[ A FLAME THAT STILL BURNS / THE STORMKEEPER ]

[VALEN T.]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ i was listening to the spirit soundtrack while writing this i'm awful

Showing up at the Badlands had been something of an eye-opener for Valen. He wasn't necessarily a first-time traveler in this world, but he also wasn't someone who had seen everything. Obviously. The little beach town had been strange but quaint, an interesting mix of people who seemed fine and then Charlie. But they had all mentioned something that had his ears (metaphorically) perking: other groups. It had taken him a few days to get back on his feet, giving Margaret plenty of time to rest before he put the saddle back on. She'd made something of a disgruntled sound at him, but didn't mind all that much. Listens well enough when he guides her away. And although Valen has every intention of returning, mostly out of sheer curiosity, everything he owns is once again carried on him or his horse. Something that they'd said stuck with him, about taking or killing his horse. That would probably extend to everything else, though none of it is particularly valuable to people. What's a bow to people who own firearms, and a cloak to people who live on the beach? Otherwise, it's mostly just food and medical supplies. Necessary, but not worth killing over.

The land outside of their territory soon turned back to grass, and their pace picks up from a steady, elastic trot that would still hurt like hell tomorrow into an easy canter. Valen only urges her faster when it's really cleared out, one massive expanse of grass framed by trees on one side but extending to eternity on the other. This is something that he could never fully explain, something that words will never touch. Wind lashes his face, pulls his hair away from his skin. He can feel it tugging at his clothing, can hear it as it whips through the mare's mane, giving it a life of its own. It feels free, and he gives Margaret his trust long enough to lightly drop her reins against her neck and toss his arms out to laugh, the sound as bright and warm as the summer sun. Even in January, when the world is still cool and harsh, biting through almost anything he wore, the world seems bright and peaceful. His hands drop back down a moment later, leaning partially over her neck and breathing in the world.

Eventually he slows again. The winter's gray-green grass fades into a thin treeline, and although he can see it thickening farther in, he doesn't dismount just yet. Margaret slows to a calm walk, hooves quiet on rich soil. Her head is low, mouthing at the bit as they both explore the unfamiliar place. He can feel some heat beginning to weigh down on his shoulders, not yet unbearable, but Valen slips the cloak off of his shoulders ahead of time, twisting in the saddle to wrap it up and tie it loosely near his sleeping bag. The chill is immediate but still subtle enough that he feels comfortable, and so they move on with slight goosebumps up his arms. There are faint sounds surrounding him, and the air tastes different when he breaths through his mouth, honeyed eyes closing slowly. The desire to shout comes back all at once, bubbling from his throat, but Valen instead opens his eyes with a grin on his features, leaning forward to pat Maggie's neck. It's then, when he's at his most relaxed, that things go obviously wrong.

There's a sharp shtwit through the air, a heavy, familiar sound of something hitting wood, and a sudden panicked skittering of feet as something flees. It's not the sound that fucks everything up, it's the chaos of bright fur rushing between Margaret's feet. The mare, usually so relaxed, loses her composure. Her entire focus narrows down to whatever it was, her feet kicking out in an attempt to bolt, to shift away from everything. "Whoa! Whoa, hey, hey," Valen says, the babble dragging on and on, hand sweeping across a golden neck as she settles. Eventually, her breathing still heavy through her nose, she stops moving for long enough that he feels comfortable getting off, already fighting soreness in his thighs. He winces as soon as his boots hit the ground, hissing between his teeth. "Maker, Mags. I thought we got over that." She almost seems apologetic now, her muscles relaxing.

"We should probably find out who that arrow belongs to, shouldn't we?"

[stormkeeper]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 1.4; text-align:justify; width: 500px"]/ this starts out okay and then just slowly decreases in quality, oops

Northstar hadn't intimated the existence of other groups themselves, per se, but he had figured it out long before ever arriving in their jungle habitat, so their close-lipped policy of not talking about it suits him just fine, frankly. He doesn't need much information aside from a vague nod in a direction to keep him going, and there are a surprisingly number of crudely-fashioned maps for him to work with anyway; snagging one was almost laughably easy, and with that, a knowledge of the poles thanks to the sun and a newly-befriended horse to work with, The Stormkeeper has decided to venture out in search of one of these other groups. He possesses no desire to abandon Northstar so quickly - he has only just gotten to know its people, and some are incredibly nice - but he's an explorer at heart, and he wants to, at the very least, have a poke around the outskirts of their borders before returning back to this, his humid, confusing, temporary home.

