ScoundrelQueen

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Professor Maeve Brigid Byrne had a way of moving that compelled people to get out of the way; there was a vague sense that she would walk through or over anything in her path.

She prowled through the crowd of registrants with a stiff back a deep frown, her emerald eyes taking on a predatory narrowness as she surveyed the incoming students Young, eager bodies housing sheltered histories moved like a herded flock through the echoing lobby. Her glare roved over bags and bodies alike, evidently on the looking for something. A few individuals warranted a second glance, but nobody stuck out enough to deserve being properly tailed.

Due to the risk of meeting other adults, Kovalenko had talked her into tying her unruly red hair back and wearing a pantsuit that did little to flatter her broad shoulders: The intended “look” of the outfit was unclear, however, as Byrne resembled a hosed-down orange alleycat far more than she did a qualified teaching professional. Though, truth be told, there was little that anyone could have done about that fact.

Standing in the midst of the bustling crowd, she found herself quite confused as to how she had been persuaded into the role of a professor: She did not like people, least of all teenagers, and even less than least, teens of the entitled variety.

And speaking of the devils.

The sound of thundering Norrevinters filled the hall, and Byrne’s scowl lines somehow managed to trough even deeper into her face. She turned on the balls of her feet to head out and let someone else take care of that godforsaken situation, and had very nearly made it out of the room when she caught sight of something far worse out of the corner of her eye:

It was striding through the front door in a pair of Italian leather shoes that likely cost more than her car, wearing a smile so self-assured she wanted to smack it clean off of his face.

A Sterling.

Larke, presumably, if her roster was correct.

The boy was dressed in a pair of pressed khaki trousers and a pale blue button-down shirt that was rolled just below his elbows. His jaw and face were cut as dashingly as any in his lineage, and the signature charm of his pedigree shone through as he managed to persuade the receptionist to crack her first smile all day. He smirked and said something. She laughed. He took the papers with an easy shrug of one shoulder, waved a lazy salute with the hand still holding his forms, and turned back to mingle with the rest of the crowd.

He held a black sport coat folded over one arm, but carried no bags with him. Those were handled, apparently, by the stout, black-haired man following behind him in a chauffeur’s uniform. Larke passed off the forms to the man with a firm handshake and another convincingly genuine smile, and then they parted: One to the common room, the other to the large luggage drop.

Byrne shook her head. Lazy brat.

Her bitter glowering was cut short, however, as she caught sight of the collision preparing to take place in the reception area: If the Norrevinters stayed their course, they would be seeing far more of Sterling than was good for the building’s structural integrity.

It was with a quiet groan that Maeve forced her best public relations smile (which was, by any stretch of flattery, not very good,) and strode over to the ginger clan with purpose. She circled around so that she stood in the opposite direction of Sterling, and stopped about a foot out from the three giants.

“Hilda? Hilda Norrevinter?” Maeve exclaimed, her jovial tone touched by just enough of an Irish accent to color her inflection, “By God, it’s been an age and a day! And is this the Kora we’ve all heard so much about?” She extended a hand to the teen girl, being sure to keep the sound of internal screaming out of her throat. “Grown a helluva lot since the last picture I saw, hasn’t she?”

So, so much internal screaming. In fact, she was certain that her right shoulder had started to ache.
@VitoftheVoid

---

Larke, for his part, had simply decided to make the most of the whole sticky situation. As he came up the stairs, he split from Ives, his driver, and took toward the common area while Ives handled the task of depositing his bag. The room number was probably on the paper, anyhow. And Larke was not about to sacrifice possibly the last ten minutes of hired help he would experience for the rest of the school year.

His sharp green eyes roved over the scene with casual interest, not betraying any of the growing dread balling up in his chest. He did not need to look at the donation placard on the wall to know that his family name would be at the top: The fine leather couches and brushed-nickel lighting fixtures were all in excellent taste, as was the blown glass chandelier up above. The flat-screen television was a nice touch.

The bearskin rug and antlered armchairs were less so. Had there not been such a glorious breakfast spread, he was quite sure the room would still reek of the dirty little island they had been shipped from.

He shrugged off the thought, restored his smile, and adjusted his rolled sleeves before making for the laid-out breakfast spread. Larke picked up a few pieces of fruit, some bacon, and a glass of orange juice while subtly taking inventory of his classmates. His mother had insisted he look over photo albums and refresh himself on family trees, and all but a few checked off: Ripren was recognizable by her unusual sense of style; then Velius, seeming to be engrossed in... whatever he was doing; a Santora... Nolan, Larke was pretty sure; and the poor little Kingsley bastard, whom he had never seen in person, was sitting next to a Ciervo. Admittedly, he only recalled the last one by her missing finger.

And then, finally, someone more personally familiar: "Well, if it isn't Miss Dawn Memoli!" He carried his little plate over to her, setting his drink down but not taking an immediate seat. He extended a hand to shake. "It's good to see you again... Been since, what? Berlin? Mind if I sit?"

@echoicchamber

---

The thump-bump of the bus solicited a surprised squeak from Mitch, and a far less identifiable noise (though it probably fell somewhere between an owl’s screech and crane’s whoop) from the covered cage occupying the seat beside her.

Aside from occasionally poking a piece of fruit jerky it under the cage cover, or adjusting the volume on her MP3 player, the mousy-haired young woman had stayed nearly stock-still for the entire trip. Her eyes were obscured by dark glasses to protect them from the changing light of the road, but her gaze remained forward.

A collapsible white cane sat folded in her lap.

It had been a rather long and more than slightly stressful journey for both Mitch and her caged companion: Between boarding planes and dealing with incompetent airport staff, navigating less than accommodating bus services, and portaling her friend in and out of existence to clear TSA, it had been emotionally and physically exhausting. The constant hissing-clicks from her largest bit of luggage had kept anyone from immediately sitting near her.

So, when the bus lurched to a final stop and the sound of her peers beginning to disembark sounded around her, Mitch was more than elated.

