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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3 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
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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?
Antithetical to his title and that of his order, Qasem is a bright light of energy who wears his heart on his sleeve. A charming smile and offer of friendship to most any he comes across is what he likes to think of as the face of his true self, but of course being a truth-seeker does at times call for a mask to be worn: one less open and acquiescing to others.
Most importantly, Qasem does not abide deception in any form. As part of his initiation, he took a vow to root out and report any he finds and uphold truth in all things.
A P P E A R A N C E
Dark of skin, hair, and eyes, Qasem sticks out a distinct foreigner in southern lands. He stands just over six feet, and through careful consumption of chemical remedies, paired with magic has achieved a massive amount of muscle and imposing stature. His preferred dress is brightly coloured and flamboyant; often made of silks or satin and trimmed with metallic thread.
Chemical - Journeyman Blood - Adept Binding - Novice
Given his pitiful RAS, Qasem is forced to compensate for his lack of magical ability by using it in unique and unexpected ways. His primary target for his spells is typically himself; a combination of his practical and magic chemical knowledge allows for Qasem to augment his own body to be much stronger, faster, and resilient for short periods of time. If the situation calls for it, he is able to turn off his pain sensors completely and overclock his body's adrenaline production to stay awake for extended periods. It all comes at something of a cost of course: Such physical exertion requires recovery time, and to preform them at all calls for Qasem to be constantly topped up with a specific formula of vitamins and proteins, distilled once a week and carried in a flask.
Using his magic on others is something he is loath to do, but often called for in his line of work. He struggles to effect others without direct touch, but once done, he has access to all systems of their body. His studies have taught him much about the brain's chemical reactions, and his time as a truthseeker more still. Not quite at the level able to detect his target's exact brain pattern by sensing alone, Qasem instead uses his abilities to replicate the reactions monitored in others within his own body. This gives him particular insight into the emotions and thoughts of others, but is primarily used to detect and stop lies.
There are other magics he's learned: Long forgotten curses, and maledictions that could further make up for Qasem's lacking range and capacity. However, he's never had the need or desire to exercise those.
B A C K G R O U N D
Qasem's history thus far has been as a footnote in the greater fates and tales of others.
First there was family: the great Laghmani lineage, dating back some four-hundred odd years to a group of peasants in the northern Zaqhory desert. A peasant family gifted by Fashdal-Sep a dream of a future to come; one that would bring ruin and destruction. The vision brought the family further north still; to Inipor. For another generation they lived more destitute than even before, thought lying or insane for their stories. Until the Torragonesse came. As the Laghmanis witnessed their homeland ravaged by invaders, they themselves were uplifted in the Inipori capital. Divine seers, the were called, protectors of the Darhannic Dreams. The same gift would continue to reveal itself in the same line every few generations, and while found in Qasem, it was not he who the Dreamer thought worthy to bestow it upon. Instead, he came into the world too-soon and choking for air. A disappointment from the beginning, he would remain small and sickly until adolescence; where his shamefully low RAS made itself known. It was a relief in its own right, any and all hope and expectations of him had fallen to his younger brother, and Qasem was free to toil in the depths of Hanom'Riqash, unearthing dusty tomes long forgotten to time.
Razin was the second being he came to know in the world. Mother and father were deities in their own right to the vision of a four-year old child. It was Razin who had received the family gift, and more. Tormented by vivid nightmares and dreams at a young age, whispers of hope for the next shepherd surrounded him constantly. To Qasem he was a screaming baby - always seeking too much comfort. A blessing in disguise in the end - neglected and forgotten as Qasem was by the others around them. He could soothe Razin, be of use to his brother at least. The years that separated them might as well not have existed for the closeness achieved between the brothers as they grew.
The third notable relationship in Qasem's short life has been Siraj Asghar, his assigned master and Truthseeker of the Greyscale Chamarines. He recognized the value of Qasem's studies and peculiar, albeit weak, magic. Together, they traveled the Darhannic world over five years, deciphering truths within lies and unmasking deceptions for later judgment. Siraj taught him what books could not: the nature of humans, their flaws and graces. How the duality found in them all was something worth preserving - and preservation required absolute truth.
Shortly after his most recent return home, Qasem was called again. Alone, he would be sent to Ersand'Enise as a full Truthseeker in his own right. Officially, his business there was to investigate rumours of a Darhannic wild-blood associated in an assassination plot. Improbable, the people were to believe, that the Inipori council would send one so young and weak in the gift to deal with the claims had they any basis in truth.
M O T I V A T I O N
To serve his order and the Inipor holy council as a truthseeker; bring falsehoods to light and record the truth. More personally and less officially, to return to his younger brother and to protect from the political vultures that circle him.
I N V E N T O R Y
On his Person:
Water-skin - one of the two vessels Qasem exclusively drinks from. Flask - filled with a strange-smelling mixture that somehow always feels slightly warm. Is filled and emptied twice a day. Spear - weapon of choice and one with which he has most training. Round shield - a small shield that can be attached to his forearm or held depending on the situation.
Collection:
Jewellery - A sizable assortment borrowed from his family's collection, though he rarely wares more than two pieces at a time. Lab Equipment - A large chemical setup taking up a significant portion of his room including a distillery, titration equipment, separatory funnels, and more. Traveling Chemical kit - A standing trunk that, despite its name, weighs more that Qasem. Contains a vast collection of dried herbs, powders, and salves as well as a smaller and a much less useful distilling set in the upper compartment. Notes - Multiple books filled with copied passages from Qasem's readings so they can analyzed while away from his usual sources kept in Inipor.
Edyta Łaska is a woman of extremes, as her station and duties demand. Dogmatic, ruthless, and relentless in her pursuit of threats identified by the Red Rezaindian order, she is, conversely, generous, kind, and eager to help those in need. This is, perhaps, what one would expect of someone of her background. However, it is not the entire story.
Somewhere, on a level that perhaps not even she is aware of, there is fear: a fear that the church is certain it burned out of a little girl named Edyta in turning her into a holy weapon. She dreams, she hopes, and she lusts. The forty-odd years that she is expected to live is all too short a time for her. The joy and laughter that she sees in others is something that she craves for herself. Below all of the layers that she has saddled herself with, she misses her family. She wants to be loved. Yet, she is certain that, for love to flourish, evil must be destroyed.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Young, fair, and beautiful, with grey-blue eyes and sandy brown hair, Sister Łaska dresses like a nun of her order: conservatively and chastely. Her hair and neck are often covered, as is the rest of her bar her hands and - sometimes - feet. When in battle, she often (though not always) dons the red robes of her order and wields twin scythes of Ahn-Eshiran, representing fire and ice. It is rare to find her wearing anything but her clerical robes. If compelled to dress informally, she favours simple hairstyles or ponytails, and long, light dresses. She will always carry prayer beads on her person somewhere, as well as a pentact. Her weapons remain concealed.
Having had no formal education for the first eight years of her life, Edyta Łaska considers herself amply blessed by Shune just to be literate. However, there is no denying the role played by her tireless dedication to learning. If she is only truly master of her mother tongue and Avincian, she is fully conversant in Enthish and Perrench, as well as at least somewhat capable in Pestian and Revidian.
T H E G I F T
Icevein ❖ Greyborn
Level 5 in Arcane ❖ Level 3 in Binding ❖ Level 3 in Kinetic ❖ Level 3 in ???
Trained from her eighth year by the Quentic Church in The Gift, Sister Łaska is seamless and fluent in its use as few others are. Magic is a natural extension of her being, as the Gods intended, her immense blessing employed to its utmost in their service. Most particularly, she favours the thermal uses of Arcane Magic, which are greatly empowered by her Icevein mana type. This is further augmented through her Kinetic talents, carefully honed to allow her to strike from a distance, boost her speed to superhuman levels, and manipulate her environment at will.
A whirling dervish of ice and fire in battle, she is blindingly fast and strikes with colossal power and a surgeon's precision, phasing in and out of reality as a greyborn. Her blessing and curse, this mana type allows her to walk in the space between planes of existence, becoming intangible when she does so. Her allies, however, may not be so slippery and, for them, she is well-versed in the sacred art of binding: mending diseased and damaged flesh with a high degree of competence.
Finally, there is the forbidden magic that she has learned, and Edyta has struggled to assimilate it, wracked by feelings of fear and guilt but recognizing its necessity in making her an effective weapon of justice and shield of the innocent. She has trained extensively in this skill, but will not, even under pain of death, speak its name. Sister Łaska understands that, while she is beloved of the Pentad, as are all sons and daughters of creation, it is not for her to make the decisions, but to carry out Eshiran's will. This duty is one that she solemnly accepts with the utmost humility and conviction.
B A C K G R O U N D
It all began in the village of Bynowice in the south of the Kingdom of Warlisz: a tiny place that doesn't even appear on many maps. The majority of its people never travel further than thirty kilometers from their homes, to attend the monthly market in the town of Tarwałki and the cathedral there on feast days. Edyta Łaska was born there to an unremarkable family of serf farmers, the seventh of ten children and fourth daughter.
The first eight years of her life were little different from those of any other girl in any number of villages scattered across the Warlish countryside. Then, shortly before her ninth birthday, she disappeared - literally. Her first time entering the space between planes that greyborn are able to inhabit bordered on traumatic. Some thought that she had died or was a demon. It was during a famine and paranoia ran high.
Only the local priest had some idea that she may have manifested a form of magic. When her parents were questioned and admitted to strange incidents like items falling, minor fires starting, or unusual cold drafts in their house, he passed the information on to the bishopric in Tarwałki. It was a warm Stresia, pear and apple trees heavy with white and pink flowers, mud beneath Edyta's small feet, and a constant hollow hunger in her stomach. Within a week - a fitful, frightening period in her young life - representatives arrived from the abbey of St. Karol. Two more passed and her simple parents found themselves summoned to the cathedral in Tarwałki, prostrating themselves before a visiting archbishop of the Rezaindian Order.
Edyta was given an education and a future in the service of her faith. Her parents were given a monthly stipend that made them among the wealthiest in their village and food enough to ensure that their children would grow and flourish. She bid them goodbye and promises were made that they would see each other for a handful of weeks each year, during holidays.
It didn't happen. Instead, it was prayer, lessons, and training that filled Edyta's life in the coming years. As she approached her teenage years, she grew accustomed to the ways and schedules of the convent that she had come to call home. Then, Father Bartek happened. The only other greyborn within the red Rezaindian order in Warlisz, he became her trainer upon her twelfth birthday. At first, these were merely simple twice-weekly meetings between the two, during which he taught her how to harness the full extent of her powers. Then, he took her to 'ride along with him when sent on assignment by the church.
Time and again, the young nun-in-training witnessed, firsthand, the destruction wrought by those with uncontrolled power and few scruples. Villages were ruined or burned, people maimed and killed and, always, were it not for Father Bartek, there would have been no accountability; the demons, sanguinaires, or wildbloods who had caused so much harm would be allowed to walk free for want of anyone able to stop them, only to strike again later. In the cases when it was not one of these, it was some figure of privilege and there was some sort of excuse on his or her lips. Those ones, she was instructed not to lay a hand on. It was a matter for the Somnians. She learned to hate the Somnians, for they never did anything. Most of them were rich too.
She was fourteen when a dragon wildblood wounded her mentor by stabbing him through the shoulder. Edyta didn't have time to fear. She simply acted and earned her first kill. Two months later, she was anointed Sister Łaska and moved to active duty by the order. More enemies have fallen since then. She has gone wherever her unique skillset has been needed. Now, the order needs her in Ersand'Enise, the beating heart of magical practice in the Twin Continents. Big things are happening and she is ever willing to answer the call.
M O T I V A T I O N
Sister Łaska lives to serve... the gods, and Ahn-Eshiran in particular. She derives purpose and meaning from it and tries ever so hard to tamp down on the conflicting voices that emanate from the deepest recesses of her mind: the ones that scream at her that these people took her from her family, the ones that insist that she should have her own purpose, and the ones that say that she is - in truth - a creature of evil as a greyborn. Dami, how she hates the rich!
