@dragonpiece Awesome CS. There are few small editing issues, so please give it a quick proofread. That aside, I really like this one and am excited to see the character in action. He has a lot of depth and nuance.
Force and Fury Member
Actually kind of mellow
STATUS: Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/… 3 yrs ago
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Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Don't mind me. Just shilling a thread: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
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3 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
Stay awesome, people.
Most Recent Posts
@Suicharte He's approved. Welcome aboard (again)!
Part Two: Buying and Selling_________ __ __ _ _
Normally, the auctions at Ersand’Enise were reserved for Victendes. However, this was The Trials, and it presented a special opportunity that proved exceedingly difficult for the city’s merchants to turn down. Hence, the regularly scheduled event was being held a day early. Flush with their newfound prizes from the games, students bid extravagantly, spending their money with the reckless abandon of youth. In this instance, many of the older guard - the auction house's more usual buyers and sellers - stood towards the back of the crowded open-sided hall as the sun began to set, arms crossed over their chest, observing and gossiping. There was an uneasy air about the place, despite the outwardly celebratory nature of the day, for they knew that the auctioneers and the bidders were not the only ones buying and selling.
The first day’s worth of negotiations proved a waste, as almost all had known they would be beforehand. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Perhaps that was just the way of these things. As fortunes were lost and won in the Mercantile District, the fortunes of entire nations remained uncertain as the last of the day’s light faded and the crickets and bullfrogs in the arboretum began their nighttime symphony.
It was deep into the hours of Dami that people continued moving about the city, and into those of Ipte as well. Most of these late night ventures were innocent enough: foreign youths enjoying their final night in the city of magic, rollicking and reveling before a bleary-eyed departure the following day. Some, however, were about with real purpose.
The monarchs in their guest homes had not missed the jabs and jibes directed at them during the day. The papers had been everywhere. Their reception as they’d made their way through the Workman’s Quarter had been less than raucous. Some had opted to travel incognito. Those most foreign among them went all-but unrecognized. It was in this part of the city, seething and impoverished by comparison with the rest of it, that the ideology of the Traveler held most sway. It was here that a small group of nondescript people had been meeting - just as fruitlessly as their more illustrious peers - for hours.
“I don’t see why the vote should have to be unanimous!” roared a large man, hammering the table as he stood. In truth, while they remained in the majority, he knew that his side was slipping. It had started, seven hours ago, with one dissenter. Now there were three among the ten, and at least a couple more wavering.
“This is the best damned chance we’re going to get in a lifetime!” added a woman in a red mask. “I, as I’m sure we all do, lament the loss of life, but what is one bitter pill now if it frees us of centuries of their depredations?”
Its tone was not raised, but it cut through the hot voices that had taken over the room. “And yet it is not you,” it reminded the man and the woman, “who will be swallowing that pill yourselves.” The black masked figure remained seated. It shook its head. “Us who lead the fight against the privileged few must be wary lest we become reflections of them.”
A yellow-masked man snorted, his smiling mask belying what appeared to be his true feelings on the matter. “Fine words, Nero, but they take us no closer to our ultimate goal: the revolution.”
“Hear hear!” shouted a couple of other voices. There was a ragged hammering of approval on the table.
At the very head of it there sat a silent figure, its mask gold. For the first time in quite a while, it released its stillness by tilting its head to one side. “It is an easy mistake to make,” that silent figure interjected, “and one that I fear is becoming all too common.” It rose. “Our goal is not the revolution. It has never been.”
“I-I merely meant… that-”
A gloved hand reached up and the gold-masked figure placed a finger to its lips. There was silence. “The revolution is a means to an end, one of many possible paths.”
The black-masked figure observed it and nodded slowly for its counterpart to continue.
“Our goal has always been - and remains - ensuring the best for all people. Now, answer me this, Smiler, does a war that will kill millions ensure the best for all people?”
“Does an endless cycle of poverty and exploitation?” interjected a gravelly voice. A lean figure in a silver mask rose to be heard. “Sacrifices must be made. It is the deaths of some now for the salvation of a great many in the future.”
They had become lessened in their restraint over these past hours. A group of normally very composed individuals reduced to mere politicians in that time. The black masked figure was finished watching. It, too, stood. “If this were strictly the case, Argento, then you would be correct and we would have no argument. It is not, however, the case. You and those who have taken your side are eager to view this as a binary issue. Either we have the war and it will inevitably allow us to stage our glorious revolution and, of course, that revolution will lead to a utopia. Else, we do not have the war and the revolution will not be possible. Without that revolution, there is no utopia.” Nero shook his head. “Do you see how limited that thinking is?”
“So you would gamble on some nebulous alternative?” challenged the red-masked woman.
“If we are to be truly egalitarian, we must show some faith in people’s ability to recognize opportunities on their own and act upon these, else we are a ruling cabal, little different, in spirit, from those already in place.” He clasped his hands at the small of his back. “We do not need a war in order for things to become unbearable. If we can save lives, it is morally incumbent upon us to do so. Even a single one sacrificed in the name of our cause against her will is one too many.”
Gold spread its arms. “Brothers and sisters,” it implored, “let us not lose hold of our ideals - the very things that ignite our cause and make it worthy - in a rush to be pragmatic. We are not warriors. We do not look to fight. We do so if we must.”
The tenor of the discussion had changed. Red had nodded grudgingly. Yellow threw himself back into his seat, crossed his arms, and snorted, signalling his surrender. “You are great-hearted, as always, Dorato, but you are wrong on this,” grated Argento. “I am not so foolish, however, as to be unable to recognize that I shall be outnumbered on this.” He bowed his head. “I yield with a warning: more will suffer because of this decision than otherwise.” He sat.
“And of our army?” inquired a new voice. “What of them?” It was a woman in a blue mask.
Gold and Black twisted at the very same moment to regard each other. “Why, it shall still be used,” allowed the latter. “There is no better way to put the fear into tyrants than empowering their people.” Gold nodded in agreement. “Perhaps we shall have our revolution after all.”
“Or perhaps the war shall be avoided through these very actions.” Nero leaned forward and pressed his hands onto the tabletop. “All rise for a vote.”
It was ten against accelerating the war to zero in favour.
The masked figures who met at the edge of the Workman’s Quarter were not the only ones attempting to prevent a war or, at least a hot war. In the Violet Enclave, lights burned into the darkness and plans were made for an announcement on the morrow. If any among the group that met here harboured misgivings, they did not dare speak out. If there was less hierarchy in this meeting, there was also less democracy. Besides, the stones had already been quarried. They had been carved and now lay hidden, as did the Traveler’s ‘army’, under canvas and tarpaulin in a series of warehouses. Contracts had been signed. People had been sent. It was far too late to turn back now, and so matters were decided with many long-winded speeches but minimal fuss.
