Oppara, 4664 AR, 54 years before the exaltation gala (and about 25 years before your characters are born)

Amidst a world draped in the shroud of winter's unforgiving embrace, the grandeur of Oppara, the heart of Taldor, glistened beneath a fragile veneer of ice. Through frost-kissed windows, a poignant tableau unveiled itself like a tragic play upon the stage of destiny. A lone, young figure perched upon the windowsill, a sentinel of sorrow, his youthful countenance of a mere 8 years etched with the weight of sadness and loss. Cascading locks of chestnut hair whispered untamed tales of neglect, a testament to the turmoil within his tender heart.

From the frigid shadows, another figure emerged, his form swathed in heavy fabrics woven to repel winter's sting. He moved with a purpose, a determined fire igniting his steps. Doors slammed, voices clashed like sword upon shield, and the rhythmic cadence of boots echoed against the palace's stately walls. Sensing the impending tempest, the boy abandoned his station with the swiftness of a hunted creature, escaping the storm's path.

He slipped into the corridor, a passage adorned in resplendent finery, the very walls recounting tales of Taldor's triumphs. Concealing himself within an open doorway, the boy peered through the threshold, his eyes unerringly fixed upon the unfolding drama. From the depths of his heart, he summoned courage, that intangible armor that shielded him from the tempestuous winds of the world.

And then, a visage of majesty, a man possessed by both grief and fury, strode forth into the hallway, a figure of the ultimate mortal authority swathed in robes that mirrored his son's own cascading locks. His eyes, twin orbs ablaze with the fervor of desperation, bore witness to countless sleepless nights, the haunting specter of loss trailing behind him.

The air grew taut, heavy with the weight of sorrow unspoken, as the Grand Prince, Emperor or Taldor spoke, and his voice cut through the silence like a blade unsheathed. Accusations hurled, a symphony of heartache and distrust.

"Your Majesty, if you would please just listen," he entreated, a gesture of entreaty painted with fingers clasped in the form of a supplicant's prayer. Yet, like a tempest refusing to abate, the sovereign's wrath swelled, a maelstrom of grief and resentment.

“You Sarenites are all the same, like all Qadirans! Liars and cheats! All out to get what you can! Push your own agendas!”

The man of the cloth, his heritage and faith tracing lines upon his skin, held steadfast beneath the onslaught, an embodiment of empathy undeterred. His words flowed like a soothing balm, an offering of understanding amidst the tempest. "Sire, I know you are experiencing tremendous pain right now, but you must listen… I, along with all of the other priests you have summoned before me, cannot bring your son back. It is not for a lack of trying, or power, but as others have said, it is simply because your son’s soul has already been judged. The Lady of Graves had little to weigh with such a young and pure soul taken so early in life. He has been sent on to Nirvana where he can rest, and from where his soul refuses to move. I am sorry, but we have done all that we can. No one else will be able to bring back Prince Carrius. The people of Taldor are just as distraught by his loss, and we mourn with you." The cleric bows and slowly back-steps away from the Grand Prince and between two hulking Ulfen Guard to make his escape from the grieving monarch.

The young boy, the surviving son of the Grand Prince and how heir to the Lion Throne of Taldor is still listening behind the door. His face falls at the news, but he stiffens against the door as we hear the Grand Prince growl and the sound of splintering wood and crumbling plaster as he punches the wall.

“Your Majesty?” a voice chimes in summoned by the violence.

The Grand Prince pulls his fist from the wall and shakes it, “Calpurnus, dispatch more messengers across all of Avistan! Send them all throughout Garund and Casmoran if you have to! Someone out there has the power to bring him back even if the Sarenites can’t! Double- no, triple, no, quadruple the reward!” The man is red in the face screaming at what must be his steward.

“Sire, I have run across Oppara myself and knocked on every temple within the city. None of the priests say they have the power to bring him back. They say the time to do so has passed, especially if his soul wishes to stay in Nirvana. In addition, we’ve nearly bankrupted the royal coffers. There is nothing more to do. It is time to mourn the prince and allow the country to mourn as well.”

There’s a pause, “Fine. Spend whatever is left on his funeral. I will not have him put to rest without a proper ceremony. He deserves the luxuries befitting my only heir of the crown.”

"Sire, you still have an heir."

"Stavian you mean? The lesser one? That's how history will name him, Stavian III, the Lesser. The boy gets my name but little else. He hasn’t even got the courage to show his face around here for the past four days. Doesn’t have the stones, spine, or brains of his older brother, nor enough of them to push aside his ‘sensitivities’ to deal with reality! What a Grand Prince he’ll make! My heir, my legacy!” he sighs despondently as the boy desperately tries to keep his sobs silent.

There’s a little more grumbling back and forth in the hallway before we hear the sound of footsteps moving away to somewhere else in the castle, “Sire, might I suggest raising the taxes on the lower classes again to help pay for some of these expenditures? They are quite sympathetic to the loss of the young Prince Cassian…”

The boy lets out a shaky breath. His hand is trembling and he slowly slides his back down the door towards the ground. A variety of emotions play across his face as he bites his trembling lip: anger, anguish, and complete and utter devastation. His eyes betray him first and a tear escapes, followed shortly by a second, and then a whole flood. He gently curls into a ball on the floor and sobs as quietly as possible, holding his knees to his chest. Mourning. Mourning the loss of his older brother, and the realization that his father would burn a thousand fortunes, bankrupt the Empire in vain attempts to resurrect his favorite son Cassian I, rather than embrace young Stavian III as his son and heir.

