Martin

Martin discipulus Yselt of Merinita (in spring 1207)

Age 12

Size -1

Confidence 1 (3)

Int 0 (+1), Per -2 (-1), Pre +3 (+4), Com -2 (-1), Str 0 (+1), Sta -1 (0), Dex +1 (+2), Qik 0 (+1)

Virtues Blessing of Venus (+1), Faerie Magic (0), Great Presence (+1), Piercing Gaze (+1), Strong Faerie Blood: Sidhe (+3), Second Sight (0)

Flaws Chaotic Magic (-3), Envious (-1), Fragile Constitution (-1), Proud (-1)

Abilities Artes Liberales 2 (rhetoric), Athletics 3 (in combat), Brawl 1 (dagger), Charm 3 (pretty girls), German 5, Journey's End Lore 1, Latin 5, Leadership 3 (faeries), Philosophiae 2, Profession: Scribe 1 (copying), Second Sight 2 (faeries), Single Weapon 2 (sword)

Arts Cr 0, In 0, Mu 0, Pe 0, Re 2; An 0, Aq 0, Au 0, Co 0, He 0, Ig 0, Im 1, Me 0, Te 0, Vi 0

Spells

Prying Eyes +0 (InIm 5)

Equanimity Restoration +1 (ReMe 3)

Combat

Dagger Init 0, Atk +5, Def +2, Dmg +3

Long Sword Init +2, Atk +5, Def +7, Dmg +6

Equipment Robes, bulla, dagger

Martin is the son of a German heiress who was visited and wooed by a Faerie knight. When she became pregnant, her father hastily married her off to a burgess in town. Martin was born with golden hair, golden eyes, and the power to see things no one else can see; he was raised largely in seclusion, considered a freak by all but his mother. When Arnulf came though town, Martin's adopted father took the chance to finally get rid of the kid, once and for all.

That was two years ago, when Martin was ten. He was claimed as an apprentice by Yselt of Merinita, leader of the Covenant of Journey's End, who has begun to groom him as an heir to the covenant. Martin has a supernatural beauty and presence which makes him a natural leader, but at the age of 12 he is proud and envious, often resenting others whom he sees as more fortunate than himself. He's a good kid at heart, but when he looks at other people, all he can see is what they have that he does not.

Martin's Second Sight allowed him to see Kallisto when the apprentices were first gathered in 1205, but he's not seen her since and he's curious where she's gone. Likewise, he saw Mircalla around the school, but she avoided him. Because he imagines himself as a knight, he admires and is envious of all his exciting adventures, where Rene has been able to earn fame and glory.

In the summer of 1207, at the Hermetic Fair, Martin was kidnapped by the Shadow Magi. His whereabouts are unknown. Yselt participated in an unsuccessful rescue effort and sustained moderate injury from a demonic ambush.

Memories of Martin

Akakios

Sometime during the Winter of 1206, Martin realizes that he forgot his dagger in the scriptorium. He returns late at night to retrieve it and finds Akakios hunched over a tome, reading by candlelight. Martin becomes jealous of the "extra" learning that Akakios is getting and threatens to tell Tiberius. Akakios pleads with Martin to remain silent. Akakios tells Martin the following: "My dominus, Sabestien, is cruel and teaches me nothing. If I'm going to become a magus and avenge my mother's murder, I've got to learn everything I can on my own. Please don't tell Tiberius!" Martin agrees, happy to encounter someone for whom he can find little to envy. Martin tells Akakios that he owes him one. Akakios agrees and goes back to studying.

Eva

In 1207, Eva turned an eye toward her fellow student Martin. The two had a lot in common: they both spoke German, they both shared some sort of Fay heritage, and they were the same age. Bolstered in confidence due to her recent growth spurt, Eva tried to find opportunities to talk to Martin. Despite her shyness (and humility), she actually succeeded a few times. Giddy with happiness, she made herself a doll of a brave German knight with golden hair. She decided not to embroider the name "Martin" on the doll, just in case someone spiteful took it from her bed.

After talking to Martin a few times, Eva mustered the courage to lead him behind one of the buildings where they had privacy. She told him that he could kiss her if he wanted, closed her eyes, and stuck out her lips expectantly...

Rene de la Croix

“Take a look at what we have here,” Donal sneered. “Sir Faerie has fallen.”

