So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
8
likes
4 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
likes
4 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
From the sparkling cities of the Ensollian basin with their spires and minarets that soar into the burning sun, to the vast golden fields of Crisia and Perrence glistening with morning dew and the promise of bountiful harvests, to the proud stone keeps and snowcapped peaks of Eskand in the South, the land of Constantia is one of balance, peace, and time-honoured virtue, bound together by magics gifted to the Firstborn by the Gods themselves. Honest lords and just kings preside over a loyal, beloved, and industrious populace. All is well.
Except that it isn’t.
Following the collapse of the Avincian Empire a thousand years ago at the hands of howling Eskandish hordes, no single entity has been able to unify the disparate peoples of the continent. Petty nobles, conquerors, and greedy kings have fought for the scraps, ruthlessly exploiting the common people and squeezing everything that they can from the land itself. Under their rule, Constantia has bled.
Their grip on power has been maintained through the stranglehold they have over magic. It has been regulated, controlled, studied and, most importantly, monopolized. The ability to use it manifests in arcane and unpredictable ways, but first and foremost, it’s in your blood. If your ancestors used magic, it is likely that you will be able to use it too. If they didn’t, then your chances are slim.
Yet, the march of social progress necessarily follows that of technological. As Constantian culture, learning, and religion have spread across the globe on the sails of caravels and galleons and a wealthy new class of merchants and artisans has emerged, there have been stirrings. Potent new paths to power and prosperity have revealed themselves, and those of common blood have increasingly bought their way into the use of magic by ‘marrying up’. With or without the approval of those in charge of it, the world is changing. Some people warn that the gods are stirring. Others dare whisper that the gods are not real.
Into this potent mix of burgeoning opportunity and lurking peril steps you: a first-year student at the Ersand'Enise Academy of Thaumaturgy. As a member of the storied establishment's newest cohort, you bring your hopes, your fears, your background, and considerable power in 'The Gift' with you. It is said that your group, aged fourteen to eighteen and born during the double ascendance of Shune the Learner, is the strongest in a century. That strength will be needed. Representatives from the world's great nations will be gathering at Ersand'Enise mere weeks after your arrival for the Conclave of the Five Thrones, and tensions are high.
This time, however, the delegates will need to be protected not only from each other's political machinations but from three new and novel threats. Over the past handful of years, aberrations have begun appearing in increasing numbers and this pattern seems unlikely to reverse of its own accord. Holes in the fabric of reality - shapes of man, beast, and object alike formed of the purest blackness - coming into contact with them can empower the magic of those skilled in The Gift at the cost of addiction. However, it can also drive those not as blessed to insanity or even death. For reasons unknown, but perhaps related, the mysterious yasoi have turned precipitously away from human society. The only other sentient species on the planet to actively live among humans, they have been shy friends and unconventional allies for most of history, but the past few decades have seen them become fiercely insular and even hostile. There is talk of them closing the mountain passes that sustain trade and travel for much of the Western half of the continent. Into this scene steps the Traveler: a shadowy but charismatic figure who has been harnessing the power of the aberrations and stirring up class conflict. He preaches a revolutionary message to the common people that threatens war at a pivotal moment. It is clear that he seeks to tear down the existing order, but what he intends to replace it with is as yet unknown.
Of course, you, dear young student, have nothing to worry about. Heads older and wiser than yours have matters firmly in hand. Still... it pays to be vigilant, doesn't it?
Bulletins
Current Arc: 6 - Living on the Edge Current Chapter Cycle: 1 - All is not Well in Paradise Cycle Concludes: Wednesday, March 27, 2:00 PM EST Previous Chapter: 8 - Skies Next Chapter: 2 - Setting the World Right Player Characters Active: 26 (full) Advisories:
Visiting students are welcomed back to the academy for the 555th annual Trials. On this auspicious year, we ask that all participants in the festivities familiarize themselves with the following items and take care to abide by school policy. Have a safe, fun, and happy games!
Students may also find their Sophomore course timetables here, at the Registrar's Office in Balthazar Hall. Should they have any questions, they may contact administration.
For health and safety reasons, students are advised not to make any contact with or draw magical energies from aberrations of any type. They are to report these immediately to faculty. If this involves a dereliction of academic responsibilities, appropriate notes will be given and no disciplinary action will be taken. Those found in violation of this policy will be subject to academic and financial sanction.
Students are advised to avoid lingering unaccompanied in the area around the port of Ersand'Enise known as 'Belleville' and formerly known as 'Mudville'.
Students are hereby warned that participating in shows of excessive nationalism and employing inflammatory rhetoric towards those of different nationalities will not be tolerated on campus or within the city's bounds.
Note: While these are the official assignments of students, many opt to seek housing elswhere on or off-campus.
Upper Fontana Court (Noblewomen):Dorothea Hohnstein von Albesatz-Danzau, Ingrid Penderson, Ayla Arslan, Taleja Drakenknecht, Marceline Hohenfelter von Albesatz-Danzau, Mayu Iovina
Lower Fontana Court (Noblemen):Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft, Evander Fino Synesti, Niallus Saberhagen, Nazih Iqbal, Yvain de Berbignon, Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau, Jomurr Ikon III, Zarra Travendour
Obelisk (Mixed Nobility): Rikard Ambrus, Sven Bjørnsson, Oweyn Vaanse, Marlijn Vaanse, Riu Rin-Ji, Tannifer Vyceh, Selio Taraves
Bridgeview East (Merchantmen):Fiske Flachstrauch, Vittorio Moli, Vieri Zimbasu, Karim Nazeri
It was near to evening by the time that the plaza was full. The bells had stopped ringing and the marching band was gone. There were still crowds, but they knew better than to set foot on the patterned flagstones of the academy grounds. Instead, those were filled by six-hundred hand-chosen people and a particular species of nervous, anticipatory energy.
Marlijn Vaanse sat on a bench, knees together, sweating like a pig in her fancy spellcaster’s regalia. Truly, she thought that expression daft, for anyone with the least amount of knowledge of animal husbandry knew that pigs did not sweat. That was why they wallowed in the mud. She blinked, distracted. There was some old lady droning on up there, looking distinctly uncomfortable speaking in front of a large crowd and, to Marlijn’s mind, eager to be back to her books and research. The girl felt bad for a moment and then pursed her lips, slouched a little bit, and played with the clasp of her cloak - positively unladylike.
Her eyes darted about surreptitiously, taking in the people around her. She’d been warned of the way that things were done at this school: how they made the procurement of seating a royal melee, as if to signal a definitive end to the pomp and circumstance. Marlijn was quite sure that she had driven an elbow into some merchant girl in her pursuit of a good sightline. Positively unladylike, but it had bought her little advantage and she had still ended up separated from Owain and most of the other Eskandish. Lady Anesin and a couple of others were closeby at least, not that Marlijn much knew her or most of the Ath people.
The others were a mix, and she was struck by their diversity. There were at least three - possibly four - Rettanese. In her entire life to this point she had seen maybe that many. There was an exceptionally short boy - she thought him more likely young than a dwarf - who would not take off his helmet, and she wondered why. Poor scared little fella. There was a handsome roguish sort nearby, a pretty Kerreman boy, another pretty boy from the west with an intriguing scar, and a quartet of Perrench girls clucking away like hens, though as she paid more attention, she noticed that the pale one in the middle was not quite as ditzy as her friends and the tall one on the right wasn’t really with the others. A rather plainly-dressed girl who looked to be Torragonese or perhaps Firrazi sat to her right, also a bit of an island, Marlijn thought. Absently, she wondered about the boy who’d flung himself spectacularly onto the balcony full of Eskandish nobles. Her mother had come down to assure Marlijn that she was alright, if a bit shaken. Of him, she said it had been determined that he was a fool rather than a threat and that, while there’d likely be disciplinary action when they caught him, she doubted that it would be especially drastic. She’d said so with a particular sort of disapproval that Marlijn knew well. The girl had sniffed and nodded, making an excuse about having to get to the plaza, if only to dodge her mother’s incoming diatribe about allowing ‘lower sorts’ to school with the nobility.
Of course, once her eyes had completed their little walkabout, the young Lady Vaanse found it a chore to keep them off of the final member of the cohort sitting close to her: Leon Solaire. She’d practiced some of his spells, but they were difficult to master. She knew the music from his troupe, but little of their performance and, with him, it was all about the performance. She’d wanted to attend when she’d heard that he would perform in Inderhall, but mother had forbidden it and Owain had laughed at her. She would be attending Ersand’Enise with Leon now, though, so it appeared as if it were Marlijn who would have the last laugh after all. Would that Owain was nearby! How she would stick out her tongue and flick his fancy cravat up into his face with a bit of Kinetic mischief! Alas, he was not and the girl had to content herself with paying attention to this speech. She sat up and brought her knees back together, positively ladylike, just as it came to a close.
Then, there was a moment of near-silence, despite the size of the gathered crowd. Trumpets blared. A crier stepped forward, his voice ringing out across the plaza with unnatural volume, courtesy of the Gift. “Their majesties, blessed of Ipte, Shune, Oraff, Eshiran, and Dami: the Monarchs of the Five Thrones!” Drums beat. The crowd cheered. Marlijn cheered too, of course.
“Jobanzaggah, sixth of his name: Emperor of Belzagg, Defender of the Faith, keeper of the Ivory Throne!” Marlijn craned her neck to get a look at him, of course, nearly rising to her feet, positively unladylike. A tall man, young and powerful, with skin as dark as coal and an immaculately trimmed beard, he strode purposefully across the stage, leopardskin cape fluttering behind him, bare biceps bound in gold bands and inlaid with fine gemstones. He set himself upon one of the five chairs at the centre of the stage and waited.
