Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

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"Ah yes, Ersand'Enise!" exclaimed Count István, as if finally recalling something obscure. Yeah, Ersand Enise: that totally unremarkable place that's only the literal center of magic for the entire world, Rikard thought to himself. He pretended to have dropped something just so he could lean away and roll his eyes grandly. Lujza caught them and grinned. Rikard couldn't help but smile back. "I remember my time there," the count was going on, "They used to call me 'The Ace', haha!"

"Riki!" scolded the boy's mother from a few seats away. She was clucking with the other hens over there, or that's how Uncle Miklós would say it. "Riki, stop feeding the dog."

"I wasn't," the preteen answered sullenly, but then there was a glare from his father. "Well, maybe a bit," he falsely admitted, just to be done with it. "Sorry." He cast his eyes down. Sure enough, there was Büdös, staring up at him with big eyes. Now he actually wanted to feed the old hound. "He's well-fed enough already, Oruf knows," said father. Rikard turned his eyes back to the table and endured. At least the food was good. They'd pulled out all of the stops for the Count's visit, even varnishing the wood floors and hiring a few of the tenants to play the role of full-time servants, temporarily. They'd even gotten Márta, the miller's wife, to help with the food.

"So, Rikard," inquired the count, "How do you feel, being student at Ersand'Enise?"

The youth blinked. What a stupid question. "I guess I'll tell you when I get there." He shrugged, managing to keep most of the mockery from his tone. For a moment, the table fell silent. A couple pairs of eyes slid towards Count István or Rikard, in anticipatory horror. Then, the fat man burst out in a laugh. "Hah!" he barked, "Hahaaa! Truly spoken." He skewered another chunk of pheasant with his fork. "Trust you me, lad. It's like no place else, and I was happy to help out with the transportation." He shook his head. "Our very own local prodigy." - Here it comes, thought the boy - "Though I'd expect nothing less from the line of the paradigm himself, Esziram rest him." And there it goes. István made the sign of the Pentad. Rikard managed to mimic the gesture. He'd have rather been practicing his most recent new spell down behind the old stables where he'd set up a testing range, or in the village proper with Oszkár, Pál, and Zsazsa. However, this was a small price to pay, he'd been reminding himself, for the brand new robes the count had paid for, and for the passage chartered on a rather nice galleon. He'd been to the city and met with the tailor, and they'd been of a mind on the design. He looked, for the first time, a real thaumaturge and had been trying to balance his desire to wear the coolest clothes ever with the necessity of not wearing them out and arriving to the academy in threadbare robes.

Rikard schooled himself to act the part of the young gentleman for the remainder of the luncheon, for he owed the count that much, in truth. The adults continued to talk for long afterwards, resting their hands on their big bellies and discussing matters of business and state. He would not have to worry about those, he was glad. He would be a Zeno. He'd already decided it. Magic would be his purpose and he wouldn't have to worry much about people. Before long, he, Lujza, and Vendel had been allowed to wander off. "Okay, but lightning's too fast to sense," the lone girl among them was insisting, "So I don't see how you could shape or guide it."

"Well yeah," Rikard admitted. People had told him this before. He understood the sense behind it even if it didn't match his experiences. He could guide it just fine. "You just need to set up charges first," he explained, covering for himself. "and then it's all planning and reflexes."

"Or you're just the chosen one," Vendel teased. "The saviour of his people!" Lujza giggled. "Hugo fuckin' Hunghorasz himself," Rikard concluded, knowing where this was headed.

"All hail!"

"Praise be!"

"Finally, he accepts his destiny."

"You guys can stop anytime now," Rikard groaned.

"As you command, Paradigm."

He shot out a tiny spark of electricity and zapped her for the comment. Lujza yelped and shot a playful glare his way. "Don't you fuckin' dare!" Vendel warned but, soon, he too was running. One last day, Rikard knew, with his brother and sister, with his friends. Then, tomorrow, as the morning dew still lay on the grass and Ipti gave way to Szun, a coach would pick him up and he'd be headed into Peskor. It'd be scarce more than a week and he'd be in Ersand'Enise.

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The Hourglass Order

New NPCs__________ ____ ___ __ _

Rikard Ambrus

R I K A R D A M B R U S

A mystery is just a question that doesn't have an answer... yet.

14 | Male | Budesrnish | Noble | 7.74

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [Relentless / Stubborn]
❖ [Inquisitive / Nosy]
❖ [Impish / Pesky]
❖ [Overwhelmed / Fearful]
❖ [Gutsy / Reckless]

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 (though not quite as slippery as he likes to think) at times.

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.

