Hey, I have a few questions. First, what's the scale of the map provided? And what exactly is a good measure for the size of a kingdom, and is there variance - i.e. ups and downs for claiming more or less land at the start?
On religion, is it mandatory that the kingdom be in allegiance with the church? I'm entertaining the idea of developing a separate mythology and religion that my somewhat distant realm would cultivate, which would evidently put it at odds with the established church and its adherents, but it's a risk I am willing to take. If I may create my own faith, we could even see some interesting dynamic perhaps with missionairies being sent from or to my yet unnamed kingdom.
Ashgan
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Hi. A mind boggling amount of effort was put into this; I commend you. I should leave a message stating my interest in potentially joining since it's late and I will be going to sleep right about now, but lest the thread explode overnight or something, I just wanted to have it said. You'll hear from me again when I have something more concrete to post, or if I change my mind after all.
Perhaps fortunately for Gerald, his dismissive expression escaped Jillian's otherwise watchful gaze; surely, she would have begrudged him for it. As for Crone, she seemed mildly amused by the witch's plans and request. Yes, why wouldn't she be? In hindsight, it was quite brash of her to outright ask to be taught, having known the old woman for less than a matter of minutes. She was getting ahead of herself, but who could blame her? This Crone was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most powerful creature she had ever met. Perhaps even the most powerful creature in Rodoria? No, sad as it was, probably not even.
"I do not even know your name, yet you see fit to beseech my mastery of forbidden magic?" the ancient woman noted with a hint of both humor and surprise. She was right, and Jillian immediately felt regret and, in turn, mildly surprised by the fact that she had forgotten to introduce herself. Normally she would never have, but the situation had been anything but ordinary. Still, it was no way to behave for someone who insisted so strongly that others part with their own names.
Before Jillian could muster an apology and share her name, Crone continued, offering to indeed teach Jillian something - although not quite what she had imagined. Truth was, Jillian did not know what to imagine at all when the old woman spoke. Being taught about black magic itself? The path to mastery to walk by oneself? She would happily pick up on the offer, as the subject was intriguing in its own right, but the prospect of not learning any new spells was disappointing, to say the least. Still, perhaps when the time had come, she could tickle out this or that spell from the old woman, if she played her card right. That had to wait until then.
"You're right, I do yearn for magic. It's all I have left, I guess," Jillian replied, her voice betraying a tinge of disappointment, "Whatever it is you are willing to teach, I am willing to learn it. Thank you for sharing as much, at least. And lest I forget: My name is Jillian Veldaine, and I hail from Zerul," she did a short, courteous bow. "Or I once did. I'm sorry I forgot to introduce myself; I got ahead of myself."
After having dealt with both Jillian and Salas, the ancient woman turned to face the third in their midst, one who had yet to speak a single word: Gerald. Jillian, too, now turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of him. Merely looking at him was enough to make her feel upset again, and it was as if she was merely waiting for him to make a mistake at this point so that she would have an excuse to lunge at him.
"And you, Gerald the Thrice Named?" Crone asked him nonchalantly. Thrice Named? Well, well, now. That little remark was almost a princely feast for Jillian with how much potential information it contained on the dark necromancer. Could it imply that Glass was not his real name? Or Gerald? Maybe both. It might even imply that whichever name he had before that was a fake as well. Why would he have to change his name so many times? Granted, he was a necromancer from Zerul, she understands the need to mask his identity in the city while still living there. She herself was quite lucky to have gotten away for as long as she did. Either way, she was sure to remember this, and ask him about it later. Yes, this knowledge would play out in her favor sooner or later. A small part of her wondered if Crone had said that in order to provide Jillian with a clue, or if she really meant it as an innocent title for someone she knew well.
"I expect no less," Gerald shot back at Crone, who offered to reward him with the location of someone who was learned on the subject of the Withering. How boundlessly rude of him! This time it was Jillian's turn to frown at him, her viridian eyes almost burning holes through the necromancer's face. Had he not pulled out the demon prison, they might have, but as soon as the red crystal tainted fresh air with its hellish glow, her gaze was drawn to it. It was natural to look at it, but for Jillian, it was almost an uncomfortable compulsion to stare at it, as if the demon lord himself commanded her to. The sight of it brought back shadows of memory, glimpses at the towering monstrosity from her fever dreams, as well as the unfortunate incident with Brand. And last but not least, the sight of Kevalorn, his mortal vessel. Jillian shivered for a moment, enough to tear her eyes from the crystal.
