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!
The sound of someone pummeling a training dummy floated through the air in the training yard, soft grunts accompanying it as Zevran drove his fists into the straw filled sack over and over again. They were powerful hits, and almost perfect in their from, thanks to the training he had been receiving from Alys Delaney as directed by the Captain Commander.
But despite all of the lessons, despite assurances that they were going to help Dresmond, they sure were taking their time to rally their troops. He had been patient, at first. He understood that organizing a force this large and securing the resources for it took time. He had even understood the parade to boost morale and had enjoyed seeing what Nevermere had to offer.
But a tournament? A ball?! Now they were just wasting time.
Just thinking about it had his anger flaring again as he willed his frustration out through his fists and into the dummy. Sweat trickled down his back, despite the Hiems chill in the air. He hadn't even known what a ball was until Alys had explained it to him and had asked him to accompany her. She had seemed excited about it, so he had bit back his frustration then.
Now he was just angry. His people were suffering and they were going to waste time having a party. But there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, so instead here he was, taking all of it out on the practice field.
Now that he had changed into clean clothes and left the labyrinth behind and very pointedly was not thinking about the disappointment of losing, Ber felt a little bit better about the tournament that had happened earlier that day. Naturally, it and the three victors were the talk of the town, so he had decided to forgo the taverns for the hopefully less crowded military wing. And maybe, the soldier thought as his dark eyes settled upon Zevran, it was just as well he did. By now, he had spent enough time around the Dresmondi to recognize when something was wrong, and independent of that, he knew that anger had a way of infiltrating every little facet of body language - especially when fighting.
With the war and the reasons for the war hanging over his head, Zevran certainly had plenty to be angry about, and because Ber wasn’t one to avoid a friend simply because they were in a bad mood, he made his way over to the other man and his punching bag. After a nod in Rune’s direction, he turned to Zevran, eyeing the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes. “How about hitting something that’ll hit back?” He issued the invitation in lieu of a proper greeting. “No magic. Just a good old fashioned fight.”
Rune had been idly playing with a small pool of shadow, moving it around and making it into various shapes. But one could easily tell the fox was as distracted as her human was angry. Hearing footsteps approach, when she looked up to see Ber her ears would perk up slightly, a tendril of darkness rising up to wave back at him.
Zevran turned at the sound of Ber's voice, that anger still glinting in his eyes even at the sight of his friend. He sucked in air, attempting to bring his breathing back under control and shrugged. "Sure, I guess. You're not tired from your little game?"
His tone was sharp, and he didn't bother to try to fix it, even as Rune lifted her head to look at him, her metaphorical eyebrow raising.
Ber looked at Zevran for a moment. In the months that they had spent together, they had run the gamut of powerful emotions - anger, frustration, helplessness - and dealt with them accordingly, but this seemed different, as if the Dresmondi had taken every bit of Nevermere’s happiness with the festivities and channeled it into something far less joyous. Ber wasn’t sure what, specifically, had Zevran in this mood until the words half-spat at him gave him the inklings of an understanding.
As if Ber had been the one to decide to hold a gala instead of rushing to rescue Dresmond. Sure, he might have chosen to participate in his little game, but only an idiot would have turned down a shot at a request for anything from the king.
“No, I’m not,” He shot back before taking a breath and, shoving his sparking temper aside, reminding himself that he knew where Zevran was coming from. That Ber would hardly be any better - in fact, he would probably be far worse - if their positions had been switched. “It’s not my fault we’re not marching off to Dresmond right now, but I’m a better person to hit than the king.” And more satisfying to hit than that punching bag. In Ber’s opinion, nothing burned through anger like a spar - though as he eyed Zevran, the street rat thought this might end up a bit more like a brawl.
Zevran's eyes only narrowed at Ber's sharp response. There was a roaring in his ears drowning out all sensible thought, even the ones coming across his connection to Rune. He had spent this whole time here in Nevermere suppressing his anger and anxiety. He had been quiet and patient, the portrait of a good citizen waiting for the benevolent King to come to his rescue.
But he was done bundling all of that up now. He felt a bit like a fool, a bit humiliated, that he had simply sat on his ass here in Nevermere this whole time, waiting on this King to do something for him. He should have been more forward, should have pushed them to act faster. But he had been too scared of upsetting them and not receiving the aid at all. Now they were celebrating their own accomplishments and how much their kingdom was flourishing while his was still at the mercy of the Eldouirs. It was like a slap in the face.
The rest of Ber's words barely registered at all. It didn't matter that it wasn't Ber's fault. In this moment, it wasn't his best friend standing in front of him, but a Nevermeran soldier following the King's bidding. Or lack of bidding, as it were.
Without much of a warning, Zevran launched himself at Ber, aiming for a swift uppercut to the jaw.
