Oooie

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Layne Towerfall

A few years prior, one of the old boys who spent their time drinking on the streets of his home town told Layne that 'these were the best years of his life'. He said that young Towerfall should be spending his time learning, growing, and making friends. That one day he would blink, and he'd be gnarled old man too, pining away for days of youth he'd never see again.

Layne had promptly told the drunk to suck a box of cocks. At 15, Layne felt he had much bigger fish to fry than finding friends to drink warm beer with in a barn like a regular teenager. Issues like "what will I eat tonight", "god I hope it doesn't rain and flood the house again", or "I wonder if Dad will be the angry kind of drunk or the weeping incoherently kind of drunk tonight".

Now, sequestered away in the relatively isolated halls of Marchand, Layne saw a whole world of opportunity he had scarcely realized existed. He was making friends, something that came as a surprise to him. There was a learning curve in dealing with his peers in a healthy manner, but Layne felt that he should at least get a B for effort. He hadn't broken anyone's jaw, which was much better than he'd done at any previous school. He was dating, for God's sake, how on earth had that happened? And a noble born girl no less. Boy, had his Dad flown into an apoplectic fit when he learned that his 'boy was gettin' cozy with a goddamn Norrevinter'. Layne couldn't be bothered to care what the bitter old bastard said one way or another: He loved the girl fiercely, and intended to ride the situation out to it's end.

Certainly it wasn't all sunshine and daisy field frolics: There were the inescapable issues that came from compressing a large number of volatile teens in a small space, exacerbated by the fact that said teens had the powers of the universe at their fingertips. Not to mention the distinctly unsettling machinations that seemed to happen in the shadows around them. It was nerve wracking at times, but on the whole he was rapidly growing to trust and respect their teachers. After all, it couldn't be all that dangerous, could it? While he wouldn't trust the Council as far as he could throw them, he also did not believe they'd go through all this trouble just to murder a bunch of kids.

That morning, he sat in the courtyard, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a half cup of coffee growing cold on the bench next to him. In his lap he held a stone hand ax, that week's project. He ran his thumb slowly and methodically along the blade, muttering a constant stream of nonsense words under his breath.

Strong, he thought. Sharp. Strong. Sharp. He chanted these words like a mantra in his mind, infusing the weapon with his power. After two days of fussing with the shape to get it just right, and another day enchanting on top of that, Layne felt he was begging to get the hang of the whole process. He stopped, hefted the weapon in his right hand, and pitched it hard toward a tree across the courtyard. The axe struck true with a sharp crack of splitting wood. Layne grinned with pride. The axe had bit neatly into the bark, sinking in an inch or two and sticking there. It hadn't shattered either, which he would chalk up as a win.

A small chirp from the bench beside him caught his attention. He looked down and smiled fondly at the sleepy coil of his familiar Bobby, snoozing in the sun. The creature wasn't quite as strange as many of the other familiars he'd seen so far: Perhaps three feet long, she might have been mistaken for a sky blue snake. That would be if one missed her clawed limbs, the ruff of white fur that ran down her back, and the ferret-like structure of her furry little face. Snakes do not often speak in cryptic haiku either, another key difference from his draconic companion.

He carefully scooped her up (waking her would certainly result in another bite to his already scarred arms) and slipped her into the leather satchel he kept for that exact purpose. Like the royal creature she was, she spent most of her time snoozing and letting Layne carry her around like a dutiful servant. Satisfied with his work for the time being, he wiped his brow, slung the Bobby bag over his shoulder, and ventured out into the halls to find the others.

It wasn't long before he spotted another student, and his face split into a broad, sunny smile.

"Hey, Memoli!" He called. Dawn had not been the first friend he'd made among his classmates. On paper, it didn't make much sense for him to be as close to the clever and quiet little slip of a girl as he was. In the weeks prior, however, she had become what Layne would consider to be the best friend he'd ever had. He loved her as well, in a different sort of way, like the sibling he'd always wished he had. He had a heart as big as whale, Layne Towerfall. He jogged up to her, careful not to jostle the sleeping dragon in his bag too much.

"What's up, dude? Nice fuckin' day we're havin'. Sun's shinin', birds singin', an' I ain't even hurt myself once today." He paused, scratching his nose and considering. "Though, I'd even take fire and hail as long as we got the day off.... What're ya up to? Seen anybody else yet?"

