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Yeah I just logged into my forum dedicated to elaborate games of let's pretend and thought I definitely wanna buy health insurance or whatever that bot is peddling on there
2 mos ago
Current
Yeah I just logged into my forum dedicated to elaborate games of let's pretend and thought I definitely wanna buy health insurance or whatever that bot is peddling on there
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4 mos ago
You can tell who's still keeping their pictures on discord because the link breaks in like a day
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6 mos ago
I think that’s just called playing dnd
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7 mos ago
Y’all block people? I just flame them back
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1 yr ago
Everybody I see complaining that this site is dead has like 3 IC posts total. My brother in mahz you pulled the trigger
I might have missed it in the lore writeup but are there any established religions?
There’s local folk superstitions but not really anything on a large scale. Some of the more eccentric mages might worship the “world soul” or some variation of that as the source of all mana but most of them are far too up their own ass for formalized religion. Commoners, especially if they’ve never seen a mage before, might see their local ruling mage as some variety of demigod but it’s illegal for a mage to actively try to solicit worship from their subjects.
Your character could be from a community that leans very heavily into the world soul worship, enough to establish a temple, but there likely wouldn't be any kind of widespread church hierarchy outside that prefecture.
I'm intrigued! I have a past mage character from a RP that didn't really go far. Wonder if I could use her here... Are automatons/golem-magic a thing in this world?
Automatons in the steampunk-y sense are not, but creating animate constructs out of, say, stone or ice is.
“Aged slabs of ancient stone paved the road to Glynwood, a long march that ended atop the hill at a massive archway of solid gold. The Great Gate, they called it. Though we had since left the forest behind, the path was still overgrown in places with moss and shrubbery as a testament to its disuse. No surprise; no one in their right mind would take this route, but, as first year students, we were required to make the trek at least once. In all the time we’d traveled, I had yet to catch even a glimpse of the school; as we summited the hill, it became clear as to why. The ground fell away into a vast basin, a monumental crater that descended sharply into a lake fed by the biggest waterfall I’d ever seen on the far ridge. What initially appeared as stone reliefs chiseled into the cliffs revealed themselves as structures as we grew closer; there stood a veritable city carved into the face of the rock, relics of a civilization long gone. Swells of mana danced faintly on the wind, drawn ever downward toward the island at the center of it all: the Glynwood Institute for Thaumaturgical Studies.”
The Realm breathes a collective sigh of relief.
After six grueling years of civil war, the Magisters’ Republic of Cresvald is again unified. Yet as her citizens exchange their swords for plowshares and the reconstruction begins in earnest, unrest still looms in the shadows. The Provision For Ethical Necromancy, the crux of the treaty between the insurrectionists and the Magisterium, has left many on both sides of the war uneasy, and though the fighting may have ceased, animosity still simmers, waiting for the spark to ignite it once again.
None await this more than the Sons of Anedor, an insidious cult of disenfranchised necromancers and ambitious magi alike who will settle for nothing less than total independence from Magisterium sovereignty. From behind identity-veiling enchantments that obscure even their very auras, these cultists claim to infest every corner of the Realm, engaging in overt violence and subtle politicking alike to actualize their ideals.
Still, life goes on; commoners return to the fields, mages devote their powers once again to more peaceful pursuits, and a certain group of young spellcasters take their first steps into the world of magic in earnest. To them, I offer this:
Welcome to the Glynwood Institute for Thaumaturgical Studies.
Premise
As you can probably guess from the name, this RP centers on the freshman class of the Glynwood Institute for Thaumaturgical Studies (GIFTS, if you will), an academy of spellcraft in a nation freshly released from the throes of civil war. Of course, universities are rarely free of politics even in the best of times, and Glynwood is no different. The politics just become a bit more dangerous when everyone involved can shoot lightning from their hands and political violence by necromancers is becoming increasingly common.
I won’t patronize you with a list of rules, just don’t be difficult. For the sake of pacing, I’d like to keep to more or less a weekly posting schedule, though I’m obviously not going to stop anyone from posting more often.
There’s a decent bit of lore, most of which is at least passingly relevant, but the magic system and worldbuilding are kinda loose by design, so feel free to join the Discord if you want to run a concept by me or hit me up with any other questions you may have.
Deepest Lore
The substance of magic is known as mana, the vital force that suffuses all the world. A mage differs from a normal human in one key aspect; a mage can draw mana from the environment into themselves and shape it in the form of magic. However, the ramifications of this difference are even more far-reaching than they appear. The circulation of the planet’s very lifeblood through a mage’s body grants them incredible longevity; where a mundane human would be lucky to survive a whole century, a mage could easily make it well into their third before succumbing to old age. With this longevity comes youthful vigor, and most stop aging somewhere in their mid-twenties, only to resume somewhere in the middle of their two-hundreds - to see a mage that looks visibly old is to gaze upon an entity as powerful as they are ancient.
Mages are not born with the ability to cultivate mana or cast spells; in fact, a baby that will grow up to become a mage is indistinguishable from one who would never respire the breath of the world or feel the pulse of the land. Sometime in a mage’s adolescence, they will undergo noesis; the moment where the arcane pathways within their body first fill with mana and they are forever changed. Noesis is usually precluded by a few days of malaise or general sense of unease, and signified by a sudden, visible upwelling of magic around the newly-crowned mage as mana floods their body for the first time. The process typically occurs concurrently with puberty, rarely earlier than eleven and never later than sixteen. An earlier noesis often signifies stronger magical ancestry, though this is more trend than rule. Though a child born to two mage parents is all but certain to manifest arcane abilities, it’s not unheard of for a child with an impressive pedigree to never develop even a spark of magic, nor is it uncommon for magic to spring up from the humblest of origins.
The Aura: Though mana is nigh-ubiquitous in the environment, ambient mana cannot be controlled directly by a caster. Raw mana must first be taken into the body and processed into a usable form unique to that mage before it can be shaped into spell. This is why one cannot simply seize control of another mage’s spell or siphon from another caster’s reserves as one would the environment.
Despite this, the human body is not an ideal vessel for storing mana. Much of its metaphysical storage capacity is occupied by the soul, leaving comparatively little room for usable energy. While this may suffice for basic cantrips, a caster will quickly find that their internal reserves are unable to muster enough power for anything beyond the simplest of spells. Luckily, a mage’s reserve of power does not end where their body does, and they are capable of stockpiling magic in a field around themselves known as the Aura. Once drawn in and processed inside the body, mana is exhumed into the aura, which generates a visible torrent of energy around the mage.
Just like the mana that composes it, its appearance is unique to each mage and often reflects their favored types of magic, even changing form over time as a mage grows and expands their abilities. For example, an aeromancer might manifest their aura as a raging windstorm around themselves, where a healer might generate a comforting radiance or elaborate mandalas that spiral about their form. Even magi of similar abilities might manifest wildly different auras; where one pyromancer might cloak themselves in an inferno, another might only emanate ripples of searing heat.