“Horik Vinderborg of Oleften: Emperor of Eskand, Master of the College of Electors, keeper of the Verdant Throne!” For all that Jobanzaggah was a large man, he was positively dwarfed by Kejser Horik. Near seven feet tall and perhaps four hundred pounds, he lumbered across the stage, long grey beard bound in bracers of gold and ivory swaying as he walked. Marlijn suppressed a sour face. Not emperor of all Eskand, she reminded herself. Good King Johann had just as much claim to the Verdant Throne.
“Rouis, eleventh of his name, King of Perrence and the Perrench people, Warden of Ciero, Crisia, and Miatto, Protector of the Faith, and keeper of the Crystal Throne!” Rouis was not as large as the other two men, but he seemed somehow larger. He strode grandly across the stage, scepter in hand, nose raised high in the air, long, curly brown cascading luxuriantly over his shoulders, and the puffy, illuminated silks and velvets of his clothing inlaid with gold thread and resplendent in the late afternoon sun. His beard and mustache were perfectly oiled and Marlijn imagined he could fairly impale someone with them. Two attendants held the ends of his cape and lifted it out of the way as he took his seat.
“King Sancho VIII of Torragon, keeper of the Iron Throne.” Like the words announcing him, the man who walked across the stage and placed himself beside Rouis was spare and spartan. He wore brown riding boots and loose white clothing embroidered with patterns in gold thread: incredibly expensive, but practical first and foremost in the subtropical heat. He was clean-shaven with maybe a day’s worth of stubble, his short grey hair combed back and mostly hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat surmounted with a leather band, a single ruby, and a couple of colourful feathery plums.
The fifth man - and they were all men - nearly didn’t wait for the crier. “Prospero Malatesta: Doge of Revidia, King of Segona, Tan-Zeno of Ersand’Enise, and keeper of the Radiant Throne.” Even many of the Zenos onstage rose and clapped. The crowd certainly did. Dressed in a fine red tunic, hands clasped behind his back, Prospero stopped, pivoted on a heel, and inclined his head to the crowd in thanks before taking his seat.
Next were the representatives from other nations and, as exciting as it was to see this many royals in one place, Marlijn honestly couldn’t understand how this was relevant to their learning. Could the Zenos not have held a separate celebration - after everyone was fed and rested - for the introduction of the monarchs?
Queen Silke of Kerremand was in attendance, but few countries sent their rulers unless, people whispered, they were making a play for one of the thrones. Mostly, it was a gaggle of dukes and duchesses, emirs and emirahs. There were even representatives from distant Rettan, Nashibansek, and… she couldn’t pronounce the other one - the one that started with the ‘X'. They were here only as observers, however, as was the President of Joru: Atundo Yibozo.
It was moments after he’d taken his seat, kept prudently separate from the Belzaggic emperor, that Marlijn felt something brush against her arm. She looked up but there was nothing. Blinking, she started to turn back to the stage, but there indeed was something. Perhaps it was because she was a fledgling illusionist herself that she spotted it: a glimmer of motion - the semicorporeal outline of a hand, and for only the barest of moments. Feeling a warning prickle on the back of her neck, the girl reached out for energies but, in such a dense crowd, it was near-impossible to sense an individual.
“Hey,” she prodded one of the students nearby, “did you see that?” She half-stood and her eyes darted about. Then, there was a flash of movement up on stage. She glanced around beseechingly, ready to raise her voice, but was stopped short. It was so brief that she wasn’t sure that she’d imagined it - it couldn’t possibly have been real, after all: a colossal surge of energy onstage, like nothing she’d ever felt before, like nothing she’d ever even imagined possible. Then it was gone, in a fraction of a second, like a blinding flash of light that leaves one staggering in its wake.
Marlijn blinked to clear her head. The speaker onstage - Arch-Zeno Harachorra - paused to glance behind him. The two oldest men there - Giacomo the Crow and the Paradigm himself, Hugo Hunghorasz - may or may not have exchanged a brief look, but the Zenith was still smiling, Joshe Intaba and Riu Kai-Tan looked positively unbothered, and… Ardredelle Latvar looked uncomfortable and rather sweaty, but Marlijn supposed it was the heat. The air was still muggy and humid and even Arch-Zenos were still human, after all. She shook her head to clear it. What had she imagined, again? Had she thought something was wrong? What a daft idea. She supposed that spending all day out in the sun could mess with you.
To improve matters somewhat, Karan Harachorra paused and smirked at the students conspiratorially, and then at the five monarchs behind him. “Lords and ladies,” he intoned smoothly, “would I be amiss or perhaps presumptuous in asking whether you’ve had enough of speeches for one day? Whether you’ve been a bit too long in the sun?”
Marlijn giggled at his delivery. She’d certainly had enough. She had literally hallucinated a minute ago, though exactly what her hallucination had been, she could not recall. At least the sun would dip below the buildings shortly and bring some welcome relief from the heat. Already, shadows stretched long and jagged across the flagstones. “I believe it would be to the benefit of all were we to shift the festivities surrounding the five thrones to tomorrow and focus on our students this evening so that your majesties could receive the undivided attention that befits your station.”
He received five nods from the five kings and the girl found herself liking them better, even Horik. “Now, with their majesties presiding - surely a sign of the Gods’ favour -” Marlijn noticed that he didn’t say ‘Pentad’ “- I propose we get to the part that you’re really all here for: the assignment of masters.”
Her heart beat a bit faster. She glanced around herself, failing to suppress a grin. The manner in which masters were chosen at Ersand’Enise was ancient and mysterious. She knew that the Zenos kept profiles on every Biro admitted. She knew that they used the Gift. She knew that interests and strengths played a role, but there was more to it and nobody knew what.
Zenith Upta stepped up to the speaker’s lectern and gave out a series of orders. Excited chatter filled the air. The hundred Zenos in the first rows of the plaza rose and gathered at the foot of the stage: some of the greatest mages alive, all masters of their craft, and she was to train under one. They formed two lines, ready to march up the stairs to either side and, quietly, with a certain sort of restless energy, Marlijn thought, Joshe Intaba stepped down from his high place to join them. “Arch-Zeno Joshe Intaba,” called Claresse Upta, “Please select your apprentices.”
Any female below the noble class can choose to be the girl who Marlijn bumped.
Anyone can choose to respond to Marlijn regarding them.
You may exchange a brief body language interaction with a monarch or receive a written message delivered by one of their agents.
Anyone can respond in brief to Marlijn's exclamation.
Based on what is realistic, you can choose your reaction to the strange moment. However, for unknown reasons, you are unlikely to remember exactly what it was.
Zeno Mozaru: Nerio Luchessi, Vyrik Oldenrath, Pan Yimu, Marlijn Vaanse
Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight: Ilannaq 'Anna' Sigmundottir, Leon Solaire, Carmillia Carbonneau, Jomurr Ikon III
Zeno Zemana: Mayu Iovina, Karim Nazeri, Seung Eun-Ji, Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau
It was the drums that made it okay, Manfred had decided. They reminded him of being on the march: to some, endless days of drudgery; to him, a chance for conversation. He’d been half a boy back then: eager for the attention and approval of anyone his senior. There was something comforting about that sound as he entered the City of the Bells - the way that it was steady, simple, rhythmic.
Decked out in his dress uniform and sporting his medals, he pranced through the gate atop Cornelius: every inch the dashing young magery officer. Manfred knew how to wave. His horse knew how to high-step. He kept his chin raised and eyes ahead, one hand on the reins. Cornelius was an old hand at pomp and circumstance. He was a steady animal and little frightened him.
The same could not be said for his rider, but Manfred was not some powdered lordling or flapping, demonstrative merchant who could not control his face. He flashed a smile, and then a nod for a pretty girl in the crowd, tangled red hair spilling out across the tops of her breasts, breasts nearly spilling out the top of her dress. And that was it: it had gotten to him. Soon, he would probably hate himself for it, but it was like it had been when he’d marched off to fight the Holmanians: so much hope and celebration. Why, the rose petals rained down, the crowds cheered, and the marching band slammed away at their drums, double-stepped with their fifes, and twirled their batons. The horns blared, proud and brassy, flashing and gleaming in the midday sun. The famous bells of Ersand’Enise clanged and pennants flapped. For a moment, he was fourteen again and off to fight for the Fatherland. Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau waved and smiled. He winked at another pretty girl and saluted a little boy playing soldier.
It was fantastic, really: the sound and colour and, for a little while, he lost himself and forgot what this place really was: a workshop - nay, a factory - for killers, churning them out by the hundreds. And, as he remembered, the smile faded from his face. His chin raised, his eyes focused ahead. He was a magusjaeger. Mages of Ersand’Enise filled the armies of Perrence and Revidia, making near-every battlefield on the continent their bloodstained plaything, undoing Oraff’s work, spitting on Dami’s choice, marring Ipte’s beauty, and laughing at Shune’s learning to overfeed Eshiran.
Manfred was a Hohenfelter of Meckelin-Thandau, though: scion of a line stretching back nearly a thousand years. He knew his duty and would not dishonour his family and his country, much as he might’ve found every bit of this tasteless. He kept his expression composed - dignified. In the midst of his fellow young nobles of Kerremand, he simply followed, Cornelius knowing what to do. Manfred let his senses wander subtly, absently, taking in the heightened security. It was a detail that few would notice, he imagined, but there were many more besides the ceremonial guard. They wore plain clothes and tried to blend in, but their martial bearing and the way that they positively burned with loosely-contained energy gave them away. He imagined there were still more, skilled beyond his ability to pick them out. Such was the seriousness with which Ersand’Enise took the art of killing and such was the scope of the event. This year was the Conclave of the Five Thrones, after all, and there would be royals in attendance beyond just the Eel and the Wolf.
The march continued, dragging on, and there were exotic clothes, languages, and faces all around him. Manfred found himself struck by the number of Rettanese that he saw - or else Tan Keouleans, Kanjikish, and others. There was a girl in front of him trying unsuccessfully to hide a cat in her dress and Kurbis came to mind for a moment. The girl looked so small and lost, though, that he almost felt bad that they’d turn her into a weapon. He had to stop himself from visibly shaking his head to clear it.
