forum "I swear, I'd burn this city down just to show you the lights." (oxo, romance fantasy, closed)

Started Nov 25 by @Indie

tune

Bandit Leader x Runaway Sorcerer

Set during a time in which fear of magic runs rampant. Those with the ability to wield it, known most commonly as sorcerers, are hunted for sport and burned at the stake before the capitol. One such sorcerer narrowly escaped this fate, only to be pursued deep into the forest in an attempt to flee to another kingdom.

It seemed like an impossible bid for freedom until an unlikely savior appeared before them: The masked leader of a ruthless band of thieves.

Rescue, however, may not be all this leader has in mind for the poor runaway.

Notes

That last part came out a little more ominous than I intended. This is meant to be an enemies-to-lovers sort of deal where the two characters learn to trust each other despite the amount of secrecy and tension between them, while engaging in high stakes missions with mounting danger.

Takes place in an Old Fantasy style setting with no modern technology. Obviously, magic exists, the only caveat being that a person must be born with said abilities. They cannot acquire it naturally later, although magical artifacts (which may in some cases function in ways parallel to modern technology) also exist within this world. That said, these artifacts are incredibly rare, very valuable, and very high in demand.

The name of this kingdom is Niune ("nee-oo-nay").

I'll be playing the bandit leader and you have free range with your sorcerer. Whether they have a single magical affinity or whether they can harness multiple facets of power, just be sure they aren't unreasonably overpowered! As always if you have any ideas, questions, or suggestions concerning world-building or plot, please don't hesitate to ask. I'd like this to be a dual effort story that's just as fulfilling to you as it is to me.

Trigger Warnings
Expletives, blood and violence, emotional and/or physical abuse, betrayal, revenge, torture, death.

Rules
We're all mature here. Just be a decent person and we shouldn't have any issues! If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask.

I'm looking for a serious writer who isn't daunted by the idea of long passages of text or taking their own direction in the story. Response time doesn't really matter to me because I'll likely be inconsistent myself.

-

NAME Ozzy "Beast Tamer" Jörmungandr
AGE Twenty-six
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION Six foot tall, Ozzy has the exotic appearance of a foreigner. His eyes are narrow and slanted, perched beneath two thin and arched eyebrows. His skin is tanned from time spent in the sun and a beauty mark adorns the spot under the left corner of his mouth. His hair is black and wild, long enough to reach the tops of his shoulders except the the left side of his head, which is sheared close to the scalp. Often, Ozzy wears sections of his hair in small braids, accentuated by a couple of colorful beads. His eyes are gray and speckled with hints of green.
PERSONALITY Brazen, cocky, arrogant, flirty, silver-tongued, patronizing, obsessive.
OTHER (1) He wears the universal mark for "traitor" on his face—a large, unmistakable scar carved through the right side of his cheek, underneath his eye. (2) No one outside of his band of thieves has ever seen his face. Instead, an ornate and intricately decorated bronze mask, partially corrupted with tarnish, conceals it from view. It's the sort of mask one might find at a masquerade ball, distinctly bird-like with a beak so sharp it looks as if it could rend flesh. (3) Though it's speculated that the leader of the bandits is a sorcerer of some kind, those are merely rumors. Ozzy encourages such fancies, though truly he was born without a drop of magic in his body.

You can use the same format to post your character or use one of your own, I don't have a preference.