She turned herself further into the seat as the others began grabbing their things from the overhead bins and jostling on their way out, opting to instead change out her sunglasses for a much (much, much) thicker pair of readers, withdraw her tablet, and connect to the school’s Wi-Fi while the others shoved in a hurry to reach the same destination in a relatively similar amount of time.

When the bus was empty, she stood, tucked her readers and tablet into her pocket, unfolded her cane, slung her backpack over her shoulders, and then lifted the cage with her free hand. Arrangements had been made to have her things delivered to her room.

“Thank you,” she said in the general direction of the driver before stepping off, her voice soft and her smile softer. She swept her cane along the ground with the deftness of someone who had done this most of her life as she headed up the crunchy gravel drive to the school entrance. The cacophony of voices booming against increasingly echoing corridors was not hard to follow, though she kept a reasonable distance back from the thick of the crowd. The ceiling sounded high.

She tapped her way over to one wall, following along until she hit what seemed to be a table. Or just, you know. More lost.

“I’m looking for registration?” she announced, piping up over some of the noise, but in no clear direction as the cage gave another disgruntled chirp.

Someone touched her arm, and she startled a good bit more than she had at any of the bus’s bumps.

“Are you Leila Ingram?” said a woman’s voice, dry and disinterested.

Mitch nodded. “Yeah,”she replied, dipping her shoulder away from the unsolicited touch, but turning to face the woman who had spoken. “And it’s Just Mitch.”

“Alright, Miss Ingram,” said the woman, taking Mitch’s arm and guiding her toward what Mitch assumed was the desk. The girl resisted the urge to scowl at the way she was being dragged around through unknown space faster than she could sweep, but made no effort to correct the woman as she kept talking. “I’ve got some forms you need to sign. And an extra in regard to your exception to our familiar policy.”

Mitch stared ahead, and set the cage down at her feet. “Okay.”

“I need you to sign this.”

Mitch blinked, waiting a full five seconds to see if she would be grabbed without permission once again, before patting around for the pen, finding the paper, and signing randomly on each of them without paying any heed.

It would not have been hard to take out her readers, but this woman seemed too likely think she was too incapable for that. Not worth her energy. “Are we done? Can I let out my guide?”

The woman did not reply.

Mitch nodded, assuming the woman had probably also nodded. And if not, she was being kind of a bitch by not responding. Too tired to care much either way, Mitch then proceeded to crouch in front of the desk and open the door to the cage,

Like a bug crawling out from under a cup, her companion burst out, taking first to a wobbly flight that made a nearby student scream, and then settling down upon Mitch’s shoulders with all six of its legs, frond-antennae twitching as its head swiveled and its four shiny eyes darted about to take in the surroundings.

The coldness of the thing’s carapace-covered belly rested against Mitch’s body, and she could feel a low rattle-hiss-purr vibrate against her back.

“Hi Apple,” she crooned, and a genuine, wide smile spread across her face. She reached to scratch “Apple’s” purple furred back, and then turned to kiss his cheek before he scuttled back down to her feet.

She had taken the initiative to put him in his work harness before boarding her plane in London, in case anyone didn’t know that he was a “Service Animal! Do not pet!”

“Oh, hi. Hi little muffin. I know. I know,” Mitch carried on, folding up the crate cage and tucking it into her pack even as several other students passed by with noises of alarm or surprise. “Hi, fluff bucket. C’mon, now.”

She straightened, cane and cage both stashed away, and took hold of the handle on Apple’s back. “Follow,” she ordered, and the pair moved into step behind the crowd making its way toward something that smelled like pancakes. Apple opened his beaky little mouth, and a smaller, less beaky mouth popped out to open and close, tasting the air. He shot a tongue out of the smaller mouth, and licked the stairs to be sure they tasted alright.

With the help of audio cues and her trusted sidekick, Mitch managed to navigate the buffet line and acquire a plate full of something edible, and then proceeded back toward the tables and couches with a bit of trepidation. People were not her forte- At least not people her own age or those who she didn't already know. Regardless, her options were limited. There was no sitting alone.

She stepped toward an area that sounded (maybe?) less crowded, and offered a warm smile in what seemed like the right direction. “Is this seat open?” she asked, though her voice was much softer than she had intended.

@prosaic

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Mitch Ingram

Full Name: Leila Michelle Ingram
Nicknames/Aliases: Mitch
Age: 16
Gender: Female
Primary:] Runic Casting
Student
Secondary of interest: Magical Weapons Infusement
Secondary: Familiar Conjuring (learned via home tutor)

Description: Mitch is not remarkable in the least, and her actual appearance is often overlooked as most eyes are more drawn to watch her guide companion, Apple, than Mitch herself.

When people do manage to look at Mitch, most find her quite average: She has shoulder-length mousey brown hair and medium skin. She is on the shorter and thinner side, but not so much as to be the “most” anything: The curves of her body are slight, when not obstructed by poor posture and loose outfits. Her features are generally soft, and she has a girlish, round face; the kind of face that “could be pretty,” as one of her old schoolmates once said, if she took the time to maintain her looks.

Her dark brown eyes typically appear out of focus, as she is legally blind beyond the point of prescription correction. She wears glasses to work at her computer, along with a magnified font. Outside of this, she uses no vision aids, "because it's just different kind of blurry after six inches."

Personality: Mitch is a young woman of intense cleverness, determination, and social awkwardness.

In terms of living with her blindness, Mitch is well aware of her limits, but refuses to accept that they somehow make her less capable. She has a great deal of ingenuity, and uses it to pioneer new ways of doing things and securing independence.

Despite this, she is hyper-aware of the opinions of others, and often assumes the worst from what those around her say and do. She claims otherwise, but any indication that someone dislikes her is taken to heart.

