Obscene Symphony

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This isn't exactly my RP style but I want to congratulate you on a very creative and fun-sounding concept. Would make a great card-based video game, I bet!

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

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◊ ɛʟɨֆɛօ ʀɦǟʋɛʊֆ ◊
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_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ քʟǟռɛֆ - ɛʟօաɛռ
• ɛʟօաɛռ քǟʟǟƈɛ ɢʀօʊռɖֆ
• 5:13pm
__________________}

Eli squinted in the sunlight as he strode out onto the grand palace drive, robes snapping behind him as the ever-present breeze whipped up into a stiff spring evening wind. The sun was far from setting, but it loitered around the horizon nonetheless, casting long shadows and letting just a touch of wintry chill return to the air. Its rays shone coppery against the myriad patterns of Eli’s layered silk robes, the fabric all but glowing in brilliant reds, greens, and golds. His outermost layer, a fine silk cloak in emerald green, sported shining gold embroidery that moved across its surface like the wind rippling over the grasslands, the pattern changing direction as the wind did.

“His Grace, the High Artificer to see you, Your Royal--”

“You’re late,” a chilly voice cut the herald short as Eli approached, followed closely by the sound of feet crunching on gravel.

I could say the same about you, Eli thought sourly, though now at least he could see why. Laid out before him on the palace drive was a fantastical display: a splendid coach wrought in fine Planes woodwork, flamboyantly decorated with banners and pennants and drawn by six spectacular white horses. Horses and coach alike were blazoned with proud images of burning orange marigolds trimmed in gold on fields of verdant green: the symbol of the royal house of Elowen. The marigolds glowed like fire in the slanting sun, and the gold trimmings on the horses’ kit clinked as the beasts fidgeted under their burden, stamping long, elegant legs and tossing chiseled heads crowned with tall ostrich feathers dyed all colours of the rainbow.

“I was ready in the audience chamber to transport us at five,” Eli corrected, crossing his arms. “You didn’t show up.”

Eli’s cousin Ernesto walked out of the shadow of the coach looking thoroughly inconvenienced and a little insulted. He had a similar, willowy build to Eli, but the similarities ended there; he was a good few inches taller and dramatically lighter in complexion, with cold green eyes that glinted out from under a head of almost-curly blond hair. He looked smart in a bright orange vest and white cotton tunic, secured snugly around the waist by a broad, colourful sash full of exquisite goldwork and dripping with little silver bells that jingled as he walked.

Much like the horses, Eli noted.

“You said ‘audience chamber,’ not me,” Ernesto spat back, gesturing behind him. His short green cape snapped back from his shoulder as he moved, and the gold coronet atop his head glittered in the evening sun. “Forgive me if I didn’t think this would fit.”

Eli came up with a dozen cutting remarks in an instant, but remembered his mother’s warning. Like it or not, you’re going to have to find a way to get along eventually.

Instead, he guarded his tongue behind the same thin, patronizing smile that was all the rage among the nobles these days. “I see. Shall I transport us, then?”

“Start getting it ready,” Ernesto replied dismissively, returning his attention to the coach. “There are just a few more things to get together here before we leave.”

The “few more things” included a second coach for Eli (heavens forfend the not-quite-Crown-Prince share a coach), an open-top carriage dedicated to luggage, a small contingent of royal guards in full marigold livery (some mounted, others on foot), two bannermen, and even a team of tall, stately dalmatians to accompany the carriages.

Eli fought not to roll his eyes as Ernesto assembled his entourage. Far be it from him to criticize pomp and circumstance, but this was clearly a level beyond - it seemed that Ernesto was already enjoying his first excursion as a royal representative a little too much. In fact, Eli suspected this was probably still a more modest entrance than Ernesto would have preferred.

Instead, he turned his attention to his preparations. Eli had been expecting to transport two people to Aethelguard, not a small invasion, but it was nothing outside of his comfort zone. However, it didn’t go as smoothly as he would prefer; Aethelguard’s mage must have employed some Dowsing magic, because every time Eli tried to form a link near, but outside of the palace, he was redirected onto the palace grounds.

“I can only get us as far as the gate of the royal city,” Eli reported, arms outstretched toward the idyllic countryside. With a sweep of his arms, the scenery changed. A split formed in the very air before them, drawing the rolling hills back like a set of massive curtains to reveal an entirely different scene: the capital of Aethelguard bathed in sunlight, the palace flanked by the tall white masts of ships in the harbour beyond. Warm, salty air wafted through the portal carrying the shrill cries of seagulls.

Ernesto turned from his preparations and recoiled, momentarily alarmed by the rift in reality before him. He recovered quickly, though, masking his embarrassment under a practiced look of dignified superiority. “Very well. Let’s be off then.”

Eli and Ernesto boarded their separate carriages, and the captain of the guard called out orders, all involved falling neatly into line. The horses stamped and snorted, unafraid of the magic, and surged forward when bidden into the rift.

