So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
8
likes
3 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
likes
3 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
4
likes
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?
Penny was dubious about the whole endeavour. She had been dubious when she had watched a raven smack into her window. She had been dubious during every one-legged step she'd taken up the Forked Tower. When she and Carmille had crouched within a drafty stairwell measuring stone blocks with a fork, she had also been dubious. The dubiousness had remained as Hugo Hunghorasz had explained what it was that he wanted of her. It had intensified when she had been swapped teams at the last moment when Karim had backed out. Truth be told, she could not blame him. When she had been handed her hand-chosen... outfit by some Enthish mercenary named Desmond, she had finally reached peak dubiousness. Or so she had thought. A well-placed bookshelf and a bit of an Arcane glamour had allowed her to change outfits quickly and with her dignity intact. Penelope de Perrence had not the slightest idea how to use throwing knives and, when she was walking, only ever had one hand free in any case. The belt was cute, at least. So was the boot, and at least her bosom was... held in with more than straps and faint prayer. It was the pants, though. They were tailored so as to fit her perfectly - even accounting for her missing leg. Yet... they were a man's garment. No respectable woman wore... pants. How strangely exposed she felt. How the snug fabric chafed at her skin. How the shape of her stump was laid bare for all to see. She did not like them: not at all.
"Ahh, good to meet you, you must be my new crew member. I'm Captain Desmond Cutter-Gretz Von Sausex-Eisenac, Captain of the Golden Sun. What's your name and what do you bring to the ship?"
Penny nearly peed herself out of mirth. Surely, he could not be serious! Quickly biting back her laughter, she flashed her winningest smile. "Ahoy, matey. Pegleg Penny be's mi'name. I be a pirate, and pirate I be: born t'sail the seven seas. Yeh best be callin' on me fer yer needs in the galley."
They ended up on a dock and their self-appointed captain traipsed into the lead and began assigning people to go gather intelligence in what appeared to be a maddening mix of arbitrary and considered motive. When he assigned her and Wvysen to the Doge's Breeches, it was indicative of how daft she thought he was by now that she questioned his sanity as opposed to his intentions. Had he been most others, she'd have genuinely wondered if he was trying to do away with her. Sending two Perrenchwomen to infiltrate a staunchly Revidian faction in a time of near-war...truly? Next, she imagined he'd have her try to win a footrace. Perhaps he'd place Onarr in charge of procuring items from high shelving or get that giantess Trypano to squeeze into some tiny space. Penny glanced at Wvysen dubiously and then at Desmond. She cleared her throat. "Ah oui. Nous ferons de notre mieux en tant que Revidiennes et non en tant que Perençaises."*1 She smiled with exaggerated sweetness and resisted the temptation to adjust her stupid pants for at least the fourth time tonight. "Je ne prévois aucun problème: aucun!"*2 She twisted to regard Wvysen and took the other girl, unbidden by the hands. "Viens viens, Wvysen, allons-y!"*3
*1 Ah yes, we will do our best as Revidians and not as Perrench. *2 I foresee no problems with this: none! *3 Come come, Wvysen, let's go!
Some may have considered it the strangest flock to have ever taken flight above the grounds of Ersand'Enise, but such was the school's history and oddness that there had, in fact, been stranger in the distant past. Yet, where great flocks of crows, magpies, and ravens had flown mere hours ago, now items of an entirely different nature swirled through the sky.
Books, maps, clothing, coin, and weapons, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them. Locks jiggled and popped open, doors creaked, shutters fluttered, and the strange procession continued. These items, a keen eye may have noticed, all made their way to the same destination: a single window rather high up in the Forked Tower. They found their way into the hands of a pretty young blonde woman who was seated in a wheeled-chair just inside. These, she dispensed to those around her with smiles and well-wishes. The stream became a trickle. Her accomplices gradually disappeared through a door that was most certainly not within the official floorplan of the tower. She was left alone. She let out a long sigh and glanced up and down the stairs. Then, she turned and glanced with annoyance at the door that should not have existed, schooled her features, and wheeled through.
Inside (but not truly inside, for it was daylight there and quite obviously an entirely different place) preparations were finished. At the flick of a wrist, people had gotten either what they had desired or what they had deserved. In most cases, those were one and the same. In a handful, they were not. They listened to the address of Hugo Hunghorasz with varying degrees of rapt or feigned interest. Some had so little regard for the great mage or else so much excitement for their upcoming endeavour that they could not even feign engagement. "I would wish you luck," he concluded, "but you must remember that there is no such thing and, even if there were, I would expect you to succeed without it."
With that there was a surge of magical energies so intense and alien that a handful of students visibly winced. Temporal magic... felt different: warm, easy, and comforting, like a bonfire on an Dorrad's night, but also as if chaos and void were waiting just outside of its glow. Three portals opened and three sets of students were dispersed through them. At the last moment, one - Karim Nazeri - got cold feet and was replaced by another: Penny Pellegrin, who was all-too well known to most of her peers.
The youths glanced at each other with varying degrees of nervousness and anticipation. Then, they stepped through.
A portal opened and six youths stepped through. They found themselves on a wooden deck near the very top of the Lorentine Queen. The rumble of the great riverboat's engines could be subtly felt even this high up. They were of a peculiar type - unknown anywhere else in the world - that used compressed steam, heated by arcane mages, to power them. The air was warm and muggy, and two towering black iron smokestacks poured great gouts of smoke into it, obscuring parts of the starscape above. The world slowly moved as the ship plied its way up the calm, muddy waters of the river for which it was named. Lanterns and bonfires flickered ashore, illuminating dwellings, businesses, and towering willow trees. Further on were the spratz farms, those notorious places. Other smaller ships - many of them floating rooming houses - hunkered in inlets, oxbows, and creeks by the shore, their lights mostly out at this hour.
Yet, all was clearly not peaceful here. As the Queen headed a bit further up, towards the shallow inland sea of The Gods' Eye, gunfire could be heard. Along one distant part of the shore, torches en masse lit up the night. Down below, were sounds of raucous debauchery, mostly coming from near the stern of the ship. Somebody was hammering away with great skill at a piano - another recent invention of Revidian manufacture - and dozens of card, dice, and darts games were underway. The ladies of the night were out in full force as well, pulling eager and inebriated men into their rooms just upstairs. Periodically, a fight would break out, swords or guns would be drawn, and matters would resolve themselves one way or the other right then and there.
