Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
at adventu, we believe that colorful story and plots far outweigh the need for a battle system. rp should be about the writing, the fun, and the creativity. you will see that the only system on our site is the encouragement to create amazing adventures with other members. welcome to adventu... how will you arrive?
year 5, quarter 3
Welcome one and all to our beautiful new skin! This marks the visual era of Adventu 4.0, our 4th and by far best design we've had. 3.0 suited our needs for a very long time, but as things are evolving around the site (and all for the better thanks to all of you), it was time for a new, sleek change. The Resource Site celebrity Pharaoh Leep was the amazing mastermind behind this with minor collaborations from your resident moogle. It's one-of-a-kind and suited specifically for Adventu. Click the image for a super easy new skin guide for a visual tour!
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Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Sept 2, 2023 19:17:40 GMT -6
The blue tunic Neil wore kindled the twinkle of his Mythril-silver eyes. “I replaced the strings,” the younger man said, offering Edward his harp, his words a fervor of one who had scarcely seen twenty summers. “I’m no miracle worker, so I’m afraid it’s still got some dings.”
“You needn’t worry,” he said while reaching for the instrument, “betwixt the years, she has seen strife and concord. The dings only give her character.” He traced the familiar wood grain, warm and battle-worn beneath his shaking palms. Whereas his restored youth shook deeply, this he knew. The Apollo Harp was his anchor in an otherwise unknown sea. A delicate smile graced his face. “Thank you.”
“It’s no big deal.” Neil shifted to hide his rudden cheeks. Rare was it someone felt so touched by his actions, who thanked him aloud and did not wish for anything in turn. “It’s the least I can do. After last night and all.”
Edward’s expression softened at Neil’s words. Rising, he leveled their gazes, resisting the urge to squeeze the younger bard’s shoulder in good faith. His words would have to do. “None are indebted to me.”
The other man scoffed, kicked a loose pebble nearby. “That’s not what I meant.”
It was exactly what he meant, Edward knew, yet found he could not call out the fib. It would be a waste of energy. The night prior the tavern had been bustling, the golden ale flowing freely, merrymaking aplenty. Bachelors, with fire in their veins, were swift to rise to a challenge. Even if the challenge came from a bard merely making his way onto the stage. Neil had gone up and beyond to gain order amongst the chaos. His Best Man had ushered the partygoers out, leaving him to pick up the waylaid Edward.
The way Neil cradled his harp spoke volumes. He swore to have it repaired come daylight. Edward, despite the pang in his chest, obliged. For his innermost feelings never led him astray. Sure enough, Neil had kept his word with signs of his profession girded at his chest.
“Perform with me,” the King spoke, dismissing the memories despite the throb of his right eye. While no seasoned healer, the bruising had significantly faded with his enchantments alone. “Consider it sufficient payment.”
“I—” Neil’s shoulders slouched despite his lips curving upwards “—okay.”
With that, Edward settled back on the flat before the Lord Hremit statue, drawing forth his harp. A beautiful thing the instrument was, ornate and well-balanced, brilliant as the first sunrise in winter. In silent concentration, the minstrel tested the new strings. Finding perfection, he readied himself. Nearby Neil lifted his lute.
The first chords broke the anticipation like a tidal wave.
He sang of Prophecy, Earthen bloodstains washed by the Heavens. Of a knight accompanied by a baleful shadow of trials of accepting oneself. Of valor and strife and strength beholden in stoic silence. Of prayers that lifted spirits and hope alike, set ablaze a new generation of stars.
Timbre rising, the minstrel sang on. Unbeknownst to him, his partner had slowed his playing. The world faded away, leaving only the pull of the music, the rhythm of his breath and beating heart. He sang of the journey, the heroic feats of his friends. Of how a lone companion now desperately ached to be reunited.
His voice lingered even after he had ceased playing. Returning from the high, Edward glanced about, eyes focusing on the crowd despite the threat of tears. Being swept up so was unbecoming, he supposed, yet it was a necessity. For as of late he had only sang the ditties known to Torensten while keeping history close to heart.
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Jan 19, 2022 15:19:58 GMT -6
so i followed the ghost of a king
“Good evening,” Edward said, his words punctuated by the wafting steam. He did not immediately look over his shoulder, a habit that would have received a scolding from his chancellor. He smiled to himself. This tavern was not Damcyan; the stool was not his throne. Formalities were next to nonexistent. “Thank you.”
He anticipated the stranger to make his way back like the others, to meld in the crowd and become another nameless face. Much to his surprise, he stayed. Even more bewildering was the fact he had not yet solicited lessons for his child. Finally turning, Edward could guess why.