He takes Sundance out in the early morning; the stallion has readapted easily to being ridden, and despite his obviously wild temperament, he has clearly been trained before. The Stormkeeper wonders if that unbreakable feistiness is why whoever initially owned him gave him up - it's a dreadful shame if so, for the horse is remarkably responsive, and it takes very little effort to push him into an easy trot. The world looks very different from up here, ducking low to avoid hanging branches and squinting against sudden bursts of speed whenever the ground clears up enough for something that isn't quite a canter but could be if either of them really wanted. It's weirdly comfortable, and despite the fact that The Stormkeeper knows he's going to ache like something awful later, the freedom is refreshing enough to keep any nagging concerns about the future soreness of his thighs at bay. He'll dwell on that when he has to deal with it, long after he has returned Sundance to the stables and has the time to wince at his presumably bow-legged gait. For now, he opts to enjoy the (literal) ride.

He isn't entirely sure when he grabs for his bow. It's a reflex of sorts, an old muscle memory from his earlier hunting days before his duties as The Stormkeeper took away that freedom. With nobody here aware of his apparent abilities, he is without obligation; he can do whatever he pleases. Shoot, if that is what his heart desires. Nap without fear of the monsoon coming upon him, or fires springing up between him and his people. Eat extra figs without his closest friends prodding at him for his insatiable sweet tooth. The world, it seems, is his oyster - but he chooses the former pastime now, trusting Sundance long enough to slacken his grip on the reins long enough to loose an arrow into the trees. It startles something small, and that is a surprise, for he had not expected to aim so close to anything living - but then something bigger shifts just beyond his vision, and a distinctly human voice reaches his pointed ears.

Sundance focuses inquisitively, and The Stormkeeper dismounts neatly. He walks the rest of the way towards the sounds on foot, grip on the reins tight, and he pokes his head through the foliage to spy another grounded rider murmuring something to his horse. "Oh, I am so sorry, did that pass by you?" Abruptly, Sundance shoves his own face through the leaves, nudging beneath one of The Stormkeeper's arms (the young man takes the opportunity to scratch between the creature's eyes affectionately) and scrutinising both Valen and his mare. "It was not my intention to graze so close; I was unaware you were there. If I had known, I... probably would not have shot at you." His voice is warm, light with apologetic laughter, and he steps tentatively closer, palms out in a gesture of peace. He hopes it translates easily enough. "Your horse is very beautiful. What is her name?"
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; width: 506px; margin-top:15px"][spoiler=&& ― princes don’t become kings「 information; 23rd january 2018 」]﹠ Goes by "The Stormkeeper" | Real name unknown | No nicknames | Cis male [He/They]
﹠ Age unknown | DOB: Unknown | NPC x NPC; currently alive | No known siblings; only child
﹠ Sexuality unknown | Single, not really looking | No crushes | No predetermined love interest
﹠ An adventurer; staying around ND and the Badlands | Loyalties are pretty ambiguous TBH
﹠ Rides a golden buckskin Akhal-Teke stallion ("Sundance"). 5 y/o. Healthy. Ref concepts.

﹠ Reference ideas. | Roughly 5'7 and kind of dainty, though with obvious, lean musculature.
— Smooth, bronze skin. Some scarring, though not too much. Overall unblemished and soft.
— Has silky, honey-golden hair. Curly and not styled. Eyes are a warm, molten amber-gold.
— Ears are cut into sharp, elven tips, and his canine teeth have been filed into sharp points.
— Always wears the gold full-finger ring seen in his reference ideas on his right middle finger.
﹠ Healthy and in good condition; not currently nursing any injuries. Will be updated in time.

﹠ Seems to exude a charismatic sweetness. Gentle, kind and openminded; will happily listen to people who want to speak to him, and will gladly share his experiences if prompted. Appears to be an open book on the outside. Genuinely seems to believe in good people. Outwardly affectionate and seemingly shameless with it; wears his heart on his sleeve and will say what he thinks. Engaging, attentive and encouraging. Seems to carry a light within him. Weirdly enigmatic despite his warmth. A storm within skin; houses a hurricane in his lungs.

