So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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likes
2 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
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2 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?
“I had forgotten about your change in attire,” replied the sanguinaire. “My apologies.”
“Accepted, as always, Brother Ash.”
“This food must’ve cost more than a year’s schooling here,” remarked a third robed man, his vestments simple and blue. “Just think what else they could’ve done with it.”
“Don’t be so dour now, Brother Flint,” cooed a small shapely woman, laying a gentle hand upon his arm. “What is life if we do not make space for flourishing?”
“Are you certain you would not flourish more in the Vermilion Order, Sister Cadence?” asked a woman in brilliant white and gold robes.
“I am a tool of Ipte, let them use me as they will, Sister Lumen.”
“Just so, Sister, and I do not disagree with you. Life is something to be felt.”
“I don’t either,” said Brother Flint gruffly. “Just reeks of hoity-toity types. Something about these spoiled lordlets makes me wish I could smack them in their smug little faces.”
“You have most certainly placed yourself in the right situation to do that,” Brother Lamb assured him. “There are plenty here who could stand to learn proper fear of the Gods.”
“Speaking of which,” said Brother Ash, “Do you see anyone we should be worried about?”
“The stronger Tarlonese,” replied Sister Lumen immediately, “and their unnatural magics.”
“They are fools,” sneered Lamb, “who worship a false goddess.”
“There is a sangunaire among the home teams,” suggested Sister Cadence. “Quite the titillating prospect.”
“She will bear watching,” said Brother Ash quietly, as the Turquoise Hundrian sucked some of the sugar off of her fingers and the Blue Rezaindian filled his little plate. “Leave her to me if she proves a problem.”
“We worried about Verrano’s people?” grunted Flint.
“Only Gloria, really,” Lamb decided. “I will deal with her if necessary.”
“Please play nice,” reminded Sister Cadence. “She is our sister in faith, after all.”
“In a manner of speaking,” sneered Lumen. “Personally, I am more concerned with this ‘Ice King’.”
“He is a fraud,” Brother Ash assured her. “Though I will admit to being intrigued by the Hegelans.”
“They are unremarkable but for their potions,” said Lamb.
“What of the faculty themselves?” inquired Brother Ash, narrowing his eyes and taking a quick bite of his croissant. “You know their intentions were not pure in inviting us over.”
The Dread Priest went still and quiet, gazing out over the crowd and the five members of their allied team: ‘Good Guy Team.’ They were from some exotic place and quite weak in general. Of course, that mattered little to Covenant. They only needed useful idiots who might be disposable. Still, he could tell that Brothers Ash and Flint both lusted for the girl with the eyepatch: Ahrora. She was a rare beauty, to be fair, in an exotic sort of way, but also a godless wretch. She was right now stuffing her face and glancing in their direction, smiling and waving, and Lamb smiled back. Ash would bear watching. Flint, disciplining - painfully, if need be. “You bear no blame, dear brother,” Brother Lamb assured him belatedly. “It is I who they seek and it is I who shall face them if need be.”
“If Hunghorasz comes after you -”
“He will not do so in earnest.” The Lindrian smiled patiently, beatifically.
“But if he does,” Flint insisted.
“Then he shall kill me.” The others flashed concerned looks, in their own unique ways, and Cadence laid a comforting hand upon him. He clasped it, squeezed it, and let it go. “That will be as Reshta wills it, but let us remember our purpose, brothers and sisters.”
“As always, you centre us, Brother Lamb,” said Sister Lumen.
The kick came out of nowhere. Miret let out a yelp and started. “What the fuck, Tyrel?” She twisted round, scowling, and batted at her butt. There was a shoeprint on it. “Look what you’ve done!”
“You should be honoured, tica. You just got kicked by a goddess.”
“You ain’t a goddess. You’re nothin’ but a cousin.”
“I am Vyshta incarnate, peon! I am Talit’yrash-fucking-osmax and I just imprinted your lucky bum with my lone precious foot. You should trade those pants at the next mette’stiroi. Pure profit.”
“Talit’yrash was dignified,” Velani cut in, deadpan.
“Wh-what the fuck?” It was Tyrel’s turn to jump back. “When did you get here?”
“This is your fifth time forgetting that I know temporal.”
“One for each of the bringers!” interjected Miret cheerfully.
“There should be six,” grumbled Tyrel.
Everything around them was frozen in time, including the two constantian yasoi they had allied with and the reasonably pleasant humans accompanying them. Velani was capable enough with temporal magic now to resist the rather basic spell’s hold. Miret had been pulled from it the moment that her cousin’s boot had touched her.
“So, do we rouse the boys?” Velani asked.
The cousins glanced at one another. “Naaah,” they said in unison. There was a pause. “Look how peaceful and derpy Chad looks right now,” Tyrel observed. “Like… how beautiful is that moment in time? How dignified? How could we rob him of that?” She and Miret exchanged glances. “We should cast riggus riggus on him,” giggled the latter.
Tyrel gasped and stifled a horrified laugh.
“On his fuckin’ balls,” added Velani.
CUBED3
“Ya know, if I didn’t know any better,” said Janaus, “I’d think they didn’t like us.”
“They’re scared,” amended Irina quietly.
“Yeah, well they got rights ta be,” blabbed Zymachias. He’d slipped a flask through the portal in his coat and he now turned it upside down for a swig. “Fuckin’ ‘Ice King’ here just made us a massive target.”
“Shit, sorry guys,” Nojus scratched at the back of his head. “Me no know mine own strength.” He grinned after a second.
“Hardly a laughing matter,” decided Egle. “Everyone wants a piece of us and -”
“The fuckers snaked us,” Zym growled. There had been two teams pretending to vie for their alliance but, at the last second, they’d instead allied with each other, leaving the Ice King and his allies out in the cold. “At this point, we’ve got zero chance, so I say we just take ‘em down with us.”
“Did we really come here to win some goofy magic trials anyway?” Janaus reminded the others.
“I’d have liked to,” Egle grumbled. Irina nodded.
“Should we be like… fuckin’ petty?” Zym prodded, “and just ruin those two teams’ days?”
“I’m good with that,” Janaus agreed.
“Since we’re not winning, I could do with some revenge,” Egle admitted.
“I want blood,” hissed Irina.
“Y’all want me to pull out my party trick?” Nojus inquired, “Put the fear of the ‘Ice King’ into ‘em?”
Janaus and two of the other three shook their heads. “No, save it. Make ‘em feel it in The Dragon.”
The Ice King grinned.
THESEAPEOPLE
“By the Gods, it is disgusting!”
“There is no actual food in this ‘food’!”
“This one is so burnt, I have no idea what it was in its past life.”
“At least they have snails.”
“You can thank the yasoi for that.”
The hors d’oeuvres were not to the Sea People’s liking. “Who’d have thought the yasoi would be the civilized ones here?” wondered Akeenah aloud. As she spoke, a whole flock of the damned elves came bouncing and skipping by excitedly, stuffing their faces, giggling, and throwing food at each other.
“You were saying?” Yikikauvo replied.
“I find it wondrous how they’re all-but pathologically unable to just walk,” observed Mahoomak.
“Heh, that one literally is,” Auvam pointed out, gesturing at one of the yasoi. “One-legged woman in an asskicking contest.” She looked right at him and smiled and his face went even more ashen than usual.
“Not saving you from that one,” Kyrikeehi remarked absently, picking up her fourth bruschetta.
“H–how do you eat this shit?” Akeenah blurted.
Kyri grinned sheepishly and blushed. “I got Kauvo to turn off my taste buds.”
