[IC] Schooled in Magic

[Riven Wight]

Jazelle returned Priscilla’s smile with a forced one of her own, then followed a few paces behind the older girl. She frequently glanced about the corridor with wary eyes, looking for any other branches off the one they traversed, any sign of stairs, or anyone else lurking about.
How big is this place? she wondered when the straight walk stretched impossibly onward. She kept her hands in her hoodie’s pocket, her posture slightly hunched and shoulders tense.
It was not until the third time they passed one of the windows, faintly admiring the view, that she realized they were going in a circle. Without making any perceivable turns. Her pace faltered, and she looked around with new interest and mistrust. Were they stuck in some kind of loop? Was this some sort of trap Sunder had set up?
Either way, Priscilla had not stopped. Jazelle contemplated waiting there to see if the girl would pass by again, but deemed it unwise to lose sight of her and hurried to catch up. It was impossible to say what, if anything, would happen if she stayed behind.
She was about to ask about it when they passed the window once more, but, at long last, the hall changed, offering them a new sight. And what a strange sight it was. Even the atmosphere here was different. Her pace slowed as she tried to examine the multifarious contents crowding the furniture pressed against the stone walls, ranging from the familiar to the unidentifiable, from the mundane to the grotesque.
Are these... enchanted items? she wondered. As they passed, she moved slightly closer to one wall to get a better look at the skeletal candle-holder, the wax of the candles not so much as dripping despite the flames burning at the wicks.
She cast a glance to Priscilla to make sure she was neither looking nor getting too far ahead, and reached to touch one of the bones of the hand, wanting to see if they were real. Before her hand got too close, an electric buzz kissed her fingers and spread painfully up her arm. She drew back with a hiss and griped her arm with the other hand, but the sensation vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Don't try to touch enchanted objects," she grumbled to herself under her breath, then, with a frown, once more caught up with Priscilla.
When they reached the double doors, their size giving Jazelle pause, and entered the dining room, she stopped just inside and gawked at the room before her. Though she was not sure what she had expected, this certainly wasn’t it. For all its grandeur, the tables on either side of the fire and chef’s table looked dismally empty with the few people to occupy the many seats situated at each.
Then, her gaze settled on Sunder sitting at the third table directly across from her, the flames of the fire flaring up and occasionally blocking the sight of him. Judging by his expression, he liked mornings just about as much as Jazelle did on a school day.
Jazelle startled slightly when Priscilla spoke, giving a reminder of her presence. She nodded absently, then paused. She opened her mouth to ask, “How long is awhile, exactly?” but the servant had already turned and left.
Jazelle scowled after her, then looked back to Sunder. She glanced to the food on the cook's table, her stomach rumbling from the delectable smell of cooked meats and baked bread that pervaded the room, then made her way around the tables in a slow, yet confident pace as she he reluctantly went to follow Priscilla’s instruction.
“Mornin’, Sunshine,” she intoned as she pulled out a seat beside Sunder and sat, angling it slightly toward him and leaving what she hoped was a safe distance between them. She replaced her hand in her pocket, and slumped lazily in the chair, trying to hide her unease, though her eyes remained as alert as ever.

[OfWindAndRain]

Sunder eyed the otherworlder with an eye that suggested that he didn't particularly like being talked to in such a way. Contrary to his outward appearance, though, it was a surprising relief to be treated so... nonchalantly by someone. He was ancient beyond the girl's understanding, and could literally squash her- or worse- with a thought. She treated him like someone she's known all her life, and was so comfortable with that she didn't NEED to act any sort of way. No one was like that.

It was a relief. She was only concerned with who he was, not what he has done, or has become. Just him.

He eyed Jazelle with what would outwardly appear to be a sour disposition, but he decided he'd hold some fondness for this little alien. Either way, she'd have to have a backstory, and coming from his tower out of the blue? She'd be assumed to be his bastard daughter, of sorts- and she had the mana reserves to back it up.

"Your backstory is that you're my unannounced daughter. And don't protest- I've known you less than a day, and I already feel you'd protest anything you possibly could. Your origins will always be questioned; if you allude that I'm your father, you're much less likely to be lynched, interrogated, or otherwise. If someone finds out you're from a different world, what you want, need, or feel will cease to matter. You never knew your mother- I was as absent as I could be in your upraising. You're being sent to Whitehall for a proper education, after showing your first spark. And I will help you with that- I can sense your potential, so all I'll be doing is helping you unlock it.

"For all intents and purposes, I am your guardian. I found you, I saved you, and you're now my responsibility- even if a distant one. Whitehall will teach you everything you need to know about your new world."

Sunder paused, staring at her, before glancing at the servant that had sneakily appeared behind Jazelle. Dutifully, the servant stepped forward and delivered the guest's food, which the cook almost immediately finished off with a hunk of steaming, roasted pork-turkey-thing, something that neither the dead meat, the cook, or Sunder seemed incline to inform her of the origins of.