﹠ Carries a bow; two quivers and 24 arrows apiece = 48 arrows on hand. Is a skilled archer.
﹠ 65/100 physical difficulty | 95/100 psychological difficulty | Recovers kind of quickly.
﹠ Doesn't enjoy confrontation; will avoid a fight if he can. Does everything he can to not kill.
﹠ Nonviolent actions can be powerplayed | Welcomes physical touch warmly. Very tactile.

[VALEN T.]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]It takes a certain kind of person to find a way past a wall of no information. A leap into the unknown. The Stormkeeper had taken a bit more careful approach to his leap, with a map and a vague nod. That and determination seemed ready to do plenty for him in the future. But Valen? Well, he had just sort of... Gone. There was no attachment for him, at least nothing that would draw him back in the long run aside from curiosity. It's amusing, just how many directions that feeling can pull him in. He's curious about the rest of the world, he's curious about the world he left. He wants to know, but he doesn't want to stay long enough to know. He supposes it's because nothing has quite snared his interest yet. It's enough to draw him back, but they're all strings that are easily severed. One day he'll find something that's enough to keep him roped in, eager to learn and grow, but for now, growth is slow and steady. And that's okay. It's something he finds himself ready to embrace.

Still, he's not sure he would be human if it weren't for the tiny bit of concern in the corner of his heart. There's so much out here, and who's to say that something won't harm him? It's not the sort of fear that keeps him indoors, no; this is what drives Valen to confront everything that worries him. Not in the search of fearlessness, but because he's already managed it in a roundabout way. Whatever the world throws at him, he's certain that he can handle it. If he changes to suit it, he'll celebrate learning. If he doesn't change, he'll celebrate resilience. There's so much to celebrate in this world — not the dramatic sort of celebrations, the ones back home with silk and satin and candlelight, music played by masters, gifts that cost years of hard work. The simple celebration, with loud laughter and moving to the rhythm of the universe. It's remarkable, it is. It's a hunger for knowledge that will never be sated.

He's going to be spending his life trying to explore, and like The Stormkeeper, he'd sort of... Abandoned his responsibilities for it. In a way much worse than what the stranger had done, because while one has every intention of returning when needed, Valen's not certain of it. He'd whispered promises to his nephews and nieces that he would come back with interesting things to say, and a few of his siblings closest to him would probably miss him, would probably welcome him back with open arms, and yet — Perhaps it's just that he can remember his childhood as clearly as he does. Sharp orders from his father, hearing stories only from the people who cleaned the house. His older brother's scathing, resigned, you know he doesn't have time for you, Valen. It was unfair of him to feel so strongly about it, because his father had been a busy man, and his mother had been a busy women in turn. They were too busy. Being shepherded away from what interested him and towards stiff clothes and his tutors.

There's more freedom now, and that's what he chooses to focus on. That and the life that courses through him now, heart beating fast and his own eyes wide. It wasn't entirely fear, more of interest, excitement. He was always someone who chased after something that could get his heart racing. And while this wasn't intentional, it still created the same effect. Goosebumps up his arms as his mind pays perfect attention to his surroundings. Enough that he can obviously hear a creature moving through the area. One hand around her reins, both stilling her and guiding her head, the young man twists just in time to see a golden horse and a golden person make themselves known, the latter before the former. It's naturally startling, framed by earthy tones, and he finds himself blinking as if he expects the pair to vanish. It wouldn't be too much of a surprise. Somehow, his mouth manages to work despite the pause in thought. "Probably?" His smile is bright and teasing, shifting slightly so he faces him better as he approaches, Margaret's head raising from her relaxed posture, reins tugging at his palm. He relaxes his grip without question.

Peace is easily accepted with Valen, his own body language seeming to almost melt with ease. "Margaret. I could say the same for yours. I haven't seen anything like that before." Or him but apparently they're avoiding that subject for the time being.