Name: Razielle LeonCoure
Age: 24
Physical Description:
Razielle stands around 5'8 with a lean build, better built for moving around quickly rather than standing a chance at fighting. They have pale skin mottled with freckles and an uneven tan. Their hair is a mess of chestnut brown with a few streaks of blond and red undertones, barely hiding a pair of antelope-like horns. Their eyes are deep chocolate brown lined with kohl, framed by thick lashes and an intense stare that most people choose to stay away from. They usually wear colorful wraps simple tunics with pants and shoes as their nomadic life has trained them to carry light and efficiently.
Personality - Razielle tried to keep to themselves as much as possible since their kind is not welcomed amongst the general population. At heart, they are a pacifist, wanting to choose peace and harmony, but this world has not been kind, and for the sake of survival, Razielle does what they must stay alive, whether they desire to or not. They've gotten quite good at deception, able to sneak around and find work to keep themselves fed and clothed while they find a place to settle. Kindred to fire, sometimes calm yet persistent, sometimes a sudden burst of passion, Razielle is often the former, but there is the rare occasion, few and very far between, where they can be themselves with no apology, where they shine the brightest. Unfortunately, they haven't been able to do that in a very long time.
Backstory
Razielle is a descendant of "The Children of Pan". An ancient clan of people known for harnessing the magic that dorms within nature, whether that be plants, the weather, the elements, or other aspects where nature plays a key role, these people have been able to wield a variety of magical abilities for centuries. While throughout the years, the magic in the bloodline has diluted somewhat, the magic within the lineage remains ever-present. Razielle carries an affinity for nature magic, willing the plants and earth around him to obey their command. They have a small affinity for fire but nothing beyond conjuring a small flame for kindling or a light source, the fire inside more resides with their personality than his magic.
As common for most magic wielders now, it was not safe for them to be in large groups, so when Razielle turned 18, they decided to leave their clan both for their family's safety and their own as war loomed closer. Ever since then, Razielle has been mostly on his own, traveling from city to city, taking up odd jobs here and there to experience as much of the world, whether good or bad, as they could.
Other
Razielle usually veils their horns and face to try and keep their identity as hidden as possible, but most of the time, people can tell what they are regardless.

Hope they're good! I can't wait to see them paired with Ozzy!

The forest is uneasy tonight.

It prickles at the base of Ozzy’s neck, foreboding, unrelenting, like an itch he just can’t seem to scratch. Mindlessly he glances through the trees at his camp, skipping over the various tents and fires scattered around.

His group is rowdy tonight, drunk off the feeling of victory and the expensive spirits they’d stolen from a palace-bound caravan.

Ozzy’s lips twitched in faint amusement at the silhouette of a bandit against the fire, rising to their feet in a loud cheer before stumbling backwards into his friends. The mostly empty bottle of spirits rolled into the fire, and a few startled exclamations rang out at the sudden spike in flames and the sound of glass breaking.

It’s good to see his people in high spirits—the play on words does little to squash his amusement—but he’s grateful nevertheless for the bit of distance he’s put between them. Ozzy is looking for clarity tonight; something difficult to come by surrounded by such a crowd.

“Hiya Capt’n!” a familiar voice says, as if summoned by the thought, and Ozzy lifts his head with a raised eyebrow. Before he can react, an awkward weight presses itself over his neck. It practically smothers him with the scent of stale sweat and alcohol, and he grunts in response.

Ozzy rolls his eyes, shoving at a very tipsy Spyder until he lets go. The man tilts to the side dangerously, but manages to right himself before he can tumble onto the ground by meticulously stacking the parts of his body on top of each other. It’s jarring, and yet entirely expected of the man.

Really, it should be a marvel that he carries any sense of coordination at all in this state. Spyder is a mess to behold stone cold sober, let alone like this. He’s all long limbs and gangly proportions, but no one can deny he carries a peculiar grace in battle. It’s why Ozzy had given him his name in the first place.

“What do you want, you disaster?” he demands, pursing his lips to hide the fondness in his gaze.

“I want youuuu to join us,” Spyder responds exaggeratedly, raising an accusing finger to Ozzy’s face until he nearly goes cross-eyed following the motion. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating? This is your victory!”

“They’re all my victories. That’s the benefit of leading you ugly bunch.”

“Hey!”

Ozzy laughs, some of the tension leaving his frame as he does. The prickling sensation is still there, but it’s fainter than it was a moment ago. He’s reminded why he wanted clarity when Spyder begins to drunkenly lecture him on the importance of being a benevolent and supportive leader, and he rolls his eyes once more before standing.

If he has any hope of reclaiming his quiet at all, he’s going to need to get rid of Spyder. Unfortunately for him, there’s no easy way to do that.