"Another thing- adopt a new name. No magician you meet will tell you their real name, because names are power. Pick an alias that you'll go by, because if someone knows your actual name, they'll have notable power over you. Because of how unique you are to this world, I'd also advise you to never let anyone take your blood. As it is, having a small drop of a magician's blood is enough to force him to do what you'd like- the connection can be weakened, however. In your case? You're more unique to this world than anything else in it. You are the most unique. Your blood is nothing like anyone else's here, and even if weakened, anyone could still use it to control you. This will be taught to you in Whitehall, but I am telling you now.

"I don't know where you're from, but I doubt they have this. If someone has your blood, and wishes you to lay down on the ground and try and eat a plot of dirt, there is next to nothing you can do to stop it."

He was stern, strict, lecturing, the entire time. It was a simple point- blood is potent, blood is power. If someone else has your blood, you're done for.

"Now eat. We'll be busy later."

[Riven Wight]

Jazelle returned Sunder’s disapproving gaze with an indifferent expression as she leaned her chair so it balanced precariously on its back legs. She raised an eyebrow at a slight pause following her greeting.
“Hold that face too long, and it might stick that way,” she mused lightly. “Unless it already has.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, and nodded as if that explained everything.
She looked back to him when he started about having a backstory. “Your daughter?” she asked incredulously. “You’ve got to--”
“And don’t protest.”
Her lips pursed to the side and she exhaled through her nose.
“Lynched?” Jazelle’s chair fell back to all four legs, and she stared at him, her mouth slightly agape as she searched his expression for any sign he was messing with her. She found none.
At the first part of the quick, simple story he provided, she could not help but laugh. “Same song, second verse,” she said with a darkly amused snort. She leaned the chair once more on its back legs, wondering if he could have possibly known the truth behind his fabricated “backstory.”
She returned his stare until he glanced behind her. Her attention snapped to the side as she turned her head. She startled at the sight of the servant, and her chair threatened to topple over. She gripped the sides of the seat, steadying it as the servant placed a plate on the table in front of her, the charm bracelet around her wrist jingling lightly. She let out an frustrated breath at letting someone sneak up on her, watching the cook place a chunk of curious-looking meat among the other items already on the plate.
“Excuse me?” Jazelle’s attention returned to Sunder, looking at him from beneath her brows at the order of taking a new name. Her expression turned into a scowl as he explained himself. She threw a hand up in the air exasperatedly. “You couldn’t have told me that last night?” she growled, silently adding, Like, before I told you mine? She shoved her hands, annoyed, back into her muff, but listened to his lecture about the power of blood nonetheless.
“Okay, okay,” she grumbled when he reiterated the concept. “I get it.” Her stomach growled, and she eyed the food on the plate, its aroma tantalizing as it mingled with the warm scent of the fire. Slowly, she scooted the chair to better face the plate, still keeping a cautious eye cast about her.
“So, Dad,” she said almost mockingly as she speared a pile of eggs with a fork. She looked at Sunder sideways, her eyes slightly narrowed. “No one does something like this without there being a profit in it for them, or wanting something in return. So what’s in all this for you, huh? What do you want? Because a clear conscience doesn’t strike me as something at the top of your priority list.”

[OfWindAndRain]

Sunder paused for several long moments, mildly aggravated and annoyed at the girl's tone and attitude. She was interesting, and there was a certain relief to her frankness, but he also didn't become a sorcerer to be mocked and degraded. He slowly turned and looked at her, a warning, threatening light in his eyes.

"A Necromancer planned to use you in his schemes, somehow. Simply taking you from him might have foiled a plot that could have brought the rest of the Allied Lands to its knees. More than that, sending you to Whitehall would teach you how to become integrated into society- meaning that you would be able to help fight against the Necromancers, in time, and you also won't be here, where I have to keep a constant eye on you.

"I am a Lone Power because I did not see enough getting down in the normal society of magicians. I am a Lone Power because I made it my goal to ensure that the loss of life to anything that I can stop remains at an all-time low. So, if you must know, you could probably attribute my goals to keeping a clear conscious. Does that satisfy you?"

Sunder turned back to his breakfast. If she insists on mocking him, he'll just freeze her, via compulsion spell. Given what he's observed, being absolutely unable to move without any way to get out of it would probably be enough to stop.

[Riven Wight]

In the silence that fell between them, Jazelle munched on her breakfast, one hand still shoved in her hoodie’s muff, and careful to keep an eye on Sunder. She was still not quite sure what to make of him, whether or not she should trust him and his apparent kindness in saving and taking her temporarily under his wing. She glanced around at the tables, at the remaining servants chatting and laughing, the warmth filling the room from the chef’s fire as the man bustled about to keep what food still cooked from burning.
As real as it felt, she could not get over the strangeness of it all, the improbability of a world like this existing anywhere outside her head. A look of conflict crossed her eyes as she tried to decide whether or not to believe what her senses were telling her.
Noticing Sunder look to her, her attention snapped back to him. She held her breath at his expression, angling herself so she was a bit further away in her seat, a piece of the unidentified meat on her fork.
She snorted bitterly, and absently started to push the food around on her plate with her fork-turned-push-broom at the concept of him sending her to Whitehall to get her out of his hair.
“How very generous of you,” she muttered into her plate, sarcasm slathering her voice.
Jazelle shrugged nonchalantly at Sunder’s question. “If that’s what floats your boat, I suppose it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t, would it?” Satisfied she had mixed up the food on her plate well enough, she brought the fork to her mouth, bits of other food now sticking to the meat.

