Percival of Evergloam

White Knights, plain old good guys, folks who take charge and want to take the city's problems in hand altruistically are a natural fit for this section.

Percival of Evergloam

Postby IamLEAM1983 » Thu Feb 28, 2013 3:52 pm

Name: Percival of Evergloam
Age: 845 years old
Gender: male
Species: gruff

Strengths: like most others of his kind, Percy is characterized by his impressive height and physical power. Towering over others at most of seven feet tall and covered in layers of muscular growth that would make compulsive bodybuilders green with envy, the Viscount's core ability is his sense of presence. To be honest, Alexander Ruthven, with all of his years, doesn't quite reach Percy's heights of honestly unconscious and yet utterly noble bearing.

Considering, rooms turn silent when he enters them. When he speaks, others listen. His words, though not always in tune with today's realities, are always considered. As far as Summer Fae are concerned, he is the local embodiment of Law and Order. His mantle of Viscount commands respect and a kind of reverent fear in those he faces in single combat. This makes him as deadly in a battle of wits as in confrontations involving Fae steel facing mortal iron.

Having been a part of Hope since its inclusion in the British Dominion, Percy also has the sizable advantage of knowing the city almost as well as Sophia herself. Condemned areas most modern-day city planners will have forgotten about generations ago are still fresh in his mind, which means he has little to no trouble ferreting out everything from Freak dens that aren't up to code or sweat-shops hidden away in the condemned wing of an old speakeasy.

This also speaks of the sharp quality of his senses. While his eyesight leaves a little to be desired, his nose and ears are second to none. Gruffs being essentially a case of prey species rearranged in the guise of apex predators thanks to via, the Viscount has access to the keen nerves that usually enable billy goats to flee from those who'd take a bite out of them. Comparatively, however, he uses his instincts to seek out trouble, instead of running away from it.

You might also say gruffs are XXL versions of fauns. However, Percy doesn't share his cousin species' aptitude towards curative magic or fertility alterations. Instead, he merely is a competent battle medic, able to tend to everything from mundane injuries to dealing with a cut that's been infected with what the Sidhe justifiably call the Bane – which is cold iron. He isn't much of a long-term nurse, however, and chiefly specializes in ways to take someone who's apparently out for the count and putting them back into something like a battle-worthy shape.

As a fighter, Percival is exceedingly proficient with his claymore, Vigilance. Unlike Bucky's odachi, however, the double-edged and flat blade allows for some amount of speed, although not as much as what you'd find in the case of someone wielding a single-handed weapon. It's also more proficient in thrusting gestures, while he does lack the Clank's ability to cleave through just about anything modern Industry produces.

As a rule, his own fighting style is much more composed and controlled. To Bucky go the one-hit kills, Percy's more concerned with toughing it out and crippling foes, more than killing them. This allows him to nurture a sense of economy in his gestures, and shows that he displays the polar opposite of the kitaiteki's sometimes overpowering lust for battle. It's never something Percy enjoys; but combat is still something he's good at.
Weaknesses: like all other Fae, the Viscount is susceptible to high-iron contents. Modern alloys don't bother him and Paradise metals especially don't, either, but any Fae blade forged with an unusually high concentration of pure iron will cut through him as if he were made of cheesecloth, regardless of the weapon's actual edge. White fire will briefly rim the edges of the wound, and most of the pain he'll experience will come from deep within himself; as if a sudden onset of deep and crippling depression could be relocated from the head and heart to another part of your average bipedal body. Fae who come in contact with the Bane may appear physically intact, but the limb that touched cold iron will often be rendered useless for several long minutes – while something deeper, colder and more searing than simple and mundane pain clutches at their heart.