She has pledged not to live in hatred. Each life that she takes is only so that others may be saved, only because its continued existence threatens them. Really, she wants to think that her actions - more than just her martial ones: the good works, the charity, the friendliness - will make the world a better place. It'll make everything worth it. She's certain they will. They have to.
I N V E N T O R Y
Generally, Edyta Łaska lives ascetically. She always carries a small coinpurse, prayer beads, holy water, a flask containing a very potent mana shot, and a utility knife on her person. When able, she can often be seen with the Menana and, when training or headed for potential conflict, her enchanted twin scythes: zamrażanie and palenie. They boost her energy capacity by 32 points and have... other, undisclosed enchantments.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ Tidy: cleanliness is next to godliness. Sister Łaska is excellent at maintaining the spaces that she inhabits. ❖ Practical: she is capable, hands-on, and largely unsentimental, able and willing to see any necessary task through. ❖ Excellent Cook: as a regular kitchen helper at the convent, Edyta eagerly imbibed everything she could. ❖ Vocally Gifted: always busy singing or humming as a young child and then in a choir, she knows many hymns and folk songs. ❖ Seamstress: Need clothes repaired? Customized? Made from scratch? She is a virtuoso with thread and needle.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Singleminded: She can't admit to being wrong, because that would challenge the flimsy framework that props up her 'personality'. ❖ Angry: Deep down, Łaska has anger issues that can erupt. Maybe repressing so many feelings, hopes, and dreams isn't healthy? ❖ Self-deceptive: She doesn't know herself and wouldn't be honest even if she did. This impacts her ability to read others as well. ❖ Bad lungs: a childhood bout of illness left Edyta with a faint lingering cough that she has never shaken, or so she claims. ❖ Claustrophobic: a result of draconian discipline during training. Small, cramped spaces can give her anxiety attacks.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
❖ She likes to give things nicknames in her head to act as mnemonic devices. Sometimes, these rhyme. ❖ She waffles between being ashamed of her origins and proud of them, but usually more the former. ❖ She still dreams about her family and thinks that she sees them in crowds or random places. ❖ Her HEX codes are 6ecff6 and f26522.
On the surface, Manfred was smiling, for it was Dorothea Hohnstein's birthday and he was her beloved. It was an impeccable performance - Manfred had been an actor for much of his life - yet, that was all that it was. In another plane of reality, he knew that the real Dory - his Dory - was alone and afraid and bereaved, blaming herself for his death. In truth, he had not died. He had been stolen, by this... bastardization of his dearest, and substituted for the headless body of the Manfred who had died in this reality. To think of it! His heart burned with rage. It howled for justice for Dorothea, left broken and alone and wondering how she had gone wrong when, in truth, she had not! Certain that nobody was watching, he clenched and unclenched his fists in ice-cold silence and took some of his drink.
The first few minutes had been a blur. He might not have even known had not those around him expressed their shock and joy at his seeming 'resurrection'. gradually, however, Manfred had begun to notice other things - little things - that were slightly different: for one, there was no Eun-ji. She had been called back to distant Tan-Keoul at the behest of the Lotus. Yalen and Jocasta were engaged and the tethered sorceress a far more confident person than he remembered. Niallus was noticeably stronger, and Evander less of a nationalist. Small matters, to be sure, but they had confirmed his suspicions.
Somehow, the Manfred of this realm had failed Dorothea: this other him and another her. She had gone wrong and become a thing of evil. He drank some more, but only sipped, lest he lose control of himself. When people called on him to join int he celebrations, he merrily did so. There was no magic required for this illusion, merely a lifetime spent within the pit of snakes that was Kerreman high society.
It was that bastard crown, he decided. It was with her every waking moment, save when she bathed or undertook the... most strenuous of activities. Somehow, it was the source of her unholy powers. It was... magic such as that yasoi witch, Ismet, had called upon, and it controlled her utterly or soon would. Whatever it then did with her would unleash only evil on this world and perhaps on others - on his.
There was a part of him that longed to confess what he knew - not to the witch, for she was surely lost to that black item, even if she did not yet know it - but to... Marceline, perhaps? His precious sister and closest friend. Then, maybe to Jocasta, from there, or even make a devil's bargain with this realm's Ismet? He could return to where he belonged. He could live and love again. Yet, he knew it could not be so, for Manfred Hohenfelter von meckelin-Thandau was a man of duty. He had never been the strongest, nor the wealthiest, nor the quickest to learn, but he was a man of duty.
Under the guise of studying for his classes, he had spent hours poring over what scant resources the Grand Library contained on demons, demonic items, and dark magic that weren't the discreditable ravings of halfwits, drunkards, and snake-oil salesmen. Already, he had begun to hatch a plan. It would require all that he had, and patience, and a meticulous, unswerving attention to detail.
Manfred would cultivate within himself a ruthless strength and resolve. On the morrow, he would visit those to whom he had allied, and he would sell himself into their service in exchange for the raw power that he had always lacked. Then, he would better himself, through relentless work and study. Finally, he would strike and, hopefully, when it was all finished, he would find his way back. To you, my Schmetterling. His eyes hovered over the false Dorothea for a moment, and he flashed a quick smile when she met them. To the real you, somehow, I promise.
The City of the Bells had endured one massive blow after another, and it was reeling. Bloody Victendes had claimed its victims and, while magic had restored much, it could not bring back the dead without consequences the Zenos in charge of the city had deemed too steep. It could not repeal the less physical harms Ersand'Enise's people had endured. A fractured mind is not so easily mended as similarly wounded stone. Little to nothing was said of the violence at Moli's Emporium. Nothing was spoken of the hurricane that had lashed the coast and the bloody fight that had taken place under its cover. As for the stolen auction items, the incident was passed off as a mere misplacement, sellers paid off, and the lost items pointedly forgotten. In any event, there were greater matters to contend with.
Some twenty-thousand people attended the funeral of Hugo Hunghorasz, greatest hero of his age, dignitaries appearing from as far afield as Vossoriya, Retan, Eskand, and Sawand. Thousands more lined the streets as his funerary procession passed from the Cathedral of the Redeemer to Balthazar Hall, where he was entombed beneath the central rotunda, as were all former Zeniths. With little fanfare, Karan Harrachora assumed many of his former responsibilities, for the Zenith had bought peace with his faction by offering him those. The bells chimed for an hour straight on that final day of his. Prayers were spoken, condolences offered to his closest relatives, including a boy of some thirteen years who was said to resemble him perfectly, and all were assured that he would reside in Shune's light for eternity.
Life quieted after that. Days passed, and then weeks. The former grounds of Moli's Emporium were quietly purchased by a consortium of interests from the school and Vossoriya and construction began on... something. Things returned to normal or, at least, a new sort of normal, with the portal to Hogh Munkhelad and the bounties of the Hegelans and Callanast open and war between Perrence and Revidia seemingly averted. Ships sailed eagerly into and out of the great port. Wagons bustled through the portal along with both wide and shrewd-eyed Hegelan visitors.
And as for the students? Why, they returned to their routines, and found themselves fairly inundated with textbooks and theses and practice, for an entire week had been lost to the various tragedies that had befallen the city and that wasted time needed to be repaid! Now that the strong hand of Hugo Hunghorasz had been replaced with the strong hand of another, there was business to be conducted, magic and science to be learned, and pleasure to be had. If the healing was to leave scars, it at least appeared to be well underway.
Beneath the surface, however, next to nothing had been resolved, and even new problems created. Though some steam had been vented, tensions still bubbled. The people of the Workman's Quarter still demanded accountability of the academy, the Zenos, and the nobles and, still, these demands were met with payouts in cash, hollow promises, and subtle threats. The people of Mudville, also wronged, petitioned more urgently than ever to be officially incorporated as a territory under the administration of the government of Ersand'Enise. They would be willing to pay taxes and be bound by the city's laws in exchange for some investment in infrastructure, policing, and trade, and for a voice in the governing of their shared nation.
To the south, in Perrence, green Perrence, some two hundred unusually large men found work in odd jobs, made their livings, and laid low, waiting. Green grew ever greener, before turning yellow, then orange, red, and gold. In the cooler southern reaches of the vast kingdom, leaves fell from trees. In the warmer subtropical north, the nights cooled and the rains came. The fruits of summer grew ripe and heavy on tree branches. the fruits of fields swayed in the rezain breeze. Days began to shorten and nights grow deeper and darker. Dies Arcanum, halfway through the season, approached. First, however, came Nox Arcanum, and that was an entirely different animal.
Their first full semester at the school had concluded, successfully for most, and the students of Ersand'Enise's 105th cohort were two weeks into their second. The blazing heat of Dorrad had finally seemed to slacken over the past week, and they could now consider themselves well-settled into their courses. Introductions and basic theory had concluded and piles of books and papers now lay on many desks. In some dormitories, of course, lay other treasures, for the calamities of a few months earlier had not come without their adventures and misadventures and these, in turn, had not come without their benefits. A multitude of widely varied eggs were prepared to hatch any day now. Would the small animals within choose such an auspicious day to come into the world?
The morning dawned cool and rainy, and students went about their classes in anxious anticipation of the evening. Were their plans to be spoiled by mother Oraff or would they play witness to a displayer similar to the one that had greeted them upon their first arrival? Thunder rumbled softly and rain pattered against the flagstones as they went about their classes. Zenos smirked and teased and ultimately assigned them little work to take home.
As the Hours of Oraff gave way to those of Eshiran, so too did the clouds give way to late afternoon sun. Two of the moons were already up: full and visible in the deep blue sky. Banners, strings of pennants, and paper lanterns had been hung from lampposts, balconies, and businesses, the last of those ready to be set free to float through the air once the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Dozens of masked figures traipsed merrily about campus and the northern half of the city, breathing jets of flame, simulating fireworks, and forming spectral dragons that danced and twisted with their magic. They handed out gaily-decorated apples, whimsical paper ghosts, angels, and demons, and pamphlets inviting people to various celebrations and events. How eager the nascent apple harvest had been! How many hours the paint-makers and printers had worked and how much money had they made!
The grandest events available to the hundreds of youths, however, were the masquerade parties organized by the student guilds. The Society of the Gift stood atop the others and, appropriately, had been granted the East Arboretum for their event. Dozens of tables were already laid out on the grass and hundreds of paper lanterns ready to rise like ghosts. The large semi-enclosed pavilion there was packed with chefs and musicians, and bottles of wine and spirits were lined up and ready. The music began wafting out into the night: waltzes and more genteel numbers at first, and then cheekier ones before long. Drawn to it like bears to honey, brightly dressed students bounced and bounded over in little packs, some rushing onto the grass or claiming tables, while others peeled off earlier, into Balthazar Square.
This space, and the rotunda of the Hall from which it derived its name, had been claimed by the Magicians' Guild, and the two masquerades were separate in name only. It was a tradition stretching back over two centuries that the members of the one would mingle, masked and unrecognized - in theory - with those of the other. Besides, there was always an apple decorating contest and a bob in the fountain and they usually had delicacies like Brandæbles, Rango Sours, and Candied Apples, plus Torragonese Hollows for carving and painting. Pigs roasted on spits and the Eskandish Students' Union had already slaughtered the ceremonial Kæmpe Ko the day before and been slow-roasting and smoking it ever since.
The Enchanters' Union, however, was not invited, and this was cause for misgiving among some in the Magician's Guild. Their peace with the Society was tenuous enough, however, that nobody raised too much of a fuss. Instead, the commons and artisans had rented out one of the largest of the pleasure villas in Bath House, and there, they had a real party. If those inside the city walls were Zeno-approved, truly anything went out here. Cheap alcohol and good music flowed freely. A thresher and a bull had been brought in to buck and leap and kick and, fueled by drink, dozens of people tried to ride them. They went out into the surf in rowboats, too, and tried to topple each other from them. They dived into the water and dared each other to climb the banana trees to pick the fruits - no magic! The courtesans of the Vermilion Swirl were everywhere among them, some plying their trade but most simply joining in the celebration. In one particular corner, however, a dastardly plan was hatching, ready to bear fruit all too soon.
