Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

@Force and Fury

So commons outside of the castle pretty much means something rotten and crowded in Mudville?

@Dark Light

Well, it means something very average. This school doesn't 'do' rotten. 'The Castle' is just student slang for a particular large dorm building within that red-roofed area marked 'commons dormitories' on the map.

The Hourglass Order

Chapter Four: Teach a Man to Fish

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Taldes, Vardes 28, Dami-Zept 54

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The hours of Eshiran gave way to the hours of Dami and those, in turn, the hours of Ipte. Students slept - most of them, anyways. Zenos, Arch-Zenos, and world leaders slept, yet Ersand'Enise was alive at night, subtly alive in ways that its founders had never anticipated. Owls hunted in the trees of the arboretum, geese honked and flapped on Hedda's Lake, and the shingled spires of the city's great buildings played host to all manner of crows and ravens, who looked down upon the humans with the instinct and disinterest of animals.

For the second night in a row, the highest light in the Forked Tower blazed into the blackness and mist clung to the walls and houses. Sailors stumbled out of the taverns, up and down the gangplanks of ships. The great, groaning light pulsed across the sea, with its churning waves and jagged reefs and cold, dark waters. In the shadowed alleys and filthy hovels of Mudville, money changed hands, hooded figures met and conspired, and a bedraggled-looking ex-Zeno attempted to sell potions and sealed items of dubious quality to those who passed his humble shop. Eventually, however, even Mudville fell into an uneasy semi-silence. Flags hung limp on their posts. Rats scampered through the trash. Four moons shone like mismatched eyes in the gloom.

But then came the sun, and banished these visions of the night. It started as a shy glow and became inevitable. Sharp shadows yawned and stretched across the plazas and rooftops. People did the same, within their houses and bedrooms. Ersand'Enise awoke, though its sleep had always been light and fitful.

The fishermen were always first on the streets. There were servants, sweepers, and vendors. Today, however, they were joined by flocks of Zenos. The learned mages fluttered out from their homes, papers and scrolls in hand, on a yearly pilgrimage to Balthazar Hall to submit their students' course selections.

The students rose early as well. Some had slept better than the others, but it was natural for there to be a sort of anticipation in the air. They dressed, they ate, and some even bathed. They said their goodbyes, for some would likely not see each other again until their next weekend at the Zeno's.

Then, the young scholars headed off to Balthazar Hall, where all had been advised to pick up their schedules. So they gathered in those long lines, which - Thank Dami - at least moved fairy quickly. It was fertile soil for gossip, bravado, flirtation, and other, more innocent forms of conversation, but especially the first. It seemed as if at least some of their number had encountered something... interesting in the morning. However, when students finally received their schedules and the keys to their dormitory rooms, they were hustled off to class for all manner of orientations just the same. There, the youths found faces both new and familiar.

There, they found that they all shared a pair of classes and they either learned or did not learn. Zander Mozaru tested them immediately and confidentially. He wanted to see where they were at but had no patience for any trying to humiliate their peers. Alcaster Serra played a word game with the youths to put them at ease and asked them at the start of class to choose an adjective in their native tongues to describe themselves and in Avincian at the end of class. He also stroked his beard a great deal. He seemed greatly fond of that or else it was a nervous habit. In the afternoon, they met their magic specialty instructors. Sectoxomactex boasted of his many exploits and demonstrated a few high level spells before encouraging his students to show him what they could do. Randan Kedd explained how magic was a science and how any of them could master it so long as they could read and put in a solid effort. He dismissed them early since it was their first day. Luria Colloy gave them readings and lightning rods. Born-on-Solstice held her class outdoors, under the 'Mother Sun' and did wellness activities. Jurgen Mendenhoffer drilled them like they were soldiers but then let them go early, while Alois Lascand droned on about their solemn duty as Binders. Tannifer Marbrand had them draw nearly to capacity and blow things up on their first day, and there was a dark kind of glee in her eyes as they did so. Some students, however, were fortunate enough not to be taught by mere Zenos, but by one of the eight Arch-Zenos of the Academy. Ardredelle Latvar guided her students through rudimentary chemistry and, by the end of class, had each other able to induce a feeling of hunger within a preying mantis. Giacomo Giarrone had each of them share why they'd wanted to be binders, despite the school's sometimes unsavoury reputation. He gave them cookies and told them that there would be plenty of hard work ahead and that they should see to their sleep and health for the time being. So that was what they did. Once their orientations were over, the students ate, they chatted, they explored, skipped, and sauntered through the academy grounds and the city.

The chaos of this first real day of academics was a longstanding tradition, and perhaps practice for the (in)famous Trials of Ersand'Enise, which would be kicking off in less than two weeks, on Verdimas, the Day of Skills. In this spirit, they endeavoured to read maps, ask questions and figure out where they would be staying and who they would be staying with. They retrieved their bags from their Master Zenos' homes, the basement storage rooms of Balthazar Hall, or the private arrangements that they had made. The dormitories were divided by class: noble, merchant, and everyone else. That this arrangement served to separate some friend groups spoke well of the world that these young people were building, at least from a certain perspective. Others, however, found themselves very near to their friends or even sharing rooms. It was an exciting time indeed and, were the elaborate preparations for the Conclave of the Five Thrones that they had passed in Arc-en-Ciel Hall any indication, tomorrow's events would only add to it.

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Resources

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Summary

• Night is quiet and spooky in the city and a bit more lively in Mudville, where shifty things are going on, including a former Zeno selling Binding(?) items.
• The Zenos wake up very early to bring your selections to Balthazar Hall and your course timetables are created.
• Students socialize in line and receive timetables, maps, and keys to their dorms.
• Class orientations take place. Compare schedules to see who you're with! Coordinate!
• Class ends, people pick up their belongings, and move into their dorms.
• Tomorrow should be exciting too!

Class Schedules

All class schedules.

Instructor Profiles

Find them all here.

Your Choices

• You may cover as much or as little of the day as you wish, focusing on what you think is most interesting.
• You will be able to choose your neighbours or roommates (within the class divisions, of course). I'm giving you that responsibility.
• This is a good opportunity to coordinate with each other, introduce any player NPCs you may have thought of, or use some of the NPCs outlined in the spreadsheet under 'Apprentice Groups'.

Telling the Time

Hours, Minutes, and Seconds

Constantia, Severa, and Tarlon enjoy a standardized method of telling the time and, aided by the popularity of Kerreman clockwork, this has spread to Rettan and parts of Callanast over the past century, also becoming commonplace there. In this conception of time, there are 25 hours in a day divided into five sections.

HI - The five Hours of Ipte (HI) occupy the latest and most remote part of the night, when most people are in the embrace of sleep and the few who aren't are usually... up to things.
Example: 2:15 HI

HS - The five hours of Shune (HS) occupy the period from first light into later morning, when most people awaken, start to think, and become productive.
Example: 3:30 HS

HO - The five hours of Oraff (HO) occupy the period from late morning through the early afternoon, when life is at its busiest, most flourishing, and most productive.
Example: 5:48 HO

HE - The five hours of Eshiran (HE) occupy the period from later afternoon until dusk, when the daylight dies and people's main activities conclude along with it.
Example: 1:07 HE

HD - The five Hours of Dami (HD) occupy the period from just after sunset until the later hours of the night, when people go to sleep, reflecting on their day and what comes tomorrow.
Example: 2:36 HD

There are fifty seconds to a minute, but each of these is about 1.4 Earth seconds. Hours are fifty minutes long and, as mentioned above, each section of the day has five. These begin at 1:00 and go up to 5:49. Then, it'll be 1:00 in the next section.

