The peace that formerly reigned in Terra Nova has eroded, now little more than a memory. War ravages the continent. Disputes divide kingdoms; ideals divide families. The quest for power consumes absolutely and indiscriminately. None are immune to its allure.
Who will rise and who will fall? Only time—and ambition—will tell.
UPDATES
05.26.2023
2 month character creation hold for all existing members begins 6/5/2023. Ended 8/5/2023.
10.29.2023
Change in how times flows. Was 4 IC seasons, now only 2 IC seasons per 1 OOC year.
5 whole years of Heir Apparent goodness! When I started the site, I knew I was hunkering down for the long haul, but I never could have predicted the numerous twists and turns this roleplay site has seen. Hundreds of plots, characters, and members have come and gone, all leaving marks on the site. I am so very thankful for those who have invested. Because you keep coming back, keep getting on, and keep writing, Heir Apparent has the legacy it does today. Three cheers to us!
Promptly at the same time each night, Mosse stepped into the tavern, got a mug of ale and sat at his usual table in the corner. From that perfect angle, he could see everyone in the room without moving his head. His peripheral vision caught any movement and it made him feel a bit more safe. It wasn't that he was a heavy drinker, it was more that he needed to fill the hours away from the barracks. Standing on the outside of the close-knit group just made him feel more lonely every time they laughed at an inside joke. Instead of dwelling on his isolation, he went to the Sour Sailboat, had two or three drinks and unwound from his duties. At least he could stretch out his long legs under the table, allowing himself to slouch to his full height. He was out of the uniform he took very seriously so he at least could relax here.
No one really saw him for the crowd, which was a very nice change from being among the tallest of the soliders, feeling each eye on every move and under the microscope of any superior officer that happened by. The barracks weren't small per se, but for a large guy like Mosse, just being able to physically stretch out and relax out of uniform was becoming more necessary with each passing day. The young man knew he put the pressure on himself, but he also found that the need to mentally step out of uniform was just as urgent.
He took a swig of the ale and continued to silently watch the people around him, content in his anonymity of the dimly lit tavern that was half full of people not paying the slightest bit of attention to him at all. At least Mosse could let his guard down for a couple hours and---was that Ber walking in the door?
Last Edit: Jan 22, 2023 13:07:10 GMT -5 by Deleted
In an impromptu decision to escape the castle and the sudden influx of new and returning soldiers that made it seem smaller and more crowded than ever, Ber had meandered his way from the barracks to the tavern in the city. Drinking was more fun with friends than alone, but he was more interested in the change of scenery than anything else - and on a random evening, the tavern probably wouldn’t be too busy, right?
When Ber pushed open the door and stepped inside the dimly-lit establishment, he found it more crowded than expected. Clusters of people sat scattered around at the various tables, spread out enough to effectively claim them all despite each table still having many empty seats, and the soldier let out a quiet sigh as he made his way up to the bar. After a quick exchange, he found himself with a mug of ale and turned to see if he could find somewhere to sit so he wouldn’t end up standing in the corner like a creep. By chance, his gaze landed on a familiar face from the training yard, though he knew Mosse more by reputation than a significant amount of personal interaction.
Still, sharing a table with a somewhat familiar stranger was better than a complete stranger. At the very least, they could probably manage to sit in silence and pretend the other person wasn’t there. Mug in hand, Ber wove his way between the tables to the one in the corner and raised it slightly to greet the other soldier as he arrived. “Mind if I join?” He asked. “Don’t know anyone else here.” Not that he really knew Mosse, either.
Mosse watched Ber look around the room and almost smiled. There was nowhere for him to sit, so maybe he'd leave? Otherwise the guy would have to lurk somewhere in a corner looking like he was about to start trouble. He didn't really know the guy much, only that Ber had a blatantly insubordinate attitude toward the Lieutentant in the training yard. It was just enough of an impression to make him not seek out the guy. He wasn't the volunteering type either. The soldier did just enough to get by, but it was clearly not something he enjoyed in the least. Which was the polar opposite of himself in every way. Ambivalence in the military could lead to injuries or worse. In Mosse's book, Ber wasn't someone you could rely on to have your back when things got tough. The only dependable thing he knew about the guy was that he hated authority in any form.
