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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 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.
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.
Rais' steps beat rhythmically against the carpeted floor as he led Eres through the halls, a path they both had likely taken many times over through the time of their service. The memories played in the warrior's mind like a tumbling shadow puppet dancing along a stage. Each candelabra, every crack in the stone told a story that had its own significance, but were quickly becoming hazy starlight drowned amidst the fog. The stories were all familiar, but they were becoming more and more distant as his mind drew further from the field of battle and closer to the desperation of a people wont for their queen. It was not his place to doubt Zelda and her efforts, but there was a measure of concern that pushed him through the daily grind so that he'd, one day, catch up to her and have the pride to ask her himself. He wanted to know what it meant.
Why couldn't they save everyone?
It was a desperate scene they were in and if the kingdoms could not put aside their differences he felt it would only harm their progress. Something called to his senses. Maybe it was experience that told him something dark was coming or perhaps the long standing sense of peace that unsettled the warrior. Even though, now, he stood with his spear at rest a soldier would always be a soldier. Not desperate to hurry he would analyze Eres properly. The infamous spear, the Interfectorem's namesake, had been set on his back, the weapon glimmering with a faint enchantment. It seemed quite ordinary, aside, but it was an object that carried fear as a few egotistical men sought to cover the weapon only Rais could wield. Some felt it was due to this weapon that he had gained such prestige and advantage over his fellows. It was the target of many who sought to contest his position.
In hand Rais carried a board to which a thin stack of parchments was pinned to. "I would like you to confirm this information." He seemed to slip into the bureaucratic duties quite easily, but it was easier to keep papers in order than men. Papers did not talk back. "How long were you out with your injury? Where were you originally stationed and who was your commanding officer?" These were quite typical questions.
Before arriving at the castle Rais was serving at the borders of Death Mountain slaying fiends that assailed the patrolling regimens. His commanding officer was man by the name of Tenere, an old Hylian who had died over a hundred years ago. As such Rais needed to be reassigned. His father was able to get him work at the castle once everything had settled after the war. His family were loyal to the family to the last drop of their blood, though greatly dishonored by Rais' elder brother who refused to fight, taking sides with the Darkness. His father was no longer fit to serve having lost his leg down from his knee and his sword hand. Rais had stuck close to his duties that directly served the royal family, whatever that needed to be, or however mundane they were.
"It says here you have not seen action since before the war?" Though imprisonment did not mean she was caged behind doors. There were many who could have been forced to fight against their own people.
War was a tragedy, one that was necessary when others sought to trample upon freedoms birthed to you by the Goddess'. There were many who thought they were dead and strongly implied it had been the actions of the Queen that had them turn their backs to them. It was nonsense. Though the royal family has great power and skill they did not have the force to lay waste to worlds. This was Rais truth for now for it was what he has witnessed, or was yet to.
They were nearly upon the training room. Mundane, but the equipment was well maintained and a necessary part of the kingdom's functions. Walls of weapons, training dummies and space to exercise and maintain ones state of fitness. There was a gate that let to the castle yards where one could train on horseback and other cavalry sports, but for now indoors is what he would need from her. Rais seemed a serious man. He was stern in his speaking, though he has not bristled at her comments, merely facing her and asking her if her sharp words measure up to the effort she put into casting them. He did not find himself speaking unless it was necessary.
While he believed words could change the shape of another's thinking he could understand that Eres had a difficult time. He was quietly quite impressed with her already. Insofar as he could determine: had she not stayed behind she would have not been imprisoned in the first place. That was plenty to prove her merit ad a Sheikah, but whether she was physically able to stand again was up to her will. He was not going to put such a skilled warrior to guard a few empty halls.
The man was silent, even as he moved. If not for his silver lashes drawing like curtains over his eyes as they danced over the letters one would be remiss to deny that he had become still with death. His breath was difficult to discern as the light, pale blue blouse hung loose over his form, the draw strings dangling line loose strands of hair, leaving exposed his pale collar. The sleeves were rolled back enough to leave his forearms on full display: alabaster flesh contradicting to his athletic form. Living in ones armor as he did made well sure the sun never had chance to kiss the flesh a pleasant bronze.