Dressed for business, Ceri had explained one night as she threw more kindling into the hearth. They’re come with propositions from patrons. Kinda like middlemen.
While this man was dressed the part, Edward sensed his intentions lay elsewhere. With that thought, a sense of calm washed over the former king. Shoulders relaxing, Edward gestured toward the stool next to him in a silent invitation. A small smile lit his features. “Years.” Short and simple, the best retort. He had started young with the harp, which was a birthday gift from his mother years ago, after he had plagued the court bard.
“Performances at taverns,” he began, “I confess began more sporadically. Fire in the blood and the naivety of youth, wanting grand adventures like the minstrels of old.” His father had encouraged outings, albeit with guards flanking him, blocking out citizens and flowers alike. Who could have foreseen the crown prince, known for his scholarly pursuits, sneaking through hidden pathways in the night to escape responsibilities? “To have a taste of freedom.”
How naïve was he all those years ago…
Guilt was a noose, threatening to strangle the moment. Anna’s last lesson hung over him, and he’d swore to live in the present. He took a slow drink, savoring the soothing sensation. “Gilbert,” he offered his alias, testing the waters. A handful knew his real name. If there was a possibility of employment, this man would know it.
If not, perhaps it would be a nice change of pace to have a civil conversation.
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Nov 11, 2021 8:06:57 GMT -6
so i followed the ghost of a king
He was swooped into a bone crushing hug, having been swept quite literally from his feet. He tensed. Not for fear of his dagger being discovered beneath the folds of his cape, but from the shock of genuine appreciation. How long had it been since someone hugged him? Ruling a nation had left little room for physical affection. Most dared not to touch a king. Sure, Harley’s shoulder brushed his sometimes while they walked, yet that was not the same.
So that left—the bucket nearly fell from nerveless fingers. Anna. While a harden warrior was not gentle as his wife—the ache in his muscles were a testament to that—the warmth was welcomed nonetheless. Laughter bubbled from his lips to conceal the fact he did not want it to end. Nonetheless, he found himself returned to the sands, the warmth slipping from his limbs. Despite himself, he shivered.
Thankfully, the rōnin’s words provided a distraction. “You needn’t worry,” he said, a smile still playing on his lips. “I have more than enough to go around.” Plus, the pearl would be more than enough compensation to make up for a meager provision. “Not to mention the means to charm more.” Edward hoped his joke was not taken literally. He did not have the gift of summoning.
He crossed the white sand toward his discarded gear and set the bucket down. “The Hero’s Haven has a fair host.” Settling on the sand, the king began unfurling his pant legs. “While I’m not one who’s often perceived as a warrior”—he reached for his boots, startling a nearby sand-bubbler—"I earned a room nonetheless.” Once finished, his attention returned to the warrior duo. “I’m sure accommodations could be arranged. I could offer my room. I’ve slept under the stars countless times.” Ever the wayfarer, evident by the harp girded at his back.
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Oct 14, 2021 14:36:48 GMT -6
so i followed the ghost of a king
Safe and tucked inside the tavern, far from the storm brewing outside Torensten’s port district, music flourished. Perched upon a stool, the musician sat, fair hair drawn into a half-do braid, tied with a red ribbon which matched his tunic. Behind him, a large hearth lit the room, pulsing to some unsung command, highlighting the hall in a golden hue. The harp glimmered as bright as the sound that resonated from it, offering respite from what lay beyond the room.
Another late show. Beneath long lashes, Edward counted the audience’s numbers as his fingers danced across the strings. Another uptick in numbers, judging by how many squeezed themselves into the common room. His voice intensified. He had not planned to remain within Torensten long enough to gather a reputation, albeit an arguably small one. Several patrons raised their cups, offering more encouragement by singing off tune. Edward smiled, soft and gentle. As was his nature, he was undeniably becoming loyalty attached to this small section of the city.
It would seem as if he only changed in the physical sense. At least that was a comfort in this elsewise unpredictable world.
The last note faded before the first claps hit the air. Legs sore, Edward got to his feet and bowed as the intoxicated clamoring rose in volume. Over the enthusiasm, he excused himself, voice scratchier than he would care to admit, and took his leave from the raised platform that served as a stage. Like every night prior, his exit was intercepted by folks offering praise. Offerings of patronship. Offerings of some farmland’s son to take music lessons. The smile did not reach his eyes when he said he would consider his choices, shook a few hands, and slipped from the crowd.
Ceri, the barkeep, greeted him with her signature crooked grin as he approached. She slid a concoction that soothed the throat his way. “Can’t have my golden goose going mute,” she said with a wink.