It’s worth noting auras are not physically tangible no matter how they may appear. For instance, while a hydromancer’s aura may superficially appear to be composed of water and feel cool and wet to the touch, it wouldn’t impede the breathing of anyone who stuck their head inside it, nor would a bucket draw any liquid from it.
Under normal circumstances, the aura is so small as to be invisible, however the act of casting necessitates the projection of a mage’s aura to fuel the spell. Bigger auras naturally house more energy and therefore telegraph large intakes of mana, and thus more potent spells, on a mage’s part. For this reason, it’s considered quite rude, if not an outright threat, for a mage to project his or her aura when not engaged in active spellcasting.
The Barrier: While the aura exists primarily as a means of storing excess mana, it also exhibits the convenient side effect of serving as a defensive measure. Mana outside the body naturally coalesces in a protective veil over a mage’s skin called an aural barrier (or, more casually, just a barrier), which is visible as a soft sheen against their flesh whenever stricken with something that might’ve otherwise harmed them. Even a mage moments after his noesis will unconsciously manifest a barrier, though without training it provides little in the way of protection. While an untrained novitiate’s barrier might absorb the blunt force of a punch without incident, it would shatter against something like an incoming club without preventing injury. Meanwhile, a master abjurer might shrug off mundane sword blows with his barrier alone before he’d casted even a single defensive spell.
When a barrier is struck by something with more force than it can absorb, it will dampen the blow with its remaining energy and then shatter. This often leaves a mage defenseless, as the barrier itself is considered the last line of defense in a mage’s repertoire after traditional wards fail. As a barrier requires time to reform, a mage with a shattered barrier will be vulnerable to attacks that would otherwise not faze them, and it is a popular dueling practice to invest a large amount of energy into an attack on a mage’s barrier and then follow up with a flurry of weaker spells.
Aural Dissipation & Manaburn: Though much larger than a mage’s bodily reserves, the aura is not infinite; if a mage tries to funnel more mana into their aura than they have the ability to retain, the excess energy will leak back into the environment to rejoin the ambient mana of the world. While limiting, this phenomenon is harmless. The same cannot be said of attempting to store more energy in one’s body than it can feasibly hold. When a mage has reached their aural capacity but does not allow any mana to dissipate, further mana drawn from the environment will instead begin to stockpile inside their body and induce a state known as manaburn. As the body’s arcane pathways become oversaturated, the mana within ignites, causing severe internal damage. Survivors liken the feeling to being burned alive from the inside out, with no actual flames to singe the nerves and dull the excruciating pain. Should a caster foolishly continue to intake mana even after this, it will then begin to erode the soul to make room for more arcane energy. This is fatal. Agonizingly fatal. Anyone attempting this better hope their last, suicidal spell was worth it, if they can even manage to cast it before their very essence unravels.
Attunement: Magi are often classified according to their preferred types of magic, such as a mage that specializes in fire magic colloquially being referred to as a pyromancer, however these titles fail to accurately portray a mage’s relationship with magic. A spellcaster is truly defined by the manner in which they draw in mana from the environment, a property referred to as a mage’s Attunement. Unlike other aspects of a spellcaster’s magic, Attunement is an innate and immutable quality defined at the moment of noesis; only complicated arrays of High Magic spellwork can cleverly circumvent this restriction and allow a mage to harness mana that they are not attuned to. While this quality alters spellcasting greatly on a theoretical level, it does not overly impact the types of spells a mage is capable of casting in practice, only altering the method in which the same magical effect is achieved and where a mage can harness energy most efficiently.
Magi of the Tellurian attunement draw their power from the ley lines embedded in the ground beneath their feet. Great feats of magical exertion by these mages are often accompanied by geysers of energy welling up from the earth around them, and their most potent rituals can only be achieved in places of highly auspicious geomancy; locations where many powerful ley lines intersect in a massive nexus of magic. Tellurian magic tends to be the more consistent attunement, as stoic and unyielding as the earth that begat it. Mana drawn from the land is aspected to the passive principle of magic and, while it lacks the raw power of its brother attunement, also lacks its volatility and affords Tellurian mages a great deal of control that lends itself well to complex spellwork. This makes for a reliable companion that acts in a formulaic, easily wielded manner. Indeed, Tellurian mages who have recently awoken to their power tend to initially progress faster than their Ouranian peers, as they have little issue coercing their mana to cooperate.
Ouranian magi conversely draw their power from the raw mana in the air around them, which flows across the land in invisible gusts of arcane power. Attuned to the active principle of magic, skyborne mana often manifests in explosive, flashy displays, though its users have a tendency to burn out quickly. In contrast to Tellurian magic, Ouranian magic is temperamental and harder to precisely shape, with spells often reflecting the emotional state of their wielder. This inconsistency can be a source of consternation for a novice spellcaster of this attunement, but once mastered, most come to find it quite intuitive. Ouranian sites of power are likewise fleeting, much like weather, as their great rituals require one to chase down a storm of arcane energy in order to harness it. This inconsistency, coupled with an already tenuous level of control, leads many snobbish detractors to claim this attunement does not lend itself well to the most complex of High Magic rituals. This argument often falls flat in the face of an Ouranian mage in the midst of a great arcane confluence, as they tear ribbons of mana from the sky and whip them into a cyclone to fuel their greatest displays of spellcraft.
High Magic: In contrast to “low magic”, the act of casting solely from one’s own aura with haste and intuitive ease, High Magic spells are complex acts of ritual and nuance, grand displays of spellcraft that do not abide by limiting concepts such as aural capacity or even attunement. They use a series of ritual implements and advanced thaumaturgical principles to create a sort of magical feedback loop; High Magic harnesses aural mana to shape environmental mana externally and skip the need for it to pass through the body altogether, thus circumventing manaburn. These are the spells that move mountains and decide the fate of nations. They are also extremely complicated and require obscene amounts of theoretical knowledge and preparation to even attempt to cast, let alone succeed.
For this reason, most High Magic commonly performed by the unseasoned magus is of the less-complex variety, requiring little more than a staff and a traced ritual circle with a casting time of only a few minutes. These are mostly used for convenience, such as long-ranged teleportation or minor weather manipulation.
Dark Magic: A contentious topic as of late, Dark Magic, like High Magic, was originally conceived as a casting method that can harness mana in quantities beyond aural capacity without the risk of manaburn. The term does not refer to a single discipline, but rather a host of different fields - such as necromancy or blood magic - that induce a particular alteration of mana in order to function. Dark Magic polarizes mana into a state antithetical to ambient mana, thus preventing it from readily dissipating into the environment outside the confines of an aura and thus keeping it available for casting. As an unintended side effect, this “anti-mana” exhibited a host of behaviors that allowed for the invention of new magical effects.
