per aspera ad astra.
"His royal highness, the third prince, Cecillianus Ambrose Cornelius of Azenad-Othidor, is reported missing. He was last seen wandering the city walls with his trusted personal guard and royal knight, Sir Edward of Dryden, who's suspected to have abducted his royal highness. Any and all accounts of their suspected whereabouts are to be reported directly to the House of Azenad-Othidor and its royal guards, failure to do so will result in serious punishment. The public is encouraged to return both his royal highness and his loyal servant unscathed and will be rightfully rewarded for doing so."

Angled letters speak of a story that only holds a droplet of truth, hanging from a wall made of the same old bricks as always - both Cecil and Edward make their way through the crowd, heads covered and faces hidden by simple garments to not give away their identity. If anything, this had been the young princes idea, his thirst for knowledge and the outside world having control over him and leading to put one stupid choice after the other - choices that Edward, almost begrudgingly, has to follow to keep the young prince safe. One thing that Cecil, seemingly, wants to see is what lies beyond the borders of the south, beyond all that he has ever known and thus, he decides to embark on a journey to Thria, far away from the Land of Sand, of scorching heat, of dust - just to see more of what he yearns for.

Although one might romanticize what lies beyond the border, it's painfully obvious that Thria is no paradise: cold and barren, frigid and frozen, standing in direct opposition to the their home, the country of Ylisse - and yet, blurry lines in form of a tall, endless mountain range seperate them - the two lands that rarely join hands, let alone speak of one another and yet, there seems to be little to no reason why the prince wouldn't want to go there. There's things that are left to be explored, places to be seen and while he walks through the world, head upright and filled with naive thoughts, Edward tags along, seeing some of the world, too - though, it's still a long way until the border and crossing it with just the two of them, doesn't that seem somewhat unwise? Surely, there has to be someone that would be willing to lend those two helpless wanderers a hand ...

Edward of Dryden = @Earinor || Cecillianus Ambrose Cornelius of Azenad-Othidor = @Akira

Name: A pale face, made of the finest porcelain one could find; picturesque, framed by equally pale locks, lacking pigment and if one might catch a glimpse of eyes, their color akin to rubies, they'd figure who said strange mug belongs to. Cecillianus Ambrose Cornelius of Azenad-Othidor, one of the current kings younger children and ever so curious about the world beyond the familiar castle walls knows many things, but the most important one has always and will always be the fact that, no matter how many times officials call his name, he would much prefer to be called Ceci or Cecil, no title or social rank needed, just a normal, plain name that has nothing to do with the fact that he is the first of his name and probably the last, or the fact that his parents were quite close to calling him something even worse. If Edward would get a name like Cecil into his thick skull, the young prince would appreciate it a lot more than he lets on, too. (Well, who knows anyway, history books tend to call him Cecil of Myriad ... there has to be a reason for that, right?)

Age: Some sun would fix that pale complexion of his, at least some of their doctors claimed it would, but in the end, Cecil only ended up with countless sunburns - some worse than the others - yet, all of them were equally awful. Therefore, he celebrates his birthdays inside, in the shade, away from the scorching summer sun that he was born under around twenty years ago. That doesn't quite make him an adult under Ylisses law, but it does prove that he would - very much - like to skip a few years ahead and be treated like the man that he is, despite the things he often enough struggles with.

Personality: Cecil is of inquisitive nature, wanting more than he can have and quite materialistic while doing so. What are words worth if he hasn't seen it himself and what does it matter when he can't have some of it? One might think that, despite questioning himself, the nobles around him and the world in general, he would be better at handling himself and the way he acts, but one will realize that - despite the haughty air he has around him and the judgemental gaze he casts upon somebody that would waltz a bit to close toward him, he is naive and doesn't seem to know what to do, let alone understand the importance of keeping well-hidden secrets. Often enough, people will assume that to Cecil, life is a game that he plays, wholly and fully with all the obstacles it throws his way and when he can't win, he won't cheat - at least not in a way he's aware of, after all, he seems to be so distanced from peasant life, that he has no idea how much a simple apple or loaf of bread costs. Some would call him ignorant, which might be the case, but on the other hand, the young prince is nothing more than trying to be more openminded but having a hard time managing that, despite his best advances. Years of spending time in the same social cycles can either enrich or ruin a mind and the sole thought that, maybe, just maybe, there's nothing behind those endless, vast mountains doesn't stop someone like him, at least not mentally. Doesn't he seem quite childish anyway?