To compensate, most of Mitch’s life, from friends to hobbies, exists online. She’s an avid and skilled member of the “Hactivist” community, fueled on by an innate sense of justice as well as her father’s career in information technology. Her sense of humor reflects the digital world she lives in, and is mostly made up of biting sarcasm, Internet absurdism, and self-deprecation.


Skills:
Has a stable familiar- See below
Comprised the entire runic alphabet into keyboard format with the intent of using it for rune-infused infiltration
Excellent computer skills; can hack basically anything with an internet connection.

Weaknesses:
Legally blind: Mitch can only see about eight inches in front of her face when using maximum correction and a reader’s glass.

She is also is not very good at the words and human-type things all the time.

Brief History: Leila was born to a mother and father, though public record shows otherwise: Outside of the magical community and a few intelligence agency servers, she was never born at all. Allegedly, he father was a Computer Science Professor at Oxford University, and her mother was a government accountant. Less on the record, Mitch is pretty sure her dad works in cyber warfare, and may have killed somebody. Her mom definitely killed someone, and also probably works for some agency related to hiding monstrous summons. But her mom travels a lot. So, you know. *shrugs.*

Aside from the discovery of her disability, she had a relatively stable early childhood, filled with love and doting, if not an unreasonable amount of in-home security measures.

By the time Leila was seven, her eyesight had grown weak enough that she needed to use a cane or a guide to navigate. Hoping to give her daughter a sense of independence, as well as a companion, Mrs. Ingram tutored her in the art of Familiar Conjuraton. Over the next year, Leila became proficient enough to open a small portal, through which a small creature fumbled.

Only, instead of a fluffy or comforting guide, Leila managed to summon a dragon-like abomination with six legs, purple fur, a beetle carapace, insect wings, and two mouths, one inside the other.

It bonded on sight, and she named it Apple.

In her preteen years, she followed her father to his lessons and sat in the back of his lectures, learning what she could and occasionally picking up a few dollars in exchange for helping someone with her homework. It was during this time that she took up the alias of Mitch Ingram, finding that the small software packets and apps she had been working on were more likely to gain consideration under a masculine name. Her father took to the new title, and before long, both he and his students had taken to calling her by her chosen name.

Up until Marchand, Mitch’s schedule remained relatively the same: She kept to herself (and Apple) during her free time, used her cane to go to class with her father, and developed most of her social connections through the Internet.

Other: Mitch is legally blind, and can only see about six inches in front of her face with maximum correction and a reader's glass. Due to this, she navigates using a guide companion abomination. Her guide is a stable, permanent familiar who goes by Apple. ("Because he's a bit useless, and not all that impressive.")

Apple is the size of a small dog, with a dragon-like body shape. He has six legs, and is covered in a thick layer of purple fur. His underbelly features a carapace not dissimilar to that of a cockroach, and he has wings on his back to match. His tail is prehensile and features a barb that can occasionally drip acid when he is excited, and he has two mouths, one inside of the other.

He likes to sleep on top of Mitch's feet, and wears a harness that reads "Working animal! Do not pet," while working as a guide.

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Professor Maeve Brigid Byrne

Full Name: Maeve Brigid Byrne
Nicknames/Aliases: Professor Byrne, Captain Byrne, Sir
Age: 37
Gender: Female
Primary: Aeromancy

Professor of: Aeromancy; Combat
Secondaries: Magical Weapons Infusement, Levitation

Description:
Maeve is a woman of medium height with an atheltic build. She has unkempt red hair, muddy hazel eyes, and freckled skin. The beginnings of crows’ feet and frown lines drag at the corners of her face: Some grew from years of windy battlefields, but most stem from her general distaste for two-thirds of the human race. Her clothing tends to be more functional than anything, and usually consists of gym shorts or leggings, some form of tank top or racerback, and sneakers. When forced to manquerade a civil adult (or perhaps at her own funeral,) she wears a suit.

The words “Storm II” are tattoed over a war banner on her right shoulder blade. Across her chest, there is a monchrome kestrel with spread wings that reach up to her collarbones. On her left wrist, there is another tattoo of an oval with several concentric rings inside of it, and the words “Sempre vigilans" inscribed on a banner below it.

Across her left side abdomen, there is a wrinkled, misshapen scar about the size of a large hand, caused by a hasty battlefield cauterization. There are multiple other small, noticeably straight scars scattered across the rest of her exposed skin, particularly her outer arms. Down her back and over her left shoulder, there is a massive tree-like Lichtenberg figure that stretches up to the left side of her neck, and all the way down to her thigh.

Skills:
Master of Aeromancy, specifically as it pertains to winds and atmospheric phenomenon;
Agile flight, from a dual use of Aeromancy and levitation;
Talented melee fighter, especially in hand-to-hand;
Accurate knife-thrower, via the assistance of Aeromancy and MWI

Weaknesses:
Works best as a team fighter, and is bad at watching her own back;
Forms deep bonds with teammates, which make her easily manipulated;
Deathly loyal to her own motives and cause;
About as tactless and unsubtle as the average anvil;
Prefers to act on instinct and impulse, choosing to fight before thinking

Personality:
Foul mouthed and abrasive on her best days, it’s hard to imagine how Professor Byrne came into teaching. Her demeanor comes off as harsh and brutish, and some students feel more like they’ve been dropped into a boot camp than a school while taking her classes. She teaches as if readying her students for a war outside the school doors; whether it be real or imagined.

She is standoffish toward most people until given a clear reason to behave otherwise. Her sense of humor is dry and bitter, if not a bit crass. She has little pity for those who seek it or perceive themselves worthy of such: Whatever sense of sympathy she once had is kept locked away. Her loyalty is hard won, but undying once it has been earned. Despite a gruff exterior, she leads with her heart more than her head. This makes her an excellent teammate to have on your side, and a devoted friend.

She believes that pressure is the best motivator, and will not shy away from exploiting a student’s weakness to teach a lesson. Experience is a fine teacher: It was good enough for the war generation, and it will do well enough for her class. If tears are the cost for turning a coddled child into a hardened soldier, it is a tax she is willing to collect.