Suddenly, there were lights up ahead: lights and sound. Crackling magical fireworks, lines tracing themselves through the air, and roaring wolves of fire raced across the sky. Manfred flinched. He blinked and the sweet smell of rose petals became something else to him: another sickening sweetness from three years ago. The fire wolf… Then, there were those tongues of white-hot flame in the darkness: Ahn-Eshiran’s gift. The shouts. A boy hurled himself onto a balcony, like the bodies. The bodies flew too. They flew in pieces. The shouts. They were…
In that moment, he saw the girl, on foot somewhere to his left, and he knew that she was like him. He could see it in her body language - in her bearing - for just a moment. She was the fourth Rettanese he’d seen. He took in her strange dress. Not naturalized, like the others, he concluded, maybe not a weapon. One didn’t wear that look, though - the same look that he knew he’d been wearing mere moments ago - out of choice.
It took a moment for Manfred to realize how uncivilized he was being. Staring blankly at the foreigners like some kind of simpleton! Scheiße! He had fallen off the pace and was at the trailing end of the Artisans now. The scion of Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau cleared his throat, set his eyes ahead, and spurred his horse on. There would yet be more ceremony in the plaza, he knew, and he would bear it unflinchingly this time. Men of Kerremand do not show their emotions without a very good reason.
The bells of Ersand’Enise were ringing. All over the city, from spires and steeples, windows and minarets, they raised a cacophony of welcome. Multicoloured flags flapped and strained in the stiff breeze and warming rays of sun peeked through the deep grey clouds. They hung low in the heavens, their bellies crackling with thunder.
Penny ran through the streets, skirts swirling about her, drawing a hundred little threads of kinetic energy to let her do with competence what should've taxed her body to its limit. She’d spent a week in this place and, just when she was starting to feel as if she was learning her way around it, she'd managed to get lost. “Excusé, ma’am, Sorry, sir!” She darted and dodged through the milling crowds, nearly catching herself on a decorative iron balustrade in front of a shop. There were so many shops here - ever so many - and most were completely alien to her. With the goal of remaining unrecognized, she’d put herself on a weekly stipend and counseled herself to live frugally. Still, it was rather more coin than she'd ever personally been responsible for. Still, she knew that it paled in comparison to the extravagance of some of these nobles. She’d been learning the shops that sold necessary things and the ones that sold cheaply. As the city’s entire purpose was to serve the Academy, it only made sense that near half of these vendors catered specifically to the needs of those with the Gift.
A horse and wagon clattered by and Penny hurried along in its wake, taking advantage of the temporary gap in the crowds. People walked in groups and chattered excitedly, but she had few such acquaintances. Sienna - Zeno Afraval - was friendly, like an aunt or a big sister. Penny knew that, along with all of the others, she'd be staying in a temporary dormitory for her first handful of days here, before the skill sorting placed her with a master and three other apprentices. The dorms were divided by gender and class - noble, merchant, and everyone else - and, despite being from a minor branch of the royal house of Torragon, Sienna had showed her all of the best rooms. She'd winked and said that she was looking out for a fellow royal, after all.
Penny noted, with mounting unease, that it had been some time since she’d seen a Zeno. They were all gathering behind the parapets now, she knew, officially opening the school to the arriving cohort. Only the nobles received all of the benefits of the procession, and Penny could've gone as a Merchant - the role that she was playing - but she found herself very much preferring to watch. Up ahead, she noticed a couple of frilly dress girls - FDGs, in her mental shorthand - being rushed somewhere by rickshaw. The Perrenchwoman squinted up at the alternating bands of sun and threatening grey clouds and decided to follow. Mostlike, they were headed to the gate, so they could be bundled onto their horses to march through triumphantly with the rest of the highfolk. Everybody liked to pretend that they'd all arrived at the same time and camped outside of the gates, but many of them had been here as long as Penny, possibly longer.
Bustling after them, she began to feel the burn in her single leg and drew once more with the Gift, this time siphoning threads of Magnetic energy ambient in the air from the coming storm and gathering them within herself. She remembered her audience with Zeno - Arch Zeno - Harachorra earlier in the week. She focused on the exercises, taking that energy and restructuring it, reworking it into something else. Her muscles felt light and fresh, her steps felt strong and substantial, and she rushed towards the city walls once she found herself on a familiar main thoroughfare.
Penny arrived at the base of a tower and the guard let her up the staircase with a dubious look. She managed to be only somewhat out of breath upon reaching the top. This wasn’t a plum position, but there were a handful of other non-nobles - merchants, artisans, and commons - who milled about, having chosen not to join the procession, and she found herself feeling like an impostor. Their eyes flicked over in her direction, doing that quick double take that they always did when they realized what was 'wrong' with her. Moments later, she found herself joined by another girl who she didn't know but who had the look of a student. "Did I miss it?" the stranger butted in, and Penny was able to let out a breath and shake her head.
“Non,” she sighed. “Zey are juste taking forever to get on zere stoopid ‘orses and get moving.” She pursed her lips. “All ze better for us, n'est pas? We ‘ad time to get ‘ere.”
The girl blinked and Penny found herself once again self-conscious, this time about the heavy Perrench accent she'd been told to put on as part of her cover, but she suspected that her new acquaintance's Avincian wasn't much better. The Perrench girl blinked and they both burst out in giggles. “You missed nossing,” she said, as clearly as she could, and the other girl smiled sheepishly. “Gods, my Avincian is bad.”
Penny started moving, hop-skipping towards the parapets. “Don’t worry, my friend. I am little better. Now ‘urry, zey are going to start!”
The two girls reached the edge and leaned against it, able to see for miles. Penny’s braid flicked and writhed in the brisk wind like a bronze-coloured snake, and a great rumble sounded from the heavens. Brilliant shafts of light pierced the clouds, dappling the plains where they struck and turning patches of grass into ponds of shifting, whispering gold or green.
A procession wound its way, dual file, down the Godsroad, flanked on either side by lines of heraldry stretching into the distance. At its head was a young man, probably no older than Penny, dressed in a costume renowned far and wide. He pulled back on the reins of his horse – a beautiful, ivory-white plains charger – and came to a halt. Behind him, two-by-two, everyone else did the same. The boy shielded his eyes against the diffuse glare, and peered up at the top of the city’s gate.
A dozen or so people stood atop the pristine white battlements, dressed in the flowing robes that only Zenos and Arch-Zenos of the Academy of Thaumaturgy were allowed to wear. From this group emerged a small, dark-skinned woman of about sixty: Zenith Upta. Her grey, tightly-curled hair was drawn back into a simple bun, but her clothes sparkled with gold inlay and shimmered with dancing magic. She leaned over the battlements, a gust of wind pulling some of her hair loose.
“Who be you?” she shouted, the hint of a smirk lightening her lips.
The boy at the head of the procession bowed low in his saddle with what Penny thought of as a performer's practiced flair. “I am Leon, called le Solaire. These who I am blessed to ride at the head of are the sons and daughters of houses great and small: the first to appear at your gates in five years and the first of those born during the double ascendance of Ahn-Shune-Zept. We are come to Ersand’Enise, humbly asking to be made Biro, to be trained in the Gift.”
The woman raised her hand. “A moment to convene.” She turned around and the group atop the parapets gathered loosely and spoke for a moment. By their easy nature and the shortness of their deliberation it became clear that this was mere ceremony.
Then, the Zenith turned back to face the prospective students and raised both arms in a welcoming gesture. “Travellers, daughters and sons of houses great and small, eager learners, we have decided to receive you. From the moment that you pass through these gates, you will no longer be Torma - the uninitiated - but Biro: students of the magical arts. Over the next five years, we will be ever at your side, helping you to grow and learn, to become women and men worthy of the names and reputations that you bear. We expect that most of you will return to your homes and your duties enriched in knowledge, ability, and spirit, but it is our hope that some of you will remain here and join the ranks of the Zenos. Whatever the future may hold for you, let us entrust it to the will of the Pentad. Now, without further delay, I welcome you, on behalf of every member of the Academy of Thaumaturgy, to Ersand’Enise.”
Of course, there was further delay. Penny knew that the procession would take all day. Sienna - Zeno Afraval - had told her as much. As soon as Zenith Upta raised her hands, the massive, cast-iron gate started to clank open. When it reached the top, Leon took the ceremonial first step across the threshold on his white horse. Penny’s family had horses like that. Absently, she wondered if it might share a bloodline with one of theirs. Then, the trumpets that had been waiting, dull gold beneath the threatening sky, blared a welcome. The Zenos made a show of dispersing the storm. Penny shot her unknown acquaintance a knowing look. One might think that they had conjured it in the first place for the purpose of demonstrating their power.
And with that, the city fairly exploded in colour and sound. Bells rang and people cheered. Flutes, lutes, and drums raised a further cacophony of welcome. Penny stood there, wide-eyed like a child, unable to absorb the whole of it, unable to compare it to anything else that she had ever known. It took her a few moments to pull herself out of her rapture and peer down at the New Gate.
Her sister had met Leon Solaire once, at a private recital in the palace gardens with some of her ladies in waiting, and she had said that he was spellbinding - more than a mere bard. A dramatic shock of dark hair framed a keen, tanned face. He was lighter than your average Torragonese: sandy soil more than tanned leather. He smiled and waved as flower petals rained down from surrounding buildings. And then, the most delightful spectacle as the sunlight hit him and he seemed almost to glow in it.
“So,” said Penny's acquaintance, arching an eyebrow.
“So, indeed,” agreed Penny. She watched Leon a bit longer. “But let’s be realistic here.”
“Pfft,” snorted her fellow admirer. “Dreams are what make life interesting.”
Leon made his way down the street, towards the grand plaza where everyone would gather this evening, and it occurred to Penny that she should find a new place to watch the rest of the procession before everybody else did. “Dreams are good,” she agreed, pushing off from the stone and straightening. Then, a cramp hit her. Her body had given her all that it could for the day and it was finished. Not so for the others, including the girl she had shared a brief conversation with. With a friendly wave, she fluttered away.