Additional Info:
- Cecil has two older brothers and one older sister.
- He's known Edward for 12 years now and would really like it if he were to call him Cecil. A lot, actually.
- His skin is pale, white even, much like anything else on his body, aside from the one mole under his left eye and said eyes, which seem to have a ruby gleam to them.
- In line with said mentioned traits is Cecils worsening eyesight, the inability to look at extremely bright surfaces at all and the missing pigment causing him to get sunburns quite easily. Other than that, if he were to retain just a scratch, it would take an absurd amount of time to get himself to stop bleeding in the first place.
- Cecil would not describe any of his family as insane, his father is quite ... the ambitious man, conquering Othidor only a few years before Cecils birth and uniting the two kingdoms - obviously in the best interest of both parties. Definitely.
- While Cecil doesn't mind jewelry and wears ruby earrings that fit his horrible (in his opinion) looking eyes, he wouldn't mind trading it for something else.
- Skilled in swordplay, but definitely not able to lift most blades with ease. Or spot his enemy.
- Growing up as the youngest of four, as the third prince, and with quite the odd condition only led to him being pampered, not being taken seriously and theoretically being part of the courts laughing stock, but even that doesn't seem to make him stop - probably much to Edwards dismay.

Name: People come and go, names are exchanged on a whim and sometimes, nothing that has been spoken has to amount to any kind of truth. Whatever that is because of unspoken rules or the fact that one does not want any association with their given name doesn't matter - they are the same in the end and thus, if one is not a noble, knowing such things is of no use anyway. Whatever ends up being the case, whoever this young man is, he almost always introduces himself as Rhys al-Kashghari and is not keen on taking up any other identity in the first place. Nobody knows if he's really a descendant or a relative of the al-Kashghari family, residing in the southernmost kingdom of Ylisse, Fye, but there's no way to prove any of that either way. If one were to ask for the mans personal opinion on the matter, he'd simply claim it was the name he'd always known and he grew up with, yet, barely any of his traces lead to Fye in the first place and his occupation makes no sense, either.

Age: Whatever it is that he tells one, none of the words he sputters and none of the things he says are to be taken for granted - whatever he is a noble son, the son of a peasant, or just the son of a wandering merchant, the only thing, aside from his name, that Rhys is firm on - in most cases - is his age. Twenty-four years, many of which he'd rather forget about, tend to haunt him for the silliest of reasons - something he is neither proud of, nor willing to admit, even if nightmares are quick to be identified as misguided daydreams and many people would claim that they don't trust his face and the things that pour from his lips like droplets of poisoned, yet sought-after water.

Personality: Rhys is very much like a double-edged sword in many regards. Years of trying to be nice and perfecting a customer-friendly attitude have led him to be able to have the softest of smiles on his lips, know the sweetest of words to lull a potential customer in and what makes it worse is the not too over-the-top attempt at making everyone feel loved and welcome in his presence in the first place. Once he paints the picture of quite the smiling, friendly and still quite shy person that loves to help people and couldn't hurt a fly, it seldom becomes oh so painfully apparent that Rhys is, without a doubt irasicble, easy to anger in the first place and won't take no for an answer - beneath the all-smiles, all calm, attitude burns a fire, and if he holds a grudge against someone, it almost always seems to be like a fate worse than death. Those who know his true face either don't live long to tell the tale, or at least find themselves robbed of senses, memories and possession in an alleyway in the next blink of an eye - those who do remember don't dare to speak a work of the ruthless, cold demeanor they faced, lest everybody would think they are insane for insulting someone as sweet as honey. Rhys may, or may not, hold himself in high regards, be crafty with the things he does and enjoy a nice, peaceful and quiet evening, yet nothing hits worse than the apparent realization that whatever one may expect, they'll get - for a price they don't have to be willing to pay, but will most certainly pay regardless.

Additional Info:
- Born and initially raised by a family of merchants in the kingdom of Fye, Rhys is no stranger to the ruthless and illegal practices there and in neighboring kingdoms. While his family only consisted of merchants in the first place, they sold humans as wares - and their own family if they had to.
- Rhys himself was supposed to take over the family business, but ran away at the age of fifteen, after an argument he doesn't dare to speak about.
- However, staring at Rhys for too long, at least in a temporary state of undress, would reveal that he is branded. Not just once, either.
- Obsessed with all things that glitter and shine, in one way or the other, Rhys always seems to carry around things that are - at first glance - quite expensive. On second glance, they are easily identifiable as fakes, yet they still go for a good price if he's dealing with someones untrained eyes.
- Despite having noble aspiriations at first, mainly to clean off the dirt that all of his family has burdened him with, his dream of aiding a knight turned into nothing more than dust soon enough - something that he'd probably kill Logan over, but for that he'd have to find him first.
- For the past few years, Rhys worked for an older noble as a food taster, yet ended up deserting from his job after surviving a lethal poisoning more than once - something he'd not like to repeat, either.
- As of recently, to make ends meet, he can be found roaming different city streets, trying to steal peoples money with silly tricks.

