So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
8
likes
3 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
likes
3 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
@Emeth Alright! I've had a look and here's the breakdown.
1. This is a wonderfully well-written CS, with attention to detail, nuance, and internal stakes for the character. Thanks for spelling. And grammar.
2. Even though it's crept a bit towards the higher-fantasy echelons in recent months, THO is still fundamentally rooted in plausibility, so naturally pink hair for a human is a no-no. That either needs to change or be a dye job via magic or some other means.
3. FWIW, I don't find it too angsty. There's a lot of negative history, but it feels... coherent, for lack of a better word.
4. Maybe make her from Méattu or Revidia?
5. An entire magic school simply being destroyed would be a pretty major world event. Maybe we're looking at a very small pre-academy prep centre or maybe not literally destroyed to the point of ruins? I imagine there's a good reason for this, attached to her wandering and ill-fortune, but magic academies don't just get destroyed on Sipenta.
6. The items are cool, but maybe a bit overpowered. I understand that they're a callback to her Gift from Harold's, however, and they sneakily make it work. Given that she doesn't skew that strong otherwise and they allow her to play similarly to before, I'm going to handwave what would otherwise be concerns and grandfather her in. I trust I can count on you not to abuse those mechanics.
7. Small thing: flying fluidly with tier 2 in Kinetic Magic is pretty iffy. Levitate + other motion-related stuff can kinda do it, but Wings of Magic, in tier 3, is where it really becomes viable.
8. Most of my concerns are just products of the nature of transposing a character between completely different magical settings and a couple others are nitpicky, but I'm wary of slippery slope. Let's address those and then, by and large, I'm genuinely excited for Raffy in THO and look forward to seeing her!
The sun had long since set. In fact, it was due to rise in a few hours, and the Ersand'Enise that it would rise upon was vastly different from what it had been mere days before. Since then, it had turned from Stresia to Dorrad, from heavy and grim to... if not quite hopeful, then something like it; something a little closer to how those older than them reckoned young people should be. Thousands of them streamed home from Leon Solaire's concert, carefree or, in a sense, perhaps with new cares. Love had won the day. Light had banished darkness. Worries and woes had been pushed aside.
In short, the Founders' Day Faire had been a success. Karan Harrachora's big gamble had paid off.
It was during this migration of the wee hours when two students in particular, however, found themselves approached. Abdel had become separated from Maura in the stir and mingle of it all and, suddenly, he felt a tug on his satchel. Whirling and ready to retaliate against a potential pickpocket, he instead found a small, rolled up parchment. It was entirely blank save for a print of the outline of a human head, without any distinguishable features.
Not ten minutes later, his peer, Fiske, still basking in the glow of a first kiss, dropped Marceline off at the apartment she shared with friends like more of a gentleman than most thought he was. They exchanged a parting peck and then she fluttered upstairs, closing the door gently behind her, already calling out to those friends excitedly.
It was during the long walk back that he saw the masked figure standing in the alleyway. It was as he reacted that the second one appeared beside him and held out a rolled paper. He would find the exact same thing in it that Abdel had. The masks did not stick around. They disappeared. He could sense it was a matter of simple illusion - something he was well-versed in himself - but it was clear they did not wish to be followed. Fiske was left with new things to ponder.
The fifth and final member of that young group - Rikard - was left to find the last little bit of his own way home after he and Abdel separated. He and Ayla had missed each other, for what seemed like the umpteenth time. It was a pensive kind of silence. Hans, he thought, and Palmela. He snorted as he reached his door and crept inside, but almost everyone was out in one way or another. Soon enough, he joined them in sleep, but he did not sleep for long.
After the roaring success of Leon's concert, a couple of students, heading back, encounter a clandestine - but perhaps not unwelcome - surprise.
The Chapel
It was early morning as he entered the chapel. There was a girl in it, and an older woman with a veil who he knew, instinctively, to watch his words around. They were seated in the pews, the former's long blonde hair flowing down her back in the silent dimness. Dust motes swirled about in the golden rays streaming in from the stained-glass windows. The girl seemed to be in prayer, for she did not turn. The older woman seemed to make a point of not doing so. Curious, he made his way towards them and sat close enough to show interest and far enough to be judicious.
"The gods may yet show you favour, young mistress. I pray you keep their names ever on your lips and it may yet subside." He tried not to butt in, but he was versed enough in sonic magic and the whisper had an urgent quality that hampered its quietness. "Something like this does not subside, Lady Micallef. It is both a consequence of my actions and of their will." She sat almost unmoving but for her elegant face: a perfect porcelain statue. Then, Lady Micallef's eyes darted his way and he felt like an intruder and he went back to his prayers. he remained for some time, but there was only the soft sound of the girl's prayer and the more fervent whisperings of her... servant? Her keeper? He did not know. Most strangely, he caught her, out of the corner of his eye, reaching up more than once with a kerchief to dab at the girl's face. She neither particularly resisted nor assisted in her own care, likely some sort of high noble from a distant place he did not understand. She was dressed in all white, fingers clasped in front of her, threaded around a rosary. Once or twice, he could've sworn her eyes tried to find him, but they missed each other and, in any event, there was Lady Micallef to contend with. Eventually, they outlasted him. He made the sign of the Pentad, rose, and departed. It was only when he was walking about Ersand'Enise for a good long while that he realized he was in a dream.
Rikard, having gone to bed with some regrets, finds himself going to the chapel in the morning, but not all is as it seems.
Finding the Groove
He eventually rose from bed in earnest, as did a great many others. This fourth festival day was no new or purpose-built holiday but, rather, Mother's Day. At 4:25 HS, they began filtering in for a culminating assembly. On the hour, it began. Rich rewards - a great and eclectic series of magical hats - were handed out to the students. Some chose to have fabulous figures subtracted from their tuition, or private tutoring, or free use of the mighty Silk Gate that had come to dominate life in the Mercantile District. Already, the industrious Hegelans were pouring through, setting up shop, taking control of their own trade lest humans snatch it from them. Later this very day, further destinations were to open portals of their own, each traveler being sorted as they stepped through the great hub of Ersand'Enise: to Varrahasta and Torra Corda in Torragon, Civitalunga and Avince in Revidia, Solenne and Relouse in Perrence, Hetzelburg, Leidengen, Harrowend, Yabusa, Meldheim, Zewaggah, Gandakar and - following a new treaty - Karamevo and Stolizhny in distant Vossoriya. To be certain, it was an exciting time to be alive; the world seemed to transform in some new and compelling way every time that one looked up.
Yet, there were a handful of students - mostly those who had scored too poorly to earn themselves one of the magnificent hats - who had taken, instead, small wooden boxes filled with... mystery coins. These translucent, crystalline objects sparkled with flecks of various metals, depending on just how high the student in question had scored during the faire. Some contained strong, simple iron, others reddish bronze, and still others precious silver and gold. None of the top scorers had chosen the humble boxes, of course, so if there were more denominations of these coins, they remained undiscovered to the larger student body. Of course, a handful might've noticed a striking similarity between these and what they'd earned recently out in the deserts of Xolectoxo.
Lunara and a handful of other students have acquired Exploits, also known as Groove Tokens. With either blind intuition or the help of Niallus' Compass of Desire, they must find where to spend these mysterious coins. Upon doing so, they will discover the secret of the Vermilion Swirl: that it is a front for The Groove and its endless possibilities.
Following this celebration and some concluding words from the Zenith, the focus shifted, for most, to honouring their mothers. Some sent letters and gifts. Some took advantage of the new portal network, which opened to great fanfare a couple of hours later, to visit their families in person, a deed which would've been impossible but a year ago. Such was the march of innovation. Such was its spread!
Why, already, merchants were rushing to trade their ships in for stakes in new portals, and the few mages well-versed in such magics had begun charging titanic fees. Yet, there were opportunities around the edges. If many long-range routes would dry up in the coming months, short-distance ones would flourish for years until the number of trained mages grew great enough to cover every settlement of any significance. There were those who either recognized that or else were on their own quixotic quests. One of them was Ciro Volta, scion of a greatly respected mercantile family of Revidia. As many scrambled to divest from their ships, here he was buying them at fire sale prices. Already, within the city, he had scooped up some 29,000 tons worth of carracks, pinnaces, and galleons and he and his partners in crime were endeavouring to procure still more.