“Fuck, I shoulda thought of that,” Auvam grumbled. Kauvo winked.
“Just let me do the thinking, buddy,” Mahoomak assured him.
“And I’ll play the tricks,” Kauvo chimed in.
“And I’ll punch things.” It was Akeenah.
“How ‘bout Kyri?” Auvam challenged. Hearing her name, the tall, spidery girl looked up from filling her little plate once more, eyes wide and some disgusting human food dangling from her mouth.
“Why it’s simple, my simple friend! It’s dear Kyri’s job to get punched.” He patted her grandly on the shoulder and she nearly gagged. “That’s why our best girl has to eat up, stay nice and big and strong!”
Kyri shot him a look and a rude gesture.
THEHUGGYBEARS
“Smells like breakfast.”
“Uh-huh?”
“No,” Dances-with-Rainbows clarified, “I actually meant that it smells like breakfast.”
“Very original,” Breakfast replied.
Rainbows blinked. “I do not understand, but thank you!” she chirped.
Then, Breakfast’s eyes widened in alarm. “AAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! Oh my fucking ancestors, his hair is on fire!” She pointed behind the other girl, who whirled on the spot.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! My hair is on fire!” wailed Gives-free-Hugs. “Put it out! Put it out!”
“Oh my gods! Someone put it out!”
“With fire oil,” murmured Punches-Kittens quietly, with a nasty little smile.
“We pray to the water god, patient and clever, rains come now and don’t take forever. We pray to the hair god, please don’t leave him bare, god. We pray to the witch, please leave him hair-rich. We wish for great strength to please fill his clothes. Hugs can live without hair but he truly needs those. The water shall come in a minute or two, and he shall be saved. We believe it is true. Water come!” chanted Takes-the-Piss solemnly. “Water come, Splash his head and splash his bum. Hey–ah–ah-ah! Hey-ah-ah-ah!” There was not a hint of mirth in his facade as he began dancing in a circle. This was clearly a sacred ritual. Dozens of the Easterners had gathered round to watch with growing concern and rapt wonderment at the absurd routine.
“I am on FUCKING fire!!” Gives-free-Hugs screamed, running around in circles, thrashing, and throwing himself onto the ground. Of course, he wasn’t. It was all illusory magic and part of a test to see what these Constantians were like, just as the Huggy Bears’ ridiculous aliases were.
“Oh for Eshiran’s sake!” shouted Isabella, one of their allies. “It’s too slow!” Inexperienced in magic, she managed to pull a nearby bucket full of cold water with her very basic Kinetic skills. This, she dumped all over the stout little Nashi, drenching him. The flames immediately disappeared.
“Praise be to the water god, patient and clever. He has answered our call and will do so forever. Give thanks for the bucket that has saved our friend’s hair. He shall not live all his life being bare up on there. Hey–ah–ah-ah! Hey-ah-ah-ah!”
Punches-Kittens stepped in quickly and placed her hands on Hugs’ ‘burned’ scalp. “Be healed, my child,” she exclaimed, utterly without enthusiasm. When she lifted her hands free, he was as good as new. “Thank you, guys!” He shed happy tears. “I thought I was a goner. And you!” He turned to Isabella tearfully and the Enthishwoman, whose hands were already on her wheels, instinctually took a push back. “Oh thank you thank you thank you! My saviour!” He rushed in, tripped on the footrest of her wheelchair, and got a faceful of her chest. His arms reached out and hugged her anyways. “Thank you,” he murmured, lifting his face free after a long moment.
“Ugh! Hugs, you little perv!” shouted Kittens, rushing in and pulling him away by the ear. This time, he hollered genuinely. “Sorry about…” she trailed off momentarily. “Ugh. All of them.”
“Hark!” cried a voice, “hark! My prince!” The finely dressed rider pulled up short and to the side of Prince Ulf. “I apologize for my rude interruption,” he spewed breathlessly, “but it is my men in this village. They are loud, rough, and many are Drudgunzean. I did not wish for misunderstanding.” Quickly, the rider dismounted, his black leather books sinking deep into the seaside sand.
“You are Jarl…” Ulf trailed off, a thinly veiled look of distaste settling upon his young features. “Alsfard, your highness. Jarl Bjorn of Alsfard. Those are my ships just there.” He gestured. “I was speaking with your mother about -”
“I know what you were discussing,” the prince interrupted, holding a hand up for this interloper to cease his talk. He scowled, glancing almost imperceptibly quickly in Vali’s direction. “So you vouch for them, then?”
“I do, my prince.”
“And you will compensate their victims for any damages they cause?”
“They will cause none but, if they do, I shall. On my honour.”
“Very good, Jarl Alsfard,” the youth replied, his voice cracking slightly. “I am glad we have avoided this misunderstanding.”
“As am I, and I am heartily sorry for any inconvenience caused.” He began to depart, heading towards the great longhouse, but then Ulf stopped him. “Say, Jarl Alsfard, have you heard anything about the Quentists who are supposed to be living in this town?”
There was a pause that went on just a half-moment too long. The Jarl furrowed his brow and shook his head tightly. “I’m afraid I know little of this area. My domains are far from here.” He sniffed, patting his horse to keep the beast placated. “I know precios little of their vile faith and wish to know yet less.”
“And where, pray tell, are your domains, Jarl Alsfard?” came the logical next question, but he was spared from answering by the thunder of approaching hooves. It appeared that Rigevand was a popular place for messengers this day. “My prince,” panted the rider, “there is an emergency in the city. A havetskriger is rampaging through the port and the fishermen’s market!”
It was not more than three minutes before thirty footsoldiers and three riders could be seen racing toward the city, their reflections skipping and wavering across the blue-grey waters of the Gulf of Eskand.
Kol could sense the approaching rider long before he could see her, and he knew who she was. “There is a problem in the city,” called the Skygge, coming to a stop. “The creature your king tortures under the docks has broken loose. It has killed many and thirsts for yet more blood. It blocks our access to the Gift.” She held out a hand to help pull him onto the great white mare that she sat astride. “If Arne is to be Æresvaktr then we had best gather him too. I can think of no better time for him to prove his worthiness.”
The havetskriger was a great seal-like beast, over thirty feet in length, with a thick leathery hide, layers of blubber, and a series of tusks that it had used to smash up piers and boats as surely as it had employed them against ice in the past. Now, it was aground and hauling itself awkwardly about the port district and the market with surprising speed, people fleeing before it, structures smashed or crushed in its wake.
Already, a few braver individuals had sunk arrows into the maddened creature, and these stuck out like sparse bristles in places. Yet, they seemed to do precious little to slow it and it was clear that more would be needed. With everything near to the sea emptying out, the city devolved into chaos. Robbers and brigands looted, innocents sheltered and huddled in fear, and the great katterhorns sounded an alarm.
It was many hours and yet more lives before the animal was stopped and, in this time, many who did not act in the interests of the Eskandr people were hard at work. Agents of Parrence laid their plans, gathered their resources, and prepared to strike on the morrow.
The morning dawned cool and overcast, pale rays of sunlight occasionally peering through a mourning veil of clouds. All about the city, as it awakened, the sounds of axes, hammers, and men at work could be heard. The people of Meldheim had weathered far worse and they wasted no time in clearing the wreckage. Queen Astrid herself walked among them, contributing with her Gift and her words, allaying suspicions as to the beast’s origin and anger. The Eskandr would recover.