The Hourglass Order

Clearly a practitioner of Dark Magic. Hence, not real.

Imperium Mortuorum: A Zombie Apocalypse RP in Ancient Rome

Junia Phillipa Maxima

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Junia was lucky enough to hit one of the Mortui squarely in the head with a stone. It had been a patrician in life, but now it lay there and twitched: nothing more than a corpse twice over. She'd always had a good arm at least, but the momentary exultation faded as two more shambled in to take its place. There had been a handful in the countryside outside of Rome and a good many in the city itself, but there were throngs here: hordes!

What have you gotten yourself into, Juni!? she screamed inwardly, hefting another stone. She was not about to waste her spear though, truth be told, there had been a worrying excess of those of late. Good, in theory, but actually a sign that the number of able defenders was dwindling. One last push, she counseled herself. Once more to try to find them. Then, she would focus on herself. Then, she would... give up on my child? Not in his sixth year? The thought nearly crushed her. A howling barbarian of a mortui had climbed to the top of the barricade and bellowed in her face, swiping. Junia leapt back and thrust forward with her spear, taking him through the eye. He flailed and twitched and collapsed, but then there was another and it just didn't seem to end. "Die!" she howled back, her voice small despite its loudness, small compared to that of soldiers and men and un-dead monsters. Junia cast about, taking int he centurion with the bad hand, the red-haired house slave - at least she supposed that he was, for he had the look of one - and, somewhat further back, the dark man of Africa, who was presently going for his horse. Did he mean to fight or to run?

This was insanity. There had to be a better way! A fat man in a fine toga overbalanced himself swinging a gladius and knocked her sprawling. Junia scrambled to her feet, but the ranks in front had already closed - barely. They were getting thin. She cast about for her spear, but it had fallen - tip first, into the glowing embers of a cooking fire. She shook her head, jogged over, and plucked it free. Its tip glowed and... she got an idea. Wouldn't fire kill these things? Wouldn't it spread faster and be far more effective than this piecemeal hack and slash? In those next few seconds, an idea took root in her mind and blossomed into a full-blown scenario. They needed to make a break for it, barricade the city with the mortui inside, and then burn it to the ground! Rome had been rebuilt before and would be again! There were few enough in the countryside that the legions could yet hunt them down and dispose of them, but... if their final remaining living targets were gone, the un-dead would spread out in search of new food. They would spread across Italy, and into Helvetica, Gaul, and Illyria. They would... No point dwelling on such, she decided, halting her thought process. There had to be someone she could bring her idea to. Perhaps the African? More likely the centurion? The slave was a good cook, but she had no idea how clever he might be or how seriously his words would be taken. More than hers, certainly, for war was men's work and she was not a man. First, she had to put the idea to them, however.

Seeing a gap close to the latter two, Junia leapt up to fill it, driving her spear into the neck of an un-dead. The thrust was not clean, and its head lolled to the side for a moment, skin and blood hissing and steaming from the metal's heat. "Sirs," she addressed the two men, "should the gods smile upon us and we succeed in driving off this wave, I would speak to you of an idea I've had, if you'd hear it." She stabbed again, and put the dead man down for good.

The Hourglass Order

Wine, Philosophy, and Shenanigans

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A few hours before @SilverPaw's late night reflection.

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Zeno Afraval could not contain her laughter at Onarr's 'enthusiastic' statement. Had she been presently drinking, she surely would've snorted wine from her nose. She wasn't alone in her mirth either. Anesin and Penny both wore sizable smirks. The latter lolled about on a sofa, clearly the lightweight of the group.

"Your voice fairly radiates enthusiasm, Onarr." She let her mischeivous smirk go after a moment, however, and schooled her features. "Tell me, what is it that I can help you with? Sadly, you are bound to two standard magics and four electives." She shrugged. "If I were making the rules around here, I'd change things but, sadly, that isn't the case." She crossed her legs. "You guys are my first cohort and all of the old greyhairs see me as little more than an upjumped tan-zeno, I'm afraid." She stifled a hiccup and focused for a moment, seizing upon a certain familiar set of chemical reactions taking place within her body and stifling them. "Apologies. I'm rather a bit chatty at the moment. Regardless, if you'd like some help choosing, then that's what I'm here for." She blinked and regarded the others. "The same offer applies to you ladies as well."

“I’m just rather…” Onarr struggled to get the words out. “…overwhelmed by my choices. I feel like I know what the most obvious paths for me to choose are but I can’t help but feel as though I’m trapped by this freedom. Back in the Joru Stresian Guild I used to focus singlehandedly on the sciences and the five magics.”

“I came to Ersand’Enise to know more than what I’ve learnt in the guild, but am I limiting my own choices by deliberately choosing subjects that I am most comfortable with or should I expand my horizons?,” Onarr paused before looking at Sienna directly. “What would you do if you were trying to be the best magician you could be?”

The Joruban’s voice had turned slightly sombre and the cone on his helmet tipped forward loosely. His hand wandered over to tighten the strap. Five years spent learning Stresian academics hadn’t helped his brother, no matter how many manuscripts and papers that he crawled through. Conjecture and meaningless theories hadn’t got him anywhere. Perhaps, looking in another avenue of direction would help.

Sienna nodded along as Onarr spoke, pausing pensively before replying. "More than anything else," she began, "I would choose subjects that interest me: whether they're new to me or familiar." Her brow furrowed for a moment and a tumbler and wineglass floated her way. "We don't learn out of obligation, Onarr. We don't learn out of duty." Her eyes took in all four of her apprentices for a moment. "Certainly, we can falsify it, I think. We can spit answers back onto a page to be graded or we can redirect some force into a stone to push it along, but you won't remember a word of what you 'learned' in a year, and you'll have plenty of opportunity to live for obligation and duty when you're older." She paused for a moment, and the shadow of something may have flickered across her features. "Don't choose the path that you feel you should walk; choose the one that excites you to walk." She had been swirling her wine around in the glass idly and now she took a rather extended drink of it. "If you don't wake up each morning with at least one thing that you look forward to ahead of you, then why are you waking up at all?" She shrugged and downed the rest, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist in a most unladylike way. "Now, if there are any specific questions you have about courses, this is the time to ask."

Onarr considered the Zeno's words for a moment. She spoke true. Well, perhaps, the wine was addling her mind but at least, he knew that the Zeno wasn't lying. Duty and obligation. Were those his excuses right now? His worries sated for the moment, Onarr wordlessly took out a roll of parchment that contained his course selections and pushed it over towards her.

"I have no further enquiries, maám," Onarr's tone then became curious as he pointed towards the Zeno. "Might I enquire what was your favourite first-year course?"

Sienna threw her head back and let out a bark of laughter. It was loud enough that Penny jumped a bit. "Mine? Oh, that was a course they no longer offer." She turned pensive for a moment, and her eyes flicked over her three female students. The Zeno raised her wineglass almost to her lips and then scowled when she realized that it was empty. "Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime." She winked mischievously.

"Oh come on!" Penny blurted. "You're seriously just going to dangle it out there like that?"

"With the utmost seriousness," Sienna chirped. She went for another glass.

"Oh non non non!" Penny reprimanded. "Tu es ivre, grande soeur. Pose le verre à vin." She pursed her lips sternly. "Maintenant."

"Pssshhh," Sienna snorted. "Estoy más sobria que tú, flamenco."

Penny gasped. "Vous vous moquez de mon handicap?"

"Si," Sienna answered, positively malicious.