Still, he’s got a good six inches in height over the other, and that’s as good a start as any. Spyder squeaks in fright when Ozzy’s intentions become clear, but it’s too late—the captain has already swung him over his shoulder.

Spyder swats him on the back, demanding to be let down, but Ozzy only laughs. “It’s time to retire for the night, Spyder—you’re drunk. That’s an order,” he says, beginning to carry him back to the camp.

The man huffs, opening his mouth to argue further, but Ozzy stops suddenly. Spyder is jostled in the movement, but he doesn’t get a chance to question why that is before a few deer bolt past them in a disorganized frenzy.

Ozzy unceremoniously drops Spyder who, despite his clear inebriation a moment prior, pitches his body forward to land in a neat crouch. Immediately, the man presses his ear to the ground, confirming what Ozzy has already suspected with a hissed,

“It’s the zealots!”

Ozzy is already striding towards the camp, hooking his fingers under the handle of a swinging bucket without pause. He dumps it over the nearest fire, instantly garnering the attention of his men.

Not a single one questions him when he issues his order;

“Scatter.”

Within minutes the only indication that the place isn't abandoned is the scent of smoke still heavy in the air.

Not that Ozzy intended to let anyone close enough to notice it. He motions for Spyder to follow him, unwilling to lose sight of his drunk friend no matter how agile he may be, though he quietly assigns him a task separate from the rest of his men.

He reaches for the mask hanging at his waist, smoothing it over his face in a practiced manner. The hood of his cloak goes up next and Spyder quickly parts to fulfill his own orders, leaving Ozzy poised above the forest floor among the shrouded canopy of leaves.

He doesn't have to wait long.

The shouting reaches his ears first, followed by the desperate strides of a lone someone running for their life. His blood thrums through his veins in anticipation as the someone comes into view.

‘A sorcerer,’ he notes, a wide grin spreading beneath his mask. He's sure of it; the zealots would never chase a common criminal this far without a bigger sense of motivation.

The zealots are gaining, Ozzy can see them now. There’s at least a dozen men in pursuit—hardly a daunting number to a man who rules two dozen more.

The zealot at the front of the pack, bearing a torch in one hand, reaches for his prey with the other.

The hand is a hair's breadth away from the back of their garb when the sorcerer passes beneath Ozzy’s tree. ‘How fortunate.’

Without a sound, he steps off the branch and allows gravity to acquaint the heels of his boots with the lead zealot’s head.

For a split moment, time seems to slow. Ozzy’s hair trails behind him in a blur of glossy black, freed from the flapping of the cloak as moonlight glints off of his mask.

He feels the pressure against the soles of his feet as they connect with the zealot, hears the man’s grunt followed by the snapping of his neck beneath his weight, the stretch in the corded muscles of his thighs as he lands.

Time resumes to its normal flow. Before anyone can blink, another zealot is dead—a bullet through the skull courtesy of the smoking flintlock Ozzy holds to the temple of a still swaying body.

His arm is perfectly extended, the picture of deadly grace as he brings the barrel of the flintlock to the beak of his mask and blows.

The body collapses forwards, and another zealot screams. One falls into the dirt, scrambling backwards with wide-eyed fear. The rest are quick to stop their pursuit, recognizing Ozzy as a far greater threat than one measly sorcerer.

Suffice it to say, he’s gotten their attention.

“Now now, boys, why the hurry on such a fine night as this?” he says teasingly, swinging his arms wide and spinning the gun in hand. His demeanor is playful, but does nothing to conceal the murderous intent in his voice.

Immediately, several swords are drawn and pointed at him. Ozzy laughs, a note of genuine delight in his voice to see so many of them still so confident. It would be sad, almost, if it weren’t so funny.

“That’ll be your undoing,” he informs in a singsong sort of way. His eyes flicker to the trees above them, and he has just enough time to bask in the way the zealots pale with realization before his men drop down to the forest floor around them.

“Kill them,” Ozzy orders, tucking his flintlock back into its holster and turning his back to the ensuing bloodbath.