Yet, among them slept a peril. It, too, awakened with the sun. The battered old locks that guarded the Dampende River from overflowing its banks and occupying its former delta had been sabotaged. As a rising tide piled up against them, they creaked, shuddered, and gave way. Cellar floors began filling. Rivulets of water trickled down the streets. The river filled with shadowy silhouettes, not quite human, lurking in the shadows of the muddy banks and shoreline brush.
This singular sabotage, however, was not the only danger. While the strange mossy-haired girl who had loosed the havetskriger was nowhere to be seen, dozens of other Parrench infiltrators now stalked the capital’s streets and recently-freed hostages skulked about. Gradually, carefully, with a dark, nervous, giddy sort of anticipation, they took their appointed places and made themselves unremarkable.
It was an hour past noon when each of these people, whether they had been in place for minutes or days, felt a pinch behind both of their ears. Tutors soon to commence class in the Kongesalan, rugged brigands hanging about the port, or earnest pilgrims awaiting the wisdom of the gods in the Grontempel: it did not matter. Now was the moment. The temple, the palace, whatever they could of the city - this last one without the prior knowledge of their Quentic Eskandr allies: Echeran hungered for these things, and so they were to burn. The people and property they were to steal or steal back were to be snatched. Whatever suspicions they had engendered would not now matter.
Jacques, Maud, and Svend had already departed from Rigevand with a skeleton crew on each knarr. The ships lurked, presently, just around the headland outside the capital’s sheltered harbour. Soon, it was hoped, they would be filled to bursting. The rain, it was hoped, would hold off. Meldheim, it was hoped, would serve as a warning that if Parrence was to burn, Eskand would burn with it.
The timeline was a bit tricky with this one, since we've had to reconcile two days' worth of actions. In any event, the moment has arrived: the attack on Meldheim begins now! See the action opportunities below for some ideas.
Vali is free to cast further suspicion on the inhabitants of Rigevand and possibly follow up. He may use this time to investigate if he likes or remain close to his prince. He is also encouraged o join the fight against the havetskriger.
Kol has been met by the Skygge to join in the fight. He has creative freedom to pull in Arne if he wishes and to play out the fight against the beast, possibly alongside his blood brother, Vali.
Dietrich is welcome to have played out any neotiations or learnin he's done and offers he's made. So long as they're reasonable, they can be considered to have been accepted. He is free to join in the fight against the havetskriger and show the Eskandr what he's got. His suspicions about 'Ositha' should probably come to a head on the second day, when she will make her move. Maybe they end up tangling, maybe it's more of a pursuit, or maybe his attentions are drawn elsewhere by necessity.
It's time for Osanna to act. She may want to coordinate some kind of signal with Asier. Perhaps she can start some of the fires while Asier starts others. In such a large structure, they will take a little while to become noticeable if started in an obscure enough area. More importantly, she should attempt to make off with her prize(s). Collabs with Dietrich and Asier or maybe just a few shorter posts per cycle might be a good idea.
Asier has plenty to do. If he is working with Osanna, they should coordinate. He can also look to burn the Kongesalan, assist in her extraction if needed, and attempt to steal fruit and seeds from the Livetstræ (Tree of Life). Massive and ancient, it rises above the throne room through a hole in the roof. The throne itself is organically grown from the gnarled roots of the great tree. His other, secret potential allies are also preparing to strike from the river. This should probably actually start at the end of this cycle.
Gerard gets to scream "burn, baby burn!" at the Grontempel. If he can assist the others, he is welcome to, but his main job is to send that heathen temple up in flames. He will have a detachment of Parrench infiltrators at his disposal. The others will be looking to spread throughout the city, steal, commit arson, and wreak havoc.
As a target, let's say that this chapter should cover the period up to the start of the focused Eskandr response. Kol, Vali, and Dietrich, along with Arne, the Skygge, and possibly Astrid can respond, but please remember that they won't just teleport there, Parrench mooks are strong, numerous, and widespread, and they'll be caught between helping the city and fighting. Basically, this chapter ends right as potential PVP begins, with the possible exception of an Osanna and Dietrich encounter.
Between footsoldiers and freed prisoners, the Parrench have about 110 people at their disposal. They also have Trygve if someone needs named NPC backup. Feel free to allocate these as you see fit. The eeaiko are coming right near the end of this chapter, if anyone=e wants to reference them in a post.
A great many years ago, in a land known as Nikan, there was a shogun who grew old and fat. He had never fought a war. How the daimyo, how the samurai, how the shinobi gathered round like crows circling over a dying man. I would say that you should have seen them, but you would not have, for this was the secret war...
Sorry for the borderline necropost, but I figured that I'd just put it out here: we're starting a new arc and a longtime player has had to bow out so, for the first time in a while, we have an open spot and I'd be thrilled to welcome any new players who are interested. You can check out our OOC and discord if you'd like to know more. They have a lot more up to date lore than this old thread.
The lives of mortal men are fickle things: they give the illusion of control, but that control is tenuous and situational at best. One finds himself adrift upon an ocean, subject to its vagaries and fickle currents and he must often leap or else drown, neither option appealing but a choice nonetheless necessary.
It was such a moment when the dragon appeared. The cleverly laid-out diversions and pitfalls of the Eskandr counted for nothing against such a force of nature. The enemy that the Parrench had prepared to face now appeared the lesser of two evils. Indeed, one of their greatest villains sacrificed near to the point of death in order to ward the beast off long enough that cooler heads might prevail. The stage had been set for an unlikely alliance against an existential threat, shared personhood bonding bitter enemies together in a struggle for survival.
The capacity for emotion is one of our greatest strengths as people: human and yasoi alike. It inspires and motivates us, brings us happiness, love, and even melancholy, for the last has its uses as well. Yet, for us to understand happiness, there must be anguish; for love, hatred; melancholy can so easily slip into despair, despondence, and terror. It was this second cohort of feeling that the people who stood upon the fields of fire chose.
Nearly two thousand Eskandr and Parrench spat in the face of assumed wisdom and, instead of turning their steel and magics upon the dragon that threatened them all, they warred with each other once more.
The heroes of one side and villains of another brushed aside gestures of goodwill and clashed in duel and open combat alike. Honour and decency fell by the wayside and the anger of one man burned white hot across the battlefield, laying low his enemies and willing his side ever closer to a victory that they had no business winning. The Parrench, however, were not so easily broken, and it appeared that the two sides might yet bleed each other to the last armoured man.
Marquis Down
Perceval was wretched. He had been stuck with arrows like a pincushion and only his armour had saved him. Still, the wounds smarted. His shoulder had given as he hit the ground too, and he would need a binder. “Binder!” he called out, staggering forward. “Marquis down! Fetch me a binder immediately!” He bit back a curse. It would not do to be unchivalrous. “How I have sacrificed for my queen and country,” he lamented, “how I have bled!” He had, and it hurt - by Echeran, it hurt, but there was advantage to be gained here and he could begin laying the groundwork. “And I would bleed yet more!” he roared, “I would give my very life for my country, but I have precious little to give like this. Binder!” he hollered, “I need a binder so that I might return to the fray and lay low these heathens! So that Echeran’s -”
He came upon Sir Maerec and the downed Eskandr woman. There were two more recovered prisoners. This, then, was a victory. “Good sir,” he remarked, grimacing as he came to a stop. He’d left the arrows in, partially to keep the wounds from gushing in earnest and partially because it made him look more heroic. They were not all that deep anyhow, or so he thought. He had never actually been shot with an arrow, after all. “You have done us a great service this day.” He glanced down at the woman who had shot him. “I am bloodied but still more than enough to watch an unconscious woman. Ride to the queen, I command you. Tell her of this victory, and call a binder here so that myself and these prisoners we have emancipated might be restored.” He glanced about the battlefield. He was unhorsed and it was far too exposed a position. There was far too high a likelihood of dying and Percy had no intentions of doing so. He still had yet to become king, after all. “Well, go on, man!” he prodded. Then, however, even as powerful magic rained down and his prisoner stirred, healing inexplicably fast, his eyes turned instinctively to the sky and deep, frigid chill raced through his bowels.
