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This is not an exaggeration.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Aaaaand there’s another. Possible friend for the Elite

Expect some lore on her apparition soon

Nora Foster

Nora.Foster

22 | Nora Foster | She/Her [hr//]"Yeah, I’ve seen this before."

Description:

Nora Foster is a self-employed tech expert. She lives in downtown St. Portwell, and makes a living by fixing, diagnosing and building things for people that can afford her services. In a mundane sense, this includes making trips to places with faulty wiring, repairing computers, salvaging data or writing up programs for someone’s “big tech breakthrough.” She is currently enrolled in college, studying for a PhD in electromechanical engineering. Though, this is more a formality than anything else, as Nora has little need for the education.

In St. Portwell’s paranormal scene, Nora is a trusted asset to people that require a more industrious hand. Groups who push for control won’t always be able to use magic. Sometimes, you need something that can track your opposition without magic, like a specialized drone. Or maybe you lost a limb, and can’t find a healer powerful enough to replace with flesh and blood. This is where Nora comes in, as she has all of this and more. All for the right price. She’s an opportunist, willing to work with many different types of people, barring the most depraved members of society.

Abstraction: Melsha’s Council

Within Nora, an apparition by the name of Melsha has been sealed. In exchange for refuge, Melsha’s immense knowledge of engineering was given to her in a recollection so difficult to comprehend that it nearly killed her. This made Nora into an incredible builder who can create highly sophisticated tech both magic and mundane. Nora’s body is uniquely changed by Melsha’s magic, allowing her to exhibit some of his characteristics.

Necrophage: Bonding with Melsha brought its own set of complications. It was difficult for a being of smoke and brass to inhabit a host of flesh and blood. So a middle ground was necessary, which took the form of a spherical perpetual motion machine known as the Necropage. This device is a prosthetic heart, surgically inserted inside of Nora with her partner’s assistance. It is powered by Melsha’s magic, and incomprehensible complex to anyone other than the two of them.

Sepulcher: A glorified coffin of steel and aluminum, the Sepulcher is a tool used by Melsha and Nora for building bio mechanical devices. This allows them to run maintenance on her heart, or provide her “clients” with magical upgrades.

Creator’s Wit: Melsha’s knowledge of machines is so great that Nora can simply gaze upon a piece of technology and instinctually understand what has gone wrong, or how it works. Car repairs can be planned for before even opening the hood, and walking into a building with faulty infrastructure light up her mind like a Christmas tree. The more complicated the tech, the longer it takes to form a mental picture.

Mechaform: Nora can reshape her hands and arms into a vast variety of tools. Some of these tools make sense from a human perspective, such as screwdrivers, blow torches and ratchets. But many of her Mechaform tools are abstract, as a product of Melsha’s influence. These tools tend to be made for magic, such as “measuring” the colors of an Adept’s lux, or “repairing” emotional fields.

Masterwork: Nora can create a unique brand of artifacts that do not grant abstractions to their user. These artifacts can be anything from a prosthetic limb to an untraceable weapon. Nora’s magic works through clockwork or mechanical systems, meaning there are gearboxes and moving parts to everything she makes. This sounds simple on paper, but through Melsha’s power, her creations go beyond a mundane level of complexity. She could make a fully functioning computer with nothing but rotational force.

The drawbacks to Nora’s tinkering is that Melsha often prefers designs that are, by human standards, old and outdated. Sleek designs are purely aesthetic, there are no wireless microchips, or biometric scanners. This prevents her from applying magic to certain fields, which she would have to use mundane means for.

Edit: MELSHA LORE

Melsha the Architect

.Melsha the Architect

Billions of year | Melsha the Architect | He/Him

---

"My dearest benefactor, you have much to learn."

Description: In a place far from Shimmer, a creature named Melsha toiled for millennia to build a perfect world. He carved reality with the precision of a mason, and laid the foundation of time and space as an artist laid paint to canvas. Melsha likened himself to the Ancient of Red Lux, a creator of things so vast that mortals could not comprehend it. In his perfect world, Melsha was content to be less than a god, but more than a simple inhabitant. He yearned to build and create new life in his realm of metal and clockwork, and did so from before time had a name, and would have done so for all of eternity.

But it was not to last. Melsha considered himself a benevolent being in his perfect world, not a god in the human sense, but a force of nature. But the inhabitants of his world were intelligent, made to be so in his image. They built civilizations of their own, discovered ideas that made Melsha proud. Among these ideas was hubris, the notion that they were above their creator. He could not bring himself to oppress or harm his people, and so Melsha was dethroned, ruined. They left his body and his spirit in tatters, with the hope that he might never rise to their level again. Melsha was exiled from his perfect world, and found his way to Shimmer after drifting in the All-Verse for centuries.

He found a human girl named Nora, in which he saw a creator in her own rights. He made a bargain with her, that would give him the stability of a bond with another in exchange for his wisdom. Melsha is now voluntarily sealed within Nora’s body, and extends his knowledge of machines to her. They are friends, and she will be remembered when he returns to his world, long after she is gone.