On towards the bow, past the area amidships taken up mostly by the engines and massive paddlewheels and traversible only by means of a passage about three men wide, a different sort of violence was simmering and ready to explode. "Even now," a man shouted, "ashore, they are breaking their chains of servitude. Do not you see their torches in the night? Their tools of farming raised as weapons in defense of their rights? And 'rights' I say for that is what they are! Answer me: where is it in the Menan that one man - or woman - should be subject to another? Where does it say that his freedom to act on his own desires and to profit from his labour should be curtailed so that some other who may - or may not - have had an ancestor who'd done a 'noble' deed in the past may benefit?" Voices rose in angry agreement and he continued. "And then there are ships like this one, to serve your needs, because a mere plant is considered more valuable than your right to own a house and raise a family. They ply up and down this Godsforsaken river, sucking the money from your pockets so that you will never have the resources to challenge those who have named themselves your betters! Rheinsburg! Benrath! Rednitz!" The last one elicited a particularly strong response and he paused for dramatic effect, the ambient noise of water churning, voices shouting, and distant music playing taking over for a moment. "Already, they claim the Gift for themselves, just like they claim the spratz, and jealously guard both. Truly, this is why we bend our backs and obey, why we allow our nature to be suppressed in the service of a 'survival' provided from their lacy-cuffed hands!" The crowd was rather worked up now. "There is a way, my friends. You know me for who I am. I have shared your tables. I have worked in your fields. I have slept in those rat-infested barges they force upon you as homes. I tell you that those great gifts they call 'aberrations' are not to be feared so long as one makes use of them in moderation. I tell you that I can now do the things that a nobleman does because of them. No longer does he hold the threat of inescapabale violence above my head. Mine is now the power to say 'no' to him where, before, I could not. I come, this night, to share with you the Gift!" Close by to where he was speaking out on the forward deck, there appeared a spot of the purest blackness, darkly scintillating. He was poised to invite people up to make contact with it.
Meanwhile, however, there was one further act of note taking place aboard the Lorentine Queen, pride of House Rednitz's rivergoing fleet. The six youths who'd just arrived had been apprised of the location, in the ship's hold, just aft of the engine room, of a holy artifact of priceless value: the Lyre of Ipte-Zept. At that very moment, as the gathering of rough-hewn fieldhands threatened to turn into a shipboard riot, the speaker's accomplices were headed aft to take advantage of the impending chaos. One could only speculate at what they hoped to achieve but, contrary to its grassroots impression, this was clearly a well-planned and tightly executed operation with a clear goal in mind. All that left to be seen was where the six youths who had just arrived would fit into it: allies, enemies, or something else entirely?
Carmillia Carbonneau, Manfred Hohenfelter, Dorothea Hohnstein, Seung Eun-Ji, Leon Solaire, and Zarra Travendour
A portal opened onto Isla d'Amato and a motley assortment of eight youths stepped through. There were three exceptionally tall women, a fourth - merely tall - who leaned on a single crutch, and a fifth who seemed greatly fond of the colour red. The three young men who followed them through consisted of a pair who had the distinct look of mercenaries and a third who was... exceptionally short. They found themselves on a near empty dock at the very edge of a ramshackle settlement. Waves lapped gently at its posts and crickets chirped in the tall grass and subtropical undergrowth. There were birds in the sparse growth of palm trees which swayed quietly in a light breeze.
The eight young people were dressed in clothes that might mark them out as pirates and, looking upon the nearby settlement, it became evident why. Lamplight burned into the warm, humid night, and the sounds of gambling, brawling, and merrymaking wafted out across the docks. Ships groaned softly and sails stood sentry, bound and furled under the light of four moons. This, then, was the Isla d'Amato: notorious place that it was and home to many of the most storied pirate crews of the Ensollian Sea.
It appeared that, near to where the infiltrators had landed, along with a wagon and some chests of what were either plunder or supplies, a dirt road began, winding into the heart of town. Perhaps those perceptive enough would note the names of a handful of establishments close by:
1) A large stone and wood building of some three floors, with wraparound balconies and an inner courtyard. It flew the Pennant of Revidia and was named 'The Doge's Breeches'. It appeared to be quite full but perhaps not as raucous as some of the others.
2) A tall wooden structure in the heart of town, with elegant carved balustrades and balconies and a red lantern burning in one window. It was called 'La Fleur Rouge'. Sounds of drinking and laughter emanated from its direction and a great many provocatively dressed women could be seen in the area.
3) A smaller, well-maintained stone building towards the near edge of town, close to the ships, called 'The Main', which flew a Dorvalish flag. There appeared to be a handful of crews making their way back and forth between it and a couple of ships.
4) A great rambling compound perched on higher ground towards the far edge of the townsite. Its construction was markedly different from that of the other three buildings and a great many individuals seemed to be coming and going from it in various states of inebriation. Its name - in an unfamiliar script - was translated by Ismette as "The Mermaid's Knees".
Further afield, there may well have been other places of interest, and the picaroons, in particular, were known to inhabit areas some ways from the townsite, but these four were the significant ones closest to the ersatz pirates. The question now became, "where to begin?" Indeed, a plan for tackling their goal had been the subject of not a little discussion among the group. Would they remain united or was it time to divide and conquer?
The last time that Azar had been in Qadir, she'd left bodies in her wake. The plural made it sound worse than it was. There had only been two.
It had been freeing, at first: a place where she could walk the streets and... no, that was wrong. The people here loved ayiralites, or had brainwashed themselves into thinking that they did for the sake of mundane convenience or out of thinly-veiled mortal terror. Yet, even among her kind, there was a hierarchy. The Maatrho was water, and so they loved water best. Earth had always fallen closest to human hearts and kinship and was valued as well. Air jinnbloods were... inoffensive even if they were dead, soulless things inside. There had still been unease beneath the fawning: too much sweat in a handshake, subtle crossings to the other side of the street. Azar was young and uneducated, but she was not stupid. They always thought she was stupid. Damn them.
Almost three years had passed: enough time for them to have forgotten her. If not, things were about to get bad. She'd been around the outskirts when a small band of Jushites had materialized out of the dusty foothills and set upon a covered wagon. It had been cheap, on her part: an ambush, but Azar now had seven bodies to her name, not that the people around here knew that name. Officially, she was about to be a hero. Unofficially, she was and would always be a fire ayiralite.
Crickets chirped and the air hummed with an arid sort of life as she walked, torches flickering along the walls of more noteworthy buildings, a near-full moon casting pale light upon the dusty ground. "I cannot thank you enough, miss," the old man from the wagon insisted. It was not the first time he'd tried to make conversation. "And thank Maatrho for sending one of his kin to save me in my hour of need. Your timing was not mere coincidence. You must believe it."
Azar clenched and unclenched a fist. Eight bodies, she thought. I must not leave eight bodies. She'd considered it when he'd insisted on reporting her deeds to the Imit's office. He'd promised she'd be rewarded but, from the youth's experience, rewards were not something that came to her much. She'd be content with being left alone, but he JUST. WOULDN'T. DO IT.
"What is your name, so that I may tell them? My son, he works there! You will see: he is a good man - hard-working, keeps the Gods, serves Maatrho... through the Imit."