Brief History:
Maeve was born to the Byrne lineage— A relatively proud, if only middle-class, family of Aeromancers and fowlers. She had a bitter, though stable, relationship with her parents, and a rebellious childhood. She despised traditional mage gatherings and Council-hosted socialite events, but made the best of them by helping herself to the free drinks and occasionally engaging in the good-natured pestering of another teenage mage named Oren.

Maeve's carefree youth was interrupted at the age of twenty by the start of the War between Houses. She was completely unpracticed in battle, but a combination of pride and youthful stupidity drove her to enlist regardless. Whatever supposed glamour war may have held was quickly wiped away in real combat, as she paid the cost of watching many teammates her own age die bloody deaths.

By coincidence, she ended up fighting back to back with her childhood acquaintance Oren Kovalenko. Byrne and Kovalenko made it through the war by what some would call skill and others luck, and eventually rose through the ranks to serve as a two-woman special ops team known simply as "Storm II," specializing in massive destructive endeavors. The two were also members of an elite strike team, Alpha-Omega, with a reputation for finishing what they started. Maeve gained two to three other close comrades through this team, but generally tried to keep the others at arms' length after watching so many fall.

In the years after the war, Maeve served the Council and others doing piecemeal missions that required some extra muscle. She drank, attempted a relationship here or there, but mostly just kept her head above water where she could.

When Marchand was founded, Byrne had her reservations about signing onto the faculty. She was eventually persuaded by the mission of the school, and put aside her personal doubts to serve the greater cause.

Larke Sterling

Full Name: Larke Charles Sterling
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Primary: Aquamancy
Student
Secondaries of interest: Healing, Levitation

Description: Like all of the men the Sterling family has come to be known for, Larke is handsome by nature, and confident by upbringing. Larke has a strong, fine jaw and a charming self-assured smile. He keeps his face clean-shaven, though his sandy brown hair tends to fall in whatever casually tousled way it decides to. He stands at a strapping 6’1”, with a lean, muscled build

His posture is relaxed but proper, giving off a certain air of aristocracy. He typically wears khaki slacks or jeans with a button down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Personality:
Larke is aware of both his looks and social status, though which one has left him more out of touch with reality is debatable.

In typical interactions, he is warm and charming, with all of the manners and conversational prowess of someone stuffed into a tiny tux and forced to mingle since pre-Kindergarten. He can strike up conversation with near anyone about anything, but scratching below the surface or venturing into deep topics leaves him smiling politely while trying to paddle back into the comfortable shallows.

Though proud of his family, he has an affinity for misdemeanor rebellion, especially when there are peers around to be impressed by his bravery. *

*Also known as “questionable decision making skills.”


Skills:
He has the “Sterling Silver Tongue:” As heir to what is easily the most dominant family in the business of magical trade, Larke is an impeccable salesperson. Whether he’s selling a lie about his feelings toward the business, or his affections to the girl in third period, it’s difficult for many not to buy. If a situation can be talked out of, Larke can probably manage it.

The Sterling line has a virtual monopoly on most trade in the magical community, controlling the transactions of everything from ancient artifacts to corpses. As a result, they have a good amount of influence on the Council, which grants Larke near immunity from many serious repercussions.

He’s also not God awful at the whole Aquamancy thing.

Weaknesses:
Larke has been raised with a silver spoon and a personal tutor, and tends to goof off. It’s difficult to coerce him into applying himself to things he doesn’t find exciting or intriguing.

He can be out of touch with reality, and is unable to relate or empathize with the stuggles of others. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t care, but rather that he simply “doesn’t get it.”

Also not bad at pissing off Norrevinter.

Brief History:
It is difficult to make sense of Larke’s childhood without first taking into account the family he was born to.

The family reputation is one of cleverness, charm, and (mostly discussed in low voices by others with a scowl,) promiscuous sexual appetites amongst its young men.

With this in mind, it is safe to say that Larke is very much a Sterling. He and his younger brother were raised by their nanny, as his parents were away for long periods of time managing the business. His childhood days were consumed by private lessons in the various arts of magic, poetry, music, society, and sport, as well as organized social events held by other wealthy families in the community.

He was a social child who took well to these things, but rebelled a reasonable amount for attention. His freedoms were supposedly limited, but it was easy to get away with a good bit with no firm parental figures around to curb his exploits.

As far as he’s concerned, being sent off to Marchand may as well be military school.

Other:
The Sterling family boasts a long line of seafaring Aquamancers, citing their ancestry back to the Minoan traders of Crete. Much of this record has been lost, however, and the earliest “proven” ancestry dates back to their participation in the German Hanseatic League of trade in the 12th Century. The Sterlings eventually split off from the league in the 15th Century, having gained enough influence in magical trade to stand without the support of the organization.

Since then, the family has only strengthened it’s hold on magical trade, using both their magic and influence to ensure themselves as the most reliable source for most transactions.

That is to say, they are more than “wealthy.”

They also have a centuries old feud with the Norrevinter family, resulting in high tensions almost all the time.

Mitch Ingram

Full Name: Leila Michelle Ingram
Nicknames/Aliases: Mitch
Age: 16
Gender: Female
Primary:] Runic Casting
Student
Secondary of interest: Magical Weapons Infusement
Secondary: Familiar Conjuring (learned via home tutor)

Description: Mitch is not remarkable in the least, and her actual appearance is often overlooked as most eyes are more drawn to watch her guide companion, Apple, than Mitch herself.

When people do manage to look at Mitch, most find her quite average: She has shoulder-length mousey brown hair and medium skin. She is on the shorter and thinner side, but not so much as to be the “most” anything: The curves of her body are slight, when not obstructed by poor posture and loose outfits. Her features are generally soft, and she has a girlish, round face; the kind of face that “could be pretty,” as one of her old schoolmates once said, if she took the time to maintain her looks.