~ /// ~

_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ քʟǟռɛֆ - ǟɛȶɦɛʟɢʊǟʀɖ
• ǟɛȶɦɛʟɢʊǟʀɖ ʀօʏǟʟ քǟʟǟƈɛ - ɮǟռզʊɛȶ ɦǟʟʟ
• 6:30pm
__________________}

Prince Ernesto’s arrival elicited exactly the fanfare Eli assumed his cousin had been hoping for. Materializing at the royal city gates, the caravan of the Elowen delegation attracted crowds as it navigated toward the palace, commoners lining the streets and huddling in windows to watch as the caravan lumbered by. Marigold banners snapped in the wind as they went, the guardsmen’s armour gleaming in the evening sun. The horses put on a magnificent display, marching in unison with as much skill as the soldiers on foot alongside them - no less than expected of the country that bred the finest horses in the realm. And all the while, Ernesto sat in his coach looking proud and lofty, eyes resolutely forward even as he allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.

For his part, Eli wasn’t much different. He was no stranger to extravagance, and certainly wasn’t self conscious about it; his main qualm with the choice to make a proper formal entrance was the number of formal introductions he was going to have to make when they arrived. However, to his genuine surprise, the arrival was fairly painless. Their reception at the palace was a warm one, of course, as would be expected from Elowen’s closest ally, but it consisted entirely of servants who rushed to take their luggage and show them to their apartments and otherwise cater to their every need. The King, Queen, and even the Royal Mage of Aethelguard were as yet nowhere to be found. It was a profound relief to Eli that he could put off hobnobbing for even a few extra minutes on a trip that already threatened to fray his nerves, but Ernesto was decidedly less pleased. Insulted, even.

“They drag us here on three days’ notice like mercenaries and then shuffle us between servants like sheep,” he’d complained to Eli, not quite quietly enough not to be overheard.

Eli kept his own suspicions to himself, mostly just appeasing his cousin with smiles and nods and vague statements of agreement until they were summoned to the banquet hall.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, however, Eli went from feeling vaguely convenienced to on edge. No sooner had he stepped through the door than the breath seemed to go out of him; the pattern on his cloak stopped moving, and his many robes hung limp, where before they had been subtly swaying in an otherwise unfelt breeze. More importantly, the gem around his neck, usually pulsing with faint amber light, went dark, feeling cold and heavy and still against his chest.

Whatever it was seemed to go unnoticed by Ernesto as he immediately launched into socializing, but Eli looked around the hall with newly sharpened eyes, paying close attention to every detail. Aethelguard’s royal mage had put some kind of binding ward on the room. Not a permanent hex, surely - that would probably amount to an act of war. But something to dampen the power of every mage in attendance, to even the odds. If he didn’t know any better (and at this point, he didn’t), Eli might think they’d been summoned to something contentious.

His eyes fell on the Royal Mage himself. Serrelian D’Vyrens, if memory served. Eli had met him on several occasions as a teenager, part of his annual visits to his mother’s Aethelguard villa. They’d talked more than once, the older man seeking him out to discuss magic. He was friendly enough, personable enough, but every conversation had always felt like a play following a particular script. Nothing was left to chance, nothing was organic, nothing was ever an accident.

Now, in this room, the whole world was forced to follow his script.

The guests weren’t kept waiting long. The king’s brash arrival did elicit an elitist look from Ernesto, but neither delegate of Elowen was surprised; the king of Aethelguard’s… unorthodox demeanour was a common object of rumour in Elowen, where nobody of any status would ever even think to behave so coarsely. But the news that followed sobered both of them, and each sat quietly for a long moment when Serrelian finished his address, the weight of the situation settling heavily on them.

An underground organization of mages seeking to harm the crown. Eli supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was no secret that mages chafed under the Artifice laws of Elowen and its equivalents across the realm, but they rarely put up much resistance. Untrained mages were more a danger to themselves than anyone else, and the only way to get training was to apprentice under the High Artificer, bound either to serve the Crown or be turned out on the shortest of leashes, never far from watchful eyes. Rejects usually faded into obscurity.

“What dang--” Eli began, but was quickly interrupted by Ernesto’s hand jutting out in front of him.

“--We will perform a sweep immediately,” Ernesto interjected, shooting Eli a burning glare. “If any of this filth has infested Elowen, it will be scrubbed out.”

Eli looked at his cousin quizzically for a moment, but Ernesto did not look back at him again. He looked like he’d just had to scold a page that spoke out of turn at court, and was trying not to make a further scene about it. Eli drummed his fingers on his leg, the many rings on his fingers clicking together. What on earth was his problem?

“...And to His Royal Highness’ end,” Eli tried again, looking skeptically between his cousin and Serrelian before continuing, “exactly what danger does this group pose? Have they committed any magical attacks in addition to this attempted poisoning?”