So it was that the city of Ersand’Enise finally found sleep that night of Velles the eighth. As the final fires and lanterns were extinguished, eyes ancient and arcane appeared atop the great windy spire of the Forked Tower. And these eyes looked down upon the city and its tiny people below. They stood at varying degrees of consequence to the being who watched over them, from foxbat to mosquito. Soon, they would spill each other’s blood in a war greater than any that had been fought in history: a war that had been in planning for many decades. A vast toothy grin split the lower half of the watcher’s face, teeth sharp and white and gleaming in the moonlight.
The morning dawned cool and overcast, a brisk wind causing flags to strain at their posts and great grey rivers of anvil-shaped clouds to migrate across the sky, their bellies heavy with rain. They gathered by the thousands, then, in Market Square spilling into the various labyrinthine streets of the Mercantile and Artisans’ Districts. Claresse Upta, Zenith of Ersand’Enise, was giving a speech to close out the four-hundredth iteration of The Trials. It was actually rather a good one, but Sven Bjornsson could scarcely pay attention to it.
It was late the night previous when Ingrid had approached him with a plan. The funds for the music box were due today and they did not have them. It would either mark the end of their ill-advised little rebellion, or else they would be forced to take irreversible action. It had been a red-eye discussion, into Ipte’s hours, but they had settled upon a plan. The two of them and Desmond were to accept the government’s funds and make their way towards the secure facility where the music box had been stored. That was their alibi. Meanwhile, their co-conspirators - like-minded students who had joined them in the Hourglass Order - were going to use a distraction that Benedetto had assured them would arrive as cover for a daring caper.
It was cowardly, dishonest, and underhanded, but it could work, and Sven found more honour in preventing a war’s worth of bloodshed than he did in abetting it anyhow. The others would rob them during the exchange, along with the item, as they patriotically attempted to defend it. All would make out with upwards of two thousand magus. He had wanted to take a stand, first, but the nail that stuck up at this point would only open itself to benign hammered down, and he had made the concession. The goal here was not to burnish his ego but to save lives: both human and animal lives. In, he breathed, and out. He’d said his goodbyes, already, to some of the foreign friends he’d made. They’d exchanged addresses and would write, or so they’d told each other. From his experience, such arrangements ran about a thirty percent success rate.
Then, the customary speech was finished, and he duly provided his best applause. Yet, there was more. All at once, a colossal surge of energy filled the air. From seemingly every direction rose massive stones. They floated overhead, gathering above one corner of the expansive plaza that had been cordoned off, and there they took shape. A yawning circular gate solidified itself in front of the twin pavilions, fifty feet tall and as many in width. Then, the sky crackled with energy as students and laymen gasped and shouted. Time and space trembled and then tore. An enormous swirling mass of energy occupied the center of the portal and - faintly, on the other side - there appeared figures. “Ladies and gentlemen, students and laymen alike,” announced the Zenith, “It is my honour and privilege as Zenith of this city and this institution to announce the opening of a permanent connection to Callanast: the Silk Portal!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, gasps, and a rising crescendo of raucous conversation. A permanent portal to Callanast!? Sven could scarce fathom such a thing. He glanced about at his peers, and they seemed already to be hotly discussing its merits and drawbacks. “On the other side, as one steps through, lies the Hegelan capital of Hogh Munkhelad, now revealed in all of its majesty for the rest of the world.” She spread her arms, regal and beatific. “Every Victendes, from sunup to sundown, this great gate shall remain open, courtesy of the talents of this institution. In the future, there shall be a fee, and four more cities added to our nascent network, for the other four days of the week.” She nodded and gazed out over the crowd. “For today, this portal is free to use: free and open!”
At that, they cheered. Sven wasn’t sure how to feel, and he was not the only one. The Zenith went on to explain that all neutral cities - those engaged in neither war nor aggression - would be eligible to bid for portal connections. The benefit to trade and exchange of ideas would be immense. It would be world-altering. His head swam. The opportunities! The dangers! In the end, he joined the cheers. Most everyone did. It was that momentum that carried them all of the way through the rest of the closing ceremony. The visiting teams left, a half-dozen lesser portals closed, and the Hegelans of Shortlisted stepped through with waves and smiles.
That was when the chaos began. A massive aberration materialized in the center of the crowd, and then a second immediately outside of the portal. One missed Niallus by inches, and another latched onto Marlijn and drew itself into her. They appeared by the dozens. They appeared by the hundreds...
Part One_________ __ __ _ _
Did people’s true colours finally come to light when they stepped into the Chamber of Greed, or was it afterwards, during Right or Spite?
Every single prize was claimed, even the hidden ones. At least a few of the youths were clever. The remainder were either strong or found themselves flattened as their fought tooth and nail over the chamber’s treasures. In the end, it was the teams of Zenos Fades-in-Moonlight and Zander Mozaru who came away with most of the treasures, greatly enriching themselves, but it was their counterparts in Sectoxomactex’s and Luria Colloy’s apprentice groups who contested first position, with the former winning out. Oh, how alliances were made and tested, friendships strengthened or ruined, and schemes put into play.
The result was a razor-thin finish between the top seven teams, all out of Ersand’Enise, and doing the academy proud by asserting its superiority over its lesser peers. The prize appeared to be the Heartstoppers, much to Sectoxomactex’s delight, for he had boldly predicted just such an outcome beforehand. Yet, here it was the trickery of one student - the powergazer Silas Reiger - that pulled off the greatest heist that The Trials had seen in a century. Spinning a web of promises, guilt, and incentives, he persuaded four separate teams to trade votes with his in their entirety, honouring precisely none of these agreements. In the end, Zeno Hamir Zemana’s group leapfrogged all of the others from a dubious sixth into first place. You should have seen how they scrambled over each other, stepped on their fellow students' dreams, and pushed aside their better natures in the name of profit. Perhaps, in some sense, they had never truly left the Chamber of Greed.
Yet, there were other matters of great and - in truth - greater import afoot. Some arrived grandly, others simply, and a few even meekly, but the delegations and leaders of nations appeared in Ersand’Enise for the conclusion of The Trials. In truth, they stood on the city state’s neutral ground in the hope of averting (or perhaps igniting) a war.
The Sage and the Scoundrel_________ __ __ _ _
“Brother, I’m going to have to appear for the both of us, aren’t I?”
The Sage did not move. He continued to sit, cross-legged, meditating.
“Ah, so I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then.”
The Sage did not move. There remained no answer.