With

@EchoicChamber

OOC

(sorry for xbox huge post, wanted to make sure I covered everything. won't be quite so wordy all the time lol)

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Dr. Coyle

Elsewhere in building, students, teachers, and parents gathered together to begin the school year. Their eyes bright and hopeful, they looked to a glorious new dawn of peace, togetherness, and magical learning. By all rights, this is where Edgar Coyle should have been. This was the first opportunity the children had to meet their new professors, after all.

But of course, there was work to be done.

There was always work to be done.

He stood in his private lab, a bit of space in his rooms carved out for the express purpose. The walls were lined in runes, of warding, silencing, containing, repelling. They crossed over and over each other in eye straining patterns, liable to give one a migraine if they attempted to follow his convuluted paths. He preferred to work where he knew there would be no interruption.

The centerpiece of the room was a simple operating table, also fastidiously scratched over with wards. On the table, laying on a plastic sheet, was a young pig. Or, perhaps, something that might have once been a pig. A casual observer might have at first taken it to be a particularly gruesome piece of taxidermy, except for the steady rise and fall of the poor creature's breath.

Dr. Coyle absently wiped a bloody hand on his apron and hit a switch on his hand held tape recorder.

"Doctor's log." He said, in a crisp voice.

"Presiding over subject 009-b, nicknamed "Patches 3". Subject is, as always, a male sus domesticus, age nine weeks. Today marks day 43 since acquiring subject. Subject has thus far endured... eighty-seven individual organ replacements, skin grafts, and limb transplants. A full fifteen more procedures than his predecessor! Realignment of runic formula on line n has proven most effective in delaying host rejection. I fear, however, that the shock of moving the subject to these new facilities may limit further experimentation. Today, I will be attempting to replace subject's lower jaw, marking the sixth such transplant. Beginning incision..."

A rapid rise in it's heartbeat fluttered against his senses like a panicked bird. Frustrated, he pulled back at the creature's essence... But it was all too much. A body can only go so far.

"Vitals dropping... come now, Patches, just a bit further... Damn." He sighed. Another soul lost too soon. There was so much more to be done. "Subject expired. Cause of death assumed to be acute shock, pending autopsy results. Time of death... 11:15 AM."

Coyle removed his gloves, made a cursory effort to rinse his hands. They always seemed to be a little red stained around the nails anyway. He sat heavily at his desk and a removed a bottle of brandy along with a tumbler from a lower drawer. He poured himself a few fingers in the glass. He took a long, slow swallow before continuing his litany to the recorder.

" Unfortunate. 009-b appeared to be the most tenacious yet. But! One must break a few eggs, as they say. I believe I have learned vital lessons for Patches 4, whenever I am able to acquire another pig... Oh! Perhaps I should save the dissection for class. Subject's internal anatomy should make for a thought provoking lecture. The children will be ever so excited to see the sorts of thing a true master of the Healing arts can accomplish."

He finished his glass and smiled broadly. There was something odd in that smile, as though it were a trick he'd had to teach himself over the years.

" On a personal note, I will confess my excitement to meet our crop of young, fresh minds. As my late grandfather often said, "To shape a child in it's bloom is a wondrous thing". I feel I cannot overstate my elation in having such an opportunity laid before me. To teach... and to do some learning of my own..."

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Layne Towerfall

Jesus, thought Layne as he got a closed look at the boy's face, Poor guy is strung out

Indeed, while Vanya seemed nice enough, he had the sluggish movements and wan complexion that Layne associated with people on the wrong mix of shit. After the young man spoke, however, Layne concluded that maybe he was just a little off.

Still, he had managed to see through Layne's brilliant conversational gambit.

"Oh, uh. Yeah, I reckon it is." He said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. "Sorry. Ain't too good at small talk. Good to meet ya all the same... Bracelet?"

He looked down at his arm, confused.

"Oh yeah, the crest. Thanks, it's-"

"Good morning everyone!"

Whatever it was would have to wait. Layne sat obediently. It was a mostly new experience for him, being so quick to listen to an authority figure. He had resolved to make as much of an effort as he could with this opportunity, and sitting through an orientation was at least tolerable, if maybe boring and pointless.

