Dark Jack

The Prophecy

Many rune mages actually do carry their runeswords in hand at all times, usually only even wearing the harness to attach it to their backs when they have to make some kind of official appearance (assuming that they are in a position that requires official appearances to be made; most Rodorian rune mages serve the duchy of Zerul, after all, and as such have duties to uphold) since it is part of the Zerulic rune mage "image", and most others come into the habit of reaching a hand behind themselves to keep the sword steady whenever they're moving around, particularly if they need to run. The only ones that voluntarily keep their runesword on their back are the ones that are either unwilling to question their instructions upon receiving it and the ones who lack the power to keep the Unity-rune perpetually active... or the ones that just want to preserve their magical energy in anticipation of needing all of it imminently.
The spikes are (under normal circumstances) almost always pointed towards the holding hand, yes, though it should be noted that this particular detail is far from an intentional part of the design of the swords; the crystal hilts "grow" like this on their own when they are created by feeding magical energy into the initial crystal, and just as the handle rarely grows longer than to fit the grip of one hand (one could just keep growing the crystal to produce a longer handle, of course, but this would also cause the spikes to grow even longer, making them more dangerous (the instances where the handle does manage to grow longer without the spikes becoming a significant hazard are usually reserved for special weapons for special people)), it rarely occurs that it grows very small spikes, and even more rarely that it grows none at all. Crystal hilts where the spikes are deemed too dangerous are actually discarded, broken and recycled rather than attempted used, and even the ones that are acceptable - albeit initially still dangerous - have their tips dulled so that they aren't actually sharp, but at most just in the way. The spikes can't be safely severed, either, or the crystal would lose its proficiency at channelling magical energy.

And yeah, heh, some things are just not meant to be taken seriously; I often find myself facepalming in early stages of games or movies where the actors do things that are clearly in no way actually possible (magic excluded, obviously, since that always follow different rules than the ones we know; things that would have seriously injured or killed a person should still severely injure or kill them, though... or at least that's what I think) until I decide that such is the norm in that particular instance and just stop applying the laws of our world to it altogether. That said, unrealistic as though it may be, I find myself thoroughly enjoying at least several of the Final Fantasy games... Ironically FF7 is by far my favorite, featuring its main protagonist with the infamously huge Buster Sword and its main antagonist (possibly my favorite antagonist of all time, maybe tied with GLaDOS from Portal) with the equally infamously impossibly long Masamune. But yeah, there is a time for realism and a time for craziness, and I think either can be enjoyable.

While I'm writing: Ashgan, are you there? It's been a while since we heard from you, and I'm starting to get worried...

The Prophecy

Actually I don't think he ever got around to actually returning the sword to his back, no... he brandished it when he went outside during the attack of the crows and has been in danger constantly since then, so I think he's still got it in hand. Oh, but the standard cleaver-type runeswords are indeed generally kept on the back (and would have been by this rune mage as well) due to them being simply too large to keep anywhere else.
Momentum is indeed still an issue when using the massive runed cleavers, and it does tire a rune mage to carry around their sword; especially trying to hold it like Thomas did when he was threatening Ixion, or alternatively how he held it in the novel when he released the lightning-rune (which is why they usually support their wielding arm with the other one in these cases), and generally when being held in a somewhat horizontal manner without resting on something else. Holding a runesword passively one would usually either rest the blade against the ground or one's shoulder, since keeping it raised for any extended duration is quite strenuous. Additionally I should point out (although you probably already know this) that rune mages do feel the weight of their runeswords as long as they keep them on their back due to the Unity-rune not being activated during this time, since they aren't touching the energy-conveying crystal handle.
As to the exact device serving to hold the swords in place on the rune mages' backs, it is a contraption of several reinforced leather straps that ties around the mage's shoulders and chest on one side and locks with the spike-like crystal extremities of the runesword hilt on the other; normally one would have to undo the straps to actually draw the runesword (which can be done by releasing a clasp, which can be reached while grasping the actual handle), though in urgent cases it is possible (but not guaranteed to succeed) to get the sword loose with some violent pulling and wriggling due to the shape of the sword-hilt... though this method does run a risk of damaging the harness and the sword-hilt. Sitting with a runesword is uncomfortable but possible, since it is only anchored to one point between the rune mage's shoulderblades and can be shifted around to various angles as this necessitates, whereas running with it can be difficult and even dangerous, so one usually doesn't do that without at the very least reaching up and grabbing the hilt before running, to have some control over where the blade is actually pointing.