❖ Magnetic: Journeyman
❖ Arcane: Apprentice
❖ Binding: Neophyte
❖ Chemical: Neophyte
❖ Kinetic: Journeyman
❖ Atomic: Neophyte
❖ Blood: Neophyte
❖ Temporal: ???
❖ Dark: ???
❖ Command: Neophyte
❖ Primordial: lol

B A C K G R O U N D

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.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ Determined
❖ Resourceful
❖ Clever
❖ Friendly
❖ Learned

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 codes: a187be & 0072bc

Neki Kaureerah Wenhan

Neki Kaureerah Wenhan

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 eeaiko, 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.

❖ Magnetic: Neophyte
❖ Arcane: Apprentice
❖ Binding: Neophyte
❖ Chemical: Journeyman
❖ Kinetic: Journeyman
❖ Atomic: Neophyte
❖ Blood: Neophyte
❖ Temporal: Neophyte
❖ Dark: Neophyte
❖ Command: Neophyte
❖ Primordial: Novice

B A C K G R O U N D

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.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ Musically Gifted
❖ Well-Spoken
❖ Empathetic
❖ Brave
❖ Excellent Swimmer

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

Edyta Łaska

E D Y T A Ł A S K A

I am but an instrument of a greater will.

16 | FEMALE | WARLISH | CLERGY | 7.25

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ Devout
❖ Polite
❖ Forgiving
❖ Optimistic
❖ Patient

Superficial ❖
Seething ❖
Rigid ❖
Sadistic ❖
Relentless ❖

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

Battle Visual

Young, fair, and beautiful, with grey-blue eyes and sandy red-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.

L A N G U A G E S

Fully Fluent: Warlish, Avincian
Semi-Fluent: Enthish, Perrench
Rudimentary: Pestian, Revidian

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.

The Hourglass Order

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Ismette, Tyrelle, and Mirette

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"Nononoooo" squealed a voice, and a pretty yasoi girl shook her head. "You want to roll your 'Rs' just a little bit. You sound like a cat purring."

Another girl, to whom she bore a strong resemblance, then made a point of purring. "If I were a cat," this one remarked, "I would be sleeping right now instead of practicing how to speak like a Constantian." Right foot and forearm wrapped around a vine, she swung idly back and forth, free foot pushing off at the bottom of every lazy arc.

"If you were a cat, Mirette, you'd be chasing your own tail," offered a third young woman, "and never catching it." She was virtually identical to the other two but for the presence of a short, rounded stump in place of a right leg. She sat astride a tree branch, her remaining foot dangling almost playfully.

Mirette hissed, and the first member of the group perked up. "See, and that's like the way the southerners do their 'Q' sounds," she remarked, seizing on the moment. "Now you try, Tyrelle!"

The one-legged girl looked her way dubiously and, with a roll of her eyes, let out a halfhearted hiss.

"Mediocre, cousin," chirped the first. "Fucking mediocre, even."

"Sue me."

"Remember, you are a cat," her teacher insisted. "Feel your inner pussy. Be the pussy."

Despite herself, Tyrelle cracked up. Mirette snorted, lost control, and nearly fell off of her vine. "Ismette," remarked the former.

"Yes, Tyrel'yrash?"

The one-legged girl rolled her eyes. "Are you serious? Like...actually? How do you keep a straight face?"

Ismette blinked. "Serious about what?" she inquired.

"She's going to keep us dangling," Mirette decided. "We're all just flies in her web."

"But... you are no longer dangling." Ismette remarked sadly.

"Shiin, you're good," Tyrelle admitted with a shiver, leaping down from the branch and landing in a crouch. "Anyway," she continued, rising and casting about for her crutches, "How about this?" She let out a hissing noise.

Ismette clapped excitedly. "Yes, cousin!" She stepped forward, retrieving the pair. "Much better. Now, you need to make it a bit rougher, more guttural."

Mirette was swinging again. She tried the sound, but it ended in a couple of coughs. "It appears I cannot be the pussy," she groaned. "It's all up to you, Hopping One."

"Just imagine you're from Qarii'muuna or something," Tyrelle replied, managing the sound reasonably well and then better within a word. "Just horking up a wad of nasty spit from the back of your throat."

Ismette handed her the crutches and received a little grunt of thanks. Mirette leapt off the vine at the highest point in her swing, landing acrobatically following an aerial somersault. The three cousins walked. "So, be honest with me, Issy," said Tyrelle, twisting on the spot and walking backwards. "You really think we can sound convincing?"

The middle of the three and apparent ringleader shrugged. "I do not know for sure, suunei, but I think it is possible with practice."

"But I just don't get whhhyyyy!" Mirette groaned. "Why are they so sensitive? Why can't we just be Tarlonese and help them?"

"They're the motherland," Tyrelle interjected. "They feel that they should lead but they know that they don't, anymore, and they can't." She turned back to face the proper way, snagging a crutch momentarily on some underbrush.