Ozzy spots Spyder, who calmly leans against a nearby tree, awaiting further instruction. Then his eyes land on the sorcerer, sprawled on the ground where Spyder had waited to trip them, and he tilts his head in a way that only emphasizes the bird-like appearance of the mask he wears.

Crouching to meet the sorcerer's gaze, Ozzy casually props his chin on his hand, like he hadn’t just condemned a dozen men to their deaths.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” he drawls, meaning every word. Beneath his mask his eyes shine with excitement at the prospect of his newest trinket.

(omg, the detail, I love this! Great start!)

To say it was a very very long day was an understatement, but Razielle would have been incorrect in saying it had been their hardest. They were used to long nights at taverns or brothels or wherever they seemed to pick up a job. Working late was usually undesirable, which made it easier to apply for, but more importantly, it was safer for one such as them. Or so they had naively assumed.

They had stopped by a local village only a month ago, having desperately needed shelter and food after traveling on the road for weeks on end. It wasn't uncommon for nomads to rest for a bit before moving on to their next location, and the town was discreet enough that Razielle felt safe to stay a while. Needing to pay room and board for the foreseeable future, Razielle had taken up a closing shift at the town tavern. In the rare places where their kind was accepted, Razielle would often take up late shifts or positions no one else wanted. They'd get paid less, as was the custom of the prejudice against sorcerers, but at least it was something.
So, with a tight smile, they took every snide comment, every misplaced hand, every slip of the wrap they wore around their chest just to sleep in a warm bed with a semi-full stomach.
Tonight had been no different, but as they tugged off the veil covering the lower half of their face and horns, they knew something was wrong. It was too still in the usual drunkard-infested streets, as if everyone, including the typical night thugs, knew something Razielle didn't and were keeping well away.

Then, there was that sound. The ever-familiar scratch of a match against its striker, followed by the gentle whisper of a torch being lit. It was almost comforting to Razielle's fire affinity, being so close to the flame, if it weren't for the sudden roar of pounding footsteps coming in from every angle. Zealots. A lot of them. Far too many to fight off, even if Razielle had the guts to face them.

Raz's veils fluttered to the floor as they scrambled for footing up drainage pipes onto the slated rooftops, forcing legs to pump as he frantically searched for coverage, anything to lose their pursuers. They had half the thought to make a break for the wastelands to the east, knowing they'd have the skill set to out-survive the zealots for at least a few hours while they escaped, but then..there! There it was! Razielle felt a thrum in their blood before the treeline of the forest came into view below the glorious night sky. They could have cried out in delight if it weren't for the fear clutching and clawing at his throat as he was being chased. Losing speed as they picked their way back down onto the floor cost them dearly, letting the group get closer and closer still until he felt the press of heat at the back of their neck. Still, they ran, crashing through the tree line with a silent apology on every breath they raked into the still life around them as they brought in uninvited guests to its peace.

Raz risked a glance back, horrified to see the faces of their attackers garishly illuminated by the torches in their hands. They willed their body forward, stumbling down ditches and zig-zagging past trees, trying their best to focus on the nature around them, coaxing it to bend and stretch as they passed, anything to keep their attackers from gaining ground. It did little help, but Raz would be damned if they went down without a fighting chance.

Raz cleared a break-in wall of thorns with a messy wave of their hand, not even letting the gateway open fully before they pushed themselves through, ignoring the pain as they tore through the vines. Let the group get torn to shreds if it meant their life was spared. Through the wall of thorns, Raz could sense another presence of fire, small and dwindling but still fresh. They didn't get a chance to decide if going towards the dying fire was safe as the group had gained on them again and was close behind, now drawing swords and even guns. As skilled as Razielle was in magic, they had no chance to fight. So they pushed on past their exhaustion, past the want to stop and let their wolves devour them, pushed until they couldn't feel their legs, that was until he unceremoniously tripped on a tree root. Or at least that's what they assumed, blindly running through the dark clearing.