The Founders' Day Faire wraps up with a handout of magical hats and mysterious coins. Meanwhile, students pour through portals for Mother's Day as one of them schemes.
Paranoia: Part One
Yet, it was not a banner moment for all. If Jocasta had survived the day of her poisoning by changing absolutely everything about her routine, it had been at the cost of a horror she struggled to express in words. To be attacked by one of those krakens... She had been weakened and panicked and likely could have dealt with it much more easily had she not been, but it was still a deeply unsettling development and one that she would have to bring up to the Zenith upon their next meeting. The wasted day had also brought her precious little closer to finding out who had perpetrated the deed and poisoned her. While she considered that the Knowers might be involved, it did not strike her as being part of their usual modus operandi, from what little she knew. There were, to her mind, three main suspects: the church, the Dieci Volti, and the academy. Yet, there was a fourth as well: the mad avatar. That one-legged bitch walked freely about the city, a murderer of her fellow students, unpursued by the authorities. Had she decided to finish the job sneakily on Jocasta?
The Tan-Zeno had picked out three main vulnerabilities during the day that had not been. The first had been during a brunch with six other members of the Volti. The second had involved the hedge maze, which she had good-naturedly participated in. The third and final had been her judging of the talent show. For reasons she couldn't quite fathom, she'd allowed a venomhand to get close to her and she'd been stupid enough to actually accept a drink without checking it for alien substances. She shook her head at the profoundly uncharacteristic moment. She'd let her guard down and it had nearly cost her everything. Yet, there were far less dramatic explanations and, upon her travel back, she'd had Luria Colloy take over as judge. The Zeno was, unsurprisingly, fine. Briefly, she considered telling Yalen, but she felt far too guilty already for all of the trouble that she caused him. She could see him, day by day, hardening to the world because of her. She could see him becoming a weapon. It was not good to be a weapon. She'd been one her whole life and, only recently discovered how to be a human again. Yet, now circumstances required that she take up the mantle once again.
It was time to eliminate suspects. One by one.
Jocasta, shaken, begins identifying suspects in her near-death experience. She makes plans to confront them.
Paranoia: Part Two
"If I'd wanted you dead, Veleno, it would have been instant." Argento was the speaker. He shook his head. "I mean no disrespect. You and I do not see eye to eye often, but I am well aware of your abilities and I respect them." He was unmoving, with his expressionless silver mask. She evaluated him and knew that he was being truthful. Argento, simply put, did not lie. "And do you have any idea?" she asked. "Any leads?"
He stood there for a long moment, the great wicked sword slung across his back glinting in the dorrad sun. He shook his head tightly. "I do not, but I will look. An attack against one of us is an attack against all of us." He tilted his head. "We are all loyal to the cause, Veleno, are we not? We all stand together."
Jocasta cracked a small smile that held only the bitterest form of mirth. "I do not stand, Spada."
He let out a snort.
"But I am loyal to the cause, even if I'm playing a different role now."
His mask regarded her for a moment longer, unspeaking. Then, he nodded. "Be safe, Veleno." They parted ways.
Jocasta first confronts Volto Argento, gaining some insight into his way of thinking in the process.
Good Works
"No one's holding a gun to your head, Greg."
He was working on another disguise. He'd already generated close to a hundred. Others were hard at work too. "It pays."
Jocasta blushed slightly and looked down to where her fingers threaded and unthreaded themselves in her lap. "You know, we're not just gonna throw you to the sharks. I'll make sure you still have funds..."
"'We' or 'I', Certosa?" He regarded her evenly, having stopped his work for a short while. In the background, some of the local children were hard at play. "And I'm right sure they're gonna put one in there!" crowed Genevieve, the centre of a small flock in her wheelchair. "They love wells. Every year. I dee-double guarantee it!"
Volto Certosa sighed. "Does it really matter?"
He scrunched up his nose. "Kinda does, yeah."
Of course, she knew what it really was: he didn't want anyone's charity. He wanted to work for the cause he had committed himself to, but Gregoire had become the main breadwinner of his family following his father's death at Moli's Emporium last year. His desire to help the cause and his need to earn a living were in conflict. She'd been helping his family out of her own pocket on the proceeds of her portal business and the items she'd gotten from Retan. She'd sold them all to private collectors over the past couple of weeks and they'd netted a tidy profit: enough to keep Brigitte - Gregoire's sister - from becoming a 'washerwoman' and enough to pay for Genevieve's lessons in Avincian and the Gift. For the Lotti and Bruni families, she'd done what she could. "They recognize your contribution, you know," she promised. "They know you need to make ends meet, though." She took a small coinpurse from the satchel slung across the back of her wheelchair and handed it to him. It hung there awkwardly for a moment. "Honest pay for honest work. You're an asset, Greg, and I mean it."
It lingered there in the space between them for a moment that stretched on into the uncomfortable, and a handful of the younger children saw it. "Thanks." He snatched it up with an abbreviated motion and stuffed it into a work satchel. "But stop funding me out of your own pocket. You're gonna make yourself poor."
Was she surprised that he knew? Perhaps less than she'd thought. Gregoire, one desperate incident from last year aside, was not a stupid boy. Jocasta shrugged. With what had happened during her last attempt to travel via portal, with the marks that still stained her midsection, she found a growing uncertainty about her financial future gnawing at her. At least she'd gotten Yalen's land back. Ingrid had enough. At least she'd been able to flip the trinkets from Retan for a handsome sum. Maura and the others had enough, though it would probably never be enough for their ilk. "I have my ways," she assured him, "and I can afford to be a little less rich. The rich kids can afford it too, not that they'll ever freely agree."
He was back at work on the disguise. This one was about human-sized. "Oh, so you make them?"
She grinned. :DeviousJocasta: "It's worth it for the dirty looks they give me." She held back a slight giggle. "You should see how red in the face some of them get."
Gregoire rolled his eyes. "I'd forgotten how cool you were."
Jocasta opened her mouth to reply. "Only the -"
"But she is cool!" chirped a small voice from behind. Genevieve had rolled up quietly and now threw her arms around Jocasta from nearly behind. "Like a cucumber," Jocasta agreed, but the child - all of eleven - only looked puzzled. "Why a cucumber?" she prodded, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "Is it some kinda..."
Jocasta hadn't even though of that! It was just an idiom. "Nononononoo!" she blurted. "Nothing like that. It's just an expression."
Genevieve gave her a dubious look. Gregoire glanced her way as if to say, 'you're on your own.' Thankfully, however, the girl was easily distracted. "aaaaannnnnnyway, I didn't come here for that." She began tugging Jocasta by the arm. "They say - even Lisette - that any of them can beat me easy in a race 'cause I ain't got no legs."
The older girl allowed herself to be pulled along in the enthusiastic wake of the younger, keeping them both on a straight course with her free hand. "Legs... kind of help, Gennie. That's just the truth of it. Take it from a fellow cripple."
The kid twisted and shot her a look. "Well durr, but I got magic, right? I catch a good downhill and I figure I can smoke 'em, at least the slower ones."
In theory, it was possible, especially over longer distances as the bipeds wore out. Genevieve was looking her way hopefully, for some sort of confirmation that it was. "Have you ever tried before?" Jocasta asked, and the girl shrugged, lifting her other hand from her wheel and wavering it in a 'kind of' gesture. "Like a little, yeah."
"Then you should already be familiar with your greatest enemy, right?"
Genevieve considered. "Ya mean them stupid flagstones?" Jocasta nodded. "Bingo." She pulled her hand free. Why were kids' hands always sweaty and gross? "You hit one of those going fast, you learn how to fly... at least for a few seconds."
The eleven-year-old turned on the spot. "Then teach me your ways?" she asked sweetly. Jocasta really didn't have the time to. She pursed her lips. The sweet look only became more obnoxious. "Please, Tantie Jo?"
Jocasta recoiled. "Oh my Eshi. Only if you never call me that again."
"Okay, Tantie Jo!" She stuck her tongue out.
"You little fucker..."
Genevieve clamped her hands over her mouth and widened her eyes in horror. "Ya just upped and swore in front of an innocent child!" she cried.