"It is as Tyrelle says, suunei." Ismette's customary smile faded and she shook her head. "These are damaged lands. The addiction has struck them truly, and many other maladies as well. They do not want outsiders intervening for the shame."

"But we're yasoi, too. Not yaniis!" Mirette protested. "It's... objectively dumb."

"People aren't always rational," Tryelle reminded her, as the three continued down the idyllic forest path. "I think they fear to let us down: to be laid low and forced to admit that they've failed. To... lose our regard," she concluded. "That can be a powerful motivator."

"Suunei," chirped Ismette, somewhere between cheerful and pensive.

"Hm?"

"You are a very eloquent speaker."

"As befits a living goddess," Mirette reminded her grandly. "Lady Vyshta - Fortuna herself - incarnate and walk - uh... hopping among us." She winked.

"Praise be!" Ismette squealed.

Tyrelle grimaced. "If I die before twenty-five, it'll be because of embarrassment."

"Do not worry, Tyrel'yrash," Ismette guaranteed. "I am a very skilled binder. I shall reanimate your stiffening corpse."

Tyrelle glanced her way and cringed. "Gods, that's macabre."

"Zombie Tyrelle!" giggled Mirette, doing her best imitation of a zombie walk. "Actually..." Halfway through, she switched to 'zombie' hopping and Ismette laughed. "No, you will make a magnificent goddess," the youngest of the three concluded. "And you're gonna live if I have to frickin' kill you!"

"Yes, worship me," replied Tyrelle, deadpan. "For I am the divine made flesh and definitely not just some girl with one leg and a bit too much mana."

"I have always admired your confidence, suunei!" cheered Ismette.

"Always," agreed Tyrelle, "for all nine months that you've known me."

"The best nine months of my life," Ismette assured her.

"Hey guys," interjected Mirette, "Did you know that, when you die, you poop yourself?"

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The Hourglass Order

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Student Magic Specializations

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Start of Arc Four

❖ Ayla Arslan: 3 0 3 4 0 1 0 0 0 0 0

❖ Ashon'amar'loiyang: 0 0 2 4 2 0 0 0 0 0 0

❖ Maura Mercador: 3 0 0 3 3 1 0 0 0 0 0

NPC Specializations

❖ Oksana Levlytsar: 4 2 0 3 0 1 0 0 0 0 0

Arcane Binding Chemical Kinetic Magnetic Atomic Blood Temporal Dark Command Primordial

@Ti

Small question, actually: is Oksana meant to be attending the school? If so, I can include her in groups and such. Also, not to be nitpicky, but is that Atomic point for Maura in error? She's taking colossal risks at her RAS level if she's doing that. No reputable practitioner would be willing to teach her.

The Hourglass Order

@Ti, I think she's aware. The idea is to have Silas be a bit behind due to his lack of literacy and lower starting point, at least based on the discussions we've had.

The Hourglass Order

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Roaring Success 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝅘𝅥𝅯 𝅘𝅥𝅰

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King Sancho and Queen Veronica of Torragon had nearly been killed during the masquerade ball of Nox Arcanum by a rogue wildblood. They had been by the Animal Farm, in their supposedly secret spot, but the beast - in truth, an unwitting student - had been teleported their way by the vengeful son of the slain Duke Frannemas. It was a near thing and, mere minutes earlier, thousands of magi had been stolen from that same duke's account as well as havoc wreaked at the ball by members of the Enchanter's Union.

It was all swept under the rug. The incident at the Animal Farm had been the result of an agitated froabas. Sancho's downed guards were not mentioned. All evidence was quickly discarded or destroyed. The damage was repaired. The thefts that had taken place earlier were quietly repaid by the massively lucrative school council.

Officially, Nox Arcanum was a roaring success... as always.

The grim times of Bloody Victendes were behind the school and the city of Ersand'Enise. The nations of the Central Alliance and the Sovereign Pact had reached a tenuous but seemingly more lasting peace, and the portal to Hogh-Munkhelad was soon expanded upon, linking the other four great Hegelan cities, Xochi, and Nashibansek to the City of the Bells. By the end of the calendar year, eight more major cities were in negotiations to join the burgeoning network. It seemed that Zenith Upta's gamble had paid off.

As Rezain deferred to Somnes, the weather grew colder and the drinks and food warmer to compensate. With it, the bubbling cauldron that was the Workman's Quarter and Mudville seemed to cool as well. The commons of the former returned to work, momentarily placated by some guidelines on accountability that the school had added to its conduct code. The 'rats' of the latter had found their cause surprisingly championed by at least a handful of moneyed interests and, as Caldores approached and students and citizens roved about the city, caroling and frolicking in that rarest of treats at such a warm latitude - snow - a date was set for a plebiscite.