~ /// ~

@Ducksworth

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

The ceremony in the Cathedra went off without a hitch, with Maya of course playing along to perfection. Marching up to the dais with her eyes fixed reverently on The Mother and listening to the sermon with rapt attention, she was the very picture of graceful contemplation - no one would guess that before the Larme Incident, she had never been the churchgoing type. And it wasn’t exactly an act, per se. She was certainly no apostate, and in her position she’d be an idiot to be an atheist; moreover, she gladly blessed hospitals and when people asked her for prayers, she really did make them. But the whole thing didn’t exactly move her to tears on the inside, and she wasn’t spending her free time reading theology books - no matter how many times Edmund tried to recommend them.

But nobody in the pews knew that. Maya played her part as the Scion of Water flawlessly, as always, and if some of her followers were moved in the spirit (or whatever the phrase was), then power to them. For her part, though, Maya was much more excited to smile at the cameras on the way out and check social media in the limo after it was all wrapped up.

“Freakshow…” she muttered in a sing-song voice as they drove to Duke Giles’ manor, her glossy blue-black nails clicking on the screen.

She was initially upset, but now Maya was almost glad she’d arrived at the Cathedra early. If social media could be believed, it looked like the red carpet turned into a veritable circus after she left it. Instagram was teeming with clips of the Templar of Shadow showing up out of the ground like a cartoon villain; meanwhile, the Prince of Veradis was dressed like a Yu-Gi-Oh character and the new Scion of Storms had apparently come straight over from an important meeting in the 8th century. While it was true that no press was bad press, Maya wasn’t too upset about getting a little separation from all… that. Honestly, where did The Mother find these people? Would it kill them to just be normal?

In better news, it was good for a laugh to see Princess Belle smile sweetly and admit that she lost out on that commercial deal. Maya really had no idea what she originally did to get under Her Highness’ skin, but it was just so easy to rile her up that she really couldn’t resist. She’d have to make sure she found Her (Second)Highness at the party and see what she could squeeze out of her.

Maya was in a great mood by the time the limo arrived at Giles’ manor, especially after checking her photo album for the pictures Edmund took. “Oooh, very nice,” she purred, throwing her icy Templar a teasing smile. “Hey, if this Templar thing doesn’t work out, I’ll keep you on as an Instagram photographer.”

She entered the venue on Edmund’s arm - her followers would fall all over themselves for those pictures - but quickly lost track of him as she set about working her magic. A gathering like this was tailor-made for Maya; everyone who was anyone in the Federation was here in all their finery, every one of them champing at the bit to make a good impression on each other. And the Scions, the very chosen of the Goddess Herself, were the ultimate winners. There wasn’t a single powerful person on the continent who didn’t want a Scion in their pocket.

Maya herself really didn’t have much brain for politics. She didn’t much care if this Duke or that Count was entertaining her merely in hopes of gaining support for international matters or prestige. What mattered to her was likes and follows, and pictures with other famous people brought them in droves. Besides, even if she didn’t much care about petty border scuffles or trade route disagreements, she knew plenty about networking and banking favours, and one could never have too many friends.

So Maya floated around the room like a butterfly on the wind, all smiles and charming small talk, touching down just long enough for a chat and a photo before taking off again. It was lucrative, but exhausting, and it wasn’t long before she needed a break.

She considered the buffet table, but it was currently being orbited by Scion Spaghetti or whatever her name was, talking about putting ketchup on fish or some other such nonsense. Maya suspected drugs, but she’d been online long enough to know you could never really tell with some people. She thought about sending Edmund over to fetch her a snack and save her the awkward encounter and started to look for him in the crowd, but she forgot all about food when she caught sight of something much more appealing.

Princess Belle was sitting down, looking pale as she talked with that creepy Templar of hers. Maya followed her gaze to a redheaded man across the room, who might have been handsome were his features not entirely too familiar to Maya as coming from the wrong side of the Larme. She approached in time to hear the Princess name him Andres Colton, of Kaudus.

“Oh Your Highness, I’m sure you don’t have to look that far afield,” Maya commented innocently as she approached, boldly taking a seat at Belle’s table without invitation. The Princess wouldn’t dare snub a fellow Scion, surely. She smiled sweetly. “I’m sure there are plenty of much more suitable matches for you on this side of the Larme.”

---

@webboysurf @Hero

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

_______________

◊ ɛʟɨֆɛօ ʀɦǟʋɛʊֆ ◊
_______________

_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ քʟǟռɛֆ - ɛʟօաɛռ
• ɦɨɢɦ ǟʀȶɨʄɨƈɛʀ'ֆ ƈɦǟʍɮɛʀֆ
• 9:13am
__________________}

Elowen’s High Artficer’s Chambers were a far cry from the cramped and dusty towers rumoured of the Mountaine kingdoms, where they said royal mages were locked away among ancient, crowded bookshelves like casks of wine to age and develop in cool, quiet darkness. Nor were they sealed and hidden like the rumours from the Dezert, where secrets and sabotage disappeared into labyrinths of caverns buried under sand. And they certainly didn’t resemble the stories that drifted up from the Antartik of wild mages who made their homes in wolves’ dens and practiced their art under the cover of the eternally-darkened sky.