Percy has enough phlegm to mitigate the emotional effects of the Bane, but it doesn't change the fact that cold iron, even applied superficially, will hurt him more than any Paradise-made mono-filament blade or viciously accurate gunshot wound. He's been harmed and injured enough times in his life for his chest, back and arms to show a web-work of fine lines where fur no longer grows, but he'd say that even the puckered spots of pinkish skin against his abdomen and the abdominal shotgun wound they come from are things he'd face again, if it freed him from the need to watch out for especially forged Fae blades designed from the ground up to kill other Sidhe.

Being of Faerie, Percy's inherent timelessness is also something of a hurdle he has to face. Provided he doesn't stack up enough wounds to croak or is put out to pasture by cold iron, he will always and forever remain as he was, back when Eirean and he reached America's shores for the first time, in 1680. This is a somewhat common problem for most Fae, in that their potentially serious mantle can crystallize their personality and mindset in a configuration that might seem optimal on the short run, but that will inevitably become obsolete. Considering, the Viscount Evergloam has the hardest of times not thinking and acting as though Elizabethan England were still unfolding. He understands that mortals have the luxury to change their entire societies around relatively quickly, but modern-day English is something he only partially grasps.

You could say he suffers from willingly endured mental shackles that force him to adhere to the ideals of chivalry, gentility, to courtroom ethics and etiquette, and to consistently view Hope's mundane cultures as being alien to him. He doesn't hate them, doesn't have any specific judgment against or for them – he just can't understand them. A lot of things about 2025's Hope confuse him, which occasionally forces him to try and apply binary notions to complex patterns. Transhumanism being a good thing while some people might abuse it and turn bad is something he has a hard time processing. He understands the logical links he'd have to make and, again, has nothing against cyborgs – he just can't understand them no matter how hard he tries. With that in mind, he tends to default to the notion that augmented individuals are to be watched and monitored.

This also speaks to the fact that “Viscount Hope” is less a job than a state of being, a mental and physical configuration any other Fae could prospectively assume. Most of what Percy is truly is his own personality and sense of Self, but there's a chunk of that poise, physical power and noble bearing that depends on his being able to actually do his job. The Viscount only ever is the Viscount as long as he's allowed to organize and mete out justice in his lands – and those aren't Hope. Percy is Chief Alderan's vis-à-vis for Evergloam, Hope's twin in Faerie. As long as the gruff works and exists in the physical plane, power is inexorably leeched off of him. It's a slow enough process as to not really matter in the context of training Shield's kids, but long-term stays could decidedly become problematic.

As a rule, the longer the time he spends in Hope, the more understanding of modern-day foibles and proclivities he becomes. The closer he becomes to genuinely relating with the mortals he meets or those he trains, the less of the Viscount he becomes. Feeling his mind unravel its own shackles is a freeing and comfortable sensation, but it's also joined with a loss of power. Oaths become increasingly harder for him to weave, he grows increasingly susceptible to small quantities of iron, his pain threshold shrinks...

If imprisoned in the mortal plane for long enough, Sir Percy will no longer be Sir Percy. He'll just be Percy, your average and vulnerable Fae Commoner. Considering, he has to return to Evergloam for at least six hours a week, for his mantle to be replenished. Fae society considers “loose” mantles to be a troubling sign of negligence, which is something Eirean will not tolerate. Thankfully, whatever his increased mental flexibility in those weaker moments allows him to grasp remains in place. Returning to Faerie isn't so much a proverbial Reset button as it's a refuelling station for the complex and intricate dynamic of Magic and Will that forms your average Oath and the mantle it may or may not support.

At the very least, this means he'll still gradually loosen up – to a degree. You don't carry a cape and claymore around in 2025 if you don't honestly prefer to carry them around to begin with. He might grasp the essentials of modern-day living, but don't expect him to suddenly show interest in Hope's lot of computers or cybernetic augmentations.

Similarly, his being a guest in Hope – albeit a graciously accepted one – means the laws of hospitality are as binding to him as any other Oath. He cannot enter new private spaces unless explicitly invited in. Failure to uphold the same laws as a host would cost him a shred of his mantle, which is another deep shame in Summer society. Naturally, this doesn't apply to public spaces or areas belonging to the City proper, like subway tunnels, sewers, relay stations for electrical towers, etc.

