Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

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A Darkness in the Light

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It took about five hours before Jocasta was feeling the effects. She lay in bed, tangled in her covers, legs somewhere beyond her senses, as they always were, head only now emerging from the haze of an evening that had been immensely rewarding. As was proper, Yalen did not share her bed, and it was excuse enough for her to avoid an intimacy that she both craved, on some level, and that... she was not ready for - might never be ready for. Yet, she had changed. The guardedness, the paranoia, the vindictiveness that had defined her for years returned in fits and starts: nasty thoughts about people like Maura, Ingrid, and even Abdel, though she was no angel herself. Yet, she was letting go, an it felt good when she did not think of the Academy, the Volti, and the shadowy operatives of the Quentic Church - when she did not consider the Mad Avatar who, even now, walked the grounds of Ersand'Enise: all of them forces that tried to either control her or kill her.

She was sick. She could feel a rough cough in her chest, and so she turned immediately and almost prefunctorily to the magics that had always dealt with such a nuisance. She purged it from her body and took a moment to reach down and untangle her legs. Then, she rolled over onto her side, closed her eyes, and dosed herself with the right chemical spell to knock herself out.

Jocasta awoke with aches and pains, an upset stomach, and that cough: that cough she had purged. Sitting herself up in bed, she concentrated and tried a different spell to rid herself of it. She levered herself into her wheelchair, collecting the fringe of her nightgown so it might not get in the way, and tried to take a deep breath. She ended up hacking and wheezing and now her heart pounded in alarm. she could feel her pulse in her temples and the adrenaline pushing through her, light and electric and making her hands tremble as she put them to her wheels and... Where was she going to go, really?

Jocasta paced, instead, stopping to cough again: the sort of deep vicious one that strained every muscle she could feel and left her head heavy and reeling and her vision starred. This, she knew, now, for while it was not the sort that she used, it was poison all the same. She had let her guard down. She had paid the price. There was no time to waste or she would be dead, just like that, when she had finally started actually living, when she had people she cared about. Briefly, she considered taking the way out. She might've, a year ago, so long as she could find and obliterate whoever had done it. She'd been an empty thing before Yalen, before Ayla and Zarina, and Marceline. No. She would live, and she would find who'd done this. Systematically, she would eliminate suspects, find the culprit, and then she would tear them limb from limb.

Forcing back another wretched cough and settling her roiling stomach, Jocasta reached out to seize the reins of space and time. Her heart - that poor, mistreated little organ that had kept her alive for twenty-odd years - thudded within her chest. No. She would not let it down. She focused and reeled: back about a day, for very few poisons took longer than that to act. The world glowed and skewed and stretched for a moment, like a tunnel of light. She set hands to wheels and started to push forward -

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Black tendrils wrapped around her waist from nowhere, bleeding black nothingness into her white nightgown. With a concerted burst of power, Jocasta tore them to shreds. She cast about herself. What the fuck are you!? she screamed inwardly, wheeling faster, racing for the opening at the other end that she knew to be a place and time one day ago.

The broken blackness simply recongealed, and she knew it for a knower. An irresistible force spilled her from her wheelchair, and the tentacles seemed to reach out from everywhere, lashing and binding. She tried to rise into the air, but was brought crashing down. They had wrapped themselves about her legs. Useless things! and, presently, constricted around her waist, her shoulders, and her neck.

Jocasta superheated herself and her surroundings, blasting and burning, and the tentacles fell away, but for one wrapped around her ankle: one that she couldn't feel. She was brought low again. Now, they were merciless. They stabbed and sliced. They battered her fragile body and smashed her head into the ground. Her world swam and she clawed for consciousness, for some power - this thing was unfathomably strong. Her efforts were not enough.

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She awoke from her sleep, rubbing her eyes, and immediately took notice of the cough. It wasn't gone. Her earlier magic hadn't purged it. Groggily, Jocasta sat up and rubbed at her eyes, only to be met with a wave of dizziness and nausea. She shook her head to clear it and her world swam. Something was wrong. This was... a bad illness, out of nowhere. Before her paranoia could build, she tried a new spell to clear it. Levering herself out of bed, she settled into her wheelchair and waited, breath shallow, hands trembling. No improvement. If anything, she felt... worse than she thought she should've. Something, in general, was 'off'.

Anxiously, Jocasta glided across her room over to the tall mirror in the corner. There were no outward signs of affliction yet, but the magic, she could soon tell, had done nothing, and her head felt heavy and strange and... Someone had been inside of it. Someone had tampered with her memory, just as they had when she'd been a girl, just as they had when they'd removed the first nine years of her life. That was when she knew this for what it was: it was poison and there was an ongoing attempt on her life.

She reached for the threads of space and time, quickly, angrily. She would find this hidden enemy and reduce them to a blood heap, begging her for mercy. First, she had to live. She had just begun pulling herself into the space between time when she felt it: a presence. Somehow, she knew to look for it and she knew it for an enemy. Jocasta created five of herself, but it was not fooled. Deadly black tendrils shot out at her, and the girl did not even bother to try wheeling away. Calling on all of her kinetic abilities, she rocketed away as they seized her wheelchair and crumpled its sturdy frame effortlessly.

To be caught, she knew instantly, was death.

So she raced for that exit. She raced with all that she had. Tentacles licked and snapped at her heels and she felt a tug, stalling her momentum. Without hesitation, she obliterated the tangled foot. Blood spilled from the stump, but it was a blessing right now that she could not feel any of it. A great dark presence loomed behind her and, on instinct alone, she rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a massive crashing stalk that shook time itself. She just needed to make it to the far end. She was almost there. Another one of those wicked tendrils dug into her side and she bit back a scream, nearly dropping to the ground. A third seized her remaining leg and this, too, she tore free. If she could just make it. If she could just...

Then, somehow, she was there. She had passed through and the nightmare was over. It was... morning and she was in bed. Frantically, hands searched her body. They reached down and felt two useless feet and she'd never been so grateful for them. They patted at her side and there was no blood or wound. Soft, golden daylight was streaming in through the crack in the curtains and there was her cup of water on her nightstand, undisturbed. There was her wheelchair, whole and in its usual spot by her bedside. She took a deep breath, and then another and tears spilled down her cheeks. They were free and easy: how easy!

But... she still did not know who had poisoned her. Were they working with the knowers somehow? Or was it something more mundane? The church? The Volti? The Academy? The Mad Avatar. Jocasta swung herself out of bed. She would not repeat any of the day's original actions. She had a witch hunt to undertake, and so help her Shune, she would find her witch.

She began to shrug out of her nightgown, to prepare for a day unlike any she had experienced in quite some time. That was when she looked down absently. That was when she saw the thin black marks: three painful black lashes about her willowy waist. They had stayed with her. They had marked her.

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The Hourglass Order

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Sound and Fury

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Encounter One: Ypti

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Zytan sil Cascal'uumii'anthan, Jath'ismax sil Tantiac

by the hand of Enrdii'altan'toira, correspondent to the Emperor

Dear Prince-Regent,

I write to you once again, previous to my earlier correspondence, in the hope that we may yet have a fruitful discussion. As has already been made substantially clear in our previous communications, and those of our predecessors, the land which you currently claim as Ai Medda, a vassal state to the Empire of Retan is, has historically been, and shall evermore remain a corporeal part of the continent of Tarlon and, by right of all the laws of men and gods, subject to the suzerainty of the yasoi, the natural-born people of this land.

We repeat, in good faith and hope of renewed dialogue, that steps may be taken on your part to remedy this continued occupation. There is a place for your people within the greater body of Tarlonese society, for exchange of ideas and trade. However, should your administration continue in its refusal to respect the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the people whose longstanding territory it now illegally occupies, we will be left with little recourse but to assume an indefinite state of bad faith and to take measures to protect ourselves accordingly from such.

We urge you, in the spirit of fair negotiation, brotherhood, and shared love of this land, to meet with us and discuss alternatives to the current arrangement from which all may benefit. We eagerly await your response.

In Goodwill,

Cascal'uumii'anthan, Emperor of Tantiac and defender of the people of Tarlon

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Encounter Two: Shuun

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It had become a regular occurrence, Ahmet considered: those strange ships. He had first caught sight of one some twenty-one months earlier, sheltering in a cove along this remote stretch of coast as the Asperic Ocean had lived up to its name. They had started appearing more frequently in the intervening months, first in pairs and trios and then in small squadrons and flotillas. He had thought them some sort of merchantmen from a distant land at first, until he had heard them, early last Somnes, firing their guns in exercise.

Now, there were dozens: a great war fleet, here, off the coast of northern Malabash. As his station demanded, he had reported all of his observations, dutifully, to the messengers who visited his lonely outpost of Fort Asimbdal biweekly. That those messages had reached someone of importance, he could only assume, though they may just as well have ended their journey on the desk of some clerical captain, close to retirement, or even been creatively misplaced. Certainly, there had been no orders to come down his way, save the usual: continue to observe and report. Malabash is not a nation of alarmists or sabre-rattlers.

The frigid morning surf thrashed and churned against the dour cliffs and the ragged rocks at their feet that stunk of seaweed. The sun lay low behind a shroud of grey fog. It was within this miasma that their darkened outlines moved. He counted three dozen, though there may have been more. He noted the time of day, the windspeed, and the direction.

Taking out his spyglass, the young sergeant peered into the clinging mist and there he could see - faintly - figures moving about on deck and climbing among the rigging. The sea was not calm today, but the strange ships were large and sturdily built, as if for a long voyage. As usual, none flew any flag, but he was certain, as he watched their coordinated maneuvers, that these were no pirates. They came from up north, he knew, and - as usual - they were heading south.

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Encounter Three: Exiran

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It was in the cold of an early Somnes morning that Wan Hao waited, rifle in hand, breath rising in crisp white puffs over the hastily-dug trenches of the Tantian frontier. Birds chirped and chittered in the near-barren trees and glistening hoarfrost decorated the muddy green grass. A squirrel bounded across his field of view, cheeks loaded with acorns for the coming hundri.

