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Doran please!

27th of Ashan 718

The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.
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Doran Cooney
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But What Is a Name?

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If it were a jest of some kind, the man was very committed - far beyond any point Doran had seen before. Their name was repeated, but the titles that followed sparked a light of distant recognition in Doran's dark eyes as his brows raised in astonishment. He knew that the streets of Rynmere were sometimes traveled by those of impressive feats and conquests - he'd just never really imaged he'd have an opportunity to speak with one of them. It was simultaneously awesome and, mostly, intimidating. It was clear that Doran - the Doran, it seemed - was not keen on sharing a name with him. He had no qualm: a name was merely that and had little other value to him. After all, it was not as if his own carried with it any prestige.

To his question, he reconsidered and offered a polite bow of his head. "'Cooney' suits me fine; I'm not quite presumptuous enough to insist the Hero of Oscillus share his name." He didn't really know much of the details. Stories of such things never held much interest to him - he was far more drawn to the more mundane and quiet wonders life had to offer. Still, it sounded impressive, and he had little doubt there was a tale of equal gravity behind it.

Shaking his head, he needed little effort to speak with genuine honesty, whether Ser Doran the Hero believed him or not. "While it would seem to be a more effective tactic, I act of my own accord. You were, simply put, the most intriguing person I'd seen all day. I like... intriguing." He knew he should have felt a bit more afraid, even with the steady presence of the city's guard, but he found the man's quick shifts - little flurries of chilled Zi'da air - to be fascinating. He was like a cold flame, sometimes gentle and others flaring frigidly. All he needed to do was try to keep enough distance to avoid the inevitable frostbite.

True to his seemingly oscillatory nature, Ser Doran the Hero's flurries calmed, enough he even seemed to wish Doran avoid any necessary self-desparagement. Finding "Ran" to have been a poorly considered moniker, Doran's lips curled with a hint of chagrin. "If it is not too much trouble, 'Cooney' would be as preferable as my given name." He nodded at the man's invitation, clearly uninhibited by the previous chill that still lingered gently on the alchemist's words. "Tea would be lovey! Perhaps you would be willing to share more about the 'they' you spoke of prior?"
Player's Note: Please feel free to assume Doran will follow him into his house and join him for tea! I'll respond to any physical actions you have him naturally take accordingly. : )
word count: 473
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Doran
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But What Is a Name?

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“Here we are”, the Mortalborn said and stopped in front of a two-story stone house and set the heavy box that he was carrying down in order to knock on the oaken door. The house belonged to a minor noble lord, but the man rarely travelled to the capital these trials and had thus decided to rent it out. He had had surprisingly few qualms about doing business with a man who represented a city that outlawed any kind of Immortal worship. “I assume you haven’t changed your mind about coming in with me, Cooney?”

Footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door, and a moment later it was being opened, and a man stepped onto the threshold, bowing deeply to the Mortalborn before he looked at Doran questioningly. He was human, approximately in his late thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes, and he appeared to walk with a slight limp. “Elias”, the Mortalborn greeted his servant, a war veteran that had come with him all the way from Etzos. “I brought a guest today. Will you take this here to my laboratory and make tea for us?” he asked and gestured towards his box. “We will be in my office.”

“Of course, Sir”,
Elias spoke. The Mortalborn inclined his head in order to let him know that he appreciated that, and then he gestured for Doran to follow him. The first room of the house was a waiting room of some sort. Chairs had been placed in the room so that people could sit down and relax (or at least be nervous in a slightly more comfortable manner) while they waited for the ambassador to make the time to see them, and paintings decorated the walls, of landscapes, buildings and people that had lived a long time ago.

A door at the end of the room led to the Mortalborn’s office that was dominated by a desk made of dark wood with legs that had been carved into the shape of dragons. The rest of the furniture was dark as well, to suit the Mortalborn’s taste, and of a rather exquisite make, from the bookshelves to the arm chairs that stood in front of the small fireplace and to which the Mortalborn led his guest. There were no paintings in this room, apart from one, a portrait of a little girl with dark locks and bright blue eyes that the alchemist had recently ordered from a painter.

After his meeting with Sintih, a former student of his and maybe something more, he had suddenly felt the need to have something of hers close to him, a reminder of his greatest accomplishment, apart from his attack on the Immortal of Hope and his greatest regret.

He gestured for Doran to take a seat before he did so himself. He was marginally more relaxed now that he was in his home. “You wanted to know more about them”, he spoke. “Approximately an arc ago I tried to kill Xiur who dared to call himself the Immortal of Hope, a liar and a murderer. His followers were naturally not happy about it. I couldn’t help but wonder if you were one of them. It has been a while since his servants last made an attempt on my life”, he explained in a cool and nearly emotionless tone, as if there was nothing extraordinary about what he had done.