It was not to be. Two lines into the Professor's spiel he was struck with a terribly familiar feeling. When you grow up in the rough parts of the world, knowing when you were being watched was a skill that you had to develop fast. Either that, or you spent all your time getting mugged. Sometimes worse. Normally it felt like a finger being run down the back of his neck. This, however... This was like a full handed claw raking at his shoulder blades.

He didn't even realize the Professor had finished the orientation until people started getting up. Shit! He'd missed everything they said.

Eh. Probably ain't nothin' that won't come up again...

He was still disturbed, but the pressure had lessened now that people were in motion around him. It was an effort not to jump a little when Vanya spoke to him again.

"Wha?" He blinked stupidly at him. Seeing a lot of each other...? He turned and actually read the rooming list for the first time. "Ohhhh... Oh! Duh, sorry, I was uh... spacin' out a little."

As he moved to gather his room key, he chanced a furtive glance over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of whoever had been watching him so intently. He met the eye of Maeve Byrne and his blood went cold. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that Layne had no skill for reading expressions. It might have saved him from a bit of pain in the future. For now, all he could be certain of was that whatever the storm of emotions on that woman's face meant, they were nothing good.

"Uh, w-well." He said to Vanya, trying to hide his discomfort. "Looks like everybody is movin' on. Ya wanna go find that dorm? Arm wrestle over who gets the top bunk?"

He looked around, a knot of confusion on his brow.

"Y'know. Wherever the rooms are around here... Oh! Hey, what's your magic class, by the way?"

people

@ScoundrelQueen@Furiosa

The Marchand School of Sorcery

@Dutchess Sarah
Welcome to RP, frand.

The Marchand School of Sorcery

@EchoicChamberI figured I might as well dive in lol.

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Layne Towerfall

Don’t let ‘em look down their noses at you, Layne. Don’t let ‘em push you around, Layne. Don’t fuckin’ punch anybody, Layne.

He ran through the mental checklist one more time. You’d think that after all he’d been through, this would have been easy as whistling. He’d faced down gangs of boys twice his size. He’d leapt from cliffs down into nothing but soft earth. Hell, he’d had to deal with his Dad for seventeen years. If you had said to him even a week ago that he’d be scared out of his wits in this moment, he would have cracked your jaw.

No, ridiculous as it seemed, Layne stood on the step of his new school and could not muster the courage to go in.

This is stupid. He thought. They’re just a bunch of high born tits. What am I so worked up for?

This time was meant to be different, that was the problem. Layne had gotten accustomed to dealing with his problems by smacking them into the ground like tent poles. This was supposed to represent a turning point in his life. Could he face himself if he were ejected from Marchand for the same dumb bullshit that had ruined so many opportunities before? Could he handle being the last nail in the coffin of shame his family name was buried in? He wasn’t sure he could.

A thought struck him. Maybe that’s what he was missing? He riffled through his bag for a moment and fished out an old armband. It was emblazoned with a stylized fist, superimposed over a mountain that had been cracked in half down the middle: The Towerfall family seal. He tied this to his upper arm. If these snots wanted to talk, might as well give ‘em something to talk about. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and walked through the doors.

He made his way slowly to the common room, as was expected of new students. Fightin’ in here. He thought the moment he stepped inside. It was over, whatever had happened, but he could taste the familiar tension in the air like electricity before a big storm. That at least was familiar territory for him. The room was already packed with other young mages. All he had to do was walk up to a knot of them, say hello, and that would be that, right?

He grimaced. Nope. Got to start small, like easing into a bath that was almost too hot. He surveyed the room with a glower, not for any particular reason, but because that was simply his resting expression. His eyes fell on a young man who had apparently arrived not a few minutes before himself. He’d never really had a friend before, so he had no idea what to look for in a potential one.

“Hey!” He said, then realized it had come out as a harsh bark instead of the warm greeting he had hoped for. He cleared his throat and managed a more neutral tone. “Uh, hey. So….”

He paused awkwardly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had tried to be friendly, so the intricacies of polite conversation were a bit beyond him.

“This your first day too?” He finished. There was common ground, at least. “I’m Layne.”

As an afterthought, he stuck out his hand for the young man to shake. He reminded himself firmly not to try and crush the poor guy’s hand.