The controversy arose when it was discovered that, among the curious properties of this new type of mana, it also had the unique ability to interact with and alter human souls. As atrocities mounted, restrictions were put into place, until the practice of all derivatives of Dark Magic were eventually outlawed. The Provision For Ethical Necromancy recently changed this, legalizing many techniques that do not broach upon the soul and opening up disciplines previously considered taboo, for better or for worse.
As one grows more proficient in Dark Magic, it alters their aura as proficiency in any other field would. The body starts to naturally cultivate mana in its altered state, which causes the aura to darken and appear more sinister.
Society: As the name implies, the Magisters’ Republic of Cresvald is a magocracy first and foremost. If one does not undergo noesis, they are forever consigned to the underclass of society. They cannot vote, they cannot hold public office, and they are beholden to the mandates of their spellcasting betters. This isn’t to say non-mages are totally disenfranchised, however; the Magisterium has passed several provisions on humane treatment of the smallfolk. They are still citizens and thus retain the right to petition the Magisterium, though most find it prudent to have a mage do so on their behalf, and they can own land, amass wealth, and reap the benefits and comforts of magical infrastructure.
The magically gifted only make up approximately 15% of Cresvald’s total population, though they invariably dominate society. While much of the merchant class is composed of normal humans, the nobility is the sole domain of magi. Even common-born mages are a significant step above the wealthiest of those without arcane talent on the social ladder.
Noble mages are those who come from wealthy and influential magical lineages, who nigh-invariably produce mage children in each generation. They are often deeply entrenched in magical society, through a web of connections established over the course of a centuries-long life and honed through multiple generations. A mage is considered ‘lowborn’ if one or more of their parents was not a mage, or were both magi of middling status. They typically lack the connections and resources of their noble peers, however magical society is, at its heart, a meritocracy; for one who can bend the world with willpower alone, no pitiful hurdle such as lack of a head-start will keep them from greatness if they dare to reach for it.
A mage’s blood status rarely overshadows ability, and a talented young mage will find no shortage of allies and mentors over the course of their education. After noesis, an adolescent mage is legally required to be sent to some form of preliminary magical education. For nobles, this is often accomplished by private tutors or prestigious boarding schools. For magi whose family lacks the means to pay for these extravagant options, public institutions are found in every prefecture that can provide at least the barest fundamentals of spellcraft. In heavily-populated areas, these institutions might boast an impressive curriculum, however education in the most isolated of areas often consist of a lackluster apprenticeship under an eccentric magus in the middle of nowhere.
After that, most mages either seek a formal apprenticeship under a senior mage, or choose to attend further education at a university, as their preliminary education rarely cultivates a comprehensive understanding of the arcane. Formal study at a university typically lasts a minimum of three years, though it’s not unheard of for a mage to dedicate decades to academia while honing their craft.
Mages without generational wealth to fall back on often find themselves employed in research or the construction and upkeep of the Realm’s magical infrastructure, which cannot be delegated to mundane laborers. Law enforcement and most judiciary positions are reserved for magi as well, and many Prefects require their appointed subordinates to have undergone noesis. Others take up ordinary careers, though naturally enhanced by their arcane gifts.
The Magisterium & The Heptarchy: The ruling body of Cresvald, referred to as the Magisterium, is officially composed of every citizen of at least 25 years of age who has undergone noesis. Naturally, it is impractical to expect every mage in the country to vote on every single issue, so most of the actual legislation is performed by a council of seven elected mages called the Heptarchy. Heptarchs may bring an issue to a vote before the entire assembly, however most only do so when petitioned or on particularly controversial edicts.
Below them are the Prefects, who govern the individual territories that make up the nation. They are elected by majority vote of all mages who reside in a given prefecture, and may only be removed from office by the Heptarchy or Magisterium as a whole. Prefects may govern their territories as they see fit, so long as any legislation they pass does not conflict with the laws of the greater Magisterium. However, a Prefect is only considered primus inter pares among the mage population of a given prefecture, and thus cannot enforce their local laws upon any mages, whether in residence in a prefecture or simply visiting. While it may behoove a mage to follow the laws set by a Prefect, lest he invoke the ire of a powerful magus, he is under no legal obligation to do so.
Mundane citizens have no such protections, however most Prefects govern their subjects with a fair degree of respect for fear of retaliation. While an armed militia is no match for a mage of even modest power, it only takes a single disenfranchised urchin to awaken their magic by chance and seek revenge on a tyrannical governor a few decades later.
Geography: Much of the nation hosts a temperate climate, with mild summers and cold winters. The heartland consists of rolling plains and forested expanses, and hosts the majority of Cresvald’s population. This region boasts a strong urbanite merchant class among the non-magical population, as the central prefectures are understandably a hub for traffic from across Cresvald. Likewise, many of the Republic’s largest cities dot the land where roads from the outer prefectures converge, the most prominent of which being the nation’s capital of Pontaion, built strategically in the geographic center of the nation.
Though recovering from a siege near the tail-end of the war, Pontaion is nevertheless still the sprawling marvel it always was. Rare is the politically active magister that doesn’t own a townhouse in the city, and the surrounding countryside is likewise littered with the estates or hunting lodges of the rich and powerful. As such, a good deal of the city’s non-magical denizens are under the employ of magi, whether in service positions or maintaining a mage’s business ventures in the capital. The centerpiece of the city is the seat of the Magisterium, a grand basilica where the Heptarchy assembles and hosts petitioners. Though the grand forum that once housed the original gatherings of the Magisterium still stands, it is no longer in use; should a grand conclave of the magical populace be called, the sheer scale of such an event necessitates spatial-warping magic to create a space large enough to hold everyone that should choose to attend.
The north is mountainous and chilly, and likewise the least populated region of Cresvald. The coastal northwest hosts the majority of its population, with southerlies from the ocean keeping the area more temperate. Much of the northwest consists of craggy coastline and windswept moorland, with most large cities located on the water and smaller settlements further inland. The Glynwood Academy for Thaumaturgical Studies is located here, hidden in an isolated volcanic crater amongst the northern mountain range.
Away from the sea, the northeast is the most frigid area of the country, and thus more reliant on magic for the essentials of their infrastructure such as food production and winter heating. Communities tend to be smaller and centered around the demesnes of prominent magi, especially in the highlands, where most settlements are the result of arcane terraforming. Magi here enjoy a great deal of respect from those reliant upon them and Prefects in this region rarely face backlash from the non-magical population, no matter their actions. It comes at no surprise, then, that the northeastern prefectures were the spearhead of the secessionist movement.
They made their capital in Tythrae, the City of Spires, one of the only cities in the north that can rival the size of the great magopoleis of the central prefectures. The city is composed of concentric rings, each planned meticulously to optimally harness magic across the entire city. Tythrae boasts some of the most impressive arcane infrastructure in the country, as turbulent storms of mana from the surrounding mountains are drawn into the many grand spires erected at geomantic foci around the city. This serves the dual purpose of protecting Tythrae’s citizens from the storms as well as supplying all of the city’s mana needs. Arcanoconductive materials line the streets, providing warmth and light to every home in even the coldest winter nights.