Crone refused to take it back. On the contrary, she seemed almost desperate for him to keep it, urging him to reconsider his quest. She had a point: if Gerald indeed succeeded in curing himself of the Withering, he would lose his ability to transfer souls and their energy between receptacles, an ability that had already proven to be massively useful. Not only could it be used to replenish a caster's reserves almost instantly, albeit at the cost of somebody's life, but as Crone pointed out, could also be used to seal the demon lord into his prison. There likely was nobody else in Rodoria who could do it this well. Of course, on the other hand, she could clearly understand Gerald's hesitation. He was dying, quickly. Every day that he lived was a blessing, and he had all reasons in the world to make haste and get rid of his disease before it was too late. Crone was asking of him to become a martyr, in a way. Jillian did not envy his position. Little did she know that he would put her in his shoes just then.
In a move that she would never have anticipated, he turned to her for help. "What do you think?" he asked her, almost beseeching her to make a choice for him. "Should I go?" He sounded oddly exhausted and worn, much more so than earlier. This nature was so very familiar to her, she could almost see Vincent in front of her when he spoke with a voice that sounded as if he had not slept in weeks, and were decades older than he was. Jillian wanted to be wicked towards him, but seeing her deceased lover in the necromancer, and feeling pity for his situation, she could not bring it over herself to coat her tongue with poison.
"I... I don't know, Gerald. I'd like to think that, if I were you, I'd do the selfless thing and take the fight to Hazzergash. But I might not. I might have done the selfish thing and save myself, and if your cure works for everyone, you would save a lot more than your own hide."
Jillian appeared evidently uncomfortable and uncertain of herself up to this point, feeling the weight of Gerald's decision on her shoulders. She stared at the ground for a while, in silence, before lifting her gaze again with renewed spirits.
"Wait, I have an idea, if you'd like," she exclaimed, clearly more lively than before, "We are fast, are we not? We have a dragon's speed. We even have teleportation! Can't we do both? I obviously don't know what the cure entails, but we could seek out this person and hopefully learn enough to devise an antidote to the Withering. We could prepare it, and with it in tow, we could then seek out Hazzergash. If we're quick enough, we can seal him before the Withering destroys you, and you can use the cure immediately after - or at any other point it threatens to consume you. It's better to be safe than sorry, and I'm sure there are alternatives to defeating the demon. He was first sealed before the Withering ever existed.
...How about that?"
"I do not even know your name, yet you see fit to beseech my mastery of forbidden magic?" the ancient woman noted with a hint of both humor and surprise. She was right, and Jillian immediately felt regret and, in turn, mildly surprised by the fact that she had forgotten to introduce herself. Normally she would never have, but the situation had been anything but ordinary. Still, it was no way to behave for someone who insisted so strongly that others part with their own names.
Before Jillian could muster an apology and share her name, Crone continued, offering to indeed teach Jillian something - although not quite what she had imagined. Truth was, Jillian did not know what to imagine at all when the old woman spoke. Being taught about black magic itself? The path to mastery to walk by oneself? She would happily pick up on the offer, as the subject was intriguing in its own right, but the prospect of not learning any new spells was disappointing, to say the least. Still, perhaps when the time had come, she could tickle out this or that spell from the old woman, if she played her card right. That had to wait until then.
"You're right, I do yearn for magic. It's all I have left, I guess," Jillian replied, her voice betraying a tinge of disappointment, "Whatever it is you are willing to teach, I am willing to learn it. Thank you for sharing as much, at least. And lest I forget: My name is Jillian Veldaine, and I hail from Zerul," she did a short, courteous bow. "Or I once did. I'm sorry I forgot to introduce myself; I got ahead of myself."
After having dealt with both Jillian and Salas, the ancient woman turned to face the third in their midst, one who had yet to speak a single word: Gerald. Jillian, too, now turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of him. Merely looking at him was enough to make her feel upset again, and it was as if she was merely waiting for him to make a mistake at this point so that she would have an excuse to lunge at him.
"And you, Gerald the Thrice Named?" Crone asked him nonchalantly. Thrice Named? Well, well, now. That little remark was almost a princely feast for Jillian with how much potential information it contained on the dark necromancer. Could it imply that Glass was not his real name? Or Gerald? Maybe both. It might even imply that whichever name he had before that was a fake as well. Why would he have to change his name so many times? Granted, he was a necromancer from Zerul, she understands the need to mask his identity in the city while still living there. She herself was quite lucky to have gotten away for as long as she did. Either way, she was sure to remember this, and ask him about it later. Yes, this knowledge would play out in her favor sooner or later. A small part of her wondered if Crone had said that in order to provide Jillian with a clue, or if she really meant it as an innocent title for someone she knew well.