He did not voice his dislike of her referencing him as such. “Thank you.” He forced back a grimace. The wind howled and clawed like a savage beast at the door. Edward shuddered at the thought of what the night would bring.
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Jul 1, 2021 9:44:54 GMT -6
so i followed the ghost of a king
“Master bard!”
As was forewarned, the moment he crossed into the oasis, children surged forward like a churning sea to get closer to him, voices rising, ever persistent, clamoring for a song or heroic tale. One boy even lifted a coin as if to entice him. Edward declined the offer, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
Aljana had captured his interest in more ways than one and he, ever akin to following his interests, had sent off to seek the land renowned for its rich lore, and its love of those who would be willing to listen and perhaps spread its stories. For a moment it felt like home. His heart longed for that familiarity. Once, he would have bartered for freedom; now he wished for the option of a home to return to. Even if that home meant responsibilities of the crown.
“How quaint.” Edward’s attention was torn from the treble of kids wishing for a limerick whilst he juggled like a run-of-the-mill thespian to the source of the voice. A woman sat nearby, shaded by the harsh sun beneath a wide tarp. “You best head home, children. High noon approaches.” As if to punctuate her words, the sun emerged from behind the thinly veiled sky, unforgiving and unrelenting. “Besides, the ‘Master bard’ needs time to recuperate from his lengthy journey.”
Hariq Rami was fast approaching, too. She need not remind them of the time they should be spending with their families. Disgruntled, the swarm would disperse, albeit some stragglers remained until another look from the woman set them off.
“Azaria,” she said, offering her hand. Her nails glistened like rubies in the sun spray. He took her hand in his, his touch gentle and cool as the oasis that gave Aljana her life.
“Gilbert,” he supplied before placing a feather-light kiss on her fingertips, careful of the jewelry adorning each one.
The woman’s lips curved upward as if sharing a secret. Like a coeurl, she reclined back beneath the canopy, draping her long legs across the plush cushion, purposely baring the cutlass strapped to her hosed thigh. “The truth does one a thousand favors, Gilbert,” she said, her nonchalant tone belied by her flinty gaze.
“That it does,” he admitted. In a show of good faith, he pushed back his cloak, revealing his ornate knife at his belt. “I confess Gilbert is a nickname.”
Azaria gave a bird-like tilt of her head, pearl earrings clicking as she studied him, searching for more lies. Finding none, her expression softened. “Better.” As swift as the cutlass appeared it slipped away, hidden below cotton and linen. Before her stood a man flushed yet elsewise unperturbed by the rising temperature. How quaint, indeed. “You do not flounder in the heat, drowning in your own sweat.”
Even a fool could catch her unspoken question. “I hail from a desert town,” he allowed, careful of his words as memories surfaced of a disquieted chancellor and a poised secretary, awaiting their melancholic king’s decision. And he—that King. “Even so, I dare not risk heat illness.”
Desert Fever was a snare best avoided in an unfamiliar land with unfamiliar faces.
Her smile broadened, crinkling the dark skin around her amber eyes smoldering with unabashed intrigue. Edward found himself fancying the expression even if his heart sped like a mouse in the pouncing coeurl’s shadow; Anna often smiled like that. “Stranger in a familiar land.” Shifting, she leaned forward, bracing her weight upon her elbows, cradling her chin upon the makeshift bridge of her hands. “Fortunate for you, this desert was gracious.”
Quite gracious for it led me to Anna. Edward’s expression softened. He was naïve then, having rushed out of the castle in the dead of night, ill prepared for what the day would bring. Desert Fever does not discriminate. She often reminded him of that as she nursed his fever.
The warmth on his face was no longer from the sun alone. “I come to learn of Aljana’s rich history. Are there any vacancies still at the local inn?”
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Jun 3, 2021 15:29:31 GMT -6
So I followed a ghost of a king, but the voice of fire wasn't coming from a ghost no more
He was at odds with his surroundings, his tunic a blotch of red against the white sands, ambling the shore barefoot with a song on his tongue. A harp was girded at his back; at his left hip rested a Mythril knife, hidden 'neath the folds of his cape. He carried a small pail in one hand and his boots in the other. A drifter—an outlander some would spat in the North—who had gotten stares from the warriors in the nearby resort, aptly named The Hero’s Haven, when he had crossed the threshold and inquired about boarding.
“You’re unlike most I’ve seen,” the man behind the counter had said, eyes sweeping over the bard. He was in his late thirties, all angles and scarred from past skirmishes. “But my mother said warriors come in all shapes and sizes.”
Edward had merely smiled, inclined his head, and gave his thanks.
