We recently had a player drop after making our apprentice groups, so one group is short a member! It's still early enough to jump in without really being behind if anyone's interested. Feel free to post here, PM me, or join the discord.
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STATUS: Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/… 2 yrs ago
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Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
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Don't mind me. Just shilling a thread: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
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So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
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Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
Stay awesome, people.
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3 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
This sounds pretty cool!
A Welcome Fit for a King? Part Two
Marlijn Vaanse
Marlijn knew that she had no chance of being chosen. Indeed, the four names that the Arch-Zeno called were all of the ducal or princely rank, all with RAS levels above eight. At least he didn't draw it out. At least she'd get to learn soon. Her eyes rolled back and forth across the diminishing group of Zenos. They came in all colours, shapes, and sizes, the only thing binding them together being their shared mastery of the Gift. Vitas was called up to join a bookish-looking sort and Marlijn could tell that he was hiding a scowl. Randan was chosen by - to the amusement of all - Randan the Red. There was a smirk on the Zeno's face as his new apprentice joined him, and the boy grinned back.
More names were called. The sun disappeared below the buildings and its fading light silhouetted them in stark relief. The unpicked group dwindled and Marlijn was able to find Owain easily enough. "So, what do you think?" She intoned, leaning in, "last one picked, just like when we were kids?"
He stared lightning at her. "Maybe you," he retorted.
"Dream on, kid brother." He was half an hour her junior and there was no surer way to get on his nerves than to rub that in. "I'm the pick of the litter," she added. Then, a tall severe-looking woman onstage called out a series of four names. "Owain Vance" was among them. Owain stuck out his tongue, turned on a heel, and just remembered to give her a hug before he left. "Don't be last, big sis."
More Zenos moved onstage. More names were called. Siblings and old friends hugged each other. Strangers shook hands and chatted, their voices and bodies weaving introductions and stories through the night air. Some, lucky enough to have been placed with existing friends, cheered and jumped up and down excitedly. Still, the ceremony went on until Marlijn noticed - much to her embarrassment, that there were only four Zenos and sixteen students left. One was Leon Solaire. One was Lady Anesin. Marlijn swallowed. Just not last, she thought. Please not last!
A pretty Torragonese woman strode onto centre stage, her slightly revealing dress resplendent with gold-laced embroidery and gemstones. "Zeno Sienna Afraval," the crier announced. Afraval! She's a royal! The Zeno rocked back on the balls of her feet for a moment and cleared her throat, a bit of a grin creasing her lips. Marlijn wouldn't mind being with her. That would be alright. A Torragonese royal would actually be pretty-
"Anesin of House Bjelke, Penny Pellegrin, Onarr Yidlob, and my countrywoman: Linnah Aranda. It will be my pleasure to serve as your master and mentor."
Marlijn's heart sunk. It would've been nice if she could've been with Anesin - someone to speak Eskandish with, at least - even that ghastly Ath dialect. The new group made their introductions as they walked offstage. Zeno Afrafal was replaced by a large Virangish man with a bushy beard and an impatient bearing. "Zeno Hamir Zemana!" called the crier. He nodded in the man's direction. "Yes, thank you Roderick." He pivoted, hands clasped behind his back, and regarded the twelve remaining students. "Hmp-hmm," he cleared his throat. Marlijn would even take him, she decided. Even him! "Mayu of House Iovina, Seung Eun-Ji - I hope I'm not mispronouncing your name, girl, Manfred of House Hohenfelter - same goes for you, boy, and finally Karim Nazeri. If you're half as sharp as your parents, this should be quite a partnership." He smiled warmly. The new group joined him.
There were two Zenos remaining: a petite young woman of profoundly exotic background whose face paint reminded her of that from old Eskandish legend but was somehow very different at the same time, and large Belzaggic fellow with a simple, martial bearing. The former filled Marlijn with a sort of unease, and she wasn't sure why. The latter was... actually kind of handsome. Dami, please give me one thing today, she prayed inwardly. Just this. She remembered to make the sign of the Pentad, at which she could've sworn that the facepainted Zeno rolled her eyes. Gods no! What if she's my master!?
"Ladies first?" asked the handsome Zeno, turning to his counterpart. She smirked, as if having a thought, and Marlijn liked her a bit better for that. "Thanks, big guy," she said with an accent that the girl had never heard before.
"Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight, of the Nashibansek," called Roderick, whose voice had held up admirably well. Nashibansek! Marlijn thought. No wonder she'd seemed so exotic. She'd come all of the way from western Callanast! The Eskandishwoman's eyes widened. Moonlight sniffed and fished a piece of paper from her skirt. "Uhh... we got Leon Solaire." She raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Carmillia Carbonneau, Jomurr Ikon III and um... Ila-" She bit her lower lip, eyes narrowing at the paper. "Is it Ilannak? Ilannak Sigmund...daughter?" She smiled sheepishly. "Sorry if I butchered any names. What's an attendance list without some casualties, huh? I promise we're gonna have a good time, though." She tried on a smile. "Why don't you all come up here?"
Marlijn was in the last group. She had to accept that, but if the choice was between Zeno Moonlight and the other guy, she honestly felt like she'd just dodged a bullet. Then, even though it was obvious who'd be chosen, the last Zeno stepped to the centre of the stage. Marlijn spared a glimpse at her groupmates-to-be: a dour-looking Torragonnese, a Rettanese girl who looked like she'd just rolled out of bed, and... a boy who she could only describe as a street urchin. Her cheeks flushed with shame. What had she done to deserve being lumped in with these people?
"Zeno Zander Mozaru!" announced Roderick, with a hint of a grateful smile. The Zeno clasped his hands behind his back, bowed slightly in the crier's direction and turned to face the crowd. "You've all been waiting quite a while," he announced, "but sometimes waiting is good for you. It helps you to value things more. I'm proud to welcome Miss Pan Yimu." That was the Rettanese girl. Fourth last, Marlijn thought. "And Lord Selio Taraves." The sad guy, and third last. Gods no! Things were proceeding with a certain sort of inevitability at this point. Zeno Mozaru's eyes settled on her and they twinkled warmly as he smiled. "Lady Marlijn Vaanse, it is an honour." Phhheeeeewwwww! All of the air escaped her and she grinned and bounded over to the stage. "Young master Vyrik Oldenrath," the Zeno added as Marlijn hurried up to join the others. "I believe I had someone pass you a notice. Hopefully you're not too behind the curve anymore."
No sooner was their apprentice group complete, then there was a fantastic flash. All of the torches and lamps lining the edges of the plaza blazed to life, their ambient light so vivid that it seemed almost like daytime again. People oohed and aahed. There was a second flash and, suddenly, the ancient wizard who had been seated towards the back of the group was standing at the lectern without having moved a muscle. Hugo Hunghorasz! A teleportation spell! Zenos Mozaru and Moonlight bowed deeply in his direction. He stroked his beard, and his tired old eyes peered out from beneath drooping eyelids. "You have much to do tonight, and over the next few days," he rumbled, voice only slightly tremulous with age, "Dare I say this will be the most exciting period of your lives. Take it from someone who's lived as long as I have." He grinned slightly. "Now go. Go be the mages - the people - you were meant to be. As a former Zenith and on behalf of the Zenith and all of my colleagues, I dismiss you and welcome you to Ersand'Enise, class of Ahn-Ipte Zept Fifty-Five!"
With that, the lights dimmed to a more normal level. Kings and faculty alike stood and clapped - for Marlijn's classmates, for Marlijn, for the mages of the future. It was only moments before the fireworks began - a show such as she had never seen. The girl took a deep breath of the cooling night air and allowed herself a shameless, relieved, satisfied smile. Tomorrow, in earnest, it would begin.
Five Gods. Five Magics. Five Thrones.
From the sparkling cities of the Ensollian basin with their spires and minarets that soar into the burning sun, to the vast golden fields of Crisia and Perrence glistening with morning dew and the promise of bountiful harvests, to the proud stone keeps and snowcapped peaks of Eskand in the South, the land of Constantia is one of balance, peace, and time-honoured virtue, bound together by magics gifted to the Firstborn by the Gods themselves. Honest lords and just kings preside over a loyal, beloved, and industrious populace. All is well.
Except that it isn’t.
Following the collapse of the Avincian Empire a thousand years ago at the hands of howling Eskandish hordes, no single entity has been able to unify the disparate peoples of the continent. Petty nobles, conquerors, and greedy kings have fought for the scraps, ruthlessly exploiting the common people and squeezing everything that they can from the land itself. Under their rule, Constantia has bled.
Their grip on power has been maintained through the stranglehold they have over magic. It has been regulated, controlled, studied and, most importantly, monopolized. The ability to use it manifests in arcane and unpredictable ways, but first and foremost, it’s in your blood. If your ancestors used magic, it is likely that you will be able to use it too. If they didn’t, then your chances are slim.
Yet, the march of social progress necessarily follows that of technological. As Constantian culture, learning, and religion have spread across the globe on the sails of caravels and galleons and a wealthy new class of merchants and artisans has emerged, there have been stirrings. Potent new paths to power and prosperity have revealed themselves, and those of common blood have increasingly bought their way into the use of magic by ‘marrying up’. With or without the approval of those in charge of it, the world is changing. Some people warn that the gods are stirring. Others dare whisper that the gods are not real.
