Author Topic: The Tales of Nemean JeVondair Renodin  (Read 50766 times)

Renodin

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Re: The Tales of Nemean JeVondair Renodin
« Reply #30: June 14, 2019, 07:31:06 PM »

-PHOENIX COURT 3-


Roleplay from Kanchelsis Abjur


All this recent talk of home hit close to the young knight Kanchelsis. He didn't really have one, being born from a pairing of an Elf and a Tilogian. The son of both a mistrusted race and a breed of evil madmen, he couldn't really blame those who wouldn't accept him. He had been surprised when he had received the invitation to the "Phoenix Court" from his liege, the legendary Selenia JeVondair, the so-called "Phoenix Queen", especially after not answering her offer of adoption. If he could have been honest with himself, he would have known that had been because he didn't believe himself worthy of the honor. When he looked at his reflection, he didn't see the son of the heroic Xerarch who fought and died for what he believed in, nor the noble merchant Elf who gave up everything to be with his father and to raise him. He saw a deceitful coward, one who was willing to live in the shadows until his mothers death drove him to seek out his father.
The young knight straightened his shoulder length red hair to hide the points of his ears, and checked the short straight sword with it's Damascus blade on his belt. It had been a gift from his father to his mother when he had been Shadow Tyrant of the artist convocation known as the "Assassins" in the Colonies. it was a fine blade for a woman more interested in the business of the merchantry rather than the soldiery, but the young knight had discovered it rather limiting from his recent days in the field. Still, it was what he had available, and the jeweled hilt and patterned blade in its sheath designed more to show off the weapon than protect it from the elements would fit in nicely among the great and the good that would no doubt be at this gathering. He glanced at his reflection in the shield hanging from the wall of the room, and the handsome face that looked back would have doubtlessly been familiar to those who had known Aramon Abjur, if they could imagine it marred with the same tattoos and scars he had borne. He shifted the coat of scales on his broad shoulders, he was no where as massive as his father once was, but he was far from a small man, and the near spitting image of his father (not that Kanchelsis could have known, he had never met him while he was alive, and was in the field fighting when his father was buried). Deciding that he was as prepared as he could hope to be, he took the shield from the wall and slung it over his back, the spear with the crossbar bearing the banner of his father's  heraldry with it's unusual party per pall division of the field from the corner of the room, and walked through the inn and out he door, setting his course for the temple of The Triumvirate in the distance.