In and out. Hao breathed. He could see them moving across the way and he swallowed, a bitterness building inside of his chest and sitting high and uncomfortable upon his stomach. Ever since word had come down from command that ReTan - the mother country - would not defend them, he and the hundred-seventy-four other soldiers of the 105th had been on high alert. It had been sleeping in shifts, tea instead of bed, watch instead of drills.

The yasoi - enemies of his people - were up to something. He could feel it. It lay thick in the air: murderous intent, a sense of entitled superiority, a genocidal desire to drive them into the sea and all of the way back to ReTan, where they had come from.

...Only, they hadn't. Hao, his father, and his father's father had been born and raised on Tarlon, in the nation of Ai Medda. As a girl, his mother had lived, briefly, among the non-humans. As a boy, he had crossed the border once. He scowled and adjusted his grip on the rifle. It had been easier in those days. Tensions had already been escalating, but it was not hostile. Why did it have to be hostile!?

There was movement on the enemy front line. Not technically the enemy, he reminded himself, swallowing once more and thinking of risking a sip from his flask, but none of us are stupid. They will be soon. A cool gust of wind rippled the grass and it all smacked of finality. Maybe this would be it - this would be the hour, the day they finally attacked and all of this infernal waiting would be over with. Hao did not want to fight but he could live with this uncertainty even less. We cannot win, though, he knew. I will die fighting here, in this cold field, as the pumpkins lie ready for harvest.

The squirrel had disappeared and now he could smell the smoke from the yasoi cooking fires. There were hundreds now and he prayed those numbers were a deception. Elsax. They were cooking Elsax, and he had eaten it before. The humans and the yasoi of Tarlon shared many of the same dishes, the same words, the same holidays. It was madness that they were going to fight each other! How had this happened?

Boots moved behind Hao and whistles were blown. Five minutes until the changing of shifts. Good. He was finished staring at the same blades of grass and distant opposing headwear. He imagined that his counterparts on the other side were as well. Let them be distracted and he might put a bullet through some boy's head if it came down to it. He took notice as Captain Hu's crisp strides slapped through the mud behind him. He turned about and looked and then he saw and heard it at the same time.

They were like giant flies, or like pebbles, thrown by some bratty child, slapping the muddy trench wall behind him, but the sound was jolting, even though he had heard it hundreds of times already. Bits of wood splintered. People ducked and covered. The captain's head let out a spray of thin red blood and he tumbled to the side.

Hao ducked and covered. Mortal terror pounding in his temples, pushing through his arteries, he gripped his rifle and steadied himself. He could hear their war cries. Above him flew bolts of magic across a nascent battlefield as his mages tried desperately to hold off the yasoi mages. He poked his head up, morbidly unafraid of losing it, and they were rushing forward. His rifle already loaded, Hao snapped off an ineffectual shot. The birds had all taken flight and were gone and, for the longest, most painful moment, he envied them.

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Encounter Four: Oirase

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It was a cool grey afternoon. Banners of different colours flapped and strained in a stiff wind and the sea was green and choppy. Two men sat at a table on an island. It was barely more than a rock with some scrub and a handful of small, scraggly trees.

"Surely, you must understand our concerns," said the human, Admiral Altan Uzun of the Virangish Imperial Navy, "when a foreign war fleet appears mere miles from one of our greatest cities, trying to force passage of the Bin Ada." He was a great stout man, dark hair flecked with grey, shoulders like an ox, upper lip adorned with a magnificent curling mustache. His eyes flicked uneasily to the hundreds of great grey warships anchored about. Levied against them, his own fleet - what he'd been able to scramble on two-days' notice - was at a disadvantage, and he knew it.

"I pray you exercise prudence, Admiral," came the yasoi's reply. Commodore Caltas'rithar'narop was an imposing figure: near seven feet tall, lean and silver-haired, with a great seafarer's beard, twin swords worn at each hip, and six pistols strapped across his chest. His wide-brimmed hat was placed on the table between them in consideration of the wind. "We have come only to treat with our brethren to the south of you. The thousand islands is a narrow channel and we must pass by your land. Virang need not fear us."

And yet, Admiral Uzun knew, there was much to be wary of, for Virang - along with its neighbour Malabash - lay directly between Tarlon and the lands of the Constantian yasoi. A good many years ago, it had conquered what later became the breakaway state of Paggon, now a human enclave within yasoi lands. What was currently happening to that other human enclave in yasoi lands - Ai Medda - was not lost upon him. If he stood and fought, he would likely perish, along with much of his fleet. Virang would be weakened, but it now stood as humanity's shield: an unenviable position. Reinforcements would take days yet to trickle in. He would need to stall, but his counterpart would be a fool not to be wise to the gambit. "It is not Virang that I am concerned about," he replied leadingly.

The Commodore regarded him steadily, the gold of his epaulettes shining faintly under a brief break of sun. Waves crashed ashore some twenty yards distant. Gulls bleated and wheeled overhead. "Our first concern is internal yasoi matters," he promised, scowling. "After that, I follow the directives of my emperor. Be reasonable, Admiral, and we might avoid so much unnecessary bloodshed. That is not my desire here."

"But you will not hesitate," concluded the Admiral. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It appears to me that you are in faintly a better position than I." He rubbed at his nose and leaned back from the map between them. "Certainly, based on numbers alone, you would appear to have the advantage, but even a victory - should Fashdal ordain it - would cost you dearly." He shook his head. "Why do you not sail the Asperic and spare us both this confrontation?"

Caltas took up his hat from the table, revealing the remainder of the map, and set it atop his head once more. "It is a matter of free navigation, I'm afraid." He shook his head. "Nobody owns the sea, Admiral." Left unspoken was the uniquely yasoi assertion that nobody should own, in perpetuity, the land, either. "I pray you pull back your ships and guard your ports if you believe it necessary. Guard the ports of Paggon if that sovereign nation will accede to it, but let us pass, or we shall have a war of it, and I do not want that."

"The other human nations will not take kindly to this incursion," Altan tried, playing one of the few cards he had left. He had resolved that he would not sacrifice the lives of his men in vain here.

His counterpart nodded, rising to his feet. "No, I imagine not," he agreed. "Then perhaps we shall fight it out later, on more equal terms. For now, pull back your ships or a great many people shall die here for nothing."

He would not be dissuaded, then. The Virangishman let out a sigh and grabbed his map, rolling it up and standing. "So be it." He nodded tightly. "Until we meet again, Commodore." They shook hands. "Until we meet again, Admiral."

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Encounter Five: Damy

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It was a foggy morning and Ansol was by the seashore. The air was grey and heavy and the waves washed in and out with a forlorn sort of echo. Above him loomed the grey-dun cliffs and circling flights of seabirds. The shore was a thick, crunchy sort of gravel, strewn with rounded cherry-sized rocks, seaweed, and bits of old detritus.

Sarsiigo Bay was the only major bay in Tanso not home to a sizable town. Perhaps the ground was too rugged or the tides too extreme. Maybe there was something just too... wild about this place. It was, even under the glow of the sun, almost preternaturally bleak.

Yet, today, it should have been busy. The five moon tides were rolling in even now, and the vast bounty that the sea did not want would soon be deposited here. Already, he could see the great carcass of a recently-deceased sandbar thresher rolling in the distant waves, and he left some space between it and himself. It would stain the sea red with blood and draw dozens of scavengers, each greater than a twelve-year-old boy with one arm could hope to contend with.

The problem was that the beach was nearly empty. Perhaps two or three other figures, swaddled in thin layers of sheets and rags, picked their way along the seawall, but that was it. The boy was old enough to understand now that he lived in a broken place, that the great towers of Eracluun and Samsoiya, festooned with moss and creepers and smelling faintly, indelibly of mildew, were remnants of some greater former society that had existed there. That he fed himself, his mother, and his sisters off of the sea's unwanted remnants was a poignant reminder. Still, he was far from the only one who did so. When the gangs were not roving about or some pirate crew stopped here to clean their ship's hull, he was one of many.

It was eerily empty, and the waves moaned and sighed and the fog rolled... and Ansol could not help but feel as if he was not alone, as if the eyes of something great and terrible lurked just beyond the veil. He stretched out with his senses, warily, looking for perhaps some great thresher, dragon, or halassa as had once taken his arm, but there were none.

He was just bending down. He'd just found a nice tin pail at the edge of the waves and fished it out. The boy straightened in the surf to drop it into the basket strapped across his back. He straightened, and then he saw them: Black Giants in the Mist.

Vast black shapes materialized within the near depths of the veil, and they were moving for shore. The pail never made it into his basket. Instead, it fell at his feet and Ansol began backing away, caught between curiosity and terror. They were more of them and they were huge, looming over him and - now - piercing the fog.

Ships! They were ships, but like none he'd ever seen. They were immense and lumbering and painted deep grey, with great towering forecastles and ramps drawn up a hundred feet or more in the air, like an elephant's trunk poised to strike!

Fear won out, eventually, and he took off down the beach, for the small gap in the cliffs where it was easy to climb back up, though it was never easy for him. Climbing was never easy. The sand and the gravel sucked at his energy, but he found more, glancing back as a dozen of the titans arrived. There were people on them, leaping off now. Ropes whisked through the air and landed in the surf and the gravel.

He scrambled through the gap and up the incline, the few items he'd collected thumping about in his basket, the rough rocks biting against his skin. Great clanks and groans issued from the grey ships and now he could see, from his higher vantage point, that there were dozens more in the distance, and more beyond them. A frigid wave raced through his body and he watched one of those colossal trunks - the ramps - descend, two great steel spikes on its underside reminding him of a snake's fangs.