"I expect no less," Gerald shot back at Crone, who offered to reward him with the location of someone who was learned on the subject of the Withering. How boundlessly rude of him! This time it was Jillian's turn to frown at him, her viridian eyes almost burning holes through the necromancer's face. Had he not pulled out the demon prison, they might have, but as soon as the red crystal tainted fresh air with its hellish glow, her gaze was drawn to it. It was natural to look at it, but for Jillian, it was almost an uncomfortable compulsion to stare at it, as if the demon lord himself commanded her to. The sight of it brought back shadows of memory, glimpses at the towering monstrosity from her fever dreams, as well as the unfortunate incident with Brand. And last but not least, the sight of Kevalorn, his mortal vessel. Jillian shivered for a moment, enough to tear her eyes from the crystal.
Crone refused to take it back. On the contrary, she seemed almost desperate for him to keep it, urging him to reconsider his quest. She had a point: if Gerald indeed succeeded in curing himself of the Withering, he would lose his ability to transfer souls and their energy between receptacles, an ability that had already proven to be massively useful. Not only could it be used to replenish a caster's reserves almost instantly, albeit at the cost of somebody's life, but as Crone pointed out, could also be used to seal the demon lord into his prison. There likely was nobody else in Rodoria who could do it this well. Of course, on the other hand, she could clearly understand Gerald's hesitation. He was dying, quickly. Every day that he lived was a blessing, and he had all reasons in the world to make haste and get rid of his disease before it was too late. Crone was asking of him to become a martyr, in a way. Jillian did not envy his position. Little did she know that he would put her in his shoes just then.
In a move that she would never have anticipated, he turned to her for help. "What do you think?" he asked her, almost beseeching her to make a choice for him. "Should I go?" He sounded oddly exhausted and worn, much more so than earlier. This nature was so very familiar to her, she could almost see Vincent in front of her when he spoke with a voice that sounded as if he had not slept in weeks, and were decades older than he was. Jillian wanted to be wicked towards him, but seeing her deceased lover in the necromancer, and feeling pity for his situation, she could not bring it over herself to coat her tongue with poison.
"I... I don't know, Gerald. I'd like to think that, if I were you, I'd do the selfless thing and take the fight to Hazzergash. But I might not. I might have done the selfish thing and save myself, and if your cure works for everyone, you would save a lot more than your own hide."
Jillian appeared evidently uncomfortable and uncertain of herself up to this point, feeling the weight of Gerald's decision on her shoulders. She stared at the ground for a while, in silence, before lifting her gaze again with renewed spirits.
"Wait, I have an idea, if you'd like," she exclaimed, clearly more lively than before, "We are fast, are we not? We have a dragon's speed. We even have teleportation! Can't we do both? I obviously don't know what the cure entails, but we could seek out this person and hopefully learn enough to devise an antidote to the Withering. We could prepare it, and with it in tow, we could then seek out Hazzergash. If we're quick enough, we can seal him before the Withering destroys you, and you can use the cure immediately after - or at any other point it threatens to consume you. It's better to be safe than sorry, and I'm sure there are alternatives to defeating the demon. He was first sealed before the Withering ever existed.
...How about that?"
Crap; I actually forgot about that, been a while since I read all posts. I'll certainly fit that in with an edit asap. Sorry!
Edit: There, fixed it. For some reason, when I wrote the post, my brain ignored the fact that I also had to take your post into account. Maybe because it was somewhat late when I wrote it? Either way, I'll try to pay more attention next time. Sorry again!
Edit: There, fixed it. For some reason, when I wrote the post, my brain ignored the fact that I also had to take your post into account. Maybe because it was somewhat late when I wrote it? Either way, I'll try to pay more attention next time. Sorry again!
Jillian winced for an instant when Crone so sharply negated her view of the battle's aftermath, just long enough to let a shiver run down her cold back. But was it because of the old woman, or due to her miserable condition? She did not know, but suspecting the former, she got even more annoyed, not wanting to feel threatened by this ancient hag, no matter how powerful she might be.
"Oh, come on! It's a bloody battle, people are going to die," Jillian shot back, sounding dismissive a little aggressive. As if she were in the mood for lectures right now! She would stand by that everyone important had made it, except perhaps Lailonsaire who, barring personal feelings, was still little more than another pawn on the board. Really, who cared if some forest dwellers got caught in the cross fire? They gave their lives protecting what they loved, they knew what they signed up for when they saw what was coming for them. If they truly had been inexpendable, then they would not have died - just how Gerald and herself had made it, or Crone for that matter. But as it stood, somebody had to die so that others could live, and the least important drew the shortest sticks.