Some part of her wanted to talk to him, of course. She'd been two months out in the desert and spoken no more than a couple of sentences to any actual person in that time. Speaking got her in trouble, though. Just thinking about it was starting to put her in a sour mood, so she opened her mouth to blunt her rising annoyance. Annoyance was the vanguard of anger. "Azar," she replied shortly. "Al-Hashimi."
He bowed as he walked. It was almost - but not quite - obsequious. "Then, tonight I shall honour Azar Al-Hashimi, with my wife and our servants."
She was about to tell him that it really wasn't necessary, despite the little warm feeling at her core. Then, they were there, and conversation ended. Guards parted, bowing a little deeper in her direction, a little more warily. Inside were... more guards in front of a pair of double doors, even in these early hours after sundown. Tawr was nothing if not... disciplined.
"I am Naseem Hamidi, a merchant." He marched up to the head guard and announced himself. "I would like to report something to the Imit's scribe: My wagon was ambushed by Jushites." He pointed in Azar's direction. "This one saved me. She killed them all, praise be Maatrho. Praise be Jhator. She said her name was Azar Al-Hashimi: a fitting name for how ferocious she was in protecting me." He twisted back and smiled at her. She nodded back. This place: she needed to get out of it. She knew it. The last time she'd been here, she'd only escaped a death sentence by virtue of her being the wronged party, even in an immoral act. More likely, she'd escaped by virtue of her jinnblood nature. "It was nothing, honestly. I was only..."What do these people like to hear? she wondered for a moment. "...serving as an instrument of the gods' divine wrath. I could not let harm come to a good man such as..." She'd forgotten his name. "this one. I ask no reward and the hour is late."
The guards bowed their heads momentarily in thanks. "You may pass, Naseem and honoured Azar," one said. "Come come," the old man waved her forward. "What sort of fellow would I be if I did not return your generosity at least in part?"
For a moment, Azar thought about running. It was early nighttime and it was cool. She could be well into the Jushite foothills by daybreak. It beat meeting anyone higher up. It beat them remembering her. She was exiled upon pain of death. The fleeting fantasy passed, like many did, and the double doors creaked as they opened. Truth was that she wanted the praise. Some part of her needed it. The path of lesser resistance here was to hope that fate's dice would roll her way and the man she was about to meet - for it was usually a man - would be someone new who did not remember her.
<Snipped quote by Force and Fury> She does not suck. Love this quote.
Haha, thanks! That's the kind of snappy, brief dialogue you can expect from her for the most part. I'm the most verbose person you might ever meet, so playing someone who's kind of pithy, sharp, and spare with words should be a fun challenge.
Prayer beads inscribed with the seven virtues of Sharaqism, water can, satchel with provisions, notebook, small coin purse hidden where nobody will dare go for it.
____________________________________
E Q U I P M E N T
- A pair of stiletto daggers hidden in boots - One 'prayer bead' is actually full of a solution that burns dirty and creates gouts of thick black smoke. - Her second 'water canister' is full of a naptha and quicklime solution that makes fire almost impossible to put out on whatever it coats. - Armour just slows you down.
Petite and darker-skinned, Azar might've been the kind of girl able to fade effortlessly into a crowd... had she been born human. Failing that, she might've even be considered pretty... had she been born human. As it is, she scares people. She is a pint-sized 5'3" of pure smirking nasty and she tells herself that she likes it that way.
Yet, paradoxically, her clothing often demands attention. She'll regularly wear a hooded cloak when she prefers not to draw any (as a fire ayiralite, she laughs at the idea of a sunburn). However, underneath that part-time garment, she dresses provocatively, or in ways that set her apart. Maybe it's something similar to what poisonous animals do; their colouration sends a clear message: stay away. The truth is that Azar really doesn't want trouble, but she'll return whatever comes her way tenfold.
Azar remembers the feel of the fabric. She clung to a woman's clothes. They smelled of jasmine and citrus as she hurried through the darkened streets. Whatever words might've been spoken have not come down to her through time. There were tears. There was the cool of the night air. That was her mother, she thinks, the useless bitch: made a baby with a fire jinn and ran from the responsibility.
The foundling house named her Azar, for her planar nature. They gave her a surname too: Al-Hashimi - destroyer. A few years later, when one had it in her mind to be kind to the girl, to not treat her like her future was already written in stone, that name was changed. She became Azar Masoumi: 'innocence', but the die was already cast. She was born bad anyways, or so people say.
Azar is young. She doesn't have some epic past. There are no old glories to revel in and few grand tales to regale people with. She was raised as an orphan. Some of the children were put to work. Some were steered towards a life of religious devotion. The lucky ones were taken in by people with kind, needy eyes and some empty space they were looking to fill. Azar was always sent on some errand or given something to play with, away from the other children, when there were visitors. Growing up, she thought that the caretakers were nice about it to spare her feelings. More recently, she's come to understand that it was because they were afraid of her.
One day, there was a sorcerer who visited. Apparently, it was customary for the coven to check the orphanages every couple of years and see if anything in need of their attention had turned up there. She was not taken in. She was not raised. Azar was, however, trained. She was treated with the dignity due a promising individual and, by Arhanphast himself, how she came to love those people, to crave their attention and acceptance. What she was wasn't a bad thing to the sorcerers. For every pragmatic kindness they showed her - and even the odd genuine one - she repaid them tenfold. She lit their candles, warmed their hearths, cooked their food, and did their chores. She sung and danced and wrote and read and practiced most of all. She threw her arms around whoever she was to follow for those two days each week without reserve and poured her love into them.
Then, when she was sixteen, they declared her sufficiently trained so as not to be a danger to herself and others around her. Their work was done. It took Azar ten seconds to get over the shock. She remembers the salty scent of tears as they evaporated from her cheeks. Love can turn to hate at the drop of a hat, for such are fire ayiralites. She flew at the man with the beard and she supposed he wasn't able to stop her from a mix of shock and maybe because he'd expected her to use her magic. Instead, she dug her thumbs into his eyes and felt them split against her skin with a slimy 'pop'. She melted them right out of their sockets as he screamed. She ran and kept running and she knew that they were after her: 'they' - the people who made rules and laws; the kind who had named her 'destroyer' as a three-year-old.
Azar really hasn't stopped running since, from mercenary company to brothel and back, from one odd job to the next. She generally stays away from civilized places. She's fought in Baneghora. She's spent time in Arilqas. There were a few grand months in Qadir until they realized that she was not their kind of ayiralite. She gave her love to a man and killed him when he gave his love to another. She is not currently looking to love again. People are bad at love, she's pretty sure, and she's worse than most. Azar can see the fear in their eyes, but they wait to mutter about her until she's moved on.
Sometimes, on those nights when she isn't around the light and warmth of other people's company, giving and receiving, she cries as she tries to sleep. It only makes her angrier that she's lying there crying instead of taking action. Someday soon, she will burn the people who hate and who've wronged her to ash and they will regret it all. She will find somebody who she can love, who won't betray her, and she will love them back with everything she has, even if she was born bad.