Penny was crestfallen. She turned to Linah. "Ella me está intimidando," she wailed. "¡Sálvame!" Then Anesin: "Hon mobbar mig. Rädda mig!" Finally, a bit less surely, to Onarr. "Ìkà ni obìnrin náà! Ikà pupọ!" Perhaps he may have noticed that she more or less butchered the pronunciation, but context was everything. "Qui pouvait être si cruel envers une pauvre fille unijambiste?" She fairly draped herself over the arm of her sofa: the very picture of melodramatic despair.

Sienna raised an eyebrow. "¿Es esto lo que estamos haciendo ahora: hablar nuestras lenguas maternas?"

Onarr was unsure of the languages being spoken. He could only make out bits and pieces of each language that was being spoken, and Penny's Joruban was akin to a cat being skinned alive.

"Ṣe eyi jẹ idanwo kan?" Onarr then paused, switching curiously to regard Sienna in Belzagg. "Dit is jammer dat hulle nie vir Joruban in Ersand'Enise aanbied nie. Ek sal aanbeveel dat Penny remediërende kursusse neem."

Penny blushed fiercely. "Traitre! Tu étais censé être de mon côté!" She swatted once, ineffectually, in Onarr's direction before giving up the struggle and flopping back down, deflated.

Sienna let out a full-throated laugh. "Or maybe he just knows who has the power here," she replied, before turning Onarr's way. "As to your question: most certainly not. I fear our melodramatic friend is right: I've simply had too much to drink." She paused for a moment, however. "That said, I suppose that it is a test, in a way. We shall spend two days of each week together for the next year: living, learning, and sleeping under the same roof. I imagine I wanted to gauge my Biros' comfort level and them see mine. Needless to say, you lot have passed."

True to Penny's advice, she laid off of the wine after that. A few more questions were asked and Penny, despite her... inebriated state, almost seemed to get the sense that the Zeno was politely probing. She barely made it up the stairs, fairly tore off her clothes, stuffed herself into her nightgown, and flopped into bed. "G'night, sisters," she mumbled, snuggling under her blankets. Tomorrow, classes. Tomorrow, father. Sleep claimed her within moments.

Force and Fury's Emporium of Faces

Code Vein

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Lysandra Tran

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| AGE |

Lysandra is 32 years old. Her birthday is on October 5

| APPEARANCE |

Archery Practice (current)

Casual (3 years ago)

The first (and often only) thing that people remember about Lysandra is her wheelchair. It's a simple, sturdy, lightweight manual chair and, as a paraplegic of four years, she uses it from dawn to dusk in order get around. Otherwise, she's a more or less baseline human: a fairly pretty Asian woman in her early thirties with tanned skin, dark hair and eyes, and a businesslike bearing. She is not and never has been much for dressing up and would rather dress for functionality and comfort. Layering is a rule to live by. It's easier to take something off than to put it on. To that end, her usual attire consists of a light t-shirt over a sports bra, jeans or leggings - the latter sometimes paired with jean shorts - and knee or thigh-high socks. Sometimes, she'll toss on some flats, but shoes are pretty irrelevant. Sturdy gloves - usually fingerless to allow her to work with touch screens - are more important, as they protect her hands from blisters. On colder days, She'll complete the outfit with a jacket. She has two and both have a striped patch in mint, seafoam green, and white sewn onto them: the flag of the settlement that she used to live in and where her brother still resides. Finally, though she rarely actually wears it as intended (because that'd be both inconvenient and goofy), is the supergirl medallion that she received from her mother as a girl. It's usually tucked into her bag or a jacket pocket as a kind of good luck charm. She tells herself that she doesn't believe in 'luck'; everything is probability. Yet, on the day when she broke her back, she didn't have it on her.

Mission (5 years ago)

As a human, Lysandra doesn't require a mask, and this gives her one less thing to worry about, especially when she goes into the field. Of course, that doesn't happen often anymore. Much to her chagrin, the post-apocalypse isn't very wheelchair accessible. When fieldwork is necessary for research or intel, though, she brings along some sturdy cycling gloves, trades her handbag for a large backpack with seemingly endless pockets, and usually swaps out her indoor wheels for some with thicker, grippier treads, as well as larger front casters. In the past, she'd often wear motorcycle armour, hiking boots, and either athletic leggings or a baggy pocket-filled jumpsuit with elbow and knee pads. It was all about getting as deep into trouble spots as possible and quickness and durability were paramount. Nowadays, Lysandra usually forgoes anything that could hamper her already-limited mobility unless it clearly and directly helps her get more fieldwork done. Her primary goal is maximizing her returns on those brief outdoor sojourns and minimizing the physical liability that she represents. If enemies ever succeed in actually reaching her, she knows that the jig is pretty much up. Still, she's held onto her body armour, just in case. It's sturdy, lightweight, and can go under her jacket. She still has the knee pads too. Maybe she can't actually feel a knock to the knee, but it's also not like they'll hamper her movement. Besides, she kind of slips things in behind them. Why oh why do women not get usable pockets in most of their clothing!?

| PERSONALITY |

Daring ~ Unsentimental ~ Hyper-aware ~ Bitter ~ Clever ~ Assertive

At her worst, Lysandra can come across as a 'bossy know-it-all science lady'. She can seem cutting, acerbic, and pushy. A lot of this, however, is just frustration and barely-suppressed insecurity. The significant gulf between what she knows needs to be done and what she can accomplish on her own is an open wound, regularly picked at by circumstance. The other major factor is simply that she is used to being the smartest person in the room and it grates upon her to entertain other people's stupid ideas when they could be making progress towards their (read: her) goals instead.

That said, she's a genuinely decent human being beneath it all. Lysandra is an absolute encyclopedia of both general and esoteric knowledge. She is a human calculator, a problem solver, has an amazing eye for detail, and is a natural-born storyteller. She is genuinely one of the most interesting people who you will ever talk to and, on her better days, her cutting wit, self-deprecating humor, and straight-faced delivery can have you - instead of her - rolling with laughter.

| BACKGROUND |

Lysandra's mother was an engineer. Her father was a biologist. Both were born before the Great Collapse and were not young parents (forty one and forty, respectively). Her childhood was full of diligent work and research. It was full of movement and stories while on the move. She learned about the world that was: the great open green fields and forests, the safe, cozy homes, and the shining universities: beacons of learning and opportunity. Most of all, however, she accrued skills: she studied the nature of living and unliving things with her father. She learned the wonders of robotics, sensors, computers, and mechanics from her mother. Instead of playing with Lego, she hand built her first drone when she was seven. The family settled in the mid-sized and fiercely independent outpost of Fresh Haven. Lysandra and her slightly older brother, Daniel, grew up and their parents aged, so they took on increasingly important roles as scouts, field researchers, and even soldiers. In particular, she was quick and stealthy: an excellent scout and climber, with a natural aptitude for surveying and understanding her surroundings, using them to her advantage.

For all of the world's dangers, her father fell prey to a flu in his 61st year. Daniel, who'd become more of a soldier than his sister, was gone for long periods of time and their mother increasingly withdrew into tinkering with her dwindling supplies. Lysandra, telling herself that her mother's work was valuable in more ways than one, began roving ever further afield in search of parts. She conducted her own research while out there. It was frightening, but challenging. In some ways, it was invigorating, and better than just sitting in some hole waiting to die. She begun to feel as if she could get to the bottom of how and why mistle worked, the role of the Sidhe, and how the Earth might be healed. She begun to feel as if she had some agency in her life. Further she went, scouting ahead with her drones, infrared sensors, and binoculars. She saw and found things that most humans couldn't. She knew a little bit of martial arts and learned more. She taught herself how to shoot. There were close calls - hairbreadth escapes from death - and tense moments. She hid out, she climbed, leapt, and scampered from one safe place to another, and then plunged back into the lab after days or weeks out in the world. Her parents' stories of the years before she was born had instilled in her a wariness towards revenants. Their kind had feasted on humans, once. The only thing needed for them to return to it and become Lost was a short period of time without consuming human blood.