Rather, the High Artificer’s Chambers rather more resembled a ballroom. Taking up the entire East wall of the sprawling royal palace, the main working area was bounded wholly on one side by a gallery of massive windows, arching far overhead and filling the room with blinding rays of golden spring sunshine. Outside, the brilliant surrounds of pristine Elowen countryside were framed by the window panes like so many masterworks; in place of the obsessively manicured gardens that took up most of the grounds, the High Artificer was privileged to look out on deliberately preserved, untouched wilderness.

Grassland rolled out for miles over gently sloping hills until they faded into dim blue distance, painted in every imaginable shade by merry bands of wildflowers, like the masterful strokes of some divine artist. The grass itself, knee-height at least by this time in the season, rippled in the ever-present breeze like an ocean, painting shimmering bands across the hills. Just above them, rocked gently like children by the wind, hovered a veritable host of butterflies; thousands of them, in every shape, size, and colour, feasting on abundant nectar and glimmering in the sun like the sparks of some great, enchanted fire. It was the butterflies that impressed visitors the most, by and large - most people were awed into silence by the sheer number of them.

But the idyllic scene outside the windows clashed awkwardly with the scene inside the High Artificer’s chambers. Of course, the furnishings were as opulent as the rest of the palace. Books of every size and shape marched in orderly rows along enormous rosewood bookshelves which took up the entire opposite wall, worked by expert hands and obsessively maintained over generations. Crystal chandeliers hung, glittering, from the ceiling, turning the mid-morning sun into a dazzling spectacle of rainbows cast every which way. But the broad, polished tables that usually held delicate alchemical instruments were unceremoniously shoved up against the walls, piled high and overflowing with open books and half-rolled scrolls. Every available surface drowned in papers scrawled with all manner of text, diagrams, and strange markings. In one corner, nearest the door, a modest collection of empty teapots and user dishes had begun to amass, but dominating the scene was the massive, dizzyingly complex matrix drawn in chalk on the burnished wood floor - perhaps the only part of the room not carpeted with papers.

It was chaos, to be sure, but it was no mere mess. It was a chaos born of fervor, fueled by passion, and sustained by deep understanding.

Amid it all, the new High Artificer knelt at the edge of the matrix, hunched forward like a predator with eyes fixed on the centre. Arms outstretched, his lips began to move, but no sound seemed to come from them; instead, all sound was muffled and muted beneath a low, but rising thrum that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. The papers strewn about began to move in a gathering wind otherwise unfelt - perhaps a clue as to how they ended up on the floor in the first place - and the light seemed to dim, although no cloud passed over the sun. Over the walls of books, shadows flickered with no visible source, at first abstract and random, but at length coalescing into the writhing, struggling form of some giant, monstrous snake.

The thrumming in the air rose and quickened, and the tempest of papers raged on, the High Artificer’s many robes whipped up around him, but his focus never wavering. After what might have been an instant or an eternity, it all climaxes in a flash of green and a crash like a lightning strike, and then all abruptly went still.

There was quiet. Papers rustled to the floor, and the sun shone in through the windows again. Thin curls of ominous green smoke rose from the very centre of the matrix. Eliseo Rhaveus scrambled to his feet.

Eli swept to the centre of the matrix in an instant, any chalk he disturbed quietly re-forming itself into proper order as he slid to his knees before the object in the middle. His tallow-coloured eyes were afire with anticipation as he picked up a small silver stand, but his face fell just as quickly when he more closely examined it.

It was a simple silver hook, curled upwards to suspend a gold chain. At the end of the chain, set into a gold pendant wrought in the likeness of a snake’s maw, was the remains of a green gemstone. Although expertly cut, a deep crack marred its surface, and its depths were dark and clouded. Eli sighed.

Another failure.

He felt much heavier as he laboured to his feet, tossing the gem unceremoniously aside. The failure itself wouldn’t sting as badly if not for the days of anticipation that lead up to it, or for the long line of failures that preceded it, themselves piled sadly on a nearby shelf. Added to his frustration was the fact that he knew it could be done; a similar gem, though amber and set in a bird’s talon pendant, hung from his own neck as proof. But it seemed the Apophis essence he was trying to seal inside this gem was a fair sight more resistant to the idea than the original kestrel had been.

A faint creak from behind him alerted Eli to a visitor. He didn't turn around. “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“A-a thousand apologies, Your Grace,” came the stammering voice of whichever footman had drawn the short straw, “but Her Highness Princess Gianna requests your presence.”

“Ah,” Eli chuckled despite himself, tiredness settling heavily on his bones. His mother didn’t request anything. No wonder one of the servants dared disturb him. “Thank you.”

“Your Grace.”

The footman took his leave, no doubt extraordinarily relieved, and Eli groaned as he stretched, rolling out his shoulders. He glanced over at the growing pile of dishes near the door, where the servants simply deposited his meals and dared not retrieve the crockery. It wasn’t the first time he’d demanded such an arrangement, but the pile didn’t normally get so high. Perhaps it was time for a break. Perhaps a little fresh air and sunshine would help him crack this spell upon his return.