The Scoundrel decided to take drastic measures. With the speed of a striking serpent, he reached out to slap the top of his brother’s bald head. “Why do you insist on asking if you know the answer?” replied the Sage, catching the Scoundrel’s hand. The latter blinked. After a moment, he chuckled in soft amusement and shrugged, sitting down with an almost childlike ease beside his brother. “I dunno,” he admitted. “Call it a silly little thing like hope.” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe someday you won’t be a total bore.”
“Maybe someday, you will be wise.”
The Scoundrel burst out laughing.
President Atundo Yibozo_________ __ __ _ _
The heat of Yabusa was already stifling this time of year. The rainy season was coming to an end, but much of its humidity lingered, increasingly supplanted by the dry scorching heat rolling in from the sahel. President Yibozo was in his study, busily packing a luggage full of items he might need during his stay in Ersand’Enise while swatting halfheartedly at the flies that had come in through an opened window. He supposed it would be a brief stay and he was glad of it. The city of magicians hung like a sword on a string above the heads of nations, his most especially.
With little ceremony, he threw on his jacket - an unbearable garment in this heat, or even that of the southern city, but a necessary one. The kings and queens, relics that they were, had normalized a particular dress code. If he would not adhere to it, Atundo could not entirely flout it either. As with all things in this new democratic government, it was a matter of careful balance, and it was tiring. How the weevils had come out of the woodwork since his election! How they had offered him crowns of many sorts.
Deciding that he was finished, the President stepped outside, closing the door behind himself, luggage hanging from his wrist as he finished buttoning his overcoat. He took a deep breath, brushed himself off, and headed down the Long Hall, servants - civil or otherwise - nodding deferentially his way. He had never trusted portals, but he was to arrive by one, like a king would - only, Atundo Yibozo was no king.
Empress Namiri I of Belzagg_________ __ __ _ _
“I shall be wearing black.”
“But, your radiance, the official mourning period is at an end. Perhaps, if I may recommend, it might do to display the erm… full majesty of Belzagg through other choices?”
Namiri’s chin was held high, as she had been taught since childhood, and she turned with measured grace to glance her lady-in-waiting’s way. “I understand, Megola. Nonetheless, I shall be wearing black.”
The four ladies attending her glanced among themselves uneasily. “Some say it would not do for Belzagg to remain too long in mourning, your radiance. It may send the message that -”
Namiri whirled on the speaker. It was Lady Kali - that plaything of the Kikusi. “Who says, Lady Kali, or are you too craven to take ownership of your own thoughts?” The empress spun on the spot and how they backed away, bowing profusely and joining their hands before their foreheads in gestures of atonement. “Need We remind you what happened the last time that a monarch of Belzagg ventured south to the City of the Bells? Need We remind you how they stood aside and let Jobanzaggah, our noble father, be butchered like a common thief!” She hid the trembling of her lip. She drew away the moisture in her eyes and the desire within her to hold someone. An empress must not show weakness. She whirled again to face the mirror, chin held high, gaze dispassionate down the bridge of her nose. “No, We shall make them feel what they deserve to feel for their transgressions against us. They shall be made to remember.”
Ekra was the first to come forward. She bowed respectfully, hands knitted before her. “Then I shall dress your radiance in black.”
Namiri smiled. “Thank you -” my friend “Ekra, and we shall dress most provocatively, I think.”
One of the older ladies pointedly hid a scowl. Sometimes, it was amusing to purposely ignore their subtle gestures until they were forced to either concede or lay bare their intent but, in this case, the empress decided to indulge Lady Jesaan. “I am under no illusions, my valued coterie, so steel yourselves against them as well: I am young, I am a woman, and I have not yet sat the Ivory Throne for but a month.” She began to peel out of her dress and they rushed to help her. “They shall attempt to seat me at the children’s table. They shall attempt to seat Belzagg there, else they will look to fill my impressionable young mind with their self-serving notions.”
The garment slid off of her and she stood, nearly naked, before the mirror. “We shall not entertain these.” Imperiously, she held a hand out for the appropriate dress. Each of her ladies approached holding one. “No,” she dismissed one. “No, no, yes… no. Lady Ekra, step forward.” She plucked it from her childhood friend’s hands. “The rest of you may leave. Lady Ekra, you may remain and assist me. You have pleased me this day.” Bowing respectfully, they departed, and the two youths were left in each other’s company. “Your radiance, if I may be so bold…”
Namiri blinked. Sometimes it was still strange to hear Ekra speak this way. Sometimes, she mourned it. “Of course, my friend.” She could say ‘friend’, at least, without the others listening. Ekra smiled demurely, as was her way, but then her expression settled. “They do not deserve to gaze upon your radiance.” She shook her head tightly. “Those lecherous old men.” Namiri could see the muscles in her jaw clenching.
“I… appreciate your concern,” the empress indulged, “but that is precisely why I shall do it. If I am to be in mourning, it shall not be the meek mourning of a thing that hides beneath thick shrouds of darkness, but the accusation of a lioness.”
Ekra stopped herself from raising an eyebrow, and it was not a pointed action. Namiri cracked a slight grin. “Too much?”
“You speak ever so grandly these days, you know.”
“We are Belzagg.” The newly crowned empress shrugged. She smiled tightly. “And more than one mere girl, I fear.”
“Nami…”
Namiri shot her a warning look. “It is ‘Namiri’ now, when we are alone like this, or else ‘your radiance’.”
“Yes, your radiance.”
The empress shot her friend a small, appreciative smile - almost an apology, for she could no longer offer those - waiting for her to continue.
“I… accept that matters between us must be different now,” Ekra advised, “but you don’t have to do this alone. A forest stands stronger against the wind than a lone tree, even a great one.”
How they had embraced each other when the news of her father’s death had arrived. How Ekra had been there, soothing her: an absolute rock, calm and steady amid the tempest that had been those days of uncertainty. Namiri embraced her in spirit now. “Then I accept your offer, Lady Ekra, wholeheartedly.” She smiled. “Now, let us figure out how to turn some heads. I shall see where the eyes of these old men find themselves and just what I can learn of them as a result.”
Namiri was young, and not unattractive. They could both lust after her and learn to fear and respect her. The more potent the mix of emotions that she engendered, the less control they would have and, consequently, the more that she would. “A ruler holds the leashes of her friends and rivals alike. She holds the leashes of everyone as if they are beasts that might attack both her and each other. This is why one alone is not enough. It stops them from pulling in one direction, but does nothing against others.” Those had been her father’s words to her upon her fifteenth birthday. “When it is your turn to sit the Ivory Throne, you must remember this: hold many leashes over the strongest beasts, and then they will hold the others.”