Appearance: modern observers tend to compare gruffs to fauns on steroids and fed growth hormones at birth – and the analogy would be correct. Most anthropologists suggest that fauns remained small in stature largely in order to remain relatable for the mortal populations Faerie interacted with in Earth's distant past. Gruffs, on the other hand, were pushed by arcane forces and evolutionary stress alike to grow big, strong and resilient. They tend to be seen as Summer's heavy-hitters, its shock troops and footsoldiers. Considering, while fauns are said to have had a decidedly pastoral outlook on things, their burlier cousins were more militarized and organized. Percy's native culture is one of innate chivalry, daily self-sacrifice, constant betterment as a warrior and ever-present concern as guardian entities. Some have even suggested that the Medieval notion of knighthood is a mortal adaptation of the eminently regimented notion of Service that gruffs maintain.

With that in mind, Percival doesn't have much in common with the way modern Sword and Sorcery epics present footsoldiers and knights as. We like to imagine chiselled bodies devoid of any imperfections, trained not so much for peak power as for peak desirability; as if suggesting nobility and surety of purpose would keep you alive on the battlefield. To the Sidhe go the privilege of harbouring power both physical and intellectual beyond the visible boundaries of their corporeal selves – the Wyldfae, like all gruffs, still display their power and intent as plainly as your average mortal human. In Percy's case, that power stems as much from his personality as it comes from his savage body.

At seven feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds of hard, flat and unflattering muscle covered in a myriad of ugly scars, the Viscount Hope is the spitting image of the Medieval full spectrum warrior. Too built and too heavy to fit within today's beauty canons, he has the kind of overall physique humans can spend decades training for, without ever coming close to reaching it. As could be expected, however, his long, long history across Faerie's battlefields has left him with the kind of back, chest, arms and legs that nobody could conceivably consider attractive. On the other hand, rippling and tightly controlled power is perceptible in every single gesture he carries out. A human with as much bulk as him would feel ungainly, while even with his crooked legs, he manages to suggest more than mere strength. The innate speed and flexibility of fauns also features in his anatomy in that unlike Bucky, he's able to bring his claymore up to bear in the blink of an eye and to repeatedly cleave at foes in a way you wouldn't especially call fast, but that is still by far more agile and spry than the former Kitaiteki's technique. Moments of rest might suggest a fair bit of ponderousness, but Eirean could testify of her champion's ability to blitz across the field better than the most motivated and jacked-up of all NFL linebackers. It isn't much of a surprise for anyone to know that his usual methods as a fighter involve charging the enemy with a fittingly ram-like determination and spending several long minutes pressing his attacks relentlessly. Most of his injuries come from blows he's forced himself to shrug off, where lesser individuals would have blacked out or at least staggered for a while.

With thick, curling horns and a face that somehow manages to make the manliest of all fauns look like a cute lawn ornament, there's a kind of austerity that's very much perceptible in the way he moves, how he speaks and how his thoughts communicate to his body. Watch him close enough, however, and for long enough, and you realize that unlike Aldergard, he doesn't have a detrimental set of racial instincts to push back. He genuinely cares and is fully committed to the task of training Shield's newcomers. Smiles are quick but soft, looks of satisfaction are rare but feel all-encompassing. As any true citizen of Summer, Percival is racially inclined to consider mortals as frail, weak, but precious and noble creatures – agents of Change in a world that would otherwise stagnate. This obviously colours the way he acts around others. Show a fragile nature despite your honest efforts and he'll catch on to it. He never coddles but nor is he cruel. That ponderousness of his then becomes understandable as hard-earned patience, especially around those who honestly couldn't be expected to fend for themselves in a pinch. As Wallace Doherty could tell you, the local gruffs rushing into a blazing building never need to be told what to do. The children, the sick, the elderly and disabled all come out first. It's not even something that needs to be elaborated upon – it's entirely a part of the species' mile-wide noble streak.