Azar is a dangerously unstable young woman, partly as a result of her nature and partly as a consequence of her experiences. She can be warm, helpful, and caring to a fault. She can be protective towards those who she empathizes with or truly trusts, though this side of her rarely comes out. More often, she plays to type, knowing that most people have already judged her by sight or reputation. It's easier that way and she's learned that to let herself care opens the door to attachment, which opens the door to anger. She's destroyed enough things already. When she isn't busy doing mental gymnastics to justify her actions, the guilt sours her insides.
Azar tries to be taciturn, and even considers herself so, but isn't much good at it. In general, she's twenty, angsty, and emotionally stunted. Her self-image is often woefully inaccurate. At times, there is an almost puckish quality to Azar, but it's underlain, for most, by a fundamental unease: one moment, she's laughing and joking. The next, she goes still and glares when someone crosses an arbitrary personal line. The offending party stands at the precipice of violent assault.
Of course, if she finds herself outmatched or even truly challenged, Azar is a coward at heart and will usually run. In some regards, she is a classic bully because, to not be a bully, in her mind, means that she occupies its counter-role: that of the victim. She will not let herself be a victim ever again. She cannot be powerless but, paradoxically, she does not crave power either, at least not on a macro scale. More than anything else, she just wants to... that's the rub, isn't it? She doesn't really know what she wants. Hopefully, she'll find it.
____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK
Azar is essentially directionless at this point. Oh, sometimes she entertains fleeting fantasies about becoming some powerful, respected personage, but she soon sees them for what they are and they evaporate - ethereal - into her unfulfilled dreamscape. Sometimes, she crafts scenarios where she finds her mother and gives the bitch a taste of hell, but then she feels awful. She's caused so much pain already. She doesn't want to cause anymore. Is there completely justified killing? Can she just be 'bad' towards people who genuinely deserve it? Maybe that's why she exists. Maybe that's her motivation at this point and what she's looking for.
1) Every night Inconsistently, but what she tells herself is 'basically every night', Azar recites the seven virtues of her faith: truth, charity, justice, discipline, temperance, loyalty and fidelity, and humility. It's all playacting and self-flagellation, though, to assuage her own guilt. She isn't genuinely pious in the slightest.
2) Her mother was from a family of some importance, and not originally from Esaad. Azar might be surprised when she learns more about the circumstances of her birth and flight to the orphanage.
Prayer beads inscribed with the seven virtues of Sharaqism, water can, satchel with provisions, notebook, small coin purse hidden where nobody will dare go for it.
____________________________________
E Q U I P M E N T
- A pair of stiletto daggers hidden in boots - One 'prayer bead' is actually full of a solution that burns dirty and creates gouts of thick black smoke. - Her second 'water canister' is full of a naptha and quicklime solution that makes fire almost impossible to put out on whatever it coats. - Armour just slows you down.
Petite and darker-skinned, Azar might've been the kind of girl able to fade effortlessly into a crowd... had she been born human. Failing that, she might've even be considered pretty... had she been born human. As it is, she scares people. She is a pint-sized 5'3" of pure smirking nasty and she tells herself that she likes it that way.
Yet, paradoxically, her clothing often demands attention. She'll regularly wear a hooded cloak when she prefers not to draw any (as a fire ayiralite, she laughs at the idea of a sunburn). However, underneath that part-time garment, she dresses provocatively, or in ways that set her apart. Maybe it's something similar to what poisonous animals do; their colouration sends a clear message: stay away. The truth is that Azar really doesn't want trouble, but she'll return whatever comes her way tenfold.
Azar remembers the feel of the fabric. She clung to a woman's clothes. They smelled of jasmine and citrus as she hurried through the darkened streets. Whatever words might've been spoken have not come down to her through time. There were tears. There was the cool of the night air. That was her mother, she thinks, the useless bitch: made a baby with a fire jinn and ran from the responsibility.
The foundling house named her Azar, for her planar nature. They gave her a surname too: Al-Hashimi - destroyer. A few years later, when one had it in her mind to be kind to the girl, to not treat her like her future was already written in stone, that name was changed. She became Azar Masoumi: 'innocence', but the die was already cast. She was born bad anyways, or so people say.
Azar is young. She doesn't have some epic past. There are no old glories to revel in and few grand tales to regale people with. She was raised as an orphan. Some of the children were put to work. Some were steered towards a life of religious devotion. The lucky ones were taken in by people with kind, needy eyes and some empty space they were looking to fill. Azar was always sent on some errand or given something to play with, away from the other children, when there were visitors. Growing up, she thought that the caretakers were nice about it to spare her feelings. More recently, she's come to understand that it was because they were afraid of her.
One day, there was a sorcerer who visited. Apparently, it was customary for the coven to check the orphanages every couple of years and see if anything in need of their attention had turned up there. She was not taken in. She was not raised. Azar was, however, trained. She was treated with the dignity due a promising individual and, by Arhanphast himself, how she came to love those people, to crave their attention and acceptance. What she was wasn't a bad thing to the sorcerers. For every pragmatic kindness they showed her - and even the odd genuine one - she repaid them tenfold. She lit their candles, warmed their hearths, cooked their food, and did their chores. She sung and danced and wrote and read and practiced most of all. She threw her arms around whoever she was to follow for those two days each week without reserve and poured her love into them.
Then, when she was sixteen, they declared her sufficiently trained so as not to be a danger to herself and others around her. Their work was done. It took Azar ten seconds to get over the shock. She remembers the salty scent of tears as they evaporated from her cheeks. Love can turn to hate at the drop of a hat, for such are fire ayiralites. She flew at the man with the beard and she supposed he wasn't able to stop her from a mix of shock and maybe because he'd expected her to use her magic. Instead, she dug her thumbs into his eyes and felt them split against her skin with a slimy 'pop'. She melted them right out of their sockets as he screamed. She ran and kept running and she knew that they were after her: 'they' - the people who made rules and laws; the kind who had named her 'destroyer' as a three-year-old.
Azar really hasn't stopped running since, from mercenary company to brothel and back, from one odd job to the next. She generally stays away from civilized places. She's fought in Baneghora. She's spent time in Arilqas. There were a few grand months in Qadir until they realized that she was not their kind of ayiralite. She gave her love to a man and killed him when he gave his love to another. She is not currently looking to love again. People are bad at love, she's pretty sure, and she's worse than most. Azar can see the fear in their eyes, but they wait to mutter about her until she's moved on.
Sometimes, on those nights when she isn't around the light and warmth of other people's company, giving and receiving, she cries as she tries to sleep. It only makes her angrier that she's lying there crying instead of taking action. Someday soon, she will burn the people who hate and who've wronged her to ash and they will regret it all. She will find somebody who she can love, who won't betray her, and she will love them back with everything she has, even if she was born bad.