But… perhaps a bath, first.

~ /// ~

_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ քʟǟռɛֆ - ɛʟօաɛռ
• քʀɨռƈɛֆֆ' ʍǟռօʀ
• ϝҽαƚ. քʀɨռƈɛֆֆ ɢɨǟռռǟ
• 11:48am
__________________}

“His Grace the High Artificer to see you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Thank you.”

Even in an embroidered leisure dress, Princess Gianna looked positively regal; she sat straight as a poker, her chin raised toward a splendid view of the manor gardens, and dappled sun kissed her face through a trellis of fragrant honeysuckle, her olive skin notably lighter than her son’s. Her rich brown hair was streaked with gray as of late, but elegantly twisted under the dainty coronet she never went without. To her left, a small patio table was already set with coffee for two.

Eli strode casually out onto the terrace on the heels of the butler, not really waiting to be announced in his own childhood home. In his billowing linen shirt and riding pants, he fit in with the well-loved flagstones and elegant wrought iron furniture much better than he would have swathed in enchanted robes, but his shape-changing gem still dangled from his neck, as always. Under his arm, he cradled a lumpy package, wrapped haphazardly in bright floral cotton.

“Happy birthday, Mother,” Eli greeted his mother warmly, stooping to kiss her cheek. Before he took his seat, he offered the package to her.

Princess Gianna raised an eyebrow. “It’s not my birthday,” she said, though she accepted the package nonetheless.

“Oh?” Eli made himself comfortable, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “When I got your summons I thought I must have forgotten it.”

“Do I need a special occasion to visit with my son?” Princess Gianna retorted, unwrapping the package. It was a fine porcelain teapot, its pearly white walls glowing in the sunlight and painted delicately with pale golden roses. “Oh how lovely,” she commented, giving her son a sly grin. “I think I’ll keep it nonetheless.”

“Consider it a belated gift,” Eli said, sipping coffee, “or a gift in advance, depending on how I missed my estimate.”

Princess Gianna chuckled warmly, placing the teapot aside. “There is a reason I called you here,” she admitted.

“Aside from the pleasure of my company?”

“Yes,.” The Princess produced a letter from her sleeve, holding it out across the table. It was addressed to Eli, but the seal was broken.

Eli looked at the letter with only passing interest, unconcerned by the idea that his mother had apparently been going through his mail. Honestly, if she could handle all of the useless letters he received in the course of a day, he’d be thrilled. “Let me guess, Cousin Mercedes found a new prime number?” He asked as he served himself a piece of lemon cake. “No, that can’t be it - the last one she sent me stretched over the whole ballroom.”

“It's a royal summons from Queen Serena,” the Princess corrected, dropping the envelope. “She's called all the Royal Mages in the realm to Aethelguard.” She eyed her son’s lack of reaction. “Tonight.”

Eli quirked a brow over his coffee. “That's a little short notice, isn't it?”

“It might have been, if the letter hadn't arrived three days ago.”

“Three days?” Eli sat up. “Why wasn't I informed?”

“Probably because you told your servants whoever disturbed you would be the next thing you put inside a gemstone,” the Princess shook her head. “Must you torment them so?”

“They'd have worse to deal with than me if they interrupted my spell before completion,” Eli retorted, snatching up the letter to check for himself. He scanned the page three times before dropping it again. “What's this about?”

“I assume that's what you'll discover when you arrive.”

Eli sat back, returning to his coffee in a somewhat sourer mood. “Is there anything else I should know about?” He asked sarcastically, “Perhaps a war started while I was in my study?”

“Nothing quite so drastic,” Princess Gianna waved a hand quite casually. “Only that Ernesto will be accompanying you.”

Eli groaned. “Ernesto?”

“He's expecting you to transport you both there at five.”

“Not Uncle Federico?” Eli tried lamely.

Princess Gianna rolled her eyes. “Of course not Federico.”

Eli sighed. He expected as much; Crown Prince Federico, his mother's eldest brother, had been sickly all his life, and these days he was all but invalid. His son Ernesto, a few years Eli’s senior, was all but guaranteed to become king once their grandfather passed into the mist. Unfortunately.

Princess Gianna could see her son's reticence, and sighed. “This is the job, my dear,” she gently reasoned. “Like it or not, you're going to have to find a way to get along eventually.”

Eli took a breath, a childish retort on his lips, but thought better of it. He sighed in turn; he hated when his mother was right. “I suppose.”

“Consider it a learning opportunity,” the Princess proposed.

Eli shot her a look. “Don't rub it in.”

The Princess chuckled. “I should let you tend to your preparations,” she announced, standing.

Eli tossed back the remnants of his coffee and stood as well; this was his cue to leave. “Always a pleasure, Mother,” he said as he bowed, his unenthusiastic tone not at all matching his pleasantries.

“You'll be fine, my love,” the Princess smiled and kissed his cheek. “Cheer up. And do bring me back some of that coastal tea blend. I should like to properly christen my lovely new teapot.”