Considering, the man who looks like a freakishly mutated and cosplaying two-legged giant mountain goat has big, knubby – and surprisingly gentle fingers. John Smith has trouble with his size and shape in a world where mammoth anthros aren't a dime a dozen, while Percival's mastered the art of manipulating door knockers, pencils, delicate teacups or flimsy reams of paper long ago. A bit like a trained rescue dog, you can expect to see him unconsciously hover around injured team members, seemingly always ready and willing to block off access with his own body, if need be. If breaking bones comes easily to him, so does leading someone who's four heads shorter than him through a courtroom waltz.

Cover all of that with a fine, if thick covering of snowy fur, give it piercing yellow eyes, and dress it in laced leather pants and an armless quilted shirt that would make modern resellers of Ren Faire costumes drool with envy. Add a set of genuine chainmail underneath it, along with a deep forest-green cape, complete with a hood. He'll usually strap Vigilante's scabbard underneath his cape, his earned HPD shield dangling from an oversized chain around his neck. The thing honestly looks small and flimsy when compared to his bulk, as if it were one of these fairly trite “Best Friends Forever” charms.

Notably, he does carry iron directly on his person, but not anywhere where it might touch flesh. Rather, simple horseshoes are affixed to the underside of his cloven hooves, allowing him to make kicks all the more damaging if the poor soul on the receiving end happens to be of Faerie... He hammers different types of horseshoes depending on the season or purpose intended, from spiked to patterned with a special ribbing designed to increase traction when pushing through Sandhill's gravel quarry or Deepest Summer's fairly tropical environments.
Behaviour: on the surface, you'd swear he and Aldergard would be best buds. They're both uncompromising, have exceedingly clear ideals and goals – but the fact is that this isn't born out of a simple and pragmatic outlook, in the oversized goat's case.

To understand Sir Percival, the concept of chivalry needs to be understood. Not necessarily the gentile pursuit of a fair damsel, and certainly not the Eastern conception of bushido. You have to go back to the core tenets of chivalry, before the courtroom etiquette and the thirty-six thousand steps towards vaguely suggesting interest towards someone of the opposite sex.

Sir Percival of Evergloam isn't out to die for the sake of an ideal. Good soldiers fight on, he believes – they don't adhere to the maudlin notion that those who died a so-called “good death” are more deserving of the Afterlife's rewards than others. Good soldiers don't seek out glory, they instead understand and accept the thankless, expeditious and ugly nature of their work for the greater good. Good soldiers don't follow politics or courtroom machinations. They don't lust for power or decry those who spend time trying to seize it. They make their own judgements and hope for the best, sure and safe in the knowledge that their final decision was made with everyone's best interests in mind.

A true warrior forgets himself. He focuses on the task at hand, as battles don't necessarily involve a sword or guns or blows being dealt. A true warrior pays attention to his fellow combatants, whether they may be using weapons or words or laws. A true warrior remembers why he, personally, chose to fight to begin with. He doesn't spend time mulling over what the President or Oberon or Titania says; he analyses the situation and acts accordingly.

Above all and always, a warrior is vigilant. A warrior seizes the instant, whether it be through the observation of tranquil beauty or the grasping of an opportunity to land the killing blow. A warrior never forgets these tenets, and he keeps them close to heart around those who can't fight for themselves. As considering it all – even someone who isn't swinging a sword or picking apart an enemy's defenses or plans is fighting a battle of his or her own. It won't surprise anyone to know Percival's pulled kids out of fires only to spend long hours lightly squeezing a little hand or two, waiting for seized lungs to work normally and for those young eyes to open again.