Conversely, the southern prefectures are warm in the summer and suffer only mild winters, leading to many magi constructing their estates there. Magi from the north wait out the winter in comfort, while those from milder climes enjoy their summers in coastal retreats along the southwestern shore. Much of the land is agricultural, whether for the production of staple crops to export across the Republic or for some mage or another’s fancy vineyard.
The War: Eight years ago, a landmark case came before the Heptarchy; Jameson Belworth, a minor Prefect of a middling northern territory, was convicted of practicing necromancy on human remains. Necromantic labor in the north was not unheard of, as animated corpses were far more resilient to the cold than mortal laborers and oversight was often less present in the distal prefectures, and previously existed as something of an open secret. Belworth argued that he was forced to turn to undead labor as a last resort, as the mage population of his lands had diminished this generation and inclement weather was taking its toll on the human workers among his populace. He had petitioned the Bureau of Terraforming and Climate Manipulation a decade prior to allow for milder winters, however his proposal was deemed unreasonable and his petition denied. The Magisterium subsequently levied sanctions against him for alleged inhumane treatment of his subjects, as he lacked the magical resources to preserve their health against the elements. Therefore, Belworth claims he had no choice but to turn to Dark Magic for the good of his people.
Belworth quickly garnered support among his fellow mages, who decried the Magisterium for denying Belworth his requested aid and then punishing him for the issue that warranted aid in the first place. His critics responded that Dark Magic is inexcusable, even if done with altruistic intentions, as it would encourage the type of “the ends justify the means” mindset that had Dark Magic outlawed in the first place. The issue cascaded into a variety of grievances about Magisterium overreach and what a mage should and should not be allowed to do within his own territory. The final nail in the coffin came in the manner in which the case was resolved; normally such a contentious issue would be put to a vote of the greater Magisterium, however the Heptarchy kept the vote under their own auspices, for fear of creating even more unfavorable ripples across magical society.
The final verdict came down to a 4-3 split vote in favor of the prosecution. Outraged, Heptarch Solomon Anedor immediately stepped down from the council and declared the secession of his holdings from Magisterium sovereignty. Several northern prefectures followed, citing the alleged tyranny of the Heptarchy as justification for their decision. Most of these initial secessionists were clandestine dark magi looking to practice their art more openly, though some were simply magisters that chafed under an authority higher than their own. Heptarch Balthazar Valdim, another who had voted in Belworth’s favor, proposed a tributary system that would allow magi more control over their territory in exchange for a lessened capacity to participate in Magisterium politics and an increased tax rate, as an attempt to mediate between the secessionists and the Heptarchy, however this only galvanized his opposition against him and was immediately voted down.
With the diplomatic solution dismissed immediately, several prefectures rose in open revolt, with both Valdim and his fellow remaining Belworth-aligned Heptarch joining them. Valdim promptly turned his political acumen against the Magisterium and rallied the rebel prefectures as best he could, establishing a solid base of territory in the north and working to support the remaining rebel prefectures in other areas of Cresvald that were not directly connected to the secessionist heartland. Many ambitious magi, high and lowborn alike, flocked to Tythrae in search of power they could not attain from within the existing hierarchy, and Magisterium sympathizers were likewise driven from the rebel holdings - or worse. What began as isolated duels between magi over matters of authority soon became pitched battles, especially once undead legions were raised and mortals were levied to hold them back.
Anedor took an aggressive stance early on, contrasting with his supposed desire to simply be left alone, and pushed into the central provinces from the northeastern hinterlands with the goal of taking the capital and dismantling the Republic. Crippled by numerous internal skirmishes near individual rebel prefectures within the greater Republic, the Magisterium could not mount a sufficient defense against Anedor’s onslaught, and gradually lost territory on the main front. By the time the smaller isolated pockets of resistance had been subdued, Anedor’s hordes had cut a swath through the heartlands and approached Pontaion.
His first major defeat came at the hands of the battlemagus Renault Auristel, who, along with several other battlemagi under his charge, bested Solomon Anedor in combat to make way for Magisterium soldiers to force a retreat of his army. The rallied Magisterium forces then pushed the front back into secessionist territory, however the terrain halted their advance enough to allow the numerically inferior rebel armies to hold the line.
Now unable to gain ground in the traditional manner, the rebels spent the subsequent years of the war launching guerrilla attacks from territories outside the north or isolated pockets of resistance within loyalist prefectures in order to disrupt the Magisterium’s counter-offensive as the front crept further and further northward.
The war culminated in the Siege of Pontaion, considered the last decisive battle of the conflict. Believing the rebels cornered, the Magisterium committed their forces to an all-out assault on the secessionist heartland. In response, the secessionists weaponized the extensive geomantic infrastructure of Tythrae to rip open a portal between the separatist northeast and a pacified rebel territory in central Cresvald. Completely unprepared, the Magisterium could only offer a token resistance against the encroaching armies of Solomon Anedor and the powerful dark magi that accompanied him, and the former Heptarch eventually succeeded in his original goal of laying siege to Pontaion. Though the capital’s powerful arcane defenses were a challenge to breach even for the assembled magical might of the rebels’ most powerful wizards, they still had the city encircled and the bulk of the Magisterium forces were committed elsewhere.
The city laid besieged for three weeks before reinforcements arrived from the northern front, which clashed with the besieging army in the bloodiest engagement of the war. High Magic from inside the city raged across the battlefield as the rebels in turn cut down hundreds to fuel fell rituals strong enough to counteract them. Both armies decimated each other, and the Magisterium narrowly managed to lift the siege.
However, Anedor’s necromancy allowed him to replenish his losses far faster than the loyalists could, and was poised to march on Pontaion again when he was intercepted by the army of the newly-promoted Second Battlemage Renault Auristel. Auristel gambled on Anedor’s pride and desire for revenge after their last encounter, and famously challenged the former Heptarch to a duel before their armies clashed. To most onlookers, this was suicide; it had taken no less than three mages to best Anedor previously. Nevertheless, Auristel miraculously won their duel, and Anedor was killed before his men. Rebel sympathizers maintain that he cheated, while sensationalism abounds among Magisterium soldiers that Auristel rose from the dead mid-fight or that Anedor threatened his wife and that gave him the strength to overcome the elder wizard. That fact that true resurrection is impossible and Auristel is unmarried seems to do little to deter these increasingly ludicrous rumors.