Lost in his own thoughts and assuming that the guy had left, the dark haired man was suddenly right in front of him and talking! Mosse looked over and nodded to Ber to have a seat but he merely shifted his long legs to the side. He'd come here to relax, he was out of uniform, out of the barracks and he was going to stay relaxed until he was good and ready to move. He put his chin down subconciously, not even realizing it was his stubborn streak showing through. Sudden company or not, Mosse needed this time to be calm or he'd lose his mind at the crowded barracks and constant pressure to be on guard.
"Hm.. not sure we could really say we know each other either all that well." he answered quietly, taking another swig of ale. Mosse twirled the mug around in his large hands and stayed slouched against the seat with his his very long legs stretched far under the table. It was the direct opposite of how he was viewed by his fellow soldiers, but right now, he didn't really care. It was his time.
“Nope,” Ber agreed, sitting down at the table when he was invited but giving the other soldier his space all the same. “But I know your name, and that’s more than I can say for any of the others.” He set his mug on the table before him and made to settle back himself when Mosse’s legs got in the way of his own. Reflexively, he retracted his own and took a sip of his drink as he cast his gaze about the room again. Whatever.
Mosse would hardly have been his first choice for company. A few years older than himself, the man was more established as a soldier and had the sort of pristine reputation that made Ber tired just thinking about it. A try-hard like Sliva, which was objectively fine, except all work and no play made for a very tedious individual. Uptight and never one to crack a smile, Mosse was like a little Woodwick in the making. Ber was reminded suddenly of a painful meal in a different tavern.
Maybe it would have been better to sit with a complete stranger instead.
But he was here now, and who knew, maybe Mosse would be better company than Woodwick. They were both soldiers, at least, and of a similar age. Commoners as well, though such similarities were no guarantee of amicability. Ber glanced to the side, swirling his cup. “So,” He began. “Rumor has it war in Dresmond’s on the horizon.” Nothing had been officially confirmed, but there were only so many conclusions that could be drawn when large numbers of troops were suddenly called home and there was a concerted effort in recruiting. It also helped that he was friends with one of the Dresmondi who had requested aid from Nevermere, but as far as he could tell, no one had really noticed that. “Ever been sent anywhere outside of Nevermere before?”
Ber was actually looking and sounding... agreeable. Mosse flicked a glance over at him and reallized he was scrunching him up rudely. With a long standing patient sigh, he drew up his legs to give the guy at least his fair share of room. He opted instead to slouch his long frame ove the table and stopped fiddling with the mug.
"Good point." he agreed easily, his dark eyes still watching the other soldier. The guy wasn't bad as a fighter at all. He was actually pretty good at combat and sparring. But he knew that if Ber actually tried, he could be not just pretty good, but great. He had all the potential in the world to easily make rank with his obvious intelligence-the guy was far from stupid. He just also happened to be overly quick to take even the slightest offense, judging by the instant attitude chip on his shoulders when Mosse hadn't immediately accomodated him. Impatient guy. Bear was a good homonym for him.
They sat in what Mosse thought was a comfortable silence where neither felt the need to chat for no reason, and he was glad for it. He leaned his arms and elbows heavily across the table, allowing himself to take advantage of the space. It wasn't a posture, demeanor or attitude he allowed himself back with the other troops, but at an anonymous tavern, he gave himself the small luxury of not having to control every single tiny movement or gesture.
Ber's comment didn't surprise him as that seemed to be all everyone was talking about right now. He nodded slowly and brought his eyes back over to the soldier.
"Yeah it's pretty hard to ignore. If I hear one more guy or girl bragging about the renewal bonus, I'm gonna hurl. I swear if we blink, there's five more people in the training yard. You can practically smell war brewing. But what really makes me worry is exactly WHY things are brewing...What's your pet theory on it?" Mosse commeted, knowing he couldn't possibly be the only one among them that was thinking along those lines.
He emptied his mug and then shook his head at Ber's question. "Only Nevermere. You?"