They gathered, then: families. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some had much to celebrate and others, much less. Two weeks off of school before the final review period and exams felt like a blessing, though the church bells tolled every day and those students who had joined a semester late received no break whatsoever. Among them were a nun named Sister Łaska, a boy named Rikard, said to be a descendant of Hugo Hunghorasz and his spitting image, and young woman named Kaureerah: an eeaiko of very dubious extraction. In their various ways, they celebrated the ending of one year and the start of the next. It was now Dami-Zept 55, a year considered especially blessed from an astrological perspective.

Those engaged in their last-second studies could only hope it was true. Quills consumed copious amounts of ink, pencils scratched across the surface of papers, and the library was open around the clock. It rained for much of the winter and even snowed a second time. The students were well and truly rooted by now, in this: their new home. Various business ventures flourished and relationships of every sort bloomed. It was a great way to mask the wrongness of the world.

Then, after both a great passing of time and anxiety but, paradoxically, before they even knew it, the exam period was upon them. The near-sleepless nights, warm and cheap meals, and desperate sense of camaraderie that are so a part of youth accompanied that period of three weeks. Pubs and taverns were drained dry when it was all finished. Gifts were given to Master Zenos and groupmates and, gradually, the students' quarter of the city emptied. Generously, the school offered to open portals to a handful of major destinations, free of charge, and the arduous journeys home that had made Hundri returns so difficult for students in the past were no more.

Destinations

Portal Destinations

1) Varrahasta, Torragon
2) Yabusa, Joru
3) Relouse, Perrence
4) Meldheim, Eskand Ath
5) Salbeiro, Segona
6) Gandakar, Virang
7) Zewaggah, Belzagg
8) Kraznow, Warlisz
9) Mahanzir, Malabash
10) Koubao, ReTan
11) Hetzelburg, Kerremand
12) Chuokyo, Nikan

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Days Go By 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝅘𝅥𝅯 𝅘𝅥𝅰

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By the thirty-second of Tiptos, when five moons shone high in the sky, a soft rain fell on empty townhouses. There were no more than a hundred or so students remaining in the city. Faculty breathed a collective sigh of relief and took portals of their own to the places they wished to travel for... definitely research. The silent army of cleaners, contractors, and suppliers who kept the city running set to work, preparing it for the school year to come. For the few who remained, it was a chorus of hammers and saws every day, from dawn until dusk, weather permitting. They would have heard those great gangs of workers as they sat up on crossbeams and rooftops, singing as they built the city. Meanwhile, merchants and artisans ran their businesses seriously during this time, stocking up and preparing for the coming swell when the academy's doors opened once more.

Quietly, Greenleaves arrived and the small group of students and staff remaining organized an intimate little gathering in the Arboretum, where one might actually get to know those with whom they'd likely exchanged precious little to that date. Hundri gave way to Stresia and rare migrating birds and dragons like the Lunar Swan, Indigo Krait, and the Blue Whistle-Beak returned from in great honking and clattering flocks, blanketing the sky for minutes on end. Hunters stood out in the farm fields and the rushes by the river, dropping them from the sky, but the meagre efforts of humans and yasoi seemed to have no impact on their vast numbers.

The first of the students returned about two weeks later, trickling in through the port or the Godsroad, mostly, but a handful had booked private portals, and some had entered through the rapidly expanding port of Mudville, just to the south. There, they came upon the former slum in the midst of a transformation. The rough and filthy streets which had earned it its name were nearly all paved over with either stone or boardwalk. One of the Tan-Zenos - a tethered - had been adamant on making that a condition of admittance should the upcoming plebiscite pass. Trendy shops lined the waterfront and a branch of Sealy's Bank had even been persuaded to open there. There was Zenobucks location and, in the distance, where the great wreck had once stood, loomed the black smoke-belching stacks of a small but growing factory.

The portals began to open, for an hour each day, on Vardes the twenty-first. For the next three days, they disgorged youths from across the globe back onto the streets of Ersand'Enise. Gone were all but the very last of the great flocks of flying creatures, all settled now in their nests for the warmer months to come. So, too, had disappeared the construction crews and their merry, bawdy singing. There were only a few still about, working nearly around the clock to finish up some of the Academy's more ambitious projects. The merchants and artisans were ready, as they had been every year for the past half-millennium, to receive the influx. For one entire week, it was more or less a carnival atmosphere that prevailed. The taverns, inns, and guesthouses profited greatly. The student services staff were inundated.

On Vardes the twenty-sixth, bells tolled and flower petals fluttered. For the second time now - but the first for some - the students of the Academy of Thaumaturgy gathered in Balthazar Square to hear their Zenith speak. Flags flapped in a stiff breeze and the sun shone down upon the people of tomorrow, warmer than it had been when they'd left. Their Sophomore year at Ersand'Enise - DZ55 - had begun!