A chorus of laughter greeted the guardsman’s cruel and mirthless remark.

Donal was neither a kind man nor a well-loved one amongst Master Hugh’s men. What he was, however, was feared. Few possessed his sheer skill in arms, and even less could approach the sheer barbarism at which he yielded them.

Whatever madness had possessed Martin in choosing Donal as his sparring partner was starting to ebb from his person in choking sobs. It was clear that Donal had spared him the worst of it. After all, the wounds he had been dealt were all of a superficial enough sort; the odd welt here, the random cut there. Come the morn, he would know pain. However, Martin was no stranger to such a companion. His lot in life had seen to that.

But the laughter? Now that, that cut him to the quick. How could he ever recover? Such a wound to his pride was all too great for the young man to handle. With little recourse availed to him, hapless tears came, feeding the fires all the more.

Martin cowered. As if he might somehow shield himself physically from the humiliation Donal had wrought. To no avail. For his part, Donal was not so much lording over him as he was holding court, triumphant, arms raised in victory. Throughout the practice yard, the chorus had reached its crescendo.

‘Twas a sad sight indeed.

“That’s enough.”

All was silent.

Donal was taken aback. He looked hither, then thither. “Who dares?”

“I dare.”

From the crowd he came: Rene de la Croix.

Those assembled parted in quick order. Soon a path was cleared. Without so much as a sidelong glance, the challenger strode on through. Clad in boiled leather was he, armed with naught one, but two long swords. There he stood, shoulders squared though at ease.

The sword was tossed. It soared through the air, clattering against hardened earth and skidding to a halt at Donal’s mud stained boots.

Throughout the scene, all was quiet. Even Martin had silenced his sobs to take in the sight he saw.

Finally, the apprentice asked simply, “Do you?”

With that one question, the gauntlet had been thrown.

Enraged, Donal took up his sword and charged Rene. He would show up this whelp once and for all.

Rene stood there. With a practiced calm, he raised his own sword. There was an economy of motion. Rene was not one to waste either time or energy on any unnecessary flourishes. After all, this was a fight, not a dance. And he intended to see it through to its end.

The charge was nearing its end. When the guardsman was in close, Rene parried, sidestepping the advance as he went. Donal’s sheer girth carried him through.

Recovering his grounding, Donal circled, letting loose a bellicose scream

Rene was there, readied and waiting as his opponent came around with another attack. The apprentice had drawn back his free arm and slammed his palm with all his weight right against the guardsman’s jaw. There was a sickening crack as teeth took flight.

His fight with the Giant had taught Rene that patience was just as valuable a weapon as the sword. Much as the Giant’s hunger had done, Donal’s anger would consume him in time. All Rene had to do was wait until it had done so and assume the advantage.

Thus it was so. Theirs was a one sided conflict. All the attacks were Donal’s. At first, these were headstrong, full of rage and anger in equal measure. In time, however, that too would fade as strength failed him. For his part, Rene outmaneuvered the attacks; failing that, he parried; and, for good measure, he counterattacked, striking Donal not with his sword but his free arm.

In time, even mountains erode. Donal was close to his knees, exhausted, drenched in sweat that ran down his balding pallet and quivering jowls.

Rene, too, was worn down. He was heartened that he need not keep this up for much longer.

With a quick flick of his blade against an unshielded wrist, Rene disarmed Donal. Taking the advantage, he stepped in close, drawing his sword tight against his opponent’s throat.

No words were said. No words need be said.

Donal had lost. He concede with naught more than simple step backwards, disengaging.

Rene nodded, and watched as his opponent was escorted elsewhere.

As the guardsmen started to leave en masse, Rene turned on one heel and came up to Martin. Kneeling, he reached down to help the apprentice upright.

Martin was still aground. He was now looking up at Rene in stricken horror. Pride laid siege to his heart, reddening his cheeks scarlet. How dare he come in here, Martin thought. Did he not think me capable of defending myself that I needed a protector?

He did all that he could do given the situation: He spat at Rene and ran in the opposite direction.

Watching him go, Rene said quietly more to himself than anyone else, “You have nothing to prove to me.” And like that, he was alone once more, spittle sliding down his clean shaven cheek. Without much thought, Rene reached up, cleared it off with the back of his hand and set out to resume his chores.

It was the Sabbath, after all. Master Hugh would expect no less.