Terror Descends
Both factions were brought to a pause. Somehow, they knew it even before they could sense it: the feeling of the air itself seemed to change. The distant echoes from the pounding of massive wings rumbled in the distance. Soon came an unearthly howl that everyone present could feel in their bones and, suddenly, it didn't matter whether they were Parrench, or Drudgunzean, or Eskandr. It did not matter if they were human or yasoi. Not much of anything mattered, for the small foolish people busy burning, stabbing, and pounding each other to death in a cool, muddy field had squandered their chance to rise above their hatreds and become something more. Thus, in the end, they were all the same to the Tryrannus Gehenna: tiny, weak, and food.
The dragon was a great black leviathan: some two hundred feet from nose to tail, with wings at least the equal of its length. Its mouth yawned open and it belched fire into the periphery of the small, scrambling creatures below. Three hundred Parrench died near-instantly. The actions of Queen Eleanor and some of her most formidable knights saved at least a hundred more, but now the two sides were not so unequally matched and, in the chaos and panic, whatever prisoners they had captured found it easy to break free.
From the opposite side of the battle lines, Sweyn Thunderspear offered no aid to his enemies this time. Instead, he turned to some of his closest companions. “I see no reason to throw ourselves away saving enemy land and lives,” he spat. “I will not make that mistake and reap their ‘gratitude’ again. Honour be damned at this point. We ride for Chamonix,” he shouted. “We ride to join the king and we ride posthaste. If any of you has an objection, speak now or be silent.”
In the live fight that we played out over discord, the two sides proved unable to peaceably cooperate. Instead, honour was cast aside on multiple occasions, a duel to the (near) death was fought, a desperate hostage situation played out, and the Nashorn ran rampant. Now, as players, you will reap the consequences of your actions. Disorganized, divided, and weaker than before, you must contend with the enraged dragon, whether that means fighting together, apart, or running for your miserable lives. I will be holding combat dice rolls all week for the fight. If we can arrange a date and time, that would be ideal. This is definitely a good time to collaborate. Below are some ideas:
Sweyn is going to lead the Eskandr forces away towards Chamonix and leave Parrence to burn and the Queen's army to either die by dragon or slay it. There is no tactical or strategic advantage to sticking around. As an Eskandr, state your piece if you have an objection, or you will be leaving with him. A clean escape is likely but not guaranteed. If you do not go with him, then you risk a permanent break with your side. This may be a good moment for Hildr or it may not.
The dragon's power is awe-inspiring, but it is not without weaknesses. You must fight it for your own survival and that of a large swathe of your country. Think about how your magics can be used against it, how they can be used in combination, and how you may use the environment to your advantage. Consider the beast's potential weaknesses and how you might exploit them. Also, you need to regroup and come up with a defensive strategy to make its big, sweeping, straight-line fire attacks less effective.
Ulfhild, healed by Sweyn, himself recently escaped, has broken free and raced back for the Eskandr lines. If you wish to try to recapture her, this is something that you must collaborate on. If necessary, we will roll. The prisoners that Maerec and Percy have freed were not among the many killed in the dragon's most recent attack, though they are now fleeing, panicking, and praying. The final group rescued during Ulfhild's desperate flight are those close to Camille.
Greedy King's School of Enchantment, Ucyaz, Khagan
“Remember, guys, nobody expects a thing out of us. They think we’re just a bunch of weird kids from a faraway place, but…” Ahrora paused. She had somehow been elected leader of this group and was in the midst of plowing through this speech. “Um… remember, the blood of the great khans flows through our veins. Let them underestimate us, and it’ll be that much easier for us to come up from behind and kick ‘em in the nuts!”
“Inspiring, Babayeva. I am inspired,” replied a tall, lanky boy with an odd hat. His sarcastic claps carried in the small classroom that Good Guy Team the Band of Heroes had taken over as their waiting point.
“Shut up, Dildor. I’d like to see you come up and deliver a speech without any preparation in front of a crowd.”
“It’s four people…”
“And Zeno Niyazov!” Bohrom chimed in. “I, for one, was inspired. We’re blood of the khans, guys.”
“He’s not here, though,” observed To’fon, gaze darting to something behind his fearless leader’s shoulder.
“Is anyone going to tell her?” murmured Yo’ldoshoy in a quiet voice, big dark eyes searching the others and wandering anxiously to that same spot over Ahrora’s left shoulder: her blind side.
“Um, Ahrora - ” began Bohrom.
“Patch, the Arch-Zeno’s behind you," Dildor cut in with subtle glee.
She turned on the spot and her eye widened. Arch-Zeno Nakamura smiled and waved. “I am not many good at your language,” he admitted, in broken Kaganese, “Kick them in nuts… this be a charming local…” he trailed off, unable to find the word. “jukugo of you’s?” he substituted.
“Uh, hehe. Yes!” Ahrora replied, bowing furiously. “Yes, it is!”
To’fon raised his palm to his face. Yoldy pursed her lips and tried not to laugh. Dildor adjusted his hat vigorously, and Bohrom just looked stricken. “Well, I am happy to learn this,” the Arch-Zeno decided, “and shall be sure of use it. Now, you need come with me. We go meet other teams.”
“Hai, Arch-zeno Nakamura!” Hastily, they gathered their packs and jogged after him into the common room. The Nikanese’s robes obscured how fast it was that he walked, and his long black hair was tied into a sort of topknot. He carried multiple swords, but they all knew him for a friendly face and surprisingly informal authority figure. He almost always seemed to be either eating or at least carrying an apple. Then, he waved them goodbye and promised to return in twenty minutes. There was a sudden immense intake of power and then a portal of swirling energy opened up before him. In a flash, the Arch-zeno was gone. They gathered in the Hall of Stallions, where the last khan’s armour was mounted and where the head Zeno often gave her addresses from. Zeno Niyazov was waiting for them and he quietly motioned them over. The other four teams were already there, and Alibek’s group - who he’d called the ‘Great Dragons of Dread’ in Avincian - stood a little straighter. ‘Band of Heroes’, her own team’s name, sounded better anyways. The ‘Heroes’ formed up behind their zeno and proceeded to listen to another one of Head Zeno Umarova’s endlessly droning speeches. She was so old that they often whispered that she spoke so often of the khans because she had personally known them.
In truth, as the old woman spoke, Ahrora’s mind and eye alike wandered. Gods, her Avincian was terrible. She’d been working hard to learn it over the past few months, but it just wasn’t enough time to sound competent. Ersand’Enise was supposed to be a massive place: big as a Vossoriyan city, but with a myriad of different peoples, languages, and religions and dedicated solely to the arts of magic. She thought of her cousins and of the Stray Cats who she’d run with for years in the capital: the petty theft, the scrabbling for food, when the guards had held her down and put her eye out for being a thieves’ lookout. She was a small person and this was so much bigger than her: a bigger place, purpose, and challenge. I'll just be some provincial nobody, she thought. I'll - Bohrom’s fingers reached out for hers and she let him take her hand. She smiled at him through the corner of her eye. “Thank you,” she mouthed. She had always risen to life’s challenges, and would once more. From her other side, Yo’ldoshoy reached out and Ahrora took the smaller girl’s hand. To’fon took Bohrom’s and, with uncharacteristic earnestness, Dildor took Yoldy’s.