[OfWindAndRain]

Sunder froze her.

It was a relatively simple action, that required little to no effort on his part. And it wasn't anything too powerful, either- it was a simple compulsion spell, telling her that she couldn't move, that she didn't know how to move. And that she couldn't escape it. Any magician with basic wards would be able to shrug it off, as well as a mundane with extraordinarily strong will, or a stronger will in a person of magic. This girl knew so little about magic that it was nonexistent, because, for her, i twas.

He turned to her, slowly, and replied, "Yes, very generous of me. I could use you for magical experiments, if you're so against going to Whitehall."

He paused, before resuming to eat another forkful of food. Chewing thoughtfully, slowly, he resumed his talk.

"Cease your disrespect. I don't demand you to bow or any of the sort, but I do expect respect. There are few in this land who would stare me in the eyes, and much fewer who are of an equal status as myself. Learn which fights to fight, and when to stop. Or you'll displease someone with a much lesser tolerance of you."

He released the spell as he went back to finishing his plate.

"When you're finished, wave to Priscilla. She'll take you to get outfitted and the like."

He turned away in what could be none other than a dismissal, surveying his servants somewhat apathetically.

[Riven Wight]

It took Jazelle a short second to register what was happening. One moment, she had raised her fork, and the next it was frozen in her hand half way to its destination, her arm refusing to obey the last subconscious order she gave it. Her breathing and heart rate increased in a panic as she tried to move—to drop the fork, stand up, anything—but only her chest rose and fell with each heavy, anxious breath.
When Sunder, the undoubted culprit behind her immobility, turned to her, she could only see him out of the corner of her eye. Her breath caught in her lungs.
Move, move, MOVE! she mentally screamed at herself when Sunder paused. She could have sworn her pinky twitched, but that might have just been an illusion from the firelight. Whatever Sundering had done, was doing, she had no idea how to counter it, or if it was even possible to do so. She tried to swallow to offset the pit in her stomach as Sunder took his time with his food, the reality of what he could do to her sinking in.
Jazelle’s concentration split between her fruitless attempt at trying to move, and Sunder’s next words to her.
Unexpectedly and rather suddenly, she regained control of her body. Her hand pulled down toward the table, the fork flying from her fingers, and her legs only partially got the memo she had changed her mind about trying to stand, making her weight distribute oddly. The chair scraped against the floor as both she and it toppled over. She managed to grab the edge of the table, but it did her little good as she still landed on the floor, her heart pounding madly and breaths heaving. The chair clattered next to her on its side, and her butterfly knife knocked from her pocket and skidded a couple feet away under the table.
Jazelle gritted her teeth and glared at Sunder with a mix of malice and fear. With no little effort, she bit back a retort about respect being earned, sure plenty of eyes had turned their way at the ruckus she caused.
“As you wish, Mr. High-and-mighty,” she muttered under her breath, her voice a bit tremulous and careful to keep low enough that she thought Sunder wouldn’t hear.
With a shaking hand, she swallowed hard and collected her knife, looking away from Sunder only long enough to retrieve it. Using the table to help her up, she got to her feet and shoved both hands, and the knife, back in her hoodie’s muff. She cast the still mostly full plate of food a quick glance, her appetite lost.
Though in no hurry to be “outfitted,” which she feared meant she would have to give up her hoodie, she searched for Priscilla among the faces of the older girl’s fellow servants, ignoring any who may have decided to allow their gaze to linger in her and Sunder’s direction. Spotting her, Jazelle propped the chair back up, making a bit more noise with it than necessary, then made her way toward Priscilla instead of waving, her shoulders tight and head bent as she looked back toward Sunder a couple times from behind the vail of her hair.

[OfWindAndRain]

Priscilla gave Jazelle a soft smile, and a small nod, as a respectful greeting. Now having her charge and her orders, she stepped through the door to her immediate right- her back was against the wall- and continued on down more hallways. These, however, were not empty of people- servants scurried here and there, somewhat uncommon but always at least one other servant or guard in sight. They carried a variety of things- food, books, clothing, metal or wood scraps, sometimes a book with cool [or hot] water, and more. A couple were even carrying bundles of sticks- wands, in other words. Others that traveled in groups carried armor pieces, ranging from leather, to thickly-layered silk robes, to steel.

One walked past carrying a black book, held inside a wood framed glass case, that had an aura of pure evil- and from the significant, more natural magical presence around it, it can be assumed that it was heavily protected. That servant was one of the few that had a gemstone in their forehead, and completely blank eyes.

It took three hallways and two intersections to reach the room that Sunder spoke of- for outfitting. Having entered through its large double-door entrance, both of which were thrown wide open to begin with, three persons came forward.