“The events that transpired in Oscillus where I made my move are the second reason for my current alchemical projects. I have no interest in dying at the hands of those that seek to avenge their master”, he remarked and paused as the door was being opened. Elias walked in, setting a tray with a teapot and two porcelain cups down on the table that stood between the armchairs before he left again, bowing deeply as he did so.

“Does it worry you that you are in the company of a man who tried to kill a deity, Cooney?” he asked as he turned to face the mortal again, holding his cup with both hands and enjoying the warmth.
word count: 694

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Doran Cooney
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But What Is a Name?

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Ser Doran's home suited his position, and while Doran had been in manors and estates far more grand, the building was tastefully crafted: clearly influence by Venoran architecture if not crafted by one of the duchy's architects. A familiar sight, even if a foreign setting, Doran nodded happily, seemingly unfazed by the man's earlier accusations. "Not at all." It was one thing to be accused of something one had absolutely no intention off and another to take offense. A man with so many titles surely had reason to be suspicious, if not downright hostile, and Doran found himself rather pleased with the fact - so far - they had avoided the latter.

His eyes brightened curiously as he examined the man who greeted them, smiling politely and inclining his head as the dark haired servant eyed him uncertainly. Elias. Doran's lips moved in silent echo of the servant's name as his attention was focused on the master of the house. He seemed a reliable enough man, from the three trills Doran had to inspect him before he was beckoned inside. As he passed, he offered Elias another quick bob of his head and happy grin as he trailed on the heels of Ser Doran's shadow.

As expected, the foyer had been outfitted with an array of tasteful paintings and several ornate chairs, no doubt for those who sought audience with Ser Doran whilst he donned the mantel of ambassador - if Doran remembered correctly, he was of Etzos. Following quietly behind his host, gaze lingering on the oil landscapes and portraits they passed, he used the lull in their conversation to try to remember what it was he knew of the country. His knowledge was limited, especially when it came to foreign entities. As far as he was aware, Etzos was known primarily for it's peculiar state of antireligion. While Doran placed little faith in the Immortals, he didn't necessarily consider himself quite on par with - as many in Rynmere described them - the godless, fanatic miners of the west. Ser Doran hardly fit such a description though.

Upon passing through the second door and into Ser Doran's office, Doran's inquisitive gaze caught on the single portrait that hung the sole piece of non-funcitonal art. He eyed it carefully, brows knitting momentarily in examination as he noted the girl's features and wondered if she were a relative of Ser Doran's. She seemed the right age to be his daughter... But his attention was drawn forward as he caught his host's gesture towards the comfortable and darkly sumptuous chairs. Without wasting time, he settled down, glad to find that Ser Doran seemed perfectly capable of picking up at the exact point they'd left off.

With bright interest in his dark eyes, he watched as the other man spoke, listening to his words without any interjection - as he had already decided would most likely be poorly received. The tale - if so factually and blandly stated a string of events could be called such - was quite violent, though Doran could hardly express surprise. After all, the man had already clearly stated he was one of the best swordsmen in the region - it was logical that his stories would have violence.

Still, Doran found himself frowning thoughtfully. While he had certainly never prayed to any of the Immortals, nor the ancestors most Ryn dedicated their faith to, he'd never really wished for death upon anyone - neither man nor god. That Ser Doran had attempted to slay one bearing the title of "Immortal of Hope" seemed quite villainous, though that Xiur was both deceiver and butcher quickly swung the pendulum of tentative judgement once more in Ser Doran's favor. Blinking in mild surprise at how casually Ser Doran was able to speak of the reasons behind his past attempted assassinations, Doran murmured a thoughtful, "Hm."

It certainly made sense why Ser Doran imagined Doran to be an assassin of... some kind; however ridiculous the notion was subjectively when Doran himself was taken into account. Before he could make comment or reply, the door open and Elias swiftly settled a tray onto the small end table between them before inconspicuously withdrawing, as if he had never been there at all. It was a skill servants, in particular, were quite adept at, and Doran always marveled at such feats, gazing at the now closed door with a fair amount of admiration. His attention, however, quickly settled back upon his host, and Doran quirked a brow at his question.

"Mm. No, I wouldn't say so. Though," He took the second cup, holding it carefully so as not to burn himself on the hot liquid within as he gently rotated it some distance below his nose, drawing in the gentle, faintly floral aroma. "I suppose I'm a bit... wary of sharing a room with a man who has slain other men." His mannerisms hardly fitting his claim, he took a delicate sip of the tea, just enough to taste. "However, you, Ser Doran, seem quite composed and disciplined. As I'm neither assassin nor worshipper of any Immortal, Hope or otherwise, my fears of your blade are hardly warranted, I think." He smiled, politely, as he took another sip, letting the bottom of the cup rest on the dainty saucer in his other hand.