"Nothin' innocent about you," Jocasta grumbled. Genevieve grinned, but the the smiled faded. "Kinda hard to be, ya know, growin' up 'round here." She wrapped her arms around herself and Jocasta frowned. Lisette was skipping over from nearby. Jocasta forced a smile. "But I like you just the way you are, okay?"
Genevieve regarded her with something between earnestness and dubiousness, undecided as befit an eleven-year-old. "Geez Louise," she mumbled as Jocasta took out a couple of coins and pressed them into her hands. She glanced over her shoulder at her sister. "Go get yourself and Lisette some Ice Cream at that new place, huh?" The girl's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
Jocasta nodded. Lisette arrived. "Heya Tantie Jo!" she called, and Genevieve started. "Gods no!" she cried, "Don't call her that or she'll like..."
Lisette came to a stop, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She quirked an eyebrow. "Hey! Where'd she go?" Both girls cast about for the next few seconds, but Jocasta was nowhere to be found. "Looks like you made her disappear," the younger one half-joked. The older sister snorted. "So, what were you talking about anyway?"
Genevieve shrugged. "Ya know, just non-biped stuff."
Lisette scrunched up her nose, noticing how her sister had kept her right hand closed the entire time, despite that making it harder for her to move. "And?"
Genevieve shrugged innocently, twisting on the spot one last time to look for Jocasta and failing to find her. "And?"
Lisette rolled her eyes. "And what'd she give you, that you're hiding right there in your hand?"
"Oh!" chirped the younger sister, "That's just my ice cream money. She said we should go visit the Creamery." She let loose an enormous grin and held it out for Lisette to see.
Jocasta visits with Gregoire and Genevieve, two victims of student carelessness last year. She donates what she can to them while trying not to patronize.
Paranoia: Part Three
But there were two sides to Jocasta. There had always been. If it was not Argento, then it was one of the others. She turned her attention next to Juulet: the Mad Avatar. How appropriate that she was eating ice cream. The attack was sudden and it was overwhelming. Juulet's extremities stiffened and her chest tightened and then came the pain. It was as if a demon had reached inside of her and just decided to crush.
Her bowl of ice cream fell onto her clenched leg, an unfortunate waste, as she remained paralyzed and was unable to scream. The agony clouded her already very hazy mind, leaving her with little time to react. Time ... That was it. That was all she needed. “Mo-ther-” she drew until she had emptied her immediate surroundings from matter and energy, leaving only a cold and desolate space. “Fucker!” Then, time stopped, and then it reversed back to a few seconds. Her body was intact, the pain was gone, but she remembered it all.
Riddled with cold sweats, she immediately began to dart in random spots in the city in an attempt to find the culprit. There wasn't even a second between each interval. She appeared, sensed, and then moved to some other location within Ersand'Enise. Until she found a familiar and deeply unpleasant presence.
“~Found you~”
Just as she appeared right before Jocasta, her palm was descending upon the blonde girl with her fingers hooked as if she was about to seize the Tethered's head and rip it clean off. Her mouth was agape and her purple eyes burning with a lust for revenge.
At first, it encountered something that felt right, but then that faded and became - if not incorporeal, then less so. The decoy fairly exploded and there was Jocasta, just off to the side. "I thought that'd get your attention, you cunt." She was already drawing in colossal amounts of energy. "Why'd you try to kill me?" she snarled. "Yesterday, before I went back and undid your little mess!"
Emerging from a time right after the explosion, Juulet was as unscathed as Jocasta as they stared each other down. “Yesterday.” she repeated. “Yesterday, yesterday, yesssterday ...” she tapped her chin, and then shrugged. “Rings no bells. Must've been me after this fight. So, that means I failed, which then means I gotta avenge myself now, right?” she unleashed a sequence of piggish snorts and snickers before concentrating a ball of intense heat onto the centre of her palm. What was first a flame then became a ball of plasma with how dense and massive the energetic generation was. “I usually know better than to make a big, fat, fucking mess. But for you, little Yanii slut, I'll make an exception.” that ball was going to explode. Likely none of the two would suffer the consequences, but the surroundings would.
And there it was: a gut check moment. This crazy bitch didn't care one iota about the others she'd hurt. Jocasta did. That meant using temporal magic. That meant inviting them to attack. She hesitated. She never would've hesitated before. She began drawing the energy from that ball: drawing with all of her might. If it was a tug-of-war, then she could surely win it!
“HAHAHAHAHA!” maniacally laughed the Yasoi. “That's right little Tan-Zeno! Save the day! Flex your overwhelming power!”
Juulet continued to tug, and tug and tug some more by consistently feeding the small sun in her hand. Jocasta was going to win, that much was obvious, but she had learned something during the stupid faire games she played in: Tug-of-war SUCKS. Suddenly, she 'let go', prematurely causing the orb to pop in a far less powerful explosion. Actually, it barely did any damage, but it was discombobulating, and Jocasta's focus on a singular, massive force had to instantly be spread into a wide net. It was meant to be overwhelming, and an opening.
The Mad Avatar then did something no mage should choose to do: She went into melee range with a singular, monstrously fast dash with her fist going for an uppercut under Jocasta's chin. “Up 'n' at 'em!”
Jocasta saved lives, but she neglected to save herself. It was instinct. She reached out and slowed time and only the awkward angle of the punch - trying to uppercut someone sitting while being a six-foot yasoi - saved her. She rocketed back, she sensed the knower, and its black tendrils reached for her. Then it was real-time and she was safe from it - but not from Juulet. The first punch missed, but she came down in a double hammer-fist that drove Jocasta into the ground.
She resisted with all of her strength. Dirt and stones bit against her body. Her dress and skin shredded and she was certain that bones in her legs snapped, though she could not feel it. Why had she attacked!? Had she expected a denial? On some level, perhaps, she had. She was drawing, though, the entire time, about to swing desperate defense into cataclysmic offense. She took every ounce of her magic and drove it like a needle into Juulet's brain, stimulating every pain receptor that the yasoi had as much as a sentient being could possibly handle. "You talk too much!" she roared. "Just answer the question: would you just go after me out of the blue? Would you kill with poison!?" She cranked it up higher, eyes wide and bulging with focus and fury.
Was she seeing things? The very entity that sought to consume Jocasta was also observed by the temporal mage that assaulted her. She wondered if she was seeing things, if the withdrawal was getting too high, or ... Chemical Magic, FUCK!
Once again, Juulet found herself unmoving. This time, it wasn't her limbs that were stuck, but her mind and will! Chemical magic, and more potent than anything she had faced. The frenzied Yasoi growled, and then drooled, until her mouth foamed. “POOOOIIIISSSSOOOONNNN!” she barely articulated, eyes rolled back and muscles tensed from the extraordinary effort she was putting to fight back. Slowly, her already balled fist rose up, and then smashed down onto the ground below her.
A wave of electricity reverberated through her body and then sunk into the ground. Her neurons were purged of any anomalies - her chemical integrity reset, in a sense. “Is for cowards! You bloated rat!” she rapidly spat back! Then came the compress space, right into Jocasta's frame. It wasn't going to kill her, but she just wanted to see that tick pop in a mist of red at least once for relief.
Then, Juulet sighed. “Randomly? Definitely. There ain't no Yanii-honour bullshit where I'm from.” the same electrical current that had purged her of her ailment once again flowed through her, causing sparks to flicker around her and static to permeate the air. “I'd kill you with my own, fucking hands around your neck, whore.”
One second, Jocasta's midriff was there. The next, it was gone, and so was she. Two seconds back, the tentacles slipping through, grabbing her, burning to the touch, and then she was throwing herself to the side and avoiding the deadly attack. Black tendrils licked at the edges of reality before disappearing. "You see them, don't you?" Jocasta barked. "Knowers, if an intellectual pygmy like you knows what those are, and they're coming for all of us who like our magics a little spicy." She shook her head. "You're a fucking cuntmuffin, for sure, but it wasn't you." She scowled. "Sorry for trying to kill you." She glanced down at her bloodied, broken legs. "I figure we're about even."
As she spoke, she gathered from her surroundings, cooling the air to frost point, causing plants to wither and the wind to still.