Her sharp words caught the back-swept curved of his blade thin ears. Her sarcastic apology was dipped in silver as the tone seemed to coil venomously around accusations of idle fury, maintained peaceably by bureaucratic overture. He set the missive down, hands crossing together over the desk as he leaned back, her mouth spilling what could only be considered profanities towards a superior officer. He listened to every sharpened word to cut into his ears, his eyes rapt upon her form in concentrated focus. For a moment one could mistake the glimmer of his gaze for that of a Beamos.
When she finished her barrage of scathing questions, which seemed to deny the man of his very existence, the man would follow her whorling discourse by separating his hands from their gripped position, bare fingers finding no tension coiled in his muscles, before he pressed his palms flat to the table, lifting to stand with the support of all his limbs. It was a graceful movement, like watching silk fall or water flow. His chair was pushed back from under him, the legs scraping across the ground and releasing a harrowed groan from the stone cut floors and wooden stilts carved to resemble a dragon's paw. It was discordant, contrasting when compared to the deliberate motions he made.
He stood a moment, eyes drifting down towards the missive and back to her. His arms folded back, hands coming to rest on the small of his back. He stood straight, an arrow put to shame. He walked around, dark eyes looked past her and to the occupied chair. He reached out, hand gracefully retrieving the book on the top. He took his time, turning the pages as he seemed intent on searching for something. He hummed, her words digested slowly, like a feast after a great celebration. But this was no celebration. It was a time of mourning. It was a time men forgot their own history and repeat stories of the past.
He had thought them above this, but it seems that it was a cycle that could only be broken by the tenacious efforts of those willing to fight for change. He found the page, setting the book down, open, on the desk so Eres could read.
"If you could read as well as you complain you would be aware that I am a citizen of this kingdom, a soldier chosen by the queen. All your questions can be answered with that." He looked to her. "It was a decision of the queen." He pressed his slender digits against the tome's pages, holding it flat. "While I would be remiss to command any to blindly follow the commands of the corrupt, you know well the queen, is not that. If you did think that, why are you even here?" Why would she bend her knee to a corrupted crown?
Maybe Rais was the last to ask such a thing as he would have been the last to doubt Zelda, but he has fought for this kingdom since he was born. He has seen pure men become corrupt and corrupt men become pure. The queen has had her ups and downs, but she always did what was best for the kingdom, to the best of her youth. Rais raised his head, the pages of the paper open to be read. Were Eres to glance down she would see a history of war, death, prosperity and happiness. It was ever shifting but what would stand out more were the actions of individual soldiers who fought on the frontlines, no matter the cost. He would close the book. The cover looked to be enscribed by it's author in a relief, painted over in goldleaf: Rais Jalid, Interfectorem Rex.
"You have said so yourself. You are not fully healed. To put you on duty without testing the full spectrum of your ability would be irresponsible." He would turn to walk, reaching out beside his desk where his lance lay against the wall.
He would make his way towards the exit, the door being pushed open. Here Rais would pause. "War is necessary. But one's duty to the kingdom is not always war." He looked back to her. "That is why I am here and not out there. Making sure our people have enough to eat is more important than guarding an empty throne." They had plenty of men standing in these halls, one more standing and staring off would make no difference, but a man who can sign his name to a king's document could save a life.
He would head out and make his way down the halls towards the training room.
The walls were sparsely decorated, thin tapestries with the kingdom's heraldry hung from what walls were not covered by the tall, sandstone colored bookshelves which stood ten or more ferry and bear to the ceilings of the office. A tall ladder was leaned against one shelf, a pile of books as thick as a folded saddle sat stacked, awaiting to be put away for another day. He times, while varying in thickness, never seemed to fall beyond a thickness that only the most learned scholar would delve into for study. To that fact most surfaces in the office were occupied by the numerous tomes.
