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!
With Regan having given her permission, and her stipulations, Warren wanted only to add one thing: "Make sure you go in opposite directions, and don't aim toward the camp, please. I'd prefer no one mistake the others for big game or make this a friendly fire situation." As the sun began to go down, the groups would have a harder time seeing. This might have seemed obvious to others, but you never knew what you might have to remind the younger soldiers. Once the group had run along to compete against each other, Warren pulled the lid from his own flask and took a quick drink from it. He frowned. It was the cheap stuff, but what did he really expect?
"I'm sure your champion has plenty of experience in the hunt," he commented, looking over at her. "But I'll place my bets on the other group. I'd like to see him and Ms. Sliva try carrying three packs a piece." He offered her a trial of the flask that had been hidden away in his pack, and then settled his attention on the groups as they formulated their plans and gathered their gear to head out into the woods.
[ For @warren ]
No firing in the direction of the camp. Yeah, that probably went without saying, but it was a good thing to have on record. Regan watched her gifted pupil trudge away, looking mammoth-sized next to Zarha. She couldn’t help but smirk at the difference.
“I dunno,” Regan returned her attention to Warren, a sly grin on her face, “If there was ever a man built to be a pack mule, it’s Othello. So if we’re placing bets…you’re on.” She took another swig of her flask, warmth rising in her cheeks from the liquor.
“What should we wager?”
Last Edit: Feb 1, 2023 20:12:41 GMT -5 by Regan Lassiter
Warren watched her take another drink, his eyes alone following the up and down motion of it. He was somewhere between amused and concerned but he wouldn't judge her for needing the kind of break only booze could offer. Instead, he return the cap to his flash. With it open, he knew he'd drink it far too quickly.
"Good question," he rubbed his hands together, thinking for a moment with his eyes on the fire. "A copper per bird caught by the winning team? A silver?" He looked back at her, assuming money would be the easiest wager. "Or a bottle of something better than...whatever this is," he said, looking down at the flask in his hands.
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 2, 2023 19:25:15 GMT -5
Regan’s looked up at Warren with hazy eyes and a drunken, lopsided smile. She tilted her head, eyes flickering over him as if she was just noticing him for the first time. It would be faint but perhaps he’d see it: a thread-thin flash of amber veins in her dark eyes.
“Something better than the cheap stuff…and…” Regan grinned, sparkling with mischief, “I’ll drink it while I watch you polish my boots.” For Regan was winning. That was for sure.
He turned his gaze back from the flask just in time to see the color light up her eyes. He'd thought this before, but it reminded him of the way a lightning strike pierces the night sky. Now he wondered if it was something she could control, something done in reaction, or some combination of both. Was she even aware that it happened? If the two hadn't conversed as many times as they had now, he might have convinced himself he was seeing things. He knew better by now, though.
"You'll drink the whole bottle?" He chuckled, the quiet laugh followed by a sideways lull of his head. "I may be nobility, Ms. Lassiter, but it doesn't take me quite that long to shine a pair of boots." He reached out, taking her flask from her and swishing it around a little to see how much was left, before handing it back to her. "Or perhaps you just drink that quickly? Either way, I'll accept that deal."
He re-opened his own flask, took another sip from it, and once more closed it.
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 3, 2023 12:01:21 GMT -5
Regan’s smile broadened. She liked his laugh. There was a rusty quality to it as if it had suffered from disuse, which only made it all the more appealing. And with the warm whiskey feeding the burning hellwolf fire her chest, it was very appealing indeed.
As if to prove ner point, Regan polished off what was left in her flask before emerging with a wicked grin. “Guess we’re gonna find out,” Regan taunted him, “Cause I like my boots awful shiny.” She tucked her empty flask back in her coat, leaning back on her elbows with a sigh as she gazed into the fire. She looked at it longingly, as if she wanted to crawl inside the ring and curl up in the center.
He watched her finish off what was left of her flask, and thought to offer her what remained in his. It was still half-full, and his hand had even crossed his knee to offer it, but instead it lingered there, and then he pulled it back. He'd hand it over if she asked, but he didn't want to outright encourage her to dive any deeper. She was clearly feeling good enough.
But the smirk remained across his face, all the same. It had been a long while since he'd sat with someone over a drink, someone he was comfortable with. "That so?" He ran his right hand through his thick, dark hair, fingers shuffling it about a little. "Then I guess I'll have to take my time. Wouldn't want to miss any spots."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 4, 2023 10:00:53 GMT -5
Goddesses, how she wanted to burn.
Regan snorted with a single laugh, managing to drag her eyes away from the fire as Warren mussed his hair. “Take all the time you like.”
She considered him for a moment with a mischievous glint in her eye. Regan had quite decided what to make of Warren Woodwick. He didn’t seem a sharer—and neither was Regan the type—but a little whiskey does wonders when it comes to conversation.
“So what do you think?” Regan asked, turning fully on her side and propping up on an elbow so she wouldn’t be tempted by the fire, “You think we’re ready for war?”