De’ Seil Carnival - Soul Collecting Carnival

I see... very good, then, in that case it makes sense. I'm particularly relieved that a pre-existing portal is indeed necessary to leave Urbaniel, since it would be rather superflous with guardians of the realm if anyone with a grain of power at their disposal could just draw up a portal of their own and/or recite an incantation to leave from anywhere in the realm. It also explains how the Carnival can travel around the realms so easily to make appearances for new audiences. The bit about powers seems a bit vague, still, but I suppose that's fine. I wonder what spontaneous reactions the use of powers could provoke, though?
And if I may ask another question inspired by your own reply just now: staying in a single realm changes you? How?

I am here, in case that wasn't already clear. And I'm, eh, sorry about... you know.

The Prophecy

I very rarely remember my dreams when I wake up, and when I do I usually forget them in a matter of minutes after. Most of the time I am simply aware that I have dreamed, and often I will even know what the dream was about, but the dream itself will elude me completely. With what I do remember from dreaming, and from what I researched on the subject once, dreams are indeed capable of convincingly fabricating impressions through all of one's senses. Whenever I sit down and really focus on a game (which I tend to do whenever I start an intended complete playthrough) for longer periods of time I, too, often dream about them... in fact I have occasionally gone to bed annoyed at a game because I reach an impasse of one kind of another, only to find an answer to the problem in my dreams (whether that answer actually works in the game has varied, though; the rules in the game and the rules in the dream tend to differ). I also frequently view the game-character as myself in dreams, even if I am aware that it is a game...
There is admittedly a lot about my dreams that I just don't know about because I forget them so easily, but I do know that I view myself in third-person sometimes, or that I dream as someone else than myself... and that I will switch from being one person to another in mid-dream, not as though I transform but more as though the viewpoint just changes. Similarly it's not unusual for me to dream that I am several people at the same time, and that I am equally convinced that I am every actor in the dream (one dream that for some reason stuck with me was one in which I was running from a monster (it was only ever implied that it was a monster... I never actually saw it) which was also me (as in I controlled/viewed the dream from the monster's viewpoint as well as my own)).
I find dreaming highly fascinating... especially the concept of lucid dreaming. To be aware of the fact that you're dreaming and able to control everything, create anything, do anything... I would really like to try that, but the times that I've actually managed to become lucid while dreaming it has always caused me to abruptly feel extremely conscious about the fact that my eyes were closed, and I felt an irresistible urge to open them, thus waking me up and ending the dream. Quite annoying, really. According to what I've read there are a number of ways to somewhat reliably check whether you are awake or dreaming, the simplest one that I prefer being to just pinch your nose closed and try to breathe through it; if you can't you're awake, and if you can you're dreaming. They also say that if you lean against something in a dream you'll fall through it, and that if you jump straight up you won't fall back down... and that if you look at a piece of text, look away and then look at it again, the text will be different from when you read it the first time (this is all second-hand information, though; I've never been aware enough of my dreams to notice stuff like that).
One thing about dreams that I have read and somewhat personally confirmed is that your mirror-image is different. People say that if you look at yourself in a mirror in a dream you won't see yourself as you actually look, but the way you subconsciously view yourself. This particular detail has stuck with me, because a year or so ago I had a dream in which I briefly glanced at a mirror, which was at an angle so that I could only see my right hand in it, and immediately woke, sat up, gasped, whined and cried - which I've never done before. I wanted to scream, but luckily I was borderline hyperventilating and couldn't. The sight of that hand has been burned into my mind since that day... looking as though it'd been fed through some kind of machinery, the skin ripped and lacerated, covered in blood, flesh torn so bad that the bone showed many places. I've gutted fish and seen gross movies and such and haven't been particularly bothered by it, but somehow this was infinitely worse because I for some reason was absolutely convinced that it was my hand. It does make an eerie kind of sense for me to view my hand like that, given its condition and the fact that my hands are in near-constant pain, but regardless that single event made me resolve never to look at a mirror in a dream again.

Returning to the questions from before, the mind is a result of what the brain does, but it is also a result of what the soul does. Most of the time these two will be in accordance with each other, and causing one to work differently somehow (such as through illusions) will also affect the other. If the two come to be desynchronized somehow it can be really bad for the person; one could develop all kinds of mental disorders from brain and soul being in disagreement.
As to the matter of half-swording, I read up on the subject some more and while it does seem like it could be done with just about any regular sword (since apparently a blade won't cut if you just hold on to it tightly, but only slice if you move along it) I still don't see it as being safe to do with Roct. Not only is Roct razor-sharp (which is unusual for medieval swords; it is generally agreed upon that the average sword had a sharpness that was about the same or slightly lower than that of an average modern kitchen knife, since if it was any sharper it would chip too easily) but it is also extremely smooth and relatively frictionless... Even if it was possible to hold it by the blade without cutting oneself, it seems likely that it would slip and slice one as one used it like that. The gauntlets would help, but meh... it still seems like Jaelnec wouldn't be comfortable with running that risk.