Her mother was in ill health when Lysandra went out that day, but she tried to put aside her worries. At a steady jog, she made quick progress through the well-mapped regions near Fresh Haven, fists clenched around the straps of her backpack and breath wispy and white in the cool air. Perhaps she was preoccupied with thoughts of her family. Perhaps she was just careless, but she ran smack into a pack of Lost. She took one out of the fight with a well-aimed shot to the head, but then there was no option but to do what she did best: run, climb, and hide. She dropped her backpack and took off, through the labyrinth of a ruined city. After what seemed like forever, two more fell off the pace. This was a bad situation - worse than the usual 'bad situations' - but she had escaped many times before and would again. Thirst clawed at her parched throat but one final Lost - a monster of a man - stayed doggedly on her tail. Further up a crumbling building she went, leaping nimbly from sagging staircase to rotting floor to support beam, and he started to falter. The jump is still burned into her memory: over a gap in a staircase. It was the type that you dismiss in your head as a 'ninety percent chance I'll land it'. She'd made ones like it plenty of times before and she doubted her pursuer would be able to follow. She'd be safe. The thing is, if you roll the dice enough times, the odds will catch up to you eventually. The floor had looked solid on the other side but it wasn't. It gave way instantly and Lysandra can still recall with absolute clarity those two seconds where her stomach just folded in on itself in terror. Then she hit.

She was told that a handful of revenants who'd been surveying the area had heard her gunshots. As a gesture of goodwill, they'd rescued her and brought her back to Fresh Haven but, in the weeks and months following that fateful fall, as people kept telling her that she was a 'warrior' and would surely walk again, as she had to relearn how to do basically everything, and as her elderly mother cared for her as if she were still a child, Lysandra began to wish that they hadn't. Mother passed away eight months after the accident and, officially, the strain of having to care for her grown daughter hadn't been a contributing cause. Daniel stepped away from his duties temporarily and she moved into his unit with his family, but it wasn't much more accessible than hers. The entire settlement was built in what had once been a vertical farm crisscrossed with staircases, scaffolds, and prefab walls that had formerly comprised her playground but that now meant that she couldn't go much of anywhere without assistance. Wracked with guilt and regret, Lysandra threw herself into her engineering pursuits, sitting in front of a work table for hours each day, hammering away at her mother's machines, digging through the endless piles of scrap that she had accumulated on her sojourns, and constructing drones to map, guard, and scout, water filters to help grow food and provide drink, and devices to supplement her broken body and make her remaining family's lives easier.

Soon, Daniel could not afford any more time away from his duties and so her nephew, niece, and sister-in-law became her protectors. This, Lysandra could not permit any longer. As she had hoped, she'd rediscovered a sense of purpose - an imperfect one, for it still hurt so much to not be whole - but enough to push her forward once more. This place, however, was holding her back. She was holding her family back. The revenants had saved her. She had judged them too harshly, she decided, on the basis of childhood fears and stories from people who were no longer alive. She was, though, and saw little point to living for herself alone. There were vanishingly few people with skillsets like hers and, even if she couldn't conduct much of her own fieldwork anymore, her skills were valuable - key, even. With the sort of bold decisiveness that had defined much of her life and a new unsentimentality that she had developed more recently, she bid farewell to Fresh Haven and joined civilization proper. She has been here for three years since, in an uneasy sort of alliance that allows her to shed some of her grating dependency while saddling her with more of a different nature. This arrangement may yet allow her to reach her goals, however: an end which justifies any means.

| SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |

💡Bigbrain: Lysandra is just honest-to-goodness smart. She seems to regularly be a couple of (figurative) steps ahead of everybody else in most situations. She has a wealth of scientific and practical knowledge that can benefit her allies.
💡Mechanically Inclined: If there's a macguffin needed and anything that could possibly count as a tool, you can count on Lysandra to provide said macguffin, one way or another. She also creates numerous helpful devices, drones, and non-autonomous robots.
💡Tools of the Trade: The 'bossy know-it-all science lady' caries a backpack of wonders. It contains a first-aid kit, two-way radios, a multipurpose mask, dehydrated food, flashlights, thermal packs, wiring, glue, screwdrivers, pliers, and a dozen other travel-adapted, lightweight, well-machined tools that used to be her mother's. If you need something, chances are that she has it. She can also patch you up pretty well, though she definitely doesn't give much thought to pain management.
💡Crack Shot: Lysandra knows how to shoot - by God does she know how to shoot. She can usually calculate things like bullet drop, wind effects, and ricochet angle too. If forced out into the field, she carries one pistol in her bag (or on her lap if she finds herself in a hot zone), and a spare duct-taped to the underside of her wheelchair close to one of her wheels. She can pull it out or fire it unexpectedly with a quick sleight-of-hand when it looks like she's just reaching down to wheel herself.
💡Fledgling Hawkeye:Lys often carries a composite compound bow, which is quite compact and strapped to the back of her wheelchair. She's been working tirelessly (the only way that she knows) with Erik on archery and has equipped her arrows with all sorts of interesting payloads. In addition to good old-fashioned arrowheads, there are adhesive yields, high explosive, taser, smoke, sonic trap, hollow point, trackers, and barbed expanding heads. She generally carries two of each in her quiver. While Lysandra's nowhere close to Erik's elite level, she's respectable, helped along by her natural situational awareness, sense of aim, and fantastic upper-body strength. She is consistently able to hit a moving target or a small/faraway target, but not always as reliable if the target is both of those things.
💡Human Shopping Cart: It seems like a small thing but, as long as someone's willing to help push her, Lysandra can easily carry a couple hundred pounds worth of equipment, specimens, a bound and gagged prisoner, or even a lazy or injured ally. Revenants don't recover immediately, after all.
💡The Immortals: Four robotic helpers serve as Lysandra's agents both when she stays behind and in the uncommon instances when she goes into the field. They can operate either autonomously with limited AI capabilities (results may... vary when used this way) or be controlled one at a time via joystick and VR headset. She's working on a neural interface, but 'working on' is very much the operative term here. Loosely themed after the Four Immortals from Vietnamese legend, her agents are:

The Immortals

• Mountain Man: A multilegged tumbling and walking robot with a flexible body about the size of a small cat, Mountain Man is able to traverse almost any terrain, slip into small spaces, climb, dig, swim, and perform basic scouting, rescue, delivery, and sample return operations. He has a taser, tranquilizer, and scissors too.
• Marsh Sage: Primarily defensive in nature, Marsh Sage is a blindingly quick, maneuverable, and quiet coaxial quadcopter drone that can lay smokescreens, strobe blinding lights, and dispense nerve, mustard, and other poisonous gases. It is also quite handy for spying and scouting.
• Iron Horse: A series of wheels on articulated arms, this is Lysandra's supplementary mobility aid and latches onto her wheelchair. It can propel her, hands-free, at high speeds, stabilize and protect her from recoil or being pushed against her will, clamp itself magnetically to metallic surfaces, and boost her over curbs or flights of one to three steps. It can also act as a bridge, platform, or supply carrier on its own.
• Sky Princess: Lysandra's main offensive tool, Sky Princess is a large purple hexacopter drone that can lay down smokescreens, fire paralytic poison darts, release high-frequency sonic blasts that are extremely painful and induce headaches, dizziness, and nausea, and launch micro-rockets similar to the 'Whistling Birds' from Lucasfilm's The Mandalorian.
• Unless they don't have to go far, she cannot bring all of these with her at once. For extended missions, the maximum is two or three if she doesn't take her bow. Only Mountain Man and Marsh Sage are small enough to be carried together comfortably on her person. Sky Princess can be swapped in solo or strapped to her wheelchair in place of her bow.

| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |

👩‍🦽Headset: When directly piloting one of the Immortals or her other creations beyond her sightline, Lysandra wears a VR headset linked to the drone's on-board camera. This leaves her detached from her immediate surroundings and vulnerable to attack unless she is safely away from a hot zone (where she knows that she should stay) or has an ally to watch her back.
👩‍🦽No Signal: Much of her utility is linked to her Four Immortals or other remote-controlled minions. If they stray out of signal range (about 3 miles or 5 kilometers) or if their signal is jammed somehow and they're forced to operate autonomously, she is much less effective and - if she is brave/foolish enough to be in the thick of things - much more vulnerable.
👩‍🦽Limited Charge: While she carries extra battery packs and a solar panel charger, these can only do so much. Once her Immortals are out of power, they're deadweight until they can get more. The same goes for the offensive ones' ammunition. She has a few refills, but extended missions can be...challenging.
👩‍🦽Limited Ammo: Space in Lys' bags is at a premium, and she doesn't carry many bullets. The same goes for her arrows. They take up quite a bit of space and are valuable with their unique payloads. They are best used only situationally, from long range or at pivotal moments when they can have the largest impact. By no stretch of the imagination is she a front-liner.
👩‍🦽Obstinate: Lysandra is used to knowing better. She will often dig in and insist upon the rightness of her opinions and preferred courses of action. She tends to aggressively prioritize her projects and ideas unless yours align with them.
👩‍🦽Fragile: At the end of the day, for all of the tech that she carries, the 'bossy know-it-all science lady' is human. She is not as physically capable as revenants and sidhe, which is compounded even further by her disability. Lysandra is painfully reminded every time that she watches a revenant recover from either fatal or crippling wounds that she is unable to do so herself. She gets one body to play the game of life with. Whatever happens to it (including death) sticks.
👩‍🦽Paraplegic: As a paraplegic, Lysandra has no feeling or movement below her waistline. This has the following effects:

This is Wheel Life

• Limited Mobility: She needs to use a wheelchair for mobility and, even with its assistance, is severely limited in this regard compared to able-bodied people.
• Terrain Dependent: While quite quick over flat ground and in open space, and with excellent stamina on flats or downhills, she is very terrain dependent.
• Obstacle Course: Things that we would not even think to consider, such as sand, gravel, curbs, cobblestones, and warped or cracked pavement cause Lysandra significant difficulty.
• Planning is Not Optional: Routes have to be carefully planned: shallow downhills maximized, extended or steep uphills and downhills minimized, and obstacles, rough terrain, and climbing avoided.
• The Anti-Parkour: She is incapable of strafing to the side or jumping. The closest that she can manage to the latter is to pop a wheelie.
• A Real Handful: While pushing herself, her hands are occupied, making her unable to move and shoot or move and pilot any of the Immortals.
• Inflexible: She has a lower sightline than other people, takes up a larger footprint, and cannot squeeze through small spaces.
• Temperature Control: As a paraplegic, regulating her body temperature can be a problem. When she gets hot, she gets very hot. When she gets cold, the problem can snowball.
• Wheelchair Dependent: If somehow separated from her wheelchair, Lysandra isn't realistically going much of anywhere on her own.

| NOTES |

• If humans get colour codes, hers is 7FFFD4.
• Lysandra is, low key, a huge science fiction nerd, particularly with regards to Star Trek. She gets that from both of her parents. They had a flash drive with old recordings and she used to watch them as a kid. She has, with only slight self-consciousness, told people to 'Live long and prosper'. She also has a soft spot for comics, even though most of them are kind of low brow. She read them as a kid and those were happy times.
• She appreciates some good Pho. Seriously, ethnic foods are a dying thing. She's trying to learn how to cook, but... revenants don't really need human food all that much.
• She strongly dislikes having to give her blood up for revenants. For pragmatic reasons, she'll do it, but it's just a reminder of her (and other humans') helplessness compared to them and it rankles. She sees it for what it is: an increasingly unsustainable practice.
• Lysandra's had romance in her life before. She had a couple of boyfriends, years ago in Fresh Haven, but they bored her before long. One, in particular, wanted to settle down, but she has always made it clear that she does not want to have children. Not only would it take time away from her responsibilities as a researcher, she worries that she'd be unable to properly care for them and that bringing a child into a world like this, just to live in constant fear and be food for others, would be grossly irresponsible. She tells herself that she doesn't like children anyways: they're loud, disruptive, and annoying. She'd be lying, though. Secretly, she's a big kid at heart. That was half the reason she used to go gallivanting around the ruined cities, running, jumping, and climbing.
• She loves the animals that nobody else does... except for frogs. She cut far too many of those open as a girl in the name of science to not be unnerved by them now.
• Because of her immense inner nerd, Lys would love to function on 'rule of cool' when it comes to making her various gadgets, but practicality trumps pipe dreams given the sort of world that she lives in and what she believes is the difference that she can make.
• Four years on from her accident, Lysandra has more or less adjusted to her altered reality and reached an understanding of what her abilities and limitations are. However, twenty-eight years of life experience before then have hardwired into her an approach of bold, independent action, a boundless curiosity best satiated firsthand, and the self-image of someone who can handle herself and get out of tough scrapes. Rationally, she knows that much of that is no longer practical, but hanging back, being cautious, and letting others do the work still causes occasional moments of dissonance.

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Redwood

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R E D W O O D

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| AGE |

Appears about thirty

| APPEARANCE |

Redwood's name is a child of his appearance. The first thing that people notice about him is his exceptional height. Very tall and fairly slender, though solid enough, he towers over other people and... well, low ceilings and hanging light fixtures are the bane of his existence while indoors. His skin is dark and somewhat leathery, making him look older than he is, and his hair is dark and curly. If people had to ascribe a human race to him, they'd call him Black. Finally, come his tendrils. Six of them sprout from his upper back, shoulders, and flanks (just below his arms) and it almost feels like a misnomer to describe them as tendrils, since they are unusually thick and strong. Despite his intimidating size, there is a gentleness of appearance and manner to Redwood. His eyes are large, dark, and keen: always watching, sometimes almost unsettlingly but never threateningly. He has a long face with a strong jaw, but fairly soft features. He most often wears either a gentle smile or a slight, determined scowl, but most of his expressions seem somewhat muted.

In terms of clothing, he wears what used to be basketball shoes, since they're the only ones he's found that'll fit his abnormally large feet. They've been patched, strengthened, and modified so much that they're scarcely recognizable anymore. He wears loose deep green shorts over black leggings that only make it about 2/3 of the way down his shins. His upperwear has been modified with holes for his tendrils. It consists of a green Timberland t-shirt with the logo in the center of his chest. Unusually, the t-shirt actually fits him. The ensemble is completed by the pair of black fingerless cycling gloves that he wears, with tough plastic guards over the knuckles. On colder days, he swaps the shorts for jeans and supplements the t-shirt with a brown leather bomber jacket.