Zeno Groups

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After all of the speeches were done and dormitories assigned, a small army of staff filtered through the crowds, repeated announcements were made, and signage put up directing students to Balthazar Hall at appointed times for course selection and Apprentice Group assignments. When there, they found the following:

Zeno Tannifer Marbrand: Ingrid Penderson, Niallus Saberhagen, Silas Reiger, Nazih Iqbal, Benedetto Corvi

Zeno Randan Kedd: Esmii'nesta'tawaar, Ymiico'luun'yoru, Casii'fyret'alan, Trypano Somia, Ismet'ych'lahiin'dichora

Tan-Zeno Jocasta Re: Kaspar Elstrom, Desmond Catulus, Zarina Al-Nader, Evander Synesti, Penelope Pellegrin

Zeno Born-on-Solstice: Yalen Castel, Ayla Arslan, Yuliya Vasilieva, Dorothea Hohnstein, Edyta Łaska

Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight: Fiske Flachstrauch, Abdel Varga, Maura Mercador, Neki Kaureerah Wenhan, Rikard Ambrus

Arch-Zeno Riu Kai-tan: Ashon'amar'loiyang, Cal'tuuro'jaros, Marz Mohfolk, Marceline Hohenfelter, Manfred Hohenfelter

Zeno Alcaster Serra: Tku, Qasem Laghmani, Yvain de Berbignon, Sven Bjørnsson, Marlijn Vaanse

Zeno Jurgen Mendenhoffer: Isabella Lowell, Carmillia Carbonneau, Ysilla Al-Nader, Owain Vaanse, Jomurr Ikon III

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Legend

italics= NPC
bold = master
f9ad81 = human
fdc68a = yasoi
fff79a = hegelan
c4df9b = eeaiko
82ca9d = sirrahi
7ea7d8 = meerami

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Action Opportunities

Action Opportunities

Welcome to Act Four of The Hourglass Order! For this cycle, feel free to do any of the following:

❖ You could tell us what happened during Nox and Dies Arcanum if you haven't already.
❖ Summarize your second semester or highlight a particularly important or impactful happening from it!
❖ Tell us about your Caldores! Who did you spend it with, and how?
❖ How was your winter break? Where did you go and what did you do?
❖ What was it like returning? If you're new, what were your first impressions of the city and academy?
❖ It's time to get settled and react to your new groups! Maybe some quick back-and-forth posts are in order, or perhaps collabs!
❖ Feel free to run a mini-event during the break!

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Happy posting!

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The Hourglass Order

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Dies Arcanum

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The hours of Ipte were still giving way to Shune when Jocasta forced herself from the comfort of her bed. She compelled herself not to breathe deeply and not to think so much. She was healed of yesterday's injuries, most erased through temporal means. Nonetheless, she felt not her full self at this early hour. It was only Kinetic Magic that allowed her to silently go through her morning routines.

As quietly as she could, the young tethered rolled into the hallway, her weary muscles grateful for the lightness of this new wheelchair. Just above her head, on the second floor, slept Precious Yalen. They did not share a bed yet. Neither was ready for it, but she loved him.

Pausing at the base of the stairwell, she called gently upon the movement of things and rose over the bannister. She let herself down in front of his door and laid an unsteady hand upon it. He was an early riser and would be up soon, she knew. His habits and routines had shaped him that way. My knight in shining armour, she thought at the man beyond the door. Please wait for me. Please forgive me for all of the bad things that I am. Jocasta swallowed and breathed in and out. She had fought Augusto yesterday, at the behest of Father and Mother, when he had tried to use Zarina as a weapon. She had been used as a weapon too. The young woman's fists balled for a moment. She had been used all her life. How can I be so strong but always a tool of others? Is my entire existence to be one life-or-death struggle after another? Her eyes glossed over as she gazed at the door. Is it selfish of me to put you in that kind of danger? She forced her closed fists open. I know you made your choice. I know that you have free will and you chose me, but was I honest? Did you really know what you were signing up for?

She imagined him sleeping peacefully: willed him to be so but, in truth, Jocasta had noticed the changes in her beloved as of late: he wore the robes of a different order now. He was more assertive, and he trained often. She loved him for it all the more: on those warm nights when they went out for walks, on those mornings when they cooked breakfast together, and in those evenings where they would play cards and drink wine with friends. He wanted to protect those things for the both of them - to ensure the future - and it should've been less burden for her to bear. But what if you get hurt? cried something inside of her. It was so much easier being miserable. I didn't care what happened to anyone. I didn't spread myself thin to protect them. One more long breath. She began to gather energy. I need to trust you, Jocasta concluded as she rose. I love you. Less than a minute later, she was gone.

---

She spilled her guts out to Sancho that morning. He knew everything. Zarina was another one: another whom she cared about, and Jocasta could not let her take the fall. Had the Torragonese king turned hostile, she would've killed him. They both knew it. She'd have died as well, of course, but he had listened instead. Now, just be honest, she thought at Zaz. Be honest and we shall both escape this relatively unharmed.