Still, that was not all of it! Crone saw fit to continue explaining why Jillian's words were apparently inappropriate, or not doing the situation justice, as if any of it really mattered at this point. She had told what had transpired in concise form, her personal judgment of the outcome should not be relevant to the woman. Still, she at least made a better case for herself this time, Jillian noted, and decided not to dwell upon this any longer than necessary.
"Fine," she stubbornly muttered, shrugging uncaringly. What she wanted was not to discuss the battle or their feelings on the battle, no. She wanted to know more about this Crone, and not even so much about her, but about her power. It was that which drew Jillian in, like a moth to the flame. It seemed she was destined to meet mages of great power, and cursed to appease them to drink from their wisdom. One day, she dreamed. One day she would be the one that others will seek out, desperate to learn her dark secrets.
Only, when pressed for knowledge, the elderly magus entirely distanced herself, not just from Jillian, but reality itself it seemed. She merely elected to delegate the task of speaking to Renold - as if the old dragon was required to be her herald all of a sudden! - and stared at nothing in particular, seemingly lost in thought. With a brief pang of guilt, Jillian had to think of Vincent who also liked to do so, when she wasn't looking; or when he thought she wasn't. She never thought about what might have been going on in his head during those moments. Now was not the time, however, as the grand dragon took over speaking for the elder woman.
Keeps her name secret, sure, why not. Is the... oldest? Older than a dragon? Huh, well that was odd. Human too. Now, Jillian had heard of people living to venerable ages before, certainly, but this sounded downright unnatural. And she wielded all schools of magic? All?! Surely he must be either exagerrating, or not know what he was talking about. A misunderstanding perhaps? This was preposterous! She had shown an aptitude for the arcane, as well as invoking the divine powers of Reina. That was two, and according to the dragon she was at the very least also adept at black magic. If she really was as old as he claimed, then she was willing to not only believe this, but also assume that she must have unlocked the greater mysteries of necromancy to remain alive in the first place, much like Delian Gilmah did for instance, only different, perhaps. That in itself was an impressive array of magical knowledge - to add onto that elemental magic, the art of the warden, and summoning was stupid. She refused to believe that until she would witness it. Not that it mattered (all that much) at the time. If she truly was a witch, then she was very likely to know things that Vincent and she did not, and that meant she had to probe that knowledge from her at any cost. She felt a certain antipathy for Crone, but had to put aside her feelings in favor of the "greater good" for the time being.
Jillian had been listening silently to what the dragon had to say, perhaps cocking her head questioningly at times or raising an eyebrow, little more. She was about to thank Renold for his exposition, but Crone saw fit to rejoin the conversation and cut any reply short with the statement that there was no need for Jillain to know more about Crone's persona. For some reason, the little witch picked this up as borderline threatening, but put it off as misinterpretation. Besides, she was right - there was no need for her to know anything about the old hag's background. She had no interest in it, only her power.
"True," Jillian affirmed neutrally, originally intending to speak her mind but ceasing to do so when she saw the old woman go about using her magic again for... whatever it was she was planning to do. The Zerulic instinctively withdrew and pulled a corner of her blanket over her mouth, as if trying to shield herself in a futile attempt. Fortunately for her, she was not beset by forces of destruction, but a more benevolent kind of energy that replenished not only her magical reserves, as she positiviely noted, but also appeared to cure her of her drowsiness and feeling of discomfort that typically precedes sickness. Jillian's heart was torn: naturally, she was inclined to feel happy, and she did, but a part of her began loathing the woman for being so powerful. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair! This part of her wanted to go back to the little girl she had been ten, fifteen years ago, to yell at this hag until she gave up her prize, or until someone's parents came and made it right for her. It seemed so pointless to go on doing what she had been doing so far, when people like this existed. She struggled to keep certain spells under control, and two or three of them were enough to almost render her unconscious. Crone, on the other hand, conjured what were almost miracles seemingly at will without batting an eyelash. She would never measure up to this in her lifetime, unless she too discovered the old woman's secret by some event of chance. Was there a chance, then? The witch's poison green eyes curiously stared at the elder as this one began to ask about the future plans of hers, Gerald and Salas. The latter, meanwhile, had risen to his feet, all but cured of the wounds he bore mere moments ago. The first thing he elected to do was to approach the others, heading for Jillian specifically. Her gaze betrayed mistrust and caution, and when he got dangerously close, she also took slow steps backwards, hoping he would stop in his tracks. Alas, he did not, and when he leaned in on her, she pressed her right hand against his chest to keep him at bay, her visage now visibly disgusted and aggravated. Salas made it a point to show and not tell her about his condition, and when she peered into his tongueless maw, she violently shoved him away from herself before exclamating a nausteated "Gross!".
