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I lied. I am scared.

Telling him wasn't any easier from the ebony smog that poisoned the air as the sky bled crimson. My expression mirrored his own, one draped with terror, a dread as overbearing as that monster played with the destruction of our land.

My throat burned of charcoal, a croak passing my soot-stained lips as the earth rattled again. And again. And again.

It's coming apart, I screamed.

But he didn't say anything. Just looked at me, frozen in fear. This wasn't him, the boy with tears welling in his eyes.

Please, save me. We're friends, right? You have to save me, I begged. This is all my fault, he finally spoke. His face fell to his feet, shaking his head in ruin. Wait...

Come back!

My screams lingered, unanswered, the sight of his back to me growing smaller in the distance.


Castiel Pace drew a gasp as a sudden force sent the young man off balance, his footing stammering forward as his face lit with awakening. He would barely catch himself against the guard rail, only after his forehead struck against the stone. With equal irritation, a sound of irritation trailed his lips, his eyes searching for the culprit responsible for his assault. "Ahaha! Ya look like you've seen a pair of aldgoats in heat!"

"Thal's balls," Castiel cast a long frown upon realization, pulling himself back onto his feet and raising a gauntlet against his aching head. Had he truly been sleeping like such once again? And even after I rested early last night! Wheeling around to the individual, he found himself unsurprised. "Trying for some cheap shots before the match now, huh, Harper?"

A stocky Ala Mhigan of large frame, Harper easily towered over him, crossing his arms together as he tilted his head, scoffing. "Afraid to dent your pretty little face?" the Hyuran male spoke, a lax confidence about his features.

Castiel sighed, looking up to the darker male with a similar scowl.
"You forgetting how fast that one lass left you after what happened in that match of ours some months ago?" Half a smile began to rise on his lips, a lightness behind his voice. "I remember those nice drinks that she and I had on that night. And I definitely remember-

"Alright, alright," Harper seemed to admit defeat over the reminder, his imposing structure defusing into a wave from his hand and the onset of laughter. A closer friend to Castiel, he had been embroiled in a highly-publicized rivalry with the larger male many fortnights before, until his victory on the Bloodsands earned the fellowship of the Ala Mhigan. "Can't have you catnapping 'fore the match, an' you go straight fer the throat!"

Their conversation had persisted even throughout the ruckus of the Quicksands that occurred behind him. Castiel pounded his armored hand against his chestplate, wearing a smug grin with glee.
"What can I say? Ain't the Phantom Pace for nothin'!" he nodded with exaggerated swagger, much to the chagrin of his friend. "Yea, an' I'magine you finished just as quick with Ursula than ya did our duel."

"Poppycock," Castiel brushed off Harper's rebuttal, turning to watch the ragtag brawling that continued on. Always the same dream... His mind retreated into deeper thought, cupping his chin on the palm of the gauntlet. Yet, it's never in my body, in my shoes. It's always someone else; why? "Whaddaya want, anyway? Can't be bothered to have a drink with these whoresons pissin' over themselves."

Castiel turned his head as Harper stepped beside him, watching the Ala Mhigan speak. "Like I said, ya should stay focused. Today's matchups aren't gonna be a joke this time, I hear."

"That's what they always say," he interjected over the raucous music, drawing a sigh. "Always underestimatin' me like they did back then, but I-"

Turning his back to the undying brawl had been a folly as Castiel found himself struck with a chair, having been thrown hard enough to break upon impact with the back of his head and his armor. While his Ala Mhigan associate and some other patrons went to his aid, the young man wrestled himself from his large friend's grasp as he felt a pitch in his temper.

"Alright, ye dumb cunts! his shout brought the commotion to a pause, leaping over the guard rail with anger written on his expression. Castiel drew his sword, provoking the incriminating brawlers as he pointed his blade at them. The crowd seemed to die down from all of the fighting, with some realizing who the overseer was. "I don't mind a 'lil warm up before the tournament, folks! I could carve all o' you like a dodo for dinner!"

[Character Theme]
Nobuo Uematsu - "Gau" from Final Fantasy VI (Instrument ver.)