A strangled yelp escaped them as their body hit the ground hard, disorienting them and causing them to shrink in on themselves, fully expecting to be burned alive or shot to death or both in mere seconds. When neither or worse came, Razielle dared a peek up from their place on the ground, only to find a man standing a few paces off, a few Zealots on the ground already, bleeding from their heads. They glanced to their left, having felt a presence beside them, not to find the tree that tripped them but another man, thinner, longer than the first. Unnaturally, a spider like that immediately sent a shiver down Raz's back. Through the haze, they wondered if, in their chase, they had stumbled upon a band of other zealots. or perhaps something worse. Raz their hands into the Earth, grounding themselves to something familiar as the man a few paces off turned, his expression unreadable behind the mask, but his movements indicated the sort of confidence Raz had only seen a handful of times amongst the highest thieves and thugs at taverns and bars. Those, despite their lower standing in society, thought themselves the kings of the world. Only now, Raz might actually believe this man was.

Raz tipped his head up as the bird man approached, knowing he had no chance to run off, not without a whole other group chasing them. Raz tried to keep his gaze steady on the man, but it flickered to the bodies behind him, dropping one by one as more people came from the shadows and mercilessly whipped out his attackers. Raz briefly wondered if he had traded one wolf pack for another. "They never attacked first." Raz rasped out, nodding to the group, ignoring the bird man's compliment. Raz had heard more than enough from their clients to be desensitized. "They threaten, and they bride us out, but they've never attacked without warning." He claimed breathlessly, the adrenaline giving way to exhaustion as he collapsed back against the ground. At least they'd die in their sleep if they were going to die now.

(I'm so happy you like it!! I had a lot of fun writing it lol. Also, now's probably a good time to point out that you're more than welcome to write your own bandit extras into the story, if you'd like!!)

–

The bandit leader says nothing, watching the sorcerer's arms give out and their head fall to the dirt. There's no doubt in Ozzy's mind that they've passed out cold. Fleeing from certain death often seems to have that effect on people, and this one has run much farther than most.

He hums softly in consideration, the noise low in his throat, then stands in one fluid movement. Turning his head to view the carnage, he looks his men over for any visible sign of injury. He's pleased to note they all still seem to be in one piece.

Only one zealot remains alive, but Ozzy doesn't consider the man lucky for it. He's become a plaything, made to dance between the jabs of several swords as a circle of bandits around him snicker in amusement. The leader's eyes darken at the display.

“That’s enough,” he barks, shouldering past the huddle to face the lone survivor. There’s a look of cornered desperation in the zealot’s face that he is well acquainted with, and so he’s hardly surprised when the man swings his sword at his head.

He ducks, flicking his wrist and deflecting the second strike with the blade hidden in his sleeve. He steps into the man’s space and he flinches, dropping his sword and taking a step back.

Ozzy’s hand is faster. He pins the zealot to a tree by his throat, holding the dagger just below his eye.

“Answer me this,” he murmurs into the other’s ear, tightening his hold just enough to spook the man without stealing his means to speak. “What has this sorcerer done to warrant an unprovoked attack such as this?”

It’s common knowledge, after all, that only the greatest threats to society are treated with this degree of ferocity. There are protocols in place—or at least there were protocols—ensuring at the very least a sorcerer’s right to a trial. Whether this trial was a fair one, of course… Ozzy has his doubts.

Regardless, that doesn’t change the fact that this unfortunate bunch had been out for blood just now. Either this sorcerer was an unprecedented kind of threat, or other factors were at play.

Ozzy is inclined to believe the latter.

Sweat slides down the side of the zealot’s face, throat muscles working as he weighs the consequences of answering the bandit. Ozzy often considers himself a patient man, but right now he feels that patience begin to wear thin. The zealot seems to sense it, too, because he sputters out the words, “A client! One of the sorcerer’s clients tipped us off! She was convincing, offered us a fortune to get rid of it quietly. Didn't want her husband to know.”

Ozzy is less than impressed at the admission of greed. ‘So they’re a victim, after all,’ he concludes, lips pinching into a frown beneath the mask.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he says flatly. A flicker of hope enters the zealot’s gaze, naively expecting to trade information for mercy. It’s revolting to see the man’s blatant self-interest even in the face of his fallen comrades, and it gives him no regret to slit the man’s throat, faster than he can comprehend.

