Ment
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[Spoiler="Short version"]Once there was a white-haired boy named Mirastir from the lands where our expa starts. He was obsessed with his white-haired ancestors. He went to Telos, found a cool philosopher there who helped him bulk up. He went to Serberia, ended up in the arena, and continued training there. He returned to Airisufir and decided that Baron Kraffmeyer (Heroist) would now help him search for a Selvarian girl, a Selvarian mentor, and further improve himself.[/spoiler]
Mirastir Heliomar
(May 23, 518)
Arteria be my witness, I am so tired of these constant skirmishes with non-humans. I want to leave it all behind, abandon this war and these conquests. Every evening I polish my sword so as not to smell the blood of these creatures—creatures who are actually not to blame, almost human like all of us, but cursed by ancient chaos and therefore unable to understand either the essence of their nature or that we did not originally come to take their home, but merely to live as neighbors. Of course, the Magister is sure that the war must continue until the enemies surrender or die... And he can be understood, after everything he has seen. But I would probably just wall myself off from all these barbarians and live peacefully in the lands we already have.
(June 2, 518)
This is very strange... I didn't think the Selvarians had reached this far, yet here she is, a girl unlike anyone I have ever encountered before.
She claims she had been following our detachment for a long time, not daring to approach for fear of being noticed. However, an inflamed wound forced her to turn to us for help. And indeed, her head is in a pitiful state. The horn is fractured right at the base, and it seems this is leading to a non-healing and ever-growing abscess. If things continue this way, whether she is a Selvarian or not, she will die.
The girl claims that in exchange for our help, she will repay us with her aid in battle, as is fitting for Selvarians. The decision was mine to make, and I said I would give instructions to the healers if she laid down her arms.
She refused. Arteria knows I would be glad to help, even someone like her, who along with her brothers and sisters killed our Arterian brothers and sisters by the thousands for no reason. But I cannot allow an armed, dangerous stranger to be treated right in our camp. And she truly is dangerous—when my adjutant approached to take the woman's weapon, he received a look that made it clear: only one more step separated him from his own death.
In short, she left. I ordered the patrols to increase vigilance but not to engage in conflict unless necessary.
(June 7, 518)
We spotted an abandoned centaur camp. A bad sign. Moreover, the Selvarian girl has been periodically spotted by patrols these past few days. It is unlikely she will attack on her own, but my knights are definitely anxious about her, which is affecting morale.
(June 8, 518)
We were attacked at night. Fortunately, we had time to prepare; the tripwires around the camp worked perfectly. Those centaurs who weren't injured by the ropes were forced to slow their attack pace and receive a good volley of arrows from us.
And yet, the next wave was powerful. Hatchets and fire arrows flew at us—the savages were not afraid to burn their own forests. The knights also struggled to survive the cavalry charge.
And then something amazing happened—the centaurs were attacked from the rear. It was hard to see anything except a white blur, but the panic that seized our enemy was telling, while our knights, conversely, grew decisively emboldened and launched a counterattack under my command.
Few non-humans survived this battle. But I am glad they stayed alive; they will return to the tribe and continue their long-suffering lineage, and their descendants will know that one must not feud with the knights of Clematis, blessed by Arteria.
Everyone worked together to put out the fire in the camp, including the Selvarian girl (I didn't stop her when I saw). Hard to believe, but using a pike, she carried six buckets of water at a time without any difficulty. And this despite her feminine, delicate appearance, in which she was not inferior to the finest ladies of the order.
Then she approached me and said that she had helped us without any preconditions or agreements, and asked if it wasn't a matter of honor for me to do the same for her? I was forced to agree, and we placed her in the infirmary.
Just imagine, the Selvarian girl endured this battle and the subsequent physical labor during the fire with a massive inflammation on the back of her head! The healers said they would likely have to remove part of the skull at the base of the horn, so advanced the condition had become.
(June 9, 518)
The Selvarian introduced herself as Clema. Undoubtedly, a surprising coincidence...
Meanwhile, the healers complained to me that they couldn't find her a suitable shirt, as all the clothes, including men's, turned out to be too small for her shoulders. The way Clema looked now was indecent for a girl. I promised that I would address this problem with Little Kramers; he should have something.
But most importantly, after the discussions and preparations, the doctors have already begun the operation. May Arteria preserve her.