"If I might ask, are all followers of this... 'Xiur' mages?" It seemed unlikely, as magic itself wasn't necessarily commonplace, though the past season had, for many Ryn and Doran included, painted the world as a far more dangerously magical place than he'd first believed. "And..." His wrist moved just slightly, gently swirling his tea as he raised it off of the saucer once more. "Might I also inquire as to why you were unsuccessful?" Though one of his brows rose in curiosity, there was no challenge or sneer in his words. Ser Doran seemed quite a capable man. Though Doran understood it was a feat in and of itself to even attempt slaying a deity, Ser Doran himself had already admitted Xiur to have been a false god. That he had failed was, perhaps, more surprising than that he had attempted the act in the first place.
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Doran
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But What Is a Name?

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Whereas most men would have nervously waited for a reaction to their revelation, the alchemist sat in his chair comparatively calmly and occasionally took a sip from his tea. It was delicious Elias had turned out to be quite skilled at making tea as well as a variety of other drinks – and he knew how to prepare all kinds of dishes as well - a surprise when one took the fact that he had been a soldier in the army of the Etzori for nearly twenty arcs before he had been injured and forced to look for a new job into account.

“Xiur is not a man”, he pointed out as Doran admitted to being wary of sharing a room with a man who had slain other men. The tone of his voice was matter-of-fact. “At least not in the way that the two of us are. He is more and at the same time less than us”, he explained, withholding the fact that he too was of Immortal blood. There were only two people in the entire world that knew of his heritage – Caius Gawyne, the Lord Arbiter of the Order of the Mantis and Sintih, the son of the woman he had once loved.

“I only kill those that deserve it”, he remarked dryly. “And I operate within the limits of the law”, he added, a claim that was not entirely true. He had – occasionally - killed somebody because they had been in his way or because there had been something to be gained from it, but he didn’t want to be put on the same level as the men and woman that spent their trials in Rynmere’s dungeons or waited to be executed alongside those unfortunate mages and suffer their fate. Besides, unlike them, he was not a common criminal.

“I don’t care who or what you worship”, he continued. “As long as you don’t try to change my mind and get in my way. I’m not a religious zealot who hates everybody that doesn’t share his views. As for the nature of Xiur’s followers … some of them are mages. Others are even more … supernatural creatures made of pure light that are almost impossibly to kill with conventional weapons”, he revealed, recalling the Brux that had pursued Yanahalqah, his only ally, and him when they had tried to flee the battlefield in Oscillus.

He had wounded the creature by stealing its light, one of the abilities that his divine blood afforded him.

He didn’t mind Doran’s question as to why he had been unsuccessful in the least. He knew that he had done his best – that he had done something that few men before him had dared to do, besides, he didn’t see things the way that the mortal seemed to. “I wasn’t exactly unsuccessful. I wounded him with my blade, and he fell. If it weren’t for the fact that his allies came to his aid within moments he would have died. Xiur was not the only Immortal on the battlefield that trial”, he explained.

“And you, Cooney”, he asked the man who unfortunately shared his name, finding his interest in him rekindled – few would have remained so polite and calm upon hearing such a gruesome tale. “What is your story? I cannot believe that it isn’t worth mentioning …”
word count: 566

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Doran Cooney
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Blinking in confusion at Ser Doran's comment, Doran wondered if there had been a misunderstanding. It seemed the man thought he had confused Xiur, whether false god or true in some sense, to a man, rather than referring the mortal men who surely had fallen to his sword already. Not certain whether it was the case or not, he didn't mind all that much. Each time Ser Doran thought him wrong or misinformed, he easily offered up new and interesting information; he was, in a way, the most ideal conversationalist as far as Doran was concerned.

The explanation, however, was more cryptic than anything Ser Doran had yet offered up, and Doran frowned contemplatively as he considered what Ser Doran might mean by it. Paradoxes were never simple, and though Doran had several ideas of what both more and less might be in practice, there was no telling what the true answer was; not without asking Ser Doran straight out, and he wasn't too concerned about it. As long as he didn't linger around the ambassador, when the closing to their meeting came, he doubted he'd ever have the misfortune of running into any like Xiur or his followers. After all, he was not the Doran they sought.

His reassurance - if such a dismissive tone might be called such - was met with a raised brow. Though he understood there were times where violence was unavoidable, Doran hardly held such rigid beliefs as that any man or woman deserved death. It was a consequence of action, something that was not meted out to those who were deemed worthy, rather the outcome of misfortune and error. Ser Doran's causal and detached manner of speaking helped to frame such a statement as something far softer than what it was. Doran had no wish to argue the matter, not with one who clearly believed so differently than he - and who had already proven himself quite adamant and confident in his own opinions. He wondered how many people the other man had killed, and what he imagined justified such actions.