In general, Redwood doesn't see much need to dress all that differently whether he's in combat or out of it, though he sometimes wears a motorcycle vest, along with elbow and knee pads in the former. His mask is a simple, practical thing: mostly brown leather and a pair of hoses leading to a backpack with an air canister and a few other useful items (like a first aid kit, multi-tool, and a knife) inside.

| PERSONALITY |

Helpful - Easygoing - Determined - Judgmental - Ferocious

| GROWTH/CAMOUFLAGE |

Tendrils: He has six of them and, as mentioned earlier, they are unusually thick and strong, perhaps as a side effect off Redwood's size. At a slow rate, they produce a sticky sap that can inhibit the movement of enemies if well-placed, adhere things to walls, and temporarily seal wounds and prevent blood loss. He uses them for a variety of purposes, their long reach and adhesive sap allowing him to control, impede, and delay enemies when in combat, setting them up for teammates or his own weapons. Enough of his natural adhesive will allow equipment and allies to hang from walls or ceilings, but he does not produce it very quickly and he is too heavy to make use off this ability himself in any case. Redwood also has some medical training and pairs this with his gift to provide emergency care when necessary. When not being used, he often wraps his tendrils around his midsection and over his shoulders.

| BACKGROUND |

Redwood's history is largely a mystery and you get the sense that either he would like it to stay that way or perhaps he does not remember it clearly himself. He has mentioned having associated with a small, independent human colony in the past, though he hasn't spoken of why he is no longer there. In general, one gets a sense of goodness and kindness from this sidhe, but purposeful distance, almost as if he fears attachment. The intensity with which he approaches the Lost certainly seems to stand in contrast to his generally laid-back nature.

| SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |

• 🙖 Specialized Combat: Redwood is quite skilled in mid-range combat, often using his tendrils like an extra set of longer limbs to hold enemies off, strike at them, catch allies, help push off for mighty jumps, and anchor himself against recoil and pushback.
  🙖 Skewers: When in combat, Redwood wears sharp steel skewers on the tips of four of his tendrils. These can cut reasonably well, but are specialized in stabbing and pinning. Generally, it takes at least two of them to really hinder and enemy, and all four to definitively hold one down. That sets him up to deliver the coup de grace with...
  🙖 Fat Mac: his trusty .950 cal rifle. Cumbersome, deafening, and dangerous, this colossal weapon can deliver a blast capable of piercing walls, concrete or cinder blocks, and vehicles. What it'll do to flesh and blood is... grisly. Lost might be immortal, but they'll be... out of action for a while after eating a round from this monster.
  🙖 First Aid: It's almost obligatory for sidhe to be healers, and Redwood is no exception. He carries a kit in his backpack and can deal with all sorts of minor to moderate illnesses and injuries. He can also seal and staunch wounds with his sap.
  🙖 Kinder Surprise: These are fragile ceramic vessels that look like large eggs and are kept in a padded container within a side pocket of his backpack. In fact, they are filled with Redwood's sticky sap (collected over an extended period of time) and have a very low-yield contact explosive inside. When they land, they shatter and spray their contents over a roughly two-to-three meter radius.
  🙖 Intimidation: It might not be much good against the Lost, but Redwood's towering height and powerful tendrils can definitely lend him an intimidating air when he wants to cow uncooperative types. Generally, he is loath to use this, but if it saves him or his allies a fight, then he will.

| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |

• 🙓 Saviour Complex: Redwood will often try to take on too much at once, put himself in danger, or step in to handle things that other people have under control out of misplaced concern. One gets the sense that he is used to being the protector of those much weaker than him as opposed to a member of a legitimate team, and he may need to be reined in.
  🙓 Limited Stamina: When going all out, the big guy tires pretty quickly. He is best saved for an opening salvo, critical moments, and a big finishing move, and will almost always need a rest to recuperate if he overexerts himself. Of course, due to his saviour complex, he will rarely be open about this and it usually needs to be inferred.
  🙓 Precious Ammo: It takes quite a while to replenish his Kinder Surprises when he uses them, so he can sometimes be a bit stingy with those. Similarly, ammunition for Fat Mac is heavy, so he doesn't carry too much at any given time. It's also hard to come by, so he tends to use it sparingly.
  🙓 Boy Scout: While he can be ferocious in combat against the Lost, he tends to really hold back against other enemies.
  🙓 Pollution: When exposed to it for extended periods or inn high dosage, this can prove lethal to him. There aren't many places where Redwood can safely remove his mask.

| NOTES |

• I'd love to include some better reference and thematic pics, but it hasn't been easy finding any.
• In terms of his combat role, I view him as fairly versatile. To use gaming terminology, he's mostly mid-range crowd control, with some healing and one big occasional nuke. It's tempting to view him as a tank, and he's reasonably tough, but doing so in all but the most desperate of situations would be a mistake.

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Hemlock

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H E M L O C K

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| AGE |

Appears to be in her late teens or early twenties

| APPEARANCE |

If your name is Hemlock, you're obviously going to have an aesthetic that fits. This strangest of sidhe looks like nothing so much as an edgy college student in a hoodie and black nail polish. Despite appearances, she doesn't actually have any tattoos. They're drawn on with marker and regularly replaced or embellished. However, beneath the persona, Hemlock isn't really all that special: just a lanky, dark-haired, and vaguely pretty young woman with an aversion to letting anyone see her smile. She carries a faint musty odor everywhere she goes, as if death follows her. Indeed, those who have spent extended time around her without a mask have often fallen ill, almost as if some of her toxicity somehow leaks out.

Stylistically, she leans goth or punk. Occasionally, it's the latter, but generally trends more Edgar Allen Poe or just generally grim. At their nadir, her sartorial efforts bottom out in the form of a loose dark hoodie and cargo pants with a studded belt and (maybe) wristbands. However, she can usually be counted on to put some effort in. Her mask, when she's outside, is themed after a plague doctor's and her clothing is often self-modified. On the surface, it looks like typical goth gear or rocker girl shtick, but there's motorcyclist protective gear underneath, emergency supplies tucked into hidden pockets, and lots and lots of knives, because she's nothing without that cutting edge. When she's not actively doing things, Hemlock wears a simple gas mask (pictured above), designed to cover the lower half of her face. She mostly just doesn't want to mess with her grimdark image by letting you see her smile. That's not 'on message'. The truth is that Hemlock is deeply self-conscious and disaffected about her spores' very strong tendency toward the toxic and dangerous as opposed to useful and healing like most of her species.

| PERSONALITY |

Edgy ~ Angsty ~ Curious ~ Vainglorious ~ Sadistic ~ Innocent

A sidhe whose breath seems to almost exclusively produce spores of violently toxic and poisonous plants such as yew, nightshade, and water hemlock and whose gift is camouflage, Hemlock is not at all comfortable with herself and her role, so she puts on a mask every morning and plays a character instead. She feels as if she should heal the land, but instead, her gifts lend themselves to death. In combat, as one would expect, she is a stealthy killer in the mold of your stereotypical assassin.