This time Juulet saw it for real, even as she was consistently cleansing herself. Her eyebrow twitched and her teeth ground. “Fuck off!” she growled, not at Jocasta, but where the monster 'was' in the pocket between times. Although strangely enough, it never seemed to even glance at her direction. Not that it didn't unnerve her any more or less.
“Tch.” Juulet spat by her singular foot. The electricity in the air had been toned down to barely noticeable static. “I don't know what the fuck you did,” she pointed her finger in an accusatory manner and wagged it. “but I had no problems until you showed up. If you ruined everything for being an inept Yanii! --” she aggressively drew like she had done when first assaulted, but then she stopped. Something had hit her. “We're not even.” she petulantly commented. “I am going to beat the shit out of you, fucko.”
And then, she once again glanced at the spot she had noticed the Knower. There was clear fear and concern in her body language. “But not here. Not with that around.” With a small hop, she took the air. A comfortable breeze passed by, letting her medium-length hair fly with it. “When my work's done.” she finger gunned, then peered upwards. “Besides, causing a ruckus when the beasts are out is a bit too crazy, even for me.” One could not see them in the middle of the day, but the five moons shone upon both women all the same. Juulet smirked, and then retreated to her temporary quarters.
Jocasta began to heal herself. Two down. One to go. Then, she remembered Zarina.
A brazen attack on Juulet results in a second clash with a familiar foe. Some things are resolved. Some aren't.
Lovers and Letters
Fortunately, Zarina had already remembered herself. The crisis about to be unleashed by Jocasta's newfound reticence to travel through space and time was averted for another month, at least in theory. For that, Ersand'Enise had Miret'thilan'dichora to thank. In one perfect night - one festival of love where the two of them were but one of many couples - she had made the Virangishwoman accept herself in a way that no person or thing had before. They had known love, together, and it had been beautiful, enough so that Zarina had placed her well-being in the yasoi's hands and dipped into her meagre personal stash of plushtail oil to prevent the painful and dangerous transformation that would've seized her otherwise.
Yet, few were those who'd known anything about it and, worse, still, she had awoken to an empty bed, the other side cold and unoccupied. Fortunately, there was a letter:
Dear Zarina,
Please don't freak out too much when you find my side of the bed empty. I'm not running away. I like you. My country has called me to join their crusade, though, and it's not a call that I can ignore. Mostly, they want Tyrel to make an appearance and show the Constantians that the gods are on our side because my cousin is, apparently, a living deity. I don't imagine I'll be more than a couple of days. Then, hopefully, we get to team up in the Trials! Stay safe and happy until I'm back.
Love, Miret
Zarina wakes up to an empty bed, but her new lover hasn't necessarily fled in the traditional sense.
Espionage
However, she and her cousin were far from the only people headed to Tanso where, just the day prior, the Grey Fleet had made landfall. The Academy had sent its own investigators, and now they observed from a vantage point that they hoped was safe. The Tantians surely could sense them, but they were counting on good grace here. The yasoi would not be so brazen as to outright attack representatives of Ersand'Enise.
"Whatever that thing was," Sienna Afraval was saying, "I sincerely doubt we've seen the last of it." Dressed in simple browns and greens instead of her usual finery, she took a sip from her canteen and scowled, shaking her head. "That should be our priority."
"Karan blasted it easily enough," replied Fades-in-Moonlight. "I wouldn't be all that worried." She shrugged and drank as well, though it may not have been water in her flask.
"Not ourselves we should be worried for," remarked Joao Fabio, crouching right at the edge of the promontory. He took a moment to push his glasses up. It was, in theory, the illusion that he was maintaining that kept them hidden. "Few's the number who've got an Arch-Zeno in their pocket."
"I don't want to be anywhere near your pocket, Fabio."
A couple of them grinned. "Figuratively, boss."
The Arch-Zeno nodded grimly. "Regardless, we'll be looking into it upon our return. A couple of our Tan-Zenos have reported similar encounters. They were lucky to escape with their lives."
Luna regarded him steadily for a moment, her query unspoken but close to an accusation: Then why did we come here in the first place, uninformed, if you knew of the danger?
It was blustery up on the cliffs, the palms and ficuses swaying in a stiff wind, the waves crashing against the castle-like hulls of the increasingly impressive Grey Fleet Complex down below. Inland, they knew that a reckoning was taking place under Tantian law, woe betide anyone who crossed it. Dragons darted and wheeled in the distance. Sea Serpents poked their heads out from the water. None of the Zenos could quite place it, but there was something unnatural about how the animals moved: they were well-trained to the point of being uncanny. Even riderless, they patrolled in perfect lines and sequence, straying only if they perceived a threat, almost... disciplined.
"Any human encounters?" asked Sienna, and her superior shook his head. "Then I say it's not really our business to be here," Zeno Fabio opined. "We've learned what we can without poking the bear, right?"
"Luna?"
She scowled. "They've set up a sort of base a few miles inland. They're dispensing aid and 'justice' from it in equal measure."
"Casualties?"
She nodded. "Crucifixions in the town square, plaques hung around their necks. Seems to be three or four messages repeating. It's yasoi, so I can't read it."
"User, dealer, pirate, thug." The Arch-Zeno remarked quietly. "I know a bit about how they operate."
The others regarded him with wary respect. "And I have access to intel that you don't."
"Incoming," Joao interrupted calmly. There was one of those dragons circling overhead now. By its movements, it was clear that the beast knew something was present without being aware of their precise location. Presently, it let out a shriek and a couple more began to make their way over. "Those things aren't natural," Luna decided, and Sienna shook her head in agreement. "That our cue to leave?" she asked.
Arch-Zeno Harrachora nodded. "Yup," he confirmed. "No need to provoke an international incident." With uncanny speed, he had a portal up. He hadn't even seemed to focus. He hadn't even seemed to draw. "Stick together," he warned, "Eyes open for more of those tendril beasts."
From one of the dragons came a blast of fire - they now knew where their quarry was - but it was easily scooped up and dissipated by Zeno Afraval. Fabio maintained the illusion right to the very end. Then, they were gone. The waves crashed, the palms swayed, and dragons circled under a sweltering grey sky.
A team of faculty from the Academy, led by Arch-Zeno Harrachora, conducts surveillance on the Grey Fleet. What they encounter leaves them uneasy.
A Covenant
"You think they've done it?" The voice emerged from the bubble of silence they found themselves in though, all about them, was sound and motion.
Sister Cadence, petite and shapely, perked up. "Done what, brother Ashe?"
He was leaning against a post at the entrance to a sidestreet though, in truth, most streets in Mudville could be regarded as such. "Killed the little witch." People hustled to and fro in the background, carrying things, hawking wares, shouting slogans. The sounds of construction poured in from the west. Most people seemed to be going that way.
"I should hope so," declared Brother Wolfe. "She's an unholy enough creature to have died a dozen times over."
"And they are not?" challenged Sister Lumen, intense as always. "Wretches and murderers, the entire lot. Rezaindians," she spat.
"What about Rezaindians?" grumbled Brother Flint, more interested in some of the nearby construction. While most of it was housing and a nearly-finished emporium, there was a platform being assembled in the square for candidates' debates.
"Do not we kill as well, sister?"
"But we're not loonies, Brother Wolfe, are we?" teased Brother Ashe.
"Nope!" chirped Sister Cadence cheerily, "We're just mercenaries from another plane!"
With that, Lumen rounded on her. "We are not mercenaries, sister! We are doing the sacred work of the Pentad, picking up where our predecessors fell -" She made the Sign of the Pentad quickly "- and cleaning up the mess those madmen are sure to leave."
"Honestly, I think they've been pretty clinical." Brother Flint shrugged. A cart with signs passed by a group of men arguing on the opposite street corner. Some used proper words. Others eschewed them for the sake of the illiterate. That could be applied to both the signs and the men, Brother Ashe thought wryly. "Well, if they can finish the job from last year," he remarked, making a brief and somewhat irreverent Sign of the Pentad, "Then all the more power to them."
"Amen to that, Brother Ashe." They all nodded.
"Althofen for business!" chanted a group perched on a wagon as it clattered by. "Althofen for progress!" They were handing out loaves of bread, and how others flocked their way! "Bread," murmured Brother Wolfe, "and circuses." He scowled. A singing troupe extolled the virtues of one Eloise de Bouvier with a catchy jingle.