Having put some distance between herself and Salas, she quietly glared at him while he returned his attention to Crone, deciding to be the first to answer her question with that unique voice of his that danced like sylphs on the evening wind. If what he said was true, then he had no stake in any of this, which Jillian found fitting in a way, as she could also not recall him having any sort of impact on the battle either. Indeed, he was just another pawn, she thought, one of those that Crone deemed so 'indispensable'. Jillian could not see why the old woman thought as she did; such views were more common amongst the naive city population, those that had been spared the horrors of war, and who lived in blissful ignorance of the harsh sacrifices that had to be made in order to achieve anything in this world. Mere weeks ago, she too might have been like that, but she learned quickly. Crone, strangely, seemed to hold onto her unworldly views in spite of what were allegedly centuries of experience. Surely she must have understood by now that if not even she, with all of her wisdom and power, could not save them, then there were no miracles to be had? Such was the domain of Spirits, gods and demons, unfortunately.
After explaining himself to the elderly forest guardian, Salas took shelter by a nearby tree, sitting down against it. Was his condition not healed as well as it appeared to be? Or was it just some leftover fatigue? Either way, Jillian appreciated the fact that he was at a reasonable distance once more and, feeling emboldened by that fact, she took the initiative next to answer.
"I'll be honest, Crone," Jillian began, emphasizing the word 'Crone' in particular, much like she dwelled on the name 'Glass', "I'm not here because I am some type of idealist. Don't get me wrong, I understand the threat that Hazzergash poses, and I'm as much against him as anyone here, but my interest is in learning magic. Originally I sought Gerald's necromancy, but, well... I am even more interested in learning what you know about black magic. We're amongst ourselves here, no reason to be hush-hush about all these oh so forbidden schools, yes?"
As she spoke, the witch stepped forward again until in arm's reach of Anaxim's eldest, speaking and walking with confidence. When faced with the hunched-over lady, Jillian was surprised to not be the shortest person in the gathering, for a change, even if they might have been somewhat similar if Crone were standing upright.
"Oh, come on! It's a bloody battle, people are going to die," Jillian shot back, sounding dismissive a little aggressive. As if she were in the mood for lectures right now! She would stand by that everyone important had made it, except perhaps Lailonsaire who, barring personal feelings, was still little more than another pawn on the board. Really, who cared if some forest dwellers got caught in the cross fire? They gave their lives protecting what they loved, they knew what they signed up for when they saw what was coming for them. If they truly had been inexpendable, then they would not have died - just how Gerald and herself had made it, or Crone for that matter. But as it stood, somebody had to die so that others could live, and the least important drew the shortest sticks.
Still, that was not all of it! Crone saw fit to continue explaining why Jillian's words were apparently inappropriate, or not doing the situation justice, as if any of it really mattered at this point. She had told what had transpired in concise form, her personal judgment of the outcome should not be relevant to the woman. Still, she at least made a better case for herself this time, Jillian noted, and decided not to dwell upon this any longer than necessary.
"Fine," she stubbornly muttered, shrugging uncaringly. What she wanted was not to discuss the battle or their feelings on the battle, no. She wanted to know more about this Crone, and not even so much about her, but about her power. It was that which drew Jillian in, like a moth to the flame. It seemed she was destined to meet mages of great power, and cursed to appease them to drink from their wisdom. One day, she dreamed. One day she would be the one that others will seek out, desperate to learn her dark secrets.
Only, when pressed for knowledge, the elderly magus entirely distanced herself, not just from Jillian, but reality itself it seemed. She merely elected to delegate the task of speaking to Renold - as if the old dragon was required to be her herald all of a sudden! - and stared at nothing in particular, seemingly lost in thought. With a brief pang of guilt, Jillian had to think of Vincent who also liked to do so, when she wasn't looking; or when he thought she wasn't. She never thought about what might have been going on in his head during those moments. Now was not the time, however, as the grand dragon took over speaking for the elder woman.
Keeps her name secret, sure, why not. Is the... oldest? Older than a dragon? Huh, well that was odd. Human too. Now, Jillian had heard of people living to venerable ages before, certainly, but this sounded downright unnatural. And she wielded all schools of magic? All?! Surely he must be either exagerrating, or not know what he was talking about. A misunderstanding perhaps? This was preposterous! She had shown an aptitude for the arcane, as well as invoking the divine powers of Reina. That was two, and according to the dragon she was at the very least also adept at black magic. If she really was as old as he claimed, then she was willing to not only believe this, but also assume that she must have unlocked the greater mysteries of necromancy to remain alive in the first place, much like Delian Gilmah did for instance, only different, perhaps. That in itself was an impressive array of magical knowledge - to add onto that elemental magic, the art of the warden, and summoning was stupid. She refused to believe that until she would witness it. Not that it mattered (all that much) at the time. If she truly was a witch, then she was very likely to know things that Vincent and she did not, and that meant she had to probe that knowledge from her at any cost. She felt a certain antipathy for Crone, but had to put aside her feelings in favor of the "greater good" for the time being.