The subsequent clash ended in the loyalists’ favor, as Auristel and his cohort hunted down the remaining master necromancers in the wake of Anedor’s death and the rest of the rebel mages were routed or killed. Victorious, but exhausted and unwilling to face a renewed offensive from the north, the Magisterium sent an envoy to Tythrae in an attempt to bring rebellion leaders to the negotiating table. The subsequent peace talks culminated in a highly contentious piece of legislation known as the Provision For Ethical Necromancy. Sometimes called Belworth’s Law, after the mage who brought the conflict to light, the Provision legalized necromancy on corpses of criminals or those who consent before death, as well as most forms of blood magic, so long as the blood used is derived from oneself or a consenting individual with certain limitations.
The majority of mages on both sides saw this as a reasonable compromise, while others simply tired of fighting and hadn’t the strength to do anything but grumble. Others argued that the Provision was a slippery slope to greater atrocities, as legal Dark Magic of any capacity would obsolesce the ability to distinguish between an illegal necromancer and a legal one by aura alone.
The true death of the rebellion came when Valdim reclaimed his seat on the Heptarchy and was granted Prefectship of Tythrae, as it was his influence that brought the rest of the rebels in line, at least superficially. Likewise, the other rebels were granted full amnesty and the Realm was once again unified, in body if not in spirit.
The Sons of Anedor: Not all were content with this resolution. Though the majority of the rebels were happy to take their concessions and bargain for their aims in the petitioner’s chamber rather than fight for them on the battlefield, some believed the separatists had given up too soon. Still, the Provision had deprived them of their popular support base in the northeast, whose only interest in Dark Magic lies in undead labor. Open warfare was no longer an option to these magi who sought to rule as sorcerer-kings rather than subsist as sovereign citizens of the Republic.
Regretfully, they returned to the fold and hid their ambitions away from the prying eyes of their peers. But Solomon Anedor never surrendered, and neither would they. The Sons of Anedor, as they would come to call themselves, began as a network of secessionist magi who felt disenfranchised by the Provision, who have gradually planted and nurtured the seeds of their ideology since the war’s conclusion. They whisper in the ears of the young, the ambitious, the lowborn; anyone who might be receptive to the idea that they could be more if only they cast off the yoke of the Magisterium.
To realize this goal, the Sons have taken to public demonstrations; attacks on Magisterium buildings, incited riots, even attempted assassination of prominent loyalist figures. Their message is simple - the rebellion is not dead.
This is facilitated by their distinctive masks; wonders of magical artifice that wholly veil one’s identity. Each member is given a unique enchanted mask upon full induction into the cult, which obscures them from divination magic and alters the composition of their aura while worn. Though only a few mages in the entirety of the realm would be capable of creating such items, let alone in numbers sufficient to furnish the entire cult, the Magisterium has yet to discover the source of these artifacts, much to the consternation of law enforcement.
The Glynwood Institute for Thaumaturgical Studies was founded a little over a millennium ago by famed archmagister Theodoric Glynwood atop the remains of the destroyed city of Atrya-Nhur. While much of the city rested underwater even in Theodoric’s time, the massive ley nexus the city had been built upon surged as brightly as ever, and he found that the crater that surrounds the city funneled mana currents from the sky into a dense cloud above the palatial ruins. With the question of what to do with such a powerful site placed before the Magisterium, Theodoric moved to dedicate it to education, thereby removing the nexus from any one mage’s hands.
The school attracted a number of brilliant minds with an interest in the arcane nexus and the ruins that rested above it, and it soon established itself as one of the preeminent academic institutions in Cresvald. Today, it remains as one of the oldest and most prestigious academies in the Realm, noted for producing magi with a great deal of practical experience upon graduation.
It was for this reason that the institute was recently selected as the first to implement a new battlemage preparatory program by the Magisterium, overseen personally by none other than Second Battlemage Renault Auristel. The stated purpose of the initiative is to replenish the amount of battle-capable magi in Cresvald to pre-war numbers as soon as possible, lest enemies foreign or domestic exploit the Realm’s vulnerability in such a troubled time. To that end, the Magisterium seeks to pass legislation mandating all mages to be trained in the fundamentals of war magic to assist in the defense of the nation in an emergency.
Of course, war is not the only industry that has found itself with a shortage of magical talent, and Glynwood’s standards of education stand as firm as ever. Standards for admission have lessened for this reason, however the institute still requires all applicants to submit a letter of recommendation from a practicing mage in order to be considered. For those from magical families, this is as trivial as requesting one from a family member, though some choose to deliberately send a recommendation from someone outside their bloodline to avoid accusations of nepotism. Students without mage relatives have to work a bit harder, though most can find an easy reference in their preliminary magic teachers.
The Cohort System: At Glynwood, the development of magic is seen less as a series of concepts one can be taught, and more as a system that must be cultivated for oneself under the guidance of more experienced practitioners. Given the individual nature of magic, educators often take a role more akin to a coach than a professor; any mage can be taught to make fire, but all of them will develop a different method to shape it into a fireball. To offer more personalized instruction, students are organized into small groups called cohorts under the supervision of a single staff member. This professor serves as an advisor to the students in his or her cohort, overseeing the development of their arcane abilities and facilitating access to appropriate resources should their own skill in a field of magic be lacking.
A cohort is composed of a group of students from the same academic year, though rarely in the same field of study, and will usually remain constant for the students’ entire tenure at Glynwood. They share dorms, attend mandatory general education classes together, and participate in any school-sponsored ventures off-campus as a team. The cohort also forms the basis of the new battlemage preparatory curriculum. Try to get along, you’re all stuck together.
Uniforms:
The uniform for men and women consists of a military-style doublet and matching trousers, covered with a hooded cloak or cowl that only drapes the shoulders in the warmer months. The garments are accented with thin metallic trim, whose color denotes the year of the wearer. First year students wear bronze, second years wear silver, and third years and above wear gold. Such precious metals also serve the practical purpose of aiding mana conductivity in addition to their use in identification.
The School Grounds: The academy’s main campus rests atop the ruins of an ancient palace on an island in the middle of a massive crater lake, surrounded on nearly all sides by daunting cliffs and fed by a majestic waterfall. The entire caldera was once home to the city of Atrya-Nhur, a sprawling marvel of magical construction, though little of it still remains. The majority of the buildings sunk beneath the waters during the calamitous ritual that flooded the once-proud city, and the palatial complex that crowned the central hill has been gradually built over and replaced during the academy’s millennia-long existence. The only accessible ruins - without a water-breathing spell, anyway - are the subterranean compounds carved into the cliffs that surround the city. The most readily accessible structures have been restored and repurposed by the institute, but the ruins run deep, and there is still much to be found by a mischievous student who ignores the warnings of their professors.
As the school is far from easily traversed by conventional means, the academy makes use of the existing infrastructure of Atrya-Nhur to bypass the need for things like boats or readily-accessible magical flight. The Atryans navigated their city by means of magical doorways that linked two distant locations together, recognizable as gilded archways adorned with runes whose interior shimmers with a view that doesn’t line up with what truly stands beyond the arch. Many of these doorways are inert, usually because their corresponding destination is underwater, but some have simply not been maintained for lack of use. Despite this, there’s hardly a spot on campus that can’t be reached within one or two arches, and older students often pick up shortcuts that cut down on travel time in the most unintuitive directions.