Her dark brown eyes typically appear out of focus, as she is legally blind beyond the point of prescription correction. She wears glasses to work at her computer, along with a magnified font. Outside of this, she uses no vision aids, "because it's just different kind of blurry after six inches."

Personality: Mitch is a young woman of intense cleverness, determination, and social awkwardness.

In terms of living with her blindness, Mitch is well aware of her limits, but refuses to accept that they somehow make her less capable. She has a great deal of ingenuity, and uses it to pioneer new ways of doing things and securing independence.

Despite this, she is hyper-aware of the opinions of others, and often assumes the worst from what those around her say and do. She claims otherwise, but any indication that someone dislikes her is taken to heart.

To compensate, most of Mitch’s life, from friends to hobbies, exists online. She’s an avid and skilled member of the “Hactivist” community, fueled on by an innate sense of justice as well as her father’s career in information technology. Her sense of humor reflects the digital world she lives in, and is mostly made up of biting sarcasm, Internet absurdism, and self-deprecation.


Skills:
Has a stable familiar- See below
Comprised the entire runic alphabet into keyboard format with the intent of using it for rune-infused infiltration
Excellent computer skills; can hack basically anything with an internet connection.

Weaknesses:
Legally blind: Mitch can only see about eight inches in front of her face when using maximum correction and a reader’s glass.

She is also is not very good at the words and human-type things all the time.

Brief History: Leila was born to a mother and father, though public record shows otherwise: Outside of the magical community and a few intelligence agency servers, she was never born at all. Allegedly, he father was a Computer Science Professor at Oxford University, and her mother was a government accountant. Less on the record, Mitch is pretty sure her dad works in cyber warfare, and may have killed somebody. Her mom definitely killed someone, and also probably works for some agency related to hiding monstrous summons. But her mom travels a lot. So, you know. *shrugs.*

Aside from the discovery of her disability, she had a relatively stable early childhood, filled with love and doting, if not an unreasonable amount of in-home security measures.

By the time Leila was seven, her eyesight had grown weak enough that she needed to use a cane or a guide to navigate. Hoping to give her daughter a sense of independence, as well as a companion, Mrs. Ingram tutored her in the art of Familiar Conjuraton. Over the next year, Leila became proficient enough to open a small portal, through which a small creature fumbled.

Only, instead of a fluffy or comforting guide, Leila managed to summon a dragon-like abomination with six legs, purple fur, a beetle carapace, insect wings, and two mouths, one inside the other.

It bonded on sight, and she named it Apple.

In her preteen years, she followed her father to his lessons and sat in the back of his lectures, learning what she could and occasionally picking up a few dollars in exchange for helping someone with her homework. It was during this time that she took up the alias of Mitch Ingram, finding that the small software packets and apps she had been working on were more likely to gain consideration under a masculine name. Her father took to the new title, and before long, both he and his students had taken to calling her by her chosen name.

Up until Marchand, Mitch’s schedule remained relatively the same: She kept to herself (and Apple) during her free time, used her cane to go to class with her father, and developed most of her social connections through the Internet.

Other: Mitch is legally blind, and can only see about six inches in front of her face with maximum correction and a reader's glass. Due to this, she navigates using a guide companion abomination. Her guide is a stable, permanent familiar who goes by Apple. ("Because he's a bit useless, and not all that impressive.")

Apple is the size of a small dog, with a dragon-like body shape. He has six legs, and is covered in a thick layer of purple fur. His underbelly features a carapace not dissimilar to that of a cockroach, and he has wings on his back to match. His tail is prehensile and features a barb that can occasionally drip acid when he is excited, and he has two mouths, one inside of the other.

He likes to sleep on top of Mitch's feet, and wears a harness that reads "Working animal! Do not pet," while working as a guide.

Nurse Mariana Guerra

Full Name: Mariana Paola Carmena Guerra (Formerly Guerra-Barnett)

Nicknames/Aliases: Mari; But also answers to: Mom; Mommy; MOOOM; We're Out of Milk; Have You Seen My Left Boot; etc

Age: 49

Gender: Female

Primary: Defense

School Nurse

Secondaries: Toxins and Healing

Description: Mariana is a medium-tall woman with a soft, slightly curvy build. Her facial features are gentle and pretty, if not showing some signs of age, with very expressive brows. She has kind brown eyes, medium olive-toned skin, and wavy black hair that falls to her mid-back when not tied up.

Personality: Mariana is a mother, with the patience and wit to match. She is quick to mentor and take those in distress under her wing, and is always willing to lend and ear or a hug to someone in need. While her kindness is bountiful, her trust is hard-earned. She is cautious of strangers, and while not mean, will keep them at a healthy distance until she can gauge their intentions.

When it comes to protecting those she cares about, she has a fierce streak parallel to none. No means is too extreme to protect her loved ones, and her morality can become clouded in do-or-die scenarios. She

Skills: Very strong defender, specializing in shield work; ARNP (Advanced Registered Nurse Practicioner); Well-controlled toxin user and healer; basic combat and marksmanship ability; good judge of character; strong willed; expert cleaner of both spilled milk and tears.

Weaknesses: Quick to make impulsive decisions when someone is in danger; easily swayed by the well-being of her children; not typically a hand-to-hand or melee fighter


Brief History: Mariana was born to the Guerra family, a modest Defender line living in Cuba and Miami, known for inconsistent descendants. Some were decent shielders, about a quarter were very strong, and a quarter were born with no magical ability at all. Mari was one of lucky ones.

In her late teens, she was courted by Erich Barnett, a young idealist from a considerably more prominent Defensive line than her own. At twenty, she was married and gave birth to her first son, Luis.

Shortly thereafeter, Barnett pressured her into joining an "elite organization" fighting for the future of the magical community. They spoke of a better world for magical children, and Mariana was more than happy to oblige her husband's wishes. By the time it became clear that this utopia was to be achieved by the mass genocide of anyone in opposition, it was too late. Mariana was afraid for her life and the life of her son if she chose to flee.

