Lemons

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad's eyes opened and he sat up, stretching and yawning. He looked around at his surroundings; a cot, a derelict house...familiar architecture. City architecture. He sighed and flopped back down, tossing his arm over his eyes. "Damnation," he growled in annoyance, "I told him not to come here."

Scattered about him about the seemingly-abandoned house—Westering District, he decided, based on the strangely contradictory opulence and state of decay—were various articles of clothing in various states of repair. Sighing regretfully, he stripped the military robe, complete with his stars of decoration and honour, off, folding it carefully and placing it to the side, leaving him wearing only a light belted tunic.

In lieu of the wondrously crafted robe, he tossed on a thick, deeply-cowled cloak of deep gray wool. Scowling slightly at the itchy fabric, he readjusted the garment until it was comfortable, then placed the folded robe into one of the cloak's several deep pockets—cloaks did have advantages, after all—and rose, grabbing his spellbook from its place at his side and placing it into a second pocket, fingering the pages fondly for a moment.

Navigating outside and tossing back the gray hood, he mussed his gray brown hair until it was suitably disorganized. In the ragged cloak, he was fairly confident he no longer reeked of nobility. Hearing a collection of sounds from off to one side, he veered off and found a collection of three sitting by the cart: Sergei, the old soldier; the Dullahan that he had so ill-advisedly thrown a sixfold bolt of lightning at; and finally, a rather unremarkable—at least compared to present company—half-elf woman, somewhere around her early-to-mid twenties, if his eyes told him right. Stepping into their circle of booze, he nodded at her.

"I assume you're the owner of the wagon that got us here." He gave a curt nod. "Thank you. You saved us much trouble." With that said, he turned to the Dullahan, though she clearly still made him uncomfortable. "And...I apologize for, well, trying to kill you without provocation. After the events of the night, I was a bit rattled. Understandably so, I'd like to think."

Then he laughed, relaxing visibly. The complete lack of headache had put him into a considerably better mood. "Now that the formalities are over," he chuckled, pulling out a few silver coins and turning to the cart owner again, "how many mugs do you have left in that barrel? I could...really...use a drink."

A Tyrant's Undoing

@Dodi do 900

Good, so it isn't just me.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad was floating in a black void of ache, wincing at the occasional flickers of light that shot through his unconscious state. His overtaxed mind was knitting itself back together, the æther in the air around him slowly filtering into his spirit. Finally, with a soft groan, he opened his eyes and found himself looking at the underside of a what seemed to be a blanket. Though his instincts told him to shove it to the side, his logical mind won out; he was now a fugitive from his dearest companion, and had no idea where he was. For all he knew by the bumping and jolting, he could've be in an executioner's wagon right then. Instead, slowly lifting a corner to peek underneath it, he squinted into the moonlight in an attempt to grasp his bearings.

He seemed to be was lying on the bed of a cart rattling down the road. Lying beside him was the princess, and in the dim half-light of the night sky, he mouthed at her, where are we? The last thing he remembered was casting a six-span bolt of lightning, then the sensation of falling. His temples still ached, though less so from before, and letting a bit of magic drip through him, he found that his fingertip lit up with the bead of magic used in drawing glyphs, faintly illuminating the blanket's interior with the dimmest of dim gray glows, without making his head feel fit to burst.

He suddenly became painfully aware that he was still wearing the official robes of a High Battlemage and hissed softly in displeasure at the realization that it would be dangerous for him to show off the position he worked so hard for. Not only that, but free inn rooms were a thing of the past. He began to regret giving Sergei three gold crowns.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad grinned lopsidedly. "A single silver coin? Please. Who do you take me for?" He dug into one of his numerous belt pouches, taking out three golden crowns.

Which was a lot of money.

He tossed them to Sergei. "I wasn't present for your civil war, but I remember Nightvell. You fight well. It's worth the money, and at least until I can clear my name, I'm going to need all the help I can get."

Then a headless person wearing a spine walked up. And Avad was...startled.

"Achmat adalber malakelta eirinn verelest oine'in!" Ignoring the pulsing pain in his head, he traced the glyph in the air, letting a blast of elemental lightning surge forth from his palm. It was rare for him to use combat magic of that potency; it was, in fact, very likely that it was the first time anybody there had seen him using a spell that powerful. A little known fact, mostly only known by mages, was that the more words in a spell, the more powerful it was. The usually run-of-the-mill spell was four words. Six? Six was preposterous.