Azar is a dangerously unstable young woman, partly as a result of her nature and partly as a consequence of her experiences. She can be warm, helpful, and caring to a fault. She can be protective towards those who she empathizes with or truly trusts, though this side of her rarely comes out. More often, she plays to type, knowing that most people have already judged her by sight or reputation. It's easier that way and she's learned that to let herself care opens the door to attachment, which opens the door to anger. She's destroyed enough things already. When she isn't busy doing mental gymnastics to justify her actions, the guilt sours her insides.
Azar tries to be taciturn, and even considers herself so, but isn't much good at it. In general, she's twenty, angsty, and emotionally stunted. Her self-image is often woefully inaccurate. At times, there is an almost puckish quality to Azar, but it's underlain, for most, by a fundamental unease: one moment, she's laughing and joking. The next, she goes still and glares when someone crosses an arbitrary personal line. The offending party stands at the precipice of violent assault.
Of course, if she finds herself outmatched or even truly challenged, Azar is a coward at heart and will usually run. In some regards, she is a classic bully because, to not be a bully, in her mind, means that she occupies its counter-role: that of the victim. She will not let herself be a victim ever again. She cannot be powerless but, paradoxically, she does not crave power either, at least not on a macro scale. More than anything else, she just wants to... that's the rub, isn't it? She doesn't really know what she wants. Hopefully, she'll find it.
____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK
Azar is essentially directionless at this point. Oh, sometimes she entertains fleeting fantasies about becoming some powerful, respected personage, but she soon sees them for what they are and they evaporate - ethereal - into her unfulfilled dreamscape. Sometimes, she crafts scenarios where she finds her mother and gives the bitch a taste of hell, but then she feels awful. She's caused so much pain already. She doesn't want to cause anymore. Is there completely justified killing? Can she just be 'bad' towards people who genuinely deserve it? Maybe that's why she exists. Maybe that's her motivation at this point and what she's looking for.
1) Every night Inconsistently, but what she tells herself is 'basically every night', Azar recites the seven virtues of her faith: truth, charity, justice, discipline, temperance, loyalty and fidelity, and humility. It's all playacting and self-flagellation, though, to assuage her own guilt. She isn't genuinely pious in the slightest.
2) Her mother was from a family of some importance, and not originally from Esaad. Azar might be surprised when she learns more about the circumstances of her birth and flight to the orphanage.
Location: A Record Store @ The Ruined City // Date: February 23, 2057 // Time: 16:58 // Interactions: Erik @FunnyGuy
When Erik took a seat on the ground beside Lys, she knew that he meant it. He knew how it bothered her always having to crane her neck to talk with people. So, the two of them sat there and talked and understood each other. For all that Lysandra tried to play the cool, rational, and clinical scientist, she was a wild child at heart and a feeler as much as a thinker.
At Erik's imitation of Akaia's dire-sounding warning, she was loath to admit that she'd actually jumped a bit. "You know, gramps, we should have a movie night. We can improvise a big ol' screen in the Telescope Room and pop on some pre-Collapse slasher flick." She pursed her lips for a moment. "Actually, after some of the shit we've seen, I don't think we'd bat an eyelash. Maybe comedy, huh? We all get loaded, do some karaoke, and watch a movie... in between the other stuff we have to do." There was a lot: she wanted to give both vehicles a thorough go-over and the 'Landwhale' - their van - was in need of an oil change. She wanted to get back to work on her next generation drones, and she needed to make more payload arrows in addition to more ammo for the others who wanted it. That meant refining more explosive and crafting more shells. Finally, Lys was eager to see what they could glean from that mistle. She had a few working theories on how she could spread the plants or, if not, isolate the properties within them that scrubbed the air and produced the fruit.
Nobody else had come into the record store. Maybe they were exhausted, but so was Lys. Your loss, losers. Now you get to listen to music curated by me. The light was almost gone too. "Thanks for uh... clearing the air," she said quietly, idly readjusting one of her legs. She glanced his way. "On that note, I was kind of actually wondering something: since we got the whole plant, are we required to hand it all over to the Provgovs or just a sample like we originally agreed? Knowing the research culture there, I feel like we've got a better shot than them at doing something useful and with a whole plant at our disposal..." Her hands were restless. She flicked her flashlight on and shone it up at her face from below. "I think we just might have a shot at cracking the case," she added playful-seriously.
There were some people who found the sound of thunder comforting or the patter of rain against the windows and rooftop soothing. Jocasta was not among them. At the refuge, rain had been rare. In the place she'd come from before then, storms had not happened. She did not like them and so this one kept her from sleep in a way that few things could.
As she lay awake in bed, cheek pressed against a warm, sweaty pillow, blankets tangled up in the parts of her that she could feel and those she could not, she thought of simply drugging herself with a relatively simple chemical spell. That would leave her vulnerable, though. Jocasta would not let herself be left vulnerable. Instead, she reached out with her manas and swept the city for energies. The air positively hummed with Magnetic and, occasionally, it burst into a dazzling display as streaks of lightning flashed across the landscape, the fleeting ambient warmth creating loci of Arcane and Chemical alike. The Kinetic energy of falling rain and gusting wind was everywhere too and the young woman remarked inwardly that it was a shame she did not like storms. They provided such ample drawing opportunities.
Then, she felt something else - something out of place. Numerous, fast-moving Kinetic and Chemical signatures streaked through the sky, spreading about campus and swirling up the sides of the Forked Tower: birds. She did not need to see them to know what they were. With some difficulty, Jocasta rolled onto her back and sat up in bed. A nearby flash of lightning brightened the sky and her room alike. Beyond the silhouettes of her desk, dresser, and wheeled-chair were crows, ravens, and magpies by the hundreds. She could both hear and sense a couple land by her housemates' windows: those two Eskandishwomen and the obnoxious Belzaggic boy who thought himself her better. None, however, came to Jocasta's window, and that bothered her. Why were those people worthy when she was not?
DARKWINGS
Pulling free her covers, she swung herself into her wheeled-chair and rolled up to the sill. This was likely the thing that Grandfather and Aunt Verde had spoken of last week at the family luncheon. Absently, she wondered if Benedetto would be smart enough to recognize it. Truly, it would be no loss were he not. She knew that she had to make herself part of it, though. Jocasta reached out with her hands and opened the window. Then, she reached out with her magic and pulled a crow from the sky. The ugly black bird squawked in alarm, but she drew the sound off and rendered it silent as she pulled it in. Once, twice, she turned it over in a Kinetic grasp, but there was nothing remarkable. She discarded it and picked another. This one was a magpie and she rendered it still. Nothing again. It too, she released, shaken but ultimately unharmed. Jocasta tried twice more, on a pair of ravens, without luck, and was about to give up when a crow flashed past her window with something very clearly clutched in its beak. This animal, she ripped from the air. It thrashed and clawed until she snapped its neck. Then it lay there, staring blankly up at her with beady black eyes that seemed to judge. Jocasta blinked. All things must die sooner or later, she reminded herself. This one was dying in service of a worthy goal. She plucked the letter from its beak and tossed the carcass out the window without laying a hand upon it.