Into this potent mix of burgeoning opportunity and lurking peril steps you: a first-year student at the Ersand'Enise Academy of Thaumaturgy. As a member of the storied establishment's newest cohort, you bring your hopes, your fears, your background, and considerable power in 'The Gift' with you. It is said that your group, aged fourteen to eighteen and born during the double ascendance of Shune the Learner, is the strongest in a century. That strength will be needed. Representatives from the world's great nations will be gathering at Ersand'Enise mere weeks after your arrival for the Conclave of the Five Thrones, and tensions are high.
This time, however, the delegates will need to be protected not only from each other's political machinations but from three new and novel threats. Over the past handful of years, aberrations have begun appearing in increasing numbers and this pattern seems unlikely to reverse of its own accord. Holes in the fabric of reality - shapes of man, beast, and object alike formed of the purest blackness - coming into contact with them can empower the magic of those skilled in The Gift at the cost of addiction. However, it can also drive those not as blessed to insanity or even death. For reasons unknown, but perhaps related, the mysterious yasoi have turned precipitously away from human society. The only other sentient species on the planet to actively live among humans, they have been shy friends and unconventional allies for most of history, but the past few decades have seen them become fiercely insular and even hostile. There is talk of them closing the mountain passes that sustain trade and travel for much of the Western half of the continent. Into this scene steps the Traveler: a shadowy but charismatic figure who has been harnessing the power of the aberrations and stirring up class conflict. He preaches a revolutionary message to the common people that threatens war at a pivotal moment. It is clear that he seeks to tear down the existing order, but what he intends to replace it with is as yet unknown.
Of course, you, dear young student, have nothing to worry about. Heads older and wiser than yours have matters firmly in hand. Still... it pays to be vigilant, doesn't it?
Bulletins
Current Arc: 6 - Living on the Edge
Current Chapter Cycle: 1 - All is not Well in Paradise
Cycle Concludes: Wednesday, March 27, 2:00 PM EST
Previous Chapter: 8 - Skies
Next Chapter: 2 - Setting the World Right
Player Characters Active: 26 (full)
Advisories:
- Visiting students are welcomed back to the academy for the 555th annual Trials. On this auspicious year, we ask that all participants in the festivities familiarize themselves with the following items and take care to abide by school policy. Have a safe, fun, and happy games!
- Students may also find their Sophomore course timetables here, at the Registrar's Office in Balthazar Hall. Should they have any questions, they may contact administration.
- For health and safety reasons, students are advised not to make any contact with or draw magical energies from aberrations of any type. They are to report these immediately to faculty. If this involves a dereliction of academic responsibilities, appropriate notes will be given and no disciplinary action will be taken. Those found in violation of this policy will be subject to academic and financial sanction.
- Students are advised to avoid lingering unaccompanied in the area around the port of Ersand'Enise known as 'Belleville' and formerly known as 'Mudville'.
- Students are hereby warned that participating in shows of excessive nationalism and employing inflammatory rhetoric towards those of different nationalities will not be tolerated on campus or within the city's bounds.
A Welcome Fit for a King? Part One
Marlijn Vaanse
It was near to evening by the time that the plaza was full. The bells had stopped ringing and the marching band was gone. There were still crowds, but they knew better than to set foot on the patterned flagstones of the academy grounds. Instead, those were filled by six-hundred hand-chosen people and a particular species of nervous, anticipatory energy.
Marlijn Vaanse sat on a bench, knees together, sweating like a pig in her fancy spellcaster’s regalia. Truly, she thought that expression daft, for anyone with the least amount of knowledge of animal husbandry knew that pigs did not sweat. That was why they wallowed in the mud. She blinked, distracted. There was some old lady droning on up there, looking distinctly uncomfortable speaking in front of a large crowd and, to Marlijn’s mind, eager to be back to her books and research. The girl felt bad for a moment and then pursed her lips, slouched a little bit, and played with the clasp of her cloak - positively unladylike.
Her eyes darted about surreptitiously, taking in the people around her. She’d been warned of the way that things were done at this school: how they made the procurement of seating a royal melee, as if to signal a definitive end to the pomp and circumstance. Marlijn was quite sure that she had driven an elbow into some merchant girl in her pursuit of a good sightline. Positively unladylike, but it had bought her little advantage and she had still ended up separated from Owain and most of the other Eskandish. Lady Anesin and a couple of others were closeby at least, not that Marlijn much knew her or most of the Ath people.