[Birth Name]
Castiel Pace


The Phantom Pace (stylized as 'Castiel, the Phantom Pace')


(Doman) Midlander / Highlander (Ala Mhigan)

Twenty-three years old

The Fortress City of Ala Mhigo, Gyr Abania

Bloodsands gladiator


Attack helicopterMale

Oschon, the Wanderer

[Sexual Orientation]

A hot-headed and often obstinate plebeian with an eye for gil, such vanity befits that of the champion's demeanor. Castiel is an individual who elevated himself from the lowest dregs of society, boasting a grandeur vision of a life showered with what he considers his sacred trifecta: women, wealth, and wine. He is prone to quite the temper flare at a moment's notice, though this fiery temperament is usually tied to the confidence in his swordsmanship.

Beyond this, one may find a truer friend and companion in Castiel than he does himself justice. He hosts a great deal of warmth and compassion in his everyday life outside of the Bloodsands, and is never the one to resist a round of drinks at the Quicksand or any other fine establishment. His days are taken in stride, and with a relaxed outlook on everyday life, his quick-witted speech and sarcastic tongue make him a gregarious association.

Truthfully, the young man wishes to numb the heartache of vices past, conflicted with the pursuit of a precise purpose and setting his feet on an unknown path to redemption. Scattered over his being, Castiel unwillingly hearkens to these insecurities when the lull of sleep falls.

[Other Information]
Castiel dislikes wielding shields, although he understands their importance, and uses them reluctantly, sometimes in an unorthodox fashion.

hello it me
the tank
here's a birb

Just as she set another foot beyond the boundary of the tavern doorway, Ursa cast a look over her shoulder as one of the establishment's patrons approached. A fancy garb adorned the girl's figure, the little things from her hairstyle to her dramatic strut assuming a regal air. Tilting her head, her cautious eyes scanned the girl, not a weapon nor reason to spot. "Lovely," the mercenary laid her sword arm aside. "And how do you intend to fight without a weapon?"

It would not have surprised Ursa if the girl was a practitioner of magic; it seemed as if all of the Estalans dabbled in the Gift, one way or another. Magic had not been an oddity to the clans of the Ibion Expanse, herself including, although the elders condemned it as voodoo. Even so, she had always preferred the feel of a hilt between her hands, and the rush of excitement when two swords clashed. To her, it was the heat of melee, the thick of combat where songs and stories wrote themselves. No legends would tell of the ones who cowered from the shield of the front line.

Her free hand rested on her hip as another girl, shorter than the other, volunteered her clerical services. Ursa found her woes multiplied tenfold as a third face sought to involve himself.
"The plan?" Ursa drew a heavy sigh, evaluating their gathering as an inconvenience. "You've got nothing but a bow, the little lady is defenseless," she looked past the archer and the cleric. "And for all that I know, she will toss that jewelry of hers at those soldiers, pray that they falter and snap their necks, and call that fighting."

Another peer down both ends of the alleyway reassured Ursa that the remainder of their assailants were spread elsewhere along Port Sesta. "I can not babysit children during a battle," she emphasized. "Especially if it's those from Anarcas... this is a dangerous situation."

Renvall "Ren" Protego

The Kingsroad — Three minutes from Port Sesta

@LordVoldemort @Ambra

As the caravan was steadfast on their approach to Port Sesta, it had become very much apparent that there was a greater stirring that was unfolding within the walls of Port Sesta. Ren's mouth dropped open as he leaned forward, his gauntlets gripping the wood of the wagon tightly as Rhea delivered an onset of the situation.

"Anarcan ships?"

Ren had been very much aware of the ongoing tensions that existed between Estala and Anarcas, but to his knowledge, the crown had not sent an invitation of counsel to the Anarcans for several years. His eyes watched as the displaced began to disperse from around the entrance of Port Sesta, watched as they were running for their lives. "Were they warships?! Is there a ram at the front of the vessels?!

Maize raised a hand to silence the questioning company. "Calm down, you two," the knight spoke, turning to Rhea. "Are you certain?"


Renvall "Ren" Protego

The Kingsroad — Outskirts of Port Sesta

@LordVoldemort @Ambra

Renvall Protego considered drawing his sword to throw himself upon the blade if the Crown Prince were to continue talking his sanity away.