It was early in the hours of Ishun and the cavernous expanse of the Radiant Hall was thick with incense and the sounds of tambourines, flutes, and drums. Various courtiers, nobles, and servants stood about in their hastily-dressed finest, busy rubbing sleep from their eyes and conversing in whispers and murmurs. Then, there was a clank, and the colossal doors at one end of the great chamber opened. “Namiri, first of her name,” thundered the crier, “Queen of the Zangyewo, Warden of the Ivory Throne, Mistress of Sedge and Bee, and Empress regnant of Belzagg!” They blinked and covered their eyes as she emerged from the rising sun, a growing spot of utter contrast amid the brilliant rays.
The young ruler wore a loose black dress with golden clasps, accents, and collar. Slit high up on each thigh, it deferred to her in every movement, gathered about her waist, and bared the entirety of her back. Namiri did not so much walk as she glided, head held high, hair carefully braided into a great circular halo that framed her young and noble face. She paused before the raised dais where the Ivory Throne lay and turned to face her court. “We shall not be seated today,” she announced. “My trusted advisor, Kejammah of Ikon, shall act in our stead. Let none doubt his authority.”
They bowed and raised their hands to their foreheads in acceptance of her decree. She lifted her right hand and the third and fourth fingers on it and they rose. Behind her came a surge of Temporal energy. From the courtiers emerged twenty escorts, chosen for their power with the Gift and their loyalty. The empress turned and now stood before the swirling nothingness of a portal. The escorts preceded her and Namiri followed, five more bringing up the rear behind her. Then, she stood beneath a large gazebo. A great green lawn stretched about the empress and her retinue and, beyond it, the school she had so desperately wanted to attend before circumstance had decreed otherwise.
Rouis XI_________ __ __ _ _
“Oh no,” proclaimed the king, “I shall not be attending their little desperation meeting. I am Perrence and Perrence does not stoop. Let them scramble.” He grinned smugly, skewering a slice of his eggplant with the tip of his knife and shoving it into his mouth.
“But… father, you shall be in the city,” protested one of his sons - one of the lesser ones. Rouis had half a mind to correct him - it’s ‘your majesty’ - but he did not. Sometimes, one needed to indulge even his less preferred children. “I shall be in the city, Charles,” replied the king, swallowing, “in an unofficial capacity. None shall know of my presence but those who need to. I shall send Arcel in my stead. It is known as a calculated insult.” He gestured with his knife. “You’d do well to learn.”
The boy stood and bowed tightly at the waist. “I shall endeavour to do so.” This one was not made of kingly stuff and, unlike his father, was unlikely to learn it. Rouis at the same age would’ve challenged his father or grandfather immediately as to the reasons for such a slight and as to the nature of their business. A king does not ask, he demands and - if he is any true king whatsoever - his demands are met. “Good man,” the elder Perrenchman replied, “now begone and let me eat my meal in peace.”
“As you wish, your majesty.” How submissive they all were. How it tore him up inside.
Sancho de Torragòn_________ __ __ _ _
A king paced before his guardsmen, hands clasped at the small of his back, the plumes on his wide-brimmed hat fluttering in the stiff breeze of Torragòn. “We do not come as conquerors this time, but a show of force is still required, to remind them who we are.” He paused, pivoting crisply on his heel and starting back the way he had come. He looked up to address the four hundred. “I do not trust our enemies to play with honour. I trust some of our allies even less, but we must appear to trust them, so we enter through the front gate but have a plan to leave through the rear on a moment’s notice. If they wish to fight, then they will fight, but Torragòn will make its own terms.”
King Sancho’s personal guard, standing beside their horses, saluted. Their monarch nodded. He made the Sign of the Pentad and they followed. “Now,” he announced, coming to a stop beside Vencedor, his great black warhorse, “that is all I have to say, so we go!” In a single, smooth motion, he swung himself into the saddle, hitched up his gloves, and took the reins. “¡Adelante, a la boca del dragón!”
Prospero Malatesta_________ __ __ _ _
A king stepped onto the dock. He did not call himself a king, though he was, and he did not arrive by portal, though he could have. Perhaps it was a way to remind people how very close to Ersand’Enise Revidia and its capital were. Perhaps it was to demonstrate that he was not some distant monarch, but merely a man, same as any other. Regardless of its intent, it was most certainly planned. Everything was planned with Prospero Malatesta.
What was not, however, were the signs and papers plastered about Mudville and the port: pinned to wooden posts, walls, and noticeboards, they pegged him for a war criminal, a greedy and grasping robber baron, and a lying despot. His guard attempted to take the offending pamphlets down in his presence, but the doge forestalled these efforts. Calmly, he walked up to one, plucked it from its place, and examined it, letting out an amused snort. He folded it and stuffed it into a pocket. “It appears they’ve debunked me, Rodrigo.” He smiled tightly and was on his way. Out, beyond the harbour, where gulls bleated and wheeled under the morning sun, anchored two dozen ships of the Illustre Marina della Confederazione di Revidia.
Part Two Arriving Tomorrow!_________ __ __ _ _
Tarlon: the shrouded continent.
Few ever lay eyes upon it. None call it home. For as long as men can remember, it has been an eerie
and unnatural place. Its silent shores emerge from the fog, littered with the timbers of shipwrecks and
failed settlements, a cold wall of pines standing stoic sentry. Why, then, are you foolish enough to try?
Is it because you know that the empire is collapsing, or is it because you've never truly liked or trusted
your human neighbours? Ever have they outnumbered the yasoi. Ever do they seek to claim land as
their own. Grasping is what they are. Yet, are you not doing as they do? Do you not seek advantage
for yourself and your kin, or is it something else that drives you? Something darker? Is it desperation?
Or have you come for Tarlon's secret?
A Legend of Sipenta
and unnatural place. Its silent shores emerge from the fog, littered with the timbers of shipwrecks and
failed settlements, a cold wall of pines standing stoic sentry. Why, then, are you foolish enough to try?
Is it because you know that the empire is collapsing, or is it because you've never truly liked or trusted
your human neighbours? Ever have they outnumbered the yasoi. Ever do they seek to claim land as
their own. Grasping is what they are. Yet, are you not doing as they do? Do you not seek advantage
for yourself and your kin, or is it something else that drives you? Something darker? Is it desperation?
Or have you come for Tarlon's secret?
You fool. This place will break you as it has broken all others.
A Legend of Sipenta
Thin Air 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝅘𝅥𝅯 𝅘𝅥𝅰
It was eight minutes and forty seconds of chaos - in truth, one hour eight minutes and forty seconds - for the preparatory period beforehand saw more than its share of skullduggery, sabotage, and hurried or even preparation. By a myriad of means, one thousand two hundred eighty youths from the world over ascended into the air.