Birdsong Palace, Meratt County, Taldor, AR 4692, 26 years before the exaltation gala
(player's don't witness this, you're probably all about 2 or under at the time!)



In the heart of an ancient courtyard, where the stones had witnessed generations of laughter and whispered secrets, young Martella Lotheed was crying. She found herself ensnared in a web of cruelty spun by her own brother Bartleby. Martella was about six years old and just beginning to realize that she didn't fit in with her family. Her mother, or the woman she called mother at any rate, hated and ignored her while her half-brother Bartleby was becoming a frequent tormentor and bully towards young Martella.

She knew she didn't look like the rest of her family but didn't really understand why yet. With deep caramel skin tones, dark brown eyes and thick wild black hair that refused to be tamed and caused no ends of fights between Martella and the governess who was tasked with grooming her, she looked more like her real mother than her father or any Lotheed. And since her actual mother was not her Father's wife but was a Qadiran diplomat her father had an affair with, it meant for a rough upbringing. Especially as Qadira was Taldor's rival and often enemy.

With resentment and hatred coming from mother and siblings, Martella gravitated towards her father, Count Mercater Lotheed, and he adored his daughter. Just not while his wife was around. But neither the Count nor the Countess were there today. This day, Bartleby was taking his torment towards his half sister to another level.The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the sky hung heavy, as if weighed down by the impending tempest.

Bartleby Lotheed, a boy caught in the tempestuous crosswinds of resentment and jealousy, led the charge with a band of hooligans trailing behind him. His eyes bore the marks of his inner turmoil, a storm within a storm, as he advanced upon Martella with calculated malice. By his side, his three companions chortled in wicked delight, mischievous grins illuminating the shadowy depths of their intentions.

Like a fleeting fawn, Martella darted through the courtyard, her small frame a delicate contrast against the harshness of her surroundings. Yet, her pursuers, fueled by cruel intentions, were relentless, bigger and much faster, their jeers echoing like the haunting cries of crows. Mud-laden missiles soared through the air, each one a testament to Bartleby's festering scorn, each one a mockery of Martella's place in her family.

Mud splattered against her dress, mixing with her tears, each droplet a reminder of her vulnerability, each droplet a searing brand upon her tender heart. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and her tears mingled with the earthy stains upon her cheeks. She faltered and stopped as they caught her, wailing. But this time her cries did not deter the bully.

Bartleby's triumphant laughter reverberated, a haunting symphony that inspired her further panic. But within the depths of her tear-streaked gaze, a fire ignited—an ember of defiance, a kindling of an indomitable spirit and a clever mind. Beneath the weight of her fear, she unearthed a gem of cunning.

As Bartleby advanced, a triumphant glint dancing in his eyes, Martella's voice, quivering yet resolute, pierced the chaos. "Wait!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with an urgency that mirrored her heart's crescendo. "Wait, Bartleby!"

Bartleby hesitated, not expecting clear words interrupting his sister, this pest's sobs. His brows furrowed as curiosity tangled with his malevolent intent. The courtyard fell into an uneasy silence, the tension palpable, as the cruel tableau of torment reached an unexpected crossroads.

Martella's gaze remained steady, her trembling lips parting to reveal a triumphant smile, her emotions morphing into a symphony of guile. "You see," she began, her voice quivering with the fragile innocence of a child yet laced with the brilliant wit of a strategist, "I .. know something you want to know! And if you don't stop I won't tell you about it!"

Confusion flickered across Bartleby's features, his resolve momentarily faltering. Clearly this was a trick but ... curiosity had always been his weakness. And she knew it.

"I've been exploring." she declared, her voice lilting with newfound confidence.

Bartleby's eyes widened, a potent mixture of intrigue and suspicion warping his features. His companions exchanged wary glances, their gleeful anticipation tinged with doubt. "So?" Bartleby demanded, his voice a tight but wavering, a line of a fish who hadn't quite been hooked yet.

Martella's smile grew as she gained some control of the situation. "I know the truth. The truth about the secret passages beneath the castle. I've been through them, and I've made a map!" she proclaimed, her words weaving a spell. She knew the boys had been exploring all summer looking for the alleged secret passages.

Her words hung in the air, a suspended moment. Bartleby's mind raced, the allure of a hidden world beneath his very feet proving an irresistible temptation. Especially as he stood at the head of his gang of friends. Slowly, he motioned for his friends to lower their mud-soaked ammunition, a temporary truce forged in the crucible of curiosity.

With a confident flourish, Martella stepped forward, holding up one finger before Bartleby. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of triumph and hope, a daring gambit poised upon the precipice of truth and fiction.

"I can show you. If you let me go and get quill and ink I can draw it," she urged, her voice a gentle entreaty laden with the promise of revelation.

As Bartleby's fingers dripped mud, the world held its breath. "You better not be lying!" he threatened.

Of course she was lying. but a lie very close to the truth. She HAD been exploring as well, alone following in her brother's lead. And she had found one of the secret passages. But by the time they realized how little she actually knew, just a tunnel behind a bookshelf to the next room, it was too late. The moment had passed and she was back hiding behind her father's trousers.

And as the sun broke through the clouds, its golden rays casting a radiant tapestry upon the courtyard, Martella's future shimmered with the promise of defiance and survival of a quick wit and confident ways. They'd be back of course, but she could think of something else to diffuse the situation when that happened.