Last Edit: Jan 23, 2023 14:36:51 GMT -5 by Deleted
One difference, Ber noted idly as he took another swig of ale, between Mosse and Woodwick was that the former clearly remembered how to relax. Wherein the lieutenant had sat in the booth like he’d had a stick shoved up where the sun didn’t shine, the soldier had practically draped himself across the table, which was probably understandable given that he was considerably taller than the younger man. Still, maybe Mosse wasn’t quite as much like a miniature Woodwick as Ber had initially thought.
Having come from nothing himself, Ber keenly understood the elation that came from having that extra coin in his pocket. He didn’t brag about it, but he could see why others might feel the desire to. It wasn’t every day that one became the owner of a small fortune, after all. Instead, he let that comment go and moved on to the next. “They’re really packing as many of us into the training yard as they can,” He observed, not quite complaining but not overly thrilled about it either. Another swallow of ale. “Why we’re going to war?” He glanced over at Mosse. “Dresmond asked us to help, didn’t they?” The words were accompanied by a shrug. What other reason did they need?
But maybe it was only so straightforward for him because he regularly spoke with Zevran. With all matters pertaining to Dresmond, concrete knowledge had replaced rumor. “The Eldouir have conquered Dresmond and treat the people there like animals,” He explained, summarizing the situation as best he could. “Worse than animals, really. That pair of Dresmondi that showed up a few seasons back came to ask for help with fighting off the Eldouir.” Mosse would’ve heard tale of their arrival, even if he hadn’t known anything else. Ber shrugged again. “Seems like the king decided to provide it.”
When the other soldier returned the question, it was Ber’s turn to shake his head. “Same. Only been around Nevermere.” A brief pause. “Though if we’re going to war, I guess that might change.”
He listened closely as the guy across from him deftly avoided a response on the money. His mother was from an upper/middle class family and had scolded him savagely if he brought up money in public like that. And his father taught him that to mention a sudden windfall of extra money would open you up to a swift mugging.
Psychologically though, he thought the military had done a smart thing to let soldiers gossip about large amounts of money to sweeten the pot and recruit three times as many new bodies in the barracks as quickly as possible. Well, if they wanted to attract money minded people to the ranks, then they'd succeeded wildly-the place was getting packed!
Tor had chosen his words carefully so he tried not to show too much surprise at Ber's wording in his answer. The guy had answered the direct question, and the unasked questions that went with it. He had a sharp mind that would make him an excellent advisor or detective at the very least. Tor's esteem for Ber went up another notch as the man was clearly no fool.
Othello's presence alone was a stark and ugly reminder of the real lack of humanity behind the surface politics. Treating people as nothing more than mere chattel really angered him and Tor personally felt that it was the real reason that countries did and should go to war for. If you had to die in battle, let it be for a cause you wholeheartedly agreed with; and he did. The tall man nodded affirmatively to Ber's comments and felt that at least one other soldier knew that this issue was far bigger than just a vague 'the king said so,' reason to die for their kingdom.
"Yep."
When the other soldier responded candidly to his casual return question with no hesitation, Tor decided he would accept the man for who he was. If nothing else, he was honest. Even if he didn't agree or didn't like someone, he wasn't a liar and that, in his personal opinion, was a good standard. He looked down at his empty mug,
"Refills on me sound good?" He asked, his dark eyes on Ber.
Last Edit: Jan 24, 2023 14:06:24 GMT -5 by Deleted
Mosse seemed happy enough with his explanation of the affairs in Dresmond, and given that he had Zevran to whom he could direct questions rather than other Nevermereans, Ber felt no need to ask the other soldier what his theory was. How knowledge of their motivations for going to war in behalf of another kingdom made him feel, the younger soldier couldn’t tell, but he knew that Zevran had made a habit of telling everyone who would listen about his peoples’ plight. The soldier figured he’d might as well help his friend spread the information where he could.
In the brief silence that followed, Ber down the remainder of his ale and was content to sit quietly and watch the other people in the tavern when Mosse spoke up again. Dark eyes flicked back over to the other man. “Sure,” He said, never one to turn down an offer of free drinks. “Would be much appreciated, thanks.”
Torsten drew himself up to rise from the chair, scooping up their mugs and headed to the bar with a long lazy stride. He was finally feeling comfortable for his doubts to creep back in to the forefront of his mind.
"Two ales please." he ordered in a quiet voice.