One was male, round, rotund, and merry. The other two were slightly sterner- an edge of steel in their gazes- but no less merry. All three of them were finely dressed, and had belts. From those belts hung a variety of instruments, all of them those of a tailor's.

And, as soon as she came in, the three all began babbling at once, mainly at each other. Their topics ranged from the latest fashions, to the wealth that Sunder allowed them access to for their work, to their work itself. It seemed Sunder had some of the finest tailors under his hire, which made a vast wardrobe of premium clothing- most of which he allowed to be sold to other magical persons and families.

They turned their attentions to the newcomer, eyeing her clothing critically and trying to make sense of it. Priscilla, naturally, brushed off all their questions about the origin of the cloth, and her warning stare told Jazelle it might be wise to keep what she knew to herself.

It was then that the tailors started babbling, suggesting different fabrics and clothing styles to her- but they were very plain about robes. A half dozen sets of plain, grey robes, that they said, "You'll be wearing daily, I assure you."

Beyond that, they were open to suggestions, babbling to each other and keeping an ear out on their new project for any useful tidbits to incorporate into new designs.

[Riven Wight]

Jazelle jerked her chin upward in response to Pricilla’s greeting, then followed her back into the maze of hallways. This time, she did not bother to try keeping track of where they went. If this route would be anything like the last, she had no hope of remembering the twists and turns.
“It had to take you years to memorize the halls here,” Jazelle muttered, her hands ever in her muff. She eyed every soul who passed by with a suspicious curiosity. Though she paid the servants and whatever they may be carrying a quick glance, she had to do a double-take when she noticed one far different from the others.
Her steps faltered, and she gawked at a person carrying a glass case. But it was not the book with a heavy aura he carried, nor the gemstone in his forehead that caught her attention; her gaze settled on his blank, white eyes. When he passed, she shuddered from a mix of eeriness of his eyes, and the aura of the well-protected book as it brushed against her.
Shaking her head, she looked back to Priscilla, who had gotten ahead of her, then hurried to catch up, her shoulders hunched. She cast the strange man a glance over her shoulder, wondering if that was a result of something Sunder did, or if he was another race entirely.
Though the door Priscilla stopped to open was not as grand as the one to the dining hall, it was still impressive for an interior door.
Jazelle hung just in the doorway for a moment as a man and two women turned to the newcomers She looked to the various tailor’s tools hanging from their belts, from a couple sizes of scissors to a custom-made pincushion studded with pins. Her fingers wrapped almost subconsciously around her butterfly knife, watching with narrowed eyes as the trio began prattling among themselves as if picking up a conversation she and Priscilla had interrupted.
Jazella cast Priscilla a glance, her brows raised, that asked if she was serious, when the tailors apparently decided it was time to pay them some attention.
She shifted awkwardly as they eyed her thrift-store clothing and hoodie. She caught Priscilla’s look, and heeded it. The last thing she wanted was to tip off anyone else she was not from this world.
Apparently satisfied--or maybe they just simply did not care--with Priscilla’s vague answers to their questions, they began throwing out terms and fabrics, some Jazelle caught and recognized, and others she could only offer blank stares to. At the mention of robes, Jazelle looked down at herself and the already light gray of her favorite garment, wondering what would become of it. Maybe she could sneak it back to her room and shove it in her backpack.
Jazelle scowled as she remembered she had dropped her backpack back in the courtyard with the Necromancer.
“As long as they’re comfortable. And have pockets,” she grumbled, moving her hands inside the muff in emphasis of pockets. She paused, and glanced to the wood-paneled floor. It had been years since she had had more of an option than what people had decided to donate. "Maybe hidden pockets?" She leaned forward, then stepped further into the room to get a better look.
A few skeletal, wooden mannequins that looked handmade stood around the room, some draped with clothing in various stages of creation. Rolls of fabric, ribbon, and lace lined one wall. A couple sewing machines, the likes of which Jazelle had only seen in museums, waited against the far wall, an unfinished garment caught beneath the needle of one of them.
“You’ve been doing this for a while, I take it?” she grumbled absently, looking to an elegant dress decorated with stones that glittered in the light filtering in through a large window taking up the top portion of the back wall.

[OfWindAndRain]

The trio of renowned tailors stared at her with something bordering on incredulity and offense. How dare this small, strange lady not know their names and their great works of art?! Who is she to not know who they are! The only reason they didn't burst into angry rambling is their host sorcerer's righthand servant glaring at them, and the knowledge that this strange foreign girl was very definitely foreign, and likely a somewhat uneducated peasant.

"We will have you know," thrusted their leader, as if her words were a battering ram of indignation, "That we are some of the Allied Lands most renowned designers!"

The lefthand side pitched in, "We are the true trendsetters! Whenever anyone wants to break the current trends and make an entirely new one, they come to us!"

The righthand added, "And with darling Sunder giving us enchanted fabrics and enchantments, we can make our styles however we want, and be strong enough to turn a sword!"

They all beamed at each other, so inflated they were with their own pride.

From the back, Priscilla coughed, catching their attentions.