Abstraction: God of Clockwork

Melsha is a being who lives to create. He understands machines and the design of the universe in ways so fundamental, that they are like breathing and thought for him. Anything that did not exist naturally, from cars to the pyramids, falls within the purview of his abilities. In his current state, Melsha is weak, and frail. His strength is a sliver of his former glory as the builder of an entire world. The most he can do is work through his host, and guide her with his teaching. But at his most powerful, Melsha can harvest a dead star to forge cogs of the purest metal, purpose-built to keep the universe in motion. He can create artificial life more intelligent than humans with brains of ticking clockwork, and extend the boundaries of the All-Verse.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Wrote a weird ass NPC. Maybe Greenwood or some other outdoorsy characters can interact with them sometime. Hmmyes emoji.

More will come. Prepare your ass.

The Watcher in the Woods

The.Watcher

??? | The Watcher in the Woods | He/Him…? [hr//]"You are not in danger."

Description:

There once was a man named Reed Mayfield. He was an Adept inclined towards mimicking animals and promoting the growth of certain plants. He was a hermit, with a military background that left him troubled and weary a long career of service. Nature was his refuge, so one day, Reed retreated into the forests of St. Portwell, never to be seen again. Years went by, and years became decades. To him, time began to mean very little once he cast off his name. Family members assumed he moved out of town, others assumed he went out on his own terms. Both are true, but not in the way most understand.

Today, those who venture into the deepest parts of the woods may find themselves feeling as if they are not alone. The Watcher in the Woods cares little for the troubles of society, but keeps a very close eye on those who walk into his domain. Should someone treat nature with respect, they may find that a deer or a bird will lead them back to a familiar path when they are lost. Those who simply come to hunt and live off the land are left well enough alone, but those who violate the peace of the forest are quickly scared off by an ominous presence that is just barely human enough that they don’t get the wrong idea.

Abstraction: Green Lux

The Watcher in the Woods does not consider himself human, or an Adept. But his domain of magic includes altering his physical form and tending to the forest in ways that simple gardening cannot. It is through the use of this magic that the Watcher has moved beyond the need for a human body, and has irreparably changed to something closer to an Apparition.

Wild Form: The Watcher can take the form of many different forest-dwelling animals, such as wolves and deer. In Wild Form, he blends in with other animals so perfectly that they cannot tell him apart from their own offspring.

• Wolf
• Deer
• Crow
• Hummingbird
• Mountain Lion
• Ringneck Snake
• Great Basin Spadefoot

Apex Predator: The Watcher stands at 8 feet tall, can see in pitch black darkness, and has skin strong enough to stand up to some of the sharpest blades in the world. This was achieved through magic, allowing the Watcher to reshape their body into something inhuman. He can go for weeks without food or water, and can rip flesh from the bones of wild animals with his bare hands. The changes are irreversible for the Watcher, but they are a product of biology manipulating magic, meaning the Watcher is also a very capable healer in emergencies.

Boundless Garden: The Watcher’s body, when not in Wild Form, is a catalyst for ecological growth. Under the thick drapes of hide and moss that they wear, countless forms of plant life grow and flourish. This does not end at plants native to Oregon. The Watcher’s flesh supports everything from sunflowers to creeping arctic willows. Occasionally, this growth can be seen sprouting outwards over their body, tangling with moss and skin like a layer of wool.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Interactions: Oh, you know.

Cracker Barrel

---

Jack was many things. Egotistical, clever, vindictive… Foolish was not one of them.

“Nothing troubles me, Jack. I apologize for earlier. To be blunt, teleportation never sat well with me. I think that I’m simply just a bit old fashioned in that regard,”

”Your apology is accepted, but I don’t believe you,” he said, blunt as a hammer.

Jack watched her unravel Jasper’s painting. It had an abstract charm to it, putting him in the mind of better, albeit more dangerous days. Those two had always had a hard time getting along, and apparently he made something for her? Strange.

“Jasper made this piece for me. Can you believe it? Anyway, I love art. When I was a little girl I wanted to become an artist of some kind. It didn’t matter what, as long as it was creative. Only I was no good at it. My father said I just wasn’t born with the knack for art. My mother was more honest about it. She told me I just didn’t have any talent and that I should stop wasting everybody’s time. In retrospect, it was a pretty harsh thing to say to a seven-year-old.”

Jack took a seat on the boxes beside her. ”My memory is frayed. But if I recall, your parents live in a fantasy world of delusions and bitter feelings. I wouldn’t trust their opinion to hold water in a thunderstorm,” he joked.

“I wonder if Jasper’s mother told him the same. I don’t have the talent, it’s true, but I still have an eye for good art. He should’ve listened to his mother instead of wasting paint on this derivative piece of shit.”