Apparently Zevran also thought he was a better person to hit than the king, because that was exactly what he did. Ber’s head whipped back as the sudden blow to his jaw landed successfully, clacking his teeth together but not causing him to not bite his tongue because he’d recognized the intent in the Dresmondi’s body language a heartbeat before he launched the attack. This was no spar, and as adrenaline began to flood through his veins for the second time that day, the street rat rose to meet the challenge.
Though he’d stepped back in response to the punch, experience from both the training grounds and the streets helped him recover fast. As he brought his own hands up, Ber fell loosely into a familiar fighting stance and did not hesitate to attempt to return the favor. He lunged forward, throwing his weight behind a punch to Zevran’s side, which he would try to follow up immediately with a blow to the side of his opponent’s face with his other hand.
Ber had been right, there was much more satisfaction in landing a blow on him than there had been with the punching bag. Except, this punching bag fought back and had much more training under his belt than Zevran had. He wasn't prepared for how fast Ber recovered and threw the next punch.
Catching the full weight of the blow in his side, he was knocked completely off balance and stumbled to the side, his arms wheeling in an attempt to steady himself. Completely off guard now, he also took the blow to the side of the head, stars bursting in his vision. He tried his best to stay upright, but somehow the ground ended up under his hands and he only barely had the where-with-all to roll to the side, just in case Ber tried to jump on him.
Rune was pacing off to the side, quietly whining as she felt each blow landed on her Dresmondi. These were not the softer blows of a friendly spar, but the ones of an all out brawl between two men, one acting out of anger and one out of instinct. Though she desperately wanted to stop the fight, she wasn't quite sure how to in this moment and Zevran was completely ignorant of her pleas. Get up, get up, GET UP, she shouted down their bond, at least trying to get Zevran to recover from the hard hit to his head.
Despite the fury fueling the latter, the street rat and the Dresmondi were not matched in skill, and the next two blows that knocked Zevran to the ground landed solid and sure. The sight reminded Ber just enough that he didn’t actually want to pummel his friend into a complete pulp, even as his instincts urged him to push his advantage and kick his opponent while he was down. Still, he wasn’t about to end it there. Those punches had been satisfying, and his own frustration at losing the tournament - to Winters, no less - rose to replace reason.
Zevran’s reactions proved useful, for he managed to mostly dodge Ber’s attempt to jump on him. On the ground now, too, the street rat struck out in his opponent’s direction, trying to grab whatever he could to drag the other man back toward him.
Rune's shouting finally managed to get through, the blow to his head having knocked some of his anger down a peg. He was just beginning to push himself back up on his feet when he felt something snag at the back of his shirt and start dragging him backwards.
Realizing it was Ber who had snagged him and was dragging him towards him, a bolt of panic shot through him and instinctively he kicked backwards with one leg, trying to gain purchase on anything he could. He dug his fingers into the ground, trying to haul himself away.
Grasping fingers latched onto fabric, and Ber pulled Zevran back toward him - or at least kept him from retreating - even as the street rat got closer. In his determination to drag the other man into reach, he did not notice the flailing leg until it hit him right in the face with a crack. Eye-watering pain immediately blossomed from his nose, snapping him out of the fight, and both a reflexive response to the injury and the realization of what they were doing caused him to let go of the Dresmondi’s shirt and recoil.
“Alright, alright, you win.” He brought his hands toward his face as if they could stem the blood running from what he was fairly certain was a broken nose. A ginger poke at it had him wincing. Head tilted backward, Ber looked over at Zevran. “Ow, Zev. Think you could kick any harder?” His tone was lighter than before, and despite the pain, a smile danced at the corners of his lips. Perhaps he should have been angry, but accidents like these happened. Besides, their brief fight had been satisfying in a way that the tamer spars could never hope to be.
As soon as the grip on his shirt released he squirmed away, scrabbling away until he was able to at least crouch on his feet and face Ber. He had felt his leg connect, but didn't realize just where until he finally saw the blood dripping down his friend's face. Any remaining anger immediately fell away as his eyes widened in horror.
"Shit. Fuck. I'm so sorry, Ber. I didn't mean..." He took a step towards Ber, his hands reaching up and fluttering about the other man's face as if he could fix the nose for him. Rune trotted up to Ber as well, spinning in circles and whining in apology.
Zevran's face was stricken as he finally took Ber's face gently in his hand, turning the soldier's head side to side to study the damage he had done. Of all the people he could have lost control on, it should not have been Ber. There was a stinging in the back of his eyes as he shook his head and stepped away. "A healer. You should go see a healer," he managed to choke out.
If the broken nose hadn’t succeeded in snapping him out of the fight, Zevran’s clear remorse did. Ber’s face hurt, and this wasn’t an experience he was keen to repeat by any means, but he hadn’t been particularly bothered by it until he saw his friend’s and the fox’s reactions. In his opinion, these kinds of injuries were what one risked every time they stepped into the metaphorical ring, and the street rat had long since accepted the inevitability of one occurring to him. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Ber attempted to reassure him, even as blood still dropped down his face. “I know you didn’t mean to.”