Yet, the bells kept ringing. The petals keep falling. Penny wondered just how many flowers had died for this ceremony. All of the people with important families had to be announced. They could not be denied their chance at the spotlight. People who were not as important ran along in front of them carrying brightly-coloured flags and extolling the virtues of the children who sat on the horses. Yet, she could not begrudge them their moment. She had no idea what they were thinking or feeling, but they - like she - had begun their journey at Ersand'Enise and she imagined that it could only be the purest of joys...
When asked by a member of the Aesthetic Society, "What do you feel when you shoot some poor mage?" his reply was, "Recoil."
18 | Male | Kerremandic | Noble | 6.14
P E R S O N A L I T Y
❖ Intense ❖ Professional ❖ Cold ❖ Work Hard, Play Hard ❖ Religious
Manfred is a consummate professional. Despite his parents' doubts about his chosen path, or perhaps because of them and his experiences in war, he's dedicated himself to his craft with the utmost conviction. In his approach to others, Manfred will always treat them with decency and professionalism unless they have done something to deserve differently. However, practically speaking, to those who don't know him, this behaviour can come across as cold and, in all honesty, it often is. Manfred isn't a shell of a man, but he's seen things that most people his age haven't and he doesn't feel much connection to his peers as a result. Besides, he knows that these are all monsters in the making and he doesn't have the energy to try to save them all. If he knows someone well, that would be another matter, but he prefers not to get attached. Things are less complicated that way and he doesn't like complications.
Manfred also prefers people who are what they claim to be. He has little time for liars, manipulators, and decadent types. Being honest and useful and maybe subtly stroking his ego without seeming sycophantic is the path to getting Manfred to like you. If he catches you in a lie, he won't hate you. He'll just stop trusting you and you'll never see any side of him beyond the professional. Betray him and, for all that he seems cold, this is one of the few things that tends to make his blood run hot. Manfred will appear to shrug it off. He'll wait. Sooner or later, he believes, Dami-Zept balances everything out. He will take his revenge and it will be decisive and deserved.
In general, Manfred is a devout Quentist, who carries a pocket-sized copy of the Ruhrich (the Menana) on him at all times, but he also appreciates the wisdom of the Angic Philosophy of Rettan. Despite being a member of the nobility, he views the regular lording of their powers over ungifted people and the violent and unaccountable excesses of most mages with deep distaste bum in the name of his faith, he counsels himself to keep an open mind. It isn't easy and it's only getting harder.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Manfred is slightly taller than average height for a Kerreman. He has deep brown hair and grey-brown eyes. He's not bad looking, but doesn't stand out as handsome. He's old enough that he's grown a decent amount of stubble and has to shave. As a member of the nobility, he has access to fine clothing and will dutifully wear it when appropriate, taking pride in his appearance. However, he prefers a simple doublet and vest of quality materials, with a leather belt, breeches, and sturdy boots for his everyday wear. His clothes often show evidence of cat hair, despite his best efforts to keep them clean. He has four of the exact same outfit and a fifth, slightly more styled, for the day of worship. He launders his clothes on the fourth day of the week and lets them dry on the fifth. He believes in doing this himself and will only hire a washerwoman if she's especially pretty his schedule is especially busy. Manfred can also sometimes be found in a uniform of military cut, complete usually with a coat in the Navy Blue of the Kerremandic Crown. When in the field, he wears a bandoleer with ammunition pouches, a rapier at one hip, a wheel-lock pistol at the other, and a marksman's rifle slung over his shoulder.
L A N G U A G E S
Manfred speaks Kerremanic as a mother tongue, as well as fluent Avincian. He knows Perrench as a matter of practicality and can understand some Holmanian because it is more or less mutually intelligible with his native language. Besides, it's useful to know the tongue of your enemy. He'd like to pick up some yasoi too, for similar reasons. Unfortunately, it's hard to find a tutor these days.
T H E G I F T
Manfred's use of the Gift is rather pedestrian. Technically, he falls within the lower average range for a magus, but his family has a strong martial tradition and, as a second son, he is expected to take an officer's commission in the army. The problem is that he would rather be anything but a mage and, even if he were to be one, he'd be only a middling mage at best. The graveyards of Constantia are full of middling mages. To this end, he has decided to eschew tradition and train as a magusjaeger. In this capacity, Manfred's use of the Gift is wholly practical. His primary school is Kinetic, which helps him guide bullets, provides an abundant drawing source, and can help stop incoming projectiles. He has enough capacity to function at a higher defensive level than the average magusjaeger. His secondary schools are Arcane and Magnetic. The first is for the magnification, stealth, and low-level illusion abilities, which he is quite good with. In a dim space and if he's more or less still, Manfred will be effectively invisible. Meanwhile, Magnetic provides some manipulation of metals - useful on a battlefield - as well as protection against internal chemical spells and an alternative way to alter the course of his shots and others'. He has precisely zero interest in magic beyond what it can do for him in a practical sense. He has grown up around practitioners of the Gift and is inured to its uses. He finds no wonder in it - just a tool.
B A C K G R O U N D
Manfred comes from a long and distinguished line of viscounts. None of his forebears have been famous mages, but many have been respectable or even notable. His family are Grafs (counts) and hold stewardship in the Queen's name over a large swathe of mostly rural farmland. It is good and rich land and a portion of it is reserved for the estate that Manfred grew up on and its surrounding hunting grounds. From an early age, Manfred enjoyed hunting with his two brothers, Jurgen and Klaus. They would spend hours outdoors in the warm months, often on horseback.
He grew up, in many ways, as a normal boy of his country and station. Then, the Holmanians attacked. Seeking to take advantage of Kerremand's distraction, desperate, bony bands of yasoi launched raids over the border. Jurgen was old enough to be attending Ersand'Enise up north, and Klaus was but a boy, but Manfred had entered his teens and joined his father on the fields of battle. Only beginning to develop his talents at that age, he was given a largely ceremonial posting as morale officer.
It started simply enough. He would go out to meet the troops in their camps or on the march and speak with the non-commissioned officers - sergeants, corporals, and the like. He'd encourage them, sing some marching songs while they politely watched, and go report back to the higher ranking officers - most of them magery or cavalry. Then, the army saw battle. It was against the Holmanians under General Gorf Von Mikkelstern of Albesatz-Zuber: the Iron Duke, and they outnumbered his forces by double. Yet, Manfred could do little but survive and hope. The heavens crackled with thunder. The air reeked of blood, shit, and ozone. Did you know that human flesh, when slightly cooked, has a sweet smell? A sickeningly sweet smell? Manfred will never forget that smell. And so he watched mages fling thunderbolts across the sky. He watched knights roasted alive inside their armour by Arcane magic. Great chains, their iron links caked with rust and old blood, scythed across the battlefield, breaking human bodies. Soldiers - men he knew - who he had sung and marched with, who'd called him 'little lord' and laughed and patted him on the back after giving him a swig from their flasks... he watched them fed into the meat grinder of the enemy's magery - and their soldiers fed into his.
And nobody gained an inch of ground. A soft rain began and the two armies retired from what had been a grassy field and was now a wasteland. All night, he heard the voices: calling for their mothers, praying for Oraff-Zept to save them, for Ahn-Eshiran to take them, crying. Grown men were not supposed to cry and Manfred couldn't take it. He wandered out of his tent in the darkness, right to the edge of the battlefield, and there they were: crawling and dragging torn, boiled, and ravaged bodies through the muck. Manfred recoiled. His heart beat faster and the pressure mounted in his eardrums. Grey Rezaindians shuffled along, lanterns swinging in the blackness, gathering the dead. It did not matter whether they were Kerremandic Grey Rezaindians or Holmanian Grey Rezaindians. They were all Grey Rezaindians. The wails rose, carts shambled past, and eventually, the greys gave way to White Rezaindians who drifted in like ghosts in a fog. A lick of flame it'd be. Every once in a while, they'd stop and there would be a wail, and brief, intense burst: Ahn-Eshiran's gift to the maimed and the dying.
The armies met the next day. Manfred huddled by his father in the magery. The cavalry was dispatched to distract the enemy mages and there was a twinkle in the graf's eyes when he told his son 'you won't want to miss this, my boy." The magery of Kerremand eliminated the King's Own Lassanzee Fusiliers in less than a minute and, with it, almost every grown man from the Holmanian village by that name. There was scarce time to celebrate. The enemy had not been idle. A pair of Internal Chemical Mages had light-bent to slip behind Kerremandic lines and he saw people melt from the inside - their eyes bubbling out of sockets, the skin sloughing away in sickly colours, and a foul yellow gas seeping like death across the battlefield. Then, one looked at him and he felt the start of a pinch and knew that, at age fifteen, it was time to make his peace with the gods.
Only, it wasn't. The cruel grin on the mage's face froze in a mask of shock and he fell face-first, dead, a smoking hole through the back of his head. Moments later, the second mage fell. Nobody saw the magusjaegers who'd done it. They worked silently. They did not ask for accolades. They just did their jobs, and that had saved Manfred's life.
For the very first time, the Iron Duke lost in open battle. Truly, it was a Pyrrhic victory, for he had bled the Kerremen just as dry as they had bled him but, around that time, Kerremand had a bit more than its neighbour in the way of young men. That night, Manfred joined the commanders of the army in the general's tent, drinking, feasting, and singing songs about how Holmanian women are whores and how their men make good fertilizer. Most of them were mages. They weaved their hands through the air as they described how they'd cut this guy in half or blown that one's head up like a firework. At some point, pumped full of beer as a sort of mascot, they boy excused himself from the tent on the pretense of having a piss. Some of the soldiers were singing and drinking too. Some were not. The ones who were dead certainly were not. There was one particular group that drew his attention, though: small, aloof, and dressed in dark clothing. They sat in silence in the night, the embers of their pipes and tips of cigars burning like fat orange fireflies. The magusjaegers were cleaning their rifles. They spared glances out at the battlefield, already preparing for their next fight.