The Prophecy

Ugh, we're on some pretty philosophical things now, and technically the various cultures and beliefs of the Planes have different definitions of what is alive and what is not, and there are certain things that are frequently argued over by Reniam philosophers, like whether undead are alive, or whether dead spirits in the afterlives can still be considered as in possession of something that can qualify as "life", whether immortals are alive, whether plants are alive... heck, some of the most extreme views even questions whether animals and monsters are alive. Some might claim that the presence of magical energy is the trait that defines life, which creates doubt about the nature of such as Minions and reanimated corpses, others that it is the possession of a unique soul, which in many cases except plants (since these often share a soul with their surrounding plants) and would leave out things such as Harvesters, which have a different kind of lifeforce compared to most other beings.
If I, as the creator and demiurge of the universe, were to define what life in the Planes is... it would be that which is capable of affecting the course of fate. To someone who can see possible futures it will be evident that things that happen by chance are predetermined and will happen regardless of how many possible futures one takes into consideration, barring of course those that remove chance from the equation, whereas things that happen because someone decided something will be different every time. The web of fate is made up by a multitude of futures formed by countless decisions, and that is what life in the Planes is; the ability to make decisions.

What mages feel when they are subjected to magical exhaustion is rarely actually organ failure, though this is indeed one of the reasons that severe magical exhaustion can at times take a very long time to recover fully from; rather what one feels is the little things, things that are unlikely to be lethal but are immediately painful and/or crippling. Any experienced mages draining themselves a lot but not feeling a lot of the usual effects of exhaustion would actually be a lot more concerned than if they had been in searing pain, since the lack of pain meant that the damage inflicted by magical exhaustion was targeting something not immediately felt... which among other things could mean that they were suffering consequences that could kill them over time. What does kill them quickly is mainly when an organ responsible for short-term survival stops functioning altogether (the heart is the most common and quickest cause, although the lungs are also an ordinary cause, while somewhat slower), which the exhaustion can cause directly or indirectly (such as with a blood clot or internal bleeding). The brain is actually extremely rarely affected by magical exhaustion (directly, at least... indirectly still suffers frequently, which is another cause of immediate death) to a lethal degree, and even more rarely in a non-lethal manner. I could explain why, but then I'd start moving onto information that will actually play a major role in extremely late IC story, so I'll leave it at that.
I think I touched the subject of the relationship between soul and brain in Reniam once before... they cooperate, each storing information on its own in itself but mostly they will work in complete accordance with one another, although the most notable difference would be that the soul solely deals with thinking and feeling on both a conscious and subconscious level (which the brain also does), and whereas the brain is the only of the two responsible for "automatic" functions of the body. Memories are stored in both soul and brain, although the memory of a soul is more fickle than that of a brain, and tends to hinge even more on emotions. As for the mind existing separate from the body, what exactly do you mean by that?
The last bit, about why the body is altered to fit the soul, I will also have to abstain from explaining. There is a reason, but it is plot-relevant, so one day it will become evident. For now, though, let's just say that this is how it is, and leave it at that.

I do know about the technique of half-swording, yes (I was unfamiliar with the term itself, admittedly, although I did guess correctly as to what it referred to, as I confirmed by googling it), and I do have that up my sleeve to use when it seems appropriate, but somehow that hasn't seemed like it has been the case thus far... The people I have described fighting with swords have either been relatively inexperienced (various crusader grunts), had their blades wrapped in fire (rune mages and Goldheart Templars) or been Jaelnec, who uses Roct, which is perpetually significantly sharper than regular bladed weapons can reliably be due to its higher durability and thus not entirely safe to handle by holding the blade. The only sword-user I've written as for whom it would actually have been appropriate to half-sword was the vampire follower of Rilon at the Schaxathris church, and she was highly aggressive in her fighting and relied a lot on speed and reach. There may have been others, but frankly there just hasn't been a situation in which someone would actually have half-sworded yet.

EDIT: What do you guys think of the new Prophecy-banner?

De’ Seil Carnival - Soul Collecting Carnival

Hopefully my inquisitiveness isn't getting annoying just yet, but I actually have another question that occurred to me was probably a pretty major thing, especially for my character as well as several others, to know, although I figure anyone at the Carnival would really need to be aware of it. How does one actually go about moving from one realm to another, and what exactly is it that divides them? Since Limblel can exist as a boundary to Urbaniel it seems as though there is some concept of distance separating the realms to a higher or lesser degree, but at the same time I somehow doubt that it is as simple as trekking from one realm to another, or you'd think that the mortals would be more aware of the other realms. Is there a special kind of magic or some hidden portals or something that connect them? Is there a price to pay for crossing over?
That reminds me, how does using their powers affect beings in this world? Does it tire them, drain them somehow, or are they capable of invoking their various powers indefinitely without suffering any detrimental effects from it?