Name: There's tens of thousands of them, anywhere, scattered across the vast expanse of snow, a tundra not meant to be inhabitated by anyone. Qidao Zhou knows many places within it's confines, from impenetrable fortresses to small settlements, all of them carrying their own stories and therefore valuables with them. Not many are willing to share, not without being paid for their intelligence, but a broker like her - like A-dao - knows when to haggle, and who she'd best stay away from. Perhaps that is why, when the ice-borne winds of her forlorn home drag her past the border between her homeland and that of the foreigners, she is unwilling to thaw around them, to disclose even the smallest bit of her true nature. The travellers of yore call her many names, some of them insults, others signs of appreciation, but they never guess her to be a woman - for her own good, that is. At least among the midst of her customers it seems like something she can easily hide behind her clothing and demeanor - after all, the young foreigner they call Lark, like the songbird, would never sell them any half-truths.

Age: Past the border, in Thria, situated in a vale wedged between the endless ice that grows taller every year sits a city, carved out of snow and stone, foisted onto freezing ground with little regard for what prospered beneath, named Xuhou by its forebearers. Murals and stories, written and spoken, tell of an epic battle that split the ice above into two and caused their ancestors to settle between the treacherous walls, on the aftermath of a battlefield. Here, twenty-seven years ago, Qidao was born, in the shade of glory, away from prying eyes, messenger birds climbed high up in the sky and delivered news far and wide: The Dafu Zhou of Xuhou had a daughter.

Personality: Qidao is much like an older sister one never had the chance to interact with, given her initially icy demeanor and penchant to let actions ring louder than words. All customers are regarded the same - with a warm smile, a hot drink and a story from beyond the barren fields, from where she hails - they are friends, clad in the skin of strangers, and every wandering soul needs a home to call their own. Surely, the vagabond has but compressed happiness in a cup of spiked tea, making the cold temperatures in her homeland more bearable; and ones opinion slip from their looser tounge as the distinct effect of alcohol takes hold. Every one of her actions are meant to keep her afloat, her business is her lifeline, and her love for life just another virtue she seemingly was blessed with; without any tricks up her sleeve, a merchant like her wouldn't prosper, but lies are like poison to the very soil they draw nourishment from, unless they are out of necessity, much like her existence as a merchant. Lark is rough if he needs to be, and not at all a gentleman, but at the very least he puts in genuine effort, and that is what matters most - even if it disappoints the small crowd that flocks back and forth from his stalls, from his camps that he sets up in the middle of cities, or the middle of nowhere, where nothing but the wilderness and himself remain. To distrust is to betray, and to disagree is to argue - a burden shared is a burden halved, which is like a mantra to someone like him - but that doesn't mean that either of them is jovial at all, or even interested in forming relationships past the surface level. If there's one thing someone like Qidao likes, it's the transient nature of all things in life.

Additional Info:
- Qidao sells everything, from thrian remedies, to fish, to information, to hot tea, or even her own time to listen to someones worries. Every ailment has a cure, no matter what it is.
- Her father, the Dafu of Xuhou, the city she was born and grew up in, only sounds powerful in title - he's a mere bureaucrate with power over a specific part of the country, and while Qidao has no ill blood with him, she prefers to work for her own money, by any means necessary.
- The merchants arrival is often marketed by the chime and song of bones, beads and bells, many of which she has attached to her own clothing or wears as accessories, many she makes herself, to be easier to track down even in the most heinous of weather, by any and all of them.
- While the "western" language, in parts, would be easy to pick up upon naturally near the border, Qidao only finds herself to be fluent in it because of her aunts travels, and her subsequent wish to tag along - after her untimely passing, she took up the womans mantle and is, therefore, known and beloved by many, despite her flaws.
- If the Lark hasn't sold, or traded, or caught it, it doesn't exist; what is real, though, is her daring - and her quite open secret of not being a man at all, something that is neither acknowledged nor spoken of at times.