Looking at him, you realize that his immortality doesn't factor into his calculations. He's close to a thousand years old and still, he lives on a day-by-day basis. Overarching schemes and plans are for people who still are looking for something, who still have something to strive for. Percy's long since found what he desired, which makes a decidedly mellow immortal out of him. He very clearly lives in the moment, the Now most of us keep forgetting about. Unlike Bucky, however, this innate tranquility doesn't manifest as the desire to comfortably snooze entire afternoons away. He's exceedingly active and has a fairly busy schedule, but you get the sense that nothing stresses him much. Anything and everything that's presented to him isn't much more than new data, a new opponent to face.

This speaks to the strength of his intellect, as well. People see him and assume he'll let out his borderline-infrasound bleat if he's so much as looked at, that he's some kind of serious bruiser type who coats his tiffs and fights with “Ye Olde English” to sound profound and suitably Faelike. The truth is, he doesn't have a direct line to Mac Loch, Tala and Alderan for nothing. As said above, he values intellectual debate, seeing it as another form of combat. His low and surprisingly cultivated voice has graced many an auditorium over the last centuries. Point in fact, he served as the moderator for the last electoral debate between Wallace Doherty and Baverley Walton. This was one of the few and exceedingly rare instances in which he was seen sporting a suit and tie – arguably the result of Glamourie and not that of some brave tailor's valiant and exhausting efforts to cover this kind of furry mass in decent silk and linen...

All the same, spend enough time around the Viscount and you realize that the genteel and martial considerations most gruffs have elevated to the point of cultural landmarks don't exclude things like fun and letting their hair – or fur – down. Rather, Percival's perception of what's fun is just a little more subdued than what you'd expect. If the kids end up taking to paintball matches, he'll be sorely disappointed. He's much more into Archie's wavelengths of fun, with books, music and what he calls “watchtower lays” making up his idea of leisure. Expect to see him staring off into the distance on late afternoons, usually through a window, while some stern little ditty in Briton, Old English or co-opted Liturgic Latin bubbles out from his mouth. He doesn't fluently speak selkie, but is sufficiently culturally aware of their own little shanties to understand that oddly enough, both species share similar base concerns in their song themes : weathering Winter's cold, honouring fallen brethren, the fair and patient love of a pretty face waiting back in Summer's warm core... Just about the only really differing themes would involve fishing or the currents of the sea.

Unsurprisingly, Percy isn't terribly seaworthy. Fauns have been known to adapt to marine life, but gruffs are purely and simply land-lubbers in their very concept. This is more comical than a serious failing of his, but he doesn't set foot in Mertown often precisely because of his racial predisposition towards grimacing, turning green around the edges and possibly making his very knightly self feel undignified, after retching out into the sea. He doesn't need much to feel queasy, either. Looking at the gently bobbing docks of Meer Island from the safety of dry land is enough to trigger involuntary gulps and the appearance of sickly lines about his face. The reverse also applies. Like most mountain goats, the Viscount isn't terribly bothered by impressive heights. Being dragged out to Buck Tower by a smirking rodent who expected he'd make a lasting impression with his vertigo-inducing vista of the city didn't trigger much more than a pout and a politely concealed yawn.

Goals: to train Shield's members and, where appropriate, to enhance their natural talents with weapons, techniques and tactics of Fae origin. Chiefly, he intends to develop Aidan Drake into a telekinesis-based and highly adaptable fighter. The road towards Three juggling enemies with his sword or keeping them aloft with supernaturally powerful, yet shallow bullet impacts will be long and arduous, but he intends to prove that with a lot of work and some dedication, mundanes (or near-mundanes in Three's case) don't quite need to rely on an Exosuit to enhance their capabilities.

Otherwise, even Archie was surprised to find that the Viscount is suprisingly well-adjusted to his position. As much of an eternal bachelor as he seems to be, he finds companionship in his guardsmen and these new charges he's just earned, and seems to slightly belittle his own effects on the opposite sex. Being a Wyldfae, he tends to sell himself a little short in this regard : people are evidently more interested in the sleeker, more human models among the Sidhe, and a creature that makes the most buff of all mundane anthro goats look like a dwarf tends to be just a little south of that...