Setting his boots and pail aside, Edward hummed, unslung his harp from his shoulder followed by his cape. Deft fingers nestled his harp within the fabric, protecting the instrument from wind and water and sand. Satisfied with his work, he rose, snatched the nearby pail and approached the frothing sea. He had offered his services more ways than one to the resort.
He sang as he shifted sands in search scallops, his voice carried by the surging ocean. The sun crept higher in the sky. Edward continued his quest, even when his pail was leaden with the local cuisine.
His long fingers clasped around another shell and a small smile softened his features even as his eyes fixated forward, as if seeing something far-off beneath the swirling water. Images of the head cook, Lian, walking hand-in-hand with a fair maid, a pearl hugging the hollow of her throat. Warmth spread through his chest, making his heart fluttered. This one was special. This, he knew. Absently, Edward tucked the scallop in his pocket. The inkling he had been following began to fade, signifying this was what he sought.
Voices. From his position, kneeling within the ocean froth, the bard looked up, eyes suddenly bright. Had he heard a snippet of a conversation or was the ghosts of his thoughts haunting him once more? The ocean rolled and receded in a rhythm not unlike the first plucking of strings. For a moment, Edward let the sound roll over and calm him until a bellow broke the tempo. He was not mistaken.
Two. Keen eyes held fast to the approaching strangers. Both were tall, imposing. Edward kept his knife sheathed. It would bode ill to flash steel, even unintentionally. Especially to warriors. And, by the last snippet he caught, both were classified as such.
“Hoy!” he said, his voice carried on the wind. He rose, facing them. With his hair a-tizzy and his trousers soaked from knees down, clasping a pail filled with scallops, he appeared as a ragamuffin to the untrained eye. The image he aimed to cultivate as it kept one from getting mugged.
The ocean swelled about his legs with the upcoming tide. His lilting voice giving away his profession as he said, “Would you like a share of the bounty I have?” To emphasis his point, he raised the pail with a sun flushed hand. “It might not be much, but it shall fill your stomachs nonetheless.”
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Feb 7, 2021 23:43:23 GMT -6
So I followed a ghost of a king, but the voice of fire wasn't coming from a ghost no more
The messenger had found him, exasperated, and with excessive force shoved the envelope in Edward’s direction. “You had best get a move on,” the man said. He had sweat upon his brow and his chest heaved, his breath whistling between clenched teeth. “You don’t want to be late.”
With a tilt of his head, Edward accepted the parchment with as much grace as a confused man could offer, before the messenger took his leave. The wrapper was of high quality, dyed scarlet, his name penned in gold ink. With practiced ease, Edward broke the wax seal and read the contents, before a dusting of pink touched his cheeks. Nearby, his fellow musicians exchanged knowing smirks, having colluded with one another to give the melancholic other worlder the night of his life.
Schooling himself into a neutral expression, Edward rose from his seat. “If you excuse me,” he began, voice clear despite the rapid beat of his heart, “I seem to have been reassigned.”
The Lux Mare Botanical Gardens.
Edward reread the flowing script, and found himself in the correct location. Lanterns bobbed on the sighing wind, heady with the scent of flowers and salt. Edward inhaled, hoping to calm his nerves. Calm did not come. He fidgeted with the cardstock. The last time he fidgeted was the day Anna was to walk down the aisle.
Anna. Edward’s gaze swept the garden. Anna would have been radiant in the glow of the lanterns, with the breeze teasing her hair and the starlight shining in her brilliant eyes...
Edward caught himself. He had promised her not to live in the past, to ease her concerns, and to let her rest peacefully. Here, in this strange new world, should have made it so simple. Yet his thoughts still strayed from time to time. Everything began with small steps.
Steps. Someone was approaching. Envelope clasped in hand, Edward braced himself. Within the imposing shadow of a topiary in the shape of a heroic knight, the bard felt small. While a widower, he was a married man. How was he to explain this, without upsetting the unsuspecting woman’s feelings? Edward twisted the envelope, folding it in on itself. Would Anna accept this? What of Tellah? He wrung the paper as one does a wet cloth. There he went, thinking of Anna again when he swore he wouldn't. Again, the paper twisted, worn to the point of tearing. Furthermore, who was he to ruin her night?
The paper tore and Edward squared his shoulders. He hadn't the right. Whoever was heading this way deserved a wonderful night. It was the least he could do.
Post by Edward Chris von Muir on Nov 11, 2020 23:34:25 GMT -6
♔
The blue tunic Trevin wore kindled the twinkle of his Mythril-silver eyes. “I replaced the strings,” the younger bard said, offering Edward his harp, his words a fervor of one who had scarcely seen twenty-three summers. “I’m no miracle worker, so the woods got some dings.”