De’ Seil Carnival - Soul Collecting Carnival

It's from Pachid's entry on Angoriel in his relationship-chart; I just noticed it and found it amusing. Andracos' opinion of him is slightly worrying, but I guess it can't be helped. It's not like Angoriel holds him in high regard either.

De’ Seil Carnival - Soul Collecting Carnival

Oh dear... well that doesn't sound very pleasant.
"He and Andracos will go head to head some time I reckon and I’ll be there, eating popcorn." Well...

De’ Seil Carnival - Soul Collecting Carnival

Well, it doesn't actually entail any kind of progress as such aside from the placing of Angoriel within the IC world, but there it is; I have posted.

De’ Seil Carnival - Soul Collecting Carnival

Faster, Angoriel urged himself sharply, blinking the sweat from his sky-blue eyes and clenching his jaw so that his teeth hurt, his curly brown hair whipping about his head in rhythm with the erratic motions of his body. He could feel the burn in his sides, biceps, shoulders, buttocks and thighs from the exertion, but his fists had yet to start to get sore, even as he propelled them forward time and time again, each time from a new angle, to ram into the brown punching bag that hung from the ceiling in front of him. He pushed himself, moving faster, shifting his weight from one side to the other constantly as he launched one punch after another, each impact interrupting the pendulous motion of the bag and sending it straight back the other way before it could even get back into its vertical resting-position.
Harder, he thought impatiently, flexing the muscles in his powerful arms, shoulders and chest even harder as he drove his fists into their target with increasingly greater force while maintaining the high speed and varying movement. He could feel the irritating sensation of sweat accumulating in his beard, and even more perspiration trailing down his neck and shoulders, where their paths became strange and twisted as they met the gnarly surface of his scarred skin, spread across his torso like a vest, and across his naked shins. Shirtless as he was the fluid felt cool where it flowed, even though the rest of his body felt hot like a furnace; his pelvis in particular, clad in thigh-length shorts as it was, the only garment he was actually wearing at the moment. The shorts were already drenched in sweat from his morning exercise, as he had just finished the usual workout before deciding that he would spend a while of this particular morning on beating this voice- and defenseless piece of equipment.
Why had he decided on doing so this morning, exactly? How could he ever be sure why he did anything when his motivation for doing anything was almost always conflicting with a desire to not do the very same? The angel in him did not want to hurt anyone, and frowned upon his own angry frustration, but the demon in him was furious and wanted to vent its rage. This was the compromise; pummel a punching bag into oblivion, allowing the release of some of his ire without endangering those around him.

Why was he so angry, then? That was perhaps a better question, although part of Angoriel's consciousness scoffed at this thought and wanted to ask if there was any way that he could not be this angry. Fifty-six years he had lived and worked at De' Seil Carnival, preying upon the hapless people who wandered on its grounds whenever the chance presented itself, always the predator, never the prey... but now twelve of his compatriots of the Carnival had disappeared, and if they could disappear, what was to stop himself from being next? But no, another part of him argued, it was not that; it was because he had been unable to protect them, because his allies and neighbors had been taken by some unknown force, and this was his way of reacting to the loss. And then a third part of him, the logical mind that spanned across his good and evil selves, corrected that it was both things that angered him.
He endeavored to punch even faster and harder, to push himself further yet as the intensity in his stare grew. For centuries he had been a guardian, a keeper of Urbaniel, and had always known who his enemies and allies were, and had always been able to defeat them with the aid of his fellow tartarus angels... but now his enemy was beyond the meager scope of his knowledge, hiding in shadow yet possessing the power to claim twelve beings strong and smart enough to partake in the collection of souls. He needed to get even stronger and faster than he already was; he needed more power, so that when their enemy finally revealed itself he would not be spirited away as the others had, but be able to stand and face the menace, whoever or whatever it might be.