An empty seat was just across from the dimly lit desk, but even that seemed to be occupied by a stack of books, dissuading its use. The soft crinkle of an aged page would be accompanied by the gentle touch of vanilla to the nose, a scent aging books took to carrying come their maturity. It was a tribe of knowledge, treasured by only one. Slender fingers would deftly turn the page, tenderly caressing the sheet as it if were delicate glass due to shatter upon ant stress. His fingers pressed down onto the surface, a head of silver-white hair turning up to reveal a face, only for those long locks to fall astray and frame his face, strands clinging to where they could along the sweat dotted face.
The room was warm, though hardly uncomfortable. But his gaze was anything but. A hard stare filled with boiling claret had turned upon the maiden. A deep scorn cut across his expression, clearly a touch annoyed from being interrupted, though her visit was not unexpected. He had gotten word of her arrival, but it meant he would have to continue his reading another time. He slid a red ribbon into the spine of his book, though the scarlet bit of fabric hardly compared to the man's piercing eyes. The book was closed with a snap before a parchment was slid from a drawer at his desk. His left hand slid over the desk to turn up the light fixture, letting oil feed the wick and strengthen the table torch.
His face was fully revealed beneath the new light. "Name?" He ordered as he looked over her paperwork. "Sit." He'd offer, inattentive to the fact there was no where to sit. "I was told I was getting a visitor today, but you arrived too soon." Not as if that was her fault, right? He sure made it sound as if it was.
When he is not training the Sheikah can often be found in the library or his bunk studying or writing. He does not take to leisurely pursuits outside of these staples so often times, when left to his own devices, he will spend hours by candlelight. For him duty comes before all and while one can carry his loyalty that means quite differently than carrying a friendship even he is not sure he has.
And the light just seems so far away
The Kingslayer is no title trust upon a man of no merit. He is a terror to his enemies and will chase them to the edge of the world if ordered to do so. For him the world is black and white. If the Queen says jump, he will simply ask how high. His spear is an enchanted weapon gifted to him from his tribe and he uses it to its fullest extent. The Kingslayer is never without his weapon, even when thrust upon informal settings.
Am I hear all alone?
Love? If you share his interests there is a chance for conversation. Rais knows what love is, and has seen love. But has he felt it? It is difficult to say. He has love for his kingdom. He has love for his mother, his father and brothers. Has he love for others beyond this? Well if one could lure him from his libraries and battlefields perhaps there is a chance to get to know of the things Rais dreams of.
THIS WAS IT! He had worked for this all his life. Some say his actions bordered on zealous, but the Sheikah was proud of his heritage and believed in his kingdom. He was only glad that his title less concerned the history of their rulers and more the records of powerful opponents who attempted to stand against their hallowed halls. His mother accused him of being too stiff as he prepared with a focused tenacity that rivaled the beautification rituals of wedding maids. His armor was polished and his spearhead sharpened. He fretted over this length of his hair, begging his mother to braid it fair so that he could present himself before the royal family with the legacy expected of their tribes.
Though it was last minute his brother insisted that striding up to the Queen in a full suit of armor made him much too formal, so he was assailed until they could push him into a less formal dress. Even still Rais insisted that he remain traditional and would partake in the ceremony in their ancient garb. Absurd as it seemed Rais had it in his mind that others would look at him as less of a Sheikah were he not to. Alas his family relented and he would ride with them to the Castle where he was summoned to take part in the ceremony of oath to become the Queen's Hand. Though he was not made full aware as to what that meant, he knew that there were none more loyal and capable as he.
'Rais, you're muttering again,' his brother warned as the elder sibling fiddled with his shawl, going over his preening one last time. 'You'll be fine. Just don't forget the queen is very kind.' Rais exhaled a shaky breathe he had not known he was holding.
He had never met the queen so the prospect seemed daunting. Reaching up to grasp his brother's wrists the man pressed his warm palms to the knight's pale cheeks. "Brother, am I worthy?" He always feared that he would become as his brother: a nameless face on their family tree.