Her voice was soft enough that eavesdroppers would have a hard time listening in. Not that any where too eager to get near their superior officers if they didn’t have to.
He shook his head somewhat, turning the flask over in his fingers and looking down at it, breathy laughs escaping his nose. In the silence the fire crackled and popped and he thought regarded the slight tingling feeling in his head as dangerous.
Her question pulled his attention back to her face as she made herself comfortable, and for moment he looked at her, though he wasn't looking at her. He was considering her question, giving it thought. It pulled his lips downward again, returning his expression to it's usual neutral-serious expression. "No, I don't," he answered honestly, matching his tone to hers as best he could though softness was not a natural quality for him.
"I'm not sure we could ever be, though," he added. "The soldiers haven't had enough experience fighting things like gifts and the Dresmondi magic. And I don't think many of them could comprehend the cruelty of the Eldouir," he shrugged, opened the flask, and took a long drink. "But I think we'll win, whatever that means."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 4, 2023 15:05:18 GMT -5
“Whatever it takes.” Regan echoed the words, glancing back at the fire as an ember popped in the air, as if on cue. She agreed with Warren for the most part. They would win, but it would come at a cost. Hopefully, one Nevermere would be able to recover from. They had no shortage of enemies in Coheed and Cambria, and Regan didn’t want to find out just how hard they could swing if their adversary was down.
“I want to fight though,” Regan admitted, slurring speech drunken turn as she rolled onto her back, just barely propped up against a log. “I know how that might sound, but I do. It’s like feeding a wolf table scraps all its life when ti was made it hunt.” Regan’s head dropped to the side as she looked up at Warren.
“And I want to hunt.” The hint of a growl lingered in her voice, contrasting with a toothy grin that pulled at her features.
As she looked up at him, he looked down at her. She was no child, that was clear. Maybe whatever it was she had lived through had aged her past mere years spent on Earth. Living a hard life tended to do that to people. It was more telling in her eyes than her face. In her face she still looked young. War was war. There was no getting around that. But he'd always felt like it should be the old people, people like him, who should do the fighting. So people like Regan, and the group out hunting, could continue to live their lives.
That just wasn't how it worked, though.
He reached his arms back and grabbed the neck of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head. He wore a long sleeved tunic underneath and by the fire, he hardly needed the over shirt. So he folded it up and leaned over, tucking it underneath Regan's head between the ground and the log to make her position a little more comfortable. "I have no doubt that you'll get your chance, Ms. Lassiter," he said, resting his elbows on his knees once more. "I can't say I don't have the itch for it myself."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 4, 2023 16:37:06 GMT -5
The hellhound had turned her into an insatiable creature—and the whiskey didn’t help. Thus, when Warren pulled his sweater over his head Regan’s eyes lingered on him in a way that they shouldn’t. Her gaze broke when he offered his sweater. If she were a cat she would have purred as she tucked it under her head. Instead, she made a little ‘hmm’ noise of contentment.
“Have you killed?” Regan asked as if this were storytime and war was nothing other than a fairytale.
That was a more raw question than he had expected, but he nodded nonetheless. "I have. In Cambria. There were no gifts, no elements. Just our swords, our hands," he looked down at his palms, formed them into tight fists, and then flexed his fingers outward again. "There is something about it, that digs itself in."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 4, 2023 22:36:33 GMT -5
Regan watched Warren as much as she listened. Every flicker of his face, the crease in his brow, the strength of his hands as he flexed them. Her grin faded, eyes big and shining in the dark. Regan hesitated before saying anything, a shadow of something passing over her face.
“No,” She answered, “but I’ve seen more of it than I’d like. And more often than not I’ve been unable to prevent it.” Regan’s eyes flashed, “But I—we—can do something now.”
He tilted his head somewhat to the side, then glanced back at her. "That's a good way to look at it," he concurred. "You hold onto that, when the time comes. You'll need it." He looked up at the darkening sky, thinking of something his father had told him when he was a little boy. It didn't really apply here, and he wouldn't speak of it, but he thought of the truth of it all the same.
"The more you do it, the easier it gets. The problem is in the catharsis. It's an addictive feeling, but it's best to let it go, or you'll lose yourself." He sighed, finally offering her his flask. "I'd rather keep you and those other kids from it, if I could, but I'm afraid us old men won't last too long out there without you."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Feb 5, 2023 11:59:12 GMT -5
Warren likely didn’t know just how on the money he was with his warning. What he described was the reason Regan burned, the reason she flew into her wolf form whenever she could. Witchcraft was bottled chaos; its natural inclination was to consume and destroy, and only a witch could direct it into something more precise. But some witches, a witch like Regan, could not be divorced from the black magic in her bones.
Regan’s haunted gaze finally drifted from Warren with a dark chuckle. “Is that how you see things? Me an impressionable youth and you a scuffed-up old man?” She sipped from the flask before holding it back out. If Warren tried to take it, Regan would keep it steady with an iron grip and a grin, “The truth might surprise you.”
She’d wait a moment before releasing the flask to Warren.