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9e1847.jpg
Flash Butterfly
9e1847
>Appearance/Age
The Marked One is currently in currently twenty years old. Though she has long since been considered physically mature(in that she is capable of bearing children), culturally she is still considered a child, as her awakening has only recently occurred and she displays no signs of her demonic heritage. Therefore, it is entirely acceptable by others to refer to her as a child, until her body displays its demonic nature. Once she receives the first sign of her status as a demon, she will be accepted as an adult, albeit a young one, and she will be expected to choose a name for herself, which will remain with her for the rest of her life.
The Marked One's current body is slim and androgynous, displaying no strong womanly traits beyond being slimmer and slightly shorter than her male kin. Long black hair, straight and smooth, frames her face, which could vaguely be called pretty. This appearance, however, will soon change, influenced by her awoken magic. Depending on the path her magic is lead down, her form could take traits more common of succubi(Larger breasts,slimmer frame, shorter and less imposing, facial features that could be described as beautiful or alluring) or she could stray away and take on traits reminiscent of her male kin(smaller breasts, more muscle, taller and more intimidating, still pretty, but more of a regal or boyish charm). Using magic that is inherent to neither gender will strike a balance somewhere in between.
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You glance about as you eat, trying not to seem too nosy despite being exactly that. You perform a quick count of those you can see moving about the camp site, packing tents and readying the camels used to travel the deserts. There are some twenty you can see, and factoring in old and those very young there should be closer to twenty-five. That's about average for a demon caravan, keeping the numbers small to avoid notice by zealous "crusaders" and desert predators. As you perform your count, you pause in your eating long enough to speak, your words sounding, to you, far more silky than you remember your voice being. The first subtle signs of your demonic heritage awakening, or maybe your imagination only hoping so.
"How long has it been since you found me? And were you going somewhere in particular before?"
"We found you two nights ago, a few miles from here. We made you comfortable, and tended to the spirits of the fallen. Wrapped and burned, as is proper, and we sung the mourning songs, as I mentioned before. I'm afraid I'm not aware of your caravans personal songs, so perhaps it would be best to take the time when you can to sing for them as well. It is said that no spirit can ever be mourned too much. Every passing of our kin is a tragedy."
Motreb pauses, allowing a moment of silence in respect to the fallen, before continuing, his voice serious and somewhat grave, though there is a hint of sympathy in his tone.
"As callous as it may seem, we gathered the supplies and bounty your caravan had gathered. The skins of the desert drakes, the fruits of the incompi, water, and food. We've secured it separately from our own, as they are your possessions by right. If nothing else, they should more than suffice in bartering for goods you may try to secure for yourself. Fortunate as well, as our destination is the closest of the human outposts in the region, Fort Hevre, only a few days travel northward."
You nod, even as you consider the goods at your disposal. The skins of the desert drakes were valued highly. Prepared properly, it could be fashioned into leather armor of surprising durability, while remaining flexible and light-weight. Perhaps more importantly to the rich and privileged, the desert drakes could often be found in a multitude of colors. While browns were most common, more vibrant colors could also be found, such as deep reds and bright blues. Perhaps most prized were those drakes who bore rich purple hues, and it was such a prize that your own caravan held, among other colors.
The incompi would be just as valuable, the fruits of the desert plant could be produced into a fruity yet highly alcoholic beverage. Desert drakes often gathered around the plants, happy to gorge themselves on the sweet fruits, so many caravans sought both out, gathering an ample supply before returning to forts to trade them for goods necessary to survive. It was what your own caravan was doing, on its return to Fort Havre. If you'd only moved a short distance, that would place you on the edges of the region known as the Shifting Dunes. A relatively well mapped region, such as any featureless desert could be mapped.
You finish eating quickly as you ponder, licking the last of the juices of your meal from your fingertips before focusing on Motreb once again.
"Are there any other caravans nearby?"