The others were a mix, and she was struck by their diversity. There were at least three - possibly four - Rettanese. In her entire life to this point she had seen maybe that many. There was an exceptionally short boy - she thought him more likely young than a dwarf - who would not take off his helmet, and she wondered why. Poor scared little fella. There was a handsome roguish sort nearby, a pretty Kerreman boy, another pretty boy from the west with an intriguing scar, and a quartet of Perrench girls clucking away like hens, though as she paid more attention, she noticed that the pale one in the middle was not quite as ditzy as her friends and the tall one on the right wasn’t really with the others. A rather plainly-dressed girl who looked to be Torragonese or perhaps Firrazi sat to her right, also a bit of an island, Marlijn thought. Absently, she wondered about the boy who’d flung himself spectacularly onto the balcony full of Eskandish nobles. Her mother had come down to assure Marlijn that she was alright, if a bit shaken. Of him, she said it had been determined that he was a fool rather than a threat and that, while there’d likely be disciplinary action when they caught him, she doubted that it would be especially drastic. She’d said so with a particular sort of disapproval that Marlijn knew well. The girl had sniffed and nodded, making an excuse about having to get to the plaza, if only to dodge her mother’s incoming diatribe about allowing ‘lower sorts’ to school with the nobility.
Of course, once her eyes had completed their little walkabout, the young Lady Vaanse found it a chore to keep them off of the final member of the cohort sitting close to her: Leon Solaire. She’d practiced some of his spells, but they were difficult to master. She knew the music from his troupe, but little of their performance and, with him, it was all about the performance. She’d wanted to attend when she’d heard that he would perform in Inderhall, but mother had forbidden it and Owain had laughed at her. She would be attending Ersand’Enise with Leon now, though, so it appeared as if it were Marlijn who would have the last laugh after all. Would that Owain was nearby! How she would stick out her tongue and flick his fancy cravat up into his face with a bit of Kinetic mischief! Alas, he was not and the girl had to content herself with paying attention to this speech. She sat up and brought her knees back together, positively ladylike, just as it came to a close.
Then, there was a moment of near-silence, despite the size of the gathered crowd. Trumpets blared. A crier stepped forward, his voice ringing out across the plaza with unnatural volume, courtesy of the Gift. “Their majesties, blessed of Ipte, Shune, Oraff, Eshiran, and Dami: the Monarchs of the Five Thrones!” Drums beat. The crowd cheered. Marlijn cheered too, of course.
“Jobanzaggah, sixth of his name: Emperor of Belzagg, Defender of the Faith, keeper of the Ivory Throne!” Marlijn craned her neck to get a look at him, of course, nearly rising to her feet, positively unladylike. A tall man, young and powerful, with skin as dark as coal and an immaculately trimmed beard, he strode purposefully across the stage, leopardskin cape fluttering behind him, bare biceps bound in gold bands and inlaid with fine gemstones. He set himself upon one of the five chairs at the centre of the stage and waited.
“Horik Vinderborg of Oleften: Emperor of Eskand, Master of the College of Electors, keeper of the Verdant Throne!” For all that Jobanzaggah was a large man, he was positively dwarfed by Kejser Horik. Near seven feet tall and perhaps four hundred pounds, he lumbered across the stage, long grey beard bound in bracers of gold and ivory swaying as he walked. Marlijn suppressed a sour face. Not emperor of all Eskand, she reminded herself. Good King Johann had just as much claim to the Verdant Throne.
“Rouis, eleventh of his name, King of Perrence and the Perrench people, Warden of Ciero, Crisia, and Miatto, Protector of the Faith, and keeper of the Crystal Throne!” Rouis was not as large as the other two men, but he seemed somehow larger. He strode grandly across the stage, scepter in hand, nose raised high in the air, long, curly brown cascading luxuriantly over his shoulders, and the puffy, illuminated silks and velvets of his clothing inlaid with gold thread and resplendent in the late afternoon sun. His beard and mustache were perfectly oiled and Marlijn imagined he could fairly impale someone with them. Two attendants held the ends of his cape and lifted it out of the way as he took his seat.
“King Sancho VIII of Torragon, keeper of the Iron Throne.” Like the words announcing him, the man who walked across the stage and placed himself beside Rouis was spare and spartan. He wore brown riding boots and loose white clothing embroidered with patterns in gold thread: incredibly expensive, but practical first and foremost in the subtropical heat. He was clean-shaven with maybe a day’s worth of stubble, his short grey hair combed back and mostly hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat surmounted with a leather band, a single ruby, and a couple of colourful feathery plums.