(June 16, 518)
The healers said that pus should no longer form. These were difficult days for Clema, as the already painful postoperative wound had to be constantly reopened, but she bore it all stoically.
And I am still amazed how, given such physical attributes, this Selvarian has such a pleasant, quiet voice, as if a little titbird is hiding in her mighty chest. And this is not a consequence of the illness; Clema spoke the same way before the operation.
In short, in every trait, this girl never ceases to admire me. It would be sad if our paths diverged after her recovery.
(February 10, 522, on a separate sheet)
Be with me. Stay with me a little longer.
I know we are from different worlds. Your hair smells of blizzard and like a storm it beats against my visor when we rush toward our enemies.
You always get ahead of me, even when I ask you to wait, but only after making sure that I am indeed following you.
Your face is whiter than lilies, but it flushes and becomes like a tea rose when I pay you compliments.
I always beat you when we wrestle—but I see how much effort it takes for you to let me win. It is like a separate training session, which makes your strength seem even more terrifying, yet beautiful and graceful, just as a formidable white tiger is beautiful and graceful.
When we stand back to back, I hear your breathing, and your warmth warms me. Soon you begin to breathe in unison with me, and I, like some peasant, am ready to laugh right in the middle of a heated battle.
It seems to me that you are the second girl on the entire continent after Arteria in your features, your gentle voice, and kind gaze, your slight proud snub-nose, your voice like a flute, and your ability to defeat your enemies, whom you briefly began to call my enemies. This cannot be true, my eyes and ears deceive me, I know, but I am glad to be deceived, especially since this deception is small.
And now, when you told me that you want to move on, while I am still tied to my suzerain and my land by the bonds of my duty...
I tell you.
Be with me. Stay with me a little longer.
A small fair-haired boy greedily read these lines once again. Clema, a northerner... Who, after these passionate lines, lived with his great(great?)grandfather until the death of that noble man.
And bore him children, and colored the hair of their entire lineage the color of a distant northern land.
Isn't that wonderful? And Dad told him that northerners live very long. Maybe they are still alive, and are still performing feats in Vesteria according to their indomitable Selvarian nature? Maybe even his great(great?)grandmother is still alive? If only he could meet her...
***
The long road was coming to an end, but one fair-haired man still couldn't talk enough with his equally blond teenage son.
-- In short, these are the ideas your future teacher presented to the world; now you understand why we aren't going to Telos for nothing. Note that when I met Demigos myself, he was just starting to philosophize and was unknown to anyone; it was pure luck, but now you have the opportunity to study science under someone whose books are read by all the educated world. Don't miss it, Mirastir, try your best.
-- Okay, dad, -- even after these words of encouragement, the boy was afraid to leave the parental home for a long time, but he tried not to show it. After all, he was already an adult; he would study a bit and then set off on a journey toward adventure, just as his father had done in his youth. And who knows, maybe...
At the last thought, Mirastir involuntarily touched the bag containing the diaries that were so important to him.
The parent smiled, seeing this gesture:
-- And don't daydream too much! Alright, now a test. Tell me in general terms what you have learned about Demigos' philosophy.
-- Uhhhhh, -- life had not prepared Mirastir for this. -- Well, he... Demigos... In general... He wrote many books...
-- Let's say. And what are these books about?
-- Well... About philosophy... About... Reasonings there...
-- Well doneeee! I didn't doubt your abilities for a second, -- dad hugged his son and patted him on the back. -- Even after two repetitions, absolutely nothing remained in your head. With such talents, it will cost you nothing in the future to develop immunity to any mental effects, if you haven't already. Tremble, wizards and seducers, my son will not fall into your cleverly laid nets, not because he will neutralize them, no, he will simply walk past and not notice! So, alright, let's try again then. Briefly.
-- Oh daaaaad! Better tell me, will I meet... well, Selvarians there?
The father looked at Mirastir for a long time.
-- I don't think so. I haven't met a single one in my whole life. But a half-blood—you'll surely meet. People like us attract each other... Otherwise—pray to Arteria and everything happens sooner or later, if it will be useful to you.
The boy cheered up at these words.
***
"Where is this school... Where is it..."