M O T I V A T I O N
Manfred is at Ersand'Enise out of obligation. As a Hohenfelter, he was signed up for the school from the moment the previous cohort entered, and there was never any option not to go. He masks his utter hatred for mages and what they represent with a mask of cold professionalism, ever worried about slipping back into the comforting normalcy of a decadent noble lifestyle. He still feels a sense of duty to his family and country, however, and will do nothing to shame or disgrace them. Regardless, aside from what he can learn of light-bending and countering internal chemical magic, he would rather be just about anywhere else.
I N V E N T O R Y
Manfred has a chest full of clothes. He carries a ring with the seal of House Hohenfelter, a quill, some ink, and a small journal. The customary coin purse is there, and his is well-stocked. Try to sneak up on Manfred and pickpocket him. See what happens. Finally, he carries a magnifying glass on him. This item serves two purposes: one is for practice with light-focusing and the other is as a light for his cat. A large orange Ragamuffin, Kürbis is given free reign of whatever Manfred's current living space is and is an excellent mouser. He is also just about the only thing that you will ever see Manfred show affection for. Also, he has guns - lots of them, and they are very good ones. Swords and knives too.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ Preternaturally accurate with a rifle or and sort of projectile: don't mess with him. ❖ Pinpoint etiquette and manners: he has all of he training of a high noble. He can make you shrivel with an outwardly polite smile. ❖ Hard worker: Manfred puts in the work. No excuses. Not having much of a social life helps. ❖ Hardened: Your social politics and jibes really, actually don't bother him. He's seen some shit. ❖ Kerremandic: He can really hold his drink. Don't get into a drinking contest with him. You'll lose.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Distant and detached: Manfred just sort of sees people as... not bad, but just 'there'. Nobody really means much of anything. ❖ Morally Superior: Manfred really does believe that he's better than you, filthy mage. He won't say it, but he'll let you know. ❖ Stubborn: He can become very se in his ways, mostly for the sake of his pride and because he hates admitting when he's wrong. ❖ Hardened: Manfred had a sense of humour once. He was fun and talkative. He's pretty unlovable now and convinces himself he likes it that way. ❖ Kerremandic: Sometimes, he will drink too much, and you might not want to be around him then unless your name is Kürbis.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
❖ He's not a revolutionary or anything, but Manfred listens to what The Traveler has to say and agrees with some of it. Still, he thinks the guy is a madman overall. ❖ Manfred loves a hearty meal. ❖ He's actually kind of looking for a wife if he can find one. That way, he won't be legally obligated to obey his father's commands.
You will never freeze in Ersand'Enise. In fact, I've found you're unlikely to sneeze. You might even think that it's not a big deal, but if you were Eskandish, you would know how I feel.
Marlijn is the oldest daughter of an Eskandish viscount and has a twin brother, Owain, who she's older than by half an hour. He never hears the end of this. In general, Marlijn is much for clever quips and quick comebacks. She plays the cultured young lady quite convincingly and is well-heeled enough to understand her duties and ultimately, with some grumbling to confidantes, abide by them. She's a bit of a wild child deep down, though: not quite a tomboy, but treads right on the edge of that. She has a soft spot for animals and spends as much time out in the forest or putting her horses through exercises as is socially appropriate. Then, she returns to her studies with perhaps less diligence than she should. She's the kind of person who tends to fall right in the middle of the pack academically. She isn't dumb; she just can't be bothered to jump through all of those hoops with any real enthusiasm. She saves that for the physical and social sides of things.
Though she's a quick talker, good liar, and a bit of a charmer, Marlijn isn't much for gossip and even less for people who talk down to her. Being a low-middling noble is not always easy. Those below you look up jealously and seek to challenge your authority and those above you are the most snobbish sorts who enjoy looking down on you. The world is annoyingly complex and, though Marlijn usually feels as if she's up to the challenge of it, it's oh-so tiring at times and she'd rather things just be simple. Her facade of demure noble feminine virtue is less-than-perfect in these moments and she has the reputation of being a serial eye-roller. She once told her brother, only half-jokingly, "I'm over it, you know? All the being a show pony and smiling and curtsying and talking to people who don't really wanna be talking to me either. Just like... let me find a decent husband who isn't twenty years my senior or smells like turnips and sweat. Set me up with a nice little keep somewhere not-awful. I'll pop out a few kids, get deep into my cups with the other local ladies, yell at my servants a bit, and then just get to do the things I wanna. That'd be nice. That's a happily ever after, right?"
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Simply put, Marlijn is very pretty and, in her less insecure moments, she knows it. She's tall and slim, with bright blue eyes, long auburn hair, and a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She looks a couple of years older than she is and most people are surprised to learn that she's only sixteen. There's usually a twinkle of something mischievous in her expression, and you sometimes wonder what must be so funny in her head. Spoiler: it usually isn't what you think.
When she doesn't have to be presentable for others, Marlijn dresses for comfort: a simple tunic and loose, light ankle-length skirt in earthy tones. The ensemble is completed with a cloak and riding hood held together with a gold clasp in the shape of a bee, some sturdy boots, and a belt with pouches. Her hair is usually draped over her shoulder in a loose braid or double ponytails. Of course, Marlijn all dressed up aims to impress. While she isn't much for frilly dresses and prefers clothing that leaves her unencumbered, she'll happily wear ostentatious jewellery. She likes bold and striking patterns, particularly in her house's colours of sapphire blue, gold, and white.
L A N G U A G E S
Marlijn finds sitting with a tutor and learning languages to be just about the most tedious thing in the world. She's fluent in her native Loh Eskandish, of course, and passable in Avincian. She's also picked up a few Revidian and Perrench words and phrases from her regular visits to the port of Pesperdam on family business. That's about it. Secretly, she feels a bit intimidated by the northern nobles with their flawless Avincian and self-conscious about her accent and less-than-perfect way with the language since she's used to being quite clever with words in her native tongue.
T H E G I F T
Marlijn is above average but not exceptional in terms of The Gift, kind of like she is with most things. She prefers drawing from kinetic and arcane sources and favours two styles of magic: the practical things that'll help her look after her horses, make her life easier in small ways, and allow her to augment her performances, as well as illusion magic. She shares a tutor with her brother and, for reasons unknown to either of them, finds it the most amusing thing in the world to just appear in places or pop out of nowhere and scare the living daylights out of people. It's not as if she has any ambition to do sinister things. Being able to alter what people see and turn literally freakin' invisible is just cool, she supposes. As long as Marlijn stands still in a place where the light isn't changing too much, she can actually already go invisible. How awesome is that!? For what it's worth, she isn't bad with Magnetic casting either, because lightning is cool too.
B A C K G R O U N D
Marlijn sometimes feels as if she's not even the main character in her own life. Her upbringing has been, for the most part, utterly unremarkable. Her father is a typical lower-middling noble (a viscount) who looks after his lands, holds court twice per week with the commons and representatives from Pesperdam Town's guilds, and has various little projects going. He complains at not being high-ranking enough to be invited to the college of electors, and tries to petition a friendly great house every once in awhile to bump Pesperdam up to full County status. He funds port improvements when he's had a good harvest and tightens the purse strings when he hasn't. He goes hunting and riding with some of his knights and men-at-arms and, in a non-traditional move, sometimes brings not only Owain, but Marlijn along too. She's quite good with a snaphaunce, able to take a rabbit reliably from 100 yards, though she secretly thinks that bunnies are kinda cute.
Of course, the viscount makes up for that bit of a break from the expected by maintaining a regular search for suitable suitors for his daughter. He hopes to have her marry up as part of his long-term project to get into the college of electors (spoiler: the poor guy has no chance). To serve this ambition, Marlijn spends a considerable amount of time on her needlework, sitting and chatting with her ladies-in-waiting and the neighbouring baron's daughter, Tannifer. She's also expected to maintain musical interests and it's here that she actually has some passion. While, secretly, she prefers tunes more like the bawdy ones that she heard when her party stopped by a tavern in Pesperdam Town one evening a couple of years ago, the viscount had a harpsichord imported at great cost from Perrence for her to play. Marlijn is indeed passable on the 'Scalloped Beast' as she calls it, but she much prefers the lute and making up clever little rhymes to go with her original compositions. While she doesn't stand out as a player, her lyrics are considered quite amusing by most, and she has quite the performer's flair.
In terms of important formative experiences, Marlijn's had few that stand out. There was a pilgrimage to the Verdant Throne when she was eight years old, where she began climbing the tree before being fished out with one of the fruits already in her mouth (she actually lost a baby tooth while biting into it). She also traveled to Ersand'Enise when she was twelve and it was apparent that she and her brother were fairly strong in The Gift. Marlijn decided that she wanted to go there. It sounded ever so much more exciting than her everyday life in Pesperdam: repeating Avincian phrases and practicing calligraphy with her tutors, gossiping with Tannifer, needle and thread in hand, or slamming away at a harpsichord for hours to sheet music brought over from Revidia. In light of this, perhaps it's not surprising that being accepted to Ersand'Enise means a helluva lot to Marlijn Vaanse. She doesn't come from a bad place. In fact, her life is quite privileged and she knows it. She doesn't have a pain or trauma-filled past, and she's never really even been particularly unique or special. What this place is, though, is agency. She wants some of that, deep down, more than anything else.
M O T I V A T I O N
Um... I may have actually answered this under 'Background'. Oops? Basically, Marlijn's a bored, smart, slightly underachieving creative type who prefers to either be the centre of attention or to be left to her own devices, with little in between. At the end of the day, she wants some agency and control over her life and to be able to chart her own course towards a 'happily ever after' with, perhaps, a not so small dose of fun and adventure along the way. To her, Ersand'Enise represents her first step on that path, and she's both nervous and excited.