A drunk man lurched into him suddenly and he put down a large, deft hand on his shoulder to silently turn him in the opposite direction. 'I'm not in uniform, it's my time and I'm not dealing with the likes of that.' he thought firmly.
Tor grabbed up the drinks and returned to the table, setting one in front of his companion.
The worries returned in full force. That he would surely die as an overgrown errand boy for a powerful witch during the heat of battle was a very strong and unpalatable probability. Cannon fodder? Most likely. Fetching crap for a magic user to fight the real defense? A very distinct likelihood. He could give up eating and sleeping, but his sword training and mere human muscle wouldn't stand a chance against someone who could blast you to pieces from a hundred yards away. Who brings a sword to a spell fight? Apparently himself.
Torsten had no idea that his concerns were showing on his features. This was his 'be himself' time and he'd always let his walls down to let go the day's stresses. His worried gaze went to Ber and he observed his mien. The guy didn't seem to have a real care in the world. Did he plan anything? He seemed like he just took things as they happened in stride and simply reacted in the moment. Maybe in the impending war, Ber had the best attitude for a soldier. Tor tried to find a way to voice his concerns but the best he could verbalize was,
"How many of our unpaired male soldiers do you think will die in the impending battle? I'm thinking the gender population skew will be devastating afterwards."
Another stray worry popped up and he also asked,
"Why do you think they're bribing unpaired soldiers to hurry and join, when it's the witches that are most needed for this? It doesn't make sense to me."
Last Edit: Jan 24, 2023 16:31:02 GMT -5 by Deleted
Mosse returned with the drinks, and Ber raised his in a silent toast to the man before taking a swig. The other soldier seemed content to sit in companionable silence, which Ber appreciated, so he turned his attention back toward the other occupants in the tavern. Dark eyes landed on the drunk man who had stumbled into Mosse and was now staggering around the tavern, entirely too incoherent for this time of night. He wondered idly if the drunkard would make a nuisance of himself and need to be removed from the premises, which would be quite unfortunate for the tavern because that was very much not Ber’s problem - even if rousting rowdy customers from the bottom of their tankards was not an unusual occurrence for those who had been assigned a patrol after dark.
The weight of Mosse’s gaze on the side of his face had the soldier glancing back toward his table buddy, who now seemed slightly uneasy for some reason. Ber’s brow furrowed slightly, and he cast a quick glance around the tavern to confirm that nothing seemed odd or out of place. When Mosse spoke, he understood. With war came death, and death was never fun to think about, which was why Ber never thought too long or hard about it. “Probably a lot,” He said, shrugging. “The Dresmondi have these animals that they share a soul with - they’re called dyrs - and they can control all sorts of elements.” He remembered the despair he’d felt when he’d first started sparring with Zevran and been so easily defeated once his fox dyr, Rune, had blinded him with her magic. “And the Eldouir…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged again. There were all sorts of stories about the redheaded family’s capabilities, and though Ber had no idea where to start picking fact from fiction, he knew they were powerful. Either way, both the Dresmondi and Eldouir magic would be unfamiliar. “Yeah,” He reiterated, taking a sip of his ale. “Probably a lot.”
But not Ber. Ber had been fighting for his entire life. He knew how to survive.
Skewed gender distributions weren’t something he’d ever considered before now. Witches had magic that they didn’t, which made them more powerful, but they were still just as vulnerable to a sharp blade as Ber and Mosse were. And it wasn’t like they would be any more familiar with the forces they would be fighting against than their male counterparts. There were many witches who froze when first faced with danger, and that was as dangerous as not having any magic at all. “Maybe, but I think a lot of witches will die, too,” was what he said to that, shrugging again.
The follow-up question had him taking another sip of his ale, and privately, he wondered if Mosse was only now reckoning with the fact that their chosen career was one that would very likely prevent them from growing old. “I think they’re taking everyone they can get,” He said earnestly. “We’re all unpaired because we don’t have the experience to be paired, but it’s also a numbers game, isn’t it? Bigger armies stand a better chance of winning.”
Taking another person into his full confidence was a new and unusal experience for Mosse. Normally when he'd take each night to think over the day's events, second thoughts, misgivings, worries or self-recrimination, it was always in solitude. He was taking a chancy step in sharing some of those thoughts with an acquaintance. Mosse got the impression that he was coming across as a flake but wasn't sure how to explain it. He absently drank his ale and then looked Ber in the eyes.