Jillian had been listening silently to what the dragon had to say, perhaps cocking her head questioningly at times or raising an eyebrow, little more. She was about to thank Renold for his exposition, but Crone saw fit to rejoin the conversation and cut any reply short with the statement that there was no need for Jillain to know more about Crone's persona. For some reason, the little witch picked this up as borderline threatening, but put it off as misinterpretation. Besides, she was right - there was no need for her to know anything about the old hag's background. She had no interest in it, only her power.
"True," Jillian affirmed neutrally, originally intending to speak her mind but ceasing to do so when she saw the old woman go about using her magic again for... whatever it was she was planning to do. The Zerulic instinctively withdrew and pulled a corner of her blanket over her mouth, as if trying to shield herself in a futile attempt. Fortunately for her, she was not beset by forces of destruction, but a more benevolent kind of energy that replenished not only her magical reserves, as she positiviely noted, but also appeared to cure her of her drowsiness and feeling of discomfort that typically precedes sickness. Jillian's heart was torn: naturally, she was inclined to feel happy, and she did, but a part of her began loathing the woman for being so powerful. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair! This part of her wanted to go back to the little girl she had been ten, fifteen years ago, to yell at this hag until she gave up her prize, or until someone's parents came and made it right for her. It seemed so pointless to go on doing what she had been doing so far, when people like this existed. She struggled to keep certain spells under control, and two or three of them were enough to almost render her unconscious. Crone, on the other hand, conjured what were almost miracles seemingly at will without batting an eyelash. She would never measure up to this in her lifetime, unless she too discovered the old woman's secret by some event of chance. Was there a chance, then? The witch's poison green eyes curiously stared at the elder as this one began to ask about the future plans of hers, Gerald and Salas. The latter, meanwhile, had risen to his feet, all but cured of the wounds he bore mere moments ago. The first thing he elected to do was to approach the others, heading for Jillian specifically. Her gaze betrayed mistrust and caution, and when he got dangerously close, she also took slow steps backwards, hoping he would stop in his tracks. Alas, he did not, and when he leaned in on her, she pressed her right hand against his chest to keep him at bay, her visage now visibly disgusted and aggravated. Salas made it a point to show and not tell her about his condition, and when she peered into his tongueless maw, she violently shoved him away from herself before exclamating a nausteated "Gross!".
Having put some distance between herself and Salas, she quietly glared at him while he returned his attention to Crone, deciding to be the first to answer her question with that unique voice of his that danced like sylphs on the evening wind. If what he said was true, then he had no stake in any of this, which Jillian found fitting in a way, as she could also not recall him having any sort of impact on the battle either. Indeed, he was just another pawn, she thought, one of those that Crone deemed so 'indispensable'. Jillian could not see why the old woman thought as she did; such views were more common amongst the naive city population, those that had been spared the horrors of war, and who lived in blissful ignorance of the harsh sacrifices that had to be made in order to achieve anything in this world. Mere weeks ago, she too might have been like that, but she learned quickly. Crone, strangely, seemed to hold onto her unworldly views in spite of what were allegedly centuries of experience. Surely she must have understood by now that if not even she, with all of her wisdom and power, could not save them, then there were no miracles to be had? Such was the domain of Spirits, gods and demons, unfortunately.
After explaining himself to the elderly forest guardian, Salas took shelter by a nearby tree, sitting down against it. Was his condition not healed as well as it appeared to be? Or was it just some leftover fatigue? Either way, Jillian appreciated the fact that he was at a reasonable distance once more and, feeling emboldened by that fact, she took the initiative next to answer.
"I'll be honest, Crone," Jillian began, emphasizing the word 'Crone' in particular, much like she dwelled on the name 'Glass', "I'm not here because I am some type of idealist. Don't get me wrong, I understand the threat that Hazzergash poses, and I'm as much against him as anyone here, but my interest is in learning magic. Originally I sought Gerald's necromancy, but, well... I am even more interested in learning what you know about black magic. We're amongst ourselves here, no reason to be hush-hush about all these oh so forbidden schools, yes?"
As she spoke, the witch stepped forward again until in arm's reach of Anaxim's eldest, speaking and walking with confidence. When faced with the hunched-over lady, Jillian was surprised to not be the shortest person in the gathering, for a change, even if they might have been somewhat similar if Crone were standing upright.