Greedy fingers unrolled the note and read it. It was a riddle. The answer was, clearly, 'a fork'. There was a time there too: 1:00 HI. Had they really expected to fool anyone with this? She shuddered to think of a person so stupid. The larger problem was that it was clearly referring to the 20.5th floor of the Forked Tower. Jocasta did not believe in half-floors, and so they could not hurt her, but twenty staircases could. Even drawing upon Kinetic magics, making it there would be an exhausting slog and perhaps not even physically possible. She furrowed her brow, drew from the motion of the rain outside, and floated free of her wheeled-chair. Doors and drawers opened. Clothes fluttered free of her body and then of shelves and hangers. In thirty seconds, Jocasta was dressed. Upstairs, she could hear others moving about: the chosen ones. She had made herself one of them, though. Destiny was for fools and lazy people.
The door of Zeno Zander Mozaru's townhome opened three times that night. First, it opened for Ingrid Penderson, who hurried off towards the Forked Tower ahead of her peers. Then, it opened for Jomur Ikon III and Marlijn Vaanse. Finally, it opened for Jocasta Re.
DARKWORDS
Benedetto had found her, as he always did, and that irked Jocasta. She had hoped to be free of him. She had hoped he'd be too stupid, but he had killed a bird as well. Papa, Grandfather, and the others had told her that he was an integral part of the family, but she remained secretly unconvinced. Any member was to be ready to die for those above them if it became the only way to progress the family's ends. Jocasta knew what that meant for her. She also knew that Benedetto would not do it. She, herself, would only willingly die for Mama, who had given her life, who had taken her from that awful place.
"So I have to haul your crippled ass up twenty flights of stairs!?" Benedetto snorted. His umbrella could easily service two people, but he kept it for himself.
She knew of a way, of course, but it was a risk. She was a neophyte and could easily make a mistake that resulted in death or displacement. Still, it would be oh-so-sweet to make a fool of the vicious little prat. "You don't have to do anything, Benedetto." She shrugged. "I will manage myself or I will prove unworthy." She could trip some sort of warning system or even just land awkwardly. Still, Jocasta was tempted.
"See, that's a much more practical approach to your disability," he replied, twisting slightly as he started to draw ahead of her. "Not making competent people cover for you."
Jocasta said nothing. She could kill him, of course, from kilometers away and he'd never see it coming. She could kill anyone. She had learned that she was essentially a God that way. Yet the Tethering would also kill her - was presently killing her - after stripping every shred of agency, independence, and dignity that she had. Meanwhile, Benedetto knocked a crow out of the sky with a thunderbolt and grinned gleefully. He struck a second and missed a third. He took his anger at the mistake out on three more at once, and they dropped to the ground, smoking. Jocasta only killed when it was necessary or in Mama's service. "Well, good luck," the boy taunted, "I'd say 'see you later', but I probably won't."
DARKWIZARDRY
Jocasta was left alone in the rain. She would not dirty her hands by touching her wheels, instead drawing from the easy, ample sources of Kinetic energy all around to push herself and the device that she needed along. She arrived at the foot of the tower to find its powerful shielding magics missing. She lifted herself up the stairs in a Kinetic grasp and pushed the door open. Inside the anteroom, oil lamps flickered and the reception desk sat empty and unattended. A wooden sign hung on the wall near the base of a long spiral staircase that disappeared into the gloom. "103" it read, but then Jocasta sensed the collection of energies that accompanied a human being approaching. She turned to face it. A boy with a kind face and a striking scar offered her assistance, but she politely declined his offer and watched him disappear up the stairs.
Instead, Jocasta reached out with her senses and, to her surprise, could feel nothing - no energies - beyond the immediate vicinity of the tower. She focused intently, as Papa had taught her, beyond the mundane energies, and felt the one that wrapped them all up in its wake. Surely enough, it was being sculpted in this place. It was subtle, masterful, and far beyond her limited capabilities, but space and time were different here. With a sort of unpracticed eagerness and alarm that she did not normally fall prey to, Jocasta set hands to wheels and rushed out the door. Forgetting to shield herself from the weather, she hovered down the steps and set herself on the flagstones. When she reached out, she could once again sense energy for miles.
Rain pattered softly on her head, shoulders, and lap and Jocasta turned and reentered the tower. It was once again as if the world simply ended in the plaza just beyond the outside stairs. Regular magic users, with their range of perhaps a couple hundred yards, were unlikely to notice it but, as a Tethered, it was like losing one of her senses. The young Dorvalishwoman glanced once again at the daunting stairs and the little sign at their foot. She blinked. 102, she thought. Hadn't it been 103 before? The prospect of confirmation was not tempting enough for her to risk fiddling with the hands of time, especially when there may have been a true master about. She rolled right up to the foot of the staircase, however, and examined the sign. Surely enough, it had the most subtle of Binding magics at work.
As she studied it, however, four numbers flipped by in rapid succession: 101, 100, 99, 98. She glanced around. She had assumed that it was tracking the number of people going up - counting down from a total expected. Yet, nobody had passed. What was the mechanism? Jocasta gathered a degree of energy and floated out of her wheeled-chair. She passed the sign and the number flicked down to 97. She came back and it returned to 98. So you are counting people. She was in a pocket dimension, then and the sign was counting people from many such dimensions. This was Arch-Zeno level magic. Even Papa struggled with it.
DARKDEEDS
Jocasta also realized that, with her and Benedetto present, there would be two people too many. Since he was likely too dumb to have noticed or too arrogant to have cared, it would fall to her to do something. She checked her pocketwatch. She had only half an hour remaining and was in the process of looking for a solution when it presented itself. A pair of Torragonese - a boy and a girl - brushed inside from the storm, their hooded cloaks dripping on the stone floor. "Hola," she addressed them, in her most pleasant voice. "Perdón por molestarte. ¿Podrías ayudarme a subir las escaleras?" She knitted her hands pleadingly, demurely in lap. "Te prometo que no peso mucho. Puedo ayudar usando Magia Cinética."
The pair introduced themselves as Selio Taraves and Linah Aranda and Jocasta followed with proper etiquette of her own. They compared their Raven notes with hers and she made the minimum, most tiresome amount of smalltalk with them. They weren't sure that they could help her without substantial input from her own manas, and the Dorvalishwoman gave it in the form of an internal Chemical spell that rendered both blessedly unconscious. They collapsed into twin heaps and, to be certain, she reached into their minds and scrubbed about an hour's worth of recent synaptic connections before tossing them outside into some nearby bushes.