He could understand why, from her point of view, the painting seemed like an insult. But to him, Jack saw it as statement. Sloane was an outsider, on the periphery of a circle that should’ve been home. She was an outcast, and exile among her own people. Art had a way of saying what words could not, did there exist a world in which this piece of art reflected something deeper than spite?

Apparently not, as she erased it all into a puddle that splashed across the ground. She was freezing, and there was a fire outside her reach.

“I hope you really didn’t come here because you were worried that I might be upset at you, Jack. You shouldn’t obsess so much about what other people think about you. It is so terribly unhealthy. As long as you’re doing the right thing it doesn’t matter what they think, say, or create. Got it?"

“An-y-way, since you’re here, could you transfer that piece to my apartment for me? I don’t want to have to carry it around for the rest of the night. Oh, actually, you know what? Perhaps you should take it instead. Consider it a gift. Hang it up across from your bed. That way you can wake up every morning, see Nothing, and think of me. Then you'll be able to remember exactly what else, besides precisely what I may have already asked for, that I need from you.”

She tried to dismiss him. Maybe in another time or place, he would have been gone in the blink of an eye. But while Sloane thought she projected an uncaring attitude, Jack saw something different. He saw the same woman who he stood up for at the Dairy Queen, on the night of Alizee’s death. He saw the same woman who had held up St. Portwell so others could not, only to be struck across the face by someone she trusted.

So he did what he should’ve done ten years ago. He stayed.

”Needs and wants are very different things, Sloane,” he countered, looking her right in the eyes. ”You need us to work together, because our lives depend on it. You may not need to be thanked for what you have tried to save us all, but you deserve it. And… You have every right to want more than a derisive painting as thanks.”

”I followed you because something is on your mind. Everyone else is enjoying themselves without a care in the world. But you feel that you don’t have a place in all of that, don’t you?” He fully expected Sloane to get defensive, so he continued. ”And before you tell me that what you want or feel does not matter compared everything else we face- I want you to understand that it matters to me.”

Because he felt very much the same way, returning after being a stranger for so long.

”You deserve to be more than a small blue drop, untouched by all the roots you helped to grow. Talk to me, I worry for you.” He wanted to say that Anya worried as well, but that would’ve defeated the purpose of what he was trying to get across: I am your friend.

The Eye of the Needle (where Fantasy and Sci-fi collide)

Wasting no time, Namsterra flexed their grip, and the glowing shields reacted to her magic. But something was wrong… They were solid steel, there should’ve been no hesitation, but her lightning magic was sluggish, they flew slowly as if thrown by a mundane individual. Namsterra didn’t understand why, but Shirik’s ball of fire had disrupted the magnetic attraction of the metal, softening it and allowing every particle of steel to lose alignment.

One of the shields curved into the ground, and the other whistled past Shirik’s left shoulder, engulfed by the inferno behind them.

Salaketh slammed his halberd into the dirt, and Dra’Kell shot forth, carried along by a trail of frost. They withdrew a sword in the half-second of time spent closing the distance to Shirik, before Salaketh’s magic sharply redirected him towards Shirik’s left. They received a blisteringly quick slice to the chest, which erupted in cerulean blue sparks.

Hold your fire.

Shirik was thrown off guard in an instant, but responded by swinging their staff in Dra’Kell’s direction. He came to a screeching halt thanks to Salaketh, but his armor suddenly wailed and hissed as it was overtaken by subzero cold. Steam exploded outwards, and Shirik ran towards Namsterra, who had withdrawn a pair of rods several inches longer than a dagger.

They use a channeling object like Salaketh, Duuli observed.

Namsterra crossed the rods, and swung them outwards. Lightning arced outwards in a curve, connecting them at the ends. One left her hand and swung overhead as if tethered by a rope. She swung it at Shirik like a whip, who ducked under it and aimed a jab at her in the chest with their staff.

A fireball erupted at the point of contact, intended to liquify Namsterra’s center mass. But the metal rod came back around, landing solidly against Shirik’s face with the force of heavy iron. The fireball flickered out, and Shirik crumpled to the ground. Namsterra kept up the pressure, and swung her weapon upwards against their face, knocking them over completely.

Now.

Duuli fired her crossbow, aiming the shot at Shirik’s shoulder to pierce their core. A sharp snap filled the air as the bolt made contact with their bark, only to be reduced to ash in an explosion of blue fire that spewed out of the wound. Bits of ruined bark sprayed out, and Shirik let off a burst of flame. They leapt up to their feet faster than Namsterra had expected, and swung the staff at her face like a hammer.

Namsterra barely ducked, and Shirik swung again. She threw her body to one side, and the staff hit the ground, causing a circle of light to appear. Seeing this, Namsterra swung her lightning rods at them once again, but Shirik set their arm ablaze, and blocked it. Something cracked, and Shirik could hear brittle bark crunching under the weight, but flecks of molten metal fell to the ground.