Barnett grew more fanatical in his fascism as time went on, becoming first verbally and then physically abusive toward Mariana. She dealt with it, keeping up the front of the loyal wife to protect Luis.

When her son turned ten, however, there was still no sign of magic in his blood. Barnett dragged him before several other members of the cult and forced him to undergo a ritual beating in the hopes of forcing his Defensive primary to manifest, to no avail.

Mariana was told by Roderic Montana, a man who had come to be a close confidant among the increasingly unfriendly crowd.

Erich Barnett was murdered in his sleep that night, and Mariana and her son left the cult along with Montana, who made a very timely appearance in aiding their escape.

Mariana subsequently left her child in the care of her parents in Miami, and went off to aid in the war effort, providing vital intel based on her insider experience. She served alongside Montana on and off for the remainder of the Civil War, though she was bounced between bases whenever another shielder was needed elsewhere. Her friendship with Montana grew both during and after the war, though the two were frequently pulled in different directions over time.

She completed a master's degree in nursing, and took up a modest life away from anyone and anything having to do with the war.

Mariana was offered a nursing post at Marchand as an emergency replacement, and took it so that her youngest son, now thirteen, could attend the school within the next year without having to be far away from her.

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Larke Sterling

Full Name: Larke Charles Sterling
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Primary: Aquamancy
Student
Secondaries of interest: Healing, Levitation

Description: Like all of the men the Sterling family has come to be known for, Larke is handsome by nature, and confident by upbringing. Larke has a strong, fine jaw and a charming self-assured smile. He keeps his face clean-shaven, though his sandy brown hair tends to fall in whatever casually tousled way it decides to. He stands at a strapping 6’1”, with a lean, muscled build

His posture is relaxed but proper, giving off a certain air of aristocracy. He typically wears khaki slacks or jeans with a button down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Personality:
Larke is aware of both his looks and social status, though which one has left him more out of touch with reality is debatable.

In typical interactions, he is warm and charming, with all of the manners and conversational prowess of someone stuffed into a tiny tux and forced to mingle since pre-Kindergarten. He can strike up conversation with near anyone about anything, but scratching below the surface or venturing into deep topics leaves him smiling politely while trying to paddle back into the comfortable shallows.

Though proud of his family, he has an affinity for misdemeanor rebellion, especially when there are peers around to be impressed by his bravery. *

*Also known as “questionable decision making skills.”


Skills:
He has the “Sterling Silver Tongue:” As heir to what is easily the most dominant family in the business of magical trade, Larke is an impeccable salesperson. Whether he’s selling a lie about his feelings toward the business, or his affections to the girl in third period, it’s difficult for many not to buy. If a situation can be talked out of, Larke can probably manage it.

The Sterling line has a virtual monopoly on most trade in the magical community, controlling the transactions of everything from ancient artifacts to corpses. As a result, they have a good amount of influence on the Council, which grants Larke near immunity from many serious repercussions.

He’s also not God awful at the whole Aquamancy thing.

Weaknesses:
Larke has been raised with a silver spoon and a personal tutor, and tends to goof off. It’s difficult to coerce him into applying himself to things he doesn’t find exciting or intriguing.

He can be out of touch with reality, and is unable to relate or empathize with the stuggles of others. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t care, but rather that he simply “doesn’t get it.”

Also not bad at pissing off Norrevinter.

Brief History:
It is difficult to make sense of Larke’s childhood without first taking into account the family he was born to.

The family reputation is one of cleverness, charm, and (mostly discussed in low voices by others with a scowl,) promiscuous sexual appetites amongst its young men.

With this in mind, it is safe to say that Larke is very much a Sterling. He and his younger brother were raised by their nanny, as his parents were away for long periods of time managing the business. His childhood days were consumed by private lessons in the various arts of magic, poetry, music, society, and sport, as well as organized social events held by other wealthy families in the community.

He was a social child who took well to these things, but rebelled a reasonable amount for attention. His freedoms were supposedly limited, but it was easy to get away with a good bit with no firm parental figures around to curb his exploits.

As far as he’s concerned, being sent off to Marchand may as well be military school.

Other:
The Sterling family boasts a long line of seafaring Aquamancers, citing their ancestry back to the Minoan traders of Crete. Much of this record has been lost, however, and the earliest “proven” ancestry dates back to their participation in the German Hanseatic League of trade in the 12th Century. The Sterlings eventually split off from the league in the 15th Century, having gained enough influence in magical trade to stand without the support of the organization.

Since then, the family has only strengthened it’s hold on magical trade, using both their magic and influence to ensure themselves as the most reliable source for most transactions.

That is to say, they are more than “wealthy.”

They also have a centuries old feud with the Norrevinter family, resulting in high tensions almost all the time.

The Marchand School of Sorcery

Maeve Brigid Byrne

Full Name: Maeve Brigid Byrne
Nicknames/Aliases: Professor Byrne, Captain Byrne, Sir
Age: 37
Gender: Female
Primary: Aeromancy

Professor of: Aeromancy; Combat
Secondaries: Magical Weapons Infusement, Levitation

Description:
Maeve is a woman of medium height with an atheltic build. She has unkempt red hair, muddy hazel eyes, and freckled skin. The beginnings of crows’ feet and frown lines drag at the corners of her face: Some grew from years of windy battlefields, but most stem from her general distaste for two-thirds of the human race. Her clothing tends to be more functional than anything, and usually consists of gym shorts or leggings, some form of tank top or racerback, and sneakers. When forced to manquerade a civil adult (or perhaps at her own funeral,) she wears a suit.

The words “Storm II” are tattoed over a war banner on her right shoulder blade. Across her chest, there is a monchrome kestrel with spread wings that reach up to her collarbones. On her left wrist, there is another tattoo of an oval with several concentric rings inside of it, and the words “Sempre vigilans" inscribed on a banner below it.