It had not been the boy's first journey beyond the walls of the capital, although it had been almost a decade since he had traveled to northern Estala. Ren could remember the musty smell of Port Sesta, the eight-year old clasping his mother's hand as he stepped off of the ship. They had left their cerulean shores for this land in the neck of winter, and Greymont was coated in a white mist that his mother called snow.

Ren had cycled between driving the helm and resting at the wagon during the four days of travel, staring down at his right gauntlet as the hand opened and closed a fist repeatedly. His dark hair fell to the side as his cheek lay flat against the other hand, his left leg and index finger tapping impatiently. The cool wind did not serve to air the heat from his black armor, some drops of sweat riding down his neck. While he rode with Maize and Eli, they were flanked by a second wagon, where a few soldiers of the crown followed.

"Five minutes," the knight called out from the helm, riding the horse beside Snowball.

Rolling his shoulders, Ren straightened himself for their oncoming arrival, his eyes wandering around. The welcoming winds of the sea were close, a look of neutrality about his features as his lips took in a healthy breath.
"About time to shake a leg," he spoke to the Crown Prince sitting opposite of him, his look remaining at the Kingsroad leading to Port Sesta.

Something was wrong.

Looking above, the wings of a wyvern rippled through the air, leading the boy to wonder if Rhea was able to see more than them. "Bloody hell," one of the soldiers cursed aloud, both of their wagons coming to a momentary stop. Scattered groups of people huddled along the gates, their focus on something from within the walls. "What's goin' on down there, this time?"

"Maybe the gatekeeper's just being a cunt," Ren suggested, throwing his hands up as they crossed against his breastplate. It wouldn't have been a surprise if that was the case; the mandate did require the gatekeeper to search for contraband, and Port Sesta was always a densely populated hub.

Maize turned back to the wagon behind their own, looking past the two of them.
"Let us continue," Ren heard a hesitation in the knight's voice.


Port Sesta

@Ambra @Poi

A woman with a sword at her belt was a rare sight. A woman who knew how to use the sword at her belt was a gem. "And a beautiful woman..."

Ursa hated drunkards. Pondering the will of the crown, she had been set to meet with the Dauntless in the backwater establishment, finding herself on the receiving end of a sailor's drunken serenade filled with pungent breath. It had been two days too much of residing in Port Sesta for the young woman. They must be enjoying their trip so much, she thought, her back against one of the taverns' pillars as the nuisance wobbled in a struggle to remain standing.

Sighing, Ursa kicked herself from the post as her arms fell to her sides, walking away and taking a seat at a vacant table. Over the time she had been in Port Sesta, there were no others that made it apparent that they were also waiting for the Dauntless to arrive, and it did concern her a little. She hoped that she was not expected to pamper the prince on her lonesome; Ursa was a sellsword, and she did not intend to earn her bag of gold through anything other than seeing the child to Rozel.

Her head turned to the entrance of the tavern as its door was kicked in with brute force. "Weapons to the ground, wench," Ursa raised a brow as the perpetrator waved an axe through the doorway first, scanning the room as he approached her. Her eye caught the flash of a sigil on their coat, realizing that it was an Anarcan soldier. The aggressor slammed his weapon through several of the wooden tables, inciting fear among the people around her. "You daft? Weapons to the ground, wench!"

Remaining seated until the soldier was a blade's reach, Ursa caught the man by surprise as she flipped the table towards him. His axe chopped through the wood with ease, but as the splinters came apart, the end of her sword interrupted his speech as the curved edge cut open the soldier's throat in a swift motion. His legs gave out and his weapon clanged against the floor, his hands coming up to cover his neck as he fell down.

"Stay in here," Ursa instructed the people within the tavern, returning her wo dao to its scabbard and drawing the sword from her back, instead. She had known about the amnesty between Estala and Anarcas, but in the confusion of the soldier's sudden entrance, it was obvious that they intended to wage war. "Find some place to hide," she added, stepping over the soldier's body. She looked down both ends of the corridor, seeing no signs of additional soldiers and hearing no sounds of a battle around Port Sesta.

At a loss for the situation at hand, Ursa looked around the tavern, keeping her sword ready as she was a foot past the doorway.
"I'll come back when I find out what is going on."
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