His eyes go wide with horror and panic, but Ozzy’s hand is clamped over his mouth to muffle the cry. He sinks to the ground with the dying man, and by the time his body is settled at the base of the tree, his spirit is gone.

It’s a quick death, perhaps quicker than a man like him deserves, but Ozzy prefers to save his judgement for more important matters.

There’s blood on his fingers now, which he wipes on the unruined cloth of the man’s shirt. He does the same with his dagger before tucking it back into his sleeve and standing once more.

His men watch him silently, parting for him when he walks back to where he left the sorcerer.

“Pick them clean and burn the bodies. We leave at dawn,” he informs, tapping at the nearest body with the toe of his shoe as he passes by.

“Bex,” he calls, and a woman melts out of the ranks of bandits to join him. She’s shorter than himself, with sand colored hair that looks silver in the lighting. Her hands tremble and her eyes flick between the trees, the image of nervousness, but Ozzy knows her well enough by now to realize the assumption is a deadly one.

Out of all the people in his camp currently, Bex is perhaps the one bandit Ozzy would hope never to cross. Her loyalty, however, is doubtless, and he has no such reservation calling upon her help now.

“Help me settle our latest acquisition, won’t you?” It’s not a request, not really, but if Bex is bothered by the order then she gives no indication of it. She nods, and Ozzy grabs the sorcerer's hands to pull them into an approximation of an upright seated position.

Besides him, Bex unravels the wrappings around her arm and hands them to Ozzy.

The lead bandit shifts, propping the unconscious sorcerer up with his knee as he secures their hands in front of them with the bandages. They're smudged with dirt, but otherwise clean. More importantly, they're unlikely to mar the sorcerer's wrists like the fibers of a rope would.

Bex leans in, then, lifting two fingers to their neck to check the pulse. “P-Pulse is even,” she confirms in her normal stutter, cadence calm and even beneath it.

“You can m…move them now. Take th-them to my ten-tent.”

Ozzy shrugs the sorcerer's bound hands over his neck, carrying them on his back to camp where the first round of returning bandits have managed to rekindle one of the fires.

He looks back once at Spyder and motions with his head to join the others. He would answer the man’s questions later—and there were questions, Ozzy could see them brimming behind those eyes. He would have to take care not to brush him off for too long, else they may spill out of his ears.

Bex parts the curtain of the tent for him and he dips his head through. The cloth brushes over the sorcerer’s head for a moment—then catches on something.

Ozzy’s brow furrows and he cranes his neck to better see. It’s impossible, carrying the sorcerer like this, so he backtracks.

It doesn’t help. The flap seems to have snagged his hair, somehow—

“C-Captain,” Bex interrupts his befuddled train of thought. He looks at her, and her eyes are wide with awe.

“They—they have horns.”

“What?”

Bex’s surprisingly deft hands make quick work of the snag, and Ozzy is even quicker in depositing the sorcerer on the nearby cot.

A lantern flickers to life, courtesy of the healer, and light floods the inside of the tent. And there they are—horns, nestled into the sorcerer’s nest of hair.

No wonder he hadn’t noticed them until now.

Unbidden, his fingertips reach for the protrusions on the sorcerer’s head, but freeze a few inches away.

There’s a frown on Ozzy’s face now, and slowly his hand returns to his side. “They must be the descendent of a clan. I wasn’t sure any still existed,” he muses.

In his years on earth, Ozzy has laid eyes on many sorcerers. None bore physical manifestations of their power in this manner, though plenty of tales existed of those who did. It was often whispered among mentions of sorcerer clans, those from a time when magic users ruled the world. Of course, that was before they were hunted to near extinction.

Truly, if this sorcerer is a descendant, it’s a miracle they’ve survived as long as they have.

“This changes nothing,” he says to Bex, louder now. “Check them for injuries, if you would. I’ll be just outside. Come get me when you’re done.”