Still, he never complains, and he never fails to treat all women, even the most tomboyish members of the force who spent years trying to outgrow their having breasts, like proverbial ladies. As he lacks a bit of that “fixable” appeal brought about by heavy personal burdens, the shallower types tend to mistakenly assume there isn't much to him.

History: Percival was born in Albion – Great Britain's Faerie analogue – in 1180. To him, London was and still is Caer Lundein, a magnified version of your average Celtic settlement. To be more precise, however, he was born in the foothills surrounding Caer Lundein, where he spent long centuries in Summer's glow, charting the hillocks and valleys surrounding the Landsmeet. The name comes from the fact that historically, the caer was always where the Darkest and Deepest converged in the rare cases of their sending diplomatic envoys. There, Summer and Winter alike would receive them with the honours befitting their rank, and the hatchet would essentially be buried for the duration of the courier's stay. Considering, Percival and his clan of gruffs grew up distant from the core machinations of the true Fae, but still keenly aware of the constant tension between themselves and their homologues in the Dark and Deep. Mab and Morgana, as always, were never ready to budge an inch from their perception that they alone were in possession of the skills and courage required to fend off the Others. Of course, everyone knew that was their official line. Controlling all of the world's Nexuses would give untold power to fairly belligerent Sidhe and drastically change the course and tone of via the world over. This goes without mentioning the fact that a slew of eldritch political observers claimed that annexation wasn't so much their goal as an attempt at control, of communion with the Others...

Even the largely uneducated gruffs could see this plainly. Percy spent most of his youth helping with his clan's campgrounds and foraging as needed, both of these activities granting him keen survival and tactical skills. As these grew, so did his notoriety as a hunter, gatherer and ranger. In 1410, however, something happened that would change his clan's relationship with the Landsmeet and, in fact, with most of the accepted core of “polite” Fae society.

In late April of this year, London is said to have suffered an unusually vicious cold snap. Beyond the pale of the Thames' great via convergences, forces from Darkest Winter descended upon Caer Lundein by the cover of darkness. Malks and Black Dogs and – for the first time – Wisps were in their number, and dozens of Fae citizens perished in their beds without suspecting what had happened. Titania and Oberon, both deeply troubled and preoccupied with the task of interrogating those prisoners which had been successfully claimed, had no time to spare on the task of waiting for the nearby holds to receive their summons and send sufficient troops to stage a retaliatory Wild Hunt. Desperate for revenge, the Winter King had the idea of turning to the Wyldfae for assistance. Other courts had long-since reported success in trusting the plane's natives with titles, education and a defined sense of purpose.

Within the following weeks, two things of some import occurred. First, Percival was drafted and Knighted, while Oberon succeeded in breaking Darkest Winter's hold over the one Wisp they'd managed to capture. Now Sworn to Oberon's service and to the protection of the core elements of Winter, the being they'd soon call the White King became the source of a second Wisp brood – one that was sworn to the service of the rightful king, instead of the would-be usurper, Queen Mab. Eventually, while Percival would be drafted for Viscount status in Hope and Evergloam, the tamed native of Darkest Winter would go on to become the official Grand Duke of Winter. Before then, however, they'd both spend several generations earning their keep.

Starting in 1500, Percy began to set foot in the mortal plane, either alone or with a detachment of his fellow gruffs. As a Knight-Commander, his task was fairly simple: whenever and wherever swift action from Summer was required on the mortal plane, his group intervened. Clad in the best veils magic could produce and armed with the best weapons Fae craftsmanship could put together, they were sent to scour all of Europe in order to try and protect strong ley lines and Nexus sites whenever the local mundane forces had failed to recognize the presence of a threat. Operating in the margins of History and oftentimes throughout mudane wars, they thwarted the efforts of several groups either stemming from or affiliated with Darkest Winter and its allies, leading to some of their own conflicts against unfortunate souls who'd be touched by the maddening founts of the Void Weavers.