Salaketh had not moved once yet. He kept one eye on the open sky above. Bright markings were appearing like constellations, growing more elaborate by the second. If the stories were true, then this being was a genuine match for his squad.

He made a motion with his left hand, and held his halberd overhead.

Duuli readied another bolt.

Hold.

Shirik swung their staff upwards, carrying the ring of glowing blue light with it, and Dra’Kell appeared again with thin trails of steam following behind him. The ground crackled as ice formed across it, and Shirik’s left eye was gouged open, knocking them clean off their feet.

Their circle flew off into the burning trees, and exploded.

Detaining! Dra’Kell put a hand out in Shirik’s direction and stomped his left foot. Fog erupted in a circle around Shirik’s stunned body. It crept inwards, and once it made physical contact with their bark, they felt pain for the first time in centuries. It was not quite like burning, but more as if the very life was being ripped from their soul.

The pain was withering, gnawing at them. They felt the will to stand and fight slip away to the cold of all possible things. Shirik clawed at the dirt, clinging to the ground as if there were answers beneath the soil. Everything was going numb, but maybe there was still a chance.

Their grip on the staff finally relaxed, they were going numb. But still, they scratched at the dirt for something.

Dra’Kell’s goal was to let the temperature do the work, but most people simply gave out immediately. Most people weren’t made of fire like Shirik. So Dra’Kell kept at it, while Namsterra pulled back towards Salaketh’s direction.

What are they doing to the sky? Duuli asked.

Old legends tell of an Iriad, so in harmony with the element of fire that their methods of spell casting exceed anything we have ever known, Salaketh answered. He tilted his halberd downwards.

They are powerful, but they are outmatched.

Frost crept up across Shirik’s bark. Dra’Kell’s magic was merciless. They couldn’t win like this, but if they could just reach their staff…

Shirik felt heavy, as if they were holding the weight of every star in the night sky. It showed in the patterns that began to flicker in and out of view overhead. Dra’Kell was blowing air on a fragile candle.

You have walked the throne rooms of gods unnamed. You have seen the birth of universes. You are creation incarnate.mYou will not die here, not before you avenge your son.

The flames diminished. Shirik’s brittle, mortal shell darkened until there were only thick trails of smoke. The last embers had escaped from sight. The constellations of fire continued to flicker, and the forest was doomed to burn away even after Shirik had stopped moving.

Dra’Kell stopped his spell, and nudged Shirik with their sword. Nothing. The fog began to fade away, slowly.

Duuli closed in with her crossbow, keeping it aimed at the mage’s core. Salaketh still refused to move a single step, even as Namsterra raised her rods to strike them down again

My tremorsense tells me they are unresponsive.

Tural flew in, landing on Dra’Kell’s shoulders as a bird.

It is a shame, Tural thought. They could've taught the world so much. Their physiology fascinates me.

We will bring the body, then. Dra’Kell.

On it. Dra’Kell reached down to lift the Iriad’s body, when he felt something move.

Their hand had shot outwards towards their staff, clutching it like the cold grasp of death.

Duuli didn’t hesitate. She shot the hand right through the wrist. The bolt stuck, but the staff was not dropped.

Namsterra and Dra’Kell raised their weapons to swing, but the night sky had become day, faster than they could attack. Blue fire exploded back outwards, filling Shirik’s hollow body again. Shirik’s face turned and faced the murderers as thunder cracked across the sky.

A pillar of blue light fell from above, burning away the remains of the trees around them. engulfing Shirik, and all of the Inquisitors.

All of them except for Salaketh, who simply pointed his halberd in the direction of his squad.

”DIE!!!”

---

Shirik managed to find stability on their feet, and watched as Eva’s mechanical suit tumbled off the bridge. They could feel the weight of the bridge beginning to give out beneath everyone’s feet. The arms were rocky, perhaps a Stone or Force mage was behind this? There were many things the world had yet to fathom, and the arrival of these “humans” was but a raindrop in a storm of unknowns. These mimic beasts would kill them all if they didn’t get out ahead of this, and gravity would drown them all if they didn’t get out ahead of the bridge.

Shirk was not a fool. They were far removed from the troubles of the world, more versed in its lore than the wisest scholars, and knew when to be humble before anything else. They could win this fight, but not from a crumbling battlefield. ”We must move, jump from piece to piece if you must, but the bridge will collapse soon!” They shouted, just in time to see the vague shapes moving on the horizon.

It could have been reinforcements from the Ascendancy. It could have been bandits. It could have been the instigators of this nonsense. Anything was possible right now, including their demise.

Shirik made a circular motion with their staff, forming a sphere of burning hot flame inside the circle. They waiting for one of the stone arms to lift up, before thrusting the sphere towards it, firing out a stream of withering heat to melt the damned thing from stone to a puddle on the spot. They could do this all day, but time was running out. Shirik didn’t even bother to see if the arm would reshape like the mimic beasts, before running to the furthest end of the bridge.