Dies Arcanum was a holiday and there would soon be many about, but most were sleeping even into the hours of Oraff. She rolled along the flagstones under the late morning sun, reveling in that familiar rumble that traveled up her wheels and connected her to the ground, to something more solid so that the little skyborn wouldn't just float away from it all. She glanced up. The air was starting to smell of Rezain now in earnest: that changing of the leaves, though not all changed in such a warm place. There was a tiny incline and squirrels leapt and skittered through the trees. For a moment, Jocasta just drifted You're delirious, she scolded herself, visibly shaking her head, delirious with exhaustion. Yet, there was more to do.

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The bottle of wine sat on the table. It was a present for her engagement and there was poison in it.

"I know you would not waver," said Mother, "but I would like to make things clear between us, going forward."

"If you are to remain a member of this fraternity," said Father, "and under its protection, it must come first."

"A priest," rumbled Grandfather. "I do not trust him."

Jocasta's eyes flashed his way. The poison was not literal. Then, she was preempted. "I do not share Argento's pessimism," Mother assured her, "nor Nero's absolutism, but a time may come when he is a liability or a danger. I pray it will not be so, but come it may."

"And I shall be forced to choose between Ipte and Dami," the youngest of the quartet concluded.

"It has not been easy, these past six years," reminded Father, "building up our strength so that we might finally bring about a better world, sacrificing what we have. I still remember the first time that I saw you." He smiled faintly and shook his head. "We've tried to protect you, Certosa, but you are a woman grown now. There can be no weakness. It is time for you to protect others within the fraternity."

"But not without?"

Mother shook her head. "Where possible, without," she allowed, "but we are the spearhead. The members of this family come first."

"I will not mince words like these others," said Grandfather, "We have grave doubts about your committment. You refuse work. You arrive late and less frequently to gatherings. You have made over three thousand magi using your Temporal Gift to ferry merchants about." His eyes narrowed. "I have always thought you smart, capable, and decent, but I worry that you have been corrupted. If you are forced to choose," he concluded, "We need your assurance that you will choose us and not some outside interest."

Volto Dorato and Volto Nero turned to face Volto Certosa as well, expectantly. She knit her hands together nervously in her lap, holding the one within the other. "I will, of course, choose those who have abided faithfully by me for so long," she assured them, but their tripartite gaze did not waver. Quietly, she crossed her hidden fingers and held them fast. "I will choose the Dieci Volti Nascosti," she affirmed, "in all things," though her heart was pounding and they could surely sense it. I am a tool! she screamed at them in her mind, A tool in all things! A tool again! Yet, Jocasta knew that this was wrong. How Father had picked her up off of the ground: a small, fragile girl with legs that did not work. How he had held her close and comforted her. How mother had fed her and spoken with her, laughed, dreamed, and danced. How Grandfather had trained her, relentlessly but not without fondness. How those secret smiles had peered out from beneath his bristly mustache. They were to build a better world together by tearing down some of the old, painful though it would be. Even Benedetto was to be a part of it. But you said it yourselves, she thought rebelliously, unthreading her fingers as they now welcomed her back into the fold. I am a woman grown. I shall hold the wheel of my own life.

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The bottle of wine lay in her lap and Jocasta's day was not yet finished. She waited, now, in an anteroom outside of a well-appointed office on the second floor of Balthazar Hall. It struck her as an oversight, as did so many things about the way the world was designed. She thought of Maura, how it was so much the structure of things that disabled one. Much may be a coping mechanism, she decided, but you are right in this instance. How are you, Isabelle, or Luisa to come up here without assistance from others?

Then, the door opened and a secretary strode through. "The Zenith will see you now," he announced, ushering her forward. Jocasta released the little tabs that acted as brakes on her wheelchair, took a moment to brush some hair from her eyes, and followed. Chemical magic and nerves were the only forces currently keeping her alert. What that life was all just one big perfectly-formed downhill and I could drift home without lifting a finger. Alas, it was not so, and she composed herself most assiduously for the approaching audience.

Claresse Upta, Zenith of Ersand'Enise, was at her desk, dipping her quill in ink and scribbling notes on a page until Jocasta came to a stop just to the side of the two chairs that sat before her. The Zenith looked up, waved a hand, and one of the chairs disappeared. Jocasta quietly maneuvered into its place. "Your Grace," she greeted the eminent thaumaturge, bowing shallowly at the waist.

"Biro Re," came the reply. There was a smile, but it was a professional one. "I don't suppose you have any idea why you're here, do you?"

The tethered shook her head. "I do not, your grace."