[stormkeeper]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 1.4; text-align:justify; width: 500px"]Is that overly cautious of him, to want to have a plan before he sets out, even if that plan is but a mere skeleton of anything more concrete, and is so flexible it can scarcely be named a plan it all? Most of his decisions are indeed made more on the basis of whim rather than anything serious; either that, or obligation, though that is a story for another day, if there ever comes a time when somebody is willing to listen to him tediously explain the duties he's anchored to, the way they keep him in place more than anything else ever has in his life, aside from maybe a few people who have pressed themselves into his heart and left permanent imprints that dig deeper than anybody else's, so that when his pulse quickens, he can feel them alongside him. They feel like shackles, sometimes, though in a contradictorily liberating way, a quiet reminder of where he comes from and what he is destined to do. That wild part of him would loathe it if the gentle need to hope was not so overpowering. You cannot choose your fate.

It's a strange thing to come to terms with, the idea that you're never truly free, no matter what you do. Independence is a concept these people seem to nurture quite desperately, as though having complete control over their final destination is all that matters - and in a sense, The Stormkeeper understands that. Futility is something that unnerves him as much as it does anybody else with a desire to understand themselves, but he has been raised on this idea that while he may be able to control his actions and morality, he cannot control much else. You are a stranger to yourself, his tribe's oracle had once told him, and of all the people you will meet, it is yourself you shall know the least. Remarkably, it is comforting to know that he has a purpose, for that is what he chooses to see this as, rather than chains that tether him to an existence he wishes to flee from. In truth, he was happiest back with his tribe. He is only here because happy is not the only emotion he wishes to ever experience.

Is that selfish of him, he wonders? To want to grab fear and love and anger and a great, unfathomable, terrible sadness in both hands and feel with such an intensity it knocks him down? Most spend their lives searching for the joy he has always felt - and here he is, running from it as though the touch of it scalds him. In comparison to Valen's, his childhood seems idyllic, practically perfect; he was never restricted, nor boxed in, nor shamed, and instead received nothing more than a perhaps-excessive amount of encouragement, praise and the ability to explore whatever he wanted to, providing he remained within their territory. (Now, those lands are much too small for his hurricane heart, and he needs more than just the same old trees and the same old river to be satisfied.) In time, he will meander back, preparing himself for the inevitable and ever-gruelling flame run once again. For now, he is learning himself, just as the oracle said he should.

Learning himself does mean learning others, though; he sees reflections of his own soul in the eyes of the people around him. Here, it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it shock, the disbelieving sort that tells him this man has never seen anybody like him before. Most people haven't, however, so he isn't particularly surprised - but the nonchalance most certainly is unexpected, if not pleasant. From recent experience, The Stormkeeper has come to understand that people typically dwell on his appearance for much longer than he dwells on theirs, and though only a small percentage comment on it outright, their bodies all tell the same story. Valen is no exception - he's just much better at getting over it. "Definitely," he amends, placing one hand on his horse's neck and flashing the stranger a sharp-fanged grin.

"Margaret," he echoes without prompting a moment later, tasting the word much as he had tasted Northstar. It's a quaint-sounding name, a pleasing mesh of soft and hard, and The Stormkeeper bobs his head. "I like it. It is a lot more... robust than Sundance." That being said, his stallion is a flighty, prancing show-off of a beast. Having a name of strength and fortitude would never suit him. "And I am The Stormkeeper. What is your name?"
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; width: 506px; margin-top:15px"][spoiler=&& ― princes don’t become kings「 information; 24th january 2018 」]﹠ Goes by "The Stormkeeper" | Real name unknown | No nicknames | Cis male [He/They]
﹠ Age unknown | DOB: Unknown | NPC x NPC; currently alive | No known siblings; only child
﹠ Sexuality unknown | Single, not really looking | No crushes | No predetermined love interest
﹠ An adventurer; staying around ND and the Badlands | Loyalties are pretty ambiguous TBH
﹠ Rides a golden buckskin Akhal-Teke stallion ("Sundance"). 5 y/o. Healthy. Ref concepts.

﹠ Reference ideas. | Roughly 5'7 and kind of dainty, though with obvious, lean musculature.
— Smooth, bronze skin. Some scarring, though not too much. Overall unblemished and soft.
— Entire back is covered in intricate black tribal tattoos. Specific design will be decided later.
— Has silky, honey-golden hair. Curly and not styled. Eyes are a warm, molten amber-gold.
— Ears are cut into sharp, elven tips, and his canine teeth have been filed into sharp points.
— Will go barefoot and shirtless if he can. Wears gold boots & black, white and gold clothing.
— Always wears the gold full-finger ring seen in his reference ideas on his right middle finger.
﹠ Healthy and in good condition; not currently nursing any injuries. Will be updated in time.