As Ser Doran continued, Doran listened with a curious tilt of his head. It seemed the ambassador of the godless city of Eztos was not nearly as fanatical as the stories would have suggested. Though he was certainly direct and clearly well aware of what it was he believed in, Doran found it peculiar that he was content to let others do as they pleased - with the caveat that their pleasure not infringe upon his own comforts. In that way, he was different from both those of Eztos and Rynmere as well. Many of citizens of the kingdom did not well receive those who were not willing to acknowledge the importance of the Seven.

Xiur, from the description of his magical followers and... light beasts, seemed to be quite the opponent. If he were truly not a god, yet neither a man, Doran wondered just was sort of creature he might be to command such powerful and strange things. A being of light, however difficult to slay, sounded more beautiful and wondrous than dangerous, but Ser Doran offered little in the way of rosy remembrance, speaking of them in much the same way he did everything else: clearly stated, unembellished, and as fact rather than speculation.

In spite of whatever thoughts he harbored on taking another's life, Doran's eyes widened reflexively as Ser Doran calmly disclosed the succinct details of his near victory over the false god. His gaze flicked down towards the hilt of the man's sword, and he wondered if it were the blade that had done such awesome work. It seemed likely, as Ser Doran was supposedly still hunted by Xiur and his followers. As he let his focus settle back upon the other man's bearded face, Doran realized just how mad the other man might have to be to fight against not one but several Immortals. He was clearly a powerful - if not outright dangerous - man. Fortunately, he was as menacing as stone wall, and Doran calmly took another sip of his tea, the liquid having cooled just enough he could enjoy it without worrying about burning himself as long as he was careful not to take too liberal a mouthful.

"Mm..." He murmured as he swallowed his tea and politely shook his head side to side with a sheepish smile. "I'm afraid it's nothing quite so epic as yours, Ser Doran. Though worth is ascribed, I imagine you will find mine of little value." Still, a question had been asked, and Doran wasn't one to refuse. "For everything you have shared, I would try to match so we might be on equal footing, yet I confess you have provided me with much more than I can trade in turn. As we have already discussed, I am no alchemist, merely a humble performer; my act is for the pleasure of myself and those passing; little else." He enjoyed what he did, and when others stopped to watch him, they often felt the same. "I spend most of my time seeking out... beautiful or intriguing things. Life is so filled with wonder, I often find myself lost in it. Though, as like today, I will occasionally seek it out with more active an approach."

He shrugged, sipping more tea before continuing. "I was searching for something or someone of interest in the crowd and spotted you. It seems I made quite the discovery." His grin widened at that. "But I have no tales of gods near slain nor claims to skills beyond that which you might find in any man. While I pursue the odd and fascinating phenomena the world has to offer, I'm afraid I merely ride upon their coattails." There was no shame or apology in his words, merely a genuine honesty. There was no real reason he had sought out the alchemist beyond that which he had given. "So you must know now how amusing a thought it was for me to think one might consider me some zealous assassin." He paused, eyes glimmering with sudden realization. "How does a deity who claims dominion over hope justify such subterfuge, by the by?"
word count: 1047
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Caius Gawyne
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But What Is a Name?

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Uncle Doran

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Skill Knowledge:
Alchemy: An item that "uncasts" spells
Alchemy: Refining a procedure
Alchemy: Alchemy as a defense against magic
Deception: I operate within the limits of the law
Deception: I only kill those that deserve it
Endurance: Enduring the Ashan cold
Interrogation: Interrogating a suspicious looking individual
Intimidation: Listing all your impressive titles
Intimidation: An icy tone
Leadership: Giving a servant orders
Strength: Carrying a heavy load
Tactics: Never go anywhere unarmed!

Other Knowledge:
Doran Cooney: The other Doran
Doran Cooney: Is fine with me calling him Cooney
Doran Cooney: Not an assassin
Doran Cooney: A performer
Cooney

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Comments
Sorry this thread became too full of too much glorious Doran for either of you to continue. It was an interesting read—cheerful Cooney, dour uncle Doran (he's Caius' great uncle via Immortal relation). I enjoyed the conversation but could definitely see where things sort of dwindled at the end. Oh well, it happens, even in real life. And you all handled it gracefully none the less.
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Be not afraid of greatness:
Some are born great, some achieve greatness,
And some have greatness thrust upon 'em.

- Malvolio | Shakespeare's Twelf Night (II, v, 156-159)
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