This, then, was Nox Arcanum.
Action Opportunities
For this, our final chapter before the timeskip, a number of things are on tap:
1) A few members of the moderating team will be running independent storylines. Feel free to join those. There's a daring caper, a dragon ride, and a wildblood gone rogue! 2) You can summarize the mini timeskip, including any Forked Tower activities, fallout from the calamities, new classes, and the funeral of Hugo. 3) If you have eggs, they will have either already hatched or will soon do so! 4) How'd the party go?
Questions, ideas, or general feedback? Let's talk on discord. Also, keep in mind that the conclusion of this cycle will bring us to the end of the arc and missions are on tap after we move nearly a year ahead. We'll be returning to a more regular forum-first posting schedule and I encorage you to reacclimate to that and to reset from feeling obliged to post longer summaries to feeling comfortable with short ones. On that note, Happy posting! I can't wait to see what you come out with!
You can sing the songs they write for you, or you can sing your own.
18 | Female | Akrihan | Outcast | 7.01
P E R S O N A L I T Y
❖ Creative ❖ Captivating ❖ Social ❖ Bitter ❖ Bold
Former songstress of the Vermilion Swirl, Moli's Emporium, and a small, remote village in the Eeaiko nation of Akrihan, Neki Kaureerah Wenhan is something of an enigma and would very much like to remain so in the eyes of the land-dwellers who she now finds herself living among. A bold, impulsive, inconsistent young woman, she often finds that it is music, conversation, and creative pursuits that most bring her serenity and joy, and so she throws herself into these.
She is also an oddball. On a given day, she may just decide to wear her clothing inside out and see if anyone comments. She might speak in rhymes or with an incongruous foreign accent, and will stick with it for surprisingly long periods, enjoying the challenge. She is one to both give and take dares and to exchange secrets (the more dangerous, the better). Despite her former line of work, she has a stubborn sort of pride and self-respect and, now that she's been freed from the rigid strictures of her society, a... healthy sexual appetite. Kaureerah is an experience addict, in truth - almost a hedonist. She's not brazen. She understands how to be proper and respectful, but she'll make no apologies either.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Like most eeiako, Kaureerah's skin is a pale greyish-blue, smooth and hairless but for the top of her head. Now living on land, though by the seaside, she dyes her naturally black hair a deep, vivid indigo. Her skin, as well, is noticeably darker in tone than it was when she was younger. Large grey eyes - normal for her species but almost cartoonish by human standards - and the soft, blunted nose characteristic of eeaiko complete her face. Tall and slim, she is rather pretty by the reckoning of her people. That nuance is lost upon humans and she is merely seen as exotic: valued for her uniqueness.
When entertaining, Kaureerah will play up her foreignness, often twining seaweeed, seashells, feathers, and driftwood beads through her hair. Otherwise, she simply wears it long, though the plants are a common motif. Her clothing goes from sparse when swimming or performing to bohemian, all of the way to rather sharp and classy. While she has considered getting a tattoo, eeaiko skin tends not to take these very well and the act of getting one, like piercings, is considered deeply sacrilegious in her culture.
L A N G U A G E S
Fluent in both the Akrihan water and surface languages, she had little knowledge of anything else before leaving her homeland, though she lived along a reef near shipping lanes and picked up a few common phrases, words, and the general sound of major human languages such as Revidian, Perrench, Belzaggic, and Virangish. Since joining the surface world, she has dedicated sometimes hours each day to studying the Avincian tongue, becoming startlingly fluent during that time. Always eager to launch into conversations, accent, grammar, and vocabulary be damned, it is this fearlessness that has allowed her to learn so much in such a short time.
T H E G I F T
Kaureerah's RAS Capacity of 7.01 is unusually high by eeaiko standards, and growing up as part of an outcast family taught her to be independent in her magic use to a far greater degree than most of her people. Since finding her way into terrestrial society during her mid-teens, her magical aptitudes have been shaped strongly to serve her interests in performance, art, and illusion. Relying primarily on Chemical to enhance suggestibility and energy sense, she bends, muffles, and redirects sound using the sonic specialties found within the Kinetic school. She is currently working on Arcane magic to further enhance her visual capabilities and for some utility and outright offensive use as well. Kinetic has also proved effective in these pursuits, particularly in boosting her energy levels (in conjunction with Chemical) and mobility on land.
Second daughter and fourth child overall in an outcast family, Kaureerah was raised in the small outlying settlement of Tikarmoorah. Having been declared 'Hemvoorik' (unnamed) for idea theft, her grandfather was expelled from society to live on the distant fringes, and his descendants cursed, for the next three generations, to maintain this ritually unclean status. He always maintained his innocence. As the kingdom of Akrihar expanded, however, the family found themselves in a prime position. Well-established as settlement reached them substantially, they became essential to the survival of the new colonists. Kamvik and Helaurrah's second daughter was raised within the exciting environs of a rapidly expanding frontier settlement, full of new faces, bustling activity, and burgeoning opportunity.
Yet, while people came to her prosperous family for help and offered them payment and - sometimes - quiet thanks, they assiduously avoided open association with the unclean 'Hemvoorik' and refused to speak their names in public. She would often play outdoors with her friends, swimming through the kelp forests, racing along the scaffolds and boardwalks, and frolicking in the pounding surf and on island shores. She would make up songs and sing and dance with them. However, when the others were called home or to some special event it was always an understood thing that she could not come.
As she entered her teen years and a certain set of biological impulses came to the fore, Kaureerah found that she was forbidden to see the first boy that she liked, and then the next one as well. They were promised to others. She was not to sully their family names with her Hemvoorik. As other members of the community grew to surpass the prosperity of her family, things only worsened. Older men came to the door asking if she might be theirs for a night or perhaps a month - secretly, of course, and for remuneration - for she was clever and beautiful, they said, and they wanted to give her children the chance, at least, to make something of themselves, even if she would never enjoy it. If this period in life is a time of often difficult adjustments for many, it was one of realization for the young Kaureerah. Her talents did not matter. The gifts that the gods had bestowed upon her were all to be wasted. Her parents' hard work was for naught. For the supposed sins of her innocent grandfather, they were all to suffer for the remainder of their lives. Bitterness is a poison pill, but it can be oddly comforting, too. She withdrew into her own world of sad songs and long absences, deeply wounded and nursing a righteous rage against society.
Then, shortly after her fifteenth birthday, Makaurroh Wenhan passed away. On his deathbed, he admitted his guilt. All of his granddaughter's burning, justified fury fell flat. The rebuke didn't hold her for particularly long, however. She realized that she was still innocent of any wrongdoing as were her parents, her siblings, and her newly-born nephew. She urged them to challenge the unjust laws of their community, but they would not have it. They would suffer in silence. So, one day, when they woke up, she was no longer there. That fool girl had run off and cursed them to even further ignominy. She had run to the world of the humans, hegelans, and yasoi.
The past three years have seen her bounce from one job to the next as performer, artist, and courtesan: an exotic representative of the elusive people from beneath the sea. Kaureerah has made seemingly endless compromises along the way, and sometimes feels as if she has sold her self-respect in selling her body, but she has learned and experienced infinitely more than she ever thought she'd be able to back home, picking up skills, pastimes, languages, and a heightened sense of magic. If she isn't one of these people - even if she will always be foreign - she is at least not an outcast. She no longer feels the sting of rejection every day upon her cheeks. That, in itself, is a species of happiness.
M O T I V A T I O N
What motivates anyone? Kaureerah wants what we all want: to flourish. Her version of this most stridently involves finding a sense of belonging and kinship: something that she has always been lacking in one sense or another. She is not a fundamentally good or bad person, though she has enough empathy to skew, most often, in the direction of the former. Beyond this, she is an experience collector, eager to make the most of this terrestrial world that so few of her people really get to see. She will try just about anything once, so long as it's not very obviously cruel or dangerous, and she will try to do so with style. She's a performer and an artist, who searches the world around her for inspiration and looks to contribute to the experiences of others. She wants to bring some beauty to her surroundings, some life, colour, and verve! This is a side of herself that she has fostered more than any other over the past three years, and that she looks to foster further.
Ersand'Enise brings all of these motivations together. It's an opportunity to better herself and her craft, a place where exciting and evocative things happen, and a chance to meet interesting new people and become part of a community. How can she not be here?
I N V E N T O R Y
Kaureerah is almost never without her lute: a human instrument that she has spent the past three years mastering. She will usually have water plates as well - an eeaiko instrument that she sometimes makes by hand. Beyond that, she collects beads, coins, and swatches of paint from her travels and visitors. She likes to keep them, but will trade some of the more interesting ones to passing yasoi for a good deal or to gullible humans who believe that they are rare eeaiko cultural artifacts. She feels a bit bad for that.
At the end of the day, Kaureerah is a talented and charming creative type with a flair for showmanship and wordplay, as well as being an eeaiko made for life in the water. These grace her with the strengths that one would expect in those areas. She's possessed of many of the qualities that people often admire in their heroic figures, but she's just a bit too deferential to truly want to rock the boat. She would rather stoically take a loss so as not to inconvenience or hurt those she cares about than take a stand if it risks too much damage. She's usually good at gauging situations and moods, and will usually attempt to apply the proper salve if she can.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Dishonest ❖ Thick Accent ❖ Closed off ❖ Slow on land ❖ Impulsive
Ultimately, a lot of Kaureerah's charm - at least with those whom she doesn't know personally or care about - is shallow and artificial. A born performer, she can be deceptive and exploitative and, though she feels the sting of her conscience for these acts, she's gotten quite good at the mental gymnastics needed to absolve herself of guilt. The world is wild and rough and crazy. She's always landed on her feet. Why can't others? She knows it isn't like that. She knows it's selfish. She knows and tries not to forget. Then there are the moments when she's reminded that she doesn't belong here. Eeaiko legs just aren't built for the same kind of running that human or yasoi legs are. Her mouth struggles to form the words of their languages, no matter how well she knows them. It can be... frustrating, but it's worth it.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
She had a shrimp dog named Puck as a child. She still carries one of his teeth with her on a bracelet. Aside from this, enjoy a... HEX Code: DEB887
Rikard is a paradox in many ways: young and very much wet-behind-the-ears, he often comes across as overwhelmed and a bit fearful, but there are moments when he is possessed of an almost reckless determination. When fixated on something, he is a relentless pursuer of it, and a fiendishly eager student. Not quite so naive as he looks (though not quite as worldly as he wishes), the boy is very much fond of the snappy rejoinder and of experimentation for its own sake. Magic is fun for Rikard, when he's given some free reign to learn it as he desires. Beyond that, he's... well... young. His nervousness at being the most junior of students makes war with his impulse to get up to all sorts of mischief, and he can be a pretty slippery character at times (though not quite as slippery as he likes to think) sometimes.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
A barely fourteen-year-old boy on the cusp of puberty, Rikard sports a mop of thick black hair that is consistently just unruly enough to resist attempts at cohesion unless attacked with a comb. His eyes are grey brown and he tops out at about five feet on the nose. He's a fairly handsome kid, but still very much a kid. He is also very much a fan of dressing like a 'real thaumaturge' and goes to some pains on account of it, often throwing in random fashion choices on the rule of 'they look cool'.
L A N G U A G E S
Rikard is flawlessly fluent in his mother tongue of Budesrnish, as well as Avincian. As a result of learning the second tongue, he is passable in both Revidian and Torragonese as well. His Perrench is strong, though accented, and he knows a few simple phrases and can read Enthish and Belzaggic to some extent.