"We complete this task for the Holy Mother, we return to our plane," prodded Sister Lumen, "Correct?"
Ashe and Wolfe nodded. "Truly, I should pray so," Cadence agreed. "I still struggle to imagine how our predecessors failed."
"All power," grunted Brother Flint, "No brains." He shook his head as supporters of Luciana Ambrosini marched through the square with their armbands, banners, and slogans. "Tried to match the Academy for strength." He shook his head. "You don't do that."
"Well, you don't do it and win," clarified Ashe, and Flint shrugged, biting into his loaf of bread. Cadence, meanwhile, seemed to be tearing hers strategically, turning it into some form of art piece. Wolfe and Lumen had given theirs away. Ashe was tossing his up and down absently.
"Remember brothers, sisters," their leader addressed them, "We are not here for a goal so small and petty as sending someone deserving to Lady Eshiran." He bowed his head momentarily and kissed his rosary. "That is worthy work, to be sure, but we are here for something greater. The fate of the world may depend on our actions."
"Of this world," corrected Sister Lumen.
"Just so, Sister," agreed Cadence, and the two women exchanged a nod.
"I wouldn't be so certain," countered Ashe quietly, as another wagon rumbled by with flags and sugar buns: Domenico de Fiori. He stepped forward eagerly to take one, biting into it as he returned. "I venture most worlds have run afoul of those tentacled demons. I venture most are in danger."
"Gods are greater than demons," declared Brother Flint gruffly, returning with a sugar bun of his own. This, he bit into with gusto. "Yet men so often side with demons," lamented Sister Lumen.
"We shall turn them, sister. Have faith."
It appeared that Lumen could not resist the sugar buns either. She had gone out to take one but, when she returned, she handed it to Flint, who grunted a thanks and began eating. "Faith is one thing I do not lack," she replied.
"But it must be paired and tempered with good sense," Wolfe advised. "And a willingness to do what is necessary. We stay focused on our goals, we do not create unnecessary commotion, and we complete the task."
"And then we go back home!" Cadence added cheerily. "Conquering heroes," snorted Brother Ashe, "Though none shall sing of our deeds."
"Such is the blessing we bear, brother," replied Wolfe. "I accept it."
Lumen looked his way and bowed her head. "I accept it."
Flint followed, finished licking his fingers, face serious. "I accept it."
"I accept it," declared Cadence solemnly, small and beautiful and determined.
Eyes turned to Brother Ashe. Long white hair spilled from either side of his hood. He released a lingering breath. "I accept it."
Covenant, supposedly deceased, seem to have returned a year later, but they may not be on the same mission as before...
Radiant
She stood there, naked as the gods had made her, before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, but her body was not her own. Fingertips and brushes traced cool, delicate lines up and down it. She was becoming not Tyrel'yrash, but a work of art: the goddess.
Black and gold on pale white, they snaked up and down her arms, branched across her shoulders and back, and swirled about her breasts. She counseled herself not to start when the cold paint touched her skin. Not only was it undignified for a living goddess, but it would interrupt their work. A flock of five, the Ishpax'oiya fluttered about her, undertaking their work in reverent silence. "A little to the left, I beg you, goddess." Wordlessly, slowly, so as not to disturb any of their work, she followed the instruction. They drew back as one, as if the great creature they had landed on had shifted in the savannah heat. Then, when she stilled, they fluttered back.
"Chin up, I beg your radiance."
She did as they asked, and they continued about their work. Chad and Miret, she knew, were already being dressed. She could feel the bodypaint of the temporary tetsoi drying, tightening on her skin. Then, it would be her turn. Presently, two were crouching, working on her leg. Another was steward of the paints. A fourth had started styling her hair. It had already been washed and perfumed, just like the rest of her. Absently, Tyrel stared at the reflection in the mirror, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. How many hours of work that would undo! Intricate, delicate, exquisite: hundreds of lines and symbols, from gossamer to ribbon, covered her. How had she ended up so special, so blessed? Not daring to move more than incrementally, she made the Sign of the Pentad in her mind's eye, hoping that it would suffice for the Gods. Was she not one of them, though? Certainly, she did not feel as if she were, and that was - perhaps - most true. She was a vessel: a potential goddess should she live for six more years. Spare me, Damy, so that we might finally be reconciled, she prayed inside of her head, but then there was Chad and she loved him and he followed hot on the heels of any profession towards some distant god, shaming her.
Fingers slid up the inside of her thigh and a pulse washed through her. There was something perverse about this, she felt, regarding the studied, focused gaze of the Ishpax'oiya who had caused the offense. He was completely immersed in his art and she decided, perhaps, that the problem was her. "I beg you close your eyes, goddess," asked one of the others, softly. She was not more than a year or two Tyrel's senior and they might've been able to speak as peers had they known each other. In any event, the world went dark and she had to use chemical magic to counter her instinctual flinching and blinking as the girl worked on her eyelids and orbits.
The brushes came now with some more surprise, robbed as she was of her sight for the time being. Without meaning to, she twitched when the cold paint met suddenly with her stump. There was no admonishment - not for a goddess - only the clatter of a brush, the scratch of footsteps on the wooden floor and, a little bit later, a warm cloth rubbing gently at the end of the truncated limb. The second time, she was prepared and did not kick. They continued to work in whispers and silence and paint and she found herself attuned more with sound, with scent, and with energy than with sight. She had known a boy, once - Tyshan - who had become a powergazer. She had always marveled at the ease with which he navigated his world. Perhaps this was his secret.
No sooner had she begun reflecting on this idea than she was bade to open her eyes. This was only the third time she had worn full-body tetsoi, and they were immensely more detailed and intricate than what most others could afford. The cost, of course, was not her own to bear. "May I shift?" she asked, and the two Ishpax'oiya in front of her nodded. Turning on the spot, she took a few moments to admire their work, as the pair who had been at her hair stepped back. She could not see their eyes for the veils that obscured them, but she could sense the anticipation in their body language. She smiled to reassure them. "You have made me beautiful," she declared, in the formal speech she would use in this role as Vyshta's living avatar. "Be blessed." They lined up before her and, one by one, lifted their veils as she took their paints upon her fingertips and drew a simple fulcrum on the forehead of each. Bowing before her, taking care never to turn their backs, three began to leave the room. The two hairstylists, however, remained, and set about their work with renewed vigor. "Does her radiance wish for a drink?" asked the young one - the one with red hair. Tyrel had seen her face and it looked so very much like Thatra's, from years ago, that she was tempted to ask if they might be related. She shook her head to clear the stray thought and the Ishpax'oiya took that as answer. She dared not correct herself now. Well done, goddess.
It took another half-hour for her hair to take shape: an intricate tapestry of braids and thatches and long, flowing extensions. A golden crown - or perhaps more of a laurel, of sorts - was woven through it. Its braids looped about her ears and earrings, its ends brushed past her waist, and the entirety of it made her look so much larger - so much greater - than the willowy girl she was.
Then, there were loud, businesslike footsteps in the hall and the door swung open. Tyrel pivoted on the ball of her foot. There was a man standing before her, twice or three times her age, resplendent in a crisp general's uniform, his epaulettes, medals, and ribbons shining under the light that streamed in through the room's three tall windows. He bowed. "My Lady Avatar."
She bowed. "General." She straightened, starting to feel the strain of standing for nearly two hours without her crutches. "Forgive my ignorance, for we have not met."
"Acharo'hymax'iista," he responded promptly.
"Tyrel'yrash'dichora."
"It is an honour to be properly introduced."
"As you say, General Iista." He had not come here for a social call, however. That much, she knew. Even as they spoke, she could feel his eyes on her: examining, seeing if this potential goddess lived up to her billing, met his exacting standards. That was what she chose to believe, anyhow.
He turned to the stylists. "You shall dress, correct?"
They bowed deeply. "Presently, milord."
"It will take half an hour."
"Excellent. Then we shall convene in half an hour. Ensure her radiance is properly cared for."
I am 'her radiance', Tyrel reminded herself, feeling... she wasn't certain what the feeling was, but it settled upon her just the same. Radiance. And cared for.