Whenever he returned home, his steadfast nature and adherence to orders and principles earned him a promotion. Before long, he'd exhausted the granular variations on a Barony and was declared to be eligible for a position as Viscount in the New World. Provided, of course, that mortals settled there. As for the Grand Duke, Oberon's forceful Oath had managed to snake its way deep through the cockles of the willowy being's heart, bringing the warmth of the hearth and the joy of cooking fires to a shard of ice Mab had intended to remain cold, cruel, analytical and distant.

The opportunity he'd been waiting for came in 1679, as Colonial endeavours allowed the Fae to begin the process of leaving Europe amongst the mortal pioneers, colonists and other discoverers. He and Eirean Hayes were respectively made Viscount and Countess. He would superintend the colonization of a small chunk of the New World's Fae alternate, while she would eventually become Countess Rhode Island.

Long before the Vienna Accords, the process of settling forced Percival to reveal his nature to a select few, out of various circumstances. Notably, his long voyage across the Atlantic aboard an English ship sorely tested his sea-worthiness – and found it to be wanting. The normally nimble fellow he'd always been spent most of seventy-two days nursing an upset stomach that wouldn't settle, which nurtured a teasing, if respectful and slightly maternal relationship between himself and the Countess.

Even after arriving, some amount of solid ground had to be acquired. 1680 saw him and Eirean be acquainted with Dirk Greene and begin their preparations for the settlement of Evergloam. This, however, would include the rather costly taming of the local Nexus and the curse it held active through the application of a fairly classic Fae stopgap method. Plant life, once very carefully introduced to the heart of a Nexus, will oftentimes develop in new and astounding ways. The process had been perfected ancestrally, allowing Summer and Winter alike to create sylvan tutelary spirits of a sort, which we tend to know better as dryads. The one who'd be called Sophia was planted and cared for with equal parts the average essentials to a plant and a steady dose of the Old World's philosophy and education, until she essentially stood as her own being, as much a part of the city as any other resident, while still being charged with the protection and care of the Centennial Tree.

This done, the Fae were free to more or less fade away for a few generations, while they worked on settling Evergloam. Both cities more or less developed in unison, as they shared the same ground, metaphysically, and freely influenced one another. Whatever profited Evergloam made the task of settling Hope easier, and whatever made things more difficult in Hope was also felt in Evergloam as a series of attenuating circumstances. Notably, the rampant development of Industry in the following centuries would briefly cause the Summer holding to lose some of its strength, and consequently bring about some of the harsher wintertime seasons the city will have ever known. Inversely, Zebediah Buck's by-proxy assault on the Tree would stir up enough via to be felt in Evergloam as an oddly useful turn of events. The links uniting both cities weren't always obvious – and they weren't always fair.

Still, Percival weathered the storm adequately, allowing the County of Rhode Island to join the ranks of the growing list of incorporated North American Fae Courts. He was finally given leave to append the city's name to his own identity in 1785. In doing so, his old ties to Caer Lundinium were severed and new bonds were forged in the New World. Over time, Evergloam would grow to be one of the first gruff settlement areas across the Atlantic, one where the old hunter-gatherer ethos was abandoned, in favour of the more tightly regimented structure that had followed in the wake of Oberon's decision to recognize the potential of all Wyldfae. To be born a gruff in Hope's twin (or in Hope itself) usually meant you'd be expected to conform to ideals of martial society and chivalry, and to accept the burden of protecting those living under Summer's watchful eye, be they Fae or mortal in origin.

Considering his nature, Evergloam and his own existence were some of the best-kept secrets in the City Hall from the English Colonial days up to the creation of the Vienna Accords. Rhode Island's success as a Summer holding would go so far as to grant Percy and Eirean access to the last covert vampire gathering in history, in which almost all bloodlines swore to abide by a new set of ethics, espousing transparency, honesty and a deeper commitment to the laws of the land. Matthias d'Aubignier's risky gamble paid off, as the Fair Folk of Summer and Winter alike also abided by the treaties' dispositions, along with most dragon breeds – at least, in an official capacity.