T H E G I F T
There is little doubt, or so Rikard has been told, that he will pass that magical number of 8.00 in RAS Capacity once he hits his big growth spurt. In truth, he isn't all too worried about that. All that the boy can really concern himself with is the study of magic. He has been a relentless pupil of Magnetic and Kinetic magic and particularly of the synergies between them. He is considered somewhat (and only somewhat) of a prodigy in that regard and has also dabbled in the Arcane school. As a distant relative of the legendary Hugo Hunghorasz, there are, of course, other magics potentially at his disposal. He has been seen to be wary of those, however.
If Rikard has to hear, one more time, how greatly he reminds people of his famous ancestor, Hugo Hunghorasz, he will kinetically slap whoever says it across the face or pull down their breeches in public. He swears it. He swears it every time! Sometimes, he actually does it, later on, if the consequences aren't too great. The truth is that, while he's flattered by the comparisons, they just feel weird. For starters, Hugo isn't even his ancestor. He's distantly descended from the recently-deceased paradigm's younger brother, Sandor. Then there's the matter of Hugo's legacy being more or less impossible to live up to. Finally, there are all these people talking as if they really know both him and this great-great-great-uncle of his. It's just... awkward.
Mostly, Rikard's lived an unremarkable life. There's no tragedy here. He's the son of a minor baron, scarcely above landed gentry, but his ancestry earns him respect, and his family's always been pretty good with the Gift. He's a regular sight around town and trains with the sons of knights, merchants, and artisans. He's a proper noble, but doesn't really see the point of looking down on people unless their behaviour warrants it. His family's funds were enough for a practical education and even some of the more airy stuff, and he took to it eagerly. In general, the boy just likes learning... a lot, and by any means necessary. He's known to bite off more than he can chew, and his bold inquisitiveness can flip into equally brazen cowardice on a dime. He tends to be equal parts curious towards and terrified of the more forbidden magics, spending long hours imbibing their theory but precious little on actual practice. Someday, he swears he will just get over the hump and try them in earnest: someday.
M O T I V A T I O N
It's a chance to go to Ersand'Enise! Who would ever be dumb enough to say no to that!? Even if he has to play up his very distant relation to some famous recently dead guy that he met like... twice, it's worth it. There's just so much awesome stuff that happens there, so many secret ancient mysteries and hidden bits of magic, and he doesn't have to wait five more years! Basically, Rikard just wants to milk the school for all it's worth and learn. He wants to go on adventures, discover new magics and magical applications, and blaze a trail that he'll be remembered for. Just... don't expect him to stand front and centre when things get hairy. He's... still working on courage. Also, boobs. Boobs are a motivation. There are girls there he can actually maybe even date. Maybe, if he grows already. Who's he kidding? He still looks like a kid! Why won't he just grow!?
I N V E N T O R Y
Rikard believes in dressing like a mage: dress the part, get in the mindset, and be the thing! He's collected plenty of cool 'magical' bits and bobs, supposedly enchanted, of dubious pedigree. He's careful not to slip over into outright garish or tacky and generally has a good sense of it. He's also in the habit of always carrying some coin on his person, but never too much, as well as a pocketknife and some lockpicks, though he never actually uses them.
His most prized possession, however, is the wand that his grandfather gave him. It belonged to Hugo himself, and then Rikard's great-great-grandfather, Sandor Hunghorasz. A genuine Hegelan imbued and enchanted item, it boosts his capacity, looks cool, and has some as-yet-unknown enchantments that he's still trying to unlock. Someday, he hopes: someday soon.
Rikard is an eager student, first and foremost: clever, witty, and often willing to push the envelope, so long as he feels as if he's in control or can assure himself that his attempts to do so won't blow up in his face. He's a decent kid, as well, on top of it, and smart. He doesn't go out of his way to act like a know-it-all unless condescended to or challenged. Don't do it, please.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Young ❖ Cowardly ❖ Immature ❖ Obsessive ❖ Provincial
What do you expect of a very provincial fourteen-year-old? Honestly, Rikard's the youngest student in the school and he acts it. He gets tongue-tied around pretty girls, overwhelmed by genuine danger or threat, and can be rather socially graceless at times, revealing an immature streak a mile wide. He's often insecure about his age and size and just being talked down to as if he's a child.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
This space is reserved for something of import later on. For now, have a... HEX code: a187be
They were gathered in a single room: the leaders and colossal figures of many of the world’s greatest nations. Among them were various zenos and arch-zenos of the academy. If yesterday’s negotiations had been utter futility, today’s represented only a marginal improvement. “…and yet Rouis is too craven to even show his face!” barked Silke of Kerremand. For a moment, other speech died down, and the voice that replied to her dripped with the patience of a learned elder addressing the concerns of a very small child. Ironically, it was the prince, Arcel. “I have said it twice already and say it now a third: my father does not believe his presence would be conducive to a peaceful settlement. I am empowered to speak with his voice and act in his stead.”
“More like your pop wants war, kid!” It was Prince John of Enth, brother to the king. “‘S a calculated insult.” He sat with his arm draped over the back of his chair, two empty bottles on the table in front of him and smoke slowly curling from the pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth.
“You assume much and know little,” snapped Salman Gahari, Vizier of World Affairs to his Magnificence Osman of Virang. “Who can know, beyond certainty, another man’s mind?” He rose and shook his head. “And, if it was, has not Perrence earned such a right after the disgraceful fiasco that was the conclave?”
“Hear hear!” roared a handful of voices. They hammered raucously on the tabletop and Salman was emboldened to continue. “We know it for an absurdity and injustice that Virang remains still outside the halls of power, and now Perrence, while minnows such as Joru and Kerremand occupy their rightful places!”
Atundo Yibozo, who had mostly been reading, looked up at those words. “A minnow that, if I remember correctly, you were not eager to tangle with last time around. I only pray that you recall that restraint and cooler heads prevail.”
“If much was slander, then the last bit was at least truly spoken,” interjected Arcel. Towards the back of the room sat the hulking figure of Horik. He had refused to speak among “imbeciles, vipers, and weaklings,” and contributed mostly the occasional glower. It was Namiri of Belzagg who spoke next, instead. “I share the concerns of my colleagues from Perrence and Joru,” she began. “Is not the idea of this conference to avoid a ruinous conflict, or am I yet young and missing some vital piece?”
Prince John leaned over, then, and whispered in the ear of one of his attendants, smirking. The attendant stifled a laugh. Namiri knit her fingers before her. “My Enthish colleague says that the piece in question is a ‘penis’.” She stood tall and stoic, expression regal and unamused, and a dozen sets of eyes found John. He glanced about and cleared his throat. “You mishear, my lady. I would never -”
“That is ‘your majesty’ to you, prince.” She looked down her nose at him before pointedly shifting her attention elsewhere. “Now,” she resolved, “Is this a council for peace or is the goal here to justify a war? Tell me, for this is my first such performance.”
“And a stirring one it is,” interjected a voice. Its bearer was a man in robes of state, his silver hair swept back. A signet ring on one finger. “And I shall answer your question in the spirit that it was asked.” Much in contrast to his customary approach, Prospero Malatesta had spoken little thus far. It had served as a source of great speculation. “Perrence desires war and Revidia, peace.” He clasped his hands at his back, pacing forward like a lecturer before a room of pupils. “The former is a declining power and unwilling to accept their changed status, while the latter shall make no apologies for its rise. Is it not natural that the one should seek to overcome the other? The results of the conclave are a referendum on Perrence’s place in the world. The only blow struck was to King Rouis’ pride. His fields are still green, his borders secure, and his people fat and happy.” The doge rapped his knuckles on the table. “We have done them no violence. I have said it before and will say so again: we are not desirous of war. It is in the best interests of no nation here and most especially of the common people under our care. The decision lies solely with my Perrench counterpart or, since he lays bare his contempt by his refusal to attend, his young son.” Prospero turned to face Arcel.
There were shouts of affirmation. People hammered on the table. From a far corner of the room, where a screen hid its occupant, attendants rushed in and out. Then, it was the prince’s turn, and Arcel stood. “I present to you the Revidian lie.” He was met with both vociferous denials and cheers alike as he gestured in his opponent’s direction. “They will frame this as a natural process. They will employ knowingly flawed logic and reductive reasoning to hold up a simplified picture where all of us, versed in statecraft, know it is not so. Nations do not rise and fall on their own. They do so as a result of greater processes and the machinations of their fellow nations. If Perrence is to decline, as the Revidian party so eagerly proposes, then it is because they would act to make it so. Was not the farcical removal of Perrence from the conclave just such an act? Is not the fact that we now conduct this meeting under the umbrella of the Revidian navy’s guns further evidence?” His voice had risen. “This man,” he gestured, open-handed, at the doge, “has made no secret of his enmity towards us Perrench. Is it not then our right - nay, our prerogative - nay once more, our duty to resist him?” He leaned forward, fists upon the table, and scanned the room slowly. “Were it your nation thusly attacked, would you not seek to take action? I do not believe that any of you would stand quietly by and allow what you have built, what it is your divine right and responsibility to protect, to wither on the vine, courtesy of a thousand small cuts.” Arcel shook his head, golden curls swaying as he did so. “It is a less obvious attack than the fire and brimstone of war, but one every bit as dangerous. Perrence will not bow to it. We come with demands and they must be met.”
“Belzagg stands with her allies,” confirmed the empress.
“I speak with the sultan’s voice in lending my support to our allies.” It was the Virangish vizier.
A Nikanese man in fine but simple clothes stepped forward. “His Divinity, the Emperor, recognizes Perrence’s right to act in its best interests.”
Johann the Pious stood, making the Sign of the Pentad. “I shall speak for all of Eskand, as Horik and myself are of one mind on this matter: the overreach of Revidia is unacceptable. We demand our nation’s reinstatement and make common cause with Perrence and our further allies.” He was quickly seated. Horik crossed his arms.
Further affirmations of Perrence’s position streamed in, from the quarters that one might expect. Queen Anne of Huulendam made clear her objection to Kerremand’s ‘aggressive actions and bald-faced self-promotion to the detriment of a great many others.’ Representatives of the other Darhannic nations followed that of the vizier. As Inipor and Virang went, so did they.
Then, it was the doge’s turn. “And who shall stand against war for the sake of pride?” he asked, rising. He scanned the room. “Revidia is committed to peace but stands ready to defend itself and its allies against the military aggression of hostile parties. Segona stands equally prepared. The interests of each serve the other.”
“Joru stands similarly resolved. We ask Perrence, respectfully, to cease this dangerous brinkmanship.” Atundo Yibozo was brief in his statement.
“Kerremand will not see the well-deserved and peacefully-earned fruits of its labour stolen away. We make common cause with Revidia.”
A colourfully-dressed Retanese gentleman stood, another having spoken in his ear moments earlier. “His Vigorous Majesty affirms Revidia’s right to peacefully advance its interests.”
Prince John scowled. “Aye, you’ve got Enth,” he spat. “This is no time for a war, but we’ll fight it if it comes to us.”
All eyes turned to King Sancho of Torragon - called ‘El Alacrán’ - for he was the linchpin on which this hinge swung. He let a brief silence build before getting to his feet. He removed his feathered hat and bowed gracefully in the direction of his royal counterparts. “Your majesties,” he began. “I lower myself before you now so that you may know that the words that I speak next are no insult but come in the spirit of honesty.” Murmurs rose. A few looked at him hopefully. Others glared. Sancho seemed unmoved. He returned his hat to his head.