Mirastir walked through the Telos polis, where his father had dropped him off, and repeatedly asked passersby the same question:
-- Could you tell me where Demigos' school is? Excuse me please, where is Demigos' school?
There were two reactions—people shrugged their shoulders in surprise, but more often—they clutched their stomachs and burst into loud laughter. The boy was frightened by such a violent reaction and ran aside.
Eventually, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and, barely containing their amusement, pointed a finger away from the center of the polis.
-- That waaaay, heehee, for you! Demigos has school there today! Bwahaha, people, did you hear what he pulled off?!
Mirastir didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as he was already rushing in the indicated direction at full speed. But upon reaching the edge of the city, he encountered only disappointment—he found nothing resembling a school or a forum, nor a sign saying "Demigos teaches here," or whatever is supposed to hang in such a case? All that appeared before his eyes now was a dirty, trampled field and herds of pigs, diligently and selflessly eating from several troughs placed across the field.
For some time, Mirastir just stood there lost and stared hypnotized at this scene, feeling increasingly nauseous, but for some reason finding no strength to turn around and return to the polis to search again. And then... He thought he imagined it, but... No, he really saw a human head in a trough with pig food!
The boy ran closer, but the pigs blocked his view, so he could no longer see and confirm. He had to forcibly push aside the dirty animals and—there it was, the head... Eyes open, as if alive, and seemingly looking straight at him... What a vile, terrible death!
The head smirked. Huge muscular arms emerged from the trough, each nearly as thick as a pig, and the person to whom all this belonged rose to his full height, only intensifying the already significant shock.
-- What do you want, kid? Can't you see I'm contemplating here?
That is how Mirastir met the great philosopher Demigos, a Telossian with white Selvarian hair, and his philosophy of developing man and humanity through humiliation, idleness, as well as internal and external poverty. Of course, regarding the hair... That would become known much later, as Demigos rarely washed in clean water.
***
Seven years of studying under Demigos were not wasted for Mirastir. True, he turned out to be not very capable in terms of learning Telossian science and philosophy, especially the philosophy of his teacher, which he considered quite... Specific. Mirastir, as a true descendant of Airisufir knights, was interested in beautiful themes, as well as fighting, and not this... Everything. Crap. But Demigos was excellent in the art of Telossian wrestling, and his unexpected strictness toward the student helped the latter bulk up considerably, despite the harsh conditions. And in some ways—thanks to these harsh conditions. As for becoming a teacher, however, that was as far off as the celestial sphere—Mirastir personally saw how Demigos took down a bull with his bare hands because it gored him.
And then came the important moment—Mirastir returned to a home so distant yet so dear, sitting once again at the Heliomars' dining table to taste the exquisite and abundant festive food he had missed in foreign lands. The table groaned under meat, birds, fish, and fragrant fruits—and none of this had to be obtained by his own hard work between sparring sessions; no, his parents were glad to see their son's return home and spared him nothing.
However, Mirastir knew that all this was temporary, for during his studies, his dream had only grown stronger. A dream of campaigns, distant lands... And a companion with white hair who would always fight beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere deep in his soul, he always believed that he exhausted his body and strove for greater heights specifically for this—to one day be worthy of a true, beautiful battle-companion. This is the most important thing; for can an eagle exist without the sky, or waves without the wind? So too must a real man strive for the most beautiful creature that can exist on this blessed land.
Of course, to be completely worthy of a Selvarian (or at least a girl with Selvarian blood, let's be realistic), it would still be extremely important and useful to find a real, experienced Selvarian who would agree to share his combat experience with a foreigner. Clema... Direct ancestor of the Airisufir youth. Part of the realization of his dream became the search for her, if she were suddenly still alive, for judging by the diaries of his great-grandfather, she was quite kind and more than strong in battle, so that thanks to her help, Mirastir could move one step closer to being a true Selvarian.
After just one week, the young Heliomar continued his thorny path.
***
(winter 729)
Another eight years. And he walks through the streets of Clematis, his hometown, which are both so familiar and so unfamiliar. Not shy of his white hair, nor his muscled arms exposed to the world.
Not a glance that is as enthusiastic and open to everything as before. But still young eyes with a small spark of faith. They do not cast down or avert when passersby look at them; he has nothing to hide. This man betrayed neither his faith nor his dreams and ideals.