Claresse Upta glanced down at some of the many papers on her desk once more, momentarily, and then back up. "Your test scores," she began, "they are exemplary: some of the best in the recent history of this school." Jocasta's heart began to beat a little bit faster. She well knew Macian's rule: Placate first before delivering the blow. The blow was coming. "Thank you, Zenith."

The Joruban looked up. "I was told you had spirit," she grumbled, "spunk." She tilted her head to the side. "Well, you must be terribly bored with your classes if they're so easy. Don't be meek with me. I'll not believe it." She posted her elbows on her desk and knitted her fingers together.

An inner voice warned Jocasta to be careful. She hesitated.

"Come now," prodded Upta, "I know what you are. There's no value in denying it: a twenty-year-old posing as a teen and a lesser member of the Dieci Volti. Don't worry. Not even they can pry into this room." she boasted. Are you really so certain? the younger woman wondered. As if in response, the Zenith smirked. Could she... read minds? "Oh, you've also made quite the profit with your freelance portals, haven't you?" Two-thousand-nine-hundred magi or so, is it?"

"I..." Instinctively, Jocasta's hands began reaching for her wheels. Her pulse quickened and she took stock of the office's energies. Zenith Upta merely arched a brow. "Come now," she almost... taunted, "Had I sought to harm someone as dangerous as yourself, you'd have never seen it coming."

The tethered was filled, then, with the sensation of being a small thing in the presence of some very great dragon. Am I not stronger than you, old woman? She tried not to think it, but she did. "I... do not wish to be dangerous, ma'am," she finally managed, and then she figuratively threw herself at Upta's feet and it all came pouring out. "For as long as I can remember, and that is to perhaps my ninth year, I have been treated as a threat or a tool. If I have strayed in some way, I swear it was only so that I might have something of my own, so that I might not be dependent, so that I might use what scant time I have to..." She shrugged and trailed off. "build something, I guess. I meant no transgression and I will stop and find some other way if you wish it." Everything was at the school. She could not lose it. She would have nobody but the Volti again, and she did not want to return to that.

The Zenith furrowed her brow and adjusted her glasses. She returned to writing and Jocasta's anger flared for a moment. The old woman hadn't even cared. Her cheeks reddened with shame for having said so much. Then: "A good fifty years ago," she admitted, "I was not so different from you as you might believe." She knitted her fingers together and looked up, meeting the younger woman's eyes. "And I am not so unsympathetic as you might imagine. I have not, in fact, brought you here solely for a reprimand." There was a faint smile and it may have even been genuine. "You are a prodigy, Jocasta Re, of a like not seen since the recently departed Paradigm himself first graced these halls, Eshiran bless him."

Claresse Upta rose, walked over to her bookshelf, and Jocasta was uncertain on whether she was supposed to follow. She plucked a tome from it and returned. "I do not think it prudent for you to remain a student at this academy," she declared, and Jocasta's chest threatened to implode on her. It is merely wordplay! she told herself. It must be!

"I would like you to do three things for me," the Zenith decided, regarding her evenly, and Jocasta felt most sternly if not unsympathetically evaluated. "I shall do them if I am able," she replied.

Claresse Upta nodded. "I am almost entirely certain that you are," she remarked. "The first is that your illegal teleportation racket will cease. You may keep your ill-begotten profits, but you will accept no more private contracts in this field and you will speak to nobody of your activities. Are we clear?"

"Very, your grace."

"Very good, Biro Re. Secondly, you will continue to spy for the Dieci Volti, but you will report everything that you tell them to me first. I am not unsympathetic to all aspects of their cause. Dami knows how grossly some misuse their sacred Gifts and how poorly the harm that they cause reflects on us. However, the Volti are extremists and I refuse to believe that a smart young woman such as yourself hasn't had at least some misgivings. Am I wrong?" she prodded.

Jocasta shook her head. "You are not, Lady Zenith."

"No," Upta agreed. "I rarely am. She clasped her hands at the small of her back and something about the entire exchange made Jocasta smile a little bit, despite herself. "The school will have your back, Jocasta, I promise this: in all reasonable matters. You are one of us and you belong here. I know, perhaps, you have heard words along those those lines before, and they were exercised in bad faith." She shook her head and rose, making her way over to the seat beside Jocasta. "They are not, here. You have both my word as Zenith and as a girl who was once very much like you." She sat, still holding a small book. Presently, she handed it to the tethered. "This is the third matter. When I said I did not want you to be a student any longer, it was because I think you could be more. I am well aware of the timeline you find yourself on as a tethered. This is the Exceptional Advancement Test: Second Level. If you pass it, you will be made a Tan-Zeno: the second-youngest in this institution's history. You will have official duties: the teaching of a temporal class among them. You will take on apprentices and you will offer bespoke portal services under the academy's watchful eye."