The fifth man - and they were all men - nearly didn’t wait for the crier. “Prospero Malatesta: Doge of Revidia, King of Segona, Tan-Zeno of Ersand’Enise, and keeper of the Radiant Throne.” Even many of the Zenos onstage rose and clapped. The crowd certainly did. Dressed in a fine red tunic, hands clasped behind his back, Prospero stopped, pivoted on a heel, and inclined his head to the crowd in thanks before taking his seat.
Next were the representatives from other nations and, as exciting as it was to see this many royals in one place, Marlijn honestly couldn’t understand how this was relevant to their learning. Could the Zenos not have held a separate celebration - after everyone was fed and rested - for the introduction of the monarchs?
Queen Silke of Kerremand was in attendance, but few countries sent their rulers unless, people whispered, they were making a play for one of the thrones. Mostly, it was a gaggle of dukes and duchesses, emirs and emirahs. There were even representatives from distant Rettan, Nashibansek, and… she couldn’t pronounce the other one - the one that started with the ‘X'. They were here only as observers, however, as was the President of Joru: Atundo Yibozo.
It was moments after he’d taken his seat, kept prudently separate from the Belzaggic emperor, that Marlijn felt something brush against her arm. She looked up but there was nothing. Blinking, she started to turn back to the stage, but there indeed was something. Perhaps it was because she was a fledgling illusionist herself that she spotted it: a glimmer of motion - the semicorporeal outline of a hand, and for only the barest of moments. Feeling a warning prickle on the back of her neck, the girl reached out for energies but, in such a dense crowd, it was near-impossible to sense an individual.
“Hey,” she prodded one of the students nearby, “did you see that?” She half-stood and her eyes darted about. Then, there was a flash of movement up on stage. She glanced around beseechingly, ready to raise her voice, but was stopped short. It was so brief that she wasn’t sure that she’d imagined it - it couldn’t possibly have been real, after all: a colossal surge of energy onstage, like nothing she’d ever felt before, like nothing she’d ever even imagined possible. Then it was gone, in a fraction of a second, like a blinding flash of light that leaves one staggering in its wake.
Marlijn blinked to clear her head. The speaker onstage - Arch-Zeno Harachorra - paused to glance behind him. The two oldest men there - Giacomo the Crow and the Paradigm himself, Hugo Hunghorasz - may or may not have exchanged a brief look, but the Zenith was still smiling, Joshe Intaba and Riu Kai-Tan looked positively unbothered, and… Ardredelle Latvar looked uncomfortable and rather sweaty, but Marlijn supposed it was the heat. The air was still muggy and humid and even Arch-Zenos were still human, after all. She shook her head to clear it. What had she imagined, again? Had she thought something was wrong? What a daft idea. She supposed that spending all day out in the sun could mess with you.
To improve matters somewhat, Karan Harachorra paused and smirked at the students conspiratorially, and then at the five monarchs behind him. “Lords and ladies,” he intoned smoothly, “would I be amiss or perhaps presumptuous in asking whether you’ve had enough of speeches for one day? Whether you’ve been a bit too long in the sun?”
Marlijn giggled at his delivery. She’d certainly had enough. She had literally hallucinated a minute ago, though exactly what her hallucination had been, she could not recall. At least the sun would dip below the buildings shortly and bring some welcome relief from the heat. Already, shadows stretched long and jagged across the flagstones. “I believe it would be to the benefit of all were we to shift the festivities surrounding the five thrones to tomorrow and focus on our students this evening so that your majesties could receive the undivided attention that befits your station.”
He received five nods from the five kings and the girl found herself liking them better, even Horik. “Now, with their majesties presiding - surely a sign of the Gods’ favour -” Marlijn noticed that he didn’t say ‘Pentad’ “- I propose we get to the part that you’re really all here for: the assignment of masters.”
Her heart beat a bit faster. She glanced around herself, failing to suppress a grin. The manner in which masters were chosen at Ersand’Enise was ancient and mysterious. She knew that the Zenos kept profiles on every Biro admitted. She knew that they used the Gift. She knew that interests and strengths played a role, but there was more to it and nobody knew what.
Zenith Upta stepped up to the speaker’s lectern and gave out a series of orders. Excited chatter filled the air. The hundred Zenos in the first rows of the plaza rose and gathered at the foot of the stage: some of the greatest mages alive, all masters of their craft, and she was to train under one. They formed two lines, ready to march up the stairs to either side and, quietly, with a certain sort of restless energy, Marlijn thought, Joshe Intaba stepped down from his high place to join them. “Arch-Zeno Joshe Intaba,” called Claresse Upta, “Please select your apprentices.”
Hey all, just as an aside, the recent post from Manfred wasn't the big update for the next posting cycle. That's coming tomorrow!
Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau
It was the drums that made it okay, Manfred had decided. They reminded him of being on the march: to some, endless days of drudgery; to him, a chance for conversation. He’d been half a boy back then: eager for the attention and approval of anyone his senior. There was something comforting about that sound as he entered the City of the Bells - the way that it was steady, simple, rhythmic.
Decked out in his dress uniform and sporting his medals, he pranced through the gate atop Cornelius: every inch the dashing young magery officer. Manfred knew how to wave. His horse knew how to high-step. He kept his chin raised and eyes ahead, one hand on the reins. Cornelius was an old hand at pomp and circumstance. He was a steady animal and little frightened him.
The same could not be said for his rider, but Manfred was not some powdered lordling or flapping, demonstrative merchant who could not control his face. He flashed a smile, and then a nod for a pretty girl in the crowd, tangled red hair spilling out across the tops of her breasts, breasts nearly spilling out the top of her dress. And that was it: it had gotten to him. Soon, he would probably hate himself for it, but it was like it had been when he’d marched off to fight the Holmanians: so much hope and celebration. Why, the rose petals rained down, the crowds cheered, and the marching band slammed away at their drums, double-stepped with their fifes, and twirled their batons. The horns blared, proud and brassy, flashing and gleaming in the midday sun. The famous bells of Ersand’Enise clanged and pennants flapped. For a moment, he was fourteen again and off to fight for the Fatherland. Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau waved and smiled. He winked at another pretty girl and saluted a little boy playing soldier.
It was fantastic, really: the sound and colour and, for a little while, he lost himself and forgot what this place really was: a workshop - nay, a factory - for killers, churning them out by the hundreds. And, as he remembered, the smile faded from his face. His chin raised, his eyes focused ahead. He was a magusjaeger. Mages of Ersand’Enise filled the armies of Perrence and Revidia, making near-every battlefield on the continent their bloodstained plaything, undoing Oraff’s work, spitting on Dami’s choice, marring Ipte’s beauty, and laughing at Shune’s learning to overfeed Eshiran.
Manfred was a Hohenfelter of Meckelin-Thandau, though: scion of a line stretching back nearly a thousand years. He knew his duty and would not dishonour his family and his country, much as he might’ve found every bit of this tasteless. He kept his expression composed - dignified. In the midst of his fellow young nobles of Kerremand, he simply followed, Cornelius knowing what to do. Manfred let his senses wander subtly, absently, taking in the heightened security. It was a detail that few would notice, he imagined, but there were many more besides the ceremonial guard. They wore plain clothes and tried to blend in, but their martial bearing and the way that they positively burned with loosely-contained energy gave them away. He imagined there were still more, skilled beyond his ability to pick them out. Such was the seriousness with which Ersand’Enise took the art of killing and such was the scope of the event. This year was the Conclave of the Five Thrones, after all, and there would be royals in attendance beyond just the Eel and the Wolf.
The march continued, dragging on, and there were exotic clothes, languages, and faces all around him. Manfred found himself struck by the number of Rettanese that he saw - or else Tan Keouleans, Kanjikish, and others. There was a girl in front of him trying unsuccessfully to hide a cat in her dress and Kurbis came to mind for a moment. The girl looked so small and lost, though, that he almost felt bad that they’d turn her into a weapon. He had to stop himself from visibly shaking his head to clear it.
Suddenly, there were lights up ahead: lights and sound. Crackling magical fireworks, lines tracing themselves through the air, and roaring wolves of fire raced across the sky. Manfred flinched. He blinked and the sweet smell of rose petals became something else to him: another sickening sweetness from three years ago. The fire wolf… Then, there were those tongues of white-hot flame in the darkness: Ahn-Eshiran’s gift. The shouts. A boy hurled himself onto a balcony, like the bodies. The bodies flew too. They flew in pieces. The shouts. They were…
In that moment, he saw the girl, on foot somewhere to his left, and he knew that she was like him. He could see it in her body language - in her bearing - for just a moment. She was the fourth Rettanese he’d seen. He took in her strange dress. Not naturalized, like the others, he concluded, maybe not a weapon. One didn’t wear that look, though - the same look that he knew he’d been wearing mere moments ago - out of choice.
It took a moment for Manfred to realize how uncivilized he was being. Staring blankly at the foreigners like some kind of simpleton! Scheiße! He had fallen off the pace and was at the trailing end of the Artisans now. The scion of Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau cleared his throat, set his eyes ahead, and spurred his horse on. There would yet be more ceremony in the plaza, he knew, and he would bear it unflinchingly this time. Men of Kerremand do not show their emotions without a very good reason.