When he got hope of finding his dream in Serberia, he despised danger and went there, after her. But he miscalculated and suffered: he was a gladiator in the arena. He had to fight both humans and beasts to earn his freedom. Only once did he refuse to fight, when his opponent turned out to be a girl with white hair... The organizers of the Competitive events, of course, did not appreciate the gladiator's persistence and did not strip him of everything only because he was a favorite of the local public.
He eventually freed himself; he earned it. But not without losses—his body was covered in new scars that he would rather not have. An already unremarkable mind was dulled by constant head injuries. That girl—she left a mark on his heart, but died in one of the battles, right before his eyes.
So he returned home. But not for long—for an eagle cannot live without the skies, nor waves without the wind.
Place of birth: Airisufir (June 702)
White hair
Endurance: 4(+1)(+3)
Agility: 1(+1)(+1)
Perception: 6(+1)
Speed: 4(+1)
Intelligence: 4(+1)(-2)
Spirit: 0(+1)
Faith: 0(+1)
Charisma: 0(+1)
Beauty: 8(+1)(-3)
Pankration 3, Body Sculpture 6, Mind Power 6, Unyielding, Relentless
Ambidexterity 1, Persistence 1
Two one-handed axes
Books saturated with the philosophy and brutality of Demigos
Money
Conviction: Church of Arteria
***
A bit later, strolling down the street, Mirastir saw the back of a head with silvery hair, which he mistook for white in the deceptive light of the lamp. The gladiator caught up with this person to make sure, but seeing a face with a black mustache and eyebrows, he only sighed in disappointment. To his surprise, this man not only didn't take offense at the brazen staring at his visage, but instead immediately struck up a long and rambling conversation about some heroes and, Arteria knows, what else. Mirastir himself poorly remembers how he gave consent to Rogdan Kraffmeyer that he would certainly participate in his event. But it seems Rogdan, in turn, assured him that during their feats they would certainly become great fighters and find Selvarian heroes, and Great-grandmother Clema (also an undoubted heroine), and a Selvarian beauty of a girl, of course, as well. Even if the fighter didn't quite correctly understand his newly minted leader, he reasoned that there were still chances for his hopes to be fulfilled, and besides, Rogdan was not alien to him in worldview, also a lover of daydreaming.
Thus Mirastir became one of the Golden Griffins, not yet knowing what he had gotten himself into...
(May 23, 518)
Arteria be my witness, I am so tired of these constant skirmishes with non-humans. I want to leave it all behind, abandon this war and these conquests. Every evening I polish my sword so as not to smell the blood of these creatures—creatures who are actually not to blame, almost human like all of us, but cursed by ancient chaos and therefore unable to understand either the essence of their nature or that we did not originally come to take their home, but merely to live as neighbors. Of course, the Magister is sure that the war must continue until the enemies surrender or die... And he can be understood, after everything he has seen. But I would probably just wall myself off from all these barbarians and live peacefully in the lands we already have.
(June 2, 518)
This is very strange... I didn't think the Selvarians had reached this far, yet here she is, a girl unlike anyone I have ever encountered before.
She claims she had been following our detachment for a long time, not daring to approach for fear of being noticed. However, an inflamed wound forced her to turn to us for help. And indeed, her head is in a pitiful state. The horn is fractured right at the base, and it seems this is leading to a non-healing and ever-growing abscess. If things continue this way, whether she is a Selvarian or not, she will die.
The girl claims that in exchange for our help, she will repay us with her aid in battle, as is fitting for Selvarians. The decision was mine to make, and I said I would give instructions to the healers if she laid down her arms.
She refused. Arteria knows I would be glad to help, even someone like her, who along with her brothers and sisters killed our Arterian brothers and sisters by the thousands for no reason. But I cannot allow an armed, dangerous stranger to be treated right in our camp. And she truly is dangerous—when my adjutant approached to take the woman's weapon, he received a look that made it clear: only one more step separated him from his own death.
In short, she left. I ordered the patrols to increase vigilance but not to engage in conflict unless necessary.
(June 7, 518)
We spotted an abandoned centaur camp. A bad sign. Moreover, the Selvarian girl has been periodically spotted by patrols these past few days. It is unlikely she will attack on her own, but my knights are definitely anxious about her, which is affecting morale.