In practice, this meant kinetic, magnetic, or even chemical magic for most. Skyborn abilities were in great demand. For many, it meant climbing countless flights of steps, launching themselves into the air, or hitching some sort of ride. Some had dragons or other beasts of the air, but most did not. A handful bought or rented hot air balloons. The Travendours of Perrence made a small fortune that day. Then, there were the contraptions: magically or mechanically powered, they fluttered, flopped, strained, and sometimes even rose into the sky, rarely majestic but always entertaining.
The problem was that they sure made nice targets. Dozens were the youths who fell, screaming, from the sky, saved either by their own magic or that of the many Zenos on patrol. It was more than one who grumbled and griped about the thankless and demeaning job, but such was the unquestioned strength of this tradition that they dared not voice their open objection.
When the bells began to chime and half a minute remained, what a show it became! How they flung themselves into the air! How they battled, swooped, and flew! Balloons went down in flames, frontrunners crashed and burned, desperate last-second gambits either came to sudden fruition or - more commonly - backfired. The great aerial faire came to a conclusion as the powerful Temporal Magics of the most eminent masters held time still long enough for the various teams’ heights to be measured and recorded.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. They gathered in the Grand Plaza before Balthazar Hall as wooden panels flipped and fluttered in the grasp of kinetic magics and the leaderboard came to reflect the results of the recent event. While there were some new faces who had ascended and some dominant forces who had fallen, the majority of the upper echelons remained the same. The handful of teams - mostly of the Academy itself - who had dominated from the outset continued to do so, though the race had tightened to a scintillating degree heading into the final event: Chamber of Greed.
Misadventures
With that, they found themselves dismissed. It was not quite yet noon and much of the day remained. For all teams ranked below twenty-fifth, the scramble to gain enough signatures to join in the final event commenced, for the Chamber was open only to the top twenty-five and the same number more of those who gathered enough support to join them. The rest… dispersed. They dispersed to their various interests, pursuits, errands, and socializations. Many got up to mischief and some found themselves genuinely in hot water, for the City of Magic was very much a powder keg by this juncture, its leadership desperately trying to keep the lid on matters until the festivities concluded.
There were misadventures in Mudville, trips into Perrence, and the rumblings of an unadvised youth rebellion during the night that did go according to plan. Perhaps the greatest mystery was just what took place on the Ensollian island of Djamant, for a half-dozen students of some of the competition’s most dominant teams found themselves there by means of Temporal magic and then in a fight for their lives against forces unknown. The mystery only deepened with the disappearance of the team fielded by the Holy See of Varennes: Covenant, and the intrigue sharpened as news spread of the coming arrival of multiple heads of state.
Greed
The day dawned with the rumble of thunder and a steady downpour: an early summer storm of the subtropics as if to mourn the end of the Games and the approach of war. Yet, it did not dissuade the teams who had been gathering signatures for the past twenty-three hours. After a final scramble, twenty-six of them (for one qualified automatically due to the mysterious withdrawal of Covenant) joined the automatic qualifiers and the stage was set.
It was 5:00 HS when the first of the contesting groups stepped through a swirling violet portal to find themselves in a vast anteroom. White marble floors and pillars held up a ceiling of the same colour that seemed almost to glow, so clean and bright was it. As soon as the last of them arrived, a new portal opened before them and numbers appeared, ethereal and hovering in the air, counting down from ten, nine, eight…
The Chamber of Greed opened and the scramble was on. While some gave into their more selfish impulses immediately, the majority held back in the hopes of making it to the final round: legendary for the rarity and quality of its hidden prizes. In the end, precisely ten qualified: The Gunboat Diplomats and Blaze of Glory from the Group of Ipte, Snaked and Afraid and Vyshta's Favoured from the Group of Shune, SYCAMORE and Good Guy Team from the Group of Oraff, You Could Never and Lucky Seven from the Group of Eshiran, and Heartstoppers and team VOID from the Group of Dami. Some learned the trick of breathing within the treacherous chamber. Others remained in the dark.
Regardless of what they had or hadnt' learned, after a brief and late lunch, the ten remaining teams gathered once more in the White Hall. The numbers appeared. The players took their positions, each trusting or distrusting their teammates as they would. Then, the timer reached zero and the final game of the Trials began!
Rules and Resources
Welcome to the final cycle of The Trials. Though each team will participate in two matches IC, we will only be playing through the final one. This will be played out the same way that we did The Dragon, with strategies of up to 300 words being submitted to me, on this forum, by Direct Message (DM). Each active player will need to submit one. This must include which spot that player is going in (from first to fifth), a priority list of which chests or treasures they will be going for, and your responses to any trivia that you will need to answer to open those chests. The responses will not count towards your word limit. This DM will be due by Monday, December 26, at 10:00 PM EST. Please read the hider below thoroughly. If you have read it and still have questions, feel free to ask myself or a moderator for assistance.
Event five, Chamber of Greed, starts now. Good luck!
Missing 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝅘𝅥𝅯 𝅘𝅥𝅰
“Sebas!” came the call through the door. “Sebas!”
Sebastien Marais rolled over in bed and groaned. “Go away!”
Audette took that as permission to open the door. She had risen well before him, of course, as she always did, to begin the day’s preparations. His work as a coachman sometimes kept him out late, and the night before had been no exception.
“We are missing our sieve,” she griped. “Have you moved it?”
He sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinked. “Of course not,” he replied automatically. “Why would I move the sieve?”
“Are you certain?” she prodded anxiously, fingers knitting and unknitting themselves, glancing over her shoulder. “Because I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Mon cœur,” he joked, “do you not know the man you have been married to for eleven years?” He shook his head. “If I never had to set foot in a kitchen the rest of my life, I would be in all five heavens. No, I have not seen the thing in a week.”
“Hhhhnnnn.” She let out an exasperated sigh, softened by a slight, rueful smile. “I was hoping this was some trick of yours,” she groaned. “It means we have lost it, because I have looked. By Shune, I have looked.” Sebastien started to rise and he believed her. The negative result of her search was written all over her face. Padding across the wooden floor, he planted a soft kiss on his wife’s forehead. “Then I shall go to Henri and buy us a new one on the morrow, or perhaps we can send one of the girls.”
Audette closed her eyes for a moment and her breathing steadied. “There goes the money for Father’s Day and Fortuna.” She opened them and shot him an apologetic look.