In attempting to embrace what nature has given her, she has become rather sadistic towards enemies, though it still doesn't come one hundred percent naturally and she's, in turns, glad of it and annoyed. Hemlock is edgy in what usually appears to be a self-aware manner, though she can often cross over into cringe territory. Most of all, however, she's just unhappy with the hand she was dealt as an atypical member of her species, and makes a big show of irreverence and 'not giving a shit™'. She genuinely doesn't understand what the reason for her existence and 'misfit' gifts might be.

| CAMOUFLAGE |

Hemlock's ability hasn't manifested itself as a growth. Instead, she has the gift of camouflage and is quite good with it, easily able to creep up on opponents and especially effective in the dark, because darkness is the colour of her soul.

| BACKGROUND |

Hemlock likes to be all brooding and mysterious about this and hint at something dark and monstrous in her origin story. The truth is that there just ain't much to tell. The way in which sidhe age (or don't) is the real mystery, and she's actually both very young and rather old at the same time. She's just always dealt with dissonance, for as long as she can remember: a supposed healer who's only really good at killing. There was a human settlement that she used to associate with, and she remembers watching a lot of late 1990s and early 2000s movies from an old flash drive there. Much enamoured with the dark, brooding antiheroes and brash, punkish hacker types that she saw on the screen but equally aware of the laughter and eyerolls that they regularly received, she adopted her present persona - Edgequeen evolved: cleverly self-memeing - upon arriving a few months ago at her current location. Secretly, she wants to be a hero. She gets songs stuck in her head and imagines her own soundtracks and battle scenes. In them, she's unironically awesome, just like Lobo, and Venom, and Elektra, and Wolverine.

| SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |

• Tortured Artistic Soul: Hemlock is quite the artist. Her preferred media are spray paint, markers, and carving tools, but she has a natural aesthetic sense and good technique. She can use this not only for purely creative production, but also to camouflage, confuse, and create decoys.
• Cutting Edge: lots of knives, including sharp ones, jagged ones, long ones, short ones, throwing ones, and... you get the picture. She has knives that pop out from the tips and heels of her boots at the press of a toe. Sometimes, they pop out by accident and she nearly trips on them, but Hemlock turns it into a roll, because rolls are almost as cool as unnecessary spins during a firefight on Tatooine.
• Student of the Blade: While you were partying, Hemlock studied the blade. To this end, she often carries twin katanas, because they give her a bit more range and can lop off a head in a single swipe. That's not only effective in combat, it's a damned cool visual.
• ToxXxic: Every blade that she has is coated in deadly poison that will stop your respiration, kill your nerves, clot your bloodstream, or induce any number of painful potential deaths.
• Leveled Agility: Hemlock is almost preternaturally agile. Lithe and graceful, she is very difficult to hit accurately, and that's when she isn't camouflaged. She can close or open distance with sudden speed, slip or contort through small spaces, and... *teleports behind you* "Nothing personal, kid."

| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |

• Style Over Substance: Hemlock kind of lives and (hopefully not) dies by the 'rule of cool'. She isn't as strictly effective or dialed in as she should be. Whether it's a dramatic pose after a kill, the need to call out the names of her 'attacks', an unnecessary flourish, flip, or spin, or a complete refusal to use guns because they're 'dishonourable', she is honestly, hinderingly flaky. You're never quite sure if she's laughing at herself, inviting you to laugh, or actually completely unironic. The only thing that's certain is that she'd be much more effective if she was just... normal.
• Garbage Healer: She's a sidhe, but you'd be foolish to rely on Hemlock for any sort of healing or nourishment. Doing so will not only result in some snarky comment and zero actual benefit, it will also send her into the first stages of an existential crisis played out in the space beneath her persona.
• Waif: Hemlock isn't winning any contests of strength or durability. It can be almighty frustrating to lay a finger on her, but once you do, she's out of the fight.
• Crippling Insecurity: For all of her bluster, Hemlock is young, different, and unsure. She makes errors in judgement, she doubts herself, and she's sensitive beneath the facade that she wears. She wants you to like her and think that she's cool and useful but, confoundingly, she's kind of unable or unwilling to recognize, accept, and value genuine praise and regard. Sadly, that may be most of her reason for trying to save the world. She has to prove something to herself and to everyone else out there, but she doesn't really believe that she can.
• The Fumes - They Burn!: When exposed to it for extended periods or in high dosage, this can prove lethal to her. There aren't many places where Hemlock can safely remove her mask.

| NOTES |

There really could only ever be one theme song for her.

Imperium Mortuorum: A Zombie Apocalypse RP in Ancient Rome

Not quite able to post yet, but how do you guys feel about having an OOC discord server.

@Nobodyman123

I'm all for it.

The Hourglass Order

<Snipped quote by Force and Fury>

I would make a much better assassin than a teenager I think. hah. But that's probably me thinking too highly of myself.

@Noxious

TBH, most of us only have experience with being one of those things... I think :P

Code Vein

Not familiar with the game, but this lore sounds cool!

I N T E R E S T

The Hourglass Order

Shune Wanted to Say Something... Sorry

A.K.A. The Fourth Wall: Broken!

Hello, friends, it is I: Shune-Zept, along with my partner, Ahn-Shune… Ahem… well, maybe not. Her nose is buried in another book, because learning is important, (and she’s very antisocial) so I guess it’s just me today. Now, my grouchy friend, Dami, who you guys have honestly done an amazing job praying to - he’s super flattered and not a little full of himself these days - would probably disagree with me here. He’d probably say something about the ‘need to make informed decisions, yada yada yada’.

I think that’s pretty important too, buuuuut, well… you can’t learn very well if you’re bored to death, now can you? Yup, that was a rhetorical question. Don’t answer it. You agree with me or um… I’m a God. Do you really wanna disagree with a God? Anyhow, the point I’ve been working my way towards is that I’m going to hit life’s fast forward button for you guys. Uh… right, you don’t know what a fast forward button is, do you? We’re still in the early modern period. Darn it…

Such an exciting time, though: The first real scientific understandings, all the exploration, and the run-up to that big ol’ industrial revolution! Oh, right, yes. That’s if you guys manage to save the timestream and we uh… don’t have to hit the reset button again. Please just come through?

Anyhow, I digress. You guys are headed for hours of boring speeches and a mass in a cathedral that you’ll all just spend gossiping in the back pews, complaining about religion, and getting up to shenanigans. The ingratitude! Anyways, yeah. I’ve already seen it and I’m going to skip all of that for you. See? Religion is cool… Yeah, and I’m obviously your favourite deity, right? (Again, rhetorical. Don’t answer… unless you’re agreeing with me). Honestly, if you’re looking to uh… ‘worship’ me, then the best thing that you can do is go out there and learn: become better people. Improve yourselves, have new encounters and experiences, seek out new places and methods, experiment! Don’t sit there in some stuffy old lecture hall or cathedral, even if it is really pretty. Maybe just listen to the pipe organ. It’s a pretty awesome instrument. Whew! The power!

I could go on all day about the science behind it, but anyways, I’m hitting that button now. It’s evening. You’re sitting down for dinner with your Zenos and your fellow apprentices. Some of you have made your minds up about courses, others are still looking to make a decision. You might wanna ask your Zenos in that case and, if you’re really stuck, I guess you could send a little prayer - you could almost call it a ‘direct message’ - to me and old grumpypants Dami. He’s good with advice and Ahn and I here know all of the things. Once you’ve gotten through that, feel free to conk out for the night. You’ll wake up bright and early in the morning for your first day of classes at Ersand’Enise!

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Chapter 3B: Decisions, Decisions (Part Two)

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Zeno Hamir Zemana's Group

Zeno Hamir Zemana's Group

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Four young people sat around Hamir Zemana's table, in various states of exhaustion, fulfillment, boredom, and excitement. Dinner would normally have been a smaller affair on such a busy day, but this was only their second day together and he'd always believed that first impressions were important. He looked at these young people, so full of promise and potential, but he'd also noticed that a couple carried skeletons with them, already at their young ages. These, they hid well, but his practiced eye had noticed nonetheless.