Zeno Umarova’s crackly old voice had risen slightly and she was finishing up. Everybody issued the obligatory applause. Ahrora glanced at her teammates, mind racing as a portal opened and the Arch-Zeno stepped through onto the stage. Umarova bowed to him and he bowed in return. “Now!” he announced, “we go!”
The Great Dragons of Dread were first, and she watched them disappear through the radiant portal. Then, it was her. “Okay,” she whispered, trying to instill some confidence and levity. “Let’s go kick ‘em in the nuts!” For the first time in her life, but hopefully not the last, Ahrora Babayeva stepped into a swirling vortex of time and space and out the other side.
Ersand'Enise Academy of Thaumaturgy, Constantia
It was morning, and 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. Brilliant shafts of light pierced the veil, dappling the plains where they struck and turning patches of grass outside the city into ponds of shifting whispering gold or green.
Inside the walls waited hundreds of students, staff, and townspeople with growing anticipation. Businesses did a brisk trade in all manner of snacks, refreshments, souvenirs, and items useful for the coming competitions. The calls of vendors, laughter and chatter of friends and families, and a hundred different pungent scents filled the air. As with each iteration of the famous Trials of Ersand’Enise, every inn was booked full, every tavern had cleared space in its attic and cellar for beds and hammocks, all rooms had been rented out, sofas slept on, guest houses occupied, and yards filled with tents. Some of the yasoi were sleeping in trees and had eagerly made room for more of their people.
Then, they were there: into the middle of a grand plaza appeared a portal of swirling light, sound, and magic, and a second moments later. These yawned open, lonely even amid the collective gasp of thousands and rising crescendo of murmurs. The first began to disgorge a hundred or more tall, slim youths from Tarlon: yasoi of the Tantas Island Academy of the Gift. They bounded, leapt, and grinned, waving, pointing, and fanning out. The second opened to an orderly procession, one-hundred-twenty-five students and one fifth as many Zenos marching through, two abreast. Glancing around excitedly and whispering amongst themselves, the biros of Twin Emperors took their assigned places and shot curious glances out at their new surroundings.
A third portal opened, then a fourth and a fifth. Brown-skinned students from Sawand hurried through, dressed in the loose, ostentatious clothing of their homelands and chattering excitedly. A good number of them appeared to be a variety of yasoi. They were followed immediately by swarthy Xolexoctans with their angular yet swirling ornamental paints, piercings, and draconic leathers. They charged through in formation, let out a collective roar, and took their places as the first portal winked from existence and the fifth opened. Unusual and eclectic groups filtered through as further rifts appeared:
Parynesian islanders with their bold tattoos, surfing boards, and grass skirts; fur-cloaked Retanese from the far north, along with an incongruously showy group of bards; Yspawashi wildmen with various animal motifs, howling and hissing; pale, rugged Vossoriyans with their fur hats, finely patterned hems, and booming voices; peoples of southwest Callanast with rich furs, headdresses, and tassels galore, dancing about; towering Eskandish announced by their great katterhorns and savagely noble bearing; Proud and solemn Darhannics in the flowing silks and satins of their homeland; Dark, boisterous East Severans, with their bold hairstyles, waving, smiling, and chatting excitedly; and, finally, the simple solid people of Kagan and the inner Callanast steppes, trying to look dignified but clearly overwhelmed.
Then, it was done. All of the schools had come. For a moment, everything became as if still and silent, despite the noise and motion. Conversation buzzed and students, Zenos, and citizens of the free city alike eagerly awaited what they all knew was coming. Every year, each of the two Holy Sees sent a team of initiate monks and nuns and they were almost always among the very strongest. At the very same instant, twin portals opened up at either side of the stage in front of Balthazar Hall and two teams in the various coloured robes of the monastic orders of Quentism marched out. Coming to a stop directly in front of each other, they lined up face to face and locked eyes. Then, the leaders of both teams reached out, clasped hands, and shook, followed by the other eight.
The next portal disgorged five young yasoi pirates who traipsed boldly across stage, bowing and grinning, and quickly made their way into the crowd among others of their people. Then, came the first of the truly anticipated groups: ten young eeaiko emerged, their long mossy hair, webbed fingers, and large dark eyes thoroughly unhuman or unyasoi. They split into two groups, exchanging quick smiles and a few words, before waving at the curious crowd and stepping aside. While one group maintained a semblance of cohesion, the other’s members could be seen bouncing up and down excitedly, gesticulating and conversing amongst themselves.
Finally, the moment had come and it could not be said that the authorities of the academy were not without some flair for the dramatic. A single yawning black portal opened and out walked five youths no different in age and, perhaps, disposition than any of the others, be they human, yasoi, or eeaiko. These, however, were no more than two thirds to three quarters the height of the first, stocky, burly, and already possessed of robust facial hair at their young age. Their clothing was heavy: made of leathers, furs, and metal plate with glowing runes etched into it. Perhaps more than a handful would’ve commented on how hot they must've been were not everyone so enraptured by the sheer novelty of these people. After all, In the entire city, no more than could be counted on one’s fingers had seen a hegelan before in the flesh.
Quietly, however, from a portal off to the side of the plaza, a team of five tall fair youths took their places. Many did not even notice them at first, but then a chill began to spread outwards and a strange sick feeling took root in people’s heads and stomachs. It was as if they’d been exposed to a blinding, strobing light, as if they’d eaten something spoiled, as if a weight was pressing down on them. Tiles and cobblestones began to glaze over with ice, even in the subtropical late spring, and people nearby bent over to wretch. Some staggered away. Others collapsed, clutching their heads. One of the five, bundled up in a thick parka and with a lick of shaggy blond hair half-covering one of his cool blue eyes, blushed and glanced around. After a moment, as the frost and discomfort had spread, his unusually large mouth cracked open in a massive grin that rendered his eyes upside-down crescents. “Oops,” he chirped cheerily, and both the unnatural freeze and some - but not all - of the mystery illness receded. “Sorry ‘bout that.” The gasps and murmurs settled into a heady buzz of talk. This, then, must have been the fabled Ice King and, whatever people had imagined him to be, he was now revealed, at least in part.
“Welcome one, welcome all!” boomed Zenith Upta’s voice, amplified by the Gift, and people’s attention was drawn back to the stage. “Welcome to the Ersand’Eniise Academy of Thaumaturgy in this, our five-hundred-fiftieth year!” There was applause and it was a good deal louder than one might’ve suspected from the number that could be seen clapping. The sound of the crowd, also, appeared to be at a suspiciously respectful low for a gathering of over a thousand boisterous teens. “For today and over the coming week,” the Zenith announced, against a backdrop of rumbling thunder and a gust of wind, “you will live, learn, and compete against each other in a series of five competitions.” She waited a moment for the sound of conversation to die down and an aggressive sweep of hissed, “shhhs” advanced across the crowd, silencing it. “Our first event, as you know, shall be the Great Melon Derby, as it has been every year for longer than any of us have been alive.” She paused and glanced at an exceptionally old man who sat on a high-backed chair nearby. “Even the Paradigm… I believe.”
She lapped up the obligatory laughter. “Now,” the Zenith continued, “for our second event, we can look forward to…” A black sack floated her way and she made a show of reaching into it, shuffling through a bit, and extracting a rolled-up piece of paper. “The Dragon!” she announced, holding it up above her head.
