Profile
Agria was a violent hostile state, the flora was unlike that of any other. Periculum berries released parasitic spores onto that fool enough to bite into the amiable lavender flesh. The trees which lined the brick and rock streets would bear fruit with strong toxins that could rot an Equus inside out in mere moments. The vegetation mirrored a danger within the closed-off walls of Summit that of the Comit.
An Arena where the battlefield was lined with embroidered, leather chairs, a desk in front of each, a crowd of paintings lined the walls, serving as an audience for the past and present massacres. An announcer would walk out, armed with a quill. He approaches his position on the field and stands behind the podium that resides at the center of the Comit. “The 54th Council of Consuls will now begin.” The council was made up of 150 members, each a legate of their legion during the Secare. The population of the council varied, tall men, short men, those who lost everything during the conflict, and those who gained all that one may have lost.
The most relevant contrast was the Novus legates. New members filled the roles of those who’ve passed. These members were ostracized; they were seen as unruly, and arrogant abiding by ideals that lead to Secare. The descent from a unified Summit remained a taboo. In defiance of twenty-seven years of tradition, Novus members pushed for separation. Led by a senior legate, Consul meetings were dominated by hatred of this ideology. The Ligares or separationists were seen as extremists, the fate they pushed for was met with universal disdain. The public railed for the removal or execution of the traitors. Thousands of citizens gathered in front of the gates that protected the Comit. Burning the insignias of Ligares who were naive enough to support them. This was until Lutum. A young woman born during the Secare, a scar along her cheek reaching her nose, long platinum hair. She walks towards the podium to the cries of gladiators, her words already cast aside before she has said them. Her short stature makes the podium and its history look daunting. She speaks, at first barely audible among the crashing waves of noise from the arena, but slowly the Legates listened and the vast ocean of opposition went silent. The tide would roll back in, and take the life of Lutum.
Nights passed, and the Novus Ligares grew in both strength and power. The ranks that lined the front began to acknowledge the Novus as their fellow brother rather than opposition. Their ideals ensured hundreds of thousands of damnation being to return. That was until the Agria Gala. A celebration of the lives lost to prevent the Secare. Two legates who survived and fought in the Secare began a conspiracy to assassinate the young lord. On the night of the Gala, the halls were lined with dried berries symbolizing the threat that the Summit endured years ago, the golden lights lit along the streets, and a sense of festivity in the air. That cheerful attitude would stop at a desk at the Comit. Lutum labored away till the late hours of the day. She got up and walked towards the exit of the Comit.
Quietly
Expertly
Someone
Sliffered
Behind the young lord
A Cacophony of metal and skin echoed throughout the colosseum hallway. The dagger embeds itself into the crook of her neck. The blood-curdling scream of the woman was stifled as her body went rigid. The danger dipped in Periculum, paralyzing her. The poison tore through her body like a precise Sabre wielded by the most experienced foe. She would pass in seconds. Her cold body was picked up and carried to the bastion positioned within the wall. The legates would drop her body over the wall, it is torn apart by the remaining materials from past sieges and the overgrown vegetation that grew around it. Her body would lay under the rising moon for the rest of time.
Moss covered the young woman's body. Head to toe, the figure of a woman was clearly imprinted on the forest ground, but the remains of a legate would not be present for now, she was nothing. Her eyes lazily opened, greeted by a somber stare of the moon. She sat up and shed the flora encasing her. The left side of her figure, replaced by verdure and timber, she looks up to meet the gaze of the moon. The Saudade eyes paled in comparison to the vengeful leer of golden eyes of the young nomad.
