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A LEGEND OF ZELDA ROLEPLAY
Welcome to ZRP! We are an non-canon RP site with an original tale taking place within the
lore of the Zelda Franchise. While the events of this site are entirely non-canon, we take advantage of the canons of other
games to explain its story fully. As such, we are located within the CANON TIMELINE. Do you like what you see? If so, feel free
to register and join our story! If you have any questions, you can join our discord, located in our important links!
3/14/20 The staff are working dilligintly on the next plot and introduction to ARC 3 of the site. Over the next couple weeks,
we will be transitioning the plot, organizing boards, and a new location will be added to the site! Please note that Termina will be removed from playable locations
during this process. Thank you for your patience!
The changing of the guard. Come the fall of dusk the knights would begin to fill the royal halls of Hyrule castle before they all separated between the barracks and their stations, the mess hall and training yards, changing of the guard played out in an ominous ritual that was bathed by the light of the setting sun, washing the halls a bloody crimson. The haunting spectacle played at the feelings of one's inferiority as the trained knights stepped in time, never allowing themselves to leave an inch of the palace unguarded for not even a moment, before they were once again shoulder to shoulder, a new and rested line of men, standing from the end of one corridor to down to another. The queen had been walked to her chambers by her entourage and Rias himself. A gaggle of maidens would follow with titters and light discussions as gossip passed between them and the queen of the days' occurrences. Though Rias was not one to permit I banter: the gossip gave the Queen insight of her surroundings and did to prepare her just that little bit. Once satisfied the Queen was settled in he would leave her to her handmaidens and her husband. Standing at a fair six and three feet in height Rias towered over most Humans and even Hylians, who were closest to his kind. Ghostly locks of white curtained highest down to the middle of his shoulder blades.
It was now time for the Queen's guard to rest. The knight knew these halls as if they were his own, and as they should. He had swore an oath to the crown and he could not call himself a Sheikah if he was unable to find a member of the royal house at a moment's notice. He prided himself in his skill and his loyalty, but this is what made rest difficult for the knight. It is what made any moment from the Queen's side like a Dodongo's fire burning through his soul. But even he needed time to rest, think, and ponder in the solace of his mind. Quiet was required by even the most studious to ensure their mind and body were fit for service. Rias had found a quiet place to read, seeing that his day had come to an end, at least for the time being. He was the Open Hand of the Queen and needed to follow the rules, same as anyone. He had to follow rotation and when his Queen retired, so would he and the knight guard would take charge. But he would be at her side were she to beckon him, no questions asked. It was his favorite spot outside of his office. The dark halls of Hyrule castle were decorated with paintings of vistas that could be found across the known lands, giving the dreary grey walls some color. Portraits of members of the royal bloodline were a stoic reminder of who held power in the Land of Hyrule, making it impossible to forget that no matter where Rias stood he had a duty to all those that past and all those that have yet to be. Suits of ancient, decommissioned armor, sometimes said to come alive at the witching hours, guarded the forbidden passages that were for the royals' use, alone. At the end of the ever winding halls was a window that looked over the gardens and the grand fountain at its center. He settled himself on the edge of the window's sill, a thick tome in hand, clutched between slender fingers. It looked to be an aged book, the spine worn from meticulous study and its face scarred by regular confrontations with a desk. It has seen better days, but it was none the less loved. It was a book of poems that Rias fancied. A gift from his nan who had long since passed. He coveted the precious book and when he had moments such as these in the night he took the time to study its words.
A missive came, a warning of a possible threat to the royal family.
He had grossed the Gerudo desert on horseback and found himself in the Holodrum Plains drawing nearer to Horon City, but he was still three days away. Who was the cause for concern? He rode on the back of his pallid stallion. It was no white horse: but a mottled grey and black beast that was thin, but despite that, could turn on a rupee. It was a sharp witted horse and its white mane suited a Sheikah such as he. It was not heavily armored: wearing a light barding of leather expected of a warrior's steed. A single saddlebag hung over its rump and a blanket underneath Rias and one beneath the saddle to bring comfort to both rider and mount.
The light was bright and early on the Holodrum Plains, a foul southern wind blew sharply overhead. Ploy remembered what his father used to say about the wind: that it could bite the very soul from a man with a torrent in some places, thresh bone from flesh all the same. And yet, here in the gentle, roving plains the worst Ploy had ever felt here was the steady drizzle of summer rain. It was so different from the mountains here, in the plains.
In the depths of its ravines, the apexes of its spines, like a great and foul beast the wicked wind could very well rend a man in twain. But here, in this gentle medium between sieve, sand, and summer there was peace... And Ploy hated it.