“I have seen, this day and the one before it, the kings or… something like that of the world’s greatest nations gathered at one table. I have listened to their words. I have watched, with great interest, their actions.” He gazed upon them all, expression grave. “What I have witnessed fills me with shame that we call ourselves leaders.” He shook his head quietly as voices rose in protest. Prospero knit his hands over his midsection, face intense and pensive. The King of Torragon continued, however. “All of you stand here and puff out your chests, playing games with the lives of your people for the sake of your personal pride or ambition, for meaningless symbols of status and power.” He tilted his head. “You want to see true power? Look around this city. Look at the wealth, at the safety and prosperity! Much comes from magia, but much does not, and that is power! While you are busy fighting because you cannot accept that you are not what you once were -” he gestured towards the Eskandish, “Or because you still pursue an old grudge and wish to claim a piece of land -” it was the Darhannics this time, “Because many have spoken down to you and you need to be seen as strong and relevant -” Kerremand, “You fear that your bold new experiment will be sabotaged by others -” Joru, “You must maintain your power or else you fear they will feed upon your nation’s carcass -” Perrence, “You are threatened by a more powerful neighbour -” Enth, “Or you know that your country must have a friendly port on the ocean as trade booms with Callanasta -” He addressed the Doge last. “Ersand’Enise grows stronger through guarded peace and wisdom.” He paced slightly, now. “You are windows, all of you,” he decided, finger wagging about the room, taking a moment to sniff. “But what I have seen is that all of you are so afraid to lose that you don’t take the time to look.” He shook his head. “We Torragonese are known as conquerors, and it is true that we took the land that is now ours from another people, but that did not make us a country. That did not make us great. We were founded by war, but built by good policy, by wise action, by recognizing what it seems none of you care to: your goals, they do not need to be in such conflict. It is all of your weaknesses - the ones you will not share - that lead you to lie.” He shook his head. “It is these lies that fester and cut you off from understanding. Why do we believe that one nation’s rise must mean the fall of another? Why can Perrence and Revidia not both be strong? Why can’t the ships of Retan call at both sets of ports? There is no reason except the people here at this table saying it cannot be.”
Sancho clenched his jaw. He could feel the hostility in many of the expressions around him, but he hardened his resolve. “I do not say these things to insult you. I do not think that you are estupido. Perhaps you have entertained thoughts like mine yourselves, but you did not want to be the first one to say them. It was a risk and risks do not always pay off.” He nodded. “I understand, for I feel it too. In this moment, I feel it, but I must speak, for I will live in shame if I do not: the shame of failing my people, of failing in my duty as king, of failing all people!” He pursed his lips. “Why do we rule?” He spread his arms. “Are we not supposed to be a better sort of person? Are we not supposed to be above petty conflicts and squabbles?” He took a final look around the room. “Today, I speak for Torragon, and Torragon stands for the good of its people and, I hope, the good of all people. We have no quarrel with any of you and we will play this game no longer.” His courtiers rose. As one, the Torragonese turned. “Let the chips fall where they may.” They marched out, then: a single, purposeful unit. The remaining leaders were left to sort their issues out or else fail to. It was no longer a concern of Sancho’s or his subjects’.
The precise details of what took place next were known to none but those in the room and, perhaps, not even fully to them. The three arch-zenos of Ersand’Enise who were present had the next word. The Paradigm, Hugo Hunghorasz, scarcely raised his ancient head, though he could be heard muttering under his breath. Yet, that day, by methods unknown, the bickering monarchs turned reasonable. War was averted, and peace preserved. The great wizened wizard was the last to leave, visibly drained yet triumphant in his manner.
Apocalypse Now
He emerged from his bubble into a hellscape. He had known of the Zenith’s coming announcement. She had not been able to keep that from him. He knew, also, that many found it a threat and that there were others who would use the attention given to the opening of the portal to launch their own attacks for their own reasons.
Thousands of aberrations had been scattered across Ersand’Enise and Hugo knew who had done it. He had, after all, occupied a room with one of them for hours. He would likely meet them again this very night, in combat and he would succeed, for success was his only option. The world would fall to chaos if he did not.
So it was that the paradigm himself wandered the city of the bells as those bells tolled in urgency, meeting with those maddened by the gaps in reality. He handled them as people instead of problems to the extent that he could. He cleansed aberration after aberration. He reconstituted buildings. Then, his age caught up with him and the old man needed to rest. There were other arch-zenos who took up the banner, though not so effectively as he had. Zenos, students, and citizens rushed about. Many hid. Some did not. At least a few purposely absorbed the dangerous things. They had either figured out the first - encouraging- part of the secret but not the second, or they were agents of the Traveler. He could not stop all of the young and the foolish, however.
Hugo Hunghorasz sat on a bench for some time longer and watched Ersand’Enise burn. He could feel each fire and each explosion, each collapsing wall. There were flashes of temporal magic and even dark magic, but he was tired and would need his strength soon, he knew.
After his rest, he returned to his work and, soon enough, the city was set right. Soon enough, he placed himself in Balthazar hall and drew from space and time. He drew to set most everything right: to undo a thousand or more deaths, to reconstruct the devastated buildings, and to spare people’s minds the most painful parts of it all. He could not fix everything, however: not even Hugo Hunghorasz.
The aberration that formed as a result of his efforts was not one of the usual types. It was, in fact, of a kind that he had seen only a handful of times in his storied life. The first had been during his days as a student. The first had been with Benedict, Leluun, Vander, and …Enna. So the students, some twenty or so in all, proved worthy of the puzzle. Nobody else intervened. They stepped into the strange plane that existed outside of space or time as they knew it, and they emerged much as he had one hundred years ago: empowered.
Darkness Triumphant
It was that night when the titans clashed, just as he who stood at their head had anticipated. There had been the day’s other events, chief among them the opportunistic theft of the much-sought-after music box said to be able to pacify a Fiery Mountain Dragon. Moli’s Emporium had gone up in flames, its performers homeless, merchants jobless, and dozens of exotic animals released, pell-mell, into the local environment. That was not to mention the dozen or so people maimed and killed or the persistent stories that would soon spread of great flying insects, snakelike people, and a vast conspiracy involving wave upon wave of colossal sanguinaires and the Revidian Navy. To some, it seemed as if Velles the Ninth, DZ54 would be the end of the world. Those stories, however, are theirs to tell at length should they wish to share them.
Yet, this day of all five hells had saved its worst for last. As the Hours of Eshiran gave way to those of Dami, its final and most consequential act commenced.
The sun was gone and scant light lingered, deep blue, on the horizon. In a couple of places, distant fires still burned and smoke curled up into the sky, but none of the street lights were lit this night, as if Ersand’Enise was suddenly a much lesser city. There remained dozens of students milling about. Some simply sought the perceived safety of Balthazar Square. Others were in desperate search of some knowledge as to just what was taking place. Still others had emerged, empowered, from a land beyond space and time. They staggered about in a daze and, among them, lurked a predator who sensed an opportunity.
Yuliya Ilyanovna Vasilieva, crown princess of Vossoriya, in truth, but here under a ruse, was a sanguinaire, though nobody else knew it. Lurking just outside of the square, she scanned the crowd, passing up those deemed too weak, too strong, or too vigilant. Then, she found a likely target: a young Revidian girl all by her lonesome, heading into the maze of darkened side streets that marked the dormitory district.
She chose Lucia Moli: an internal chemist, and not nearly so unaware as Yuliya may have hoped. In the brief conflict that followed, the sanguinaire found herself struck by magics of unexpected power, and they turned her muscles to jelly. The unthinkable happened as her seemingly mundane prey decided that discretion was the better part of valour and ran, screaming, towards the still-busy square. "Vampira!" she wailed. "Demone!" Her calls did not fall upon deaf ears.
It was mere moments before a pair of voices shouted back, and they were Eskandish. "Øje for øje! Blod for blod!"
"You're mine, bitch!"
The twins Marlijn and Owain, generally affable and easygoing sorts, had been brutally attacked less than a weak prior, and nearly killed by just such a beast, and now they sensed their chance for revenge. The Eskandish rite of Blood Feud was invoked and, within moments, a half-dozen students of that nation had congealed. For all of Yuliya’s considerable strength, she knew that she could not fight so many. Thus, in the burgeoning darkness, as the entire world seemed to have gone insane, it tipped just a little further still. She ran. They pursued: a small but wild mob, baying for her blood.
Obligated by land of birth, Sven Bjornsson found himself among them, but he was a gentle soul, advising or perhaps demanding some levelheadedness. His entreaties, however, fell upon deaf ears as he raced to the head of the pack, hoping to nab the bloodsucker for himself and resolve this with minimal bloodshed. Owain and Marlijn streaked through the night along with him, and it was Niallus and Ingrid who soon fell off the pace, mingling with the growing gaggle of curious onlookers who followed.
Some had figured it out more than others, but the electric feeling that something big was about to happen permeated the air. “Oi,” Zarina demanded of Marci, passing the smaller and slower girl. “What's going on?"
"Eskandr blood feud!" Marci called back, bleeding anxiety. "Didn't you hear? Some sanguinaire attacked and tried to kill Owain and Marlijn last week! You been living under a rock, Zaz?"
"... I thought they were exaggerating." Zarina blinked, arms crossed, "Sanguinaire. Like, aren't those just story-things? The sort of thing you call some creepy stalker or molester."
Marci shrugged in response. "Apparently not... Marli's usually as relaxed as they come, but she was spitting mad. Owain too." She shook her head. “Honestly, it's madness, but I'm like... morbidly curious."
"Same." Zarina agreed, pursing her lips, watching her pet dormouse Nibbler grow restless. "He's super worked up over this too. I'm actually surprised." She whistles to get Nibbler's attention, and he glanced back, but his hackles were raised and fur bristling. "You alright, bud?" The small creature didn't so much as respond, not even to a chemical brain-to-brain signal, "Whatever's really happening, it's about mild on today's scale," Zarina joked nervously, but she was wrong.
On through the Dormitory Quarter they raced, and then across one corner of the Mercantile District before barreling into the Crafters’. Yuliya disappeared into a warehouse, barely ahead of the others, and they had her surrounded. If some, like Ingrid, lost their nerve, Owain plunged headlong after his prey, finding himself alone in the building’s darkened reaches with her. A sense of seriousness and finality overtook the Eskandish, then, and they seemed to hesitate at the precipice. Marlijn used her finely-honed skills as an illusionist to render him invisible and now it came down to this: the settling of the feud with someone’s life as repayment.
The sanguinaire’s preternatural reflexes saved her life, and then a well-earned dispelling of the expected chemical attack. "Where are you all!?" Owain called out anxiously, suddenly alone with her and exposed. His heart hammered. He locked eyes with the masked figure. Then, the others came: Marlijn, under a cloak of shadows; Sven, insistent that this should not be played to the death; and Niallus, clumsily addressing his hidden ally. Then, it happened: Yuli closed the warehouse door behind everyone once they had walked in. She flicked a switch on the magic dampener that she'd acquired from the trials, letting it rest in her jacket pocket, before turning to Owain.
"One has had their chance. One chose blood, and blood shall flow, though it shan't be mine."
Without magic, she was still stronger, faster, and more resilient than a normal person. Without magic, a normal was nothing.
It was right about then that the entire roof lifted off of the warehouse.
"You savages will cease," boomed a voice. "All of you."
The parties within looked up and saw the roof come off. It hung above them in the air. Those who were nearby fled in fear or watched in awe, as Zarina hung back with Marci and Nibbler quickly retreated into the former’s arms when he sensed the overwhelming power. "Well shit." she looked up, impressed by the display, but with little context to truly admire it.
Those closer by recognized the voice of Augusto Frannemas as it cut the silence. "Your trinket, you will switch it off or I will switch you off... permanently." It was a command that chilled Yuliya to the bone as he made a near-identical promise to the rest of the students in the warehouse. "If these animals harm you, the same outcome awaits them.".
Then, as he spoke, Augusto felt a pathetic attempt to influence his perception. Owain dashed in to try to take Yuliya's head off with his shortsword. Augusto’s eyes flickered in the boy’s direction and his magics did the rest, rendering him blind, deaf, and numb as he collapsed in a heap. "Worm," came the sole word from Augusto's lips as Marlijn screamed and ran to her brother's side.
Augusto reached out again in an attempt to crush her mind but she was supremely talented with chemical magic. Her reality wavered, but she glared up at him. "You defend a murderer!" the girl snarled. “We are seeking justified revenge!"