He held still as Zevran approached, obligingly letting his friend turn his head to assess the damage. “See? Could be worse.” Probably. Out of the corner of his eye, Ber watched Zevran stepping back and shaking his head, and the expression on his face twisted into something that had Ber’s heart clenching. “This kind of thing happens, and it’s no big deal,” He tried to explain, moving forward a step toward his friend. “We’ve got potions for this, but, uh, yeah, we’d need to find a healer for them.” A pause. “Come with? I know I hit you pretty hard too.”
A strained noise issued from Zevran's throat at Ber's reassurance. Considering Ber was still on his feet and speaking, he knew he hadn't hurt him that badly... But he had still hurt him. He had mostly forgotten his own blow to the face until Ber mentioned it and he raised a hand to the side of his face, wincing slightly at the dull ache. "It'll just be a bruise, but your nose is definitely broken."
Without much thought, he reached out and gripped Ber's hand. "I was just so angry and overwhelmed. I've spent so much time here, letting Dresmond's fate sit in someone else's hands, and all they want to do is play games and throw parties..."
Remembering himself, he blinked at the hand he was holding and dropped it, taking a step back again. He had caused enough problems today without pushing other boundaries. "It's no excuse though, I shouldn't have taken any of that out on you." He sighed and waved a hand, indicating Ber to lead them towards wherever the healers stayed. "Let's go get your nose fixed so no one looks at you funny tomorrow at the ball."
There was a difference between a bruise and a broken nose, but he didn’t have much time to consider that thought before Zevran reached out and grabbed Ber’s hand, catching the soldier by surprise. Feeling his awareness shift to the point of contact, he blinked down at their joined hands for a moment. His attention was split between trying to puzzle out that curious turn of events - sure, we can hold hands now, I guess? - and listening to his friend’s explanation for the fury and frustration that had ultimately resulted in bruises and broken flesh. The Dresmondi’s hand was warm and solid compared to Temperance’s smaller and daintier fingers, and strange though it was, Ber couldn’t say he minded the contact. And if it made his friend feel better about this whole fiasco, well, it wasn’t as if this was hurting Ber. So he obligingly let Zevran hold his hand and didn’t pull it away until the other man dropped it.
“I know.” Ber met his friend’s eyes. “I get it. You’ve got people you care about who are in a lot of danger back home, and it’s hard to wait.” Harder still when the reasons for the delay seemed as frivolous as a parade, a tournament, and a dance. It was easy for the soldier to get caught up in the festivities, but his only tie to Dresmond stood beside him, safe and out of danger; though Ber considered himself more aware of why they were going to war than most, he could more easily tuck that knowledge away in a corner of his mind than Zevran ever could. Not to mention that he was far more familiar with - and had long since accepted - the nobility’s propensity for extravagance while the less fortunate struggled just outside their doorstep. As unfair as it was, they had no reason to rush to save a people that were not their own when so many spat upon the impoverished that were. Still, that didn’t make the truth any easier to swallow. “Look, if our positions were switched and it was Temperance I was trying to save?” Ber shook his head, even as the novelty of merely having people to protect washed over him. He would never have lasted as long as the Dresmondi had. “I’d say you’re entitled to getting a few good hits in.”
The mention of the ball had him grimacing, and his gaze flew to where he’d landed the blow to the side of Zevran’s face. “Oh no.” Caught up in the heat of the fight, he’d forgotten all about tomorrow. “We’ll have to get you something for the bruises,” Ber decided, leading the way toward the healers. “The king will be there, and they’ll all probably be looking at you because of…” He made a vague gesture that was meant to encompass the multitude of reasons the sole attendee from Dresmond would likely be of great interest. “Everything.” He had no desire to field the uncomfortable attention and questions that would arise from their guest showing up bruised and beaten. “We’ll get you a potion, too, and if the healer’s ask, we can just say it was a sparring accident.” Since they worked in the military wing, the healers were no doubt familiar with such events, and ever so slightly bending the truth made their story far more palatable. Spars that got a little out of hand were fine. Shamelessly brawling? Probably not so much.
"It... it's not just about the waiting at this point." Zevran ran a slightly shaky hand through his hair, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
He fell into step quietly behind Ber, subconsciously keeping a bit of distance, as if he didn't quite trust himself to somehow not hurt Ber again. He groaned as Ber explained he was probably going to be the center of attention at some point tomorrow. He hadn't thought about that at all. The King had not requested his presence there, Alys had, so maybe Ber was wrong. But still, just in case, it was best he saw to it that there wasn't a giant bruise coloring his cheek bone.
Unable to stand the tension that he felt settled around them, he tried his hand at easing it. "Maybe having a bruise would make me look tougher. And some people like the tough guy persona."