Then a second, a third, a fifth. He reached the top and turned. Up and down the beach, all of those... Elephant Ships were releasing their 'trunks'. These crashed down with a muted thunder that echoed through the damp air, and they were not so very far from him, in truth. He could see the figures descending. He could make out their rifles and their tall hats and the way their brass buttons caught the faint light and gleamed. But then he saw the one with the great hat and saw the feathers within it and he realized that these newcomers were not short and fat like huusoi. They were his own people.

Ansol was already turning to run again, but he stopped and squirmed into a small thicket. There were hundreds, now, marching down the trunks of the Elephant Ships, carrying all manner of things. Dragons took off from their decks and began circling overhead. Wagons full of supplies rumbled across, and there were hundreds more ships behind them. To his amazement, some of them did not stop. Instead, as they approached the Elephant Ships, their bows began to... unthread themselves. Planks wove apart to form great, stretching, tentacle-ringed mouths. These Kraken Ships rose and reared up and he could see, now, how low and flat the sterns of the Elephant Ships were. He watched in wonder as they latched on, as the ships joined!

They were soldiers, who came out, of course: yasoi soldiers, and he knew they must not be from here, for Tanso could barely muster an army. His jath'nan assured him it had not always been so, but the disease of the darkmen had ravaged all the lands of the yasoi - all except for distant Tarlon. These, then, must be Tarlonsoi. What on Oirase's green turf were they doing here!? They were spreading out now: forming parties, setting up barricades and tents and disappearing in little streams into the leading edge of the forest.

Other great ships approached. They were strange, misshapen, lopsided things, but then he saw how they, too, opened. One side of each split as they approached the Elephant and Kraken ships and their soldiers disembarked in perfect order. It was like watching some great device of many parts operate for the very first time. The thick shells of these Mussel Ships formed walls as they affixed themselves to the others and dug themselves into the ground, reaching a hundred feet in the air to protect the rest of their allies. Still they came: this endless Grey Fleet, and they were here now, in Tanso, in Constantia.

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The Hourglass Order

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♫

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They needed a safe harbour. That much could be said with complete certainty. While a handful returned as triumphant heroes, more returned bruised and battered, both psychologically and physically, their faith in... more or less everything shaken and, in some cases, shattered. Some were a half-step away from madness or, worse, open rebellion. Others felt used and abused by the academy. Still others didn't return at all. This, then, was their sophomore year.

Of course, the people in charge of Ersand'Enise - those at the helm of the multibillion magi enterprise - were not stupid. They could sense the dissatisfaction building, and it had built along a number of avenues: the biros who had been sent into the field were reeling, there was seething unrest in Mudville as academy interests moved in on the cheap land, and the Grey Fleet of Tarlon had forced the Bin Ada Channel and was, even now, most likely landing in Tanso or Oiyac. Behind it all loomed the spectre of war between those two great coalitions: the Sovereign Pact and the Central Alliance, tempered only by the growing threat of the Tarlonese yasoi. They should have feared their own people as well, but the underclasses are always ignored, in history, until it proves too late.

In the end, the so profoundly necessary safe harbour turned out to be... a fun faire. In truth, the idea of Hugo Day had been conceived not very long after the late paradigm's death and increasingly solid plans had been in place for nearly a year. The timing was merely fortuitous, or so those in charge might claim if pressed on the matter. It had always been known that Hugo Hunghorasz and Giacomo the Owl had shared a birthday, so the Societies Faire was pushed back a week, and what resulted was a four day weekend of revelry rebranded the Founders' Day Weekend Fun Faire, with Mother's Day tacked awkwardly on to the end.

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Banners began to appear on the streets of Ersand'Enise as early as Greenleaves and, by the time of Return Day, when courses resumed, they were everywhere: festooning walls and streetlamps, hanging between trees, fluttering from flagpoles, plastered outside of classrooms. There was no forgetting it. The Academy even asked its Zenos and Arch-Zenos to shill for the event as they taught and mentored, though many found it beneath them and did so grudgingly, at best.

Gradually, the festivities, games, and events were revealed. First, it was a performance by the famed Soul Sisters, on Assani the 34th, and then Leon Solaire, on the 35th, a Victendes. Soon came news of a merry-go-round, a ferris wheel, a skating rink maintained by cryogenic magic, and a pair of innovative new rides known as 'roller coasters' from Vossoriya and from Retan, named the Tempest and the Dragon's Fyre, respectively.

Bread and Circuses: there is no better short-term solution to discontent. Why, the plebeians of Mudville were even given free vouchers to attend, taking the wind out of proto-revolutionary sails! A travelling zoo was to make an appearance, along with a great circus featuring horse, dragon, and thresher races, acrobats, illusionists, performing animals, fortunetellers, games, and rarities from the world over. Apparently, the Empire of Tantiac had sponsored a grand exhibition as well, though this had been cancelled in response to their unprovoked invasion of Ai Medda.

There was more, though! Soon, the student body was all abuzz about The Academy's Got Talent: a great talent show among students with Zenos acting as judges and arbiters. There was an eating contest sponsored by the Perrench Société des Gourmands, an Animal Extravaganza with both a show component as well as mounted and unmounted races for dragons, threshers, and equines, and a Sociedad de Forzudos-sponsored team Tug-of-War on a large platform floating on Hedda's Lake in the Arboretum. This was along with dozens of games such as a shaped-lightning racecourse, gargantuan milk-bottle ring toss in heavy winds by the coast, scheduled foot races through the ever-shifting hedge maze in the arboretum, target shooting, a three-legged race, and a 'Reshta Race': a hopping contest.

They did not stop at mere entertainment, however. There was an incentive system as well. Marceline, morose over her brother's disappearance, had been brought in by the school's Student Enterprise Council, and thrown herself into the workings and operation of the festivities. Precisely seven days before the start of the event, students would find, in their mailboxes, a letter detailing how matters would be conducted and the levels of reward to be earned. There were six, in total: Chaos, Diamond, Gold, Silver, Bronze, and Iron. While some of the prizes were revealed to be eminently desirable, a series of mystery rewards remained unknown. However, given the academy's propensity for extravagance, nobody doubted that they would be quite special indeed.

Students went about their daily business, attending classes, practising magics, passing or failing exams as they would. The fleets of workers who kept the city running continued to do so. On the surface, Mudville was calm, its people eagerly awaiting a better future, but beneath this, it bubbled and thrashed in the grip of an upcoming referendum on its future. All the while, politicians plotted and planned in the background. Ai Medda bled, and the Grey Fleet made landfall in Constantia, welcomed by some, resisted by others. The city and the academy, so deeply intertwined, prepared their salve.

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♫ || ♫

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Then, as a late stresian thunderstorm crackled and mumbled lazily in the clouds and a soft rain fell away to grey and indistinct predawn, the scaffolds and slipways that had sung with the sounds of hammers and saws lay silent and quietly disassembled, carted hastily away overnight by the endless work crews that had used them these past weeks. The city's four Zenobucks locations were up and running as the sun rose behind a veil of clouds, their pots and kettles bubbling and steaming, carts clattering down the streets to deliver the day's baked goods. Mugs were stacked with careful haste, employees tied their aprons and helped themselves to their complimentary morning drinks. Zarina came by to check on two and Marceline the others. Most of their early customers consisted of departing work crews, who received a small discount, and bleary-eyes students and zenos who were just now setting up tents and booths for the Societies Faire. Nobody but the most fanatical wanted the first shift. Their mugs sat in front of them on tables and chairs as they worked, taking occasional sips. In barely more than an hour, the entire thing took shape from its primordial form.

Fires were lit in hearths the city over, kitchens bustled with cooks, and people rolled out of bed and began to dress. Children chirped excitedly to their parents about this or that, eager conversations were held around tables, and bags were packed for a day out. The banners were everywhere as they began to step out into the streets. Others slept in, taking advantage of the blessed day of rest, at least until the great bells of San Carrera tolled to announce the start of festivities.

It was as if the Gods themselves had heard the sound, for the clouds parted most gloriously less than a minute later, great and puffy and golden-white in the early morning sun. Puddles dried and boots rushed through the streets, dodging what was left of them. The residents of Ersand'Enise were not alone, however. Denizens of Mudville, in an attempt to encourage their continued presence under the great city's umbrella, had been given those vouchers, after all, delivered in style by crows, ravens, and magpies that only a handful had taken the opportunity to butcher and eat. They streamed in, now, through the Seagate: whole families, with uncles and cousins. Hundreds more came from Perrence, Revidia, and Méattu. More, still, came from yet further afield. Finally, came their fellow students. Some curious, enterprising, or hedonistic sorts, they'd have normally arrived a week later for the Trials, but they found ways to arrive now, perhaps thanks to the skyrocketing availability of Temporal magic as of late.

Crowds filled the streets by the time San Carrera's bells chimed to announce that Shune had given way to Oraff. There seemed to be a musician on every corner, playing some sort of merry tune. There were games for everyone to win: grizzled dockworker and scion of high nobility alike. How there were foods, as well! Great heaping plates of rare and exotic dishes from around the world awaited within the temporarily christened Smorgasbord Hall. Merchants lined the boulevards. Shrewd-eyed housewives bargained. Yet, the longest lines were saved for the grandest attractions... and the most potentially lucrative. The Founders' Day Weekend Fun Faire was well and truly underway.

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Forms and Guidebooks

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The following forms and guides should help you navigate the Founders' Day Weekend Fun Faire. This is not so very formal an event and much of it will be run via discord. If you have questions, ask away!

• Here is the Societies Registration Form.
• A fully updated list of all the various student societies can be found in the fourth hider here.
• Finally, be sure to read the Fun Faire Rules!

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The Hourglass Order's fifth arc, Linchpin of the Hinge, begins... now!

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The Hourglass Order

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♫

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There had been a feast, of sorts. Everyone had attended. Classa was, unsurprisingly, one of the stars, for the little centaur girl had charmed all by her plucky precociousness and, later, her levelheaded maturity. She was showered with gifts and well-wishes, and she thanked everyone sincerely, but there was a soberness about her now that one would not expect from a child. She was happy that they'd won, but she was also uncanny, in a sense, and... she knew it.