I N V E N T O R Y
Marlijn regularly carries a small notebook to write down her wittier ideas and was gifted a big, pretty, gold-winged staff as a going away present. She twirls it when she's bored and uses it to help her cast. She also has quite a bit of jewellery, two nice gold chains, and multiple pairs of shoes and boots. She has a satchel full of focus words for illusory spells that she's trying to master and dozens of pages of sheet music. There is a fine lute and a less-fine lute leaning against her night table or slung over her shoulder at times and her wardrobe is packed full of dresses organized from 'really fancy' to 'plain Jane'. She'd kind of like to train and keep a bird since there are so many here and it's kind of a tradition. She finds magpies rather adorable little pests. Perhaps she'll add an animal familiar at some point.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ quick-witted ❖ great horseback rider and good with animals ❖ musically talented ❖ kind of has some feminine wiles, actually ❖ very good with illusions
Marlijn's just honestly pretty good at being a competent young noble girl, likeable, and morally somewhat decent despite herself. She's often been only half-jokingly described as 'a little bit above average in everything'. In particular, though, she's good with illusion, animals, and music, and usually pretty socially put together.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ kind of spoiled, to be honest ❖ not as worldly as she thinks she is ❖ not the most diligent student ❖ has a need to be seen as interesting and fun - can be approval-seeking ❖ pretends to be cynical but honestly just kind of a dreamer who's become a bit afraid to dream
Marlijn can be a bit of a suck. If she's not good at something or doesn't enjoy it, she doesn't really try. She also tends to seek external validation and likes to be a bit of a performer, but only on her own terms. In a practical sense, she sometimes overestimates her own competence and can embarrass herself or get into hot water. Her most common response is to react with stubborn pride, hold it together because Eskandishwomen don't cry, and then go home and ball her eyes out while having a near-anxiety attack. Finally, while she's not a snob, she's still more or less a typical young noble with much of what that entails.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
Marlijn will simp for pretty boys. She'll never admit as much and act indignant if you accuse her of it but, deep down, she's a typical thirsty teenager. Colour Code: D2691E
Penelope 'Penny' Pellegrin
"I admit to being more than a little distracted by the...wit and depth of the conversation at this table."
"It seems mother wishes to turn me into some sort of lifelong penitent for sins I've not committed."
Most of Penny's life has been defined by being the family disgrace. She was born without a left leg and with a moderate form of ectrodactyly in her left hand and this was cause enough for her superstitious mother to see her birth as divine punishment for the sins of her and her husband. This would be quite a bad state of affairs in most families, but is only magnified due to the fact that Penelope's parents are King Rouis XI of Perrence and his wife, Queen Mathilde. Unallowed to attend balls, public functions, or even to venture past the palace gardens, Penny is a young woman stifled. She reads, she paces (crutch in hand), she grows things and draws and writes. She pretends to hate those formal family dinners when both father and mother are home, but secretly, she loves them. She is a forgotten middle child in many ways, with no prospects for marriage despite her station and no hope of amounting to much, so she is not one to hold back on pithy observations and cutting commentary and it is oh so amusing (often not only to her). The Gift is sometimes her plaything. When she's bored or sucky, she uses it to play tricks on her siblings, particularly if they're being obnoxious (at least one always is). A laugh at someone else's expense is still a laugh. Besides, they deserve it.
However, deep down, beneath many layers of snark and resigned cynicism, there's a curious, big-hearted girl who has dreams of seeing the world, meeting new people, and being valued instead of either pitied, stared at, or avoided with whispers, stolen glances, and sad shakes of the head. Because you place your right hand on your left hip, pointing to your left leg when you honour Oraff (the creator) while making the sign of the Pentad, religious superstition holds that Penny's missing limb is a mark of that God's disfavour. She does not believe it. She refuses to. She has a private tutor and she practices Binding Magic for hours on end, quietly determined to prove that she isn't what they say she is. On some warm Dorrad nights, though, as she lies awake in bend, staring at the swirling patterns on her ceiling and wishing for sleep, she worries that they're right and that she'll fail. She wonders why she couldn't just be whole and normal. She tries to dream that she is, but even in her dreams, she remains stubbornly the same person who she knows and does not love.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Were it not for her birth differences and their prejudices, most people would consider Penelope quite pretty. Tall and statuesque, with bright green eyes perhaps just a bit too large for her face and a resting smirk, she is the spitting image of her mother. Her hair is a rich chestnut brown and, when not styled in the fashion of the courts (even though she does not attend them), can usually be found pulled back in a Perrench braid. Since she was young, it has displayed a remarkable resistance to maintaining any sort of cohesive style or form for long and appears almost preternaturally tousled.
Penny wears long, light dresses. They vary in colour and she has many - some, hand-me-downs from her older sisters. She likes things that are lacy but feel solid and protective, so lacy hems and collars abound but not much else. She enjoys buttons, for whatever reason, and will often fiddle with those running down her sleeves. She also wears gloves. The left one is modified to fill in the gap in her palm and it has a dummy finger attached by a thin string to the one beside it. Out of habit, she does not take her gloves off unless sleeping or bathing. She has a pair of crutches (a handful of pairs, actually), but doesn't like how they fill her hands. As a result, she often gets around with only one. She's rarely in a hurry anyway. There's nowhere to go and not all that much to do.
L A N G U A G E S
For a noble lady of Penelope's station, languages are a must. For her, they're also something to do, and she has numerous correspondents all across the twin continents who she writes to. She is fully fluent in Perrench, Avincian, Revidian, and her mother's native tongue of Kerreman, and at least conversant in Eskandish, Torragonese, Joruban, and Belzaggic. Once you learn one language from a family, the others come easily. She sometimes practices her calligraphy and is looking to correspond with someone in Oiyac or Mycormi, but yasoi are so much more reticent in real life than they are in all of her old books.
T H E G I F T
Penny approaches prodigious levels in her use of the Gift - unsurprising for a blueblood of her pedigree. With little else to do but read, write, and learn, she also trains all day, memorizing focus words and inventing little spells of her own that she gives funny names to. While she's practiced with all five canonical schools, it is Binding that she puts most of her effort towards. She spends a considerable amount of time on Arcane as well, mostly the illusory branch, works with Kinetic to help ease the difficulty of walking long distances, and with Magnetic because it's her tutor's favourite and there's something peacefully destructive about watching fingers of electricity writhe and snap. Guiltily, she dabbles in internal Chemical spells and tells herself it isn't so that she can make people like her. That's what a madwoman would think. Penny isn't mad and will not let herself go mad. She simply won't. Besides, Binding Magic is her preferred school. If she can't heal herself, she reasons, she can at least heal other people. Then, she cringes at the thought of how melodramatic and self-indulgent such a statement would sound aloud.
B A C K G R O U N D
Penny remembers the looks most of all: the first looks when people see her or the second ones when they make sense of her. It first really registered when she was around four years old. Until then, she was blissfully unaware of her differences and what they would mean. She grew up playing with her siblings - there were many and they were close in age. There were servants' daughters and cousins too. They always told the most wonderful stories and she used to like to hear them until she realized that those were stories of a world that was being kept from her. They're now a weird, resentful kind of addiction. She still needs to hear them, but they no longer bring her joy.
When she was seven, her parents attempted to arrange for her a marriage with the second son of a Torragonese lord, but instead of making arrangements by proxy, he decided to visit. Penny played with the boy and they laughed and smiled and she teased him that they'd be married someday and that he should listen to his wife. Then, he and his father left.
One time, when she was ten, there was a ceremony at the Catherdal de Ste. Defrois. She rode in a carriage through the streets of Relouse, listening to the clatter of the horses' hooves and the church bells ringing. She remembers leaning out with her little tiara and waving with her right hand at the commonfolk. They were loud and dirty and shouted, and she was a bit scared, but they waved back, and there were kids her own age in there too.
She hasn't traveled since. She hasn't done much of anything since and wasn't going to be allowed to. That is, until her brother Arcel intervened. She is to attend Ersand'Enise under an assumed name, as the invented daughter of an unremarkable merchant paid a sum by her brother. She is to be his agent there. She is to meet with people and exchange letters with them. She knows Arcel: he is not vile, but he is ambitious and underhanded. Penelope - Penny Pellegrin now - doesn't much care. It's a species of freedom, at least, and she'll take it, even with all of the risk and the fears.
M O T I V A T I O N
More than anything, Penny wants to spread her figurative wings. She wants to live an actual life. She wants to prove to herself, at least, that her mother is wrong about her. There is a deep well of bitterness there, though she shakes her head to clear it and simply tries to appreciate that she has never hungered nor wanted for any physical need a day in her life.
Penny is eager to be at Ersand'Enise and to make something of herself, but she is deathly afraid of the real, actual, wild people out here. How will they react to her? Will they laugh at her jokes? Will they just see her: Penny - a girl from Perrence, or will it be pity, awkwardness, or avoidance? She knows it will. It'll have to be, like it always is. What if anybody finds her out - or learns of whatever her brother is up to? Will she be able to play a merchant's daughter convincingly? She feels like a fraud when it comes to life. She hasn't lived very much and knows it. Still, sometimes she takes a deep breath and counsels herself that she can do this. She is a princess of Perrence. Her forebears earned the crown at some point. They were capable people. So is she... she hopes - she really, really hopes.