”All of you, move! NOW!” Shirik kept one eye to the trees where they saw the shapes moving. If anything stepped out with a weapon, or a tendril of black liquid, they’d blast it back into oblivion ”Silbermine! Now would be the opportunity to reveal any mages in your warband!”

Shirik leapt, and an explosion of heat forced downwards carried them from one piece of the tattered bridge to another. They landed, and performed the spell again to just barely make it across the remains and onto the side with the mysterious figures. Doing this too much was risky, but Shirik could manage. They twisted one foot roughly ninety degrees outwards, and raised their staff overhead. Fog formed in thick trails along the ground, followed by ice. Shirik’s body began to glow faintly as they absorbed ambient heat to regain the lost strength.

A small thing in the grand scheme of the situation, but they wanted to be ready.

”Reveal yourself!”

Inferno - STRIKE THE MATCH! - Concluded

Jack Hawthorne/Maximillian Gray

Max saw the pain in Wong’s eyes and instantly knew what he was about to do. He wanted to stop him, to scream and hope for a better way, but he couldn't. He didn't. The scene flickered before his eyes, the babes suddenly appearing like Dorian to him before they settled back into their true selves. He wanted to believe that his inaction was due to being fused with Jack, or perhaps due to his unusually old age. He didn't dare face the facts that he simply couldn't act as fear and shock froze him in place.

”I should skin him alive for that…” Jack said to himself, feeling frail in his magically ancient age.

”Don't. Wong is just doing what was necessary. As cold as it may seem, with Strange gone, it is the job of the Sorcerer Supreme to protect Earth against magical and mystical threats. Without one, it fell to Wong to do what we couldn't…” It hurt Max to say it, but Strange had drilled it into his head so many times. This was their duty, their oath, to defend Earth in these times of crisis where all other options failed them. They didn't have a Time Stone to revert it back to before they invaded, and the Soul of the Supreme was divided both physically and morally. The others didn't care to stand together.

”Strange would have had the power to simply teleport Witchfire’s victims away from the moment he put his mind to it,” Jack wasn’t happy about the way this was going, and it was obvious through the way he spoke. ”This is not good enough, we are losing what little ground we currently have.” A god had come down to take its toll on the mortal world, and they were staring it in the face… And it was trying to grab them.

The hand began to close in around them, Carolinas's voice barely cutting through the massive winds that muffled sound as it encroached on Jax. ”A banishing spell? First we need to get out of its grasp.” Max was about to attempt to use his secondary mutation, a skill he'd only used reactively until not too long ago. As he began, waves of information flooded his mind and the power fizzled out within the palm of the hand of god. Time was of the essence and Jax used the new knowledge and abilities to navigate the mutation better. Cold air filled the space where they once stood, as a blackhole engulfed them and reappeared down on the streets of New York. ”I have an idea on a banishment spell, but I've yet to get it right…though perhaps with our knowledge combined we could do it.”

”The only banishments I use involve sending someone through a portal.” This was bad. They could cut the portal off, but then that thing might grab them. Or they could banish it, but then the Veil would be gone for good.

”Keep talking.”

”Strange has used it on several occasions. It's meant to banish the target back from where they came, though how helpful any banishment is as the Veils are thinning is beyond me. But I figured with our magical prowess combined we could use The Whirling Winds of Watoomb to banish the hand back just long enough to deal with the current threats around us. Though Watoombs Magic is powerful…calling upon such arts has proved…difficult for me.”

”My magic is drastically different from Strange’s. I have heard of that spell, but I’ve never learned or used it.”

”By all technicalities my magic is vastly different from both of yours. We are fused as one via mutant magic, it isn't something Strange could do to my knowledge. But we've gotten this far thanks to you and your vast wisdom, and I've never been one to back down just because it had never been done or the odds were slim. I've felled immortals and I won't let myself be beaten by a gassy puff of air that deems itself godly in nature.”

Appealing to his ego? Clever.

”Well, if you believe that there is a chance, then so be it. What other choice do we have? Shall we”

Jax moved in unison, following the movements Max had seen Strange use several times (as well as from the scriptures that he may have borrowed from the archives for some light reading). There was hope, with two sorcerers combined, both their knowledge and skills as well as two tenths of the soul of the supreme, they had a chance to actually do this. The Pentagram was already flickering, they only had to hope that it would go out on its own while Jax dealt with the partial god before them. They called upon The Whirling Winds of Watoomb, asking them to banish the hand from whence it came. Winds rushed past them as their arms swept out, making contact with the thing but nothing happened.

”By the Hoary Host of Hoggoth! That didn't go as planned. I was really hoping that even having two fragments of Stephen's Soul would allow us to accomplish it.”

It did nothing.

”We are not Strange. Perhaps our mistake was thinking like him. We may have pieces of his soul, but we are still different sorcerers, with different methods…”

Jack had an idea.