The main campus dominates the entirety of the central island and houses most of the school’s important structures, with the eastern side of the island holding the primary academic facilities such as administrative buildings, classrooms, and the grand library that serves as the centerpiece of the campus. The western side of the island conversely features extensive common areas for students to linger and practice in, the infirmary, and the ever-important feasting hall.
The stone edifices that line the cliffs around the lake are divided into three “wings” for ease of reference, though in truth the stone corridors that wind through the mountains eventually connect them all if one follows them far enough.
The south wing is composed mostly of dormitories, refurbished from the remains of the Atryan nobility’s cliffside manors, from which they would look upon the city from on high. First year dorms are located on the lowest occupied tiers, only a few stories above the waterline. Above that are the residential commons, which includes a still-functional Atryan bathhouse, then the second year dorms a few levels beyond that, and the loftiest heights near the apex of the cliff are reserved for third year students and above. The faculty residences are also rumored to be located somewhere in the sprawling labyrinth of the south wing ruins, though none among the student body are quite sure where.
The east wing lies under the grand waterfall, and is constantly filled with the thunderous roar of rushing water in those rooms not protected by sound-dampening magic. It houses laboratories, practice rooms, and any other sites of magical experimentation that could potentially result in collateral damage.
The north wing is almost exclusively used by the school as classrooms outside of the main island campus, and most advanced subjects are taught here. Rumor is that several dormitories are due to be constructed in the lower levels, though the current population of the school hasn’t necessitated that yet.
Dorms consist of an individual room for each student, large enough to house a bed, dresser, and desk. These rooms connect to a spacious common area shared by the rest of a student’s cohort, as well as communal latrines. As they are embedded into the cliffside, none of the rooms or corridors that make up the dormitories have windows, and are lit exclusively with magical lighting. However, all common rooms have access to a balcony that overlooks the lake if a student finds themselves in need of some sunlight.
Picture Here (keep it weeb-y) Quote
Name:
Should be obvious.
Age:
Keep it around 18-ish.
Gender:
What’s in your pants? Or what’s not, if that’s your thing.
Appearance:
Short physical description, uniform alterations, that sort of thing.
Personality:
You know the drill.
Background:
A brief synopsis of your character’s life before attending the academy. Remember that all students require a letter of recommendation from a practicing mage to apply at Glynwood, so you'll need at least one person that'll vouch for you.
Attunement:
Tellurian or Ouranian.
Aura:
What does your aura look/feel/sound like?
Magic:
Describe your character’s magical abilities, nascent as they are at this point in time. What types of magic have they already learned? What do they favor or have an affinity toward? What are they looking to specialize in? Feel free to keep this broad or list out specific spells in their arsenal. Keep in mind, magic isn’t just about fighting; magi use it to enhance nearly every facet of their everyday life when they can get away with it.
Arcane Items:
List staves, enchanted trinkets, or anything else your character might own of the magical variety. Take this part out if your character lacks any possessions that fit this description.
Other:
Dumb trivia you couldn’t worm in anywhere else but really want us to know about your character.
Chad grew practically giddy as his strike connected and smoothly transitioned into a follow-up attack, even as the mage coalesced his final, desperate spell. Unfortunately, he was off by mere milliseconds; the drawn electricity from the room exploded before the vampire could deliver his coup de grace, and he was sent staggering backward in barely-contained spasms. The vampire flailed an uncoordinated arm forward in hopes he'd connect with something, but caught only air - the inquisitor had fled.
It wasn't a surprise, in retrospect. Mages were such fragile things, and his best efforts would only damn him to a death by a thousand cuts at this rate, even if he avoided every decisive blow Chad threw at him. But it was annoying, and the Astorio had received his fill of annoyances for the day. The speech was simply the icing on the pie - or whatever mortals put icing on - did he honestly expect a mage of all things to be an ideal hostage? Quentin Santorini was as irrelevant as they came, even in this ragtag band of nobodies, and Chad had already written him off the moment he found himself trapped outside anyway. Daughter Dearest's death would earn the vampire an earful, the prisoner was quite literally the entire reason they came, and he found Casper marginally useful, but the little purple boy? Eh.
"Kill the little bastard, see if I care. I don't even know his name," Chadwick called nonchalantly, "But I know a cornered rat when I see one and you only have until his body hits the ground to run away from me."
Ah, that must've been it. The inquisitor was stalling for his reinforcements so he could make a run for it while they chopped down his underlings. He hoped Dionne's brat didn't have a martyr complex in her, because this idiot really had no leverage. If they weren't already outnumbered - or at least they would be as soon as the elevator opened - he'd have speared through the both of them like he should've done with the other prisoner.
"You have until I lose my patience to rescue the other mage," Chad grumbled under his breath, mostly to Caspian since Donovan likely cared as much as he did and the other mages probably lacked the hearing necessary to make out his words at a distance anyway. In the meantime, he counted his paces. Each stride was mentally measured to account for where his feet would have to contact with the floor once he decided to cross the room and rip out the inquisitor's throat. After all, corpses fell quite fast and Chadwick had given himself a deadline; it wouldn't do to step on a metal strip and lose precious seconds should the inquisitor bring his magic to bear again.
The barest hint of a morbid smile graced Quinn's lips as his plan worked to perfection and the woman found herself inadvertently demoted in the inquisitor's graces from lackey to victim. He didn't dwell on the implications of her death, just that he'd succeeded. Measured breaths. One step at a time. Light work.
Caspian's request was likewise simple. It hardly seemed the time to be floating around with all the electricity arcing about, especially given how hesitantly he'd reacted to Quinn's earlier weight-lessening spell, but he'd have to trust that the other mage wouldn't immediately dive into a lightning bolt. The boy gave an upward flick of his fingers and rejected the planet's claim on Caspian completely. He'd intended to keep an eye on the blond to catch him should he immediately blunder into harm's way, but a ding from behind him demanded his attention more promptly.
His cue came sooner than he would've liked, but he expected it nevertheless, as the elevator began its descent. If Quinn couldn't lift the entire car - definitely the simplest solution but not one he wanted to gamble on, especially if he had to hold Caspian up while doing so - he'd have to strike as soon as the doors opened to catch them by surprise. A position on the ceiling would afford him both an ideal line of sight and an additional safeguard against the elevator's occupants spotting him too early, but before he could launch himself up to his perch, the sizzle of the room behind him died down and was replaced with a pressure on his neck and the hiss of a readied spell in his ear.