With the Accords signed, Hope stood in its best position ever recorded, in the industrial, employment and development markets. Concordantly, the increased options meant that theoretically, they'd have an easier time dealing with external threats. Still, despite Percy's open and regular collaboration with all Sherriffs, Marshals, Captains and Police Chiefs to have followed the city's swelling size, there wasn't much anyone could do, once Elysium began to rain fire and death down from the sky.

Gregory Rendell's aim had never been to attack Evergloam, as he ignored the city's existence entirely. Still, as linked as both urban entities were, Percy's hands were doubly filled. On the one hand, Chief Alderan requested all the help he possibly could from the local Fae contingents. On the other, the lizard's attack on Hope was felt in Evergloam as an invasion force riding forwards from atop the Black Ridge; Darkest Winter seizing the opportunity for weakness and easy pickings. Coordinating attacks and defensive plans on two simultaneous fronts tested every ounce of the gruff's patience, resourcefulness and ability. Eventually, Oberon sent the King and Queen's personal bodyguard forward, so that Percy would be free to focus on the mortal plane while another pair of competent hands would see to Evergloam's defense. The White King was sent forward, a move that required every ounce of authority Oberon could muster. Mab was battering at their gates and the King was sending out the turncoat?!

As for the former male spawning instance of the Wisps, he'd long since made his peace with the fact that his place was away from the visible members of the two officially recognized Courts. No matter how much gusto and appreciation Oberon's imposed mantle filled him with, he'd always remain a creature and creation of Mab's hands, essentially black ice radiating like amber with the hidden warmth of impossible Life, tucked away inside. Evergloam was briefly put under martial law, so that every pair of able hands would be put to its protection.

With Rendell defeated, Percival was free to appeal to the Army's deployed detachment and demand assistance. It was obviously given, and gave way to the fairly surreal sight of Apache helicopters flying through wide-open gates to Faerie, the far reaches of Evergloam pelted with dumb rockets and napalmed into submission. Wretched chemical warmth and the Bane's awful touch would briefly mar Evergloam's usually verdant landscape, but these were scars the land would endure with good cause. The Winter forces that hadn't left Faerie hadn't expected or been equipped to respond to mortal weaponry, and they were beat back to the other side of the Black Ridge.

With both threats dealt with, reconstruction began. Again, the Accords proved to be essential in how this would unfold, as vampire dens were briefly opened as temporary lodging solutions for certain mortal applicants. More still briefly emigrated to Evergloam, the Fae city's own rejuvenating architecture affecting Hope's own process as a general sense of good luck and ease of progress. It wasn't easy and it wasn't perfect, the forced fluctuation of the construction market proving to be a veritable gold mine for whomsoever wasn't afraid to cook the books a little, but it progressed fairly quickly.

Today, both cities, the Chief of Police and the Viscount are inextricably bound to one another, either through shared Oaths, shared states or a simple willingness to help. The White King's efforts have been instrumental in Hope's continued policy of tolerance towards Winter immigrants, as the popular consensus was that no Winter Fae could be trusted, in any shape or form whatsoever. He isn't liked, but his involvement in the Battle of Hope's distant shores in Faerie is officially recognized and noted. As for Percival himself, it'd be fair to say he's accepted a small slew of decorations from both sides of the fence, since 1975.

In fact, opinion polls suggest that some entirely mortal contingents would rather trust the gruff with the city's governance than the local ebullient walrus. To those cohorts, Percival of Evergloam tends to retort that he, regretfully, has little to no patience for politicos and suit-and-tie-wearing popinjays looking to advance personal agendas instead of the city's and its citizens' own needs. The electoral game is one he has no interest in whatsoever, as he instead prefers to focus on serving Hope and its citizens more directly.
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