﹠ Seems to exude a charismatic sweetness. Gentle, kind and openminded; will happily listen to people who want to speak to him, and will gladly share his experiences if prompted. Appears to be an open book on the outside. Genuinely seems to believe in good people. Outwardly affectionate and seemingly shameless with it; wears his heart on his sleeve and will say what he thinks. Engaging, attentive and encouraging. Seems to carry a light within him. Weirdly enigmatic despite his warmth. A storm within skin; houses a hurricane in his lungs.

﹠ Carries a bow; two quivers and 24 arrows apiece = 48 arrows on hand. Is a skilled archer.
﹠ 65/100 physical difficulty | 95/100 psychological difficulty | Recovers kind of quickly.
﹠ Doesn't enjoy confrontation; will avoid a fight if he can. Does everything he can to not kill.
﹠ Nonviolent actions can be powerplayed | Welcomes physical touch warmly. Very tactile.

[VALEN T.]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Bravery can still be bravery with the addition of caution. It simply made someone careful, not weak or reluctant. Though his own experience had often led him down other paths, the simple rebellions that could only be weakly planned a few hours ahead at best, it was something that Valen could respect. Admire, even, at times. Even his spontaneity knows certain bounds. One day they're shackles he'll manage to shake off, but for now he's already pushing the edges of what the world tells him is comfortable. His life has told him that comfortable is being swathed in fancy clothes and sleeping on a fancy bed, but nobody had ever told him how comforting it is to listen to the trees as he falls asleep. Nobody had ever told him that eating a fruit he'd pulled down himself could somehow make him feel as if he was a part of the world around him in a way that little else could. There are no shackles for Valen. His siblings lived on their own now, each of them married, and the children they had urged him off instead of back inside. His first love had left him for the church, and the second for another. He can't say that he minds. It means that this part is that much easier. He has nobody that will truly miss him.

Besides, he's never been one to hold grudges. Independence is lonely, and growing up without it was somehow lonelier, a life without decisions to be made was hardly a life. There's no particular end that Valen finds himself walking towards. Away from home, but should his boots and his horse ever lead him back there, he wouldn't intentionally steer either of them away. He would be there as long as he felt the urge to stay, and he would leave as soon as the urge passed. It wasn't quite nomadic, more of a stretch farther home, testing a bond that he's not sure had ever been as strong as it should have been. One of these days, Valen's wanderings are going to snap it. He'll come back and find that the children don't remember him, or his siblings are too busy to even offer a smile. One day, he's sure. And when that day comes, he'll regret it. But no, he couldn't fix it. The Stormkeeper grew up with the idea that he would never know himself. In contrast, Valen had been taught that he would never know his fate. He would never know what he was meant for, or if he was doing the right thing.

He wouldn't know if the deity he wanted to please still loved him, he would never know what He demanded. His life asked him to take so much on faith.

And maybe it's wrong of him to say that he can't do it anymore. Valen felt, and he felt strongly, but he knew so little about it all. He doesn't know what it means to trust so fully that he would take a leap for it. It's not a search for what The Stormkeeper had before he left. It was wanting the bitter, delightful truth and to understand the strange things that he reaches out for. That wasn't something offered easily, by anyone. Particularly not his family. No, his childhood was not perfect. But he wasn't one to hold a grudge. The most it had done was shape him, and where he was now was good. Besides, it wasn't as if he hadn't had his good moments. Laughing and dancing with his older sister, making faces behind his oldest brother. Dancing in the mud and pulling some of the others into it even though they all got disciplined later. It was the laughing kind of trouble; the nanny had clearly been reluctant despite the work it took to clean them all. There were good things. There were some bad too, of course, but life was a balancing act that he's well used to even with his reluctance to play the game.

It's so much easier out here. Here, the world is filled with strangers. Some of them are stranger than others, and he won't pretend that they see him as one of them. The breeches and boots, his accent, just how unfamiliar he was with firearms. Valen is an anomaly, and it's honestly refreshing to see someone who's admittedly... Stranger. He doesn't mean it unkindly. It's the sort of strange that has his lips parted and eyes eager to skim over the details as if he's finally getting that chance to learn. The shining warmth of his skin, everything about him gold and bright. When he smiles, his teeth are sharp and his own throat feels a little dry. He grins despite it all, despite the fiery curiosity that boils questions on his tongue. It widens with delighted laughter, a short, bubbling ha! that makes his eyes seem lighter, closer to honey than brown. "No more shooting? Did I win you over so easily?"