Somehow, he wasn't dead. That was good. The inquisitor's rambling went mostly unprocessed, as a million other things bounced around in Quinn's brain overtop of the words. It would be simple to kill the inquisitor from this position, but doing so without also dying in the process was far less feasible, if not impossible. A suicide for the greater good was certainly romantic, but Quinn felt it should be left as just that - an act of fictional romance.
Apparently he'd been left alive strategically, as the inquisitor's closing remarks reached his ear. Hostage trade. But he wasn't a good hostage. They'd used him as they needed to levitate the prisoner out and they could dispose of him with his purpose fulfilled. He was new, forgettable- wait, no, they'd staged this rescue over unimportant prisoners, surely they wouldn't throw him to the adders so quickly.
"Kill the little bastard, see if I care."
Astorio. Right.
He was going to die.
Well, two could play at that game; Quinn had no loyalty to the rebellion either. He drew his spell back from Caspian immediately, lest he goad the man into thinking he'd attempted some kind of escape. It was already all he could do not to squirm in place; thankfully the overwhelming amount of tension in his frame kept all his muscles locked firmly in place. The man was obviously waiting for him to try and fling himself or his captor away, and as fast as he could be, he didn't think he could outrun a lightning bolt.
"So if I pull her over here, I get to walk?" He finally asked coldly. The man's word meant nothing, but he could at least indulge the game enough to buy time for a more thought out escape.
The vampire gritted his teeth as his sword arm spasmed under the current, fingers too tense to drop the blade and ego too prideful to allow himself to be disarmed besides. Nevertheless, Chad took a step back defensively. Not the worst outcome; he'd scored a hit, even if minor, and the shock was negligible, all things considered. It wasn't like he had a heart in danger of stopping, in any case. Of course, the inquisitor surely knew that and would definitely raise the voltage of his next attack accordingly.
Despite the inquisitor's momentary lapse in judgement, it seemed he was quite prepared for a fight, as the room became an extension of his magic in the most textbook Alderman tactic that Chadwick had ever been given the displeasure of witnessing firsthand. They'd walked right into a trap. He should've taken the killing blow when it had been presented to him; the prisoner was functionally dead and his act of restraint was for naught. The exits were blocked, so it wasn't like they could lure Hasgud out of his element or even run away like cowards, and he wasn't likely to drop the barriers for his reinforcements either. They'd likely just take magical pot shots at the rebels from behind the barriers after they finished off the purple kid.
The vampire watched his footwork carefully, ever wary of stepping on anything metallic. The crackle of superheated air tipped him off just enough to evade any stray arcs from the room, but it demanded quite a bit of concentration and didn't leave much room for offense. Ugh, he needed mage support, how tiresome. He wasn't certain whether Dionne's daughter dearest had the aptitude to curve her spells around a rampaging vampire or if he'd be risking a burn every time he advanced, but Casper was a transmuter, if he recalled correctly. That'd have to do.
A sudden surge of lightning forced the vampire to shift out of its path as a blur. This fight was definitely going to burn a lot of blood. Where was the cannon fodder when he needed them?
He held his commentary until after the thunderous crack that accompanied the bolt had passed, then flicked his eyes briefly to the blond with his sword still at the ready. "Casper, disrupt his circuit where you can, we need room to maneuver." Poor idiot would definitely get himself fried if he went in swinging right now. As would Chad, probably, but someone had to be the vanguard around here.
The vampire stepped forward assertively at last, not even bothering to put up a guard with his sword - it wouldn't do a thing to the lightning regardless - though he kept his steps cautious and measure despite this seeming recklessness. Rather than keep to elegant swordplay, his approach more resembled a boxer hounding his opponent with jabs, throwing repeated thrusts with his weapon at the man's vitals, only daring to follow up with a more decisive swing once he'd made contact and found a proper opening for a combo. Accuracy was the utmost importance at this stage; a glancing blow would only open him up to another zap. At the very least, he'd keep the inquisitor's concentration on himself and not allow him free reign to manage the room against them.
They're laughing. He bore his soul to Victor and they're laughing.
The other boy at least felt the need to clarify that he wasn't laughing at Danny, but presumably at what he said, and he supposed it was probably incoherent enough to be funny. He'd just have to take Victor at his word and hope Imogen was barely suppressing a giggle for the same reason. His mouth floundered open a few times as he mustered a defense, but the duo - and Maive - had already vacated the island before he had a chance to get his thoughts in order. Probably for the best, lest he say something to further embarrass himself. The adrenaline dump he felt coming on certainly wasn't doing his brain any good anyway.
Daniel followed close behind, tentatively deciding escape was more pressing than defending his reputation. He dipped a foot experimentally into the spring and, as it never seemed to touch the sand at the bottom, continued until his entire body had slipped past the veil between worlds. No weird vision or dream of flying accompanied the return trip, and instead he found himself seated on a toilet in a cramped little stall with a suspicious lack of dicks drawn all over it.
The spring really did lead to the toilets. Gross.
A relieved sigh escaped his mouth and, although his body urged him to stay seated and rest, the remaining higher reasoning centers of his brain convinced him that being found asleep on the shitter in the morning probably wouldn't be a good look for him. Unfortunately, said higher reasoning centers seemed to be working on a slight delay, as when Danny exited the stall and found himself staring at Imogen, it took him far too long to notice anything amiss. No urinals. Girl standing there.
"Oh fuck- Is this the girl's room?" He didn't wait for an answer, and instead dipped his head and power walked out the door. At least it wasn't occupied, Imogen aside.
Verity was the last thing on Daniel's mind right now. Was she strange? Yes, extremely, but they had bigger things to worry about and gossip was hardly productive to survival. Unless Kharon or that wind thing could fly them off to England again, they were still up shit creek without a paddle. At least, until Victor's voice rung out from nearby, eliciting a startled flinch from the resident persona wielder.
He definitely was not there a second ago, but the words that left his mouth gave Danny enough information to fill in the blanks. The water was a portal, then. It made sense; the dockhouse led to the beach, it would follow that the spring led somewhere else too. Though it raised the question of why a second floor bathroom. Was he supposed to climb out of the toilet or something? Victor dropped a multicolored wad over a rock, which Daniel surmised must've been their clothes. The guy was absolutely mad if he jumped back into the haunted water just to deliver a couple shirts, but Danny was immensely grateful all the same. He could've hugged him!
But he was shirtless. And that's gay.
Tempting as it was to rush right in the spring, his French savior requested an explanation and Danny figured he was better qualified than anyone else to give it, even with how little he understood of the situation himself.
"Were you here for the tornado monster?" he asked as he made his way over to the rock and rifled through the pile of fabric for his shirt. "There was a... storm that was, like, alive - I think it came out of Maive - but the frog killed it, or made it go away, or something. Anyway, then my persona - that's the monsters on our side, I think - came out, and I really wanted to kill the frog, and Khar- my persona just made it rot away really fast, and then it just dissolved into water. And then my persona disappeared, but I think I can still feel it. Sort of. I- I dunno how to explain it." As he rambled, it fully occurred to him that nothing he said made any sense, but neither did anything else on this island, and if Victor could wrap his head around a spring connected to a toilet without any headscratching, he could surely settle for something as nebulous as a protector manifesting out of the aether.