In an intensive styling session, Tyrel is transformed into the goddess Vyshta for propaganda purposes, but struggles to find meaning in it.
Oath
It was all mud and blood and shit, or so had said one of the other medics. Toira, Seviin thought. That had been her name. Certainly, the young priestess would not have used such words. One's conduct was as much an indicator of godliness as prayer, and was not language part of conduct?
Five more, promptly, were hurried in on stretchers and dumped in the anteroom to be divvied up among the healers. Seviin had managed a drink and a tangerine over the past few hours and that was it. Some of the others were running on less, she knew. While many of the Tansans had welcomed their northern brethren, the gangs, the pirates, and the drug lords had not. Within an hour of their landing, the fight had begun in earnest, and it had not relented since. "Ignore that one," decreed Suunei Padeloi, "He's one of the enemy," and the dying boy was shifted into a lower-priority area. There were three others there, all in wretched states: one missing an arm and a leg, a second trying to hold his intestines in with trembling hands, and a third covered in stomach-churning burns. The new addition had only been skewered in the neck, chest, and abdomen. They did not expect this, Seviin knew, though she did not dare say it. One did not question the people in command. They would adjust, as they always did. They thought we would be welcomed with open arms.
"I need blood synthesis," shouted Moila Antian, "STAT!"
Seviin pumped her patient - a local woman who'd taken an abdominal wound from one of the gangsters - full of pain inhibitors and rushed over. The forward medical camp was rudimentary, and she found herself dodging roots and rocks on the floor. "Conditions?" she queried, arriving. "Fireblood. Nothing special." She took of the blood and called upon her magics, pulling from a nearby patient who'd slipped away a few minutes earlier and synthesizing fresh blood that matched that of the dying girl before her. Antian and Padeloi were working to close the grisly chest wound a reconstruct her left lung and part of her heart. Seviin focused on her job. Lady Oirase, I beg of you, she prayed to herself, Spare this young life so that she may yet know the wholeness of your creation. She took from Exiran to give to Oirase, for that was the purview of those gods. Together, they saved a life. In the background rose screams: "Mother!""Mother!""Oirase! Oirase save me!" Some were inarticulate. Some were weak. With chemical magic, Moila Antian forced the girl - she was no more than seven or eight years of age - to rest.
Seviin returned, immediately, to heal the abdominal wound on her original patient and thought she might have the chance to reach some of those who were nto their allies, for they were living beings just the same, created in Mother Oirase's image. She had just reached the man whose stomach had been sliced open when a new batch of patients arrived - mostly soldiers of their own side. She recoiled not for the sight of the wounds, for she was long since inured to such unpleasantness, but for the barbarity of it all: so much death - yasoi fighting yasoi - yasoi placed above yasoi, innocents like that small girl trampled underfoot. She made sure to keep her opinions to herself. "Suu-nei," he grated. "Please." He lifted a hand from his abdomen, covered in blood, reaching toward her. Please, he whimpered. "I'm not a bad man. I have... a family. I..." He trailed off as a wave of pain wracked him and she tried to render him less conscious. It was all she could do. The soldiers were here and they took priority. Four of the five lived, one without eyes, one without a leg, and two... well, they would be alright. She returned, once more to the place where they let their enemies die, and found that the man she had wanted to save had joined Exiran. She reached out and closed his eyes, noticing Moila Antian's upon her. They exchanged a look, he shook his head, and they managed to seal up the punctures on one of the drug-sellers before he was placed into cuffs and handed over to the army.
"Suunei Seviin," rang a voice, sure and powerful over the din as yet more came in, torn to shreds by metal, malice, and magic. It was Aloi Esmet, and she rushed over to the call. "What bids me, mother?"
"The avatar of the sixth goddess is visiting." She was bustling about, searching for gauze that one of the healers had requested. Seviin knew that, if she did not find any, she would take the time to synthesize it. Aloi Esmet could synthesize almost anything.
"Blessed be," the young priestess responded.
"Blessed be," her superior acknowledged, "And you've been eight hours without a break."
"Not so long, Aloi."
Mother Superior shook her head. "You are the best of us, Seviin, truly, but your other side will be upon you soon, will it not?" Her voice lowered judiciously as she spoke and shards of ice prickled the tyro priestess' gut. Glumly, she nodded. In the background, a major had been brought in, terribly wounded with great chunks gouged from his body, and she watched as Ladeloi, Antian, and Suulex used one of the thugs, in haste, to save him. Her revulsion must have been visible, for Aloi Esmet bade her turn back around and pay attention by repeating her question. "I... I will not become an instrument of war, Aloi. I will not kill. Do not worry."
The senior priestess shot her a pained look, perhaps acknowledging what she had seen. "We are all instruments of war, I fear, dear child, whether we agree with it or not."
"But how can they!?" Seviin blurted, and Esmet's eyes widened. "I know they are the enemy, but are not all yasoi created equal in the eyes of the Gods? What gives us the right to be arbiter!?"
She could feel the volume of her protestations artificially lowered by the senior priestess, and her eyes had gone from understanding to severe. "It is not our right," she hissed, "but that choice has been taken from us. We follow orders or else nobody gets saved. Or else even more die!"
Seviin nodded. She apologized, for she was sorry to have caused such trouble. She had distracted Mother Superior and perhaps people might die or be irretrievably maimed for her selfishness. Still, she could not help but wonder - in her head alone - if more lives might've been saved by never setting foot here, in Tanso, at all.
Then, the goddess herself arrived and, though Seviin was not of the order dedicated to her worship, she found herself nonetheless awed. She hurried out to greet Vyshta, bowing deeply and reverently. The goddess nodded in return and then the two young women - no more than a coupel years apart in age - stood eye to eye. One was sweaty and bloodstained and had bags under her eyes. The other was radiant and glowing with magic, power, and presence. Perhaps the gods did not craft all as equals, it occurred to Seviin, but she dismissed the thought. This was not a yasoi, but the divine made flesh. "Your radiance," she greeted Vyshta, "I am Seviin'delaan'taxoiya. I am at your service."
The young goddess offered a reserved smile. "I thank you, Seviin. I should like to look in on the wounded, on those recovering." She paused, and hesitated. No, that was wrong. A goddess could not hesitate. "And... perhaps those permanently... reduced."
White and black and gold. She was magnificent. Her eyes flicked down to her right side. The white dress that she wore was ornate but brief, slit high up at the hips, and... well, she'd have likely found it indecent were it worn by anyone but a goddess. Seviin followed their path to the tiny rounded stump that poked out, and she understood. Even you, Lady Vyshta, have known suffering. She canted her head slightly and gestured. "Of course, your radiance, if you would follow me?"
A young healer and priestess, Seviin, struggles with the compromises she must make during war, and begins to question her committment.
Animal: Part One
He was being hunted, like an animal, but he was a person. These Tarlonese FUCKWADS thought that having big scary ships and a bigger ego gave them the right to do it, but he'd evaded them so far. Hoots and howls echoed through the darkened forest but, still, Anthor ran. He could fight them, one on one, and he could win, but they were everywhere. They'd killed his brothers. They'd killed his dependents. He'd live just to spite them and then he'd find that filthy fucking 'emperor' and -
His foot caught on something and his world swayed. He stumbled and crashed into a thicket of small trees, cursing and pulling on some quick chemical magic to numb the pain in the injured toes. He'd have been climbing right now, if he could've, but being up in the trees made him an easier target for those dragons. Those damned dragons! How were they so accurate? How were they so persistent? Down here, he had only to contend with a handful of hunter squads and... well, they'd unleashed their wildbloods. Most of them were bestial, with only the barest recognition of friend or foe, and they'd been left to rampage through the forest. Anthor was not stupid enough to get caught by such beasts.
A twig whipped back and caught him across the cheek, just under the eye, and he reeled from it. He could not let up, for he knew they hadn't. Every few minutes, he'd be tempted to, but then he'd listen closely and he could still hear the sounds of their distant pursuit. They were inyasoi. He shook his head. Their endurance was... He had magic. He had loads of it. Fuck them. He'd win. He continued to run. If he could get to Santandoi Bay, he knew a crew who operated out of there. They probably hadn't heard of the landing yet, of the purge. He could be first to bring the news to them. They'd probably reward him, or... well, they were pirates. At least they'd probably bring him with them, and that was all he needed.