Eli scoffed, earning himself a wry smile in response. “Very well,” he conceded. “Good day, Mother.”

With that, he took his leave, headed off for a few hours’ sleep before what promised to be a very long week indeed.

~ /// ~

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

“Sir Jannick?”

Jannick jumped, his head whipping around at his surroundings before his brain had the chance to catch up. It was dark, there was snow on the ground, there was—

“Ah!” he hissed suddenly, his hand jumping back from the cigarette butt that had burned down low enough to singe his fingers. It fizzled out in the snow at his feet, accompanied by a comedically long column of ashes.

“...Sir?”

Jannick whipped around again, this time to look behind him, where a generously patient-looking Veradis Royal Guardsman stood by the servants’ door back into the palace. He was holding a manila folder, and looking concerned.

“Oh, sorry,” Jannick mumbled, shaking his head and blinking at the newcomer. He sniffed hard, coming to notice how cold he was. “What’s up?”

The Guardsman looked less than impressed, but was clearly more professional than Jannick was, and said nothing about it. “I have the reports you asked for.”

“Reports?”

“Yes, the ones you requested last night.”

Jannick blinked at the Guardsman, a little slower on the uptake than normal.

“For the security state at the Cathedra Incepta and Duke Giles’ manor.”

“Oh!” Jannick exclaimed, standing up. “Great, thank you, yeah, give ‘em here.”

The Guardsman looked a little skeptical, but he handed over the folder. “Are you alright, Sir?”

“Yes, totally,” Jannick cleared his throat. “Why?”

“Well, you’re sleeping in the snow, Sir.”

Jannick looked between the Guardsman and the spot where he’d been sitting. It was a snow-covered stone bench in the small courtyard neighbouring the Palace Barracks - and no wonder he was so cold, he’d melted an elegant ass-print right into the snow. Funny, he didn’t even remember sitting down.

“All good,” Jannick waved off the Guardsman’s concerns. “Just taking a little smoke break, that’s all,” he insisted.

The Guardsman raised an eyebrow. “At six A.M.?”

Jannick’s leveled the Guardsman with a flat look, his cordiality dissolving. “Is there anything else?”

“No Sir,” the Guardsman seemed to get the hint. “See you at the briefing, Sir.”

“Right,” Jannick muttered.

“The… security briefing. For tonight’s events. Sir.”

“Right.” Jannick nodded. He couldn’t tell if the Guardsman was being snarky or sincerely trying to help, but it was a good thing either way, since he somehow forgot having scheduled a briefing, and now had to prepare one. “See you then.”

---

This was one of those days that Jannick had to wonder if the Goddess thought She was funny.

He assumed she did, anyway. He imagined her yuk-ing it up on high as she watched Jannick fall all over himself trying to fulfill the duties not just of a Templar, but of the head of the Veradis Royal Guard. He wasn’t cut out for leadership at the best of times, and he had to admire the patience of his new subordinates for putting up with all his many missteps, but the Milennium Festival turned what was normally tough enough for him into a real slapstick comedy of errors.

He managed to limp through the security briefing with two hours of preparation, but the rest of the day had people coming to him with questions he rarely knew the answers to. The Royal Guardsmen he could muddle through, but then the limo driver had questions about the alternative bug-out route and the housekeepers had questions about departure times and when the cook finally sent an errand boy to ask about Duke Giles’ caterers, all Jannick could do was shrug.

Bodyguard, he could handle. But he really didn’t sign up for a management position.

Jannick was feeling a newfound respect for his mother's management of their family of eight when he finally showed Prince Noah into the limo, and he was happy for the chance for a brief rest. But the scenic drive through gridlock traffic quickly turned from a welcome reprieve from a hectic day to a white-knuckled exercise in self-control as he resisted the urge to roll down the window and have a cigarette. But, bravely and nobly resist he did — he learned his lesson on that the first time.

When the limo finally pulled to a stop, Jannick was the first one out. True, he couldn’t smoke on the red carpet or in the Cathedral, but strangely, the sight of the crowds and the cameras were their own relief. Originally, the publicity of being a Templar (and Templar to the hereditary Prince of Veradis, no less) had been a nightmare; Jannick had never much liked the spotlight, and now he lived within one every day. But over the past year he had come to realize that the position of Templar had its own sort of subtlety to it. The cameras were always on, sure, but they were never pointed at him. They were pointed at Noah, Scion of Light and future Prince of Veradis. This was actually the first time all day where nobody had any questions for him, and Jannick was glad for it.

Jannick opened Prince Noah’s door for him and shadowed him down the red carpet. He saw the reporter who approached, but Jannick’s eyes were on the crowd. In the first familiar-feeling moment of the day, he scanned the crowd like he had countless times before, looking for anyone who seemed suspicious. He searched for anyone obscuring their faces, who had their backs turned, who held anything suspiciously large… and fortunately, came up empty. The crowd was full of the awed and delighted faces of excited Veradians, cheering and waving festive signs and holding up babies in hopes of a blessing. Everything looked as it should, and Jannick found he could breathe a little easier.