“I think, after all this,” she admitted to Tku and Zarina, “I'd kinda just like to be... a kid, again.” She shrugged awkwardly. “I'll be a grownup someday and I'll have years for that, but I'll never be a kid again. It was a condition I put on my wish before. I hope it can go back.”

A good number of hearts were broken by the admission. Classa had, in a sense, sacrificed her childhood so that An Zenui might stand. Among them was Jascuan, and he sat mostly in silence, his ears flicking, once in a while, as he took in his surroundings and the warmth of them, drifting in and out of sleep. In truth, at his advanced age, the happenings of the past few days had taken almost everything out of him, but all was... if not exactly right, then at least far better than it had been in his lifetime. There was genuine hope that things might change. The city had been damaged but not destroyed. Hundreds had died, but tens of thousands had lived. Here, in the winter of his life, the great fight he had prepared a lifetime for had finally happened and, if he had not played the starring role, he had at least played his part.

Fiske, promising if fractious young man that he was, had played a role too and, during one of Jascuan's brief moments of wakefulness, the pair exchanged some teasing words. “I am too old and tired,” he replied. “You would win.” He reached out and handed the boy a small, folded paper. On it was a unique insignia: one Fiske may have seen before in passing, but not quite recognized. “On the night of five moons, go to the shelter on the Tip. Show this to the person you will meet there and your training might continue.”

Soon after, he drifted off once again. He was at peace with it: with al of it. The stuzets were finally free, the corruption at least partly purged from society, and justice of the blade delivered to those who had done evil. He had no fight left and it was just as well that none was needed anymore. His children were safe and happy, their futures secured. His eldest would be taking over the farm in good order. His youngest was a woman grown and would be heading to the great school across the ocean with her new friends. Josca would go with her for a time to help with the adjustment. It was, he thought, feeling the warm rays of the setting sun on his skin, a happy ending.

Benedetto, too, was something of a removed figure, until Ayla came to speak with him, fresh off of a conversation with Samaxi and her elder brothers. To her surprise, perhaps, he hugged her back, and tightly. "Thank you, Ayla, for your help and..." He trailed off for a second. "Never stop being good, okay?" the separated. "Never stop being a light for other people. You have more power that way than you ever will by destroying. It took me ten years in the wilderness of the past to learn that, but you got me started on that path." He swallowed and his face became pinched. His eyes shone and he took a couple of deep breaths. "Fuck.... this wasn't supposed to be hard. I wasn't supposed to care."

Then, Fiske was apologizing to him. Benny shook his head. "Fiskel, you little shit." He sighed. "I've done worse - way worse, for reasons less pure." He shrugged. "Whatever's in your past that makes you angry, I hope you get to the bottom of it. I hope you figure it out." Benny squeezed his shoulder, perhaps fondly, but always a little too hard.

Desmond had struggled with his own goodbyes, and Benedetto knew it well. The sun was turning fat and golden as it edged toward the horizon, and it began to strike everyone that this was it: this was goodbye. Stuzéts - now calling themselves sirui hé - had gathered first by the tens, and then by the hundreds. Nearly all who had called An Zenui home had decided to depart. The seven children of Sazan-Betai and Stela-Zomé were among them, old enough to understand what was happening but too young to comprehend it. Desmond took a moment with their parents, and both embraced him with firm handshakes and greatful thank yous, for the distant past that they were headed towards was a strange and uncertain place, and his gifts would surely help them survive. From behind her mother, Loci gazed up at him evaluatively, eyes flicking towards the burrito and the shotgun, before she decided to scamper away.

Cazelui hugged him deeply. "I will... remember to turn the safety off before shooting," she laugh-cried. "And I will never forget you. Thank you for... showing us: for saving us." Poto-Mits came to embrace him as well, and the three sirrahi Desmond and Tku had taken the fall for earlier come to thank him and, really, all of the others. They had freed themselves, but these eight foreigners had been the spark for it all. Finally, came Egosto-Alguo, and he settled the hat atop his head. He had said nothing during his interrogation. He had remained silent. Now, he had the hat. He nodded a thanks and gave Desmond his word that this was how it was always meant to be.

Then, as the sun sat atop the horizon like a great, overripe peach, there came a portal. It sparkled and swirled. Benedetto stood beside it. He had already said his goodbyes to Zarina, to Ayla, to Marceline, Fiske, Yansee, and Evander. He and Desmond eyed each other for a moment, for they were both old friends and old rivals at this point: more similar than either would ever have wanted to admit. "Keep fighting the fight, Desmond." It was all he could manage. He was, even now, having his doubts about the necessity of the course he had chosen. "Read about me in your history books, okay?"

He turned to the sirui hé. "You all know what comes next," he announced. Their goodbyes were finished. Many took last, anxious looks back out at their home: the only one they'd ever known. Final, rushed goodbyes were spared for the humans and cazenax they would be leaving behind. "It's time for us to go." But, then there came something unexpected. Evander stepped forward. "I think I'm going to go with you, actually: just for a little. Just for a year, to help you get settled." He shook his head. "Can't leave you with just Benny here, can I?"

At least a couple others tried to dissuade him, but most accepted it. He was implacable, as he had always been. Instead, they said unexpected goodbyes. In theory, he would return. In practice, who could say? Life is the experience of the unexpected, after all. One by one, they disappeared: Egosto-Alguo, leading them through, Poto-Mits and Cazelui, Stela and Sazan shepherding the kids along. Then, finally, Evander and Benedetto. All at once, the portal wavered and winked out of existence and it was dark and cooling. Zarina began to feel her expanded form deflating. Marceline and Tennaxi wrapped shivering arms around themselves.

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♫

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Then, a new portal appeared. From it emerged Karan Harrachora, Arch-Zeno of Ersand'Enise. He regarded them for a moment, evaluatively, before nodding. "In one week, you did more good for the world than most people do in a lifetime," he said simply, a mysterious pouch hanging from his hip. The Cazenax watched warily before easing. Classa eyed the strange man with suspicion, her more childlike nature seeming to have returned, as if the effects of her wish had worn off now that its paramount lesson was learned. "Come with me now, back home." He smiled in faint satisfaction, taking a deep breath of the desert air through his nostrils. His gaze fell upon Tennaxi, Samaxi, and Yansee. "Oh, and you too, or... you three," he joked. "You show much promise: far too much to be anywhere else but at Ersand'Enise."

The portal yawned open. Classa hugged Zarina and Tku one last time before Zox picked her up and held her as if she was a little doll. He bid farewells of his own: brief but meaningful, while Naxos chattered on, dabbing tears with a kerchief. Josca, Buinats, Cozoban, and Cozezast did not have anything too longing to say. They would be there in a couple of weeks for the Trials. Jascuan, the old man who had started it all, slept peacefully as they said goodbye.

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Primitive, Act Four: Fin.

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The Hourglass Order

Extra post. Ignore... for now.

The Hourglass Order

New NPCs

Ciro Volta

C I R O V O L T A

“Love shows itself more in adversity than in prosperity; as light does, which shines most where the place is darkest.”
17 | Male | Human | Revidia | Merchant | RAS: 7.95 (Manas: 126) | Worldbinder

P E R S O N A L

❖ [ Pronouns ] - He / Him
❖ [ Honorifics: ] - Biro, Master, Mister.
❖ [ Nicknames: ] - "Acco" or "Accorto"
❖ [ Titles: ] - Biro of the Ersand'Enise Academy of Thaumaturgy.
❖ [ Relationship Status: ] - Yes.
❖ [ Character Alignment ] - Lawful Neutral.
❖ [ Brief Introduction: ]

♫ "My boy: flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,
You enter our world this day: a small, red, crying thing.
It is a place of hardship and want; of struggle and peril.
Yet, I promise you that it is also beautiful.
I promise that your mother and I would not have brought you here
If there was not wonder and love and opportunity for you to find.
You are no king, my little one. You bear no title before your name: Ciro.
It means 'sun', for that is what you are to us.
Your ancestors achieved no great glory in battle, flew no flags, slew no dragons.
They were farmers. They were cloth sellers. They went to markets. They conquered oceans and
They built an empire, Ciro: an empire of their own, spanning the globe over,
And they did it without bloodshed. They were clever. They were shrewd. But they were good.
This is the legacy that has passed to me and, someday, it will pass to you.
I love you, my son, even though I will not often say it as you grow,
For a man must be hard. He must provide and protect. He must venture and he must seek
And he may show no weakness, except in these rare moments, ones like this.
Then, I think, it is alright.
I will be there, ever at your back, I promise, to hold you up when you stumble,
To catch you when you fall. Until, one day, it will be your turn to catch me.
Your mother and I: we are so excited. We can't wait to see what you become."

♫ Ciro was born in the city of Cantativa into the Volta family: among Revidia's most prominent merchants and, more recently, bankers. As the eldest of three children, he was destined to inherit the family concern and a position of significant power and authority within Revidian society. His mother, Vittoria, was a fourth daughter from the noble house of Aldebrandi and, from her, he inherited substantial power in the Gift.

His early years were simple and idyllic, no different from those of any other wealthy young heir of a major merchant concern: His education entrusted to some of the brightest minds in the nation, long idyllic dorrads and rezains in the vineyards and olive groves of the family villa at Montignano, playing hide and seek with his sisters and his dog Grasso. His father, Cosimo Volta, tended to the family's flourishing business along with his brothers and cousins and, increasingly, affairs of state. Ciro is too young to remember the dark days of conflict during the Joruban Revolution. He grew up in its aftermath, as a newly assertive Revidia sought to stake for itself a greater place on the world stage and the policies of Prospero Malatesta l'Anguilla increasingly shaped its society. His father went from supporter to opponent of the Malatesta regime after the infamous 'Betrayal at Sant'Albertino' where he ultimately took the part of the nobility in continuing to bar members of the merchant class for ascending to the position of Doge.