The immensely powerful magic surged away from him, and his eyesight flickered briefly before dimming entirely. As his headache multiplied ten...twenty-fold, he fell over sideways, gasping for air.

Avad's Spellcraft

Lightning-Strike-Seek-Pierce-Debilitate-Destruction

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad shouldered his way forward from the waist-deep water, grimacing in displeasure. As he stopped to consider the ex-soldier in front of him more closely, though, his brow furrowed and his eyes darted back and forth before settling on the red surcoat. His mouth dropped open a bit in recognition for a moment, and his eyes snapped up to those of the veteran.

"I recognize that crest. You were at the battle of Tabor Lei during the Erane'Vos campaign. Knights of the Western Fjords, if I'm not mistaken. Long since destroyed. I didn't know any of your order were still alive."

He pulled a small leather sack that jangled loudly from his belt, tossing it at the man. "For services to the Realm," he nodded. "I would do more, but I'm a bit drained of magic at the moment."

With that said, he turned to the Silver Fox, regarding him coldly. "No. I myself stationed guards at every entrance to the city. And trust me, I know all of them. We're not going back in there for a good long while, until things cool down a bit. Don't even try."

Finally, he turned to the Princess. "Princess, I strongly urge you to leave this criminal behind. He'll ransom you to the king for a few silver crowns in a heartbeat. No honor among thieves."

Welcome to Atlas! (A RWBY roleplay)

RIP this RP.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Dazed. Dizzy. Ultimately confused.

Avad was alll of these things.

Having been struck by lightning and bearing no metal upon him, he was badly shaken, and wasn't thinking clearly at all. His spellbook was clutched tightly to his side as though it could ward of death. Eventually, he managed to string together a few vague thoughts: Silver fox on his neck. Famous thief. Princess is gone. King is not going to be pleased.

Then he took a moment, upon regaining full thought processes, to consider what the scene looked like. Himself, a known storm mage, lying in the corridor. A lock fused and blasted off by lightning. A missing princess. None of this was any kind of evidence for his innocence, and he ground his teeth at how he'd been unwittingly manipulated by that harsh bitch Fate.

Staggering to his feet, he began to hear the sounds of sabatons clanking down the hall at a rapid pace, and made his choice. "Andom têllumar neru'un vanastel." Another cloud of fog spread from his open hand, and the footsteps slowed for the crucial moment it took for him to bring himself to his feet and back up a few paces from the window. "I'm glad you're waterproof," he murmured, stroking the spellbook, before sprinting to the formerly-glass opening and leaping through.

On the way down, he began to draw the glyph in the air for an unnaturally thick cloud to cushion his landing. Instead, he received a sharp spike of pain through his temples. "Ohhhh no..." he groaned. "I overdrew."

That was the last thing he said before plummeting into the water with an ungainly splash and promptly being nearly drowned by his robe. It was an exercise in humiliation for him to flounder to shore, his head aching incredibly badly. He stumbled, the dizziness of unrestrained magic use from that wild bolt taking its toll.

"I...hate you...so much..." he grimaced as he slogged up beside the thief.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad's brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to ask a question of the princess.

Then, suddenly, he found himself flung bodily forward and his face slammed into the steel bars of the prison, coming very close to knocking him out. A shell of transparent gray light peeled away from his body and he gasped for a moment in the sheer shock of the moment. Whatever had hit him, it had gone through his shielding as though it wasn't there, and still slammed him into the prison hard enough to bring him close to unconsciousness. As it was, he was heavily winded and unable to rise.

Understand, Avad was not overfond of close-quarters combat. Indeed, he was close to useless at it, and his official robe provided little in the way of protection. He was used to sitting in the backlines of an army and manipulating the battlefield from a distance, not brawling with the lithe, white-haired man that had just tackled him down.

Gasping for air, he tried to mouth a few words to a spell: "Achm...Achma..." but ended up only wheezing instead, the gritty stone of the dungeon floor pressing far too hard for his liking into his prone form. He raised his right hand to draw a glyph in the air, but without the corresponding words of power, there was no point. It was like trying to move water with a sieve; the magic simply drained through his hand. At last, he managed to gasp the word out and draw the glyph: "Achmat." Lightning.