I N V E N T O R Y
Penny almost always carries a satchel slung across one shoulder, with some basic jewellery, a small journal, letters and wax, and a comb (partly as a joke) inside. She uses one crutch the majority of the time, to keep a hand free, and two when she knows that she'll have to do a lot of walking that day. They're made of light, lacquered wood with soft pads on top for her armpits. She'll never be found using a wand or staff as a focus object, having practiced freecasting from a young age. For spells absolutely requiring one, a crutch is very much like a staff when held a certain way. Penny's recently taken to wearing a spare garter even though she already has one to hold up her stocking. She uses it as a strap to tuck secret correspondence for her brother into and spends the next while paranoid that it'll slip out and Black Rezaindians will come for her in the night.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ funny and clever ❖ grudgingly kind-hearted ❖ excellent courtly manners ❖ good memory ❖ skilled in language and literacy
At the end of the day, Penny falls on the side of being a good person. Her acerbic comments are more than just a cover, but also not her entire story. She's well-heeled and it shows. She can wield etiquette like a weapon if need be and generally has very good recall for obscure trivia and details. This carries over into languages and the written word, where she can speak seven languages, at least to a degree...at least usually.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ anxious and insecure ❖ not very worldly at all ❖ proud and paradoxically judgemental ❖ tires quickly when walking ❖ questionable self-awareness and victim complex
Penny's upbringing and the constant feeling of being unwanted has done a number on her mental health. She's not a wreck or a basket case, but she struggles with intense flashes of anxiety and self-doubt. She worries about how people will perceive her and tends to assume the worst, though she actively counsels herself not to. She can be a bit of a stepford smiler at times.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
Penelope of Perrence is here incognito, as a lowly merchant's daughter named Penny Pellegrin. It would be unusual for anyone but the high-ups in the school establishment to know who she really is. Also, see here for a demonstration of how she walks on one crutch. Beware that I may have had to go into the weird part of YouTube to dig this up. Colour Code: F7976A
Manfred Hohenfelter
When asked by a member of the Aesthetic Society, "What do you feel when you shoot some poor mage?" his reply was, "Recoil."
18 | Male | Kerreman | Noble | 6.14
P E R S O N A L I T Y
❖ Intense ❖ Professional ❖ Cold ❖ Work Hard, Play Hard ❖ Religious
Manfred is a consummate professional. Despite his parents' doubts about his chosen path, or perhaps because of them as well as his experiences in war, he's dedicated himself to his craft with the utmost conviction. In his approach to others, Manfred will always treat them with decency and professionalism unless they have done something to deserve differently. However, practically speaking, to those who don't know him, this behaviour can come across as cold and, in all honesty, it often is. Manfred isn't a shell of a man, but he's seen things that most people his age haven't and he doesn't feel much connection to his peers as a result. Besides, he knows that these are all monsters in the making and he doesn't have the energy to try to save them all. If he knows someone well, that would be another matter, but he prefers not to get attached. Things are less complicated that way and he doesn't like complications.
Manfred also prefers people who are what they claim to be. He has little time for liars, manipulators, and decadent types. Being honest and useful and maybe subtly stroking his ego without seeming sycophantic is the path to getting Manfred to like you. If he catches you in a lie, he won't hate you. He'll just stop trusting you and you'll never see any side of him beyond the professional. Betray him and, for all that he seems cold, this is one of the few things that tends to make his blood run hot. Manfred will appear to shrug it off. He'll wait. Sooner or later, he believes, Dami-Zept balances everything out. He will take his revenge and it will be decisive and deserved.
In general, Manfred is a devout Quentian, who carries a pocket-sized copy of the Ruhrich (the Menana) on him at all times, but he also appreciates the wisdom of the Angic Philosophy of Rettan. Despite being a member of the nobility, he views the regular lording of their powers over ungifted people and the violent and unaccountable excesses of most mages with deep distaste but, in the name of his faith, he counsels himself to keep an open mind. It isn't easy and it's only getting harder.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Manfred is slightly taller than average height for a Kerreman. He has dark brown hair usually tied back in a short ponytail and grey-brown eyes. He's not bad looking, but doesn't stand out as exceptionally handsome. He's old enough that he's grown a but of stubble and has to shave. As a member of the nobility, he has access to fine clothing and will dutifully wear it when appropriate, taking pride in his appearance. However, he prefers a simple doublet and vest of quality materials, with a leather belt, breeches, and sturdy boots for his everyday wear. His clothes often show evidence of cat hair, despite his best efforts to keep them clean. He has four of the exact same outfit and a fifth, slightly more styled, for the day of worship. He launders his clothes on the fourth day of the week and lets them dry on the fifth. He believes in doing this himself and will only hire a washerwoman if she's especially pretty his schedule is especially busy. Manfred can also sometimes be found in a uniform of military cut, complete usually with a coat in the Navy Blue of the Kerreman Crown. When in the field, he wears a bandoleer with ammunition pouches, a rapier at one hip, a wheel-lock pistol at the other, and a marksman's rifle slung over his shoulder.
L A N G U A G E S
Manfred speaks Kerreman as a mother tongue, as well as fluent Avincian. He knows Perrench as a matter of practicality and can understand some Holmanian because it is more or less mutually intelligible with his native language. Besides, it's useful to know the tongue of your enemy. He'd like to pick up some yasoi too, for similar reasons. Unfortunately, it's hard to find a tutor these days.
T H E G I F T
Manfred's use of the Gift is rather pedestrian. Technically, he falls within the lower average range for a magus, but his family has a strong martial tradition and, as a second son, he is expected to take an officer's commission in the army. The problem is that he would rather be anything but a mage and, even if he were to be one, he'd be only a middling mage at best. The graveyards of Constantia are full of middling mages. To this end, he has decided to eschew tradition and train as a magusjaeger. In this capacity, Manfred's use of the Gift is wholly practical. His primary school is Kinetic, which helps him guide bullets, provides an abundant drawing source, and can help stop incoming projectiles. He has enough capacity to function at a higher defensive level than the average magusjaeger. His secondary schools are Arcane and Magnetic. The first is for the magnification, stealth, and low-level illusion abilities, which he is quite good with. In a dim space and if he's more or less still, Manfred will be effectively invisible. Meanwhile, Magnetic provides some manipulation of metals - useful on a battlefield - as well as protection against internal chemical spells and an alternative way to alter the course of his shots and others'. He has precisely zero interest in magic beyond what it can do for him in a practical sense. He has grown up around practitioners of the Gift and is inured to its uses. He finds no wonder in it - just a tool.
B A C K G R O U N D
Manfred comes from a long and distinguished line and, while none of his forebears have been famous mages, many have been respectable or even notable. His family are Reichsgrafs (imperial counts), outranking all other nobility with the exception of dukes, and hold stewardship in the Queen's name over a large swathe of mostly rural farmland in Meckelin-Thandau. It is good and rich land and a portion of it is reserved for the estate that Manfred grew up on and its surrounding hunting grounds. From an early age, Manfred enjoyed hunting with his two brothers, Jurgen and Klaus, and his wolfdog Fritz. They would spend hours outdoors in the warm months, often on horseback and sometimes joined by their sister, Nina.
Manfred grew up, in many ways, as a normal boy of his country and station. Then, the Holmanians attacked. Seeking to take advantage of Kerremand's distraction, desperate, bony bands of yasoi launched raids over the border as well. Jurgen was old enough to be attending Ersand'Enise up north, Klaus was but a boy, and Nina a young girl, but Manfred had entered his teens and joined his father on the fields of battle. Only beginning to develop his talents at that age, he was given a largely ceremonial posting as morale officer.
It started simply enough. He would go out to meet the troops in their camps or on the march and speak with the non-commissioned officers - sergeants, corporals, and the like. He'd encourage them, sing some marching songs while they politely watched, and go report back to the higher ranking officers - most of them magery or cavalry. Then, the army saw battle. It was against the Holmanians under General Gerd Von Mikkelstern of Albesatz-Zuber: the Iron Duke, and they outnumbered his forces by double. Yet, Manfred could do little but survive and hope. The heavens crackled with thunder. The air reeked of blood, shit, and ozone. Did you know that human flesh, when slightly cooked, has a sweet smell? A sickeningly sweet smell? Manfred will never forget that smell. And so he watched mages fling thunderbolts across the sky. He watched knights roasted alive inside their armour by Arcane magic. Great chains, their iron links caked with rust and old blood, scythed across the battlefield, breaking human bodies. Soldiers - men he knew - who he had sung and marched with, who'd called him 'little lord' and laughed and patted him on the back after giving him a swig from their flasks... he watched them fed into the meat grinder of the enemy's magery - and their soldiers fed into his.
And nobody gained an inch of ground. A soft rain began and the two armies retired from what had been a grassy field and was now a wasteland. All night, he heard the voices: calling for their mothers, praying for Oraff-Zept to save them, for Ahn-Eshiran to take them, crying. Grown men were not supposed to cry and Manfred couldn't take it. He wandered out of his tent in the darkness, right to the edge of the battlefield, and there they were: crawling and dragging torn, boiled, and ravaged bodies through the muck. Manfred recoiled. His heart beat faster and the pressure mounted in his eardrums. Grey Rezaindians shuffled along, lanterns swinging in the blackness, gathering the dead. It did not matter whether they were Kerreman Grey Rezaindians or Holmanian Grey Rezaindians. They were all Grey Rezaindians. The wails rose, carts shambled past, and eventually, the greys gave way to White Rezaindians who drifted in like ghosts in a fog. A lick of flame it'd be. Every once in a while, they'd stop and there would be a wail, and brief, intense burst: Ahn-Eshiran's gift to the maimed and the dying.
The armies met the next day. Manfred huddled by his father in the magery. The cavalry was dispatched to distract the enemy mages and there was a twinkle in the graf's eyes when he told his son 'you won't want to miss this, my boy." The magery of Kerremand eliminated the King's Own Lassanzee Fusiliers in less than a minute and, with it, almost every grown man from the Holmanian village by that name. There was scarce time to celebrate. The enemy had not been idle. A pair of Internal Chemical Mages had light-bent to slip behind Kerreman lines and he saw people melt from the inside - their eyes bubbling out of sockets, the skin sloughing away in sickly colours, and a foul yellow gas seeping like death across the battlefield. Then, one looked at him and he felt the start of a pinch and knew that, at age fifteen, it was time to make his peace with the gods.
Only, it wasn't. The cruel grin on the mage's face froze in a mask of shock and he fell face-first, dead, a smoking hole through the back of his head. Moments later, the second mage fell. Nobody saw the magusjaegers who'd done it. They worked silently. They did not ask for accolades. They just did their jobs, and that had saved Manfred's life.