The Stormkeeper tastes words the way that Valen feels them. Somewhere in his chest. Margaret is familiar and solid; yes, a robust name. Sundance is warm and proud, spirited. It suits what he can see in him. Valen's smile is softer now, though still present. The Stormkeeper is not quite proud. It's as much ozone as it is gentle rain, the threat of danger but keeping it at bay. It's interesting is what it is. Maggie stirs, hooves shifting in the dirt, almost straining forward and then deciding against it. He understands the feeling. "Sundance and The Stormkeeper? That's more of a title than anything else." The question hides under a light, non-judgmental statement. "I am Valen. Least favorite of the Trevelyans."

[stormkeeper]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 1.4; text-align:justify; width: 500px"]/ sorry this post is kinda short i have an awful headache

Imagine a world without love, without people missing other people and waiting on their return, or following them out just to make sure they're safe, and welcoming them back with open arms and warm, airy laughter. To him, the mere concept is hell; to know that some people live it is even worse, for he cannot imagine his family turning their backs on him. True, they all grow up, and some go on to fall in love and have children - but he is still theirs, and they will drop everything to help him when he needs them the most. Had somebody asked him a few weeks ago about his stance on the matter, he would have probably laughed - situations like that do not exist. But they do, and he has seen them, seen children abandoned on the streets because their parents didn't know how to cope with the collapse of society and had to leave their babies in order to survive. That people can leave their own chills him; he may have no children of his own, nor any blood siblings, but he raised those younger than him and was raised by those older than him anyway, played with his peers like they came from the same womb and learned not to differentiate between genetics and love.

It's those simple messages that get him by, preparing him for the philosophical remarks he was exposed to in his later life. Recommendations to look to the sky when things become bleak and use the stars to seek out a path that would be followed religiously - they came shortly before he departed, as if the oracle knew. You may go as far as you wish, but remember that you will always be called home. And you will come home. Some days, he thinks back on those words and feels as though they were a threat, a come home or else rather than a declaration of love, but of all the people in his tribe, the oracle is the least understood. (In return for that sacrifice, the oracle is the one that the gods favour. Valen is right - life is most certainly a balancing act, though for The Stormkeeper, it's a weigh-up between the approval of mortals and the approval of the divine. He wonders who holds him in the highest regard, wonders if anybody does at all, or if it is the title they adore.)

Familiarity is a strange thing. Chafed by it, he willingly leaps into the unknown, only to find that the unknown is cold, cruel and unexpectedly dark. Valen may find comfort in being a new face surrounded by new faces, but The Stormkeeper is only acutely aware of what separates him from these people; even if he chose to ignore them, they are spat at him across streets, so it isn't as though he's seeking those differences so much as they are chasing him. It's easier like this, at least, with only one person speaking to him - it helps that Valen has yet to mention his appearance, whether in a positive or negative light (though he is always happy to divulge information to those who seek it innocently). Something about him is easier to stomach than the scowling faces he's encountered so far outside of his territory.

"You did, yes. I do not want to hurt you." That much is easy to reply to - but when it comes to his name, things become a little finicky. His fingers comb through his horse's mane, twisting the hair as if wishing to plait it, and he tilts his head, contemplating Valen's words. "Well... yes, I suppose it is. I think I was meant to have a different name, but... what that is, I do not know, and I do not think I ever will know. The oracle bestowed this title upon me before my mother could give me a real naming ceremony." He smiles even so, glancing over at Valen. "Valen. I like that. But- least favourite? That sounds awfully cruel."
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; width: 506px; margin-top:15px"][spoiler=&& ― princes don’t become kings「 information; 24th january 2018 」]﹠ Goes by "The Stormkeeper" | Real name unknown | No nicknames | Cis male [He/They]
﹠ Age unknown | DOB: Unknown | NPC x NPC; currently alive | No known siblings; only child
﹠ Sexuality unknown | Single, not really looking | No crushes | No predetermined love interest
﹠ An adventurer; staying around ND and the Badlands | Loyalties are pretty ambiguous TBH
﹠ Rides a golden buckskin Akhal-Teke stallion ("Sundance"). 5 y/o. Healthy. Ref concepts.