Augusto tilted his head to one side, "We have rule of law here, savage," he replied high-handedly, looking down his nose at her. "Seek your vengeance in a court of law." He reached out again and rendered Marli the same as her brother. More than one gazed up at him in terror, but the Torragonese was unmoved. "I warned them,” he advised, “They ignored my mercy."
Yuliya, meanwhile, had gone silent, and completely ignored the people in the warehouse, staring up at the almost godlike power that was lifting the roof and taking people out like ants. Underneath her mask, she blushed intensely. She knew Augusto was cool, but this cool?
Yet, she found herself his next target and responded with instinct. As he tried to lift Yuliya from the ground towards him, he could feel her resist. He released her momentarily. "Don't fight," he warned, looking pointedly at those who had. Yuliya put her hands up, as if being asked to be lifted, while almost wanting to laugh at the two bodies on the floor of the warehouse.
Niallus looked towards Sven, meanwhile. "Help me get these out of here,” he whispered. “This is our chance to get away."
Sven nodded. "I think I can heal them. Jusht need shome time." He was not good with Kinetic magic, but the tall youth was able to heave Owain over his massive shoulder and begin his getaway. Niallus picked up Marljin simultaneously, agreeing with his ally. "We'll get away first then you can heal".
They started to move and had gotten maybe two steps before they found themselves separated from the people they were carrying and lifted into the sky. "I am not finished with you vigilantes," Augusto advised.
If those outside were not directly involved, they were nonetheless able to feel the immense energy constantly flexing and roiling nearby. Some felt sick. A couple collapsed. Ingrid had watched the roof be raised and listened to the multiple shrieks that came from inside. "Oh boy ,” she repeated. “Oh boy oh boy oh boy. This is bad." It was all that she could say.
Then, vaguely in the distance, they started to feel energies creeping about, drawing nearer. They cast about and found nothing yet, within, Augusto and Yuliya were none at all the wiser. Augusto pacified both Sven and Niallus the same as he did with Owain and Marljin. He returned his attention to Yuliya as he lifted her and the box into the air. Once she was near, the sanguinaire was able to hear. "Yuliya," he began to whisper into her ear, "do try to choose your targets more carefully in the future. You kill," he warned, "you die. Okay?" He shook his head, "and I don't want that, but we have standards here. Only if you have no other option."
Yuliya simply nodded along and smiled, as Augusto softened the blow. "You are better than your Eskandr blood. Act like it."
Then, Augusto froze. The roof dropped roughly and the air boiled with a feeling of immeasurable magic. Almost everyone within the area disappeared.
Then, there was a presence: A figure in a black cloak hovered beside Augusto. "Please release her," it asked.
Augusto obeyed, but he offered a warning of his own. "You would be unwise to try to kill - "
With a single action, he was sliced in two.
"Go feed, girl," said the figure, and Yuliya was able to feel that this, then, was the master sanguinaire, "and kill. It is your right over these lesser beings."
Yuliya looked puzzled. Even if she had wanted to be upset, or cry, or be shocked, she wasn't capable. She hadn't been for years. This was.. unexpected. Her cold rationality took over. This would cause incident. "Yes. But he was good suitor, it is a shame."
"Feed," commanded the Progenitor. "Claim your birthright!"
She went to drink from her bisected suitor. "Farewell. I will miss you."
"ASCEND!!!" he hissed, eyes glowing.
It was just as Yuliya had sunk her teeth into the mangled body that the Progenitor's chest exploded.
"Did you think I would be so easy to kill?" asked a second, utterly unharmed, Augusto. His sword retracted and he was gone.
The sanguinaire coughed up blood. He wavered for a moment. Then, his wounds healed, as a thousand upon a thousand tendrils of darkness leapt from his form.
Augusto did not respond. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen… not until a bellowing "WEAK!!!" resounded through the area. "You bloodsuckers are all the same."
The Progenitor's tendrils turned in on themselves and impaled him. He fell from the sky. Then, there was a second Frannemas. A pretty blonde woman appeared below. "You, Vossoriyan, did you just try to eat my brother?" There was something unnatural about the way that her head tilted.
"Yes. I quite like him. I thought he died," Yuliya answered calmly.
There were ten flashes. Then, they assembled: the Elder Council, ten sanguinaires, each thousands of years old and unfathomably powerful.
The strongest of them all rose from the shadows: the master sanguinaire. Being once impaled by his own tendrils seemed to almost mean nothing to the Progenitor, and he showed no sign of injury. Not even looking down at the girl who had come to help her brother, he commanded, "Kill her."
In that moment, the true violence began. Augusto's sister, Avril, stood there for but a moment as her head exploded.
Then, the elder who had blown up Avril's head screamed as her skin peeled away, followed by her muscles. Her organs sloughed out onto the concrete. Augusto set his sights on a second one, and then Avril's doppelganger exploded with colossal force. A third elder drew its power in and… nothing happened.
Then, Augusto had a hole through his chest. Things very quickly became absurd. Nothing made sense. People died but didn't die. Things happened but didn't happen.
Yet even with none dead, the Sanguine Council gained the upper hand. As Avril and Augusto stood still, Internal Chemical magics seeped their way into the siblings, rendering them helpless. It appeared that, even when things did not make sense, some magics stayed true. Even with this upper hand, however, the sanguinaires did not kill. They held.
"Who will enjoy this feast?" the Progenitor crowed. Two Elders came forward to do so.
"I think," declared a new voice, "actually nobody will."
"These humans are not yours to feed on."
A slash of pure energy sliced through the night with blinding light, causing many to reel and blink. Yet, once their sight returned, they could make out three masked individuals, each possessed of immense power, standing between the Sanguinaires and the Frannemas siblings: Gold, Black, and Silver. Over the shoulder of the third was slung an enormous broadsword held in one hand.
As the Sanguine council fell into a standoff against the Frannemas siblings and the three masked figures, the five Eskandr, plus Marci, Zarina, and Nibbler awoke some ways away on the offshore island known colloquially as The Tip. There, they found a nice warm fire going. Moths zipped and twirled around it. From this safe place, they began to heal their friends and discuss what they had just seen, trying to make sense of it.
If the alliance that had been made between the Masked individuals and the Frannemas was beneficial, it was shaky at best. Augusto mocked them, "Oh, so you care about the rich now too?".
"Silence, boy," replied the Black-masked figure, "or I will cut your tongue out when I am finished with these fiends, and you will not regrow it."
There came another flash. A figure in a pale green mask floated above the concrete. "Certosa," said the gold-masked Volto. Jocasta had arrived, unnamed but present, finding herself a minnow in this sea of sharks despite her immense power. For about a minute, now, it had been a standoff between some of the most powerful beings alive. The Sanguine Council had the numbers advantage and they knew it. They attacked.
Then, Radomir, the Elder of Vossoriya, dropped with a hole in his head. Starchilt of Kerremand dropped next. Each wound was recoverable, in some way or another, but they held up the sanguinaires, leaving them vulnerable. They searched for the cause, but they searched in vain.
In truth, it was the Volto Lupa and the young initiate Desmond, who she had found headed for the calamity and wisely held back. "Don't give up your range," she had advised, and he did not. They continued to be a nuisance: a potentially deadly one.
Yet, no action lasted. People died only to live again. Such power was, in a sense, futility when it was mirrored by another.
Until he showed up.
Karan Harrachora took a slice from reality and deleted everything within it. Itzinco, the guiding hand of Xochi, ceased to exist: forever and in all realities.
"You will all die if you continue to fight," he warned. "Stop."
They had no choice but to heed his words. Yet, it lasted mere seconds before one came for the eminent Arch Zeno. They varied their movement. They varied themselves in time. They simply... avoided him until the time was right to strike.
Then, there were six of him, and the evasion on which their lives depended became much harder. The Progenitor was next, but it was only his hand. That, he regrew in about one second. He summoned darkness of his own and three of the Harrachoras fell. Cataclysmic, was the best way to describe the action that prevailed over the Crafters’ Quarter but, outside of the bubble where they fought, nobody had the slightest notion of what was happening.
Not a soul saw, heard, or sensed the colossal powers at play, for such was the privilege of master magicians over all other beings in existence. In that same moment, another shot was fired. A bullet grazed the night empress, and she winced. Never before had she been struck by a gun. She reached out with her senses and looked for a sniper, but nothing could be found.
“There is a sniper,” she warned, turning to Zengumah the Lion, “a very good one. Watch out." A trickle of blood dripped from the wound on her cheek.
Then, the fight ended with one word:
"KNEEL."
A mage in white and gold appeared. His great hat hung about him and from it flowed long black hair and a great beard. He held a simple gnarled staff and there was something familiar about him.
Hugo Hunghorasz COMMANDED the lesser mages and the sanguinaires and, no matter the struggle, they had no choice but to listen. The nine remaining Elders dropped to their knees, the four Volti fell, Augusto and Avril were reduced, and even the Arch Zeno Harrachora bowed.
The Progenitor, however, did not. He stood and glared at the master mage. "How many times has it been?" he inquired.
"Too many," replied Hunghorasz.
"To the finish this time?" said the sanguinaire.
"If you truly wish it," Hugo answered. At that, they disappeared, for they fought in a way that nobody else could comprehend.
Then, for a flicker of time, the two of them stood before the kneeling row of titans. Each mage or sanguinaire present could have been peerless, were it not for the others. Each of them, avatars of unfathomable power, yet seconded, here, to a mere man: one who seemed eager to play god.
It was so fast that it was almost imperceptible. The eyes of the Progenitor met those of Volto Dorato. Then, the Volti struck. A slice of pure blackness split reality and then Hugo Hunghorasz in half. He was erased.
The command magic faded and they stood eye to eye across from each other: Volto Dorato and the Progenitor. Itzinco reappeared and he and Harrachora exchanged nods. Augusto dusted himself off. Avril sighed. "That was a close run thing," she admitted.
"No hard feelings," the Night Empress clarified.
Yet, the entire sequence was not without its witnesses. In the distance, the magusjaeger Lupa and her young charge saw it all, though they were sworn to silence. Far closer tot he action, however, was Yuliya. She had been rendered unable to move by both the overwhelming power on display, and her own instinctual shock and fear. Now, it was finished, and she pulled herself together as best she could, looking to Augusto incredulously. "This… this was setup!? What? I don't.. I don't understand.. I'm sorry." Her head spun.
Augusto turned to her. "I'm sorry for my deception. There's a lot you don't know. Hugo Hunghorasz is... not a good man. He has tried to make himself into a god and nobody has that right."
She could see one of the masked figures turn his way. "Truly spoken," it agreed.
The progenitor merely watched.
"So I guess we all go back to being enemies after this?" asked Karan Harrachora, twirling a keyring between his fingers. "Seems a bit of a shame."
"At least we have our free will back," the silver Volto reminded them. "And that is most important. Our field is now level. Let the strongest win."
Hugo Hunghorasz was gone and, in the mighty place he had filled was left a yawning vacuum. Who would rise to claim it remained to be seen.
First, however, Radomir, the guardian of Vossoriya, came forward. He placed a hand on Yuliya's shoulder. "You have done well today." He smiled warmly. "I know that what happened before your senses must have been terrifying, but you survived it and you helped us immeasurably. To lead our nation is, in some ways, to serve. Remember that and hold your head high. You show much promise, Yuliya."
Yet Yuliya, who had just watched a battle of monsters play out, saw herself as nothing but weak, "I am unworthy. I could do nothing, even if I wanted. I feel the gap between us is so great, that I might never catch up. How am I fit to lead being so weak?"
"I once led, my child," assured Radomir. "It was merely preparation for the role I hold today. Someday, you will find yourself on the other side of this question."
Then, one by one, the fantastic beings who had gathered to destroy a man began to depart. It had all been a ploy: every last bit of it, but it had succeeded. Hugo Hunghorasz had risen from humble origins and, through sheer force of magic and will, had climbed to the peak of the mountain. For over a century, he had stood astride the world, ensuring his own imperfect but earnest vision of peace, order, and justice. Now, that was no more, and it was all there for taking.