At that moment, in betting houses all over the city, hundreds of magi changed hands. The result was much the same when the third event was announced as Roses & Neskals: a notorious game of magical dodgeball that was often a spectator and gambler favourite. With the fifth event a staple, as was the opener, this left only the fourth and, when it was announced as Thin Air - a game of extreme altitude and brinkmanship - the crowd erupted into a flurry of speculation, half-baked strategizing, and not a little consternation as well. While it had been many years since a fatality had marred the Trials, the last one had been in that very event, and in a most grisly fashion. Finally, matters would conclude as they always did, with the physically and psychologically gruelling slog of Tug-of-Peace.
All competitors were assured that rules would be explained before each game and that they would receive printed instructions in a language that they could understand. Indeed, translators were hard at work at the ears of some. Food and drink would be made available before the first scored event right here in the plaza and in Balthazar Hall, and an enormous leaderboard, updated after each, would be kept right above the fountain in the King’s Plaza. The first drops of rain had begun to fall, the Zenith was speaking on procedural matters now, and one could see and hear people’s attention waning.
All at once, in a purposely droning voice, she made an observation. “Half of you are drifting.” Upta shook her head. “I could say that I had expected better, but I’ve done this too many times, so let’s make things a little bit interesting, shall we?” Out of nowhere appeared an hourglass and a small bell on her lectern. “The moment that I ring this,” she declared, picking the bell up, “your team will have three minutes to find a second team - not from your school - to pair with. So long as you are in physical contact with them at the exact moment that your three minutes is up, you will be allied to them for the first event. Your points will be their points and vice versa. However, those teams who are unable to find partners will participate on their own, at a severe disadvantage.” Voices rose in alarm, confusion, and excitement. Thunder rumbled, the clouds flashed, and the rain began to come in earnest. Zenith Upta smiled deviously. “Good luck.” The bell rang.
Guest Team Selection
Remember that these selections will be valid for the first event only: The Great Melon Derby. You will select a different allied guest team for the third event: Roses & Neskals
IC Details It is pouring rain. The Zenos will announce that all teams must pair with another that is not from their school. You will have three minutes to make your choice and all five of your members must be in physical contact with all five of their members when the horn blows and time is frozen temporarily. You will then be considered paired. Those who fail to pair will be forced to go solo.
OOC Details
Rank your top five priorities in terms of guest teams that you want to pursue.
Once you have a list, I will return it to you with feedback on how interested that team is pairing with you. You will be able to do this up to twice. After that, it'll be finalized.
Guest team interest in your team will be ranked from -2 through to +2, with 0 being neutral. These will be bonus modifiers (bringing their rolls closer to or further from yours) in case you have to compete to get this team against other teams. More on that in a bit...
If others want a guest team that you have selected at a higher priority level than you, they will win it. If your team selects a guest team at a higher priority level than all other teams, then you will win it.
However, if another group or groups select a guest team at the same priority level, you will roll against each other and the guest team in #damis-judgement on discord. Each member of the guests will roll first and the idea is to roll as close to their numbers as possible. Each member of your team will roll (another person may roll for you if agreed upon). You will call out which guest team member's roll you are trying to match and that will be binding. No changing minds and no rerolling.
The player team that gets more of its rolls closer to the guest team's rolls is considered to have won. This could be a close 3-2 or a 5-0 wipeout but, IC, all of your members will be considered to have succeeded.
This minigame will be held live Friday night, September 30, at 8:00 PM GMT-4. If you cannot attend, make sure that somebody in your group can. They may roll for you.
Melon Derby Scoring
Team selection is not a scored event, but the right choices could help you in the game starting one IC hour after this, following the brief brunch reception: The Great Melon Derby. For this event, point totals will be as follows:
First Place: 50 points
Second Place: 40 points
Third Place: 35 points
Fourth Place: 30 points
Fifth Place: 25 points
Sixth to Tenth Place: 20 points
Eleventh to Twenty-Fifth Place: 10 points
Twenty-Sixth to Fiftieth: 5 points
All Other Finishers: 2 points
Disqualified: 0 points
Disqualified (Dangerous Play): -5 points
In the event of a tie, both teams will receive the designated point total and the next rank below will be skipped.
Resources
Please find a detailed map of the city for the upcoming Melon Derby below. All of you will begin in the plaza north of Balthazar Hall. Also, take a look at the Guest Teams Guide for some help prioritizing the teams that you want to ally with, as well as the Leaderboard to stay up to date on scoring.
Trial One: The Great Melon Derby
With the holiday Melon Day having just ended, thousands of melons flood the city of Ersand'Enise. Most years, the number comes in just north of 20,000. This year, the exact total is 20,606, divided between the five 'elemental' melon types of firemelon, watermelon, thundermelon, terramelon, and cloudmelon.
Precisely one of each type is special: created through binding magic and seeded with a spell that will trigger only once it is picked up by someone with a RAS of 5.00 or above. This spell will correspond to its elemental type: the firemelon will scald, the watermelon will splash, the thundermelon shock, the terramelon cover you in dirt, and the cloudmelon buffet you with a strong gust of wind. One further melon, of a type that matches the element of the deity currently in ascendance, is the 'Melon Supreme'. It is seeded with a temporal magic spell that will freeze time for all but its holder for precisely two minutes. It will also send out a massive beam of energy into sky, marking the position where it was picked up. It is strongly recommended that its bearer use their two free minutes to beat a hasty retreat to somewhere safer.
Each melon is worth a particular number of points, with the special melons being worth the most. Below is a guide to these:
All standard melons (there are 20,050) are worth 1 point. These give no special indication.
Some larger melons (there are 500) are worth 10 points. These have a bell hidden inside and will jingle. The bells have a specific magic signature and are very hard to counterfeit.
A small number of very large melons (there are 50) are worth 100 points. These have a special magic item bound inside of them that will release a pleasant and pungent aroma whenever they are handled. Also very hard to counterfeit.
The five 'elemelons' are each worth 2000 points. These will have the effects described in the previous paragraph, depending on the element that they represent.
The one Melon Supreme is worth a mighty 10,000 points. It is generally considered an all-but automatic win. Only twice in history has a team finished with this melon in its possession and not won.
Teams may acquire melons by all and any means possible, barring direct assault causing serious bodily harm against their opponents or non-participants. They may lie, cheat, steal, bribe, and destroy at will and often do. Targeting opponents' melons to deny them points is a tried and true tactic and the teams' home bases (their Zeno's house) are often temporarily turned into veritable fortresses, even though opposing teams may not actually enter the property. All melons acquired by a team must be deposited at their home base in order to count for scoring purposes. In general, the rule with regards to cheating is, 'cheat in style.' Counterfeit melons, created either through binding or a mix of chemical and greengrowth abilities need to be able to seamlessly pass as the real thing. Get busted and any fake melons you're caught with will cost your team five points each. Rough someone up? That's a 25 point penalty, though some teams tactically decide to eat it. As for sneaking into an enemy team's home base? Better not get caught, or that's a 100 point penalty per person per instance! Any severe injuries that you cause that can't be quickly healed through binding will result in immediate disqualification. Just... don't be that edgy. It's not worth it.
When the derby ends and melons are totaled and inspected, they must be in a condition judged to be 'consumable' as part of a healthy meal in order to earn their team points. Destroyed, badly damaged, obvious cheat, or rotten melons will not count, regardless of which type they are (including the elemelons and the supreme). The five teams with the highest point totals will occupy the podium for this event. Allied teams will share the same ranking.