Being a rather stout fellow he threw his weight around, striking out against the unruly creatures that slithered and climbed along the mountain passes. He grit his ax against his issues, and never found a problem brute force couldn't solve. So when he found himself set out to the a far flung corner of the lands for no better reason than 'not being a good fit for the establishment' he reckoned it'd be a good excuse to whack a few things. And yet, here he was, oddly without his usual brand of violence. Though this was not to say Ploy was a savage by any means: he didn't leave on bad terms either, just not on terms he'd agreed with. But that seemed to be his luck, a funny thing he kept running circles around him, missing him by like days on a mountainside.
Where was the glory? The eternal struggle between evil and good in a place like this? Why knight someone when there's no need for it?
The question rattled in the back of Ploy's head like dried corn in a cucco's nest. He just polished his large Kilo-ax, a sign of one good adventure, and looked out to the horizon. The young fellow did a double take from seeing a lone rider going through the plains.
"It's probably a mirage." Ploy brushed the bits of dirt and brushed its eyes, "nope, real."
The indomitable Interfectorem Rex, the Slayer of Kings. He was a legend among his regiment, a champion to his Queen, yet in these plains he was nameless, like the winds that danced over the rolling hills and rend across the flat fields as the tall, untamed grasses hid consuming dangers beneath amber stalks, unburnt and dried by the summer's heat. The thunderous claps of his horse's hooves drummed between his long, pointed ears, like the echo of a memory when war was accompanied by music: bards pounding on stretched skins in order to intimidate their enemies as they marched into battle. For a moment he closed his eyes, hand coming up to pull back a wayward strand of white hair. The ghostly locks were like strands of spider's silk, woven expertly into loose twists and bound by a strand of ribbon as blue as a Bokoblin's bulbous nose, that had a matte finish which gave it a dull, unfinished look compared to the shimmering tresses. With lids weighed shut by his thoughts, willed still by his memories: Rais would recall the harmonious warble of song that would ring across the halls of the ancient temples that now dotted the lands, empty and without care. There was once, a long time ago, where Sheikah had cared for the ancient rituals and recited the old words, but that was a time gone and Rais could only recall the faint ring of a harp's string as he dreamt of his mother's words.
In this world there will always be evil present. We cannot forget what the Goddesses have done for us, even if it seems as if they have forgotten us. It is up to man to remain strong and continue walking the paths we have chosen so that when we meet the Goddess' once more we can tell them with pride we cared for this gift they blessed us with.
It was the duty of the Sheikah to maintain the ancient order. While many have forsook that ancient rite: Rais had come from a proud and noble family that remained by the Royal Family's side even in their darkest hour. His grip tightened around the leather reign, the sound stretching as his eyes snapped open, revealing the sharp, red gaze that focused upon the distant figure of Ploy. He had heard the distant tread of another horse. Even in his most distant moments Rais was on guard and always ready for a fight, though he did not show it. His namesake, the Kingslayer, rode on his back. The great spear had brought down a mighty Dodongo and where it could pierce the flesh of a lizard king quite easily, so would it like quarter a man in a thought.
Keen ears would catch the man's whisper on the wind. Tapping his heels against the sides of his horse and shifting his weight in a fine, trained motion: Rais would urge the horse to pick up his pace from a dainty trot to a honed canter. His movement hardly seemed urgent, but the way he shifted with his steed showed the man in a fantastical visage. It was as if he were the centaur of legend. If not for the clearly displayed head of the equine, whose blonde mane was braided and head halter decorated with ancient Sheikah regalia of carved bones and whittled bits of wood totems: one could have easily assumed Rais a mythical beast. But his approach would not like dispel this sensation as hus haunting gaze broiled like blood: the claret stare was leveled by narrowed eyelids and shaped by his striking brow that held solid, sans a twitch of curiosity.
Gently tugging back his reins the horse would slow. "Hail." Rais would greet.
His tone was deep, but it was not one so cut by his vocals that one would mistake him for a Goron. There was a sense of authority and dignity to his tone, but the tenor of his voice rang like a man. It was that simple. He had a voice oft associated with a masculine sense of power and while not far removed from femininity, as his beauty was capable of shaking a person to their core, he was a contradiction of the ideas by simply existing in grace and pride. He was Sheikah.
"Have you a destination? I have rode long in silence. If we are going in the same direction, surely riding together would deter some braver Bokoblin and beast keen on hunting travelers." While Rais would have no trouble with such creatures, he would never boast of his deterrence towards choosing to fight over having the power to talk it out. If he could avoid conflict, he very well would do so until the last moment. In his age he has learned that speaking could have as much, if not more of a lasting influence, than violence. "My thoughts have distracted me for far too long." He did not smile, nor did he frown. Perish the thought of revealing his vulnerability of reminiscing.
Mayhaps it had been what his father spoke of when he said that with age came wisdom to observe with hindsight.