Nymeria had always been one of the fortunate ones, or so it seemed. From an unusually young age, long before the military officially accepted children into its ranks, her family had begun her rigorous training. They had forged her body into a weapon, ensuring that when the time came, she wouldn't tarnish the Vero family name. Failure, after all, was not in their blood. The Veros were known for their effortless success, and Nymeria had heard the whispers the moment she set foot in the military. Her family's high expectations weighed heavily on her, a relentless pressure that shadowed every step she took during her training.
"Another perfectly bred Vero," they would say. "It must be blood magic—who else could produce children who excel at everything they touch?" The rumors only fueled the charisma surrounding her family, and though they weren't entirely wrong, they weren't entirely right, either.
But unlike her brothers, Nymeria was at a disadvantage. She had no natural talent for magic, no effortless grace or power to fall back on. Not until her parents had forced it into her body, burned it in her veins cruelly. Instead, she worked tirelessly, training late into the night to make it appear as though she had been born with her abilities. The first few months were grueling, an uphill battle against the expectations of her father, who demanded nothing short of perfection. The training sessions were brutal, ending only when Nymeria was knocked unconscious or when her injuries became too severe to continue. Yet she never wavered; her determination burned like a fire within her, refusing to be extinguished.
It was this unyielding persistence that allowed her to breeze through military training. Compared to the harsh regimen her father had subjected her to, the military's challenges were almost laughable.
However, Nymeria soon found herself perplexed by an unexpected change in her routine. She had been content with the group she was initially assigned to; they were competent, and she felt she could trust them. But the trainer, a man who had shown his disdain for her from the very beginning, had other ideas. It was clear that his dislike wasn't just for her—it was for her family name and, perhaps even more so, for her gender. He seemed determined to make her life difficult, and every chance she got, Nymeria met his challenge head-on.
The reassignment to a new group left her seething with frustration. She knew it wasn't her fault that the instructor couldn't handle her. If he wanted to complicate her training out of spite, then he should be prepared to face the consequences. Her parents were indifferent to the challenges Nyra gave the man as long as her scores remained impeccable. If anything, they were more interested when they learned who the instructor was.
As Nymeria walked to the designated meeting place, her hands clasped firmly behind her back, she noticed a rare moment of quiet in her mind. The ever-present voice that had accompanied her for as long as she could remember had finally fallen silent, if only temporarily. Her light grey eyes meticulously scanned the surroundings, her vigilance never wavering. She knew better than to let her guard down.
Novella's time in the military was rough — exhausting. The Academy had released her for service just that morning. She'd completed her training, and was deemed good enough to be handed to an officer. Real missions — she let her gaze flicker to the paper, a map that detailed where she was to meet her commander.
Childish eyes turned serious, as she approached the spot, folding the map up into the breast pocket of her uniform, she came to stand next to the older girl. Silence, for a moment, her wings folded firmly to her back, but still on display. Useless, broken, painful—
Are you meeting your commander too? The other girl was older than she. It wasn't uncommon, to place the younger children from the special trainings with older partners. It helped ensure survival, so that the time and money spent training the units were not entirely dependent on their ability to survive their tasks on their own.
OOC NOTES:
I'm assuming Novella exited the Academy at age ~13, for real missions. That places her at the Academy from age 10 to 13, for training.
Malachai had been stationed at the Front for eight years now, rising through the ranks from cannon fodder, to scout, to making him a leading intelligence officer. Despite his experience, his rank, he looked like a homeless waif, a victim or scab of the ongoing Tevinter-Qunari war. He’d observed these new recruits from the moment they’d arrived, though he preferred to hang back, letting the equally gruff and unshaved Ciaus approach them first. Everyone assumed the stouter lad was in charge regardless since he was the one usually barking and nipping their heads with Mal’s orders.
Ciaus came from a noble house, but as the spare, he had been sent to the Front three years ago to lessen the family’s burden and gain some honour or renown. That had been the plan until he and Malachai found each other during a close call with the Qunari in Seheron. He’d quickly proven to Mal that he was a reliable and loyal deputy that in the periods where Mal was absent could be counted on.
Approaching the recruits with a wide grin, Ciaus chuckled, casting a glance over his shoulder to Mal, nodding his head at the two newcomers. "They're getting younger and younger," he whistled. "Fuck. Soon they'll be sending us babies and expecting us to wean 'em off the teat." He stopped in front of them, hands finding his hips while appraising them with a quizzical tilt of his head, clearly mulling over the many questions he could ask.