If the news of Asier’s escape had not spread quickly, it had not been slow to make its way to relevant ears either. By night, they began searching, but the fundamental flaw in their plan was that there were not so many of them - for they did not want to alarm the populace - and that they made the assumption he would head immediately for the hills.
The Tourrare’s goal, however, was not to leave Meldheim, but to strike at it. To that end, he had spent the night where they were least likely to look for him: right under their noses, by the holding cells in the dockyards.
It was a place of foul smells and filthy water. Oversized insects, crabs, and small, oily fish skittered and slipped between pillars. Three moons hung in the sky in various phases and the tides ebbed and flowed with them in that very complex pattern that they did in Meldheim, but Asier, a horseman from the arid steppes, did not know much of tides. He could only hope that they would rise high enough soon, that his subtle sabotage of the locks would bear fruit. The hours of Dami gave way to those of Ipte and occasional noises that punctuated the nighttime silence seemed disproportionately loud when they came. Perhaps he found a fitful sleep by then and perhaps he did not. Tourrare are hardy people anyhow, or so it is said.
Morning dawned cool and windy, a fresh, slick dew laying across rooftops, piers, and netting. There was something missing, and it might've taken him a moment to place it, for it was The Gift and he had never relied on it so much as others did.
The same could be said for one of the two figures who had made their way over in the early hours from Rigevand. The streets had filled, the prisoners prodded from their cells for another day of backbreaking labour, and the fish market - not so far away - a hustle and bustle, even as the first ship of the day hove into port. It was not like many other places Nettle had seen, though she had at least seen a port before. Not everything may have been as new to her as it had a month or more ago, when she had first been set upon by the Kang’s soldiers. Yet, that was not a thought that occupied much of her mind. For a moment, she thought she had sensed something, beneath a great pier that stretched well into the bay that Meldheim was built around. Then, the sensation had vanished, along with, well… everything. Try as she might, she could not call upon the Gift and neither could her chaperone, the old pirate-turned-king’s man, Jacques. He scowled. “Child,” he whispered in Drudgunzean, which he knew she at least somewhat understood, “have you lost the Gift too? Your magic?”
Whatever her reply was, he did his best to listen and understand it. Oraphe only knew where she’d been raised, and she was perhaps half-yasoi as well. Overwhelmed. He’d been there before as a boy, and though the years had hardened him and made him rich, he was not without sympathy. “Could you feel something?” he asked, his voice remaining low. “Just before our magic left?” He tried to keep his words simple. “A big animal?”
Out in the bay, people were back to hacking away at the berg from yesterday for scarce few had truly made an escape. Their little boats were moored to pegs driven into its flanks, a small shelter with a cauldron coughed out billows of steam into the cool morning air, and ropes and rickety ladders rambled about its surface. Dressed as he was, Asier should’ve been there, but he had yet more work to do and the sudden cutting of his connection to the Gift - a boon that had never been explicitly acknowledged but always present - was beginning to unnerve him. Before he could make any definitive moves, however, whether they involved fire, water, or something subtler, a pair of figures caught his eye: a tall man, thick around the middle with a short greying beard, and a small slight girl with hair tinged green in the colour of moss. The first could have been any old sea captain, for he gave off that air, but the second was distinctive and he had seen her somewhere, in passing.
Jacques and Nettle separated before long,forcing a choice upon the curious Asier who, despite his Eskandr garb, still stood apart as stockier and more tanned upon closer inspection. The first inquired innocently about oil and, separately, about manure while the second had gotten to snooping dangerously close to the prison area, a small nonthreatening girl as she was. She could not understand the main language used most often by these people she had come with, but she had grown familiar with its general sound, at least, and more than one of the prisoners was speaking it. Yet, the bigger mystery, to her mind, was the absence of the Gift, and the thing that she had sensed just before its disappearance. Scarce little grew here though, with at least some existing water plants and seeds, she might yet make much.
The small girl was out on one of the breakwaters, trying to understand the area better so that she might find the wrongness and repair it and her song might take effect, when there came a thump from below and a long wailing moan, perhaps meant to be loud but only faintly heard. There was someone or - more likely - some creature… inside the breakwater!?
The animal being kept below the breakwater, not so far from the prison, is known as a havetskriger (sea screamer) or a havnæsehorn (sea rhinoceros). It is a very large, omnivorous pinniped with a hornlike projection on its snout that it uses to break through ice. Similar to the scagbiist, it emits a frequency that agitates manas, rendering them unable to properly interface with their host being. However, it does this not only when hunting, but more often when panicked, frightened, or distressed. This one is kept in a large hollow in the breakwater, never seeing the light of day, and is fed by a keeper through a small hole.
Meanwhile, the Kongesalan was another world entirely. Queen Astrid was finished holding court for some hours, and had much else to do, but these were matters that Dietrich was assured he need not be concerned with, and so he was given free rein to wander, question, and learn at his leisure. In the morning, he had witnessed an honorary ‘duel’ between the Sturmish underking, Kol, and one of the new Æresvaktr: the yasoi Arne’altan’jaros, to induct the latter. The fourth–ranked Æresvaktr was now headed, or so he understood, to similarly induct a sorceress known only as the Skygge, who was near-universally held to be a vile and wretched creature.
‘Ositha’, too, found herself given a few hours of downtime, in which she was to further familiarize herself with her surroundings, her peers, and her duties before - surprisingly - commencing the children’s instruction this very afternoon. Already, her practiced Black Rezaindian senses had noted the presence of one supposedly ‘secret’ passage in the pantry beneath a stairwell, and the servants and slaves had proven a source of endless gossip.
Both she and Dietrich had encountered the precocious pipsqueak that was Snorri and the whirlwind that was Inga, and both were about the rounds of the Kongesalan, so perhaps it was only a matter of time before they met each other.
Svend, meanwhile, in his guise as Jarl Alsfard, found himself in the midst of negotiating percentages on his raiding party’s take with the Queen’s chamberlain. He felt the pinch, from Maud, that was meant to raise an alarm and started. “What is it, Jarl Bjorn?” the tall, lean man commented, taking notice of his momentary discomfort. “Is my offer not to your liking?”
Covering quickly, Svend shook his head. “No, no,” assured his opposite. “It is merely that I had promised the harbourmaster at Rigevand his pay today and forgotten to settle up. I should hope he hasn’t tried to unmoor my ships.”
The chamberlain paused. “Rigevand,” he repeated, furrowing his brow. “Your men: are many large, rough, and foreign?”
A warning prickled through the Quentist’s insides and he answered cautiously. “Oh, a good many are from Kressia and Enthal. There is a Parrench lordling cast out of his lands as well, seeking vengeance.” He scowled. “Have the ungrateful miscreants caused trouble? I will have them whipped!”
“I fear their appearance has caused some worry,” the chamberlain replied. “Though I can see it is a misunderstanding, Prince Ulf set off some twenty minutes prior with Vali the Twice–Born and some thirty soldiers in case they were pirates.”
“Gods-dammit!” Svend cursed through his teeth. “We shall conclude this tomorrow, then?” he added hastily. “I must make haste before somebody does something stupid.”
“By all means, Jarl. That would be regrettable.” Svend was already headed for the door. “You may borrow a horse if you need,” the chamberlain allowed. There was a quick thanks and then the ersatz Jarl was beyond the door.