Interactions

@Furiosa

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Layne Towerfall

Full Name:
Layne Aurelius Towerfall
Nicknames/Aliases:
Just Layne. That not good enough for you?
Age:
17

Gender:
Male

Primary:
Terramancy

Secondaries of Interest/Secondaries
-Magical Weapon Infusement
-Familiar Summoning

Description:
Height: 6’5”
Weight: 174 lbs
Build: Muscular, but not athletic.
Layne doesn’t care much for appearance, and his wardrobe reflects that: His typical outfits don’t stray far from t-shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans. It’s rare to see him wear anything that looks new. He tends to wear an article of clothing until it physically falls apart.
His knuckles are scarred from many brawls, and his nose his obviously been broken at least once.
Personality:
Layne isn’t a people person: A rough and tumble childhood shaped him into the kind of guy who lets his fists do the talking. He can frequently come across as mean-spirited, always quick with a disparaging remark for anyone he doesn’t view as respectable.
He isn’t one to think too hard about his next course of action either. He runs through the world like a wild horse, full of vim and nearly impossible to contain.
He puts on a false front of not caring what others think, but under his gruff and headstrong exterior he genuinely wants to be liked. Unfortunately, his upbringing has left him without the slightest idea how to handle relationships appropriately. Still, if one can make it past all his glaring faults, they’d find a stalwart and protective companion.
Ultimately, Layne behaves in this way because he feels he has something to prove. To the aristocrats who look down on his family, to his dead-beat dad, and to himself.

Crush:
TBD

Skills:
Layne has a decent grasp of his Terramancy, but everything he knows is either self-taught or imparted to him by his less that reliable father. His skills are rudimentary but surprisingly potent for one his age.

”Stone, like Water” At his touch, stone and earth become soft and yielding, responding to his thoughts to shape into nearly anything he can imagine. Unfortunately he is not a very imaginative person, so this ability only works with very small amounts of material and only as long as it is in contact with his skin. It’s useful as armor or weaponry, but more subtle work is beyond him. While his power works best with things like limestone and granite, it also functions with pure crystalline structures like diamond and obsidian.

"Improving the Natural" Layne has some natural skill for MWI, but has so far only been able to apply enchantments to weapons made by his own hand from stone or crystal. These charms tend to be strong, but rudimentary: Increases in sharpness or durability, for example.
Weaknesses:
His most glaring weakness has to do with his primary ability: While coating his body in stone makes him a formidable bruiser, it also slows him down nearly to the point of immobility.
More than this, Layne is not very clever. Like Alexander cutting the knot, he’s the type to smash straight through the walls of a maze because he simply isn’t capable of solving it. He can be very easy to mislead, deceive, and outwit.
Brief History:
There was a time, many generations back, when it would have been a mark of social status to employ a Towerfall mage. Known for their ruthlessness and shear brute strength, they were frequently sought out as guards and mercenaries by more patrician magical houses. Need a rival’s tower torn down? Does a peasant revolt need to be stopped? Towerfall would have been the first name to come to mind. A merchant caravan flying the family crest would have been safe from even the most cut-throat of highwaymen. Their house may not have been considered noble, but they were respected.
Of course, war can change many things. Their family name had been on the decline for years before the war even began, looked down upon as a relic of a more violent past. After a particularly crushing defeat during a key battle, their fate was sealed: All but one member of their house was dead, and the rest of magical community had their confirmation that the Towerfalls were the untrustworthy and inelegant brutes they always thought they were.
So Layne was raised by his father, Marton, a broken and disgraced war veteran with nothing left but his now tarnished name. Layne’s mother is a mystery to him, as she apparently fled into night not long after his birth, no doubt driven off by Marton’s love of the bottle. Now, Marton was not necessarily a bad man, but he had no idea how to raise a son on his own. Layne’s relationship with his father is tense at best, characterized by many a shouting match and beating.
Layne view his acceptance to Marchand as a chance for redemption: He hopes to at least soften what he knows are his very rough edges, and hopefully restore a touch of honor to his family name.

Other:
His most secret desire is to make magical jewelry. He makes small pieces at times, but he isn't suited for such delicate work and generally makes a mess of it.