Yet, political setbacks aside, the family continued to flourish and, even more so, Revidia. Ciro manifested his first magic and, if he was not quite a prodigy, he was good: better than his parents had dared hope for. Soon, his sisters Selena and Lucrezia followed him and he began spending his afternoons, when he was not being tutored rigorously in arithmetic, the natural sciences, oration, linguistics, or the thaumaturgical arts, with his father, familiarizing himself with the globe-spanning concern that he was one day to head.

At first, it was daunting: decisions that affected so many lives in the hands of one person. It did not seem a good thing. It did not seem... right. And yet, someone had to do it. That responsibility fell to the merchant class. It fell to him, and to do it with greater care and godliness than the uninformed might. This was his place in society, as designed by Shune, the Learner, and Dami, the Judge. He settled into the role with the grace and poise his family had known he would. His father took him aside and it was here that he embraced his son and handed to a fourteen-year-old Ciro the note he had written on the day of the boy's birth. All was well. It was smooth sailing on a calm sea.

Yet, the currents of state move quickly in Revidia and, often, they are treacherous. Within the halls of government, Cosimo was being groomed as a rival to the doge himself. He was not so important as to be the only one, but nonetheless, it was true. As his time investment in the company necessarily decreased, his cousin Jacopo stepped into many of the positions he had held. While he continued to take Ciro through his weekly rounds, grooming him for the position he was to inherit, they were now accompanied by his own sons.

Then, one day, his father simply didn't return home from a voyage to Civitalunga. His ship, the grand galleon Impressa d'Oro had foundered in a storm off of Punto di San Michele. Yet, the Impressa was a sturdy ship and the storm had, by all reports, not been that bad. Ciro was no fool. His father: that lion of a man, who had spoken truth to power, who had always kept the Gods, who had conducted his business with decency and compassion... he had been murdered, either by the doge or by Jacopo. Why not both? For one hour, he locked himself in his room and he wept bitterly, clutching the note he had been given to his heart and swearing to do right by it. Then, he emerged, two years short of his majority, and made peace with his father's killers. It sickened him deep down where he would show nobody, for a man must be hard, but this was the Revidian way. He embraced cousin Jacopo and kissed him on both cheeks. He took his father's place in the Assembly of the Illustrious Republic and shook hands with l'Anguilla, assuring the doge of his continuing loyalty and support.

Ciro was not idle, however. He used what power he had to place Jacopo in direct charge of their textile business. It had once been their mainstay and was, in theory, an immensely influential position, but it was not profitable. His sons Antonio and Lorenzo were sent to distant ports as regional heads and, when the time came, suitable accidents arranged for them. Business withers if it is conducted only with coin, however, and he had learned this well. He enrolled in Ersand'Enise and, when he received the summons back home, for the funeral of his cousins, he had his servant, Gordo, bring him a bitter glass of wine. He sipped it in silence and darkness before setting his affairs in order and departing the next morning.

He took old Jacopo in his arms and consoled him, for the man had loved his sons almost as much as he had loved himself. Then, he let him fall into his cups and continue ruining the family's textile business. He sent the Dieci Volti some money to enhance the process.

During the cold, bitter hundri of DZ55, a meeting of the directors of the Compagnia de la Volta was convened and a vote was held. Ciro traveled not by portal, for a year at the academy had taught him that there was something peculiar about his manas: they resisted magics of space and time. They closed off the hungering VOID. He told nobody, for it was a useful if inconvenient power and he was already honing his use of it. He merely booked passage on one ship and then embarked upon another. The first one sank. The second did not. It was only late and he arrived to find Jacopo delivering something of a teary-eyed eulogy for that 'poor, cursed family'. Ciro said nothing, for nothing strengthens authority so much as silence. Instead, Jacopo was removed from his position. Cosimo's loyalists still held a bare majority and Ciro had treated Jacopo's people well enough that they would rather the business flourish under someone who was not 'their man' than one who was both inept and treacherous. Prospero Malatesta sent him a personal letter of congratulations and was eager to talk business with him when he arrived in Avincia. They spent two hours in a rosebush-filled courtyard - two circling mongooses - feeling each other out before parting with something of an understanding. Ciro returned to Montignano to a meal of calamari, pheasant, and fine breads from his mother. He, she, and his sisters sat by candlelight in the villa and made plans for the future.

It wasn't for very long, however. Ciro needed to return to the academy of thaumaturgy, where many interesting people were doing interesting things. There are four months left until he reaches his majority and formally takes control of the Compagnia. Tell me: are you someone interesting? He would love to know.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

❖ [ Eyes: ] - Blue-Green.
❖ [ Hair: ] - Black, Wavy
❖ [ Skin Tone: ] - Fitzpatrick type II.
❖ [ Height: ] - 5ft 9in / 177cm.
❖ [ Weight: ] - 150lb / 68kg.
❖ [ Physique: ] - Athletic.
❖ [ Facial Features: ] - Sharp features, substantial brows
❖ [ Physical Quirks: ] - None.
❖ [ Distinctive Features: ] - Birthmark on his left forearm shaped a bit like a Pentact.
❖ [ Apparel & Accessories: ] - A fine pocketwatch with a hidden compartment, a copy of the note his father left him.

Ciro dresses well, but never ostentatiously. He takes pride in his appearance and makes no attempts at false humility over his success and his station. His clothing is functional and always tailored to fit the situation and, while he has people to dress him, he has studied fashions and styles to the point where he can make his own decisions and, more importantly, will know if they're misleading him.

Beyond clothing, Ciro is a handsome young man, with bright, keen green-blue (or is blue-green?) eyes, wavy black hair kept at a respectable length, and sharp features. He is lean and athletic, with visible muscular definition but nothing overstated. Magic, at the end of the day, is his weapon of choice, and his body - healthy and well cared for - an instrument to deliver it.

T H E G I F T

❖ [ Magnetic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Arcane: Pyromancy, Illusion ] – [ IV. Journeyman ]
❖ [ Binding: Healing, Creation ] – [ III. Adept ]
❖ [ Chemical: Deceptive, Disruptive ] – [ IV. Journeyman ]
❖ [ Kinetic: Enhancement, Gravitational ] – [ IV. Journeyman ]

❖ [ Atomic Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Blood Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Temporal Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Dark Magic: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Command: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]
❖ [ Primordial: ] – [ 0. Neophyte ]

Hex Codes: colour=FFE4C4

Johann Steinbauer

J O H A N N S T E I N B A U E R

V O N O S T E R M A R K - K A R N H O L D T

"Discovery is the spice of life."

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19 | Male | Kerreman | Noble | 8.75

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ A F F A B L E ] _{dispassionate}
❖ [ H U M O R O U S ] _secretive
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ] _utilitarian
❖ [ G E N E R O U S ] _selfish
❖ [ E A S Y G O I N G ] _twisted

Everybody loves Johann - at least, anyone who's not a complete stick in the mud. This rather portly Kerreman lad is famous for frequenting the bars, pool halls, study halls, and biergärtens of Ersand'Enise. He can often be found at the library, collaborating academically with his fellow students, at the bank, managing his family's business ventures, or at the auction house, bidding on seemingly random items of interest. Whatever he might be up to, however, Johann never forgets his friends, classmates, acquaintances, and... well, just about anybody. One can be certain that, whatever he purchases, most of it will be for others, for it is Johann's foremost philosophy that something enjoyed alone is not truly enjoyed. So, he is always the one to buy an extra round for everyone in the bar, to organize the study session, to share his notes, to pay for dinner. He has the money, after all, and spending it on others is an investment in their happiness. Nothing makes him happier than being around people who want to be around him in return. The most basic litmus test for many biros on whether someone is a decent friend or not is whether they like Johann. Anyone who doesn't, clearly has no appreciation for what makes someone good.

Of course, most of this is a complete fabrication. Beneath his affable surface, Johann is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Driven by an obsessive need to discern the secrets of the human and humanoid body and develop complete mastery over it, he regularly engages in the most inhumane and sordid of experimentation. This is a strictly-kept secret, with even the school authorities unaware of either the experiments or their originator. Johann, meanwhile, has little use for social convention, tradition, or politics. They are merely tools that he employs and levers that he pulls to further his ends. Skillfully, he uses his money, raw magical power, and burgeoning reputation as insurance to guarantee that nobody could possibly believe the truth were someone to ever leak it. Someday, he knows, he will change the world, and a glorious day it will be. For the time being, sacrifices must be made - just not his.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

An absolutely enormous young man, in both height and especially heft, Johann is notable for his bright red hair, sharp little beard, and jolly face, which often wears a mischievous smirk. There are times when something else seems to flash through his smiling brown eyes, but it must just be a trick of the light. He is friendly to a fault.

His clothing is all custom-tailored, a necessity for one of his size and wealth, and reflects the latter with its fine materials and cut in addition to a colourful, adventurous palette that reflects his open, fun, and gregarious nature. This young Kerreman is very self-aware and definitely the sort to lean into his reputation and appearance. If he isn't the handsome leading man, then he's the funny friendly fat guy who everyone likes. Things are easier that way anyhow: many more surface friendships and few of the deeper entanglements that can be so problematic.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ K E R R E M A N ] natively
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] fluently
❖ [ H U U L I S C H ] fluently
❖ [ P E R R E N C H ] fluently
❖ [ R E V I D I A N ] semi-fluently
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] basically

T H E G I F T

Blueblood, Copycat

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 4 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 0 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 4
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] 3 ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] ?
❖ [ C H E M I C A L ] 5 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Johann is, ultimately, a terrifying force of nature with the Gift, and his manas' ability to copy spells renders him even more potent. However, his greatest weapon is his mind and his ability to manipulate people. Unsurprisingly, his magic is tailored to fit this skillset. While he can certainly heal competently, he focuses more on fleshcrafting, generation, and regeneration. His use of Chemical and Magnetic magics is specialized in their biomanipulative aspects with some competency in illusion, corrosives, toxins, and energy. For the most part, however, he passes himself off as a healer, transmuter, lightning mage, and explosive chemist, perfectly competent, but not exceptional.