”Stephen was a traditionalist. You bend reality, and I bend the forces of a plane that is all but removed from most of the universe… If we truly were chosen as successors, it was not to be like the previous Sorcerer Supreme. No, we must do this our way.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

lol

Lmao, even

SPIRITUM

---

Something stirred in Morden when he saw the Vangar ship crash. Something that allowed him to tolerate Silje clambering onto him like a horse. What lay before them was allegedly a civilian airliner piloted by Vangar. Morden absorbed the mist to keep pace with the truck on the off-road path, with Silje stuck on top of him. He just barely moved faster than it, able to move just ahead until they were all at the scene. It was a barren, dedicated crater of dust and rock with nothing to offer for anyone but the occasional vulture. If anything, the downed airship did it a favor. From the smoke and twisted wreckage, Morden could see thin trails of mist fuming out. To him, the astral mist was a red energy that diffused into the atmosphere like oxygen, waiting to be breathed in. The tractor of the ship had been compromised.

The mist is leaking from the reactor. That is what you are noticing, Gerard, he warned, silently. Mind your magic use, all of you.

As Gerard managed to deduce, the Vangar Honorguard lie dead as well. What kind of civilian airliner held troops like that?

Diplomatic? No, Vangar does not negotiate. I do not like this, I’m going on ahead. If anyone is alive, they won’t be able to kill me. Morden dropped Silje off of his shoulders and breathed in more mist, for good measure. His skin began to crackle with red energy, his limbs thickened as his muscles grew denser. He felt power surge through him, and now he was confident enough to enter a fight.

The rush never got old.

Everyone, stay together. There is no telling what could be attracted by the etherium.

With that, Morden turned and stormed off into No Man’s Land.

A trail of iron and steal surrounded him, burning bodies and withered flesh filled the air, but Morden blitzed past everything. His steps were light, without proper Vanguard plate armor, and all the destruction could not phase him. Morden stopped to survey the bodies along the massive scar cut into the land. By all accounts, this landing was relatively soft, it wouldn’t be impossible for a decent amount of them to survive. Most of the ship itself seemed to have torn away in massive chunks, leaving behind pile upon pile of scrap like a trail of breadcrumbs.

There was definitely no saving the vessel, that became apparent as Morden neared the remaining half of the ship. The stern seemed to have been lost in the initial explosion, but what could possibly do that much damage to a ship out here? While in flight?

Barghest, I am at the center of the crash. No survivors yet, and most of the vessel is missing from the destruction. The path is safe, you are clear to-

CLANG!

A huge metal hunk of something fell out of a large pile of wreckage. Stepping forward, Morden saw what looked like the beaten and battered remains of some strange bipedal robot. A large, hulking 8 foot tall machine forged of some sort of dark blue metal alloy he'd never seen before, its head set deep between its shoulders and layers of heavy armor, and a cannon the size of a 40mm grenade launcher attached to its arm. Was it one of the Vangar's new toys? They loved their powered armor- but this machine had sustained large amounts of damage. Across its torso were impact marks, scorches and dents from bullets, blades and spells scoring or ricocheting across its armor. Its left arm was missing and in its place was a tangle of wires and cords in patterns that didn't match typical Vangar synthetic muscle and stuck between its shoulder plates was what looked like the blade of a Vangar power-lance.

Contact! ENGAGING!

He didn’t give the thing time to use that weapon before charging it. Morden dropped low and sprung up to give it a quick haymaker straight to its center mass.

Morden was rewarded for his troubles with a stinging jolt of pain up his hand and wrist, and a dent in the armor. The robot didn’t even react. The fact that it could survive that meant this wasn’t ordinary material.

Vangar never sent machines into battle. Robots were their logistics workhorses, not their soldiers. AI wasn’t sophisticated enough for Vangar’s standards, it was simply not fit for the battlefield, and they shipped them with weapons onto a “civilian” airliner…

It had to be dead, given the damage. But the fact that it was here at all was a grave omen.

Barghest- We have a problem. It’s a dead robot. Not power armor, not an armored foot soldier, a robot. This isn’t a civilian airliner, this robot in front of me is eight feel tall, and armed with a cannon. Vangar doesn’t use machines to fight wars…

This did not bode well. How many of these things were still functioning?

…I barely damaged it. There could be more of these still in working order. Holding this position for now.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Stormy’s updated spells

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"NOT. ONE. STEP. FURTHER!!!"

TYPE ⫻ Adept

ABSTRACTION ⫻ Yellow Lux. Stormy's channeler is an old wristwatch.

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ Stormy's magic focuses on a variety of defenses for every occasion. He is a magic tank who turns the area into a hazard for enemies, and a sanctuary for his friends.

Defender’s Armory ⫻ Stormy has created a collection of shield spells that protect people from various sources of danger. Each spell produces a physical object, which is specialized for a different approach to combat.