Wearily, determinedly, he continued to put one foot in front of the other. At first, there had been eight of them escaping, all members of the Fingers Gang. Pluurii, with her bad leg, had disappeared behind them before long. Loralen and Chad had been gunned down within the first twenty minutes. Tyshan had surrendered a couple of minutes after and the last that Anthon had sensed of that dirty coward was shouts in the distance and gunfire. They had continued, the four of them, for some time, until old man Hachii had upped and collapsed and there was nothing that Anthon could do for him. That was still burned into his mind's eye. You pieces of shit. If you pay for anything, you'll pay for him. But then, it had seemed like they were free. They'd let up and slowed a bit, chests heaving, bodies aching. A great golden lionbear had come out of the trees and ripped Jaxan limb from limb as they watched. Anthon had attacked the beast and punched through its hide with an arcane lance, but Soruen had run off in a random direction and that had been the last he'd seen of her.
He ran alone. A gentle rain began, rendering everything slick and cool. He had long since gone numb almost everywhere and it was only will and hatred that kept him going. Then, amid the thrash and snap of his own desperate trail of destruction, he caught sight of something in the distance, amid the endless tangle of trees.
Light! It was light! Pushing through the pain, the fear, and the weariness, he hurtled forward and it grew every greater. The tree cover thinned and then he was there: on the cliffs overlooking a great sheltered bay. Along its shores lay a collection of huts, warehouses, and boats. Within were a handful of ships, their great darkened forms sitting serenly on the calm water. A couple of lanterns twinkled in the night by their bows and sterns. He was there! He'd made it: Santandoi Bay!
Improvising a white flag from his shirt, he began climbing down a steep and narrow path, shouting and waving all the way. He wasn't too late. They would see him! They would save him. Already, he could sense motion within the ships. Torches and lanterns flickered to life amid the predawn gloom. They cast their feeble light out into the dark, endless ocean beyond, and that was when he saw the monster.
Running all night from his relentless Grey Fleet pursuers, the brigand Anthon finally makes good on his escape: the only member of his gang to escape - or is he?
Animal: Part Two
Women were, supposedly, bad luck on ships, but Sivet had never believed it. She'd known nothing else but life aboard a ship since she'd been born, forty-six years ago, a mariner's daughter. She'd been night watch on the Panuut'ilwash for over a decade, and the ship had led a charmed existence.
Yet, as she stared out into the abyss beyond on this five moon night, she found herself uneasy. Usually, a steady trickle of locals came down to Santandoi when they knew the Panuut was in port, to barter, to buy, to beg, and to join up. This time, there had been none past the first day. She chewed a jamb'ysp nervously and, once it had exhausted its benefits, spat what remained over the railing.
Waves frothed against the shoal, wind whistled, and the forest...
Then, she saw it: a figure on the cliffs. It was tiny and distant, but growing closer in a hurry. It paused to make a flag out of its shirt and she decided this might be interesting. Momentarily, she ventured below decks to wake up the other designated watchmen and the boatswain. Rubbing sleep from their eyes, they trudged up on deck with her.
The clouds, luminous from the light of the five moons they were withholding, rumbled with the distant threat of thunder, and the same thin, slick rain that had carried on for hours continued. Outside of the bay's calm, the sea was angry. Part of it was the tides, this time of month, but just as good a part was the simple whim of Exiran. While the others took out a spyglass to make sense of the approaching stranger, and sounded the thin, reedy whistle that would signal the other two ships, she hunkered under an awning, wet enough for one night, and gazed out into the distance.
"Fwww-eeeet!" it echoed, into the blackness. Thunder cracked.
"Fwww-eeeet!" Wind and rain lashed. A sheet of lightning ripped across the sky and then, for just a moment, her blood froze.
She could feel the rumble of thunder in her chest, but then the lightning came again. "Fwww-eeeet!" Ships: at least a dozen, maybe more, approaching at half-sail in the darkness. The crack and boom reverberated across the waves and she stretched out with her senses. "Ships!" she screamed, "Incoming! Five-o-clock!"
But that was when she felt it and, for a moment, amid the icy fist of fear that seized and paralyzed her fromt he inside, she could not make sense of it. There was something under the waves, running ahead of the ships and... it was...
It was as if the water itself shook with the power of the sound. "All hands!" the boatswain was shouting, "All hands!" Why? That was all that Sivet could think. Why come for them? Why do this? She took a moment to pray and make her peace with the gods, as half-asleep members of the crew surged onto the deck. With no time to reel it in, the anchor line was simply cut and the sails unfurled.
Then came the sound, closer than before. She'd been at sea forty years. She knew the sounds of a Behemoth and a Black Devil. She knew monarchs and sandbars and sjosopari. This was none of those. If filled not just her ears, but her body. The air stirred with it, the very hull of the ship shook. Desperately, the Panuut got underway, her sisters lagging behind, but the enemy fleet seemed to be slowing, now, maneuvering, but not to attack! Instead, they were arraying themselves to close off the bay, to cut off any escape. They would leave it to -
A third mighty, reverberating roar. All around her, pirates were praying, for what little good that would do. Eyes wide and fearful, all six senses on high alert, they loaded and manned the cannons. They tacked back and forth into the wind, but it was against them as they tried to escape. The gap closed and then... The water itself seemed to lift. Only the bowchasers could focus ahead, and they unleashed everything they had. To port, the Juuray'anthan and the Imologox hammered the great swell. Nothing was gained. Its cause was a beast such as she'd often told stories about, but never truly allowed herself to believe in.
Then, it was gone. The Panuut'ilwash, worked up to full sail, was among the ten fastest ships on the Ensollian, and she was showing it now. Perhaps the salvo had caused the beast to flinch, to dive. Sivet was under no illusion that it was gone for good but, perhaps, just perhaps, Mother Oirase had saved their worthless sea-rat hides. Perhaps it would buy them enough time to punch through the enemy wall.
But then came the lighted torches in the distance, on the enemy's decks. Then, enhancing her senses, she could see them: dozens - no, hundreds - of gunports opening. She dived to the deck just as the manmade thunder began. A dozen or more shots ripped through the Panuut and its sisters, tearing through wood, steel, and flesh alike. Splinters stung at Sivet and the great ship flagged, its mizzenmast collapsing with a terrifying crack that rivaled the thunder. Elsewhere, heated shot had carved fiery swathes through the Imologox and it was already ablaze. She staggered to her feat. Captain Jasco was dead, his midsection burst by a cannonball. She staggered over to take up his hat, but then the ship rocked precipitously. It was... impossible, this feeling, as if the entire thing was being... lifted?
She had mere moments to look up and stare into the jaws of her deliverance. "So be it."
The pirate Sivet, night watchwoman aboard the fair ship 'Panuut'ilwash', encounters a terrifying enemy that forces her to question all that she knows.
Emperor: Part One
Two had disappeared beneath the waves. The third was ablaze and being finished off by gunfire. It was worthwhile practice and so Admiral Nevix signaled that it should continue. Already, dawn's ghostly glow was on the horizon. The rain had started to clear. "Admiral." Captain Taltor saluted crisply. "Operational goals have been met."
Nevix, gazing out at this new land, clecnhed and unclenched his fist absently. He returned the salute. "At ease, Captain."
"Sir. The Taisuum'op are asking if they should awaken his Dominion."
Nevix glanced out at the waves for some time longer. He knew that the Endricthiion was their greatest naval asset, but such a thing... it still filled him with unease. Belatedly, he nodded. "Yes, you've leave to do so."
"As you command, osmax."
Admiral Nevix'andoi'lasthan, commander of a great fleet, gives leave to the 'awakeners' to rouse 'His Dominion'.
A gangplank crashed down upon the rocks of Tanso. Banners of the hundred-five nations of the yasoi fluttered in the stiff morning breeze. The sun was, just now, peering over the horizon, glorious and golden.
They bowed their heads and bent their bodies in reverence.