Across her left side abdomen, there is a wrinkled, misshapen scar about the size of a large hand, caused by a hasty battlefield cauterization. There are multiple other small, noticeably straight scars scattered across the rest of her exposed skin, particularly her outer arms. Down her back and over her left shoulder, there is a massive tree-like Lichtenberg figure that stretches up to the left side of her neck, and all the way down to her thigh.

Skills:
Master of Aeromancy, specifically as it pertains to winds and atmospheric phenomenon;
Agile flight, from a dual use of Aeromancy and levitation;
Talented melee fighter, especially in hand-to-hand;
Accurate knife-thrower, via the assistance of Aeromancy and MWI

Weaknesses:
Works best as a team fighter, and is bad at watching her own back;
Forms deep bonds with teammates, which make her easily manipulated;
Deathly loyal to her own motives and cause;
About as tactless and unsubtle as the average anvil;
Prefers to act on instinct and impulse, choosing to fight before thinking

Personality:
Foul mouthed and abrasive on her best days, it’s hard to imagine how Professor Byrne came into teaching. Her demeanor comes off as harsh and brutish, and some students feel more like they’ve been dropped into a boot camp than a school while taking her classes. She teaches as if readying her students for a war outside the school doors; whether it be real or imagined.

She is standoffish toward most people until given a clear reason to behave otherwise. Her sense of humor is dry and bitter, if not a bit crass. She has little pity for those who seek it or perceive themselves worthy of such: Whatever sense of sympathy she once had is kept locked away. Her loyalty is hard won, but undying once it has been earned. Despite a gruff exterior, she leads with her heart more than her head. This makes her an excellent teammate to have on your side, and a devoted friend.

She believes that pressure is the best motivator, and will not shy away from exploiting a student’s weakness to teach a lesson. Experience is a fine teacher: It was good enough for the war generation, and it will do well enough for her class. If tears are the cost for turning a coddled child into a hardened soldier, it is a tax she is willing to collect.

Brief History:
Maeve was born to the Byrne lineage— A relatively proud, if only middle-class, family of Aeromancers and fowlers. She had a bitter, though stable, relationship with her parents, and a rebellious childhood. She despised traditional mage gatherings and Council-hosted socialite events, but made the best of them by helping herself to the free drinks and occasionally engaging in the good-natured pestering of another teenage mage named Oren.

Maeve's carefree youth was interrupted at the age of twenty by the start of the War between Houses. She was completely unpracticed in battle, but a combination of pride and youthful stupidity drove her to enlist regardless. Whatever supposed glamour war may have held was quickly wiped away in real combat, as she paid the cost of watching many teammates her own age die bloody deaths.

By coincidence, she ended up fighting back to back with her childhood acquaintance Oren Kovalenko. Byrne and Kovalenko made it through the war by what some would call skill and others luck, and eventually rose through the ranks to serve as a two-woman special ops team known simply as "Storm II," specializing in massive destructive endeavors. The two were also members of an elite strike team, Alpha-Omega, with a reputation for finishing what they started. Maeve gained two to three other close comrades through this team, but generally tried to keep the others at arms' length after watching so many fall.

In the years after the war, Maeve served the Council and others doing piecemeal missions that required some extra muscle. She drank, attempted a relationship here or there, but mostly just kept her head above water where she could.

When Marchand was founded, Byrne had her reservations about signing onto the faculty. She was eventually persuaded by the mission of the school, and put aside her personal doubts to serve the greater cause.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Liberty

There were little blurred, black lapses in the past hour that Agent Beretta could not pull up to the front of her mind, and a big blank spot of air just to the left of Canvas's head that kept taking her wavering attention and holding onto it for intermittent bouts of time. She was not sure when she had stopped feeling her face, but she had taken to feeling her cheeks every so often to be sure they were still there.

She wasn't quite sure what he was saying. There was a graph that looked like the path of a plane crashing. Or like the state of affairs at this meeting. She giggled at that, but her head lulled lazily to the size when she turned to see if anyone else had found it funny.

She scoot-scuttled her butt across the floor several inches to lean against someone's leg, and she was a solid 96% sure it was Mayday's. Or, like... maybe 64% sure. When had she sat down on the floor? It was kind of cold, but the leg was nice.

She fixed Canvas with her unfixed eyes and giggled again. There was a loose lock of raven hair stuck to the side of her lips.
"Maybe... Maybe YOU'RE t'stupid. Because you're the..." she paused and frowned, realizing that there was now hair in her mouth. She stuck her tongue out as her violet eyes crossed to try and see the offending strand, before dragging the back of her hand down her cheek to free it. Her expression again became as serious as one could be while sitting cross-legged against someone else's calf."I am thinking that we've... We're doing our good. Goodest? Mmmost... good."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Erubescan Citadel

Sairan was a shit eating rat. A very stupid rat, at that- or such a clever one that Botrelle could not pin down exactly what he was up to. The more obvious and likely explanation was the former, of course, but the penalties for underestimation were not a tax she was willing to pay. 'Evil' and 'rotten' were awfully big words for an alleged man of science to be using while under preliminary investigation. Exactly where the department had dug up the headcase from beat the hell out of her- he either had the worst comedic timing of anyone in the Citadel, or the best.

She wanted to backhand that look off of his face, but she knew how to hold her own leash. She crossed her legs under the table so that the toe of her left heel tip-tapped against the leg of the desk while she waited for him to finish whatever nonsense he had to say.

Her lips quirked up in the corner at his question.

He was not in the proper chair to be throwing accusations of moral right and wrong, and certainly not in the chair to be asking any questions.