﹠ Reference ideas. | Roughly 5'7 and kind of dainty, though with obvious, lean musculature.
— Smooth, bronze skin. Some scarring, though not too much. Overall unblemished and soft.
— Entire back is covered in intricate black tribal tattoos. Specific design will be decided later.
— Has silky, honey-golden hair. Curly and not styled. Eyes are a warm, molten amber-gold.
— Ears are cut into sharp, elven tips, and his canine teeth have been filed into sharp points.
— Will go barefoot and shirtless if he can. Wears gold boots & black, white and gold clothing.
— Always wears the gold full-finger ring seen in his reference ideas on his right middle finger.
﹠ Healthy and in good condition; not currently nursing any injuries. Will be updated in time.

﹠ Seems to exude a charismatic sweetness. Gentle, kind and openminded; will happily listen to people who want to speak to him, and will gladly share his experiences if prompted. Appears to be an open book on the outside. Genuinely seems to believe in good people. Outwardly affectionate and seemingly shameless with it; wears his heart on his sleeve and will say what he thinks. Engaging, attentive and encouraging. Seems to carry a light within him. Weirdly enigmatic despite his warmth. A storm within skin; houses a hurricane in his lungs.

﹠ Carries a bow; two quivers and 24 arrows apiece = 48 arrows on hand. Is a skilled archer.
﹠ 65/100 physical difficulty | 95/100 psychological difficulty | Recovers kind of quickly.
﹠ Doesn't enjoy confrontation; will avoid a fight if he can. Does everything he can to not kill.
﹠ Nonviolent actions can be powerplayed | Welcomes physical touch warmly. Very tactile.

[VALEN T.]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ sh the post is wonderful & i hope your head feels better soon

It's a dangerous place out in the world. That's a lesson Valen had learned quickly, even if he had never lived in a place as loving as The Stormkeeper's home. Despite his family's many flaws, they weren't as terrible as that. The leftovers from their dinner table went to those who needed it, their coats passed down to strangers. But the fact that there were strangers who needed food and clothing in the first place was something tragic. The fact that nobody else did it. Yes, his family grew up and split off, they got into arguments over land and rights, they argued about everything. Up until their holidays, when his oldest brother hugged him as if he'd been wanting to do it all year, when he danced with his sisters and spun around the children. It was then that he felt as if he was home. This distance he's putting between them... It's not because he's angry, or hurt. It's not because he hates them. There's simply something insatiable in his chest. He has no intention of coming home and teaching them something, even if that something is only that they're doomed. All he wants is to know. He would like to know the story of those children surviving on the streets. He would like to know of Storm's family, of the family they kept like a wound ball of string, knots that are treasured instead of torn. He wants to know, he wants to learn. Anything and everything.

There's such a yearning, something he can't make sense of. The forgotten child, the boy man raised by a nanny, kissing people in alcoves as a teenager, swallowing tough decisions before he finally made the choice to leave. And it was his choice. It had just been pushed along by his own little messages. You're a nuisance, Valen. Why don't you let the grownups do the talking, Valen? Why do you never listen, Valen? Oh, he's already said that he doesn't hold any grudges. It was useless. Not that everything needs to have some miraculous higher purpose or reason behind it. No, this time it's the contradiction he's avoiding. Perhaps he should be grateful that he had never grown up with double-edged statements, though they did share that inscrutable leader, someone they could follow but never truly know. Not that he could truly understand it until he lived it. Having someone like that, a person who treated you like one would treat a map, would never make sense. It should be far too early for him to worry about being defensive of this stranger, but this is easier than it was in the Badlands.

Maybe he agrees that it's easier when it's just a few people. Valen can certainly thrive on center stage if that's where he needs to be; there are few places that he couldn't. It's easy when he reads people the way that he does. The way he turns his attention to his horse's mane, looking away. Anxious, maybe? Thoughtful? Either way, it begs the question. Had he accidentally overstepped, asked something he shouldn't?