"As for everyone else..." Now fully clothed, he took the opportunity to look around again at last. Huh, this place cleared out fast. "I didn't even see them leave." There definitely hadn't been another frog, and the island, leveled as it was by the rampage of monster and personae alike, didn't exactly have many places for most of their group to be hiding.
That meant they all figured out the spring before him and didn't even say anything!
Unless they all left him behind to die after he saved their asses, he had to assume the answer was so obvious that no one assumed he'd miss it. Which meant he probably looked like an unobservant idiot for not noticing. In fairness, he was, but he wasn't about to go down without an excuse.
"I promise I'm not stupid or anything! There was just a lot going on and I left my glasses in my dorm and honestly I'm still trying to wrap my head around the part where I killed a demon frog with my mind," Danny explained sheepishly. "Sorry. Thanks for bringing our stuff, a lot of people wouldn't have come back in after that, I think. I guess everyone else must've stumbled into the spring too."
With the prisoner handled, Quinn had leave to tend to more important matters, namely the knife flying right at him. Just like practice. Probably. He stepped back and gripped one of the open doors, slamming it shut in front of him to intercept the knife. The breeze that flowed around his makeshift barrier gave him a decent idea of the guard's affinity, which unfortunately meant he couldn't toss her around the room at his leisure as he would've wanted.
Before he could put any alternative ideas into play, the room came alive with the inquisitor's magic. The lavender-haired mage had barely a second of warning to wrest his hands from the metal door as all his hair spontaneously stood on end. Lightning arced across the doorway, effectively locking Quinn out; he could open the doors without touching them, but it wouldn't do any good if he couldn't cross their threshold anyway. Not that relocating himself back inside the room would do him much good, the place had become a veritable death trap and the odds of managing to levitate the other prisoner out without him falling into a stray coruscation were slim to none. A shame too, the inquisitor had apparently chosen a new obsession, willing as he was to trade his prisoners for Lyra. Quinn wasn't quite sure if the other prisoner was even worth the effort to save after that brain-dead comment, the lapse in the inquisitor's interest would've been his best opportunity to try regardless.
Despite his recognition of Lyra, the inquisitor hadn't neglected the rest of his attackers, and he promptly took aim at the others with massive surges of- oh, that one was coming at him!
"Oppolik," Quinn squeaked, and a disk of energy sprung up in the bolt's path. The barrier instantly became a spider web of cracks upon impact with the lightning, shattering as easily as a dinner plate struck with a hammer. Still, it hindered the incoming attack just enough to buy a few precious instants for evasion. The mage leaned to the side at an impossible angle to allow the lightning bolt to pass overhead. It took a moment for the oppressive heat of the charged air above to fade before gravity tilted back to normal and he pushed off the ground to right his stance again.
Unwilling to risk the inquisitor's full attentions with reinforcements likely on their way and himself as their first obstacle, Quinn instead shifted his target to the remaining guard. After his rescue of the blue-haired mage, she'd definitely be waiting for any gravity shifts he could conjure, and anyone deft enough to dodge knives like that wouldn't have any issues with a terebrien either. Instead, he took a more subtle approach as he peered beyond the electric wall that barred his entry; the mage thrusted a hand forward and tilted his wrist as if turning a doorknob. Gravity warped around the other guard's head to trick her vestibular sense into believing gravity had shifted back toward the wall behind her while a separate gravity well tugged her along a completely different vector and right into an electrified strip. With luck, she'd overcompensate in the wrong direction and end up launching herself right into danger instead.
How this group of incompetent fools thought they were cut out for mercenary work was beyond him. Half of them barely seemed to know how the wield the weapons they carried, and ended up promptly disarmed anyway. It was telling that the most useful contributors were a timid farmhand and a teenager. At least Esvelee and Cerric got thrashed around a bit up on their literal and figurative high horse, though the blue-skinned man seemed to find it entertaining more than anything. Jackass.
He did have a point, though; the necromancer wasn't their concern unless he continued to threaten the wagon. Loath as Ceolfric was to leave their attacker without a few new holes in his gut, they didn't have time to scour the woods for the little coward. He'd probably be doing that on his own too, if their sorry performance against a few dogs was any indication.
The bandit flicked his blade harshly at the ground to shake off the coat of congealed blood and questionable ichor, but didn't sheathe it quite yet. People that sent minions to die in their stead didn't often have a death wish, but their assailant could end up overconfident now that he'd wounded an inattentive noblewoman. Granted, that was contingent upon Ceolfric still being around to pick up their slack, so he paused rather than follow Cerric to give them a chance to recover.
"Liadon's right, we're not here to kill some corpse-fucker. Stick with the wagon and keep an eye out," Ceolfric announced gruffly. If their attacker wanted to raise more pets, he'd have to tip off Kyreth in the process, so they'd have ample warning if he wished to continue his assault. Otherwise, he wasn't getting paid to deal with the bastard and he wasn't going to babysit anyone that disagreed either. He barely liked their odds against entirely mundane threats, now that he'd seen the group in action.
Despite the chill in the air, Daniel looked as if he'd just run a marathon. A droplets of sweat ran down his face as he panted in unsteady, adrenaline-fueled breaths. He wasn't quite sure what he expected to happen. He wasn't sure anything even would happen. But of all the possible options, he definitely hadn't expected to watch the frog waste away over the course of a few seconds. He supposed he did intend to kill it and Kharon apparently obliged. As he turned back to the spectre in question, Kharon dissipated with little of the fanfare that preceded his arrival.
Was that, like, a one time thing, or...?
Verity's question popped him out of his thoughts. Right. Sofia was in its mouth - no, it spat her out, he saw it, so that meant- no, she went flying. Oh god, did she break her neck or something? It all happened so fast- wait, they could find a body if so. She could be fine. Unless she had been hit and turned into a puddle like the frog did.
"I- I don't know. Did I? I don't even know what that was," Danny mumbled, eyes squinted in a lackluster search for the missing girl. Imogen drew his attention next, with a much less distressing question. Was he okay? He was tired. Antsy. Still in fight-or-flight mode. May have just killed someone. But aside from that? He felt great. A rush of power churned in his soul, a cold hand extended that offered purpose and competence and freedom.
He nodded after a few moments of deliberation. "I think so. Did anyone see where Sofia fell?" With luck, someone would've kept track. Then they could get back to more pressing issues, because any time wasted meant more questions asked and none of them seemed to have answers.
Member
Izurich
Xiro Zean
xxjessicaxx
Asura
Vesnic
Phase
Obscene Symphony
Kronshi
Digizel
AlteredTundra