"That's a rather interesting take you've got," she said, pausing to pull his file up onto the glassy surface of her desk. "Aran Sairan, forty-five, now... No instances of rebellion or investigation- A clever slumboy who climbed the ranks like some Cinderella story. And now..." She furrowed her brow and looked back to the man sitting before her. "Now you've decided that the work you spent most of your life either doing or struggling to break into is somehow some... some sort of mad science? Your mission in your work- you think the mission of the people here is some contrived mission to do what? Be evil? I'm not sure I understand, Mister Sairan." Her expression fell into a searching, tight-lipped frown, and she steepled her fingers on the table between them.

"War is hell. Have you ever heard that?" Her voice was soft, her glare intense. "An old human General said that- And a good one, for a human. W.T. Sherman." She didn't expect him to know exactly who that was- it wasn't as if people outside of Command had to take strategy courses. But she did expect him to listen. "He said something else, too- Though people repeat it less because it isn't quite so clean:

"War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over."

Botrelle's eyes skimmed over his expression, searching for any sign that what she was saying registered. Perhaps a laugh. A sign that he was, in fact, a prank being pulled on her by someone trying to make her squirm at his gross incompetence.

"We are at war, Mister Sairan. We are at war to protect our way of life- Free thought, the ability to choose our own paths, our own love, even- it's all on the line, if we fail against Liberty. And sometimes, to win a war, you have to make sacrifices for the greater good. Even the seemingly cruel sort must, at times, be made.

We are the keepers of that greater good, here. The people out there- most people in this Kingdom aren't strong enough to bear that weight. So we, we 'people with no actual morals,' was it, now?" Her expression soured. "We have to carry it on our own.

"And we certainly do not conveniently forget that sort of duty to protect those who cannot handle the information in the middle of a morning meeting over our bagels and orange juice."

She let her gaze break from his features, the intensity replaced by a more simple tiredness. Her hands came to rest in her lap.

"So why, Mister Sairan, are you hellbent on tearing that down, as of now? Are you trying to make a fool of the department, or are you really, honestly dumb? Have you got anything less juvenile to say for yourself than 'I forgot?' Because I assure you, there are people above me who ask such questions with far less patience."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Erubescan Citadel

If high-heeled steps against tie could speak, Commander Botrelle's would have said, "Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on, Mister Sairan."

Alas, they could not not. Rather, they just repeated click, clack, click, clack as Botrelle made her way down the hall, a few steps ahead of her prisoner and his escorts. There was not need to turn around- No need to give the Alchemist any comfort by thinking he could gauge her expression. She could feel them all behind her well enough, anyhow: Kora, angry but familiar, Elcove, uncomfortably even as ever, and Sairan, as nervous as he ought to be.

She stopped outside the door to her office, scanning first her employee badge and then her thumbprint against the security pad on her door.

"Here, Knights," she said, swinging open the heavy wood-paneled steel door. She propped it with her hip, looking at her tablet rather than her guests. "Man the door, if you will. Alchemist Sairan and I will be having a chat."

She waited for him to enter, and then took her seat at the polished oak desk facing the door. Her chair was plush-backed, with a swivel mechanism, lumbar support, and a switch on the armrest to control the lights and air in the office.

The one across from her was... Well, it was a chair.

She spent a long moment fixing her papers, checking to see that everything on her desk was straight. She set the tablet down. The pens needed to be adjusted twice. An email needed to be attended to, and Botrelle typed a reply to it, all before taking her choke off of Sairan's laryngeal nerves.

One more shift of the pens, and then she folded her hands on her desk.

"Are you stupid, Mister Sairan?" Commander Botrelle looked up, her bright green gaze staring straight through the spot between his eyes. "Or are you suicidal? Answer carefully, Mister Sairan. There seems to be a pandemic of laboratory deaths, as of late."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

It was just a helluva day to be a Wanderer.

The citrus scent passed over Mina like an aura, and she froze in her actions out of fear that she was about to suffer some kind of neurological episode. She set her equipment down on the paper as she felt the rumble of something large coming over the ground toward them, and began wiping it down and storing it with quick hands as first Dawn and the Spire reported their problems and headed up the stairs.

When it rained, and all that. "Something's wrong," she said to her patient, in case that fact had been missed. "And sorry, about this-" Mina slipped her arms behind Oren's as gingerly as possible and checked the coat rack in the crook of her armpit before lifting the injured woman's torso and pulling her further back in the cellar. She laid her behind a rack of storage shelves and beside a broken chair, back where the lightbulb on the ceiling failed to reach. There was an old pile of dust sheets in the corner, pulled off of all the furniture when they first discovered the place; dirty, but they would do. She picked on up and shook it, and laid it like a tent over the chair and Oren's body. "If it's Erubesco, you holler like hell, alright?"

She came back around to her bag and was just wiping the last evidence of the Erubescan's presence from her hands when Montana's fit form slipped down the stairs. "What the hell's going on up there?"

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Capital Base, Liberty

In cell number 332 in Block A, in the Reeducation Facility housed deep in the bellow-ground belly of the Homeland Protection building, Elliot Barnett was vomiting. His gangly adolescent form was kneeling on the floor facing the back wall, bent over the hole that served as the drain for both excrement and shower water. He was sweaty, and shaky, and all-around having what had to rank as one of the top three absolute shittiest days of his short life.

Yesterday, when he had woken up alone and in a cell, was probably also up there. Getting black-bagged by some mercs was the real winner, though, likely because his last memory of the whole ordeal was someone holding a gun against his mother's temple. Wherever the hell she was, now.

He rested his forehead against the back wall, wishing that the room would stop spinning. Someone had told him that it was to be expected when first starting the gift-null serum, and that it would get better with time. Or that he would become more used to it.

Elliot did not want to become used to any of this. He retched again, loud hacking yelps echoing down the hall as he tried his damnedest to hold down the water he had sipped just a few minutes before, and failed every lurch of the way. Just yesterday, he had managed to stop impulsively calling "Mom!" when he felt like he was about to choke.

Now he just yelled, "FUCK!"

Because being sixteen and in prison and unable to stop puking into a literal shithole on the floor, that about summed it up.