He looked up to his eldest brothers, him most of all. His other brother, who had not become a knight, but instead a healer, would lean in to kiss at his left and right cheek. Rais' ruby eyes drifted up, blinking away unshed tears.
'Do not worry Rais. You are brave and beautiful and the queen has seen that. Swear your oath. Because there is none who can hold an oath as you can.' With confidence restored Rais would enter the Chamber of Audience and walk down his path. This was what he had worked all his life for, and would -- to the end of his days. There was no hesitation when he knelt before the queen. The ancient garbs of shadow melting into hers...
Interfectorem Rex, the Kingslayer It is all he is known as. Born into the Shiekah Tribe, born loyal to the Royal Family: Rais was trained from youth in the Shadow Arts. His martial prowess was only surpassed by his intellect as he took to books as easily as he took to the spear. The warrior-poet never forgot the name of his opponents. Whether in victory or defeat the knight would sing their praises and pen their names in rivers of scrolls he kept in his possession. He has lived through many wars and crossed many difficulties. It his ability to take a situation and act was what quickly erased his name from history, leaving behind only his blade because it was this he swore to the Royal Family. If they asked him to jump the knight asked if them how high. He has chronicled many skirmishes and painted countless feats of heroism and barbarism in his writing. He was born the youngest in a family of three. His father was strict towards their traditions, one that his eldest brother had always shied from, carving a sense of shame into the youngest who had looked up to him until his disappearance on the field of a decisive battle for Hylian lands. Many believe his brother had died in battle, but Rais had been there and watched him flee in the face of death. It is perhaps the only manuscript that Rais has never shared.
As he grew the fainter his name became. His ferocity on the battlefield had earned his blade a name, but in the process he had lost his. The Kingslayer was what they named his spear when the weapon felled a King Dodongo. Though it would not be the last Dodongo to grow to the title of King, they were far and few between and quite a challenge to defeat. He had not done it alone and had made sure to give every present knight name in his tale, but the myths seemed to preceded the truth of his writing, something he oft found frustrating. When there was truth written men seemed still to lean towards lies and fictitious tellings of the events at hand in order to raise themselves on a pedestal, but Rais had more pride than that... Soon he succeeded his father in the army once he reached his twentieth year. He was heavily focused on his duty and this left the duty of raising heirs to his house to his remaining brother. It was not as if Rais did not long for companionship, but where was there room for it when you had work to do? This only pushed him deeper into his papers and books. Training, writing: the warrior-poet hardly found free time to join his kin in revelries, often forgoing festivals and nights of drinking to complete a passage in his books or work on his training. Soon he isolated himself from his others.
There was no doubt that Rais was a great knight, but sometimes he forgot that he too was a person that needed time for others.
SPELL OR ITEM NAME: [break][break] Kingslayer - His namesake, his identity: the fallen knight carries an enchanted spear that is cold to the touch. It is kissed by ice magic making it highly effective against plantoid and reptilian enemies. It cannot be held by hands not belonging to its owner as its icy touch would freeze ones fingers to the bone, though it can be handled with covered hands. So long as the metal does not touch flesh its enchantment lays dormant. [break][break]
RACIAL ABILITY: [break][break] + Night Vision: All Sheikah are able to see in the dark if they possess crimson colored eyes; however, they will glow in the darkness, making Sheikah a target for attacks if the others cannot see in the shadows. [break][break] + Lens of Truth: Sheikah have a natural ability to resist illusionary magic of equal or lower rank of their arcane trait. [break][break] + Weak to Light: Sheikah are weak to light attacks due to their natural ability to thrive with shadow based magic. Due to this, they will take extra damage to light magic. [break][break]
OTHER: [break][break] Tattoo - Upon his back is the shadow's eye. He recieved this upon swearing his oath to the crown and has never looked back upon it. For him this is his prized possession and he guards his flesh so that he would not bring dishonor to his oath. [break][break] Earrings - Upon his coming of age his ear was pierced with a single earring which he covets as a symbol of his place in his tribe.