(June 8, 518)
We were attacked at night. Fortunately, we had time to prepare; the tripwires around the camp worked perfectly. Those centaurs who weren't injured by the ropes were forced to slow their attack pace and receive a good volley of arrows from us.
And yet, the next wave was powerful. Hatchets and fire arrows flew at us—the savages were not afraid to burn their own forests. The knights also struggled to survive the cavalry charge.
And then something amazing happened—the centaurs were attacked from the rear. It was hard to see anything except a white blur, but the panic that seized our enemy was telling, while our knights, conversely, grew decisively emboldened and launched a counterattack under my command.
Few non-humans survived this battle. But I am glad they stayed alive; they will return to the tribe and continue their long-suffering lineage, and their descendants will know that one must not feud with the knights of Clematis, blessed by Arteria.
Everyone worked together to put out the fire in the camp, including the Selvarian girl (I didn't stop her when I saw). Hard to believe, but using a pike, she carried six buckets of water at a time without any difficulty. And this despite her feminine, delicate appearance, in which she was not inferior to the finest ladies of the order.
Then she approached me and said that she had helped us without any preconditions or agreements, and asked if it wasn't a matter of honor for me to do the same for her? I was forced to agree, and we placed her in the infirmary.
Just imagine, the Selvarian girl endured this battle and the subsequent physical labor during the fire with a massive inflammation on the back of her head! The healers said they would likely have to remove part of the skull at the base of the horn, so advanced the condition had become.
(June 9, 518)
The Selvarian introduced herself as Clema. Undoubtedly, a surprising coincidence...
Meanwhile, the healers complained to me that they couldn't find her a suitable shirt, as all the clothes, including men's, turned out to be too small for her shoulders. The way Clema looked now was indecent for a girl. I promised that I would address this problem with Little Kramers; he should have something.
But most importantly, after the discussions and preparations, the doctors have already begun the operation. May Arteria preserve her.
(June 16, 518)
The healers said that pus should no longer form. These were difficult days for Clema, as the already painful postoperative wound had to be constantly reopened, but she bore it all stoically.
And I am still amazed how, given such physical attributes, this Selvarian has such a pleasant, quiet voice, as if a little titbird is hiding in her mighty chest. And this is not a consequence of the illness; Clema spoke the same way before the operation.
In short, in every trait, this girl never ceases to admire me. It would be sad if our paths diverged after her recovery.
(February 10, 522, on a separate sheet)
Be with me. Stay with me a little longer.
I know we are from different worlds. Your hair smells of blizzard and like a storm it beats against my visor when we rush toward our enemies.
You always get ahead of me, even when I ask you to wait, but only after making sure that I am indeed following you.
Your face is whiter than lilies, but it flushes and becomes like a tea rose when I pay you compliments.
I always beat you when we wrestle—but I see how much effort it takes for you to let me win. It is like a separate training session, which makes your strength seem even more terrifying, yet beautiful and graceful, just as a formidable white tiger is beautiful and graceful.
When we stand back to back, I hear your breathing, and your warmth warms me. Soon you begin to breathe in unison with me, and I, like some peasant, am ready to laugh right in the middle of a heated battle.
It seems to me that you are the second girl on the entire continent after Arteria in your features, your gentle voice, and kind gaze, your slight proud snub-nose, your voice like a flute, and your ability to defeat your enemies, whom you briefly began to call my enemies. This cannot be true, my eyes and ears deceive me, I know, but I am glad to be deceived, especially since this deception is small.
And now, when you told me that you want to move on, while I am still tied to my suzerain and my land by the bonds of my duty...
I tell you.
Be with me. Stay with me a little longer.
A small fair-haired boy greedily read these lines once again. Clema, a northerner... Who, after these passionate lines, lived with his great(great?)grandfather until the death of that noble man.
And bore him children, and colored the hair of their entire lineage the color of a distant northern land.
Isn't that wonderful? And Dad told him that northerners live very long. Maybe they are still alive, and are still performing feats in Vesteria according to their indomitable Selvarian nature? Maybe even his great(great?)grandmother is still alive? If only he could meet her...
***
The long road was coming to an end, but one fair-haired man still couldn't talk enough with his equally blond teenage son.