"Sunder said to outfit her. Simply, no enchantments. Stop your babbling."

The three immediately grew sober, one paling slightly, before nodding their heads and silently scattering across the room. It took maybe ten minutes for them to take her measurements, and throw several steel blue robes at her, followed by two pairs of shoes.

One of them, as they ushered Priscilla and her charge out of the room, said, "Everything else will be provided by Whitehall, if you're going there." The second one handed Priscilla a fine cloth backpack, and they were out of the sobered tailor's clutches at last!

The tailor's doors shut with an unceremonious clang behind them.

Priscilla glanced at her charge, and asked, "Tailors are usually like that."

Turning around, still holding the pack, she stared down the singular long hallway- where before the tailor's room was set into the wall, this time it appeared to be at the end of the hallway. And, almost as casually as Priscilla took in the way the hallway had switched, she turned to their left and pushed her way through another doorway, emerging into another corridor. Like before, she started walking straight down it. Servants passed, going both directions, the destination behind each door changing every time it opened.

Turning to face Jazelle as they came to a courtyard of sorts, the walls rising for another six stories before the sky peeks through, she huffed somewhat.

"Alright, Jazelle. I was not instructed on anything else to do beyond the tailors, and until lunch, it appears that we have free time. I honestly expected the tailors to take longer; they are not usually so easily cowed. Do you have any ideas of what you wish to do?"

[Riven Wight]

When the focus of all three tailors turned to her, Jazelle looked to them and backed away a step, unsure if she had crossed some line, had said something to draw their suspicion and ire. Her hands ever in her muff, she gripped her butterfly knife tightly, unsure what to expect from them.
She inhaled when the woman spoke first, then could not help but give a quite sigh of relief when she realized they were only angry at her lack of recognition of them.
With no little effort, she bit back a snide remark at their arrogant pride, mostly because she had no idea if they had magic of their own or not they could use against her if she annoyed them, but snorted when one of them called Sunder ‘darling.’
“Okay, okay,” she said with a smirk, her voice about as mocking as the hand she raised as if in defeat as they all shared a gloating stare. “You’re the masters of fashion here. Got it,” as she said the last, she snapped her fingers and pointed at them in one smooth motion.
Her attention turned with the tailors’ to Priscilla, glad for her interruption to get the trio back on track. She glanced to the three to see their reaction to how she addressed them, expecting them to puff up egotistically again, but instead, they got to work. Jazelle's smirk deepened as the three went to various areas of the room, finding amusement in how they scurried about. She warily watched the first of them return and head to her, a tailor’s measuring tape in hand.
Jazelle let them take her measurements, feeling awkward as she stood there, being positioned as they needed. Once they finished, she hesitantly followed one of them to a closet door, hanging back slightly and trying to get a look at what was inside before the man pulled it open.
He ducked inside, then reappeared long enough to toss a couple robes at her.
Jazelle pulled her hands from her muff and just managed to catch the partially folded garments, before he threw another, followed by a few more. She stacked them quickly, trying to avoid dropping them, both hands forced out of her pocket and away from the security of her knife.
The last thing he threw out to her, this time apparently actually aiming, were two pairs of shoes. They landed on top of the pile of clothes, making the stack teeter precariously.
With the sleeve of the robe on the bottom of the pile draping toward the floor, the tailors ushered Priscilla and her from the room, giving the older girl an odd-looking backpack.
“Yep,” Jazelle mumbled to the woman that followed them out, her focus more on keeping from dropping the stack of robes.
Alas, she jumped at the clang of the door closing behind them, and the shoes and top couple robes toppled to the floor.
She scowled down at them, glaring as if just her stare would make them jump obediently back to the top of the pile.
“Great,” she mumbled both to Priscilla’s comment, and at the garments.
When Priscilla headed down the hall, Jazelle hastily knelt and messily tossed the garments and shoes onto her pile and hurried after the girl, trying to not trip on the fabric that hung down toward her feet. She paused, realizing that now the hall stretched in front of them, instead of to either side. She tried to think if they had left through a different door, but was certain they had entered and exited through the same one.
“Man, this place is freaky,” she muttered to herself, then quickly caught up with Priscilla to avoid being left behind if the halls decided to change.
She followed inches from Priscilla, doing a double take once when she saw two servants exit through the same door, the room beyond changing each time.
I rest my case, she thought, looking over her shoulder at the door as they passed. All the same, curiosity nagged at her, wanting to know how that happened, whether it was the halls that changed, or the rooms.
When they reached the courtyard, at last giving her an idea of how many stories Sunder’s home was, she nearly ran into Priscilla when she turned to face her.
The shoes and garments threatened to fall again when Jazelle halted, and she moved a hand to steady it. Another sleeve of the bottom robe draped downward to join the first.
“Uh,” Jazelle raised an eyebrow at Priscilla's question, her eyes flicking between the servant girl and the pile of clothes. “Dumping these off somewhere would be nice... How the freak do you navigate those halls?” She jerked her head back toward the door they had exited through. “It’s worse than a maze! I mean, at least mazes stay consistent...” Or do they, here? “Well, in my neck of the woods, they did.”