Horns sounded, cannons fired, and a pair of heavy armoured sabatons made landfall in Constantia. Cascal'uumii'anthan, first of his name, Emperor of Tantiac and defender of the Yasoi People, paused there, reverently for a moment, taking in the sight of this vast and green new land. He looked up to the sky and breathed once, and again. Then, this man, first among his people, sunk to his knees and made the Sign of the Pentad. Every soldier about him who was not holding a flag or a trumpet followed the emperor's reverent example and did the same. Yet, he lowered himself still further and kissed the bare earth, rising back to his knees and pentacting himself once more. After a moment he stood.
"Jaadas!" he shouted.
"Jaadas!" they thundered.
"Juuras!"
"Juuras!" Their voices were as one.
"Tan'daxii!"
"Tan'Daxii!"
He regarded them all - a thousand troops arrayed along the shore and ten thousand more still aboard this second landing of the fleet. He nodded. "Moila, suunei! My people!" He smiled beatifically, arms held to his sides in an all-encompassing gesture. "I embrace you."
They cheered. He continued to nod before finally going still.
"Just as I embrace this land." He gestured into the distance. "I even kiss it, for such is its value." He allowed his arms to fall and there, before them, began to pace. "For it is a great land, where our people have lived for many thousands of years, where our people have grown strong!"
Most clapped. Some appeared confused. The emperor smiled knowingly.
"Perhaps my last statement confounds you," he admitted, "So allow me to clarify." He nodded sagely. "This was once a great land. Its people, in theory and in spirit, are no lesser than our own. Its people, in theory and in spirit, are our people. We share the same blood. We share the same tongue. We share the same gods." His voice was solemn, reverent with gravitas.
"Make no mistake, moila, suunei: some of them will resist us. Some of them will not see us as their own. Time and distance have frayed bonds that once were strong. The great evil of aberrations has frayed spirits, psyches, and communities. There are those, here, who are sadly beyond saving." He bowed his head in regret. "Know this, and know it true."
He raised his head, golden armour radiant in the morning sun. "But know this as well!" he called, his voice echoing across the vast cove, reverberating off of the cliffs. "We do the work of the gods! It followed his previous statement, even more emphatic, "To uplift their chosen people! To add our strength to that of our cousins, so that we might never be preyed upon, so that we might never be brought low or made to beg, to cower, to bend the knee to huusoi domination!"
This received a response. He smiled knowingly. "For though they are weak now, these people of Constantia, though some are so corrupted that they will fight us, remember that most are our friends, or might be, in the future. We must uplift, my people, not oppress but, also, we must not fear to do what is necessary, even when it is painful." He nodded as he spoke. "Every addict that you see, no matter how they wail and thrash and curse, you must take from them that which corrupts their reason and their soul." His face was solemn again. "And through this, they may yet be saved." He came to a stop, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Every wretched peddler of this disease," he sneered, "Every thug and pirate and pusher." He paused, making sure that his words sunk in. "There must be no mercy. This is a cancer, and it has set in deep but, if we act quickly, it may yet not kill its host."
Admiral Nevix furrowed his brow, head bowed reverently as his emperor spoke. These were words for the soul, for they were honest words.
"They may pull a terrible ruckus," Cascal admitted, nodding as he spoke, "Just as an undisciplined child does when separated from a toy before sleep." He took in a deep breath and released it. "But Mother Constantia is that child now, and we must guard her from her most ferocious excesses, for she is incapable of doing so herself, no matter how she may insist to the contrary." He shook his head. "Only then may she be freed," he concluded, "Only then may she rise again!" He hammered his chest with a fist. "Only then may we stand!" he bellowed, "One people, in the Gods' sight united and indivisible. One people!" he roared, "One purpose!" He thrust that fist into the air. A thousand followed. "One destiny: Jaadas! Juuras! Tan'daxii!"
The legions stomped their feet and took it up as a chant: "Jaadas! Juuras! Tan'daxii! Jaadas! Juuras! Tan'daxii!" It echoed off of the walls. It reverberated through the sky, across the waters, into the great primeval forests and ancient villages of Tanso and of all yasoi lands in Constantia. All that remained was for those who heard to either heed its call or - for reasons that none present could fathom - resist it.
Cascal'uumii'anthan, Emperor of Tantiac, sets foot in Constantia and delivers a stirring speech to rally his troops to the challenges that lie ahead.
If they were streaming through into the bays, beaches, and towns of Tanso so, too, were they streaming through portals into Ersand'Enise for the start of the Trials. Of course, it wasn't Tarlonese invaders, in this case, save for a few from Tantas'ilwash Academy. Instead, it was biros of fifteen other magic schools the world over and others initiated but not attending one of those. These arrived, as they had the previous year and for the previous hundred in one great ceremony in Balthazar Square, the expansive plaza at the northern edge of the Academy of Thaumatury.
Still basking in the afterglow of the Founders' Day Faire, the city more or less erupted in celebration - some staged and some impromptu. It was a cacophony of sound, colour and motion: church bells rang across Ersand'Enise, musicians played, and a great procession was staged. If the Zenith presided over the festivities, then so did three of the other Arch-Zenos, so did the mayor and the archbishop, so did the shrewd-eyed merchants who ran the famous port, and so did many of the powerplayers of Mudville's upcoming election, sure to remain visible, sure to court allies among the neighbouring city's elite who might sway matters in their favour.
There were luminaries among the arrivals to be certain: exotic teams from afar, old friends, and new unknowns. Themed teams from Retan and Vossoriya made an appearance and some very odd Cazenax from the deep deserts of Western Callanast. Most of all, however, was the mighty Sun King, who descended from the heavens and never touched the ground. His bright robes and smiling golden mask did nothing to hide his immense power. As with his icy counterpart from last year, it was so immense that it brought those who dared stand close to their knees. All around where he hovered, the air itself seemed to crackle and glow with energy.
And so, with a flash announcement from the Zenith, the 556th annual Trials commenced. They commenced with a draft and, almost immediately thereafter, with ally selection and the onset of the opening game: the venerable Melon Derby. The hastily-formed teams had an hour to follow the maps they'd been given to their assigned home bases - temporarily repurposed housing of their instructors - and to prepare. It was a scramble. Some faltered and some soared. Tempers flared and solutions were found... or they were not. With that single announcement, Zenith Upta had kicked off one week of chaos, no different, in theory, than any of its hundreds of earlier iterations. In practice, by the end of it, Ersand'Enise might never be the same again.
What few had noticed or recognized and what most of even those had dismissed was the absence of one particular group of students: those from Sawand's Golden Star Academy. Perhaps they had opted to stay home this year. Perhaps they had not organized a team on time. The place was notoriously flaky, after all. They had not been through that portal. They had not seen what Riu Kai-Tan had. They did not fight off the creature of dark tendrils. They did not return the traumatized students, for safety's sake, to the place from whence they had come. Nor had they heard its warning. Nor had they lost one student to it, like he had. He conferred, as the celebration trailed off, with the other Arch-Zenos. He conferred about the Ingrid Penderson and Valerian Leclere incidents and about a burgeoning crisis that could no longer be denied. A reckoning was coming for the school and for the entire magic-using world. Would it destroy or would it unite them?
The Academy at Ersand'Enise welcomes visiting cohorts from around the world, and a euphoric attitude prevails, but stormclouds loom on the horizon.
Welcome...
...to chapter two of our fifth arc! This is where things really begin to kick into gear. There's plenty to do and engage with and, while some storylines might seem distant for the time being, they'll be impacting us sooner than you think! Wheels are turning. Plots are in motion. It's time to lead, follow, or get out of the way!
Just a note in terms of the melon derby: that'll kick off immediately next posting cycle. This is actually a rather short cycle in terms of posting, despite the plethora of content. In about one week, we'll be posting everything concerning the derby and some special posting rules will apply.
If you have any questions, as always, feel free to ask myself or any of the mods on discord! For now, however, here's a list of useful links and documents:
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 -
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.
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.
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
Encounter Two: Shuun
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.
Encounter Three: Exiran
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.
Encounter Four: Oirase
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."
Encounter Five: Damy
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.
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.
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.
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.
Forms and Guidebooks
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!
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.
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.
“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.
❖ [ 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
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."
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.
@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.
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!
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?<br><br>Stay awesome, people.</div>
Suicharte
BlackRoseSiren
Lildear18
Carlyle
Fallenreaper
Ti
Jumbus
Silly
Echotech71
Astro