“Yes, Captain.”

– (slight timeskip) –

An hour later, Ozzy sits beside the sorcerer’s cot. Bex had given them the clean bill of health, confirming their collapse was a product of exhaustion and no greater injury, and then she left to check over a few other scrapes and bruises within the camp.

The sorcerer's hands remain tied, but loose enough and bound at the front to avoid any…unnecessary discomfort.

Now Ozzy waits, carving a piece of wood with the sharp edge of a knife. The hobby is a recent development—idle hands, and all that—and he begrudgingly admits he’s not very skilled with it, yet. After nicking his fingertips one too many times, he grunts with frustration and tosses the knife and the piece of wood onto the stand to his left.

The sorcerer stirs, and Ozzy’s eyes snap to the noise in an instant. His mask gleams in the warm glow of the lantern, still perched upon his face from the earlier altercation.

"How nice of you to join me," he says innocently. "Did you sleep well?"

(I was wondering about that! Perfect! I think I have someone that'll work with the group!)

Firefly landed softly beside a Zealot and without hesitation cracked the butt of his dagger across the back of the unsuspecting attacker, catching the man before he crumpled to the ground and slit his throat with a practiced swiftness unbecoming of a young man of his former status.
"Status be damned if this how it's used." He shoved the dead body off of himself and straightened his jacket before finding a new target.

One of the newest members to Ozzy's ragtag band of thieves was Chel "Firefly" Lee, former son of Lord Okai Lee, a well-standing lord amongst the court with a reputation just waiting to be broken. Thankfully, Chel was the son to do just that. Just freshly 20 and finally out of his parents' control, Chel took that freedom in strides, visiting every bar, brothel, and fight ring that would let him inside and even those that wouldn't. He loved the city in a way his parents never could understand. He loved the ugly and the unapologetically undignified way the town came to life when it thought no one was watching. He loved it even more at night when he could partake in its mischief.

That was until, of all people, his father caught him sneaking back into the estate, stupidly drunk, stupidly loud, and possibly the most stupidly, with a woman or a man (he honestly couldn't remember) latched onto his side like a parasite. Chel didn't remember much of that night other than the vague but continuous strike of his father's whip against this body. He didn't know where his partner had gone or if they even had survived that night. A lot of things were beneath Okai Lee, but apparently not murder and definitely of his son.

"You are a disgrace to the Lee family! You are a worthless son! You deserve to die."

Chel couldn't remember much, but he could remember each and every one of his father's insults ringing in his ears. Especially the last one. Okai hadn't said it yelling or with the same rage as the others. It was a matter of fact. Quiet, simple, punctuated only by the slight realization and then the continuation of the whip being cracked over his skin, again and again. Chel had stopped fighting long ago as he lay limp on the marble floor, its coolness his only comfort. He lay there as he watched his mother come in, stand very still, almost bored or relieved he couldn't tell, then slowly float over to his father and pull him away. His mother had always been like that, more ghost in his life than real, though he supposed he owed her for this one small grace.

By the end of the night, Chel was out on the streets, as half-naked as he had come into the estate, bleeding from every welt and tear in his skin. Barely alive, barely wanting to be alive. It wasn't until later he realized this had been a long time coming, and his father was probably only looking for one slip-up to kick Chel out of the family. But by then, he had found his place amongst Ozzy's men, doing what he could to prove himself the complete opposite of his father's claim and, for the first few months, not get killed.

He didn't know how he had gotten a nickname longer than his actual name, but he didn't mind it after a while, and it was a good cover for when they needed to go out into the city on the rare occasion. The less people knew his name, the better. When he first stumbled into camp, he was caught sneaking around by Spyder, the man Chel once (and sort of still does) feared with all his life, not only because of his odd looks but also because the unnatural stealth of the man was unnerving. It was die or be put to work. Having never worked a day in his damned life but not particularly at the point of wanting to die, Chel took up the former offer. He started with doing miscellaneous tasks, cleaning around the camp, collecting provisions, and even sneaking out into the city for intell when he proved trustworthy enough.