[OfWindAndRain]

Priscilla gave the guest an approving nod, and spun to the door they had just come through. With the casualness of someone who's dealt with something peculiar for years, she turned the knob and pushed the door open- revealing her room. "Fun fact: this Tower actually only has eight short hallways total, but the spells that keep the entirety of the Tower's insides in a pocket dimension manipulate those eight halls to be anywhere from half a hallway, to a thousand. I'm sure you'll learn all about it at Whitehall. Now whatever else we need, we'll do after you do you. Whatever you decide you need, within reason."

And with that, their day trailed away...

[] [] []

It was early the next morning, and there was a mist in the air.

Priscilla had showed up at Jazelle's door just a few minutes past sun-up, waking her up by some very insistent knocking on the door and giving her a few minutes to collect herself. After that, they had a quick breakfast- one that Sunder was absent from- and they found their way to the roof, all of Jazelle's things in hand.

Where Sunder sat in a rather comfortable-looking lawn chair, and a very definitely saddled and tamed wyvern sitting similar to a cat next to him, its wings acting as forelegs. Standing next to Sunder, between him and the Wyvern, stood a scarred woman, clad in complex and heavy leather armor that covered her from neck to toe, in layers that ran down her like waves. Steel studs kept the leather armor together; her hair was jet black, and just long enough to hang down to the mid-neck. Her eyes, when she turned in greeting, were an icy blue, enough scars covering half her face to make one think that perhaps a lion or some other large cat had raked its paws down her face- thrice over. Her eye remained intact, though, and she seemed even sharper for it.

"Whom am I transporting? The taller one or the one that looks out of place?"

Without a glance, Sunder replied, "Out of place. I'll tell you her origins and all I know about her later. Priscilla, you can go back to your normal duties."

With a small bow, Priscilla retreated from the rooftop, leaving the icy woman- who had a presence far taller than what her 5' 8" height- to study Jazelle.

"She has yet to choose a name. The story is, however, that she's my daughter."

The wyvern-rider grunted in response, studying Jazelle just a little bit longer.

"You may call me Rider Wyrm. My mount's name is Tyro. Sunder has... employed our services to take you to Whitehall. The Grandmaster is eager to meet you, young woman, and that's an honor very few will ever have. And, as a Rider, I will ask that you don't try to provoke Tyro. He may be tame, but he still has a temper. Sunder, you owe me. And you- come on over, I'll show you how to get on."

With that, she shot a meaningful glance at Sunder- who was too busy watching the sunset to pay much attention- as she turned back to her wyvern. With a practiced motion, she brought her left foot to a small step set into the harnesses that secured the saddle, and heaved herself up. By the time she was sitting properly on the saddle, her left foot dangled nearly fifteen inches from the ladder 'step' set into the harness.

With a glance that showed some amount of understanding and support- a surprise for him- Sunder waved Jazelle over to join Wyrm. "You'll be alright, girl. I'll be checking in here and there. Just remember that at Whitehall, they encourage people of the same year to play pranks on each other. You'll learn spells faster if not doing so hinders your freedom. Go on, now."

With that, Wyrm held out her hand. The moment Jazelle grasped it, the lady tightened her grip and pulled her up, leaning away slightly to give her more lift, and would easily lift Jazelle to the space in the saddle in front of her. Throughout it all, Tyro didn't even glance at them- like Sunder, he was nearly motionless, staring at the sunset.

[Riven Wight]

Jazelle’s brows rose fractionally at Priscilla’s reaction, but followed her nonetheless with her armful of fabric, dreading the thought of having to carry the garments all the way back to her room if the trek there would be anything like the walk from the one from her temporary quarters to the dining hall.
“What?” Jazelle exclaimed when Priscilla opened the door to reveal a room in place of the hallway. “You couldn’t have done that earlier?” She exhaled heavily as her brows fell irritably and her lips pursed slightly.
“Yeah, okay,” she grumbled to Priscilla’s explanation, most of it going over her head. The last thing she needed was to add ‘dimension manipulation’ to her list of concerns at the moment.
She followed Priscilla inside with a sigh, and kicked the door closed.
The last twenty-four hours had gone from strange, to stranger, to downright weird, but not entirely in a bad way. And she had the feeling that that was not about to change any time soon.