Meanwhile, Malachai watched, snickering under his hood as he moved to lean against a nearby tree. What you thinkin', boss? He’d ask, not paying the two any real attention, he wanted an honest verdict from his second.
"I'm thinkin'... trial run," Ciaus replied.
Malachai scowled but quickly hid his disapproval by pulling up the mask around his neck. That hadn't been his plan, but he knew a trial by fire was how they'd survive the worst. We just got fucking ba—ugh, fiiiiine, he grumbled, pushing off from the tree he'd just leaned into. He looked at the recruits, his eyes narrowing. Hope you two aren't tired from the journey. You should give me your names, just in case I have to write out something later.
"Shut it, Mal. Though your right, introductions should be made. Commander Caius, and that squib, is Mal. You can ignore him most of the time."
Never before had Nymeria Vero needed to clench her teeth so tightly or for so long. From the very start, she knew there would be consequences for pushing the buttons of her former instructor, yet she hadn't stopped, even with that knowledge looming over her. Her pride and temper simply couldn't stand the way he tried to control her—just because of her family name. That, more than anything, had been the thorn in her side. From the age of thirteen until now, at twenty-one, he had singled her out, picking on her relentlessly. It grated on her nerves like sandpaper against raw skin. As the only woman in her unit, and being a woman in the military at that, Nymeria had already faced enough challenges. The instructor had made sure to compound them at every turn.
Now, she found herself waiting for her reassignment, the consequences of her defiance clear. The higher-ups had finally had enough of her insubordination. She'd expected this to happen sooner, if she was honest with herself.
Her mind had settled into a momentary calm, but her body hadn't followed suit. Her muscles remained tense, coiled like springs, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Her magic hummed beneath her skin, a low, steady current of static energy, as alert and primed as she was. When she sensed movement and then saw a young girl approaching her, Nymeria's frown deepened. What was this supposed to be? Her punishment... babysitting? The redhead didn't understand but kept her thoughts to herself. Complaining wouldn't change anything.
"Ah... Yes, I have a feeling we'll be paired together," Nymeria said, her tone resigned. She had no idea why, but the decision had clearly been made. Though her body remained facing forward, her head turned slightly, grey eyes scrutinizing the brunette beside her. The girl was fresh from the academy, young and naïve, her uniform still crisp and her face unmarked by the harsh realities of military life. What caught Nymeria's attention, though, was something about the girl's appearance, something that piqued her curiosity. But before she could dwell on it, her senses flared, a soft but insistent warning that something was amiss.
Two men approached, and Nymeria's instincts sharpened. "Pay attention," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the command clear. It was a warning, a heads-up for the girl to be on guard. Nymeria herself snapped to attention, her posture transforming from casual to rigid in an instant. She held her head slightly up, body stiff, and hands clasped behind her back—any trace of relaxation now gone.
Her grey eyes darted between the two men, analyzing them with caution. The first man clearly led the way, his stance and demeanor drawing the eye. His laid-back attitude seemed almost too good to be true. Nymeria couldn't trust it. The higher one climbed in the military ranks, the more rigid and controlled one became. This man's apparent openness made her uneasy, as though he were playing a role that didn't quite fit.
The second man, in contrast, seemed to blend into the background, deliberately diverting attention away from himself. While this tactic might have worked on most people, it only heightened Nymeria's awareness. She had learned the hard way that those who tried to appear unassuming often had the most to hide. She herself was a perfect example of that.
Ignore that man? Was this some kind of test? The thought made her almost paranoid, her mind racing with possibilities. She was already regretting pushing her former instructor over the edge.
She didn't like this—not one bit.
She hadn't even held the rank of Master Sergeant for a year, and already she was being transferred to who-knows-where. And what was this place, exactly? Nothing here made sense. "Sergeant Vero, Sir!" she snapped, deciding to introduce herself first. The whole situation felt absurd. Wouldn't more people be joining them? And why did they need two instructors for this assignment? The questions swirled in her mind, feeding her growing unease.
Novella's demeanor did not change, as two males approached, and she gave no acknowledgement as the older girl ordered her to pay attention. Dark eyes took in their surroundings, one ruined wing stretching to its full length, as she listened to the other girl answer the question asked of them.
They'd taught her that her name wasn't important; she was only as important as the skills she could do to serve those higher than her. Ella tipped her head to one side, and flashed a childish smile toward the men in front of her; as if she hadn't understood what was being asked.