Of course, he knew he needn’t worry. Sticking out above the crowd were several white-clad Church Knights, delicately picking their shining white horses through the throngs of people and keeping a watchful eye out for all the red flags Jannick was also trained to spot. Additionally, over at the smaller side entrance to the Cathedral, none other than the JPD was running a security checkpoint, checking every parishioner for weapons and contraband, ensuring nothing risky passed into the church.

Jannick stared at the checkpoint for a moment, melancholically remembering how sought-after those gigs were and how juicy the overtime must have been when he noticed two of the officers on bag-checking duty pointing at him. Squinting, Jannick recognized them as Fink and Hofmann, two officers from his former precinct that he’d served with for a number of years. They were hooting and waving and nudging some other officers in the checkpoint; one of them gave Jannick a thumbs-up, and the other pulled out his phone and took a picture.

Jannick offered a nod and a ghost of a smile, but pulled his eyes forward once again. He felt like a balloon with all the air let out. His old police buddies were all so excited when they learned about his “promotion,” and they’d been the first to congratulate him after his Blessing. He should have been happy to see them, but he just couldn’t shake how badly he just wished he was over there checking bags with them.

Mercifully, they were past the reporter and approaching the Cathedral quickly enough. Once Noah was past the threshold, however, Jannick glanced back to see a stagecoach pull up to the carpet, and a boldly-dressed man step out. The new Scion of Storms, Jannick recognized from the Blessing ceremony just a few days prior. Notably arriving after the Hereditary Prince of Veradis.

Uh-oh, he thought. Noah wouldn’t like that.

---

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Ylfa being the only mage from the Antarctik: "Ya'll motherfuckers ain't hardy enough for Winter."

@Byte

Eli doesn't even handle a chilly rain very well, in the antartik he might just send a stand-in to shiver under a pile of wool cloaks for him 😂

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Eliseo Rhaveus

ąɬ ą ɠƖąŋƈɛ:

┏━━━━━━━━━┓

◊ ŋąɱɛ: ◊
Eliseo Benedicto di’Augustino Rhaveus I

Title: High Artificer

◊ Aɠҽ: ◊
26

◊ ❝His Majesty summoned me? Very well, tell him I'll be there after tea.❞ ◊

◊ Cσɳƚιɳҽɳƚ σϝ Oɾιɠιɳ: ◊
Elowen - The Planes

◊ Pɾαƈƚιƈҽԃ Mαɠιƈ: Lιɠԋƚ ◊

Eli has been trained in a wide array of light magic to prepare him for his role as High Artificer. Offhand, he’s amassed an arsenal of low-effort spells largely geared toward convenience. A little telekinesis here to reach a book on a high shelf, a little fire there to keep his tea hot, a hardlight umbrella to keep off the rain - all products of an endless stream of intense, but short-lived interests. He took a particular interest in protective spells, and has mastered various wards, barriers, and other tricks to block, redirect, and confuse enemies.

More impressive and demanding feats of magic are well within Eli’s skill to work, but not without preparation. Extensive reference to Elowen’s vast library of arcane texts, complex magitechnical diagrams, and lengthy incantations are all in a day’s work for Eli when the Crown calls for it.

However, Eli's crowning achievement so far is shape-changing. With the help of a (rather impressive, if he does say so himself) magical artifact of his own design, Eli can turn himself into a bird. It's of great use for low-profile reconnaissance when necessary, and is also great fun. He's currently working on expanding his repertoire to other forms, but hasn't perfected anything else yet.

◊ Rҽʅαƚισɳʂԋιρ ɯιƚԋ Rσყαʅƚყ: ◊

As a junior member of the Elowen royal family himself, Eli is very amicable with royalty, both in his homeland and in general. His views and attitudes on most topics, including magic and mages, trend closely with those of Elowen’s ruling class, and what little he does challenge them is done in the spirit of recreational debate rather than true dissent.

┗━━━━━━━━━┛

ą ɖɛɛ℘ɛཞ ɖı۷ɛ:

┏━━━━━━━━━┓

◊ ƈɧıƖɖɧơơɖ: ◊

Eliseo Benedicto di’Augustino Rhaveus, first of his name, was born the only child of Princess Gianna, daughter of King Francesco Romano Elowen VII. With several brothers who themselves had several sons, Princess Gianna’s place in the line of succession was low, but she took point in her father's heart, and it showed. Her marriage to a foreign merchant of middling renown was notable only for what it was not: it was not especially politically useful, and many much more impressive suitors were left jilted by it. But she loved him, and King Francesco loved her, so that was all that mattered.

Eli’s life was much the same. His mother doted on him with uncommon devotion, and he led a life untouched by discomfort or want. Notably, when he showed signs of bearing magic as a young child, almost nothing changed. The King could never refuse Princess Gianna, and as such, he could never refuse Eli; whatever scandal or whispers came of a mage being born to the royal line, Princess Gianna, with the King’s help, ensured it never reached Eli’s ears.