The first time he trained with anyone was with Bex, seemingly the least scary person here, but Chel knew better than to mess with the healer. There had been one too many times where he had found gentian flower in his food or drinks and had thrown up for nights on end just for pissing her off. But trial and mostly error, mostly on his part, unfortunately, had given him enough of a well-balanced understanding of medicine, at least enough to help Bex around camp without worrying about killing anyone. On his days off or when Bex didn't need him as much, he followed people around, wanting to learn how to fight or at least defend himself in the case of an unsuspecting attack. While Chel would argue against it if asked, he mostly stuck close to Spyder, the man who both terrified him and fascinated him. He wanted to learn how to move, not only in the shadows but become one completely. It had been around then when the name "firefly" had caught on.

"Careful with that one, you'll get caught in his web, young firefly." The others would tease, but if Spyder heard or noticed, Chel couldn't tell. Training had consumed the better part of three years, learning all he could of weapons and combat from the people around him and slowly building an unconventional life for himself as a member of Ozzy's group, young and nobleblooded as he might be.

Seeing no one else moving after making a few rounds, Chel made his way back to the camp, determined to help Bex with the injured as soon as possible.

"Any injured? I saw they had guns." Chel greeted as he parted the curtain to Bex's makeshift infirmary and looked around for the healer. He had been too distracted running through the list of weapons and possibly injuries that could have been inflicted on their side to notice that Bex wasn't in the room and, more importantly, that Ozzy was, with a visitor at that.

"C-captain." chel greeted in surprise, immediately scanning Ozzy over for any injuries, though he doubted Bex would leave their captain alone if he had been severely injured, much less if Chel cared for him in her absense. He swallowed thickly, still nervous around the head of their group, even after three years. There was something about Ozzy that set Chel off, even more than Spyder, that he couldn't quite place.

"I-I was just looking for Bex. I was wondering if she needed help with the injured." He explained, gaze focusing on the person, the sorcerer beside Ozzy. Chel had never seen a sorcerer, but growing up in a country that feared them and made them out to be a little boy's worst nightmare was enough to get a good picture in an impressionable young mind of what to avoid, even if it was all wrong. Chel clenched his jaw, taking a step back as the Sorcerer began to stir. While Raz looked nothing like the depictions in the bedtime stories and legends he was told as a boy; he still didn't fully trust Raz not to be a dangerous being. "I-I'll leave you two then."
____

Herbs, most strongly, their beloved yarrow. Razielle hadn't expected to smell the pungent herb ever again, especially not in death. Perhaps they had finally reached Elysium and were granted peace. He shifted slightly, wanting to sit up and see the heaven they were brought to. Instead, all they got was all the pain from the Underworld shooting up his side. He hissed, burying his face against the pillow at his head until the pain subsided. Tentatively reaching his side, Raz found more bandages than they normally wore, covering their torso. He pried his eyes open, grateful to be in a dimly lit area. Where he was, he didn't know or particularly care, considering he was on a bed and surrounded by herbs. He was alive and seemingly safe…well, as safe as he could be, considering the man with the bird mask was still here, now seated at the edge of the cot.

Raz studied the man for a few moments, unblinking eyes taking in the way he sat, the stillness of his position until he turned to Raz, the way he tipped his head as if somewhere in him was the bird he tributed to the mask. Raz wet his palette for a moment, mouth incredibly dry from the chase and exhaustion. He wearily looked around for a moment before curling his legs to him, still aware that the danger might not have passed.

Raz focused back on the bird man, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. "Do I have you to thank for this?" He asked, immediately regretting the bite in his voice as he gestured down to their now-healing injuries. Something in him tolm him he didn't want to anger the bird man. After all, with a few words, he and his men were able to annihilate the Zealots. He cleared his throat and nodded his head towards the outside. "Thank you," he tried more gently "Whether you did it for me or, most likely, the safety of your troop, thank you for helping me escape and healing me." It was rare when anyone came to Raz's help, even rarer, they stayed in their presence long enough to talk. They would take the small kindness where they could get it.