Her wing refolded against her back, she stayed silent. Mute, if not for the few seconds she'd spoken to the older girl. Vero. After a long moment of silence, she responded, quietly, Ella. She'd been debating whether to give her name from her class — Nighte Wraith #1, one of ten children being trained from families that did not want to hear anything about their existences. Ghosts.
And she drifted back into silence, brown eyes staring between the males — Caius and Mal. No posturing, nothing to indicate whether she felt like she needed to prove herself due to her age. Eventually, her hands settled into the pockets of the simple uniform she'd been sent in.
Ciaus and Malachai stood at the edge, the tension in Nymeria’s stance and the quiet stillness of Novella did not escape their notice. Malachai’s eyes narrowed slightly, his mind already working through the logistics of what was to come. Ciaus, on the other hand, wore his usual easy grin, but there was a sharper edge to his gaze as he assessed the recruits.
“Right, then,” Ciaus said, clapping his hands together as the girls came to a stop in front of them. “Hope you two got a good night’s rest because we’ve got work to do. Follow us.”
He turned on his heel and began to lead them through the camp, Malachai fell into step behind the recruits. As they walked, the camp slowly came to life around them. Soldiers and mages moved about with purpose, setting up equipment and preparing for the day’s operations. The smell of damp earth mixed with the faint tang of smoke and metal. Here and there, small clusters of the group shared hurried conversations, but most were too focused on their tasks to pay the newcomers any mind.
They reached a large, weather-beaten tent at the edge of the command area. It looked like it had seen more than its share of rough weather and hasty repairs. Ciaus pulled back the flap and gestured for the recruits to enter. “In you go. We need to get you both up to speed.”
Inside, the tent was sparse but functional. A few maps were spread across a makeshift wooden table, weighed down by small stones. Ciaus moved around the table and picked up a scroll that had been set aside, tied with a simple cord. He glanced at Malachai, a subtle shift of expression passing between them, before he held it out.
“This,” he said, his voice still light but with an undertone of seriousness, “needs to be delivered to the forward camp.”
Malachai eyed the scroll, his expression unreadable for a moment. He didn’t immediately take it, letting the silence stretch just long enough for Ciaus to notice. You’re kidding, Malachai finally said, his tone carrying a hint of exasperation. With the new recruits? You know that’s asking for trouble. It might be, depending on how they fared.
Ciaus’s grin didn’t waver. “Oh, pipe down, Mal. What better way to get them acclimated? It’s a simple delivery, not a march into enemy territory. Besides, you’re the best there is at keeping them out of trouble.”
Malachai sighed. The Fucker. His shoulders slumping just a fraction as he reached out and took the scroll. He shot a quick, skeptical glance at the two girls
Fine, Malachai muttered. But don’t blame me if we end up having to carry them back.
It was nearly impossible to read the two figures in front of her. Their words, their movements—they felt rehearsed, deliberate, as though every glance and gesture had been planned in advance. Nymeria couldn't prove it, but she was sure they were acting. This is a test, she thought, the certainty settling in her chest like a stone. In this job, everything felt like a test, every choice a step closer to success—or failure. Yet she couldn't make sense of it this time. What could they possibly want to gain? To measure their reactions? To test their patience, their loyalty? No other explanation fit, and that uncertainty gnawed at her.
Her mind was a storm, thoughts colliding in a chaotic swirl that only fueled her unease. Even the voice in her mind, quiet for so long, had stirred from its slumber. Its awakening brought an uncomfortable buzz to her already frayed nerves. Nymeria's silver eyes flicked back and forth between the two men and the surrounding space, scanning for something—anything—that might give her clarity. Her muscles tensed and released in restless waves, her body responding to an invisible threat her mind hadn't yet identified. She felt like a bowstring pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.
As she walked past the pair and into the tent, she felt their eyes on her back. It was a fleeting moment, barely three seconds, but it made her skin crawl. She clenched her teeth, the tension grinding through her jaw. She hated having them behind her, even for that brief instant, and she resisted the urge to glance back. They're watching, always watching. The thought felt as tangible as the ground beneath her feet.
The tent itself was unremarkable, a space that was so mundane and ordinary. She didn't expect anything else. Eventually, her attention locked on the maps spread across the central table.
Her stomach tightened further when Malachai began to speak. His reaction to where the scroll was to be delivered only deepened her unease. Whatever task awaited them, it was clear it wouldn't be straightforward—or safe. The weight of it pressed against her, but what bothered her even more was the way they spoke. As if she and the girl beside her weren't even there.
Nymeria's irritation simmered, hot and sharp beneath her skin. We're right here, she wanted to snap, but years of practice held her tongue. She forced her expression into neutrality, masking her growing tension behind a careful mask of disinterest. It wasn't easy, not when the urge to let a cutting remark slip lingered at the edge of her thoughts.