“You needn’t worry.” Reaching for the instrument, Edward continued his lilted reply, “Betwixt the years, it has seen strife and concord. The dings only give her character. I thank you for your efforts.”
Trevin smiled. It did not reach his eyes. That smile that always made Edward’s skin crawl, like walking through a spiderweb. While his suspicions rarely lead him astray, he felt inclined to think else wise. The new minstrel had been through rough patches in his life. Twisting scars littered his arms, spilling onto the hands and chest. A byproduct of living in Sonora. If the rumors were true. Given the harsh environment, it’d make sense such a man would grow to be far more reserved than the populace of Torensten. Perhaps it was also his nerves.
Edward settled on the latter, for it seemed the most plausible. It was not every day one woke up in a body much younger than their years, in a foreign world no less. Still, he had done well enough for himself. Music and art were a popular demand in Torensten, and it had taken little time for him to be scouted by a noble’s son whilst plucking strings on the street. He had made a decent name for himself as a musician.
Now, at behest of Barion’s request, he was to be a duo act with Trevin. Despite the unease, Edward found him pleasant enough.
“Gilbert. Trevin. I’m sorry I’m late.”
Drawn from his thoughts, Edward turned to face their newest arrival. Barion was twenty, finally filling into adulthood. He had his mother’s baby blues and windswept auburn hair. He had dressed casually, as to not dirty his clothing in the wilderness. It made him blend in. Edward smiled. The councilman's son knew how to act, how to hide in plain sight.
“Please,” Trevin answered, his grin baring too many teeth for comfort. Again, Edward was glad he insisted on chaperoning their playdate. “It’s rough getting to the outskirts. Moreso for a noble lad, I bet.” Something seemed off. Gooseflesh rippled as Trevin casually swung his arm around Barion’s neck, chattering about checking out the nearby wooded area for a potential concert venue.
Then the dagger glinted in a rogue sunbeam. Edward found his voice. “Run!”
Barion needn’t be told twice. With a harsh shove, lurching Trevin over an uproot, he freed himself before barrelling back towards the city line. Wasting no time, Edward followed. “Get to the station!” he called to Barion as the grass gave way to the city’s stonework.
Rounding the corner, Edward all but dodged crates containing chickens, lurching the wooden structure in a flurry of feathers and alarm calls. Their owner, a man who favored day spirits, came stumbling from his abode, face flushed. “My chickens!” bellowed the mage, shaking his fist at the ever retreating bard. “I’ll get you for this, ungrateful punk!”
Edward swallowed back his urge to apologize. Now was not the time. Legs pumping, the bard continued tailing Barion, making haste toward the station. So close. Edward sent a silent prayer to whatever God would listen to get the boy to safety.
Clamouring up the metal stairs, Edward ushered the noble to the train. Barion squeezed between the sliding doors, stranding Edward on the platform. The cadence of footfalls approached behind. Heart pounding, he went to turn, to face the assassin, his fingers on the strings of his harp. “You shall not—”
Splintering notes hit the air, rattling and striking one’s sense as hurtled bricks. With his knees threatening to buckle beneath the jolting song, Edward found the strength to counter Trevin’s spell. He sang of protection, of unbreakable walls, of warriors boldly pursuing the foe, all while his fingers caressed the harp strings. Trevin’s melody faltered, as one strained beneath some unseen force, as Edward pressed the offense.
The harp string snapped. Edward’s harmony became a clangor. Eyes widening, Edward recalled Trevin’s tinkering of his instrument; he had been set up to fail. His opponent wasted no time in taking advantage of his confusion, rushing in. Edward went for his knife. Unfortunately for him, Trevin was quicker, snaring Edward’s left wrist and with a violent wrench, pinned it against his back. Taken aback, his harp fell to the cobblestones with a heavy thud.
The chill of metal touched his neck.
“You—” the King of Damcyan began, before falling silent as the blade threatened to pierce the tender skin of his neck.
Trevin spoke, voice as cold as the dagger in his hand, “Not who I seem. I could say the same of you, Gilbert. Now, where is he headed?”
Sweat beaded on Edward’s brow. He held his silence.
“If you wish to take a vow of silence,” Trevin gave a click of his tongue, dug the knife in, drawing a thin line. “I could cut out your tongue, to honor your will. It’d be a shame. A bard unable to sing. Poetic tragedy, some would say.” His smirk became fishhook sharp at Edward’s barely audible gasp. “Your fingers, too. But it won’t come to that, if you’d tell me. So, I ask again. What district did you send Barion to, Gilbert?”
Defiant, the king kept his resolve.
Caius Dragelion and open for anyone who wishes to join! Of course, we know Barion's going to get the blades. ;D