Of course, as Eli grew, he eventually caught on. Nobody could keep the sidelong glances or hushed whispers from him forever, although nobody dared such impoliteness in the King or Princess’ company. But Eli was largely indifferent to it; if anything, he got a little kick out of the stir he could cause when he entered a room. He was perhaps the only mage on the planet who felt entirely secure in his position.

Life continued apace when he entered his apprenticeship with the High Artificer. On paper, he was treated like any other candidate, moving residence to the High Artificer’s quarters and competing with a handful of other young mages for the position. But in reality, his room in the Artificer’s Quarters was very rarely slept in, and the High Artificer himself spent an unusual amount of time in private study with him. When the time came for the High Artificer to choose his successor, nobody was surprised when he named Eliseo Rhaveus; realistically, there was no way it was ever going to be anyone else.

Fortunately for the Crown, Eli’s ascension to the seat of High Artificer wasn’t solely a construct of nepotism. He had taken to magic like a duck to water, was a diligent student, and became a skilled mage in his own right. In his short career thus far, he’s been performing well. Of course, that won’t stop the whispers, nor will it placate any losing candidates who feel that they’ve been cheated.

◊ ℘ɛཞʂơŋąƖıɬყ: ◊

In a word, bored. Eli has led a life bereft of adversity, and when nothing is very difficult to achieve, accomplishments feel… routine. The constant game of social standing is routine. The smiles are fake, the people are fake, the compliments underhanded, day after day after day. Studying magic presented a welcome change of pace, but the novelty soon wore off. The position of High Artificer was new, for a while, but a year in, Eli is starting to fall into the familiar ruts of routine. He’s starting to think he’d kill for something new.

But as tired as he is of the grind of royal life, Eli is still a product of his upbringing. He has no trouble telling people what to do - in fact, it’s the bulk of his social interaction. He treats everyone he meets either as a servant to be dictated to or as a superior to impress, very rarely as equals. He has very little tolerance for discomfort and is accustomed to getting everything he wants. He falls into Elowen noble double-speak purely out of habit, but enjoys the chance to be blunt when he can get away with it.

◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ʄཞıɛŋɖʂɧı℘: 3 ◊

The aristocrats of Elowen are a shallow and superficial people who collect acquaintances like flowers; to be cultivated, displayed, and compared to others. Growing up in such a world, Eli has no shortage of contacts to fill up his dinner table, but nobody (save his mother) to whom he would truly bear his soul. He's not opposed to a true, intimate friendship, but he hasn't the first idea how to go about cultivating one, either.

◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ཞơɱąŋƈɛ: 1 ◊

Like most everything else in Elowen’s upper crust, romance is more an amusement than a true-hearted pursuit. Right now, it's an amusement Eli isn't particularly concerned with, and it would take a special woman indeed to tear his gaze away from his arcane tomes.

◊ Aρρҽαɾαɳƈҽ ◊

Eli has never lifted anything heavier than a book in his life, and it shows. Average in height with a lean and narrow frame, he’d pose a daunting physical threat to a spider, but not much else. His dark brown skin is deepened further by long hours spent lounging in the sun, and his tousled black-brown hair largely does what it wants, punctuated by a single pale lock on his forehead. His tallow-coloured eyes are usually rimmed with round, golden spectacles, and his aristocratic features school nicely into his signature look of distracted contemplation.

When it comes to clothes (and everything else) Eli insists on the very finest. Fortunately, the textiles of the Planes are second to none, and money is no object. At rest, he favours cool, loose fitting shirts and trim trousers. For work, at the moment, he’s on a kick of robes: his unimposing frame is often swallowed up by layers upon layers of deceptively light and breathable silks, as bright in colour and richly decorated as the vast fields of wildflowers that he calls home. Hidden in every fold and woven into the very fabric are a vast array of arcane enchantments for every possible purpose, from powerful wards of personal protection to spells of mere convenience. Some even swear to have seen the patterns on his clothes move.

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ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Would shape-changing be dark or light magic? Say, to turn yourself into a bird or something.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

<Snipped quote by themaybreeze>

Will do. Can you elaborate in regards to the magic system? Also does that image work for you? Cause I don't know what you meant by us uploading it into the guild.

@SilverPaw

Re: uploading, I think she might mean using the integrated image hosting on the guild instead of an imgur link or something. From your profile you should be able to open an "images" tab and upload images there. Then the image address is a roleplayerguild url so it won't break or be affected by region locking. If that's not what she meant then I don't know lol.

@themaybreeze Thanks for the magic info! I like the examples you gave. Just to be clear, how much creativity are we allowed with magic? I had been operating under the assumption that this was a relatively soft magic system and we could get creative so long as we were reasonable about it, but if it's more rigid please do let me know.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

@themaybreeze Sounds good! I'm brainstorming something along those same lines for the Planes. Excited for a CS!

For everyone else's reference, I'm going to stick with a stuffy and sheltered royal Planes mage. I'm thinking very classic wizard-y style of magic with lots of scrolls and incantations and studying.

Question though: what age range would be expected for a royal mage?