Welcome to Ersand'Enise
The bells of Ersand’Enise were ringing. All over the city, from spires and steeples, windows and minarets, they raised a cacophony of welcome. Multicoloured flags flapped and strained in the stiff breeze and warming rays of sun peeked through the deep grey clouds. They hung low in the heavens, their bellies crackling with thunder.
Penny ran through the streets, skirts swirling about her, drawing a hundred little threads of kinetic energy to let her do with competence what should've taxed her body to its limit. She’d spent a week in this place and, just when she was starting to feel as if she was learning her way around it, she'd managed to get lost. “Excusé, ma’am, Sorry, sir!” She darted and dodged through the milling crowds, nearly catching herself on a decorative iron balustrade in front of a shop. There were so many shops here - ever so many - and most were completely alien to her. With the goal of remaining unrecognized, she’d put herself on a weekly stipend and counseled herself to live frugally. Still, it was rather more coin than she'd ever personally been responsible for. Still, she knew that it paled in comparison to the extravagance of some of these nobles. She’d been learning the shops that sold necessary things and the ones that sold cheaply. As the city’s entire purpose was to serve the Academy, it only made sense that near half of these vendors catered specifically to the needs of those with the Gift.
A horse and wagon clattered by and Penny hurried along in its wake, taking advantage of the temporary gap in the crowds. People walked in groups and chattered excitedly, but she had few such acquaintances. Sienna - Zeno Afraval - was friendly, like an aunt or a big sister. Penny knew that, along with all of the others, she'd be staying in a temporary dormitory for her first handful of days here, before the skill sorting placed her with a master and three other apprentices. The dorms were divided by gender and class - noble, merchant, and everyone else - and, despite being from a minor branch of the royal house of Torragon, Sienna had showed her all of the best rooms. She'd winked and said that she was looking out for a fellow royal, after all.
Penny noted, with mounting unease, that it had been some time since she’d seen a Zeno. They were all gathering behind the parapets now, she knew, officially opening the school to the arriving cohort. Only the nobles received all of the benefits of the procession, and Penny could've gone as a Merchant - the role that she was playing - but she found herself very much preferring to watch. Up ahead, she noticed a couple of frilly dress girls - FDGs, in her mental shorthand - being rushed somewhere by rickshaw. The Perrenchwoman squinted up at the alternating bands of sun and threatening grey clouds and decided to follow. Mostlike, they were headed to the gate, so they could be bundled onto their horses to march through triumphantly with the rest of the highfolk. Everybody liked to pretend that they'd all arrived at the same time and camped outside of the gates, but many of them had been here as long as Penny, possibly longer.
Bustling after them, she began to feel the burn in her single leg and drew once more with the Gift, this time siphoning threads of Magnetic energy ambient in the air from the coming storm and gathering them within herself. She remembered her audience with Zeno - Arch Zeno - Harachorra earlier in the week. She focused on the exercises, taking that energy and restructuring it, reworking it into something else. Her muscles felt light and fresh, her steps felt strong and substantial, and she rushed towards the city walls once she found herself on a familiar main thoroughfare.
Penny arrived at the base of a tower and the guard let her up the staircase with a dubious look. She managed to be only somewhat out of breath upon reaching the top. This wasn’t a plum position, but there were a handful of other non-nobles - merchants, artisans, and commons - who milled about, having chosen not to join the procession, and she found herself feeling like an impostor. Their eyes flicked over in her direction, doing that quick double take that they always did when they realized what was 'wrong' with her. Moments later, she found herself joined by another girl who she didn't know but who had the look of a student. "Did I miss it?" the stranger butted in, and Penny was able to let out a breath and shake her head.
“Non,” she sighed. “Zey are juste taking forever to get on zere stoopid ‘orses and get moving.” She pursed her lips. “All ze better for us, n'est pas? We ‘ad time to get ‘ere.”
The girl blinked and Penny found herself once again self-conscious, this time about the heavy Perrench accent she'd been told to put on as part of her cover, but she suspected that her new acquaintance's Avincian wasn't much better. The Perrench girl blinked and they both burst out in giggles. “You missed nossing,” she said, as clearly as she could, and the other girl smiled sheepishly. “Gods, my Avincian is bad.”
Penny started moving, hop-skipping towards the parapets. “Don’t worry, my friend. I am little better. Now ‘urry, zey are going to start!”
The two girls reached the edge and leaned against it, able to see for miles. Penny’s braid flicked and writhed in the brisk wind like a bronze-coloured snake, and a great rumble sounded from the heavens. Brilliant shafts of light pierced the clouds, dappling the plains where they struck and turning patches of grass into ponds of shifting, whispering gold or green.