Even if that was the case, he gets an answer. His expression lightens from where it had wandered, to somewhere close to worry, to another light twist of amusement. "I appreciate that. Can never be too sure these days." His own hands feel restless now, skirting over the powerful muscle of the mare's shoulder. He's a tactile person, learning by touch. Though he could go a while before he needed to busy his hands, Valen needed something. The coarse feeling of pale gold horse hair underneath his palm, or old pages between his fingers. The warmth ignited by running his hands in circles over his breeches, the slow curl of hair between his fingertips, or the smooth skimming touch over skin. "You don't have a name?" The young man is clearly startled, though his mouth closes as quickly as he had opened it. "That sounds a bit crueler, does it not?" A child deprived of a name and the mother deprived of the choice. Valen's brow scrunches slightly in thought.

Perhaps it's best not to force The Stormkeeper to linger on those thoughts, at least. So he offers another winning smile, this one considerably simpler. Almost shy. "How about I make you a deal? Let's find a place to sit for a while. I'll tell you why I'm the least favorite, and if you'd like, you can tell me why you're The Stormkeeper. That sound alright?"

[stormkeeper]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 1.4; text-align:justify; width: 500px"]/ it's still not cooperating but thank you
also this is all over the place but i tried

When one is interested in a conversation, they typically tend to mimic their companion; whether it be the subtle shift of their body forwards, or the crossing of their arms, people will mirror those they speak with. It's a fascinating tell, really, and it's why The Stormkeeper's eyes widen further when Valen's hands, too, seek out his horse, skimming over the mare almost absentmindedly. That tactile streak is something the two of them have in common; he has always been a kinaesthetic learner, always touching to understand, though maybe that's more cultural than his individual preference. Is he even his own person, or is he entirely a product of his upbringing? True, everybody has a bit of their family within them, their friends, their environment, but some parts of them are wholly themselves, utterly unique and undeniably real - can he say the same for himself? He looks in the mirror and he sees his father's eyes and gentle hands, his mother's hair and ready smile; he moves like his father's closest friend, laughs like his own and his favourite fruit is the fig because the oracle would feed them to him when he was too small to understand anything at all.

Maybe this, then, is as much about finding himself as it is about seeing the world, the people in it. He wants their stories because their stories will build him as much as they will liberate them, and he wants to share in their lives because maybe then he'll learn a little bit about what it would mean to be someone else, in another world. What it would mean to be a person with a name and not an obligation with a body. That isn't to say that he's never been unhappy with himself or what he has become; he enjoys helping people as much as he enjoys this, though the novelty of discovery is admittedly a little more thrilling than the familiarity of pushing back the floods. (As if anyone could ever get used to the weather bending to their will. He could wash them all away and they'd be unable to stop him.) His benevolence is as much a restriction as it is his greatest virtue, though he would not trade it for anything, not freedom nor riches; he is who he is, and that is kind, that is good. He can't say the same for everyone else, but he doesn't need to. His father always told him that if he couldn't find good people, then he should become one. It's a philosophy he still adheres to today.

"Can you not? Should I be alarmed?" Something vaguely puzzled settles on his features, though that grin remains, and he finally caves to that urge to plait Sundance's mane, fingers twisting the hair. Remarkably, the horse remains put, though his eyes remain on Margaret, as if seeing another of his kind out of the stables is something he had never anticipated. The Stormkeeper only hopes that curiosity doesn't manifest itself as disobedience. He continues to plait. "Not really, no, I do not. I am a prophecy, not- a person." A pause. "Actually... I suppose that is not true. I am a person, but my duty comes first. I would say it is a religious thing, but I do not really think it is." Who knows, however, what the oracle is ever thinking? Who knows what he sees when his eyes roll and the gods touch his heart? The Stormkeeper most certainly does not - he is as blind to the reality of it as ever. But he doesn't have to know. That isn't his place.

"Crueler? I am not sure." He has never really thought of it as cruel to be deprived of a name, though he has admittedly longed for one. Thoughtful, he finishes one braid and moves to the next, eyes now back on Valen. It's an interesting proposal, the one he offers, but not one that's in any way repulsive; in fact, The Stormkeeper's eyes light up, and he nods eagerly. "Oh, yes, I would like that a lot. Do you know this place very well?" If Valen does not, then The Stormkeeper can always find some place to settle - or here could do. He isn't particularly fussy about where he drops.