Dinner had been a later affair than usual. He hadn't skimped in the slightest except on portion size, for the buffet lunch had already done much to fill them and the intervening hours of sedentary listening, little to empty them. The teens were all sitting around the table with full stomachs, or so it seemed, at least, and the final rays of sun were presently painting the windows orange, fuchsia, and gold. Hamir dabbed at the corners of his mouth and leaned back. Thinking better of it after a moment, he sat up straight. "So," he inquired, "What shall we do with our evening?" Does anybody have questions they'd like to ask? Concerns they'd like to mention? Stories they'd like to tell?" He glanced around at the young faces. "I'm not certain about you but, for myself, it is far too early to join Vashdal in sleep."

Zeno Zander Mozaru's Group

Zeno Zander Mozaru's Group

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Something was off about Zeno Mozaru. Granted, Marlijn did not know him particularly well yet, but he was on edge. His smile, which had seemed to hold real warmth - if a rather stern variety - this morning, did not reach his eyes. As Megga bustled about the dining room, clearing plates and accepting thanks - Marlijn remembered to give hers - he had established a rule. It was getting dark and he had used a simple arcane spell to light the house's lanterns. The flames licked and spat, oily behind their glass shields as the final rays of light disappeared from the sky outdoors. He had handed each of his apprentices a candle to hold. When they wished to address him in an official capacity, they would have to light theirs using magic. Each night, the candles would be placed in a rack near the top of the stairs, for what purpose, they did not yet know, though he had assured them that it was part of their education and that they would understand in time.

Presently, he was asking the four youths about their days. Marlijn was the first to speak. Reaching out with the Gift, she pulled some heat from the hearth, gathered it inside of her, tightened it up and touched the wick of her candle. A tiny flame glowed and grew and she removed her finger before she could burn it. "I had a pleasant enough time, I suppose," she began, "though that single tour was not nearly enough to acquaint me with campus. I think I shall get lost at least a handful of times over the next week." She paused, placing a fingertip against her bottom lip pensively. "I suppose I saw Owain - my brother." She glanced about at her housemates. Selio seemed pleasant enough, but she was uncertain about the others, especially Yimu, who'd been nothing if not brusque with her. "I fairly stuffed my face with Greenlander food, and I chose my courses." She set the candle carefully on the table in front of her and began ticking points off on her fingers. "Arcane and Kinetic for my magics, music from the arts stream, and I was going to take needlework, but such things always turn into very gossipy affairs and I've no interest in that, so I've decided on drama instead." She smirked. "Yes, I am fully aware of the irony. Anyhow, I've rounded things out with camp and the agriculture and animals course with the very long name. I confess to being more than a bit nervous about tomorrow." She smiled shyly. "Though I remain excited as well." With that, she blew out her candle, as she'd been instructed.

Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight's Group

Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight's Group

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It was nearly 5:00 Rezain when the lock on the door had rattled and Fades-in-Moonlight had popped her head inside. Without yesterday's ceremonial makeup, she looked an entirely different person and Jomurr had nearly hit her with a kinetic shove before realizing his mistake and quietly dissipating the energy that he'd gathered. He was, in fact, rather grateful for his deep complexion in moments like those.

Now, she was home, exhausted and bedraggled. Jomurr had expected to see her dragging that ungrateful little brat - Anna - by the ear behind her, yet the girl was nowhere to be seen. "Good evening, Zeno," he greeted her. "I was... most concerned by your absence."

She raised an eyebrow, brushing past him, the tassels and beads on her clothes swaying. "Oh, and how about Anna's?"

"It would be... dishonest of me to characterize my feeling as 'concern'." He scowled. "But I do hope she hasn't come to any harm." It was a half-truth. Much as she was vile in his eyes, she was also little more than a harmless insect - a pest and more worthy of his pity and mercy than his hatred.

"Heh, honest of you, at least." She half-twisted to face Leon and Carmillia. "How 'bout you, chuckles? Holding up alright?" She shook her head. "What a day. By the Aspects, what a day." She smiled tiredly. "But you guys have to famished." The Nashibansek pulled herself up a bit and looked them each in the eyes. "I've been a really shitty Zeno so far, so I'm hoping we can turn the page. How about you follow me outside?"

Jomurr did not follow. He led but, as he swung open the double doors, Zeno Moonlight was only a step or two behind and there was a phenomenal buildup of energy. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Then, two things happened that didn't make any sense. First, he reached out for energies, looking to sense what she had drawn so much from, but could find nothing of any significance disturbed. Then, she... flickered, was the only way that he could describe it. For a second or two, the Zeno became... semi-corporeal, ghostlike even. Then, she winked out of existence. He cast about for the telltale energies of illusory magic, but there were none. He had opened his mouth and was about to address the others, who he could sense shared his wonder, but then she returned as if she'd never left.

The entire backyard lit up like a bubble of perfect daylight. The coal barbecue pit smoldered. Fresh rabbit, corn, and a cauldron of butternut squash soup whisked through the air. The rabbit skewered itself, as did the corn. The spit began turning.

For once, Jomurr Ikon the Third lost his composure. "W-where!?" He stammered. "How?" He didn't bother to hide his surprise. "Where did all of that energy come from? How are you maintaining it?"

Luna grinned and there might even have been some happiness to it. "There's a lot you guys don't know about me, and this school, and a lot of things in general." She sighed and flicked some hair out of her face. "I'm your master; you're my apprentices, so I'm gonna teach you." She materialized three stools seemingly from thin air for them to sit on. "Food's cooking, we're sitting, I'm an open book - damn the rules - one hundred percent." She regarded them earnestly. "But to answer your question, Jomurr, what you just saw was Dark Magic."

Zeno Sienna Afraval's Group

Zeno Sienna Afraval's Group

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"You've all made quite the impression, Sienna Afraval chirped, bustling through the door. They had eaten in a tavern for dinner, as Serrio was busy for the night preparing for his daughter's wedding and she had not begrudged him something of that import. Instead, she'd sent a substantial gift and would be in attendance on the morrow. "Linah, Penny, and Anesin, I heard you three were chattering away all lunch - the life of the party." She hung her cloak on a peg and, with a somewhat grand gesture, brought all of the townhome's lanterns to light. "And Onarr," she continued, "a little birdie told me that you dined with President Yibozo himself. How does it feel to hobnob with the movers and shakers?" she teased.

It was long since dark. The food had been good, if a bit common, a rather well-known jester had been in attendance, and then a lively musical troupe all of the way from Kerremand had been playing. They'd known everything from Eskandish folk songs to Revidian chamber. The alcohol had flowed - in limited amounts for her charges - and the hours of Eshiran had slipped into those of Dami as people sang and danced and drank. She'd had to cut Penny off and cast a simple Chemical spell to... reverse some of her inebriation, and she'd sensed a homesickness in Anesin, so had paid the troupe to perform a rather too bawdy rendition of The Jarl's Lucky Son. But now they were home. She led them into the sitting room and placed herself on a sofa, body language just on the right side of ladylike. "So, I hope you had a lovely day. I wanted you to enjoy yourselves for, tomorrow, the real work begins, and when I see you next week, I expect I shall see you at your best and work you hard." She cleared her throat for a moment. She'd belted out the lyrics to a couple of old Torragonese trail cantos a bit too enthusiastically. "But that brings me to your course selections. Before we retire for the night, I'd like to inquire after those. How have they gone? Have you any questions in mind, now would be the time to pose them."