A procession wound its way, dual file, down the Godsroad, flanked on either side by lines of heraldry stretching into the distance. At its head was a young man, probably no older than Penny, dressed in a costume renowned far and wide. He pulled back on the reins of his horse – a beautiful, ivory-white plains charger – and came to a halt. Behind him, two-by-two, everyone else did the same. The boy shielded his eyes against the diffuse glare, and peered up at the top of the city’s gate.
A dozen or so people stood atop the pristine white battlements, dressed in the flowing robes that only Zenos and Arch-Zenos of the Academy of Thaumaturgy were allowed to wear. From this group emerged a small, dark-skinned woman of about sixty: Zenith Upta. Her grey, tightly-curled hair was drawn back into a simple bun, but her clothes sparkled with gold inlay and shimmered with dancing magic. She leaned over the battlements, a gust of wind pulling some of her hair loose.
“Who be you?” she shouted, the hint of a smirk lightening her lips.
The boy at the head of the procession bowed low in his saddle with what Penny thought of as a performer's practiced flair. “I am Leon, called le Solaire. These who I am blessed to ride at the head of are the sons and daughters of houses great and small: the first to appear at your gates in five years and the first of those born during the double ascendance of Ahn-Shune-Zept. We are come to Ersand’Enise, humbly asking to be made Biro, to be trained in the Gift.”
The woman raised her hand. “A moment to convene.” She turned around and the group atop the parapets gathered loosely and spoke for a moment. By their easy nature and the shortness of their deliberation it became clear that this was mere ceremony.
Then, the Zenith turned back to face the prospective students and raised both arms in a welcoming gesture. “Travellers, daughters and sons of houses great and small, eager learners, we have decided to receive you. From the moment that you pass through these gates, you will no longer be Torma - the uninitiated - but Biro: students of the magical arts. Over the next five years, we will be ever at your side, helping you to grow and learn, to become women and men worthy of the names and reputations that you bear. We expect that most of you will return to your homes and your duties enriched in knowledge, ability, and spirit, but it is our hope that some of you will remain here and join the ranks of the Zenos. Whatever the future may hold for you, let us entrust it to the will of the Pentad. Now, without further delay, I welcome you, on behalf of every member of the Academy of Thaumaturgy, to Ersand’Enise.”
Of course, there was further delay. Penny knew that the procession would take all day. Sienna - Zeno Afraval - had told her as much. As soon as Zenith Upta raised her hands, the massive, cast-iron gate started to clank open. When it reached the top, Leon took the ceremonial first step across the threshold on his white horse. Penny’s family had horses like that. Absently, she wondered if it might share a bloodline with one of theirs. Then, the trumpets that had been waiting, dull gold beneath the threatening sky, blared a welcome. The Zenos made a show of dispersing the storm. Penny shot her unknown acquaintance a knowing look. One might think that they had conjured it in the first place for the purpose of demonstrating their power.
And with that, the city fairly exploded in colour and sound. Bells rang and people cheered. Flutes, lutes, and drums raised a further cacophony of welcome. Penny stood there, wide-eyed like a child, unable to absorb the whole of it, unable to compare it to anything else that she had ever known. It took her a few moments to pull herself out of her rapture and peer down at the New Gate.
Her sister had met Leon Solaire once, at a private recital in the palace gardens with some of her ladies in waiting, and she had said that he was spellbinding - more than a mere bard. A dramatic shock of dark hair framed a keen, tanned face. He was lighter than your average Torragonese: sandy soil more than tanned leather. He smiled and waved as flower petals rained down from surrounding buildings. And then, the most delightful spectacle as the sunlight hit him and he seemed almost to glow in it.
“So,” said Penny's acquaintance, arching an eyebrow.
“So, indeed,” agreed Penny. She watched Leon a bit longer. “But let’s be realistic here.”
“Pfft,” snorted her fellow admirer. “Dreams are what make life interesting.”
Leon made his way down the street, towards the grand plaza where everyone would gather this evening, and it occurred to Penny that she should find a new place to watch the rest of the procession before everybody else did. “Dreams are good,” she agreed, pushing off from the stone and straightening. Then, a cramp hit her. Her body had given her all that it could for the day and it was finished. Not so for the others, including the girl she had shared a brief conversation with. With a friendly wave, she fluttered away.
Yet, the bells kept ringing. The petals keep falling. Penny wondered just how many flowers had died for this ceremony. All of the people with important families had to be announced. They could not be denied their chance at the spotlight. People who were not as important ran along in front of them carrying brightly-coloured flags and extolling the virtues of the children who sat on the horses. Yet, she could not begrudge them their moment. She had no idea what they were thinking or feeling, but they - like she - had begun their journey at Ersand'Enise and she imagined that it could only be the purest of joys...
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