I will kill it. The dark angel's lips began to draw back, revealing his teeth in a vicious scowl, even as he made himself punish the punching bag even more severely. I will kill the one who hunts me, this gloriously strong opponent. I will protect everyone. I will save them... by killing it.
He tried to imagine this adversary before him, tried to picture the punching bag as his true enemy, but in truth he had no idea what features to attribute to this creature... or these creatures, if there were more of them. Angoriel endeavored to motivate himself by trying to force a picture of his enemy into his mind, which abruptly made him see Vol in place of the bag, and despite of this not being his intention it nevertheless made him swing his fists with renewed vigor. Vile creature, he thought, pounding the imaginary siren senselessly, all but forgetting where his fury originally came from with this distraction. He was punching the bag so hard that the force had it swinging up to the ceiling every time, and he was moving so fast that he had to take a step forward to continue to reach it. He struck Vol's face, or where he imagined it to be, and when he removed his fist Vol and become Andracos; Angoriel literally growled as the hatred flared within him, fueling his wrath even further, and then Andracos became Seil, and...
A sharp, loud snap resounded through the room as the rope connecting punching bag and ceiling gave up, followed by a boom as the bag itself was sent flying through the room, traveling some six feet or so before smashing into the wall with enough force to send a palpable tremor through the floor. There were several loud thuds of dumbbells falling to the floor, a crash as a simple cabinet was knocked over and a bowl shattered; was it not for the pandemonium around him Angoriel might not have realized that something was wrong at all, but simply continued his relentless assault on the punching bag.
As it was he just barely managed to stop himself from launching himself forward and unleashing all of his savage fury, only to realize that his tongue had come to take up far too much space in his mouth. Knowing very well what this sensation meant he looked down himself, confirming that his skin had grown pale and his arms had become grotesquely long and thick, and that his hands had grown to be huge, each finger adorned with a black hooked claw. His hair and beard had turned black, he knew, his eyes had become yellow and the area surrounding them was red.
Sighing impatiently to himself Angoriel turned around slightly, confirming that he had indeed pretty much razed half of his room - the half he reserved for training and bathing, as it were, whereas his bed and dresser occupied the other half - by enraging himself to the point of reverting to his true form. The quake caused by sending the punching bag flying with his unleashed strength had probably jarred some things in the room a bit, but it was not what had brought about the full extent of the havoc that had overcome the area. No, the mess around him was rather a product of him unintentionally sprouting the great span of his black-feathered wings from his back, which were clearly much too large to have room to move - or even exist, for most part - in the relatively tight quarters of his cart. The only things in this half of the room that remained standing was the headless mannequin that served to provide a place for his iron armor to be, and the makeshift rack that his hampol - the three-hooked iron pole of the tartarus angels - leaned against when he was not using it.
Angoriel grumbled to himself, annoyed by just about everything at the moment, and went to the wall which the punching bag was somehow still sticking to. Raising his large right hand he grabbed the rough surface of the bag - it was ripped, he noticed, either from the impact or from having incidentally come into contact with one of his claws - and simply pulled the sand-filled sixty-pound cylindrical leather-bag down from the wall, easily tossing it aside with his monstrously deform arm. There was a deep imprint in the wooden wall where it had hit, where the pinewood boards were cracked and splintered.
Annoying, but the uncorking of a vial was all it took to fix it, luckily. This was far from the first time Angoriel had transformed accidentally and wrecked his quarters, and unless he met his demise relatively soon or he suddenly acquired a much greater ability to control his concealment it was rather likely that it would not be the last. Because of this Angoriel somewhat suspected that he was probably the one with the Carnival who used the customization-potion the most...
He opened the drawer in his nightstand, retrieved the potion and almost habitually unplugged it, invoking the magic confined within, and soon his cart was restored to prime condition.

Some twenty minutes later Angoriel had resumed his human form, washed himself and changed from his training-shorts to his regular clothes, today composed of his black oxfords, white shirt, black suit pants, a black vest and his gray fedora. He felt better now, with some of the pent-up rage from yesterday out of the system. His worries about what had been revealed were still on his mind, but with some of his emotional imbalance handled through a harmless practice of violence he felt that he could better handle it rationally, bolstering his ability to ignore his angelic impulses to become obsessed with protecting others and smiting evil and his demonic urges to protect himself and kill everyone... which was generally a good thing to be able to withstand. Tartarus angels would probably need to keep learning to contain their dual natures even after Angoriel's contract expired and they finally received their freedom; that was one good thing about the training received upon arriving in Urbaniel.
Fixing the last silver button on his vest and quickly running his fingers through his hair, the dark angel looked around in his restored home. His gaze lingered momentarily at his hampol, which he had to resist the urge to bring with him... and again when it came to his nightstand, on top of which his rock from Limblel was randomly altering itself. It was fascinating to watch it sometimes, mesmerizing even, and at times he could spend hours just staring at it and marveling at its many different shapes, sizes and colors. But not today; today was still young, and with things the way they were there were probably plenty of things that needed doing.
And so he went and opened the door, and just like that there he was...

Back at the Carnival.