"I save up all my daytime worries, misgivings, doubts, second thoughts, wild theories and process it all at night. This habit allows me to put in my best during the day and focus purely on the tasks at hand. I've never really shared that with anyone else before." he confessed, feeling a bit ashamed of blurting out too much to a virtual unknown entity. Ber had joined him during his nightly mental debriefing so it was all just a matter of chance. But he wasn't one to run from his problems so he addressed it head on. Setting down the mug, he continued on.
"it's not that I don't expect death in an upcoming battle or war. I know it's normal and should be faced as an eventuality. I guess I kind of wandered off into making it more existential and remove the personal part. The group unity part is what I thrive on as a soldier, and it keeps me centered during the day. But at night, time to wind down and let my thoughts roam, and my body relax, is a whole other process. Do you know what I mean?"
Rumors and magic were so unspecified that all they did was raise concern that he didn't really have much for solid facts to go on in those subjects.
"I don't really know anything much about the Eldouir or hardly anything about magic. I'm just another soldier with a weapon, in a vast new army." he paused and drank down some more ale. "I mean damn-- you've seen Othello around right?! There's so much to unpack with just his mere presence..."
The tall soldier looked down at his mug, twirling it in a large hand and felt stupid. Ber had walked in on his downtime and was probably thinking Mosse was a lunatic for his random worries and thoughts. But it was how he unwound from the day's stresses and was able to maintain a hundred percent physical and mental effort into each day's tasks and training with total concentration.
The witch comment from Ber had him nodding in agreement.
"Death would only be a tragedy if it didn't happen to everyone."
It was strange to have someone to finally voice his doubts to, but it was helpful too. But it wasn't exactly something he planned on making a habit of either. He listened to the guy talk, and the conviction of his tone was even more reassuring than his words.
"Yes we definitely have the numbers now don't we? I don't think the army has ever been this vast in the history of Nevermere!" Mosse almost smirked at his own comment and added one last thing.
"Feel free to tell me to just shut up right now if you want to."
Last Edit: Jan 25, 2023 15:13:09 GMT -5 by Deleted
For better or worse, Ber made a habit of not thinking too deeply about a lot of life, particularly the parts of it that worried him or made him unhappy. There was so little he could change about almost everything that he saw no point to thinking that deeply about any of it at all, lest he get caught up in hypotheticals of a future that he couldn’t control. Mosse, by his own admission, had a different perspective, and the younger man only met his words with a shrug. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” He said, genuinely indifferent as to how the other soldier coped with life as long as he didn’t expect Ber to hold his hand and reassure him that everything would be okay. “I can head out if you’d rather be alone.”
However, Mosse appeared to not mind the company, so Ber leaned back and silently drank his ale as he listened to the other soldier work through his thoughts on the matters of death and magic and death on the receiving end of magic. Feeling like he was probably not the insightful conversation partner Mosse probably wanted him to be, Ber scratched his head and offered another shrug. “I don’t really think about it all that much,” He admitted honestly. “War. Magic. Not like you do. I know it won’t be an easy fight, but there’s only so much we can do to prepare.” Another shrug, followed by a swallow of ale. “And we’re doing it, aren’t we? Getting more soldiers, training harder—“ which categorically sucked“—Othello, too. Says he’s the Champion of Nevermere, whatever that means, but I bet he’ll be fighting, too.”
The gifted man would definitely be fighting, if only because there was no way he would allow himself to be left out of a battle like this.
“At some point, though, we’ll be on the battlefield, and what we do there, in the heat of the moment, has more of an impact on our survival than any preparation that may or may not have happened beforehand.” Like the man sitting with him, Ber had never fought in a war before. He didn’t have the frame of reference to comprehend the brutality of war in all its entirety, but he was familiar with fighting, whether it was brawls between street rats for limited resources or sparring with other soldiers or taking down some civilian as a part of his job. That was the experience he pulled on to make his claim. If Ber trusted one thing to get him through this war, it would be his instincts.