-- In short, these are the ideas your future teacher presented to the world; now you understand why we aren't going to Telos for nothing. Note that when I met Demigos myself, he was just starting to philosophize and was unknown to anyone; it was pure luck, but now you have the opportunity to study science under someone whose books are read by all the educated world. Don't miss it, Mirastir, try your best.
-- Okay, dad, -- even after these words of encouragement, the boy was afraid to leave the parental home for a long time, but he tried not to show it. After all, he was already an adult; he would study a bit and then set off on a journey toward adventure, just as his father had done in his youth. And who knows, maybe...
At the last thought, Mirastir involuntarily touched the bag containing the diaries that were so important to him.
The parent smiled, seeing this gesture:
-- And don't daydream too much! Alright, now a test. Tell me in general terms what you have learned about Demigos' philosophy.
-- Uhhhhh, -- life had not prepared Mirastir for this. -- Well, he... Demigos... In general... He wrote many books...
-- Let's say. And what are these books about?
-- Well... About philosophy... About... Reasonings there...
-- Well doneeee! I didn't doubt your abilities for a second, -- dad hugged his son and patted him on the back. -- Even after two repetitions, absolutely nothing remained in your head. With such talents, it will cost you nothing in the future to develop immunity to any mental effects, if you haven't already. Tremble, wizards and seducers, my son will not fall into your cleverly laid nets, not because he will neutralize them, no, he will simply walk past and not notice! So, alright, let's try again then. Briefly.
-- Oh daaaaad! Better tell me, will I meet... well, Selvarians there?
The father looked at Mirastir for a long time.
-- I don't think so. I haven't met a single one in my whole life. But a half-blood—you'll surely meet. People like us attract each other... Otherwise—pray to Arteria and everything happens sooner or later, if it will be useful to you.
The boy cheered up at these words.
***
"Where is this school... Where is it..."
Mirastir walked through the Telos polis, where his father had dropped him off, and repeatedly asked passersby the same question:
-- Could you tell me where Demigos' school is? Excuse me please, where is Demigos' school?
There were two reactions—people shrugged their shoulders in surprise, but more often—they clutched their stomachs and burst into loud laughter. The boy was frightened by such a violent reaction and ran aside.
Eventually, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and, barely containing their amusement, pointed a finger away from the center of the polis.
-- That waaaay, heehee, for you! Demigos has school there today! Bwahaha, people, did you hear what he pulled off?!
Mirastir didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as he was already rushing in the indicated direction at full speed. But upon reaching the edge of the city, he encountered only disappointment—he found nothing resembling a school or a forum, nor a sign saying "Demigos teaches here," or whatever is supposed to hang in such a case? All that appeared before his eyes now was a dirty, trampled field and herds of pigs, diligently and selflessly eating from several troughs placed across the field.
For some time, Mirastir just stood there lost and stared hypnotized at this scene, feeling increasingly nauseous, but for some reason finding no strength to turn around and return to the polis to search again. And then... He thought he imagined it, but... No, he really saw a human head in a trough with pig food!
The boy ran closer, but the pigs blocked his view, so he could no longer see and confirm. He had to forcibly push aside the dirty animals and—there it was, the head... Eyes open, as if alive, and seemingly looking straight at him... What a vile, terrible death!
The head smirked. Huge muscular arms emerged from the trough, each nearly as thick as a pig, and the person to whom all this belonged rose to his full height, only intensifying the already significant shock.
-- What do you want, kid? Can't you see I'm contemplating here?
That is how Mirastir met the great philosopher Demigos, a Telossian with white Selvarian hair, and his philosophy of developing man and humanity through humiliation, idleness, as well as internal and external poverty. Of course, regarding the hair... That would become known much later, as Demigos rarely washed in clean water.
***
Seven years of studying under Demigos were not wasted for Mirastir. True, he turned out to be not very capable in terms of learning Telossian science and philosophy, especially the philosophy of his teacher, which he considered quite... Specific. Mirastir, as a true descendant of Airisufir knights, was interested in beautiful themes, as well as fighting, and not this... Everything. Crap. But Demigos was excellent in the art of Telossian wrestling, and his unexpected strictness toward the student helped the latter bulk up considerably, despite the harsh conditions. And in some ways—thanks to these harsh conditions. As for becoming a teacher, however, that was as far off as the celestial sphere—Mirastir personally saw how Demigos took down a bull with his bare hands because it gored him.