Guardian Barrier ⫻ Stormy can create lightweight, circular shields of magic energy that block incoming assaults. These shields can take a decent amount of damage before breaking, including everything from bullets or a sudden sledgehammer, to certain forms of Lux. These shields are designed to be produced multiple times over in quick succession at the cost of individual toughness, making them good for spreading out cover over a wider area. Stormy can also use these shields like a projectile, throwing them at a target for a quick, ranged gut punch.

Stoic Shell ⫻ Stormy produces a heavy tower shield that reflects some magic like a mirror. Rather than simply block the spells, the Stoic Shell can potentially hit someone with their own attacks when applicable. If Stormy manages to aim properly, he can use this to make attacking him or anyone next to him more trouble than it’s worth. The Stoic Shell can be placed on the ground, to act as cover from ranged magic, but will disappear when Stormy moves more than 10 feet away.

Iron Fortress ⫻ Using all of his concentration, Stormy can surround himself in an immensely durable dome of magic energy. Anyone trying to get past it is stuck; No one goes in and no one goes out. The Iron Fortress is drastically stronger than the Guardian Barriers, trading mobility and nullification for enough toughness to brush off a runaway train. Trying to break through it to hurt anyone benefiting from the protection is like trying to break through a brick wall with a plastic spoon. You're just wasting your time, and should just find a way to bait him out somehow.

Abjuration Arts ⫻ The Abjuration Arts are a set of spells that provide a protective effect to Stormy, or anyone that agrees to receive one. These spells keep an individual safe from a specific form of harm that may not necessarily be blocked by a physical barrier, by affecting a radius around the target.

Phantombane ⫻ Stormy projects a magic aura that repels Apparitions. Like iron to a fairy, or sunlight to a vampire, the affected entities grow sick and frail around the aura, feeling worse until they get the hell away. Whoever has a Phantombane aura is completely defended from any influence of an Apparition, even if they are somehow under its influence. This can temporarily block off the Adjoined from the Apparitions that they've bonded to, without causing any harm to the Adjoined or the bond itself.

Phantombane is identified by trails of green smoke rolling off of the target.

Consecration ⫻ The exact opposite of Phantombane. Stormy projects an aura that repels Abberations. What type of Aberration they are is irrelevant, as the spell does not discriminate. When exposed to the magic, Aberrant targets will feel a burning sensation of pain and weakness overtake them as their connection to magic and the Paranormal diminishes. Adepts and Apparitions adjoined to the affected targets will feel absolutely nothing, and may not even realize the spell is active. Stormy's favorite way to execute this spell is to punch something with it.

Consecration is identified by a consistent green glow emitting from the target.

Dragonhide ⫻ Dragonhide provides enhanced physical durability, allowing someone to shrug off shots from a handgun, or a knife to the stomach. A punch to the face would barely be felt at all. When applied to objects, Dragonhide makes them incredibly sturdy, allowing someone to smash through something with a piece of cardboard as if it were a sledgehammer.

Dragonhide is identified by a glowing scale-like pattern spreading across the surface of a target.

Witchveil ⫻ Witchveil supercharges the target’s Emotional Field to grant them extra resistance to Abstractions. Incoming magic has a harder time getting through the Emotional Field, and this can act as a substitute for people who do not have one, such as Blinds and One-Eye-Opens. In the case of someone who does have their own Emotional Field, they will experience a backlash effect once this wears off, where they are more vulnerable to magic than normally. Blinds, One-Eye-Opens and similar entities will not experience this once Witchveil wears off.

Witchveil is identified by a green, crackling energy that forks outwards like lightning.

Plagueward ⫻ The Plagueward aura was originally a running joke among Stormy’s friends back in the old days. But as a Yellow Adept, it made perfect sense. It is magic protection for the totally innocent sexy times that totally never happen, which applies to everyone inside the radius. It can be applied to objects, but this mainly just disinfects the surface.

Plagueward is identified by waves of green energy gently rolling across someone’s skin.

LIMITS ⫻ All of Stormy’s magic operates with low range, and demands some level of attention. Phantombane and Consecration have a maximum range of 20 feet, and all of the Abjuration Arts last for exactly 15 minutes. Granting an aura to an entity with an Emotional Field requires their consent. Even if the entity doesn’t not truly know what he is about to do, Stormy still requires them to invite him into their Emotional Field. Abjuration Art auras cannot be canceled early. An active aura can be renewed with physical contact, but it must run its course if Stormy wants to apply a different aura to himself or someone else.

This can lock Stormy out of half of his spells entirely if he miscalculates a fight. Each aura is visually distinct, meaning someone can study his magic and identify each one to plan accordingly.

While the Abjuration Arts are passive when used, Defender’s Arsenal spells are active. They have “weight” to them, and each one is a burden on Stormy’s magic. This is directly related to the amount of a damage a specific smell can withstand before breaking. More shields means more weight, more weight limits how much he can cast magic. The Stoic Shell, for example, is enough of a strain that Stormy can only make one copy of it at a time. This also applies to the Iron Fortress, which completely overtakes all other shield spells, snuffing them out to make room. Guardian Barriers are the “lightest” shield, which makes them easy to cast in large quantities.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Interactions: Oh, you know.