Finally, his massive size proves a boon with magic, giving him a capacity well in excess of most other people. In a pinch, he can liquidate his own energy-rich fat reserves for a sudden burst of power. This is only a last resort, as is - to some extent - combat itself. The best way to win is to never have to fight, or at least to never have to fight anyone who has a chance against you. When nobody's looking, Johann is rather good at punching down.

B A C K G R O U N D

He should’ve been born a first son. Alas, he was not. While his eldest sister Sybille is now Duchess of Lindermetz and in line to be queen consort, and his elder brother Klaus stands to inherit the duchy upon their father’s passing, little but a name and some share of his family’s substantial wealth is left to Johann, the pudgy little second son. The less that is spoken of his pompous godly younger brother Wilhelm and simpleminded sister Ulrike, the better.

From the time that he was old enough to understand that he was the spare and not the heir, Johann alternated between bitterness and some misplaced desperation to prove himself. Alas, for all that he was warm and kind - qualities uncharacteristic of high Kerreman nobility - Markgraf Klaus was a man of rules and principles, and his dictated that, while Johann was to be loved and provided for, he was not to inherit unless some calamity befell his brother. The ancient rules and the ancient line of Ostermark-Thandau were not to be disturbed or altered in any manner.

Yet, even warmth and care can only extend so far when he who has taken it upon himself to provide them is rarely present. The duties of Klaus - the elder Klaus, that was - kept him away from the family estate for months on end and, if he was a welcome presence to his wife and children, he was also set apart from them. Johann was left, by and large, to his tutors and his own devices.

While Sybille grew into a graceful and intelligent young woman, strong in body, mind, and magic, Klaus spent most of his time outdoors, hunting, riding, playing sports and wargames. Johann preferred books. He was too small to keep up with his vigorous older brother, and so he ate and he ate. Wilhelm was always his mother’s creature, much concerned with following her around, going to worship, and doting on feebleminded Ulrike. Before long, as his siblings went off to Ersand’Enise, the second son was left master of the house, at least in theory. In practice, he was given the small town of Thandau to administer as he saw fit.

His Gift had begun to manifest itself and, by the age of twelve, clever and intelligent Johann was finding ways to use it around the estate and the town. When he was not eating - for it had become a custom of his and his appetite was great - he was studying or at work on some new scheme to improve irrigation in the orchards, reorganize the tax records, reduce livestock loss, or incentivize the peasants to train at arms or send their sons and daughters to school. He shuddered to think that so many were illiterate and most showed little interest in reading or learning. A life without books was an unthinkable thing to him.

Around this time, he also began to develop the usual urges that a young man might at such an age. There was Katherine, daughter of one of the junkers. She was pretty and how he liked to look at her sometimes, but she was dumb. There was Alena, of Kurlich-Karnholdt, who was smart and friendly, but homely and oh-so traditional. Then, there were the many pretty girls about town, like Wilma, Verena, Therese, and Zoe. They fluttered around in their dorrad dresses, always leaning into each other, whispering and giggling as they carried baskets or sacks.

Finally, there was Margerethe, the miller’s daughter, but he knew to avoid her for the difference in their station. This, too, he found paradoxical. Perhaps the body of society needed to be organized, with each part serving its purpose, but there were some people who were clearly ill-suited for their stations or better suited for others. She was bright and beautiful and witty and would just as easily have made a duchess as a miller’s daughter. Johann learned when her father was there and when he was not and he made a point of bringing grain down or running an inspection or some other errand whenever he could. She always seemed to have a grin or a blush when he came around and he began dressing better. Whenever he saw her with the other girls, she would glance his way quickly before turning to them and whispering in hushed, excited tones. He knew that he was not handsome, but Klaus had told him well enough what it meant when girls did that.

Over the course of that dorrad and early rezain, Johann redoubled his studies and the work that he undertook on his family’s behalf. While Klaus was busy drinking and bedding women and casting fireballs at Ersand’Enise, Johann was actively bettering the duchy of Ostermark-Thandau. Often, he would come by Margerethe’s house and bring some book to share with her. He had extra food prepared and would carry it over in a basket so that she might eat like the duchess she should’ve been. Over the warm months, they spent a great many hours together. She confided in him that he was her dearest friend. He learned every bit of gossip about town and her opinions on everyone. Her magic was not so great, but he taught her how to use what she had.

Finally, he received news that, two days hence, his father was to return from an absence of some six months, and with momentous news. Johann burned with indecision. He could make his stand here: appeal to his father’s sense of fairness and desire to better the duchy’s position, and present himself as the clear heir, or he could embrace his insignificance and ask that he might be able to court Margerethe after all, as he was only a second son. It was late in rezain and the leaves were falling in earnest when he went to her to ask for her counsel and confess his feelings. He had taken care to make the moment special: a picnic in a field beneath a great oak tree, her favourite book, cake, and candles.

He left the picnic with cake on his face, having fallen forward when she flinched away from his kiss. He was a friend, a dear friend, she’d insisted, but it was foolish for them to be together. He’d suggested the elope, cheeks burning with shame and anxiety as he’d wiped the icing away, but then she’d been honest: she didn’t love him. She didn’t want to lie to him and use him for his money or station, but she felt no stirring inside of her. Johann had left her with the picnic, left her to clean it up, and walked away. It seemed that his course had been set. He was not beautiful, but he knew, at least, that he was effective.

He met his father on the road, having commandeered one of the grain wagons for the job, as he was not a good rider. There, he regaled the elder Steinbauer with the many great things he had achieved during those six months. He built up towards his case for inheriting the estate, for how much good he could do, and the evidence was all around them as they made their way through Thandau.

It was no longer theirs. Markgraf Klaus had been away arranging the marriage of Sybille to Prince Freidrich and Thandau was part of the dowry. He had, further, arranged for Klaus’ marriage to homely Alena and acquired Karnholdt in the deal. Johann’s work had been for nothing: a waste of resources better spent elsewhere. Furthermore, he had been busy stuffing his face, embarrassing himself about town, and being seen scandalously with a local girl. One who doesn’t even love me, the boy had thought. He was to attend Ersand’Enise himself in three years time, he was to learn, to make social connections, and to bring no further disrepute upon his family. Then, he was to take his place. He could see the wavering in his father’s bearing, hear it - ever so slightly - in his voice. There was none from Johann. He accepted the rebuke in humble good humour and vowed to do better. If he became a bit dissolute afterwards, a bit of a merry, feckless drinker and jolly do-nothing, it was only what was expected of him anyhow. He must never outshine his brother. He must never aspire to more.

Yet, he does.

M O T I V A T I O N

Johann's motivations are simple: make friends, have a good time, and make the world a better place. He is altruistic sometimes to a fault: there are those among his 'friends' who appear to just use him for the money, status, or academic benefits. However, unless they reciprocate in at least some fashion, they never seem to hang around for long.

He also has his research interests, of course, and he dedicates plenty of time to these, often locking himself in the Grand Library's solitary study rooms or disappearing into the laboratory that occupies the tower of his townhouse. These are basically the only times that he isn't out and about and being social.

_{Of course, there's a whole other side.}

I N V E N T O R Y

Johann dresses as one might expect of someone of his pedigree, but he will almost never be seen carrying any visible weapon or obvious magical paraphernalia or focus. He will always have a few sacks of money on his person, in various denominations, as well as a handful of reagents and an imbued wand. Almost all of his items are, in fact, imbued in some way, though none is of particular note on its own.

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

❖ [ C H A R I S M A T I C ]
❖ [ V E R S A T I L E ]
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ]
❖ [ S C I E N T I F I C A L L Y K N O W L E D G E A B L E ]
❖ [ W E L L C O N N E C T E D ]

Johann is extremely bright, superficially charming and likeable, and is excellent at adapting to unexpected situations and seizing opportunities. He has social and business connections one would not expect of someone his age and will throw his weight around for friends and even acquaintances though, beneath the facade, this is very much a calculated thing. His knowledge of cutting-edge science is nearly unparalleled and he regularly employs it in his studies and everyday life. Finally, he is immensely physically strong, though he rarely makes use of this strength, at the cost of physical endurance. He weighs slightly over 400 lbs, after all.

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

❖ [ O U T O F S H A P E ]
❖ [ C O W A R D L Y ]
❖ [ D E C E I T F U L ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ A R T I F I C I A L]

All of Johann’s charm is skin-deep, or perhaps just a bit more than that, but not much. Beneath the surface, he is a bitter and detached individual with a colossal superiority complex fed, deep down, by a lack of self-esteem. He will make a show of bravery when required but, if there is genuine danger or risk, he will almost always try to weasel his way out of it. Finally, his level of fitness, while improved recently, still leaves much to be desired. For anything requiring stamina, he leans heavily upon his abilities with the Gift.

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

Colour Code: Goldenrod

Seviin'delaan'taxoiya

S E V I I N ' D E L A A N ' T A X O I Y A

"Father Damy has blessed you with the right to be wrong."

---

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16 | Female | Yandese | Clergy | 8.24

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ P R I N C I P L E D ]
❖ [ E X A C T I N G ]
❖ [ A L O O F ]
❖ [ C A R I N G ]
❖ [ C O N F L I C T E D ]

Seviin is a young woman - still half a girl - very much playing at being more mature, competent, and certain about life than she truly is. A tyro priestess of Oirase, she has dedicated herself to the cultivation and preservation of life at all costs, including that of her own. This dedication is, for the most part, genuine. It is also, however, her method of coping with the darker things in her life. Precisely what those are, she withholds to the point that most would not even guess at them. Most every action that this young Yandese takes is completed with either a light, noncommittal smile or a look of mild (and perhaps smug) disapproval, directed down her nose at those who fall short of her exacting ethical thresholds. She will help you and heal you, but she will judge you and you will know that you have been found wanting. Her ambivalence towards animals - the assiduous avoidance of most contrasted with her clear understanding and empathy towards them - is a further mystery. Yet, beneath this guarded and morally superior facade, she is capable of moments of sweetness, caring, mirth, and unexpected earnestness.