He squeezed her shoulders. “I can make do without, and perhaps it will turn up. You know, perhaps one of the girls has it.” It had just occurred to him. Lisette and Genevieve so often liked to play house, and they usually dragged either Charles or Bernard in when the boys weren’t together.
Audette’s face shifted. It became determined, and she glanced between Sebastien and the door just to her right. “You know, I bet you’re right.” She separated herself to go investigate but made it only a couple of steps before pausing. “Oh, but I must not wake them. Lisette is supposed to go with Mirella today, and Genny has her lessons in the Gift.” She bit her lower lip. “The little devils. I bet they misplaced it.”
“Can we live without the sieve for one morning?” asked Sebastien, taking the opportunity to dress himself, for he was irreversibly woken at this point. Audette turned to him with a tired smile. “I can make do without, and perhaps -”
Then, there was a scream - no, a shriek - of the sort that stabs deeply and immediately into any parent’s mind with instinctual urgency that freezes every other concern: the sound of their child in terror.
They hadn’t even made it to the door when a whole chorus of shrieks erupted from the other three. Audette was first, Sebastien nearly crushing her in his haste as she paused to open the door.
In the center of the bed was Genevieve, her small face an inhuman thing of horror: eyes and mouth impossibly large, skin red, hands clawing backwards on the bed she shared with her siblings. They had tumbled off of it, Charles on the floor, tangled in the blankets, screaming. Lisetts wailed. Bernard ran straight for his father. Such was their terror that they could not form words.
Such was the sight that it took Audette and Sebastien alike a good five seconds to comprehend it. “Ses jambes!” Bernard cried. “Ses jambes!”
Lisette’s eyes darted between her sister and her parents, the former screaming repeatedly and uncontrollably. “Ses jambes,” she whimpered, tears spilling down her cheeks. She pointed fearfully, but now they saw it. Genevieve finally seemed to register something other than the evil that had been done to her and her eyes fixed with heart-twisting fear and emptiness on her parents’. Her legs: the girl’s legs were gone.
Ambitions
Nine-year-old Genevieve Marais was not alone that day in loss. By some minor miracle, the escapades of the night before had not cost any lives, but for the payoff of one humbled sanguinaire, three had been irreversibly damaged. News spread rapidly: strange warps in stone or wood, missing items, mystery sorenesses, ill dreams, and fleeting notions of having been woken up at some point in the night abounded.
These, then, would appear to be matters for the authorities. They would appear to paint an incomplete picture in need of a solution. Yet, while the people of the Workman’s Quarter may have been common, they were not so simpleminded as their overlords in the rich townhouses and the shining towers must have believed them to be. There was not one report issued to the academy or the Century. They knew what had happened, for it had happened before. For as long as there had been a Workman’s Quarter it had happened with startling regularity. And so the ungifted commons who occupied it did as they always had: they spoke of it amongst themselves and nobody else. They gathered in their bitterness and hatched plans in furtive conversations around wells, dinner tables, workbenches, and in the shadowed rear reaches of pubs and cheap concert halls. They spun ambitions of how they would yet get theirs - how they’d get it back: the same sorts of tales they’d spun for centuries to sate their embittered need for agency.
Only, this time, it was different. They knew the Traveler’s agents among them, and those names moved rapidly, but never into the grasping hands of their betters. They flocked to these men and women and they swelled the Traveler’s ranks, eager to drink of his fountain of hope, of her promise of mana and magic and something that might make them mean something in life. They did not know who their charismatic saviour was. They did not know if he was a man or she was a woman, and it was a topic of much idle speculation and many yarns that the agent one’s brother or cousin or best mate had just spoken with was actually the ringleader. Most secretly knew that there was no one, single figure named ‘The Traveler’. If there was, then it was wise that he hide his true self, lest those with power come and destroy her.
For all of this mourning and plotting and bubbling fury that now very likely threatened to spill over, however, the people of the Workman’s Quarter and the Crafter’s Quarter woke up early, as they always did and walked off into the cool grey dawn to serve their purpose and earn their keep, telling themselves that, soon, things would change: very soon.
Revelry and Misadventure
Meanwhile, the children who had paid four hundred Magi to attend the Academy of Thaumaturgy for the year woke up bright and early. They dressed themselves eagerly, chatting around the breakfast table about tactics and strategies and possible prizes to be discovered as they stole a quick meal. Then they bounced, bounded, and - for those who had been perhaps a bit too active the night before - trudged off to Balthazar Square, where they soon found themselves scrambling to select allies from the myriad exotic guest teams who had come to stay over the past week from magic schools far and wide.
Whisked off through portals following a succinct but thorough - some may have said ‘hurried’ - explanation of the rules, they arrived at a dozen unique arenas spread across the twin continents. This was Roses & Neskals, a more modern adaptation of a traditional Eskandr game of magic, conquest, and flying bludgeons, with perhaps just slightly less bloodshed than before. It was the third of the five Trials, and perhaps even more gruelling than its predecessor: The Dragon.
From the start, it was clear that some players knew what they were doing more than others, for the game was most popular only in certain regions, and certainly not on the distant shores of Callanast. It had always been rumoured that at least one game per Trials was always thrown in specifically to favour the home teams and maintain the honour of Ersand’Enise as host. It would not do to have them lose at their own party, now would it?
The thousand or so youths more or less staggered across the finish line, for what it was worth. If Roses & Neskals was intended to be a celebration, it quickly turned into a slog. The matches proved either long and gruelling or swift and brutal, but both varieties left in their wakes a litter of bruised and exhausted bodies.
When the competitors weren’t busy battering each other, they roved about the countryside, poking into every manner of trouble available within their surroundings and uncovering an impressive array of treasures: items handed to them from various grateful or grudging locals. By and large, however, all who were involved were doubtless grateful for having been a part of the grand experience.
When it came down to it, the truth was that only one could win, though. It was the students of Zenos Mozaru, Zemana, Sectoxomactex, and the twins Fades-in-Moonlight and Born-on-Solstice who emerged from the group stage of eight elite teams. In an epic finale, in front of a packed Proving Grounds, it was Sectoxomactex’s group that emerged victorious, with Zemana coming second and Mozaru lasting to the end while the teams apprenticed to the sisters came in fourth and fifth, respectively.
What followed was an evening’s worth of both revelry and misadventure, as renowned bards played at the venerable Five Thrones Tavern, fortunes changed hands in betting houses, and enormous quantities of alcohol were consumed. It served as a fitting backdrop to first kisses, new friendships, and well-earned rests.