With a poor night’s sleep, a full stomach, and her few things shoved into a rather crude-looking backpack she had slung over a shoulder, Jazelle groggily followed Priscilla to the roof. When the door opened, she blinked in the gloomy morning sunlight, rays fighting to stream through a layer of fog that had risen overnight. A slight chill in the air made Jazelle shiver despite her hoodie. She slipped her hands into the muff to keep them warm, the solid form of her butterfly knife ever in its rightful place.
“Whoever decided mornings were a good idea,” she began through a yawn, “needs to… be…” Her words trailed off as the two stopped on the rooftop and her eyes fully adjusted to the change in light.
The sight of Sunder sitting in a surprisingly familiar-shaped chair, and the guest beside him took her attention’s back-burner the moment she spotted the wyvern sitting on the rooftop. Jazelle’s mouth hung open, her eyes wide, gawking at the creature she had only ever read about in fairy tales or seen as a CGI monster in films.
“Holy…” she drew out the word, and took a slight, curiously cautious step toward the wyvern. Its coppery scales glittered slightly in the dim light as its chest rose and fell with its breath, that movement the only thing setting it apart from a statue.
The woman’s voice snapped Jazelle back to her surroundings. She blinked at the scarred woman, who looked almost as interesting as the wyvern. She took in her appearance with nearly as much interest as she had the two-legged dragon as Sunder answered the woman’s question. Her gaze settled on the scars marring the woman’s face, wondering what—or who—had caused them. She cast a wary glance to the wyvern, considering it as a potential cause.
She looked toward Priscilla as the girl left. Though she had known her only for a short time, and she was not a friend, Priscilla was, at least, closer to her age, and a more familiar, friendly face.
Not wanting to show her discomfort, Jazelle returned the woman’s stare with one that asked, “What?” and did her best to relax her shoulders. When the woman introduced herself, Jazelle only just managed to suppress her amusement at how well the woman’s name fit her mount. At his name, she glanced to Sunder for the first time since arriving on the roof, then snorted at her request to not provoke the wyvern.
“Yeah, no problem.”
Jazelle watched warily as Wyrm skillfully mounted the wyvern, hesitating to get closer.
Sunder gained her attention, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other at his gesture to join Wyrm.
“Seriously?” She gave an exasperated roll of her head at the concept of the students playing pranks on each other. All the same, Jazelle stepped toward the creature that marked the beginning of a journey unlike anything she had ever imagined. “They’ll be scraping my remains off the ceiling by the end of the week,” she mumbled to herself as she closed the distance between herself and Wyrm, casting frequent, watchful glances at Tyro.
She reached up to take Wyrm’s hand, but paused. She looked back toward Sunder, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Thanks," she began, largely out of cutesy. "For not turning me to stone or something. And, you know, feeding me, and everything,” she added with a bit more sincerity.
With that, she accepted Wyrm’s helping hand. The woman proved herself stronger than she looked, pulling Jazelle into the saddle. The girl took a breath and gripped the front part of the saddle tightly. She looked to the motionless wyvern’s head, simultaneously fearing and admiring the closer view of it.
I’m on a dragon. I’m on the back of a FREAKING. DRAGON! A smile pulled at the corners of her lips, and she bent her head slightly so her blond hair hid her face a bit better.
“Would now be a bad time to mention I’ve never even ridden a horse before?” She readjusted her grip, and looked out at the horizon waiting beyond. She cast a suspicious glance behind her at the woman at the thought at how easy it would be to get pushed off miles above the ground. As much as Sunder seemed to trust the woman, Jazelle was still not entirely sure how much she trusted Sunder.

[OfWindAndRain]

Wyrm said nothing to the girl. It wasn't that she couldn't hear her, it was just that speaking was irrelevant, and she didn't sign up for babysitting. Simply put- she was a courier for someone, and she was delivering a package. The fact that it can speak doesn't mean that she'll take back, because in all honesty, she didn't give a shit. She was fulfilling a favor, and there was nothing more to it.

So Wyrm said nothing, the whole 3-hour-trip to Whitehall. They crossed over valleys, meadows, a couple mountains in a single mountain range. For a brief, ten-minute span, they emerged between those two mountains in the range to be in the very tip of a valley- one that didn't connect to the lands that they had just passed. From the wyvern's birds-eye view, you could see nothing, for as far out as the thin fog would let you. Ash covered the ground, and shady figures dotted the landscape. Strange flickers of light, and a feeling of dread surrounded the barren lands.

Wyrm and her wyvern pushed on through, tilting downward to gain more speed so as to pass through faster. The mountains were all that separated these barren wastes of danger from more peaceful allied lands. Only half an hour after that did they finally reach their destination.

Situated in the middle of a green, vibrant valley stood a towering castle of modest heights and magnificent lengths. It only rose maybe a half-dozen stories into the air, but it sprawled to be well over the size of a small town. Inside its walls, the main keep took up nearly all the space. Various constructions ranged around outside the castle-palace of white-grey stone, some of them appearing to be farms of wheat, barley, and other grains, some other growing trees. In one large section, it was dense, dense forest. In another, there were multiple pastures, but the creatures that resided in were... shrouded by some sort of veil, that hung over it. Gardens sat here and there between them, and roughly three miles westward, there sat a prosperous, growing town, also walled with similar, though slightly shinier and more recently placed, rock.

Whitehall sat on the edge of the green valleys and still living lands of the Allied Lands- the many, many kingdoms and republics that made up the remaining living areas of the continent.

Just on the edge of one's sight from even the Wyvern's point of view, you could see those green fields and forests cut off abrupt into... nothing. More specifically, it was all dead- just grey, dead earth, barren brittle trees, and little else.