Cracker Barrel

---

Perhaps Sloane was just a bit more hammered than she appeared. Once they teleported, she started mouthing off in Jack's direction about how he had been gone forever. Jack was, admittedly, caught off guard by that. A drunk person's words were a sober person's thoughts. Sloane held it against him for retreating into the Void and never leaving so much as a voicemail, didn't she? Of course she did, the entire coven had the right to do so.

"I got around just fine without you."

It didn't show, thanks to the shadows concealing Jack's face, but that comment didn't sit well with him. This whole time, she could've said something. She could've pulled him aside and asked, "why didn't you come back?" or, "What was so important that you never returned?" But it took four strong drinks for her to even imply she took offense to it. Jack would've admitted to the fact that he should've come home sooner. He would've taken the blame, she didn't have to hold onto it like that. Sloane didn't have to wait until now to throw it in his face.

"You go after Sloane, I'll catch up, I need to make sure she doesn't lose everything after offending the man who practically runs the city.”

Who?

"Who...?" Jack didn't recognize that man. Why would he? He didn't seem like anything special.

"I'll be back," he said, concealing his discomfort at Sloane's jab as Anya walked off.

Jack stepped into an alleyway, and teleported up to the rooftops, following Sloane in secret until she came to a stop. She was easy to spot, in that bright red trench coat of hers. Meanwhile, no one would be able to catch a glimpse of the ominous shade flickering in and out of the background as he kept up with her. Tonight was meant to be fun, and Sloane wasn't having any. Did he really get under her skin that much? Was coming back a mistake? Had she been waiting for an excuse to tell Jack that he should go back to the Void? Jack trailed Sloane long enough that, hopefully she managed to cool down at least enough to be interacted with.

And then he stepped out into the open, pulling his hood off to reveal his face again. Not a trace of emotion was on it. Sloane, what is it that troubles you tonight? It isn't Drake, or me, is it?"

Interactions: A Gaggle of Dipshits, and his Friends

Isle of Cracks

---

"Then don't."

Well, there it was. They didn't care enough to commit. There was no conviction, no determination in what Meifeng was trying to pitch. The moment she met resistance, she bent. Stormy felt that he was being clinically objective in his dissecting of her excuses. And by all accounts, he felt Meifeng was genuinely sorry about the incident. But she wasn't sorry enough to dwell on it, and he couldn't expect her to. As one of her companions explained, Director Alcott simply didn't have the time to care, so it was up to the PRA to decide if keeping good relations with the paranormal scene was worth their time. Stormy wasn't sympathetic to her response, but he saw the point in it. And he saw the point in what Bianca provided. It was hard to be mad at Bianca in particular, she was a survivor of the old days, and blood like that ran deeper than most were willing to accept. If he were there, when the attack happened, Stormy would've gone to a maximum security paranormal holding facility for the bloodbath that he'd leave behind. Or, at the very least, for trying. He understood that protective streak, it was what made him who he was.

He saw the look Lila gave him. Stormy accepted that. He'd accept every hateful, bitter word from every last member of the coven for this. Someone had to at least try and make peace before things escalated into a cycle of revenge. Even if things would only be made worse in time by Stormy's actions, he could say that he handled things with dignity, that he tried to do the best he could; An error of compassion beat an error of malice. Stormy reached into his jacket and pulled his wallet out...

“A Moscow mule.”

“Make that two Moscow mules,”

"Make it three, and bottled water if you have it."

Stormy sat two $100 bills down on their table, in the center to pay for the drinks.

"Actions speak louder than words, that's true." he acknowledged. "So let me be a man of my word." Being a senior-level college professor, Stormy had plenty of cash to spare when he was in the mood.

"I'm not going to patronize anybody here by implying that we are destined to be able to make amends properly. But I want to, at the very least, try to make that a possible future. We're dying, you know this already. And the truth is we've got nothing to show for the investigations we've conducted," to say nothing of the fact that their investigating amounted to a disaster thus far. "Bianca is in danger, no less than any of us. We both want to protect our people, Meifeng. That means protecting the ones we care about from Father Wolf. If there is a chance that mine will live one more day by speaking like this, then I'll it my responsibility, and mine alone, so no one else has to sit through this. "

They could share information, and use apply it together to take the bastard down wherever he might be. Survival brought everyone together as kids, it could bring them together now, even if they were bound to divide again afterwards. "And if anyone holds it against me, just know that I'll respect that," he said, looking to his fellow covenmates. He knew Lila was the most pissed, and Stormy wanted to acknowledge her feelings, since they were unquestionably justified.

"But for now, drink to your hearts content, everyone. I meant what I said, it's on me tonight."