There Will Come Soft Rains
They were awoken by the soft, moody rumble of thunder. Whether it was nature or the Zenos of the academy mourning the death of one great man - and, if people suspected the latter, they were loath to say so - the clouds cast a deep grey pall over Taldes, Velles the 10th.
In the short term, it was a victory of sorts. A ruinous war had been averted or at least put on hold. The Illustrious Navy departed, as did most of the quasi-military forces that had temporarily occupied the city. How Pyrrhic it all was, though. Many did not realize quite how badly so, and still, they had some inkling. The portal, opened with great ceremony the day before, remained closed, for the time being - its structure repaired, but not the magic that had animated it. Flags flew at half-mast and stores remained closed. Students who showed up to classes found them canceled for the day and for the next on top of it. For Trypano Somia, her long-awaited appointment with the Paradigm, scheduled for thai afternoon, sat there, pinned to her corkboard, a reminder of… something.
He had run a fever and died in his sleep that night, or so it was said, and few had reason to suspect otherwise. He was very elderly and had missed the morning’s event. The combat that had seen him felled had been assiduously kept from the senses of all but the most eminent of mages. And so the rain came and people huddled indoors in their small clusters, huddling around their fireplaces and discussing just what the passing of one man would mean for the world. It seemed somehow a bit of a colder place now, a little less certain.
In silent teams of five, Zenos swept the remote corners of the city, searching for remaining aberrations and either absorbing or cordoning them off for removal. Bells tolled at each hour and the rain did not subside. Yet, this was Ersand’Enise: a place where there was always a show to be taken and where it would need to go on. There flickered stubborn signs of life amid the lingering pall of death.
In a small tavern, a girl who lived under a false name leapt into her father’s arms. They held each other tightly for a moment before exchanging stories. He was worried. He was angry at others, but he placed that aside, for the girl was nearly a woman grown now and she had a full and bustling life of her own to share with him. A man used to talking stopped to listen. A girl used to listening had learned to be heard.
In a kitchen, a young couple, each half with brilliant blonde hair, moved about, endeavouring to cook a meal for friends and family to celebrate a bold and unexpected step in their lives. The young man spun his bride-to-be around and she used the Gift to lift a half-dozen implements and stir, heat, and knead ingredients.
Some of those who she found herself sitting among shortly after were also those who she left with. The mumbling groan of thunder and the spattering of rain accompanied them as they made their way across the city. The welcome was perhaps not quite so grand as it might have been under different circumstances, but the six youths found themselves passing through the threshold and into the Violet Enclave, led by the lone figure of Karan Harrachora. Before them lay the Forked Tower - an odd, ancient, and storied structure that evoked endless mystery and promises of fruitful learning. The week was theirs and it began now.
Of course, there were those left behind, but they found their own purpose. After bidding farewell to her friend, the younger of a pair of young business owners locked up and headed out in a different direction. It was… eerily peaceful as she splashed, idly childlike, through puddles. During the course of her walk, however, she came upon a cloaked man. He regarded her hopefully for a moment before turning away. There had been something of a rapprochement between them the day before, but it felt hollow now, given the context in which it had happened. They began to pass each other awkwardly until the weight in her heart grew to a point where she could bear it no longer. “...Hello, brother.”
“Hello, sister.” He turned eagerly and their eyes met. “Are you holding up alright?”
She nodded and shrugged. “As good as one can be, I suppose.” Marceline paused. “How about you?” she asked.
Manfred was about to answer a simple affirmative, as he always had but, this time, he caught himself. He paused and considered. “I’ve… been better”, he admitted, hesitating to meet her eyes. “I… failed my girlfriend. I failed my compatriot during that… aberration episode.”
“It was terrifying,” Marci commiserated.
Manfred swallowed tightly. “I… I wasn’t strong enough,” he squeaked. “She had to save me. Dory had to save me. I… died.”
Wordlessly, Marceline reached out and enfolded him in an embrace. “I’ve… failed some people too,” she admitted, patting his back. “Now, why don’t you go talk to her, hmm?”
He did not let go of his sister. “I… couldn’t burden her. I can’t let her see me like this.”
The girl rolled her eyes just a bit. “Silly brother,” she chided. “If you feel this way, do you not think she can sense it? Do you not think she is also worried?” Marceline pulled back to arms’ length.
“I did not think -”
“No, you did not, silly brother.” She shook her head. “Go to her. You need each other.”
They parted and Manfred took a few steps back before hesitating. “And you, silly sister: do you need anyone? Anything?”
The girl let out a snort. “Maybe,” she admitted, “but I have my stacks of money for now. They don’t make half-bad tissues in a pinch.”
He shrugged and managed a tight, knowing smile. “Well, I know we don’t have so much in common, but you always have me, for what it’s worth. I… love you… kid. Okay?”
Marci blushed. “Ahem… Iloveyoutoo,” she replied quickly, almost under her breath. “Thank you.”
He was walking backwards, smiling out at her from under the hood of his cloak. “No, thank you.”
The girl shook her head, also backing away. “No, thank you,” she insisted.
He shook his head. “Unacceptable. I am the more thankful party.”
“Nuh-uh,” she retorted I am and I’m the younger one, so you must concede.”
“I think not!”
“I think so!” They were quite some distance from each other now, shouting to be heard over the rain.
“Over my dead body,” Manfred warned.
“Ah, so then it is war between us, brother.”
He nodded in response. “Indeed, he called. I shall meet you on the field of battle!” Then, they were parted and Manfred found that he had strength enough for another conversation that was perhaps well overdue.
Indeed, across the city, there were myriad moments such as these, glimmering like stars amid a vast dark canvas. Sometimes, when we are pushed to our utmost, strained against the very limits of our endurance, we unlock doors, we progress. We find things within and without ourselves. Perspective is a powerful tool and it was, perhaps, Hugo’s final gift to the world.
Epilogue: The Scorpion’s Last Sting
“And you are certain there can be no rapprochement between us?” It was Sancho. “No compromise for the good of the nation?”
The man who sat across from him was Huarcan Frannemas. They were in a hunting lodge at the northwest tip of Lake Albadòn. A fireplace roared behind them and, above it, the mounted head of a froabas surmounting a coat of arms and a pair of crossed swords. The duque shook his head. “It is past that,” he stated evenly, if not quite smugly. “Though you would make things easier for the both of us and for our country if you surrendered and made this peaceful.”
“I have a great many supporters,” the king remarked. He reached for a decanter of wine. “It will be ruinous for you.” He rose to pour himself a glass and Huarcan watched him closely. “It will be ruinous for Torragon.”
“Which is why I know that you will propose something else.”
“Wine?” offered Sancho.
His great enemy snorted. The soon-to-be-deposed king poured it anyhow. “It is a very good Vintage: Casa Soledad AI51.”
He served the duque before seating himself and crossing one leg over the other. “My proposal is this, and I will toast on it: we duel, you and I.” He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Oh, there is little chance that I can win, but I must at least say that I tried. I owe this to my family and my honour. Surely, you can understand that. Can you not?”
Huarcan glanced down at the deep crimson wine in the glass. Sancho was a simple enough man. He had always been, and yet -
“What?” the king interjected with a smile. “You believe that I would win with poison?” He shook his head. There was no hint of magic being used as he took a hearty sip. “You are too suspicious, my friend. Let me give you that advice: it does not make for a good king. I would know. I have held the job for some time now, though I see I was merely keeping your seat warm.”
“Honour, I find, is a quaint concept, but there is only power, so far as I see it, in all of its various forms: social, monetary, military, magical. Why would I take even the slightest risk in dueling you?”
Sancho sighed and took another sip. Huarcan followed, though, out of habit, he cast a small chemical spell upon the drink to neutralize the taste-removing torzophine that it would contain if it were a deadly poison. That way, he might know.
“Well, for one, I will first give you the document you seek, written in my hand and sealed in wax.” The king shrugged. “The second is because it’s always been personal. Hasn’t it? You are so much better than me, and yet I have always stood above you. I will do so once again. You will see.”
It was all rather pathetic, Huarcan mused to himself, an obvious attempt to goad him. Likely, Sancho had some gambit. He was half-inclined to accept just to see what it was, and yet… one should always beware a cornered animal, even one so weak as this. “You will give it to me regardless, or your entire family will follow you swiftly to Echerran’s embrace.”
Sancho’s grip on the armrests of his chair tightened. “You are a wicked man,” he growled, “but you do not scare me. You would kill them anyhow.”
Huarcan took another sip and smiled. “Yes, I suppose I would. They are too great a political threat to be left alive.” He shrugged. “It’s… nothing personal.”
The outgoing monarch glared at him, then. “Fight me, you carriage-riding coward,” he snapped. “I know you are curious, what trick I have up my sleeve. I know you want to see it! Why don’t you see it!?” he taunted, rising from his seat. The duque merely sipped and watched. “Or are you scared?” tried the angry little man. There was panic on his face now. He had come to the realization that it was all about to end. Huarcan was unmoved. “Sign the document and I will let your daughters live, at least. I will even marry Radolfo to the one with the eight-point-ten.”
“She will own him,” hissed Sancho, “utterly.”
Huarcan downed the rest of his glass and rose. “Oh, I know, but I have another one anyhow: a better one, and I suppose you can consider this your revenge from beyond the grave.”
They stood across from each other now and the ‘king’ glowered helplessly. He clenched his fists and his jaw alike and then he broke. “I will do it,” he grated, looking quickly away. He strode stiffly to the small table nearby and pulled a sheet of parchment. The duque stood in front of the fire, holding his empty glass dispassionately.
“Tendremos nuestra venganza,” Sancho muttered beneath his breath. “Tendremos nuestra venganza.” Huarcan could see that his hands were shaking. He dipped the quill in its ink and began to write.
“I, Sancho Afraval, eighth of his name,” the duque dictated, “do hereby declare that, upon this tenth day of Viela, Dami-Septo cincuenta y cuatro, I release in perpetuity all of my duties and titles…”
“This ink,” complained the king, “is bad. It has sat for too long.” He straightened in frustration and then, he dropped the ruse. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword.
Huarcan tilted his head to one side. “You realize that, by doing this, you doom your entire -” Then, Sancho was upon him, with a lunging strike aimed for the duque’s midsection. He just barely leapt out of the way.
The greater of the two men did not normally carry a sword, for he had no use for one. Instead, he called upon the deep and ample strength that was his Gift. he called upon it and…
Dread congealed into an icy ball in the pit of his stomach. It… wasn’t there. Sancho swept in again and Huarcan pulled for everything - anything. His manas would not respond. He could not feel them! He managed a weak kinetic shove: enough to push the king’s blade out of line. “Let’s see what sort of man you are now,” Sancho snarled, relentless. Huarcan stumbled back. “Guards!” he called. “Guards!” But they were out of earshot, as he, himself, had earlier requested.
“If you are wondering,” taunted the king, “it was plushtail oil. Your little spell to remove the taste-maskers is what activates it.” Thinking quickly, the duque snatched one of the crossed swords from the mantle and parried Sancho’s thrust. He was by no means a poor swordsman, but he had learned with the Gift.
“Your paranoia,” grunted the king, “is as predictable as your arrogance.” Huarcan could not beat him in a swordfight, not without the Gift. He began circling, throwing out feints, until his back was to the hallway that he knew led outside. He swung in a great big feint from long distance and shouted and that would have to be enough. He turned and ran with everything that he had. “And your cowardice,” hissed the king, rushing after him. Plushtail oil! How could he have been so stupid! Hadn’t he checked for poisons? He always did so but, this time, he had not! Sancho had strategically interrupted him just as he’d been about to, and demonstratively taken a sip to reassure him! He’d purified his glass, just to be sure, and tasted nothing out of the ordinary. Then, a few sips from the king, to lead him on out of passive habit. He’d been led to this juncture like a steer by the nose, every step of the way!