Wyrm and her wyvern banked to the side, spiraling down towards the castle. Just as the winged reptile passed over Whitehall's walls, Wyrm yanked back on her reins, the wyvern obediently throwing its wings out wide, catching as much air as possible to come to a complete and abrupt halt. Now beating its wings to stay aloft, they slowly lost altitude until the Wyvern's black claws finally touched ground, the wyvern dropping forward with a loud thump.

In front of them, there sat a set of stairs rising up to a large double-oak doorway, both of its doors only just now being thrown open by an eccentric young man, with wild black hair that had bright white streaks running through it. Tall, lanky, with a face that was as sharp as a spear, an undoubtedly wizened and old voice spouted from the man.

"Welcome, Wyrm, welcome! I see you brought Sunder's charge. Thank you for that, my dear. Now then, if you'd dismount..."

Wyrm didn't move, but instead they both looked at Jazelle.

"...And tell me your name. The one you'd like to be known by. If you don't know it yet, it's no rush. Simply report it to any tutor, or myself, by the end of the week. Now, we're already partway through the opening two weeks, so if you'd come with me...?"

The man- who appeared young, but spoke with a voice that was aged and somewhat unused to having such a capable body- stepped to the side, flourishing a little to present the grand entry hallway beyond the doors.

"Whitehall academy awaits."

[Riven Wight]

When her question did not gain her a response, Jazelle glanced to Wyrm, wondering if she needed to speak up. But Wyrm had seemed capable of hearing well enough only a moment ago. She scowled, but her attention swiftly returned to the wyvern as its body shifted beneath them, readying to take flight.
Jazelle leaned forward and gripped the saddle tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. For the first couple seconds, she kept her eyes scrunched shut against the unfamiliar movements of Tyro taking to the air, her grip on the saddle turning her knuckles white. She ran what little she knew from movies and books about riding a horse, hoping it would help with not falling off a flying dragon.
Once the wyvern’s flight evened out, she dared to open one eye, then the other. She inhaled at the view before her. Though the fog still clung to the treetops like a massive, misty ghost, the sun had burned enough of it away for her to make out bits and pieces of the expanse of trees and fields stretching far beneath them. Smoke from fireplaces rose from a few cities and towns further off, rising to join what remained of the morning’s fog in a swirling dance.
For the first while, Jazelle’s gaze darted from one thing to the other, awestruck. She shifted as far over in the seat as she dared, trying to get a better look at the world she had been thrust into.
After about an hour, the shock-and-awe of it began to wear off, and her rear started to feel a bit sore from sitting on the saddle. She tried to make conversation with Wyrm, to get any further information she could, but gave up with an irate growl when the woman refused to speak.
When they passed between two mountains into an eerie valley about an hour and a half later, its atmosphere alone made her skin crawl. She cast a quick glance down, wondering what would possibly live in such a place, glad when the wyvern dove to quicken their passage. Only once they had cleared the area with its foreboding fog and mysterious figures, did she dare try speaking again.
“What was that place?” Jazelle looked back toward the mountains with a shudder. But yet again, she received no reply. She gave Wyrm an annoyed look. “Fine. Don’t talk.” She looked away from her with a humph.
When a half-hour that felt more like half an eternity passed and the massive castle came into view, Jazelle’s jaw dropped. She took in its three stories, and the surrounding lands, wondering if the king was home. After all, this world was rather medieval-esque. Why would they not have a monarchy?
Then, the wyvern began to descend toward the castle in a spiral. Jazelle’s brows furrowed, and she glanced back the way they had come, thinking of how close that eerie, otherworldly field had been, then toward the mostly barren land with its withered trees she had seen looming on the horizon.
[i]This [u]can’t[/i] be a smart place for a school…[/i] she thought as she realized that the castle had to be Whitehall.
She gripped the saddle harder when the wyvern spread out its wings, jerking them to a halt and renewing her fear of plummeting to the ground. Then, they were landing in front of the grand entrance of the castle.
Her attention snapped toward the doors when a man threw them open. She stared at him a long moment, his voice too aged for his otherwise fairly youthful appearance. Only when she noticed both he and Wyrm were staring, did Jazelle realize his last statement was directed at her.
“Oh. Right.” She muttered. Gripping one of the straps of the backpack she had the feeling Sunder’s tailors had made, she slid carefully from the saddle to the cobblestone path beneath them.
“Ja—” she started answering his second demand, but caught herself with an irritated huff. A name. In the last three hours, she had devoted little, if any, time to thinking of a name to use. The moment she tried to think of something to give him, her mind went frustratingly blank. “Yeah, I’ve got nothin’.”
Look for one I can steal in the library or something… if they have a library… She looked up at the monstrous building. They’d better have one.
She raised an eyebrow at the man’s flourish to the entryway extending beyond the doors. “Sure...” She watched him cautiously as she stepped toward the stairs leading to the door.
Jazelle cast a quick glance back at Wyrm and Tyro, before shoving her hands back in the muff of her hoodie, and warily ascending the stairs, keeping a fair distance between the man and herself.
“Don’t suppose you have a name, do you?” she asked once on the same stair as him.