It was so much! All at once! It was a hand of Reshta! A way up and out of her life's bottomless pit! Yet... wouldn't I just be a tool once more? A tool of this school? She swallowed and looked down at the book, opening it and thumbing numbly through its pages. "If I pass..." She trailed off.

"I believe that you will," the Zenith pronounced, rising once more. Jocasta had to look up to meet her eyes. "though your magnetic is weak." She scowled. "Your arcane could use some polishing as well, and your atomic."

Jocasta knew that her heart was going like hummingbird's wings. She closed the book and backed up a couple of pushes. "And I will have my own place to live? Might I house others there?"

Zenith Upta snorted and arched a brow. "Most people ask about when the test is to be administered first, but yes, you shall and yes, you may."

"Yes ma'am, sorry, ma'am! When is the test?"

Upta smiled. "You shall take it following the conclusion of this semester. You're in Magnetic and Arcane classes, are you not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." The Zenith nodded. "You could use the practice." She pivoted on her heel. "We shall administer it the first week of the intracollegiate break, once your examination period has ended. You had best study up." She retrieved three books from the shelf. "Take these. They will help." She began walking towards Jocasta and the younger woman met her partway. "That wine on your lap, are you planning to drink it?"

The question took the tethered aback. After a moment of startled expression, she shook her head. "I am not really a fan of whites," she admitted, offering it to the head of the academy. "Then this shall be my bribe," Claresse Upta chuckled. They exchanged bottle for books and then they were finished. "Thank you, Zenith Upta," Jocasta mewed. Her head was still spinning, but in a good way. There was a danger, to be sure, but she had been thrown a lifeline. She could do this. She was a woman grown. "It was my privilege, Jocasta, to start such a promising young person on her way." The tethered's blush was fierce as she twisted on the spot, already starting to wheel away. "I-I won't let you down, Zenith. I promise."

All the way home, and into the evening and the night, it was as Jocasta had dreamed that morning: life is all just one big perfectly-formed downhill and how lovely it is to drift without lifting a finger.

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The Hourglass Order

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Non-Player Student Magic Specializations

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Start of Arc Four

❖ Marlijn Vaanse: 1 4 0 2 3 0 0 0 0 0 0
❖ Penelope 'Penny' Pellegrin: 1 2 4 2 3 0 2 0 0 0 0
❖ Manfred Hohenfelter: 3 2 1 2 3 0 1 0 0 0 0
❖ Jomurr Ikon III: 0 1 0 4 3 3 0 0 0 0 0
❖ Ismet'ych'lahiin'dichora: 0 0 4 1 2 0 0 3 5 0 0
❖ Benedetto Corvi: 1 4 0 1 3 4 0 2 0 0 0
❖ Jocasta Re: 3 3 3 5 6 2 2 5 0 0 0
❖ Marceline Hohenfelter: 3 1 3 0 3 0 0 0 0 0 0
❖ Sven Bjørnsson: 1 0 4 4 0 3 0 0 0 0 0
❖ Owain Vaanse: 2 2 0 3 3 0 0 0 0 0 0
❖ Rikard Ambrus: 4 2 0 0 4 0 0 ? ? 0 0
❖ Neki Kaureerah Wenhan: 0 2 0 4 4 0 0 0 0 0 1
❖ Edyta Łaska: 0 5 3 1 3 0 ? ? ? ? 0

Magnetic Arcane Binding Chemical Kinetic Atomic Blood Temporal Dark Command Primordial

The Hourglass Order

@Tackytaff He looks great. I made a few little typo and clarity edits. He's good to go!

Qasem Laghmani

Qasem Laghmani

"Smile some, life is a dream after all."

17 | Male | Inipori | Clergy | 4.63

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [Cheerful]
❖ [Honest]
❖ [Resolute]
❖ [Curious]
❖ [Disciplined]

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.

L A N G U A G E S

Native - Inipori
Fluent - Virangish, Firrazene, Palaparese, Malabashi
Conversational - Paggonian, Torragonese, Avincian

T H E G I F T

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.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ Studied
❖ Trained
❖ Respected
❖ Strong
❖ Sociable

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ Obstinate
❖ Foreign
❖ Vain
❖ Low Magic Potential
❖ Empathy

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Hex Code: DDA0DD

The Hourglass Order

Sister Łaska

S I S T E R Ł A S K A

I am but an instrument of a greater will.

16 | FEMALE | WARLISH | CLERGY | 7.25

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ Devout
❖ Polite
❖ Forgiving
❖ Optimistic
❖ Patient

Superficial ❖
Seething ❖
Rigid ❖
Sadistic ❖
Relentless ❖

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

Battle Visual

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.

L A N G U A G E S

Fully Fluent: Warlish, Avincian
Semi-Fluent: Enthish, Perrench
Rudimentary: Pestian, Revidian

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.