Ultimately, despite appearances, Seviin is a kind soul and will do everything in her power to ensure the survival and (physical) flourishing of her allies and - well, a priestess of her ilk does not necessarily keep friends. However, she will absolutely not, under any circumstances, act to harm another sentient being and, if possible, a living creature. She will not eat meat. She will find a use for all that she owns and all that she takes from the land and she will not - directly - say a cruel word to anyone. Certainly, she will never curse either. It is her job to nourish, to save, and to do good works, regardless of the wickedness that thrives around her. This moral code is one that she rigorously adheres to. It is her shield for the weak, the innocent, the preyed-upon, and... for herself.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

Tall, slim, and graceful, Seviin is the very picture of youthful yasoi beauty though, by Tarlonese standards, she dresses quite modestly. Long sandy-coloured hair falls in curtains to either side of her face, which is unmarked by the Tetsoi so favoured by southern yasoi. Red lips stand out against pale skin and vivid cerulean eyes. Her clothing is invariably white, sometimes accented with pastel colours in the habit of her holy order and often loose and flowing. To some, it may appear impractical. To a binder of her calibre, its maintenance - while simple - is symbolic and deeply meaningful.

On her person, Seviin carries neither weapon nor armour, though she does have a staff - Aloi'alar, the Mother's Mercy - passed down from her great grandmother, who was a healer of some repute. Any pouches and belts she may have are well hidden or incorporated seamlessly into her outfit. This is, in theory, a rather conservative set of garments but, in practice, there is always just enough skin left showing to pry loose the intentions of those with whom she interacts. When she can get away with it, she prefers to go barefoot, though she will never admit it, of course.

Perhaps the only discordant element of her appearance is the single large fang hanging from her left ear, turned into a piece of jewellery. Nobody but her is quite certain why she wears it or what it stands for, but she is never seen without it.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ Y A N D E S E ] natively
❖ [ T A N T I A N ] natively
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] fluently
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] near-fluently
❖ [ R E T A N E S E ] semi-fluently

T H E G I F T

{unknown), Solocaster

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 2 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 5
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] (5) ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] 3
❖ C H E M I C A L ] 4 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 2 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Seviin is trained in the Gift as are all young yasoi and is extremely capable in its use, having completed her first year of studies at Tantas'iilwash Academy. However, she absolutely refuses to use it in a capacity that will harm other sapient beings, and prefers not to harm any living thing at all. All of her spellcraft is dedicated to this pursuit, with her abilities in Arcane used to create light, warmth, and cauterize wounds, her Chemical abilities to invigorate, empower, and transmute, and her Temporal to reverse negative effects, buy allies more time, and facilitate movement. In Tarlonese culture, no distinction is made between Binding and Blood magics, and these are used, of course, to heal and protect.

Of course, there is more - there is the thing that disturbs her so, but it is not something that she will ever talk about, as if she might someday disperse it into oblivion through sheer force of will.

B A C K G R O U N D

There is much to say about Seviin's origins and how she came to be here. It was as a seeker of asylum, however, for she could not countenance her people's horrid war against the humans of Ai Medda and their own kin in Constantia. Before that, she was a priestess, and much loved and celebrated by her family and community, if not seen as a touch odd and overzealous, perhaps. Maybe she wasn't always so rigid, so awkward, and so defensively sanctimonious. Maybe she's running from something else. Her past is not something that she speaks very much about, and so it shall not be spoken of here.

M O T I V A T I O N

"A healer should do no harm."

Seviin is someone who lives by an absolute moral code and will not contravene it for anything. As Tantiac moved to effectively annex her country and the entirety of Tarlon, sometimes by outright force, she found herself called upon to act as an instrument of the empire in an expansionist war that she did not agree with. Hence, with the Trials beginning, she volunteered to represent her school before promptly defecting and seeking asylum. In the end, she is someone who clings to her moral code, who clings to a fairly narrow and easily definable idea of being 'good' in an uncertain world where the terrain shifts constantly around her and such broad concepts as 'right' and 'wrong' aren't necessarily so clearly evident.

I N V E N T O R Y

Seviin carries her robes, her staff: Aloi'alan, pouches of reagents, and some local currency on her. As a refugee, she does not own very much. Most of her food and necessities, she synthesizes using blood magic.

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

❖ [ I M M U N E T O D I S R U P T I O N ]
❖ [ A G I L E ]
❖ [ B R A V E ]
❖ [ L E A R N E D ]
❖ [ R E S O U R C E F U L ]

Seviin is, despite all of her purposeful lightness and elegance, someone who knows how to handle herself when it really comes down to it. She possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the humanoid body, materials science, and basic physics, and will come to the aid of any ally in need regardless of her personal feelings. She is excellent at compartmentalizing, retaining a professional distance, and will not hesitate to speak truth to power.

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

❖ [ R I G I D ]
❖ [ S A N C T I M O N I O U S ]
❖ [ P A C I F I S T I C ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ I M M U N E T O M A N A I N T E R A C T I O N S ]

With her attitude, Seviin is unlikely to make any friends and she tells herself that it's alright, that it doesn't matter and that she doesn't need them. As with many matters, she is lying to herself. Her entire identity is an unstable thing now, built upon pillars of sand. Her refusal to do any direct harm, while commendable in some respects, can make her a liability when it comes to outright combat.

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

Colour Code: F0FFF0

The Hourglass Order

@Force and Fury
Hey. This seems to be about the only fantasy-genre RP that isn't anime, and I want to play a dwarf. Which... I think this has? There is just a lot to go through with no breakdown of races. 'Course you might not be accepting new players right now. I would just like to state my tentative interest.

@Grimnir

Hi!

We're actually starting a new arc and we're tentatively open to new players, so now is a good time to jump in. In this world, hegelans are our closest analog to dwarves and are mostly the same thing. One of our co-GMs is going to invite you to the discord and it'll be easier to answer any questions that you have there. Just be warned ahead of time that this is a pretty high-committment RPG with a great deal of existing lore and a good deal of discord use so, if that's not your cup of tea, it may not be for you. As long as we can pass those hurdles, then you might be a good fit and we're always happy to roleplay with interesting new people. In that case, let's talk!

- Force and Fury

The Hourglass Order

Johann

J O H A N N S T E I N B A U E R

V O N O S T E R M A R K - K A R N H O L D T

"Discover is the spice of life."

---

---

19 | Male | Kerreman | Noble | 8.75

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [ A F F A B L E ] _{dispassionate}
❖ [ H U M O R O U S ] _secretive
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ] _utilitarian
❖ [ G E N E R O U S ] _selfish
❖ [ E A S Y G O I N G ] _twisted

Everybody loves Johann - at least, anyone who's not a complete stick in the mud. This rather portly Kerreman lad is famous for frequenting the bars, pool halls, study halls, and biergärtens of Ersand'Enise. He can often be found at the library, collaborating academically with his fellow students, at the bank, managing his family's business ventures, or at the auction house, bidding on seemingly random items of interest. Whatever he might be up to, however, Johann never forgets his friends, classmates, acquaintances, and... well, just about anybody. One can be certain that, whatever he purchases, most of it will be for others, for it is Johann's foremost philosophy that something enjoyed alone is not truly enjoyed. So, he is always the one to buy an extra round for everyone in the bar, to organize the study session, to share his notes, to pay for dinner. He has the money, after all, and spending it on others is an investment in their happiness. Nothing makes him happier than being around people who want to be around him in return. The most basic litmus test for many biros on whether someone is a decent friend or not is whether they like Johann. Anyone who doesn't, clearly has no appreciation for what makes someone good.

Of course, most of this is a complete fabrication. Beneath his affable surface, Johann is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Driven by an obsessive need to discern the secrets of the human and humanoid body and develop complete mastery over it, he regularly engages in the most inhumane and sordid of experimentation. This is a strictly-kept secret, with even the school authorities unaware of either the experiments or their originator. Johann, meanwhile, has little use for social convention, tradition, or politics. They are merely tools that he employs and levers that he pulls to further his ends. Skillfully, he uses his money, raw magical power, and burgeoning reputation as insurance to guarantee that nobody could possibly believe the truth were someone to ever leak it. Someday, he knows, he will change the world, and a glorious day it will be. For the time being, sacrifices must be made - just not his.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

An absolutely enormous young man, in both height and especially heft, Johann is notable for his bright red hair, sharp little beard, and jolly face, which often wears a mischievous smirk. There are times when something else seems to flash through his smiling brown eyes, but it must just be a trick of the light. He is friendly to a fault.

His clothing is all custom-tailored, a necessity for one of his size and wealth, and reflects the latter with its fine materials and cut in addition to a colourful, adventurous palette that reflects his open, fun, and gregarious nature. This young Kerreman is very self-aware and definitely the sort to lean into his reputation and appearance. If he isn't the handsome leading man, then he's the funny friendly fat guy who everyone likes. Things are easier that way anyhow: many more surface friendships and few of the deeper entanglements that can be so problematic.

L A N G U A G E S

❖ [ K E R R E M A N ] natively
❖ [ A V I N C I A N ] fluently
❖ [ H U U L I S C H ] fluently
❖ [ P E R R E N C H ] fluently
❖ [ R E V I D I A N ] semi-fluently
❖ [ C O N S T A N T I A N Y A S O I ] basically

T H E G I F T

Blueblood, Copycat

❖ [ M A G N E T I C ] 4 ❖ [ A T O M I C ] 0
❖ [ A R C A N E ] 0 ❖ [ B L O O D ] 4
❖ [ B I N D I N G ] 3 ❖ [ T E M P O R A L ] ?
❖ [ C H E M I C A L ] 5 ❖ [ D A R K ] 0
❖ [ K I N E T I C ] 0 ❖ [ C O M M A N D ] 0

Johann is, ultimately, a terrifying force of nature with the Gift, and his manas' ability to copy spells renders him even more potent. However, his greatest weapon is his mind and his ability to manipulate people. Unsurprisingly, his magic is tailored to fit this skillset. While he can certainly heal competently, he focuses more on fleshcrafting, generation, and regeneration. His use of Chemical and Magnetic magics is specialized in their biomanipulative aspects with some competency in illusion, corrosives, toxins, and energy. For the most part, however, he passes himself off as a healer, transmuter, lightning mage, and explosive chemist, perfectly competent, but not exceptional.