Mosse seemed more heartened at the thought of how large the army had grown. “It’s probably the biggest it’s ever been,” Ber agreed, though he had little with which to verify his suspicion. Word of mouth, perhaps, for whatever that was worth. “Certainly makes the military wing feel small. And you’re fine. I don’t mind the conversation.”
The tall soldier relaxed into his slouch and was glad that Ber didn't mind his thoughts out loud. Five days a week, he put his heart, body and mind into training and working. Not everyone took service as seriously as he did and Tor didn't mind that. But he did need to unwind a little more each night, now that things were so crowded back at the barracks. He didn't know Ber all that well personally, but just hanging out at the tavern together was fine by him.
"I think we're as prepared as we could ever hope to be for whatever's about to happen. Although, I do wonder about Othello, personally. You remember when we were camping? He had to ask permission for things and it really made me glad to be born in a place like Nevermere. We're damn lucky that we-"
Tor didn't get to finish the sentence as a group of four very drunk brothers started arguing loudly and shoving hard at each other. They were nearly all the same height, with greasy brown hair and the same muscular, solid build on all four of them, so the resemblance was easy to spot. The insults got worse and none of them sounded sober in the least.
"And I saw ya with my Agnes yesterday and you can't deny it!" he accused angrily. "It wasn't me!" denied the second brother. "Was too!" he retorted. "I saw him with her, I swear!" the third one denied quickly. "I'd never take your girl, she's ugly!" the fourth one insulted with a laugh. "THAT'S IT!"
The shorter guy shoved the taller one hard, smacking him directly against Ber and Tor's table, forcing them to get out of the way, join in the fight or get squashed between the four brawling men and the wall. Both glasses smashed and ale splattered everywhere, sparing no one.
As Mosse passed his judgement on the level and quality of preparation for the unofficial-official war, Ber downed more of the ale and pointedly did not think too long or hard about how easy it was for Zevran to incapacitate him with his magic during their spars. He did not think about how easily an entire army, regardless of size, could be bested when its soldiers could no longer see. With their primary sense cut off, they became easy targets, unable to truly fight or defend themselves; even after a season of practicing regularly with the Dresmondi and his dyr, Ber still felt like he relied on luck more than skill when the little fox used her control of darkness to blind him.
A fight in this relatively well-lit tavern, however, he could handle - even if he didn’t want to. The table jolted as the taller brother collided with it, and Ber watched as his glass of ale, which he’d only just returned to the table’s surface after nursing it for an extended period of time, was wasted on wood, fabric, and stone. Immediately irritated, he straightened up in his seat. “Hey!” When that, unsurprisingly, did not garner the reaction he sought, the street rat stood up. He was not on shift, which meant he was not in the mood to play soldier and mediate a fight that was none of his business to begin with. Ber moved to grab the arm of the shorter man who had shoved the tall one into the table, and if he succeeded, he would try to yank him away from his brothers. “We were sitting there, dumbass,” He growled pointedly. “Take it outside before you ruin someone else’s conversation.”
Two of the brothers were outright brawling on the table now, Ber's shout going entirely unheard and unheeded in the ruckus. Brothers 3 and 4 cheered on each of them shouting to one or the other and fully encouraging to further heights by their ribald comments.
With the first brother caught totally off guard to anything but his brother, Ber deftly seized the shorter man's arm neatly and managed to steer him over a couple of steps to the side. Fortunately, the young soldier made it the barest distance out of the way before the second one, the tallest of the brothers, just missed Ber by an hair. The impetus had the second brother sprawling himself and his not inconsiderable weight across the table in a failed attempt at a spring attack at Ber. Tor was caught in the stomach by the table and the weight of the guy on it, effectively pinning Tor's midsection in a vise grip against the wall.
Turning at the sudden noise, the shorter man slammed his head quickly backward, aiming at Ber's face behind him so he could free himself. He was a couple inches shorter and ended up catching the soldier in the chin and mouth with a loud THACK!
"So you're mister tough guy eh kiddo? How tough are ya against me and my brothers kid?!" he shouted, putting up both hands into large fists and started swinging wildly away at him. He might have been the shortest of the brothers but he clearly had the most weight and looked older. Sweating heavily, the alcohol fumes rolled off of him in waves and he weaved on his feet as he slurred his words.