And then came the important moment—Mirastir returned to a home so distant yet so dear, sitting once again at the Heliomars' dining table to taste the exquisite and abundant festive food he had missed in foreign lands. The table groaned under meat, birds, fish, and fragrant fruits—and none of this had to be obtained by his own hard work between sparring sessions; no, his parents were glad to see their son's return home and spared him nothing.
However, Mirastir knew that all this was temporary, for during his studies, his dream had only grown stronger. A dream of campaigns, distant lands... And a companion with white hair who would always fight beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere deep in his soul, he always believed that he exhausted his body and strove for greater heights specifically for this—to one day be worthy of a true, beautiful battle-companion. This is the most important thing; for can an eagle exist without the sky, or waves without the wind? So too must a real man strive for the most beautiful creature that can exist on this blessed land.
Of course, to be completely worthy of a Selvarian (or at least a girl with Selvarian blood, let's be realistic), it would still be extremely important and useful to find a real, experienced Selvarian who would agree to share his combat experience with a foreigner. Clema... Direct ancestor of the Airisufir youth. Part of the realization of his dream became the search for her, if she were suddenly still alive, for judging by the diaries of his great-grandfather, she was quite kind and more than strong in battle, so that thanks to her help, Mirastir could move one step closer to being a true Selvarian.
After just one week, the young Heliomar continued his thorny path.
***
(winter 729)
Another eight years. And he walks through the streets of Clematis, his hometown, which are both so familiar and so unfamiliar. Not shy of his white hair, nor his muscled arms exposed to the world.
Not a glance that is as enthusiastic and open to everything as before. But still young eyes with a small spark of faith. They do not cast down or avert when passersby look at them; he has nothing to hide. This man betrayed neither his faith nor his dreams and ideals.
When he got hope of finding his dream in Serberia, he despised danger and went there, after her. But he miscalculated and suffered: he was a gladiator in the arena. He had to fight both humans and beasts to earn his freedom. Only once did he refuse to fight, when his opponent turned out to be a girl with white hair... The organizers of the Competitive events, of course, did not appreciate the gladiator's persistence and did not strip him of everything only because he was a favorite of the local public.
He eventually freed himself; he earned it. But not without losses—his body was covered in new scars that he would rather not have. An already unremarkable mind was dulled by constant head injuries. That girl—she left a mark on his heart, but died in one of the battles, right before his eyes.
So he returned home. But not for long—for an eagle cannot live without the skies, nor waves without the wind.
Place of birth: Airisufir (June 702)
White hair
"Parameters"
Strength: 6(+1)(+1)Endurance: 4(+1)(+3)
Agility: 1(+1)(+1)
Perception: 6(+1)
Speed: 4(+1)
Intelligence: 4(+1)(-2)
Spirit: 0(+1)
Faith: 0(+1)
Charisma: 0(+1)
Beauty: 8(+1)(-3)
"Skills"
Pankration 3, Body Sculpture 6, Mind Power 6, Unyielding, Relentless
Ambidexterity 1, Persistence 1
"Equipment"
Gladiator beltTwo one-handed axes
Books saturated with the philosophy and brutality of Demigos
Money
Conviction: Church of Arteria
***
A bit later, strolling down the street, Mirastir saw the back of a head with silvery hair, which he mistook for white in the deceptive light of the lamp. The gladiator caught up with this person to make sure, but seeing a face with a black mustache and eyebrows, he only sighed in disappointment. To his surprise, this man not only didn't take offense at the brazen staring at his visage, but instead immediately struck up a long and rambling conversation about some heroes and, Arteria knows, what else. Mirastir himself poorly remembers how he gave consent to Rogdan Kraffmeyer that he would certainly participate in his event. But it seems Rogdan, in turn, assured him that during their feats they would certainly become great fighters and find Selvarian heroes, and Great-grandmother Clema (also an undoubted heroine), and a Selvarian beauty of a girl, of course, as well. Even if the fighter didn't quite correctly understand his newly minted leader, he reasoned that there were still chances for his hopes to be fulfilled, and besides, Rogdan was not alien to him in worldview, also a lover of daydreaming.
Thus Mirastir became one of the Golden Griffins, not yet knowing what he had gotten himself into...