Finally, his massive size proves a boon with magic, giving him a capacity well in excess of most other people. In a pinch, he can liquidate his own energy-rich fat reserves for a sudden burst of power. This is only a last resort, as is - to some extent - combat itself. The best way to win is to never have to fight, or at least to never have to fight anyone who has a chance against you. When nobody's looking, Johann is rather good at punching down.

B A C K G R O U N D

He should’ve been born a first son. Alas, he was not. While his eldest sister Sybille is now Duchess of Lindermetz and in line to be queen consort, and his elder brother Klaus stands to inherit the duchy upon their father’s passing, little but a name and some share of his family’s substantial wealth is left to Johann, the pudgy little second son. The less that is spoken of his pompous godly younger brother Wilhelm and simpleminded sister Ulrike, the better.

From the time that he was old enough to understand that he was the spare and not the heir, Johann alternated between bitterness and some misplaced desperation to prove himself. Alas, for all that he was warm and kind - qualities uncharacteristic of high Kerreman nobility - Markgraf Klaus was a man of rules and principles, and his dictated that, while Johann was to be loved and provided for, he was not to inherit unless some calamity befell his brother. The ancient rules and the ancient line of Ostermark-Thandau were not to be disturbed or altered in any manner.

Yet, even warmth and care can only extend so far when he who has taken it upon himself to provide them is rarely present. The duties of Klaus - the elder Klaus, that was - kept him away from the family estate for months on end and, if he was a welcome presence to his wife and children, he was also set apart from them. Johann was left, by and large, to his tutors and his own devices.

While Sybille grew into a graceful and intelligent young woman, strong in body, mind, and magic, Klaus spent most of his time outdoors, hunting, riding, playing sports and wargames. Johann preferred books. He was too small to keep up with his vigorous older brother, and so he ate and he ate. Wilhelm was always his mother’s creature, much concerned with following her around, going to worship, and doting on feebleminded Ulrike. Before long, as his siblings went off to Ersand’Enise, the second son was left master of the house, at least in theory. In practice, he was given the small town of Thandau to administer as he saw fit.

His Gift had begun to manifest itself and, by the age of twelve, clever and intelligent Johann was finding ways to use it around the estate and the town. When he was not eating - for it had become a custom of his and his appetite was great - he was studying or at work on some new scheme to improve irrigation in the orchards, reorganize the tax records, reduce livestock loss, or incentivize the peasants to train at arms or send their sons and daughters to school. He shuddered to think that so many were illiterate and most showed little interest in reading or learning. A life without books was an unthinkable thing to him.

Around this time, he also began to develop the usual urges that a young man might at such an age. There was Katherine, daughter of one of the junkers. She was pretty and how he liked to look at her sometimes, but she was dumb. There was Alena, of Kurlich-Karnholdt, who was smart and friendly, but homely and oh-so traditional. Then, there were the many pretty girls about town, like Wilma, Verena, Therese, and Zoe. They fluttered around in their dorrad dresses, always leaning into each other, whispering and giggling as they carried baskets or sacks.

Finally, there was Margerethe, the miller’s daughter, but he knew to avoid her for the difference in their station. This, too, he found paradoxical. Perhaps the body of society needed to be organized, with each part serving its purpose, but there were some people who were clearly ill-suited for their stations or better suited for others. She was bright and beautiful and witty and would just as easily have made a duchess as a miller’s daughter. Johann learned when her father was there and when he was not and he made a point of bringing grain down or running an inspection or some other errand whenever he could. She always seemed to have a grin or a blush when he came around and he began dressing better. Whenever he saw her with the other girls, she would glance his way quickly before turning to them and whispering in hushed, excited tones. He knew that he was not handsome, but Klaus had told him well enough what it meant when girls did that.

Over the course of that dorrad and early rezain, Johann redoubled his studies and the work that he undertook on his family’s behalf. While Klaus was busy drinking and bedding women and casting fireballs at Ersand’Enise, Johann was actively bettering the duchy of Ostermark-Thandau. Often, he would come by Margerethe’s house and bring some book to share with her. He had extra food prepared and would carry it over in a basket so that she might eat like the duchess she should’ve been. Over the warm months, they spent a great many hours together. She confided in him that he was her dearest friend. He learned every bit of gossip about town and her opinions on everyone. Her magic was not so great, but he taught her how to use what she had.

Finally, he received news that, two days hence, his father was to return from an absence of some six months, and with momentous news. Johann burned with indecision. He could make his stand here: appeal to his father’s sense of fairness and desire to better the duchy’s position, and present himself as the clear heir, or he could embrace his insignificance and ask that he might be able to court Margerethe after all, as he was only a second son. It was late in rezain and the leaves were falling in earnest when he went to her to ask for her counsel and confess his feelings. He had taken care to make the moment special: a picnic in a field beneath a great oak tree, her favourite book, cake, and candles.

He left the picnic with cake on his face, having fallen forward when she flinched away from his kiss. He was a friend, a dear friend, she’d insisted, but it was foolish for them to be together. He’d suggested the elope, cheeks burning with shame and anxiety as he’d wiped the icing away, but then she’d been honest: she didn’t love him. She didn’t want to lie to him and use him for his money or station, but she felt no stirring inside of her. Johann had left her with the picnic, left her to clean it up, and walked away. It seemed that his course had been set. He was not beautiful, but he knew, at least, that he was effective.

He met his father on the road, having commandeered one of the grain wagons for the job, as he was not a good rider. There, he regaled the elder Steinbauer with the many great things he had achieved during those six months. He built up towards his case for inheriting the estate, for how much good he could do, and the evidence was all around them as they made their way through Thandau.

It was no longer theirs. Markgraf Klaus had been away arranging the marriage of Sybille to Prince Freidrich and Thandau was part of the dowry. He had, further, arranged for Klaus’ marriage to homely Alena and acquired Karnholdt in the deal. Johann’s work had been for nothing: a waste of resources better spent elsewhere. Furthermore, he had been busy stuffing his face, embarrassing himself about town, and being seen scandalously with a local girl. One who doesn’t even love me, the boy had thought. He was to attend Ersand’Enise himself in three years time, he was to learn, to make social connections, and to bring no further disrepute upon his family. Then, he was to take his place. He could see the wavering in his father’s bearing, hear it - ever so slightly - in his voice. There was none from Johann. He accepted the rebuke in humble good humour and vowed to do better. If he became a bit dissolute afterwards, a bit of a merry, feckless drinker and jolly do-nothing, it was only what was expected of him anyhow. He must never outshine his brother. He must never aspire to more.

Yet, he does.

M O T I V A T I O N

Johann's motivations are simple: make friends, have a good time, and make the world a better place. He is altruistic sometimes to a fault: there are those among his 'friends' who appear to just use him for the money, status, or academic benefits. However, unless they reciprocate in at least some fashion, they never seem to hang around for long.

He also has his research interests, of course, and he dedicates plenty of time to these, often locking himself in the Grand Library's solitary study rooms or disappearing into the laboratory that occupies the tower of his townhouse. These are basically the only times that he isn't out and about and being social.

I N V E N T O R Y

Johann dresses as one might expect of someone of his pedigree, but he will almost never be seen carrying any visible weapon or obvious magical paraphernalia or focus. He will always have a few sacks of money on his person, in various denominations, as well as a handful of reagents and an imbued wand. Almost all of his items are, in fact, imbued in some way, though none is of particular note on its own.

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

❖ [ C H A R I S M A T I C ]
❖ [ V E R S A T I L E ]
❖ [ B R I L L I A N T ]
❖ [ S C I E N T I F I C A L L Y K N O W L E D G E A B L E ]
❖ [ W E L L C O N N E C T E D ]

Johann is extremely bright, superficially charming and likeable, and is excellent at adapting to unexpected situations and seizing opportunities. He has social and business connections one would not expect of someone his age and will throw his weight around for friends and even acquaintances though, beneath the facade, this is very much a calculated thing. His knowledge of cutting-edge science is nearly unparalleled and he regularly employs it in his studies and everyday life. Finally, he is immensely physically strong, though he rarely makes use of this strength, at the cost of physical endurance. He weighs slightly over 400 lbs, after all.

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

❖ [ O U T O F S H A P E ]
❖ [ C O W A R D L Y ]
❖ [ D E C E I T F U L ]
❖ [ M I S A N T H R O P I C ]
❖ [ A R T I F I C I A L]

All of Johann’s charm is skin-deep, or perhaps just a bit more than that, but not much. Beneath the surface, he is a bitter and detached individual with a colossal superiority complex fed, deep down, by a lack of self-esteem. He will make a show of bravery when required but, if there is genuine danger or risk, he will almost always try to weasel his way out of it. Finally, his level of fitness, while improved recently, still leaves much to be desired. For anything requiring stamina, he leans heavily upon his abilities with the Gift.

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

Colour Code: Goldenrod

The Hourglass Order

@Fallenreaper Mahal is approved. I imagine you'll be expanding further on just why her father is so utterly awful to her in the future and I look forward to seeing that done well. In the meantime, feel free to move her over to the character tab. Let's welcome her aboard!

The Hourglass Order

@BlackRoseSiren Lunara is approved, though I do wonder:Who is the friend that you referenced being the only one who didn't 'show odd qualities'? I'd appreciate if you expanded on that a bit and clarified. otherwise, well done. I look forward to seeing her in this roleplay. When you've addressed those concerns, please repost her in the character tab.