Yet, there was a darker side as well. If one Eskandish blood feud was brought to a close in the later hours, another was declared, against targets unknown. The costly efforts of the sanguinaire hunters the night earlier seemed not to have eliminated the problem, and the new bloodsucker was suspected to be female: an entirely different entity. At least one student found herself under assault in the seedier areas of the city, but her story spoke to a new awareness in many of them: they could sense that something was amiss there in the Workman’s and Crafters’ Quarters. What, exactly, were the commons on about now?
Whatever it was, it would prove to be an issue for tomorrow, as it always was and, unless something was to change, would always remain. A gentle rain fell that night, in the Hours of Ipte, perhaps to cleanse, perhaps to soothe. It had cleared by the morning and the young magicians awoke to skies cloudy but no longer threatening a deluge. The worst had held off for now, it seemed.
Thin Air
Yawning, stretching, and chatting as they dressed, they made their way, once again, down to dining tables and sitting rooms, eager to discuss strategies for the upcoming fourth event of The Trials: the absolutely absurd test of altitude known as Thin Air. If the rules were simple, it was this very simplicity and openness that made the game so unpredictable. Any manner of strategies might be employed, so long as they did not cause an instant maiming or fatality. There was much that magic could do. Injury and death were far less to be feared.
There were those who took nothing for granted, however, waking up early despite the day’s relaxed start, drilling, planning, and practising as the last of the night’s drizzle faded. There were those who scouted and those who bribed. There were secret and not-so-secret alliances struck, sealed in various ways. Purchases were made and, soon, almost every craftsman in the city who could cobble together something passable as a ‘flying device’ stood to make a good bit of coin.
Then came the call and they made their way once again to that great plaza before the imposing facade of Balthazar Hall. Instructions were given and allies chosen - a longer period than usual of ten minutes was allotted, for this was the penultimate event and much was at stake now. It would also be the last one allowing for alliances, for Chamber of Greed, coming next, was to be strictly a solo event and, to some contestants, in the most literal sense.
One hour of preparation was given. The teams set immediately to work: the only stipulation being that, when it ended and the race itself began, they would have to begin from ground level. How long they would have to reach the dizzying heights of thin air remained to be seen.
Resources
Matches will be played out the same way that we did The Dragon, with strategies being submitted directly to me on this forum, by Direct Message (DM). However, there will be only one per team, to be prepared collectively. This will be due by Tuesday, December 13, at 10:00 PM EST. Please read the hider below thoroughly. If you have read it and still have questions, feel free to ask a moderator for assistance.
Event four, Thin Air, starts now. Good luck!
@YummyYummy
Frustrated, Jocasta shook her head. "I wish I could say that I did," she replied, "but there isn't much. I remember the Bajja, though." She shrugged. "There was a man: I don't think he was a parent. They'd have erased something like that. Something with an 'A'..." She trailed off and furrowed her brow, shaking her head after an extended moment. "Ambrose?" She scowled. Angelo? He was important to me, though. I remember his big rough hands, skin like tanned leather, the smell of the ocean always on him. He carried me on his shoulders, I think." She smiled faintly. "Along the docks, too, and the thump of that wood beneath my feet." She glanced down at her feet momentarily.
They continued along and she made sure to greet the others. When Zarina appeared beside her again, Jocasta was already looking up at her expectantly. "I remember a dog: a big golden one with floppy ears. No micropets, actually." There was a slight hitch in her next push, but then she forced a smile. Perhaps it was because she knew the dog to almost certainly be dead by now. Perhaps it was something else. "Much as I love animals, I don't think a pet is a great idea for me, given tethered issues with... Well, lifespan," she responded, lowering her voice at the end. "Anyways, We're about here. I'll pay you some other way. You know I will. I don't take freebies, Zaz." Then, there was a surge of magic, an open portal, and an idyllic seaside scene on the other side.
Frustrated, Jocasta shook her head. "I wish I could say that I did," she replied, "but there isn't much. I remember the Bajja, though." She shrugged. "There was a man: I don't think he was a parent. They'd have erased something like that. Something with an 'A'..." She trailed off and furrowed her brow, shaking her head after an extended moment. "Ambrose?" She scowled. Angelo? He was important to me, though. I remember his big rough hands, skin like tanned leather, the smell of the ocean always on him. He carried me on his shoulders, I think." She smiled faintly. "Along the docks, too, and the thump of that wood beneath my feet." She glanced down at her feet momentarily.
They continued along and she made sure to greet the others. When Zarina appeared beside her again, Jocasta was already looking up at her expectantly. "I remember a dog: a big golden one with floppy ears. No micropets, actually." There was a slight hitch in her next push, but then she forced a smile. Perhaps it was because she knew the dog to almost certainly be dead by now. Perhaps it was something else. "Much as I love animals, I don't think a pet is a great idea for me, given tethered issues with... Well, lifespan," she responded, lowering her voice at the end. "Anyways, We're about here. I'll pay you some other way. You know I will. I don't take freebies, Zaz." Then, there was a surge of magic, an open portal, and an idyllic seaside scene on the other side.
@Pirouette@YummyYummy@Salsa Verde@Suicharte@Tackytaff@RezonanceV@Fetzen@Th3King0fChaos@viera
The Fortunes of Kingdoms
The fortunes of nations rise and fall in war like waves on a beach. Sometimes they ebb low and other times, they flow high. If the Parrench had been mauled in the Fields of Fire, then they had come away with a dragon in the hands of one of the king's most trusted: Sir Maerec of Solenne. If the Eskandr were now directly threatening Chamonix and King Arcel with a superior force, then at least the city was wholly committed to its defense and Eleanor was on the way with what remained of her army.
Burned as well, had been a goodly portion of that great city of the yasoi: Loriindton - in some respects cleansed in the fire. The Eskandr were vile now, in the eyes of these people, their cause firmly allied to that of Parrence, and the soul of Talit'yrash'osmax irrevocably damned in the process. They rode out in force and with all due haste to strike a blow for their chosen side.
Meldheim had been put to the torch, a thousand years of Eskandr history and culture along with hundreds of souls lost. Yet, some had been saved by what many were calling an act of the Gods. A prince had been ransomed as well, but the result had been a people united and rallied and an alliance with Kressia formally struck. A second great heathen army incubated in the southlands, gathering its strength before a march north and a final reckoning. Preceding it, however, came the forces of Kressia, now assured of its position as an Eskandr equal and fully committed to the conflict. Queen Astrid had joined them atop Frelser, the great Volcanic Dragon who lived in the Eldfjall and was hers to command, along with a small number of elite Æresvaktr warriors.
Ebbs, they say, and flows.
A Test of Loyalty
Talit’yrash, now effectively Baroness of Loriindton, was one of those people who knew much about the fortunes of battle. Leading a battalion of one thousand from the city where she ruled in all-but name, she drove them hard on horseback. The rangy, tree-dwelling yasoi were less-than-comfortable under the open skies as they departed the forests of south-central Parrence and entered the east-central plains.
