

Eyes aglow with the gloom of dying hope, hope for childish insubordination to triumph, for obstinate disregard of any and all mortal masters, for a stoic shield wall against any and all oppressors. Yet there was nothing. No crack of thunder to split the sky, no sign from the gods that the better man had finally made the better choice.

From the God of silence came only silence, a mission far greater than any vain attempt at insurrection and revolt. A truth that, once it dawned on Are, was harder to swallow than anything to that very day; the last day, the day before all he had worked for could be undone due to apathy and pride. Who was he to put his own goals above those that ruled life and death?

No, he was just a cobbler. A cobbler that without a word gazed upon the decree, scribbled with names, a seemingly never ending list, names ranging from barely legible to the most elegant scriptures decorated the vellum. The small empty space teasing him, edging him on to do what was brash, what came naturally to the stubborn cobbler. To resist and bite, and to never lay down the spear.

The pen hovered above the empty space as the cobbler felt the wings of the ravens already fading away, leaving with messages of a coward selling one's soul, of a better man putting his own will at rest in favor of the greater good.

Acolyte, pupil, husband, better man...

ᛅᚱᛁ•ᚢᚬᚱᛘᛋ•ᛋᚬᚾ•ᛅᚢ•ᛅᚱᚬᛋ
Are, Jorm's son, of Aros. 23. Accepted.


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#33
He waited until midday, after the guards had eaten lunch and another farmer had come to add his name to the list. The man hemmed and hawed uncertainly, gruffly belligerent about his illiteracy until one of the guards had to write down his information, and when he was done the farmer continued to harangue his neighbors.

With both of the guards focused on the farmer, it was as easy as shooting sleeping conies in a basket.

From the shadow of the temple doorway the older boy leaned out just far enough to sight along his sling before letting the thick, blobby pellet loose. The barest tap of telekinesis as it left the pouch kept it flying straight and true, and he was already off around the corner and running before it hit.

The shaved-thin pig's bladder struck the sign up sheet dead center, splattering thick, smelly ink across the page and obscuring the names and information that had been written on it so far, possibly even spattering onto the nearby guards as well.


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#34
Did people think the guards so ill-prepared, that such childish pranks would be enough to ruin their day or the plans of the Queen? Fools. When the two looked back at the 'ruined' sheet, they did nothing more but raise a brow and scoff.

It was such a trivial matter they didn't even bother looking for the culprit.

One guard merely placed a finger on the sheet, transmuting its properties. The wet blob of ink suddenly slid off the paper like oil on water, marring the floor and nothing more. Once the blemish was clean, the sheet was returned to its original properties.

Now knowing fools abound, the guards would not be so lax in their vigilance again.
Niambh Sirideán
Scout

Age: 106 | Height: 3’8 (117cm) | Race: Fae | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
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#35
What a suspicious bunch! Niambh has a generous heart though and easily forgives the insult the speaker delivers, both by mannerism and word; what’s more, the smile remains firm upon her young, fleshy face, unaffected altogether. “Wait, I thought…”

Eyes ascend, searching Her royal decree this time for the part that-

“Ah! Here it is,” the yet friendly Fae begins with finger once again outstretched, higher still, pressed to the board (have they even read it at all?), “As with the term 'Abandoned', distinction between 'Outlander' and 'Natural' is strictly forbidden. Any acts of discrimination based on perceptions of Outlander versus Natural are equally forbidden.

You aren’t discriminating are you, friends?”
Big, incredulous, blue eyes dance from one guard to the other, genuinely curious to see whether she would be turned away from the Hollowed Grounds for the exact distinction that their queen had forbidden mention of. Niambh understood well that both Caido-born and those from beyond formed this population’s quantity.

“Anyway, I’d rather not waste time if we’re preparing for war!”

The Fae laughs lightly, freely (perhaps a little cheekily), dipping into a polite courtesy between the queen’s men. You worry about watching your sign here, and I’ll help with bigger stuff!” With a wink and a Cheshire-grin, she spins away, a perfectly poised pirouette, wings glistening along behind, and throws backwards one final parting grin for each.

"I'll see you for a spar when you qualify as real soldiers!”
Nate Wrenzaok
the Lone (Free) Ranger
"Doctor" / Guildmaster

Age: 37 | Height: 6'1" | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 10 - Strg: 55 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 50 - Luck: 46 - Int: 1
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#36
After his talk with their queen, there really want anything else keeping Nate from signing up for the service. He wasn’t going to get an put as easily as he’d hoped, and he wasn’t going to risk being imprisoned over this.

Sauntering up to the board, Nate offered a nod of greeting to each of the guards and signed his life into service to the crown.

Doctor Nathaniel Wren, 28, Accepted


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