"Unlikely, Marked One. If there were, they would doubtless have come to investigate already, as we did. Still, you will almost always find at least a few caravans around a Fort."
"I see... Motreb, do you know anything of magic?"
The man looks surprised, blinking in confusion before rallying his senses and pushing on with the conversation.
"Magic? I do not, nor do any of us here. Why do you ask, Marked One?"
"I... I need instruction. Someone to teach me to use magic properly."
"Ah... a tutor. I'm afraid magic has grown rarer among our kind, and those who do wield it are not ones to openly display it, lest they be hunted for... witchcraft." Motreb spits the word, as many demons do. The magic that marked all was not evil, and never had been. "Still... there are possibilities. A moment if you will."
Motreb stands and head off to speak to a few of the other incubi, collecting from them a cylindrical tube you recognize as a map container. He brings it over, extracting the map from within and opening it. It's a map of the southern desert, or as much of it as has been mapped, which is the northernmost third of it. Marked is the Shifting Dunes, just south of Fort Havre, which stands in a line of about twelve small forts, lying in a semi-circle around the main human city in the region, Qual-Toresh. To the west and north, the Cloudspire Mountains, to the north and east, the Poisonmire swamps. And farther south, the uncharted lands of the Sea of Sand.
It is sad to say, but this is the most you've ever seen of the world. Motreb gives you little time to consider it however, his finger stabbing at Qual-Toresh.
"The main human city it may be, but our kind do exist there. I have been only once, when I was younger, and I would never wish to return. However, I can say that our kin have found a place for themselves, as thieves and rouges and bandits. Rumors, passed to me from fort dwellers, say that there is a thief that moves like shadows, unseen and unheard. Perhaps they have some trick of magic that might be of interest, or at least know who might."
His fingers traces a line west and slightly south, to a fort marked as Westrun.
"Here, and this I know for fact, resides the largest caravan of our kind, though I hesitate to call it a caravan. It is known to all as the traveling House of Pleasures, and as the name suggests, there are a number of... services... that can be partaken of. Word says their leader, a Mistress Sayla, is beautiful beyond words and capable of manipulating a man with but a glance. If there is even a hint of truth to that, then I'd say there's magic involved somehow."
Finally, the caravan master's hand slides eastward, passing a number of forts and into a region of the east with little marking beyond those of known trails.
"There are rumors that somewhere in the east, non-demon caravans and military patrols have been ambushed by demons. Most of note, a number of those who have escaped have claimed that these attacks were lead by an incubi who spat fire and whose skin could not be pierced by steel. I know not the truth of the reports, but surely spitting fire is worthy of investigation."
Motreb lets his hands fall to his side, eyes turning to meet yours. He offers a kind smile, mixed, you think, with a little bit of pride.
"Though we are scattered, Marked One, we are never truly cut off from our kind, or the world around us. If you so desire, we have ample supplies to skip the trip to Fort Havre, and redirect ourselves to a new destination. Trading our goods at one fort is no different from trading it at another. All we await is your command."
Perhaps sensing the mood, the camp stills, people pausing in their work with baited breath. It's expected in such a community as a caravan, however. Particularly when a decision made by the caravan master affect everyone within it. Now, it seems, the decision falls to you instead. You open your mouth to respond after a few minutes of consideration, but before you can speak, Motreb, for whatever reason, seems to break from his own reverie and notice the lollygagging of those in his charge. Almost immediately, he jumps to his feet, barking orders once again and sending caravan members scrambling about in hurried attempts to look like they hadn't just been eavesdropping.
"There's no rush, Marked One. I am sure this is overwhelming. If you have anymore questions, please ask. I would not expect you to make a decision ill informed. Or that you are used to having a caravan at your beck and call."
Motreb chuckles at this, clearly meaning it as a joke, but the words aren't something you can bring yourself to laugh at. He's right, you never expected to be leading a caravan, even if its by simply pointing in a direction and leaving the particulars to someone else.
>_
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