For the very first time, the Iron Duke lost in open battle. Truly, it was a Pyrrhic victory, for he had bled the Kerremans just as dry as they had bled him but, around that time, Kerremand had a bit more than its neighbour in the way of young men. That night, Manfred joined the commanders of the army in the general's tent, drinking, feasting, and singing songs about how Holmanian women are whores and how their men make good fertilizer. Most of them were mages. They weaved their hands through the air as they described how they'd cut this guy in half or blown that one's head up like a firework. At some point, pumped full of beer as a sort of mascot, they boy excused himself from the tent on the pretense of having a piss. Some of the soldiers were singing and drinking too. Some were not. The ones who were dead certainly were not. There was one particular group that drew his attention, though: small, aloof, and dressed in dark clothing. They sat in silence in the night, the embers of their pipes and tips of cigars burning like fat orange fireflies. The magusjaegers were cleaning their rifles. They spared glances out at the battlefield, already preparing for their next fight.
M O T I V A T I O N
Manfred is at Ersand'Enise out of obligation. As a Hohenfelter, he was signed up for the school from the moment the previous cohort entered, and there was never any option not to go. He hides his utter hatred for mages and what they represent behind a mask of cold professionalism, ever worried about slipping back into the comforting normalcy of a decadent noble lifestyle. He still feels a sense of duty to his family and country, however, and will do nothing to shame or disgrace them. Regardless, aside from what he can learn of light-bending and countering internal chemical magic, he would rather be just about anywhere else.
I N V E N T O R Y
Manfred has a chest full of clothes. He carries a ring with the seal of House Hohenfelter, a quill, some ink, and a small journal. The customary coin purse is there, and his is well-stocked. Try to sneak up on Manfred and pickpocket him. See what happens. Finally, he carries a magnifying glass on him. This item serves two purposes: one is for practice with light-focusing and the other is as a light to amuse his cat. A large orange Ragamuffin, Kürbis is given free reign of whatever Manfred's current living space is and is an excellent mouser. Aside from his wolfdog Fritz, who is quite elderly now and could not travel with him, Kurbis is also just about the only thing that you will ever see Manfred show affection for. Also, he has guns - lots of them, and they are very good ones. Swords and knives too.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ Preternaturally accurate with a rifle or any sort of projectile: don't mess with him. ❖ Pinpoint etiquette and manners: he has all of the training of a high noble. He can make you shrivel with an outwardly polite smile. ❖ Hard worker: Manfred puts in the work. No excuses. Not having much of a social life helps. ❖ Hardened: Your social politics and jibes really, actually don't bother him. He's seen some shit. ❖ Kerreman: He can really hold his drink. Don't get into a drinking contest with him. You'll lose.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Distant and detached: Manfred just sort of sees people as... not bad, but just 'there'. Nobody really means much of anything. ❖ Morally Superior: Manfred really does believe that he's better than you, filthy mage. He won't say it, but he'll let you know. ❖ Stubborn: He can become very set in his ways, mostly for the sake of his pride and because he hates admitting when he's wrong. ❖ Hardened: Manfred had a sense of humour once. He was fun and talkative. He's pretty unlovable now and convinces himself that he likes it that way. ❖ Kerreman: Sometimes, he will drink too much, and you might not want to be around him then unless your name is Fritz or Kürbis.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
❖ He's not a revolutionary or anything, but Manfred listens to what The Traveler has to say and agrees with some of it. Still, he thinks the guy is a madman overall. ❖ Manfred loves a hearty meal. ❖ He's actually kind of looking for a wife if he can find one. That way, he won't be legally obligated to obey his father's commands as a member of his household. ❖ Colour Code: 2E8B57
Jomurr Ikon III
I don't think I'm better than other people. I know it.
Jomurr's a second son and he has complexes. He's powerful, rich, and handsome, but he's a second son. His father is an arch-conservative duke under Emperor Jobanzaggah IV and the mindset has rubbed off on him. To some degree, his snobbishness is reactionary and a response to the threat of the other classes' rise. A lot of it stems from a genuine belief that Dami chose people like him to govern, though. Jomurr looks at himself and rightly perceives that he's better at magic than 99.9% of the population. He's healthy, he's smart (even if it's more due to a good education), he's good-looking, and he's physically capable, perhaps even more so as he gets older. In a sense, he feels as if Ersand'Enise is a battleground where the lesser classes are trying to challenge the nobles' right to rule and that, if they win, the consequences for society will be genuinely disastrous. It is also a place where he can let loose. He can learn and unleash his full potential without restraint or compunction, and he can prove himself the better heir to his father. Zemon's RAS is only 7.82, after all.
Look at the pic. There's your answer. He dresses in light, loose cloths, like most Belzaggic people. He'd show off his muscles if he had a bunch, but he's still a bit scrawny. Impeccably dressed, though. He just screams 'noble'.
T H E G I F T
Jomurr is a prodigy with the Gift and has the goal of either becoming an Arch-Zeno someday or returning to his house and usurping his firstborn brother to rule over the Duchy of Zowenga in his stead. Jomurr practices with all schools and knows the fundamentals of all. However, his favourite is Chemical and he's learning Atomic from a Zeno hired to be his tutor. He also has a thing for Kinetic because it's just so damned fun tossing plebs out your castle window with but a flick of your finger. Alas, this school only allows for two specializations. He should have his father talk to the Zenos about that. Arcane is pretty dope too. Binding? Hah! Binding magic isn't used for offense, and who needs healing? You have some pleb to follow you and heal you, of course!
B A C K G R O U N D
Jomurr's a second son and he has complexes. He's powerful, rich, and handsome, but he's a second son. His father is an arch-conservative duke under Emperor Jobanzaggah IV and that mindset has rubbed off on him. To some degree, his snobbishness is performative and a reaction to the perceived threat of the other classes' rise. A lot of it stems from a genuine belief that Dami chose people like him to govern, though. Jomurr looks at himself and rightly perceives that he's better at magic than 99.9% of the population. He's healthy, he's smart (even if it's more due to a good education), he's good-looking, and he's physically capable, perhaps even more so as he gets older. In a sense, he feels as if Ersand'Enise is a battleground where the lesser classes are trying to challenge the nobles' right to rule and that, if they win, the consequences for society will be genuinely disastrous. It is also a place where he can let loose. He can learn and unleash his full potential without restraint or compunction, and he can prove himself the better heir to his father. Zemon's RAS is only 7.82, after all.
M O T I V A T I O N
"I wanna be the very best, like no one ever was!"
In all seriousness, see the above bit on 'background'. Basically, like everyone else, Jomurr's here to become the person he's going to be for the rest of his life. He's also here to flex, though.
I N V E N T O R Y
Tons of outfits, a coinpurse full of Kizans, Coronas, and some Neskals because that's what all of the cool kids are paying with. There's no bigger flex than rolling up to some merchant, purchasing a papaya, and asking if he can make change for your Great Neskal. Jomurr also carries the signet ring of his house and a Teddy Lion that he sometimes sleeps with.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ Magic prodigy ❖ Quick and athletic ❖ High noble and well-connected. He can pull some strings when he needs to. ❖ Quick with words, usually. ❖ Good liar
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Honestly just kind of a jerk ❖ Insecure, deep down ❖ Overconfident ❖ Not quite as quick with words as he thinks he is ❖ Does not handle failure well initially
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
Unless they're from Belzagg and/or a high noble from at least a neighbouring region, other students are unlikely to know that Jomurr is a second son. Colour Code: 800080
Zeno Joshe Intaba
"A Zeno's business is the Gift... and only the Gift."
64 | Male | Medrilaner | Noble | 8.86
D E S C R I P T I O N
Joshe Intaba is a living legend and one of the most powerful mages alive today. Master of the Magical Pentad, Hero of the Nashorn, Warden of the Lantern of Shune-Zept, and Lion of Medrilan, he is in possession of a virtually unparalleled resume as a practitioner of the Gift. Yet, for all of his accomplishments and sublime talent, he is a mere Zeno, as he has been for the past thirty years.
Joshe has never liked politics. He has never cared to play them. He believes strongly that a Zeno should be a practitioner of the magical arts and only the magical arts. To this end, he has refused every honour and promotion that has come his way but a handful that he found to be meaningful. While many have sought to garner his support and use his renown for their own ends, he always replies with a sad, friendly smile and a tired shake of his head. "I am sorry, friend, but it cannot be so. A Zeno's business is the Gift, and only the Gift. I wish you luck." It is said that he sees with far more than just his eyes, and that he sees all. Many feel themselves judged in his presence and found wanting, but there is never any malice or disdain.
While others have risen further and faster on the strength of their ambitions, Joshe has been content to remain a teacher, researcher, and - in times of trouble - arguably the academy's mightiest weapon. He eschews the ostentatious silks, laces, and jewelry of many of his fellow mages, in favour of a simple dark robe of excellent cut and quality. In his younger years, he was known for his boisterous celebrations, generosity, and many lovers (including the current Zenith, some whisper), yet he is in every way now, a wise and wizened master, if not with a bit of a twinkle in his eye.
Ironically, his hard stance on the duties of a Zeno and his steadfast dedication to his craft has grown this old Medrilaner a sizable following - one that he has never sought to leverage. The Academy, too, has recognized this. He is considered their foremost active instructor. To be apprenticed to Zeno Intaba is generally considered an honour and a privilege reserved for only the most gifted and promising of students. Yet, such is his cachet that he is given free reign to choose his own pupils, and his choices often raise eyebrows, as do his methods. Yet, none can argue with his results.
@TheMushroomLord I love your character's angle of not actually being that gifted but being a genuine hard worker. Pending a reference pic, she's approved and you can pop her in the Character tab in our OOC.
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?<br><br>Stay awesome, people.</div>
Fallenreaper
Emeth
BlackRoseSiren
Ti
Not a Sayan
Echotech71
FourtyTwo