Huarcan Frannemas was about ten paces from the door when the sword impaled him in the trailing leg. He screamed and stumbled and instinctively called upon the Gift to heal and empower him. Only, it wasn’t there. Sancho, the man who they called ‘Alacrán’, loomed behind him, and a mighty slash, barely blocked, dropped the duque to his knees. “You will be reviled!” Huarcan roared. “Your other banners: what will they think that you murdered a duque?”
“They may not all love me,” Sancho replied, grim intensity giving way - for a moment - to sadistic pleasure, “but they hate you even more.” It was a quick combination and it slashed the would-be usurper across the shoulder and down the forearm of his sword hand. True fear filled him now. This was not real. It was inconceivable! That he would die this way! For one stupid mistake, at the hands of this… weakling! All that he had worked towards! All that he achieved and had yet planned to achieve! His children! Dear Augusto and precious Avril! He would never see them again. They would have no father. He was sorry! Truly, he was! “Please,” he begged. “Please, your majesty! I repent! I will join the Sages! I will live as a hermit.”
“You are a bad man and a worse liar, cousin.”
There was a flash of cold pain. Then, he was falling and the world was spinning. For a moment, Huarcan looked up and thought that he saw a headless body.
King Sancho, the Scorpion, strode through the doors of Villa San Miguel. His white clothes were stained in blood and his gloves soaked in it. He held a sword in one hand. In the other was the head of the would-be-king: Huarcan Frannemas. Half of the guards were his men. The rest were the now-deceased duque’s. “I claim, once more, my throne by right of conquista del guerrero,” he shouted into the blustery wind of the lakeside steppe. “This man tried to kill me. He tried to take my throne.” He tossed the head on the ground at the guard captain’s feet. “I have handled the challenge as a Torragonese should.” His men formed up around him. “Your traitorous lord is dead. I am here for you to challenge should you dispute my justice.”
The Frannemas men exchanged glances. The king waited. Then, one by one, they sank to one knee and bowed their heads. He gazed upon them from above. “Lay down your swords and depart in peace. I am a man of honour when I deal with honourable men. You are free to go.”
He had little enough time for them. Stalking up to Vencedor, he mounted the great warhorse. It would now be known that Sancho was no fool. He was under no illusion that there would be repercussions. He had not acted without a plan in place, however. “Scribe!” he shouted, tossing his bloody gloves on the ground and pulling on his riding gauntlets. “Scribe!” he repeated impatiently, as one hurried up. “You are to send a message to his majesty Prospero of Revidia and Segona.” The man fumbled with his quill and papers. “Tell him that he may act with full confidence. Whatever action he takes, Torragon stands ready.”
Action Opportunities
Welcome to our penultimate chapter! Here, you'll have the chance to play out your actions during the soon-to-be infamous Bloody Victendes. These may include:
- Any aberrations scooped up during the madness. - Any time or interdimensional travel. - Any boss fights participated in. - The Moli's Emporium side mission and its fallout. - The Death of Hugo storyline and its fallout. - Any interactions you may have had with figures of note.
Summaries are A-okay! I'm really looking forward to people's individual takes on the great many events of this chapter.
You will also be able to start moving the plot forward, as this chapter willt ake us all of the way up to the mini-timeskip that leads to the end of the semester and Nox Arcanum. Please feel free to post about the following:
- Group projects. - Classes taken. - Personal interactions and growth. - Hugo's funeral (info on this will be up Saturday evening. We may play it out on discord if peopel like). - The Secrets of the Tower (this will be run on discord as a thread over the course of the week). - The Revidian Sabotage side mission (this will take place just before the mini-skip and will be run on discord as above). - The Stolen Goods side mission (this will take place quite soon after the post and be run as above). - Whatever else you can think of! remember, most eggs aren't hatching yet!
It is true that, if the snake should bite too eagerly, he will be marked as an enemy. However, if he does not bite from time to time, at least, none shall know to fear him.
5 2 | I S H I I | D A I M Y O | 1 5 9 | T I M E R A C E R
A P P E A R A N C E ___ __ __ _ _ 外観
Kenshin is in his early fifties and looks it, though he remains exceptionally fit and capable in combat. With a full head of silver hair, he is clean-shaven and always well dressed, but never ostentatiously so. In general, his clothing and appearance follow his personal credo wherever possible: appear approachable but not overly so, be nonthreatening but exude a subtle strength. He is rarely without his prayer beads, though he is not exceptionally devout. They are a comfort item and a symbol of his devotion to the principles of Tosatsu Angism. In most regards, Kenshin does not stand out visually, Though he is somewhat above average height and his rather sharp nose seems almost intended to to be looked down from, there is a certain approachability to him that is well-honed and does not infringe upon the air of authority that he simultaneously exudes. If there are any scars from the battles of his storied youth, they are well-hidden below his clothing.
B A C K G R O U N D ___ __ __ _ _ 履歴
There are many stories about Ishii Kenshin, and the majority are true, though he does little or less to spread them. Born a second son, he inherited the domain upon the passing of his brother due to illness introduced by Eastern traders. This was in his thirty-sixth year. Before then, he served his family's interests and those of the sacred balance, growing increasingly disillusioned with the Sugawara but possessing the good sense not to say so openly. Here, I could regale you with twenty years of oni slain and others secretly befriended, bandit lords brought to heel, overambitious daimyo toppled, and grasping and exploitative merchants humbled. In those years, Kenshin truly lived. He lived and loved and slept under the stars. He is something of a retired hero, though his swords remain sharp. I shall not say more, for Kenshin would not - not unless it served his ends, and those are always difficult to discern. It is only known that they serve - always - the balance.
As one of the greatest lords in the land, how much of what you see of Kenshin is true and how much is a mask remains always a relevant question. Perhaps he has worn the mask for so long - these seventeen years - that it has become the only face that he knows. The man has secrets, but such is the respect that he commands that these are not asked after except by those young and curious and those who seek his ruin. A lover of seafood, he will only open up around the dinner table, though he is not especially fond of drink. He seems deeply in love with his wife Noriko, who is one of the few remaining holdovers from before his time as daimyo. Unorthodox at heart, he is nonetheless not one to rock the boat. He believes devoutly in the necessity of the divine balance and serves it with all but the smallest of reservations, instantly repressed when needed. Kenshin does not waste time in anything that he does. Be it the administrative work that is his as lord of a vast land, fulfilling his duties as a husband, father, and son (for his elderly mother yet lives), or the two hours of training that he undertakes each day, the Ishii daimyo does this to the utmost. Those who know him best may whisper that he does it to distract himself, for the same instinct that took him all across and even beyond Nikan in his youth still flickers and threatens to burn. If some great action is to arrive soon upon his shores, there is little question that he eagerly awaits it.
M O T I V A T I O N ___ __ __ _ _ 動機
Though his plans and actions are often complex, Kenshin is a simple creature at heart. First, he serves the balance firmly and devoutly if not with over-the-top zeal. Second, he serves the interests of the Ishii, for they serve the balance, always have, and always will. Thirdly, comes Noriko, his children, and his newly-born grandchildren. Finally, Kenshin places himself, and he knows that he is content. He craves nothing more. He tells himself so as he trains in his courtyard, marshals his men, and gazes up at the wide open sky on cold autumn nights.
T H A U M A T U R G Y ___ __ __ _ _ 魔法
It takes a great deal of self-control for the lord of the Ishii not to use his eager manas to race ahead in time at first instinct, but he has honed them well. Spare of movement and decisive when he acts, Kenshin favours chemical and kinetic techniques that enhance his abilities and dull those of his enemies. If he commits himself to battle, every blow has the potential to be decisive. Whether he uses it for that purpose is his sole prerogative. The daimyo is not unversed in spells of heat and light either, though has taken great pains to learn the arts of temporal and summoning magics. The former is used in conjunction with his unique natural abilities to strike before his opponents can even sense his attacks. The latter, he dares not delve deeply into unless the situation is truly dire.
Kenshin is well-read, well-trained, and schooled in the arts of statesmanship, thaumaturgy, and military tactics, as one might expect of a man of his stature. However, as a second son, perhaps he is not quite as well-prepared as he should be for the role that he has found himself in. To fill in these gaps, he can call upon nearly twenty years of experience as an agent of his father and lord, serving the needs of balance - often in unorthodox ways - across the land.
While he appears to be the very picture of contentment, those who know him well can't help but think that he would be happier in the role that he originally seemed destined for. A man of action and impulse chained to a court and duties, he plays his role well and even enjoys some aspects of it, but one has to wonder what it would take for him to bolt for the door should it be opened to him.
I N V E N T O R Y ___ __ __ _ _ 所有物
❖ Tosatsu Prayer Beads: he takes these everywhere. They were given to him by his wife when they met some thirty years ago. ❖ Swords: every man of the martial class must have these. Kenshin is no exception. ❖ The Black Book: nobody except for him knows what it contains, not even Noriko. ❖ Random: the other regular items one might expect of a lord of his station.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ___ __ __ _ _ その他
❖ Colour Code: 7B68EE (MediumSlateBlue) ❖ He once met Hugo Hunghorasz, quite by accident. They were close to the same age.
A G E | L O Y A L T Y | C A L L I N G | P O W E R | M A N A
A P P E A R A N C E ___ __ __ _ _ 外観
What does your character look like? How does he dress? How old is he? What are his defining features? Does he have any particularly noteworthy traits, birthmarks, possessions, or scars? If you'd like to include things like height, weight, hair, and eye colour, this is where you should do so.
B A C K G R O U N D ___ __ __ _ _ 履歴
Everybody has a story, or at least a background and a context that informs who they are. What is your character's home like? Who are her people? What has she learned, experienced, and accomplished so far in life? Where has she been and who has she met? Please try to keep this to a maximum of two or three solid paragraphs. The goal is to act as a primer: to provide a sketch that we can colour in later.
P E R S O N A L I T Y ___ __ __ _ _ 人格
❖ First ❖ Second ❖ Third ❖ Fourth ❖ Fifth
I know that your conception of your character can change as the story moves along or even as you write this application and get a feel for him. The purpose of this exercise is to try to focus him by distilling his personality down to five essential traits, followed by any brief additional description below the bullet points to summarize what he's like and how we can expect him to interact with others.
M O T I V A T I O N ___ __ __ _ _ 動機
What gets your character up every morning and, more particularly, why is she involved in this conflict? What does she hope to gain (or fear to lose) and what does she want out of life in general? What matters to her, and why?
T H A U M A T U R G Y ___ __ __ _ _ 魔法
Just what can your character do with magic? What makes him more than mundane? Please provide a clear description of his magical aptitudes, favoured schools of magic (if any), prior training, magical capacity, and any original spells that he may use. Remember to leave him room to grow. The goal here isn't necessarily to be the strongest; it's to create a compelling character.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S ___ __ __ _ _ 技量
❖ First ❖ Second ❖ Third ❖ Fourth ❖ Fifth
There's more to a character than casting spells! What other skills has she acquired outside of magical ones? What are some of her personal strengths? Please remember the early-modern (roughly late 1500s) Japanese-analogous setting of this RPG and try to make skills appropriate.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S ___ __ __ _ _ 弱点
❖ First ❖ Second ❖ Third ❖ Fourth ❖ Fifth
Nobody's perfect. What are some things that your character just tends to struggle with? What are some personality traits of his that may cause problems for himself and others? Is there anything that most people might expect him to know that he doesn't?
I N V E N T O R Y ___ __ __ _ _ 所有物
What sort of personal items, tools, cash, jewellery, or weapons does your character usually carry, and what might we find stashed in her home? These should ideally be age, gender, and social-class appropriate, have some sort of use, and be evocative. If they don't have a clear purpose or at least tell us something about her, they shouldn't be included.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ___ __ __ _ _ その他
❖ Colour Code ❖ Random Fact or Trivia
Anything not covered above goes here. You can leave this blank if you like.
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>
Suicharte
BlackRoseSiren
Lildear18
Carlyle
Fallenreaper
Ti
Jumbus
Silly
Echotech71
Astro