What Shien said, but on top of that, in one the later posts she specifically thinks about her comrades, and refers to them as Yellow and Green. By this logic I found it more than appropriate to name her Blue.
Edit: Durr, beat to it.
Edit: Durr, beat to it.
Sad way to go for Blue. Her life sounded anything but enviable, in spite of her almost outrageous expertise in practically everything she was described doing, and then she was killed in a fight with people she had no business with in the first place. RIP
By the way, I figured I'd leave the next post on Jill's side up to Ink, given that Jack and I had the last two, to clear that up in case anyone was waiting.
By the way, I figured I'd leave the next post on Jill's side up to Ink, given that Jack and I had the last two, to clear that up in case anyone was waiting.
Take your time, yo. I know I do so often enough <__> That said, I imagine that Ink could, probably, make a post without your input at this point if he so desired.
Also, 11 for Jillian. Does Zacharias need a number, since he still exists somewhere? If yes, give him an 8.
Edit: Out of curiosity, would it be too revelatory to ask what kind of dice you're gonna be rolling? Regular D6, D12, or what?
Also, 11 for Jillian. Does Zacharias need a number, since he still exists somewhere? If yes, give him an 8.
Edit: Out of curiosity, would it be too revelatory to ask what kind of dice you're gonna be rolling? Regular D6, D12, or what?
Jillian eyed the new arrivals with caution and skepticism, not knowing what to make of them. Renold was apparently familiar at least with the elderly woman, from which she concluded that this ‘Crone’ must have lived in Anaxim, or at least have been a regular visitor. Thinking about it, she faintly recalled having heard that very name before while she was in Gariel Downs. Gerald must have mentioned it in some context she failed to remember. Perhaps she was one of the forest’s guardians as well, as it turned out; she certainly seemed powerful enough to be in such a position. It would make sense, then, that she would have fled the doomed forest to meet up with the elder dragon, yes. That still left the question as to who this wounded one was that she was tending to. Another guardian? Was he equally powerful?
“Reina, Lady of Mercy,” Crone uttered, beseeching the goddess of humans for a miracle. Jillian’s eyes narrowed, her body becoming rigid, as she anticipated what would follow. This Crone had proven her skill as a magician so far, no doubt, but this was no sorcery. Simple prayer would not help this man, so could it be that she was a favored one? It was not impossible, even if unlikely, but at her age… well, she certainly would have had the time to master multiple disciplines, if she still had the presence of mind to remember it all. Could she do it, Jillian wondered?
As the witch took another wary step forward, a soothing light began to shine from the old woman’s hands, glimmering from in between her shriveled fingers. With care, she bathed every inch on the man’s body in this light, as Jillian had seen the priests and priestesses of Reina do before. She held the acolytes of Reina in high regard – their work was a good one, pure of intent and purpose – even if she was not destined to be one of them. It seemed that Jillian simply lacked the compassionate and nurturing nature required to mend the ailing of others, for the only thing she had ever shown competence for was the art of destruction. She broke friendships, she broke hearts, had burned things and burned people, and to this day she felt not a tinge of regret; at least, none she would admit.
Before long, the ritual of healing was complete, and the man’s wounds were no more. Crone rose up from the ground, not significantly gaining in height because of it, and began to fill the man in on what had happened to him.
“You are fortunate to have survived,” she told him in that creaky voice of hers, “none others shared that fate.”
Then, for the first time since arriving, she acknowledged the presence of others on the scene, looking each of them in the eyes in turn – Gerald, Renold and also Jillian. Her gaze was calm and lacked the curiosity and severity that was present in Jillian’s own. It was as if her old eyes had already seen everything there was to see in this world, including the three individuals present. It was strange feeling that Crone evoked, but oddly disarming. Somewhere, Jillian wondered if this too was some kind of spell, or if she was merely becoming paranoid.
Meanwhile, the healed one slowly came to his senses and sprang to life. His first reaction was to reach for the hilt of his weapon, before coming to the realization that he was in no immediate danger and calming down again. Ignorant of his surroundings for the moment, he first inspected his own, regenerated form before eventually becoming aware of his company. Oddly, he made no sound, nor spoke, until a strikingly reminiscent howling in the wind brought for a sudden realization.
“Where are we exactly? What happened with the battle?” a disembodied voice asked, an unseen specter in the evening gust.
It’s him! Jillian thought, finally recognizing Salas for who he was. It’s the wind mage from Gariel Downs! That raggedy vagabond, I wonder how he made it. Saved by Crone to be sure; perhaps she did all the work for him. What happened to the battle you wonder? We lost it, is what! No thanks to people like you, I’m sure.