Jocasta took a deep breath and spread her senses up and down the tower, feeling where tiny Kinetic explosions took place as rain met stone, feeling the warmth of sconces up and down the stairwell, building a mental image of its height and shape. Last of all, she felt the collection of energies that denoted the boy she had run into earlier, coming to a stop at what she assumed was the twentieth-and-a-half floor. She would aim for somewhere just beyond the curve of the stairwell from him. She closed her eyes and felt about for the great wrapping. It was strange in here: twisted and sculpted. It whisked through her grasp and she caught whatever she could. Disjointed images of possible futures flashed past. Flickers of a distant past: the setting of stones, the thousands of footfalls that had whispered up the stairs, conversations held in long-ago confidence, and then her. Jocasta started and lost her grasp. Me. I was... here? A... hundred years ago? She visibly shook her head to clear it. The girl in the wrapping was not her. It was someone else who bore an uncanny resemblance. It was... She did not know and it as pointless to speculate. That girl, too, had been Tethered, though.
Annoyed with herself, Jocasta reached once more for the ribbon that wrapped itself around all things. This time, she aligned herself with it: a little girl playing hide-and-seek in the sparse Dorvalish forests, climbing olive and pistachio trees and picking their fruits, frolicking in the surf and spinning tales of the Lost City of Cervan with her friends; a preteen crying herself to sleep in a Tethered refuge, baking listlessly by a pool under the burning Torragonese sun, desperately strapping braces around legs that would no longer work; a runaway floating across the desert by night, her cloak billowing behind her, the moonlight casting her pale skin in bluish hues; a starving murderer with little remorse, cooking and eating the flesh of the enforcer they'd sent out to return her to her prison; a girl again, in Mama's arms, a trainee, valued for what she could do if not who she was; finally, a girl in a tower, grasping at the ribbons of time and space. She latched on and pulled. The world disappeared and she found the place in the tower: a floor down from the boy with the scar. Moments later, as if materialized from thin air, she appeared there, settling with an awkward clunk on the landing outside a door.
DARKSUMMONS
For at least the second time tonight, Jocasta found herself transported by Temporal Magic. It was one thing when she, herself, was holding the reins, but quite another when she was at someone else's mercy.
It had been a problem of arithmetic that brought her here. She, the boy with the scar, and three others had solved it. They'd not been allowed to speak, but had Jocasta sensed one of the idiots opening their mouth to do so prematurely, she'd have forcefully shut it for them.
They were in a vast room with floors' worth of bookshelves and a lifetime's collection of magical knowledge. It was the sort of thing that she, of course, would never own, yet the girl was still young enough, still possessed of enough wonder, that she could not stop her eyes from wandering for at least a moment. That was, until they seized upon the stained-glass windows set high against the vaulted wall at the far end of the room. Daylight streamed in through them and Jocasta reached out with her senses immediately. She could feel the warmth of sunlight, the motion of birds, insects, and animals outside; the bustle of energies in a small village; and, at the far periphery of her sensing range, the distant crash of waves against a rocky shore. They were in an entirely different part of the world - perhaps... even in a different time! There was something odd about the village. The 'people' were... different: larger, and the energies that should've denoted animals were... not.
So engrossed was Jocasta, so overwhelmed by her discovery, that she cast about for a doorway so that she could rush outside and see for herself. She placed her hands on her wheels in eagerness, half turning, and it took her a moment to notice that there were far more than five people surrounding her. Indeed, there were twenty-five in all, including Benedetto and the boy she'd met at the Stresian Guild the previous week: Onarr. Many of them were just as awestruck as she was, though most were far worse at hiding it. Then, she saw that one had approached the twenty-sixth.
DARKTIDINGS
Jocasta had seen him only once in person - at the intake ceremony a couple of weeks before - but he was instantly recognizable, even from behind a group of other people. "Hugo Hunghorasz" she mouthed, almost silently. Her Dorvalish tongue struggled somewhat with its pronunciation, but it was clear enough in her mind.
"Paradigm Hunghorasz!" an improbably tall girl gushed. "S-Such an honor to meet you! Ever since I was young I had read your work and I must say it had a profound effect on my choice for a field of study. Your early papers are remarkable, well beyond our time and part of what inspired my research into the link between blood and the gift! I- " She appeared to recover her better nature at the very doorstep of making a complete fool of herself. "... We thank you for extending to us this opportunity. We shall do our very best to prove your faith in us was not in vain."
Jocasta raised an eyebrow. Assumptions were being made here, but they were likely correct to some degree. She knew that Papa had once worked with the Paradigm. They were no longer friends, she also knew, but not enemies either. Then, before the Arch-Zeno could even reply, a second of Jocasta's fellow students spoke. If the first had raised some suspicions that she might be an idiot, this one left no doubt whatsoever: "Uh, sorry sir, I'm not very familiar with you, so sorry if I butcher your name. Paradigm Hung'horas, I was wondering if you were the one in the crow?"
The ancient wizard let out a cackling laugh of genuine amusement. "Ah! Good! Very good, boy! I hope I've made a memorable first impression, then. Nice to see I might still be judged for my actions instead of my name by some. As for the crows, I was not in anything, merely guiding them to do a job. You do not give enough credit to such intelligent beasts." He turned towards the first who'd addressed him, mirth fading from his wizened features. "If I have been some inspiration," the ancient man began, "I am glad of it." He nodded and the shadow of what might've been a smile crossed his face briefly. "However, rest assured that this is not a reward, though there is ample opportunity for rich personal advantage if you are resourceful." He went for his staff and something like a smirk was evident on his aged face. "I will not begrudge you it either, nor will I begrudge you walking out that door if you must." He gestured towards it and Jocasta immediately knew that it would not take her outside but likely back to the tower. "The noisy seabirds who wear crowns and laurels are all busy squawking at each other right now. They haven't noticed the storm, nor the waves, nor the hunters approaching and I am quite convinced that they are entirely unable. The threat to our world is genuine and serious." He shook his head. "Yet, the academy, too, have their heads up their arses just now. They won't commit their best people for fear of bringing into question their political neutrality and 'tainting' their 'air of detached majesty'." He snorted derisively. "Bloody fools. They wouldn't know 'majesty' if it came up and spat in their faces." He sighed, shuffling on the spot to take the entire group in. "They have pushed me out to pasture in my platinum years," he grumbled, "simple as that. They have said that I could have 'some students' on 'weekends', so here you are and I hope you can be of use." He let out a dry, bitter chuckle and took a couple of steps, leaning on his staff. They were slow but surprisingly steady for someone of his extremely advanced years. If we have a footrace, Mr. Paradigm, Jocasta thought blasphemously, I just might be in with a chance.
He waved a hand almost dismissively and the table, which had appeared large enough to seat about ten, suddenly stretched across the room, replete with chairs for all. "If you take a seat, we will discuss particulars. If you do not wish to, then you may leave now."