There were dangers associated with phrasing a spell so carelessly. With no verbal direction of what to do, the lighting he called could do whatever it pleased. And of course, it was just his luck that the spell recoiled on him. While it succeeded in launching a bolt of lightning at the man before him, it also coursed a jolt of electricity through himself. Without the grace of his shield, he was rammed forcefully back by his own magic, colliding with the opposite wall and groaning heavily. Raising his head, he looked to see if anything had come of his spell. Anything at all, barring hurting him even further.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Oh, was the magic also supposed to be in elvish? I was unaware. As it stands, they are translated as such: Andom têllumar erentêl vanastel means cloud-fill-garden-blind and Andom arbricopis êthen olmfeil is translated as cloud-sight-transcend-all. By all, what it means is that squad that he had in mind when casting the spell.

A Tyrant's Undoing

Avad:

The man crumpled his head into his hands as he looked over the situation in the garden below.

"What a mess this has turned into," he muttered. "It would've been such a nice party, too. I've not been to one for quite a time." For a moment he had a flashback to gashing bolts of lightning searing into unexpecting partygoers, but shrugged it off. It's been near twenty-five years. I can handle it.

Sighing heavily, he took his head out of his hands and raised one into the air with outstretched finger, a bead of silver-gray light coalescing at the tip. Grunting out "Andom têllumar erentêl vanastel" and tracing a sigil in the air with the light on his finger, he turned to the patrol of guards beside him as the garden filled with billowing gray fog. "Go down there and calm them down. They're confused, there are rumors spreading, they don't know what's happening. And please," he added with a withering glare, "Sost's bones, do not use lethal force. Try not to injure at all. They've all on the edge of riot already. The last thing we need is more chaos."

A salute, and they ran to do so. One, however, remained in salute. "Sir!" he bellowed, "what are you going to do?"

Avad sighed. "First, soldier, I'm going to do this." Again his voice lowered to a mutter: "Andom arbricopis êthen olmfeil." He traced a different sign, and he eyes of the soldier in front of him gleamed a dull gray and he rubbed them a moment, clearly confused. Avad inclined his head. "Fogvision. Otherwise you'd be as blind as those in the cloud down there. It's on all of your squad. And now," he turned, his ivory robe swirling about him in a suitably dramatic fashion, he thought, "I need to pay somebody a visit."

---

Grim-faced, Avad stood by the cell that the princess was in. He'd been taking care of her from afar for years now, and she looked as he'd never seen her: defeated. That was the word. Her eyes were dull, and she seemed closed in on herself. He sighed for what was perhaps the seventieth time that day.

"Tahra," he began wearily, "why would do kill her? You were so close to the throne. I've known you for many years, girl, and I don't think you're stupid. So why?"

He hadn't believed it when first he heard. He'd heard, after all, many strange rumors from the guard barracks of the castle, ranging from the tragic to the raunchy and all in between. He'd thought nothing of one that the queen was dead, killed by her daughter. In fact, it wasn't even the first time he'd heard that.

But then he saw the queen's body in the sanctum.

It had taken a vast amount of convincing to be let down here. Technically, only the highest ranks of military--General, Fleet Admiral, Archmage Ascendant--were allowed into the holding cells for those condemned to death, but he'd pulled some strings and pulled rank to slip down here 'unnoticed' for a brief time to talk to Tahra. Even then, he'd had to conceal himself in a misty shroud when making his way down into the truly deep cells, where only the king was allowed to walk.

"And one more thing, Tahra," he said, voice softening, "I know you'll die on the morrow, but...where are your wounds? You're doing a remarkable job of hiding them. The king was holding a bloody sword, said Eiendol. So the least I can do as courtesy is to treat them." For yet another time that night, a bead of light leapt to his finger, though it was more of a gold than a silver. He grunted and swayed. "Been off the front too long, getting soft and out of practice," he admonished himself. Locking eyes with the princess, he spoke. "Healing magic. Not the best at it, but if you don't know some, you're orders of magnitude less useful on the battlefield. Now, your torso is covered in blood. Let me patch you up."