“Not far from Pelgaid,” Jillian chimed in, having gradually approached the pair over the past minute, “and the battle is decidedly lost, I’m told. The forest is in flames, and everybody died, including the crusaders. You’ll be pleased to hear that everybody important is still alive, however, and that Kevalorn did not get what he came for.”
Jillian’s tone was sharp and condescending as she spoke, standing not too far from Salas with her blanket wrapped around her meager shoulders. She was evidently still upset over what Gerald had done moments before, and it poisoned her attitude.
“Now that that’s out of the way, I’d be happy to hear just why you insist on using your silly spell to talk. And while at it,” Jillian added, her voice becoming gentler and her eyes shifting to Crone, “just… who are you? Unlike the others here, I am not familiar to you, and I’d very much like to know more. And I don’t mean your name.”
The witch’s eyes remained fixated on those of the ancient one, as she shuffled yet closer until practically in arm’s reach.
“Reina, Lady of Mercy,” Crone uttered, beseeching the goddess of humans for a miracle. Jillian’s eyes narrowed, her body becoming rigid, as she anticipated what would follow. This Crone had proven her skill as a magician so far, no doubt, but this was no sorcery. Simple prayer would not help this man, so could it be that she was a favored one? It was not impossible, even if unlikely, but at her age… well, she certainly would have had the time to master multiple disciplines, if she still had the presence of mind to remember it all. Could she do it, Jillian wondered?
As the witch took another wary step forward, a soothing light began to shine from the old woman’s hands, glimmering from in between her shriveled fingers. With care, she bathed every inch on the man’s body in this light, as Jillian had seen the priests and priestesses of Reina do before. She held the acolytes of Reina in high regard – their work was a good one, pure of intent and purpose – even if she was not destined to be one of them. It seemed that Jillian simply lacked the compassionate and nurturing nature required to mend the ailing of others, for the only thing she had ever shown competence for was the art of destruction. She broke friendships, she broke hearts, had burned things and burned people, and to this day she felt not a tinge of regret; at least, none she would admit.
Before long, the ritual of healing was complete, and the man’s wounds were no more. Crone rose up from the ground, not significantly gaining in height because of it, and began to fill the man in on what had happened to him.
“You are fortunate to have survived,” she told him in that creaky voice of hers, “none others shared that fate.”
Then, for the first time since arriving, she acknowledged the presence of others on the scene, looking each of them in the eyes in turn – Gerald, Renold and also Jillian. Her gaze was calm and lacked the curiosity and severity that was present in Jillian’s own. It was as if her old eyes had already seen everything there was to see in this world, including the three individuals present. It was strange feeling that Crone evoked, but oddly disarming. Somewhere, Jillian wondered if this too was some kind of spell, or if she was merely becoming paranoid.
Meanwhile, the healed one slowly came to his senses and sprang to life. His first reaction was to reach for the hilt of his weapon, before coming to the realization that he was in no immediate danger and calming down again. Ignorant of his surroundings for the moment, he first inspected his own, regenerated form before eventually becoming aware of his company. Oddly, he made no sound, nor spoke, until a strikingly reminiscent howling in the wind brought for a sudden realization.
“Where are we exactly? What happened with the battle?” a disembodied voice asked, an unseen specter in the evening gust.
It’s him! Jillian thought, finally recognizing Salas for who he was. It’s the wind mage from Gariel Downs! That raggedy vagabond, I wonder how he made it. Saved by Crone to be sure; perhaps she did all the work for him. What happened to the battle you wonder? We lost it, is what! No thanks to people like you, I’m sure.
“Not far from Pelgaid,” Jillian chimed in, having gradually approached the pair over the past minute, “and the battle is decidedly lost, I’m told. The forest is in flames, and everybody died, including the crusaders. You’ll be pleased to hear that everybody important is still alive, however, and that Kevalorn did not get what he came for.”
Jillian’s tone was sharp and condescending as she spoke, standing not too far from Salas with her blanket wrapped around her meager shoulders. She was evidently still upset over what Gerald had done moments before, and it poisoned her attitude.
“Now that that’s out of the way, I’d be happy to hear just why you insist on using your silly spell to talk. And while at it,” Jillian added, her voice becoming gentler and her eyes shifting to Crone, “just… who are you? Unlike the others here, I am not familiar to you, and I’d very much like to know more. And I don’t mean your name.”
The witch’s eyes remained fixated on those of the ancient one, as she shuffled yet closer until practically in arm’s reach.
Since both you and Ink have posted already, it'd be logical for me to have the next one, unless you insist on taking the initiative. Will be taking a nap now, when I get back up I'll see what I can get done.
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