DARKMEMORIES
The group around Jocasta dispersed rapidly and, as always, it took her a moment to follow suit. None, it seemed, were headed for the door. However, before she could make it to the table and discard a chair that she would not need, her senses gave her the distinct warning prickle that they always did when someone was looking her way. Jocasta looked up and the Paradigm himself was staring straight at her: straight through her. Their eyes met for a moment and there was something in his that it took a second for her to place: Pain? She blinked and pushed herself forward. Longing? Regret? she ventured. ...Love? The entire episode lasted for less than a second but she found herself genuinely unnerved. Worse still, it seemed as if others were so in awe of the Paradigm that most of the unclaimed seats were quite close to him. With little choice, she rolled up to one and slid it out of the way with some Kinetic magic.
"E-Enna?" the old man inquired softly, his eyes and bearing growing indistinct, hopeful, uncertain. "I-is that..." He trailed off and blinked, scanning her up and down. Jocasta wrapped arms around herself warily and the ancient wizard shook his head and cleared his throat. "My... most sincere apologies young lady," he said after a moment. "You bear... a truly uncanny resemblance to somebody else I know." He paused. "Or... knew." He added the last part almost under his breath.
Jocasta bowed her head slightly. Lecherous senile old man! His eyes had been... That is not the way a master looks at a student. Few men had ever done it, but she knew, almost instinctively, how he'd regarded her for a moment. "All is forgiven, Master Zeno," she assured him, carefully modulating her voice. "Though I must say I'm surprised you've met another... like me."The girl from when I reached for time! an internal voice screamed at her. It has to be!
Their conversation was soft enough that it did not carry amid the bustle of everyone taking their seats. He smiled understandingly. "When you're as old as I am," he sighed, "you've met a great many people of a great many sorts."
But I will never be as old as you, Jocasta thought bitterly, an open wound rubbed with fresh salt. She was about to fake some friendly, noncommittal response when he seemed to realize his miscue. "I'm sorry, dear girl. Sometimes, you know, I forget things at my age. I'd not meant to reopen a wound."
Jocasta knit her hands in front of her and nodded soberly. "There is nothing I can do but live the life the Gods have given me the best that I am able," she replied with a note of determined dignity. "That's why I'm here, after all!"
He appeared to study her for a split second and he seemed somehow sharper than a moment ago, as if he'd recovered himself somewhat. "Well, yes indeed," he replied shortly. "Oh, and how rude of me. I neglected to ask your name."
"Right, yes sir. Jocasta, sir. Jocasta Re."
"Jocasta Sir or Jocasta Re?" he joked and she did not dare call upon chemical magic to fake a blush in the presence of so eminent a mage. "Heh, not my best work," he admitted after a moment. "Now, all seem gathered and I must address them, but you and I should speak later. You have a rare talent, I can sense, and I may be able to help you with it."
A rare talent? Jocasta was left wondering. She'd done her best to seem as mundane as possible, Tethered gifts and curse aside. Could he have sensed it? Could he have known that she, too, could use Temporal magic? The girl's stomach began to fold in on itself in worry.
Summary
-- Nonessential Reading --
1. Jocasta occupies the same Master's house as Marlijn, Ingrid, and Jomurr. However, unlike them, she does not receive a bird-borne letter. 2. Instead, Jocasta yanks a bird from the sky, kills it as it struggles, and figures out the riddle for herself. 3. She runs into Benedetto, also on his way there, and they have an unfriendly exchange before he ditches her. 4. She recognizes Temporal magic being used at the Forked Tower and recognizes that people are being counted as they enter. 5. She knocks out Selio and Linah and dumps them outside in some bushes to account for her and Benedetto entering. Then, she uses lower-level Temporal magic to teleport up past the stairs.
-- Essential Reading --
6. Jocasta realizes that she and the twenty-four others are in a profoundly different place and maybe even time. 7. Trypano and Desmond both address Hugo Hunghorasz and he responds. Then, he outlines why everyone is there and gives people the opportunity to leave. 8. Jocasta and Hugo have a slightly unsettling personal interaction that ties into his past and her future.
Dark Wings, Dark Words: Part Two
When everyone had gathered at the table, Hugo Hunghorasz raised his arms slightly for silence and, indeed, the air seemed to deaden to sound. "If you remain here, I will assume that you are all interested in what I have to show you." He nodded, businesslike, and rose. With his staff, he traced a circle in the air at the head of the table. For a moment, it shimmered translucently. Then, in a space that had looked no different from any other mere moments ago, there appeared a scene of what looked like the inside of a large gambling house by night. People moved about inside of it and noise poured outward. "Don't worry," the ancient mage advised, "This is a portal, but they can neither see nor hear us." he shuffled around slowly to face the other side and drew a similar circle. An empty dock and water sparkling under the light of three moons appeared. Distant sounds of conversation and heavy objects being moved could be heard. "The first is in Feska, on a riverboat gambling house," Hugo shared. "The second is on the Isla D'Amato, a notorious den of pirates." He took a few more steps and a third appeared, which he described as the house of an eminent figure and strong ally who was about to be murdered by 'agents of chaos'.
He straightened and, after a moment, all three portals disappeared. "In all three places, a crisis is brewing. A riot is about to break out in the first and a priceless item has been stolen. In the second case, strange happenings are afoot with the pirates and they have taken a captive of immeasurable value. In the third, someone who could do immeasurable good is about to die." Gingerly, the old man sat back down. He gestured and, with the flick of a finger, a folder flew off of a distant shelf, and separated into twenty-six separate pages in midair as it made its way over. These settled gently in front of the gathered students and the Paradigm himself. "You have, in front of you, the details of all situations. I have called each of you here because I felt you were the most capable, by various metrics, among the student body, but that does not mean that I shall call upon every one of you in each instance. The teams that are to handle each situation have been carefully chosen. Each will have precisely half an hour to plan and prepare before I reopen the portals for departure. Should you require any specific items, do not hesitate to ask and, within reason, they will be procured for you."
The aged wizard motioned towards a petite woman with dirty-blonde hair seated in a wheeled-chair to his left. "If those items are on campus, you will step outside the door with Jocasta here, and she will assist you with them. If not, you will come to me."
What happened next was a hive of activity, questions, and organized chaos. The students who looked down at their papers would note their assigned situations and objectives there. Situation One - Lorentine Queen: Carmillia Carbonneau, Manfred Hohenfelter, Dorothea Hohnstein, Seung Eun-Ji, Leon Solaire, Zarra Travendour.
Situation Two - Black Flag: Desmond Catulus, Benedetto Corvi, Ismet'ych'lahin'dichora, Wyvsen Myranne, Karim Nazeri, Ingrid Penderson, Trypano Somia, Onarr Yidlob.
Situation Three - The Lord's Manor: Jomurr Ikon III, Amirah Madasseh Al-Khatib, Penny Pellegrin, Carlo Spalazzi, Marlijn Vaanse, Owain Vaanse
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.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">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?<br><br>Stay awesome, people.</div>
op2024
Suicharte
Jumbus
Fallenreaper
pantothenic
Lildear18
BlackRoseSiren
Carlyle
Ti
Silly