It was at the small town of Belfleur where they encountered a conundrum: a sizable Eskandr raiding party under the command of Jarl Ivar the Red, a notable fireblood and cousin to Þorunn Silverhair, had been attacking the town’s outlying villages and now threatened the larger settlement. Ensconced behind his motte and bailey walls, Guillaume, Baron of Belfleur, had raised every able man in his service and even some women and put out a desperate call for assistance. The yasoi had somewhat coincidentally arrived at just the right time to intervene. While they held a substantial numbers advantage of roughly three to one, dealing with the Eskandr would almost certainly slow their rapid march to Chamonix, and there were some among them who were not particularly keen on helping the Parrench as opposed to simply putting an end to the ruinous war. Their choice was stark and a test of where their loyalties lay: bleed time and strength saving the two-thousand souls of Belfleur or let the town and its people burn in the name of reaching Arcel with all due haste.
Redoubt
It had been four days since that first glancing encounter between the vanguard of Sweyn’s army and Arcel’s rearguard. Upon realizing that they were at grave risk of being caught between two enemy forces, the Parrench had broken off from their attempted relief of Chamonix and occupied the high ground west of the city, in the village of Saint-Guilhem and the partially ruined Avincian watchtower known as the La Tour Courbée. From this redoubt, they loomed over the efforts of the two Eskandr armies to dislodge their countrymen from the great city of the East.
The Southmen began constructing engines of siege and sent out raiding parties to harass the surrounding countryside, hoping both to resupply themselves and force the Parrench army to battle while they had the numbers advantage. Arcel, meanwhile, ordered small detachments out to make contact with the nearby villages, evacuating noncombatants and levying local militias to defend themselves or assist the Grand Armée.
Then, in the great distance, scouts began reporting the approach of a fourth army - a smaller one - and the rush was on to identify it. By the time that Queen Eleanor was recognized at its head, the Eskandr were moving to cut off its path to Arcel’s force and the Parrench were at just as great pains to ensure the union, for then they might have the strength to mount an offensive. Forces were urgently recalled from the countryside: Ulfhild of Ulven’s raiding band, Arnaud the Aheri’s militia squad, and the Nashorn’s engineers. The question now became one of just how much each side would be willing to commit.
Notice: @A Lowly Wretch@pantothenic@YummyYummy@Wolfieh@McKennaJ71@Suicharte@Ti
Thin Air has ended and, with it has concluded what would appear to be the day's dramatic centerpiece. The muggy, overcast sky that has been held back only through the efforts of the Zenos finally opens up and a warm tentative drizzle begins. A small and nondescript paper advertisement, written in a neat, swirling hand, hunkers under the little shelter on the noticeboard by Balthazar Square. It includes the following message:
If you’re reading this, an opportunity awaits you. I have lost an item of great value: left in a spot that I can only vaguely recall back near my hometown of Mdara on Djamant. The search will likely be long and arduous, but whosoever recovers it for me shall be handsomely rewarded. Those who do not will still receive compensation. You will not need to dress for rain.
- Jocasta Re
The message has been up since the previous evening and anybody who is going to respond to it will either follow its summons or not at this point. There is a further notice that Jocasta would like people to meet her close to the Arch of Lunatics at Moli’s Emporium near Mudville. The time given is 2:00 HO. A small group gathers. It includes some of her closest friends along with others who she does not know particularly well.
When the group starts to gather, many of them recognize each other and begin to chat. The Trials are entering their final phase and many of their teams are in good position for a top ten finish and the rich rewards entailed. Some even occupy a coveted top five spot. A few familiar with Temporal Magic notice a surge of its particular type of energy some hundred yards distant. It isn't a minute more before Jocasta herself appears: a small white and gold angel juxtaposed against the browns and greys of a damp and soggy day. There is nary a speck of mud to sully her clothes and, presently, the rain seems to tail off. Nonetheless, she is living a sartorially dangerous life at present, and specks of mud stain her gloves and the lower reaches of her dress before long. She makes a sour face, but doesn't hold it for long as she scans the faces of the recent arrivals. Among them she finds some of her closest confidantes in Zarina and Yalen, friends like Kaspar and Trypano, and newer faces like Niallus, Marlijn, and the yasoi Ashon. She takes a moment to greet them each, and make introductiosn with the three who she doesn't really know.
"Follow me if you're interested," she says simply, flashing a small smile of welcome and motioning for them to follow. The ground is awful and she only manages to traverse it with the help of the Gift. "So, it's a jewellery piece," she announces after a bit, twisting to regard them. "For those of you who know anything about tethered 'refuges', you'll know why I can't remember the details. We all get a nice chemical memory wipe upon entry, and everything before that point is hazy." They wind through the fairgrounds. The Roseball pitch from yesterday is still up and will be until the end of the week. Some of the locals are using it, their play a good deal more skilled and less powerful than that of the students. "I'll remember it when I see it, though." Jocasta furrows her brow. "That, I know for certain: these kinds of things can trigger memories, and I'd like to know a bit more about who I am. I also remember there was a sense of urgency, foreboding. I hid it up in a prickly pear cactus near Bajja Misħuta - the Cursed Bay - in an awful hurry." They're in an area near some supply sheds and there is another surge of magic. A portal opens. "Temporal Magic," she remarks to the few who aren't in the know. "I'm good with it and I don't know how or why. I'll open the portal up every hour for about a minute for the next six hours. If you're not back by then, I'll try to come and get you." She flashes a weary look. "Don't make me come and get you," she warns. "Anyhow, the good part's this: recover the piece for me and don't raise every red flag that I've got about your motivations and I'll teach you Temporal. For everyone else, it's one magus and, if you wanna learn and I like you, you can pay. A girl's gotta keep food on the table, right?"
With that, a swirling portal of light and energy opens and, through it, people catch glimpses of a rocky and idyllic seashore in some semiarid place. In the distance, a small castle on a peninsula guards the brilliant azure waters and a grounded shipwreck thrusts its bow out of the water and onto a gull-covered islet. There are cacti scattered about among the rocks, shrubs, and wildflowers and they can almost hear the bleating of the birds, the smell of salt and seaweed, and feel the cool ocean breeze and warm sun on their skin. "Shune's clarity and Reshta's fortune, friends."
- A listing of all active side missions may be found here.
- A thread will be opened up on discord for this storyline to progress once all participants have confirmed.
- You may confirm your participation by reacting to this post. If you have any questions, you'll have two days to post them on the forum.
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