Dr. Edgar Coyle

Professor of Runes and Healing

Full Name:
Edgar Morgan Coyle

Nicknames/Aliases:
“Doctor Coyle”
Age:
38

Gender:
Male

Primary:
Runic Casting

Secondaries of Interest/Secondaries
Healing, Blood Magic

Description:
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 133 lbs.
Build: Slender, just on the verge of looking unhealthy.
Hair: Chestnut brown, streaked with white. Thick and untidy. Keeps a (mostly) close cropped beard.
Eyes: Dark green, muddled with brown. Wears a pair of thick lensed glasses.

Coyle has a tendency to always look like he’s just leapt out of bed. He is every bit the image of the ‘absentminded researcher’, his hair often tousled and unkept, his clothes stained with… well, things that probably aren’t worth asking about. His skin is ghostly pale and he has dark bags under his eyes, indicative of a man who does not often see the sun.

Personality:
If you met him at a party, you might say Coyle is odd, but polite. Generally wearing a placid smile, he’s quick with a joke or a word of kindness. However, there is a sharp, predatory gleam ever present in his eyes. Like an owl eyeing a field mouse.

In truth, his primary focus is always the pursuit of knowledge above all else. Colleagues, students, or random innocents on the street: To him, they are only possible test subjects.
It would not even necessarily be fair to call him cruel. Coyle is not a malicious or sadistic man, he is merely indifferent to suffering he deems necessary.

Relationship:
His first and only love is his work

Skills:
A Well-Structured Theorem: With his sharp mind and lifelong devotion to the understanding of magical theory, given enough time Coyle is capable of monstrously complex feats of runic construction. During the war, he utilized these abilities to lay traps and defend perimeters. He can be credited with spells are gruesome as making an entire enemy unit vomit blood, as well as subtle lines that made a man who crossed them lose all sense of direction.

Medical Biology and You: As is common among his bloodline, Coyle has a powerful knack for healing magic. His specialization lies in complex works of surgery, and he is infamous for his ghoulish skill in keeping a body alive long after nature would have dictated it to end.

Weaknesses:
Due to the nature of his abilities if he does not have sufficient prep time and information he is utterly useless in physical confrontation. His Healing abilities are similarly hampered: Healing small injuries on the fly is enormously difficult, as he requires the sterile and ritualistic nature of an operating table to work.
On a personal note, Coyle has few friends due to his personality and the dark reputation of his family.

Brief History:
If one were to peruse the sections of Magical Theory and Medicine in the average library, a clear pattern would present itself. Namely, the common repetition of a single name: “Coyle”
Indeed, “The Coyle Institute of Theory and Physiological Understanding” has been an infamous name in the world arcane academia. Mainly only accepting their own blood relatives, fewer than one in six thousand outside aplicants are allowed to conduct their work inside it’s dark and haunted halls. Those that are allowed access to the institution are vowed to secrecy. Despite it's tightly cloistered nature, the outflow of knowledge is relatively vast. To quote one prominent scholar, “Without the work of the Coyle Institute, our understanding of the function of the human body and the method of it’s repair would be set back one hundred years.”

Rumors always abound. Nightmarish experiments, gruesome tortures, mass graves and disappearances, no story of the Coyle institute told in dark taprooms has a happy ending. Despite any of these legends, the institute still thrives. Multiple investigations have been conducted by Council officials, but the result has been the same each time: There was no substantial evidence present of unethical treatment of subjects, nor was there any indication anyone was being held their against their will.

It came as quite the surprise when Edgar Coyle, the family’s eldest heir, volunteered to fight the cults on the front lines instead of spending his life in the laboratory. One might have expected an anemic and nebbish boy like Edgar to be nervous at the prospect of war, but he practically danced with glee.
He proved his usefulness swiftly, nearly unmatched in his skill with complex runic formulae. He earned multiple commendations after several battles turned neatly on their ears by his well laid pitfalls and multiple night raids on Council camps thwarted.

Though it was odd…. Despite his reputation as a skilled healer, he abstained from any conventional field medic duties. If he was outside, he was working on runes, or carefully examining corpses. Otherwise, he spent every waking hour in his tightly sealed and heavily guarded research tents. It is mostly unknown what happened in those canvas pavilions, their exteriors heavily warded to prevent sound from escaping.