She didn't look at the girl beside her again, not directly. There was no need to exchange words or glances to know they were both thinking the same thing, this wasn't going to be easy.
Whatever this mission was, whatever dangers lay ahead, Nymeria silently vowed to see them both through it. They get out of this, she promised herself. Unscathed or as close as possible.
Even as she made that vow, her eyes flicked back to the maps on the table, her focus narrowing. The lines blurred slightly as her mind churned with too many unanswered questions. What was on the scroll? Why them? And why did every part of her scream that this was more than just another task?
The voice in her mind offered no comfort, no answers, only a faint presence that reminded her it was still there. Still watching. Still waiting.
For now, all she could do was follow their superiors leads—no matter how uncertain, no matter how unknown.
Novella lingered as far from the superiors as she could, and as far from the young woman, too. It would have been easy to believe it was an unconscious choice, if not for how pointed she placed herself. The tent flaps were behind her, and she knew she could slip out if they'd just get lost further in their conversation...
But where would she go? The Academy was all she knew. Missions were her life. So she stayed put, hands clasped behind of her. They were discussing a mission, and her gaze wandered across the interior of the tent.
Bored.
The mission sounded boring, even with the air of danger that the men seemed to expect. For all intents and purposes, the younger girl did not seem to be paying attention.
Her head tilted slightly, dark eyes flickering towards the one called Mal. It's just a delivery, she finally chirped, peering past Nymeria. Overly-bright, and all grins. Should be fun. She exclaimed, a childish glee in her eyes.
She bumped the older girl, We can handle a delivery. She, fresh from the Academy, and this other girl who had to have some sort of experience under her belt. Likely more than Ella.
Malachai let out a low groan, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as Novella's overly cheerful comment hit him like nails on a chalkboard. His hooded eyes flicked toward her, his expression an exaggerated mix of irritation and resignation. Oh, perfect. Fresh from the Academy, and already full of sunshine and rainbows, he muttered, loud enough for everyone in the tent to hear.
Ciaus chuckled from the other side of the table, leaning casually against it, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold with barely concealed amusement. "Come on, Mal, don’t be like that. Think of it as a character-building exercise. For them and you."
Malachai shot him a glare. Oh, I’m sure my character will be thoroughly built by the end of this. Babysitting? Really? That’s what I’ve been reduced to? Don't you remember the last time you graciously gave me this job, but fine. Forward camp, important scroll in hand, two kids in tow—it’s like leading a couple of lambs to slaughter.
Ciaus smirked, his grin widening as he tossed an apple into the air and caught it deftly. “You’ll survive. They might even surprise you.” His tone was light, but there was a glint of something sharper in his eyes.
With a heavy sigh, Malachai snatched up the scroll from the table and secured it in a pouch on his belt. Fine, he said, dragging the word out as if it physically pained him. He turned to the recruits, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked between them. Alright, listen up. You follow me, you keep up, and you don’t do anything stupid. If you give me even half a reason, I’ll pull out your tongues and feed them to the crows. Got it?
Malachai rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, striding out of the tent without waiting for a response. Try to keep up, he called over his shoulder, his tone clipped.
Ciaus chuckled again, watching the trio leave. “Try not to scare them too much, Mal!” he shouted after them, earning only a dismissive wave from Malachai.
The makeshift armory was a haphazard collection of weapons and gear, most of it battered from years of use but still functional. The small tent reeked of oil and leather, the scent almost overpowering as Malachai led the recruits inside. He turned to face them, gesturing to the array of equipment laid out on tables and racks.
Alright, pick your gear, he said, his voice gruff. You’ve got five minutes. And don’t waste time gawking—I don’t care if it’s not shiny or pretty, as long as it works.
Malachai leaned against the tent frame, arms crossed as he watched them. His gaze was sharp, taking in every detail of how they handled themselves. Nymeria’s movements were precise, almost calculated, with the air of someone who had seen combat before. Novella, on the other hand, was looser, more relaxed—but there was an underlying confidence in her demeanor that didn’t match her youthful appearance.
Done? Malachai said abruptly, straightening. Gear up and let’s move. We’ve got a long trek ahead, and I’m not in the mood to dawdle.
He turned and stepped outside, waiting just long enough for them to fall in behind him before setting off at a brisk pace. As they walked, he glanced back at them, his expression unreadable. Babysitting, he thought with a grim smirk. This is going to be a long day.