Other:

Emmett Lowe

Full Name:
Emmett Lowe

Nicknames/Aliases:
Nothing particularly nice
Age:
16

Gender:
Male

Primary:
Pyromancy

Secondaries of Interest/Secondaries
Toxin Production, Levitation

Description:
Height: 5"8'
Weight: 122 lbs.
Build: Thin and wiry. Slender shoulders. Soft features, slightly rounded chin.
Eyes: Light blue. Wears a pair of black rimmed glasses.
Hair: Dirty blonde, borders on a light brown. Generally cut short.
Emmett favors non-descript clothing: Polos, button ups, usually in pale colors or white.

Personality:
Emmett is a nervous, reserved, and quiet boy. A lifetime of paranoia and sheltering have left him unable to make even the simplest choices without worrying over them for fifteen minutes. He's friendly enough, and eager to please, but it often becomes clear while talking to him that he isn't used to socialization. His demeanor led to a fair amount of bullying over the years, both from normal children who saw a passive target, and mage children confused by his reticence to use his power.
He's the kind of person often heard saying things like "Are you sure?" and compulsively apologizing for anything he might have done..
Skills:
Half-hearted Flame : Emmett’s pyromancy is, in a word, stunted. While he is adept at rapidly increasing body heat and creating small flames on his body, anything more complex than that is beyond his ability. This is mainly due to his fear of anything more elaborate. He is simply too afraid to attempt the sorts of things the average pyromancer is capable of: Namely, projecting flames over a distance. That being said, his control of his power is exemplary

Chemistry for a Brighter Future : Much like his pyromancy, Emmett is skilled with his toxin production, but limited due to his own phobias. Producing acids, poisons, and sedatives is something he is capable of, but highly averse to. Mainly he uses his toxin skills in conjunction with his pyromancy to create aesthetic things like multicolored flames or smoke. He’s capable enough with sedatives and mood enhancers as well..

Weaknesses:
Emmett’s biggest weakness is himself: Fear and self-doubt cause him to freeze up or panic at even the most minor of stressful situations. He has a crippling fear of hurting others, which causes him to be overly restrained in his casting.

Brief History:
The Lowe family is not a particularly exciting one. Proud Pyromancers, but in general content with keeping their heads down and out of the public eye: A normal, middle class family of mages who only wanted to stay out of trouble. Mainly speaking, they got their wish, until Emmett was born.
He was treated much the same as any other mage child, his budding skills in pyromancy nurtured and gently guided. That was until, at roughly ten years old, he began to display a natural knack for toxin production. It was at this point that his parents began to panic.
The Lowe family, like many mage families, was not without it’s share of skeletons in the closet. As it turned out, Emmett was not the first Lowe to be drawn towards toxins: his maternal grandfather had been much the same. This revelation excited young Emmett, until he was given the whole story.

Abraham Lowe had been a dangerous man. A violent pyromaniac obsessed with the creation of explosives, he was implicated in a number of bombings of public spaces that resulted in dozens of deaths and even more injuries. Abraham died in a maximum-security prison, and good riddance to him. Emmett’s parents were determined not to see their only son follow the same path.
Emmett was not the sort of boy to rebel or attempt to dissuade them. Horrified by the potential of his abilities, he was more than happy to shelter himself as much as his parents did.
His enrollment at Marchand had been quite the subject of debate for a few weeks. While his parents were mortified by the idea, he convinced them it was for the best. After all, where would he learn better discipline than a school for mages? With the troubles in the world, wouldn’t it be the safest place for him…?
At least, they all hoped that would be the case.

Other:
-Emmett’s main hobbies are reading and origami. He likes things to do with paper, as it reminds him to keep his fire in check.
-Has a tendency to stutter when he’s nervous. Which is most of the time.

The Marchand School of Sorcery

@EchoicChamber Yay! Added Tracking as another secondary. If all is satisfactory, I'll start on an intro post today. Shall I move the CS into the character section?

Is there anything I should know? Where's most of the action taking place?

The Marchand School of Sorcery

@EchoicChamber Okay: Added MWI as a secondary, but it ties directly to his Terramancy. Also that his secret ambition is to be a wizard jeweler. ^_^
What do you think?

The Marchand School of Sorcery

@EchoicChamber Okay, cool! I wasn't sure how abstract I could go with it. I cut the first power and made stone shaping his primary (expanded a little to include crystal).
Also, yeah, I was at a real loss as to what Secondaries to pick lol. Any suggestions?