It was a job that Kol was given much thanks for but, as a king, he had never wanted for fawning and paeans. Instead, the near–sole highlight of his stay in Meldheim had been his morning combat with the yasoi who was to join the Æresvaktr. Without much in the way of lunar help, though the five moons would thankfully be arriving imminently, he’d found himself on the back foot virtually the entire time. The sheer reach and agility of the ‘mage-hunter’ was astounding and he used magics that Kol knew were of the yasoi and had only seen, in brief, from Talit’yrash when they had fought. To skip through space and time… it was an impressive skillset and its wielder a decent and honorable man, inasmuch as any yasoi could be. In truth, the king had won only through tactics and psychology, reading his opponent’s moves once they’d established a pattern. Had young Arne been trying to assassinate him in earnest, he might very well be headed to Gestur’s table right now.
Now, however, Kol found himself at a large property, some ways removed from the city proper, in the shadow of the Eldfjall and its black soil and faint scent of sulfur. The sun passed into and out of a quickly moving bank of clouds as he approached the lone building: a modest farmhouse of fieldstone and thatched roofing. A sea of sparse, yellow-green grass poked up through the gravelly soil to rippled in a blustery wind and a woman tended to a pair of large, scraggly brandæble bushes.
He passed a gate pieced together of driftwood and a set of chimes - bone and rusted metal - clattered in the grip of a gust. He stood and waited. The woman turned. This, then, was The Skygge. He’d heard of but never seen her. Supposedly, she was some sort of udødelig who feasted upon the flesh of others, but he saw only a tall, pale woman in a hooded cloak, whitish-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and chest to either side of her face. She looked youthful and seemed somehow ancient at the same time, and she brought her hands together in front of herself, clasping one of the rare apples between them. “A gift for you, King Kol, should you so desire it.” She held the fruit out, smiling. “Worry not. It isn’t poisoned.” She raised it to her mouth and took a bite.
Prince Ulf, for all of his youthful pride and bravado, trusted the word of one such as Vali, and stationed four soldiers along the Mountain Road to Rigevand, sending another quartet down towards the Sea Road. “I should not like to leave any doubt about my intentions once I arrive, as two dozen of us surely send message enough. I shall show mercy to those who surrender immediately to the king’s justice and I shall announce this,” he concluded, voice squeaking a bit towards the end in a most un–kingly manner.
As they walked, a faint breeze carried through the foothills to stir the long grass, and crows and a couple of wolves glanced up from the nearby carcass of an Elk, watching the humans warily.”It is said that there are some Quentics in that village,” Ulf announced, his voice nearly carried away in the blustery breeze. “If it turns out there are no pirates, then we should make an example of the apostates. You have been away for a long time, Onkel, but you should see how bold they got. Father had to carve the Blood Eagle on some. Now they merely hide.” He sniffed and gazed out at the path ahead. “We shall find them, though. They will not force us to change our ways like they did the Drudgunzeans.”
They continued on for a few more minutes, their only accompaniment the whispering of the grass and the crunch and soft clatter of two dozen men on the march, but it did not last. “If they should fight back,” Ulf decided for himself and Vali, “It will be down to you and I, who can use the Gift, and we shall send the wretches to Rødhalle. Be ready for this.” He paused. “Though I know you are. You are always ready, Onkel Vali.” For a moment, some younger version of the boy who was trying so badly to be a man twisted and flashed him a smile. Then, ahead, they could see Rigevand: pathetic collection of huts, hovels, and a single great decaying longhouse that it was. Three knarrs occupied one of its two docks, looking as if they had arrived from another planet entirely. Down by the shore, a great many people seemed to be moving about and quite quickly. “There they are!” shouted Ulf, hand going for his sword and then thinking better of it. He, Vali, and their party were still some four hundred yards or more distant.
Trygve had been closest to Maud when she gave the signal and it was two minutes before he had found her. “What is it?” he demanded. “What is wrong!?”
“A force - some thirty-two men - is headed for Rigevand from the Kongesalan. I am certain that is where they are headed. Don’t ask. We need the others and we need a plan!”
Indeed, they were not long in coming. Svend arrived on horseback, dressed in a Jarl’s finery, and Gerard and Jacques only minutes after. Many followed the latter, both expected and unexpected, for some appeared to be prisoners that he or Nettle had set free. These were relegated to the edges and alleys so as not to draw attention to the group. “We do need a plan,” announced Trygve, “but we need a location. May we yet catch them?”
The girl glanced about the adults surrounding her, feeling small and uncertain and stammered when she spoke. “I… I’m not certain.” She closed her eyes and reached out with her senses, not wasting time. “If you go at a run, those who use the Gift may.” She opened her eyes. “You should leave me behind. I will send warning to our people in Rigevand, but you needs tell me if they should try to hide or fight.” She glanced up at all of the bigger people, leaning on her crutches. “What should I do? What should we do.”
Ulf, prince of all Eskand, had descended upon the village of Rigevand with his men. It had emptied out quickly and only a small party was left to greet him. “Goddag, undersåtter,” he greeted them, wind flicking his hair to one side of his face and an odd sort of smile creasing his lips as he approached. “I have some business in your village, it appears.” He stopped in front of them and extricated a Pentact, fresh from the raids near Relouse, from the pouch at his hip. “But first,” he announced, dropping it upon the sandy mud, “I will require proof that I am speaking to men and not worms.” Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he horked up some spit, leaned forward, and let it fall upon the holy symbol. Looking up, he placed his foot atop it and regarded them challengingly, but they looked at him only for a moment before their eyes turned elsewhere. Alarm pricked Ulf's stomach and he could hear the thunder of hooves approaching from behind. Vali’s bow was already drawn and arrow nocked.
Down by the harbour, there were a few things not dissimilar to gates. Against the backdrop of whatever else was happening, their duty remained a constant. Yet, they had been unlocked and left cleverly in place as if they had not been. All that was needed now was the right tide: a rather rare one, by all accounts. They knocked and groaned as a small wave from something surfacing hit them. Much is said about eyes and what they can tell you of their bearer, and the eyes that watched the gate did so from the cold and murky water of Meldheim Bugt. They seemed very near to human eyes, but were not.
I've purposely tried to leave these as open-ended as I can. Many follow-ups to existing prompts and incomplete actions can be be written in different ways depending on what players decide. Basically: don't worry, I'll make it work.
Asier: Feel free to play out the night and any further measures or acts Asier may have taken. He has sighted Nettle and Jacques. It is up to your discretion whether or not he meets up with both or either. Further, if he is made aware of what happens in Rigevand, he will have his say in the hasty council and may go to take action there as required. Collaborate with players accordingly.
Nettle: feel free to play out any communications between yourself, Jacques, or the others. Feel free to notice or discover Asier, though it is more likely that he will recognize you. If you wish to break out the prisoners, this is also something that can be done, though, if not done carefully, it may lead to some heat. Finally, feel free to interact with the creature. If you wish to break it out, maybe we can collaborate on that.
Kol: Play out your interaction with Arne and whatever else you wish. Respond to the Skygge and we can collab on the encounter there too. Perhaps Kol might receive notice that Vali is headed to Rigevand. Perhaps he might fight or deny the Skygge. Their meeting could even be a friendly one! Finally, if the Parrench try to wreak havoc in Meldheim, it's time to be the hero!
Vali: You're there in the heart of the action, but you've got to get there first. What advice will you give to young Ulf? How will you respond to his prompts? Finally, what do you sense in Rigevand and how will you respond tot hat. This will likely require some collaboration between you, myself, and other players.
Gerard: Take your place in the hasty council. How did you get there? What do you suggest as a course of action? Collaborate with your fellow players on a decision and then play out your actions! Are you wrecking the town? Fighting in Rigevand, abandoning the others there for utilitarian reasons, or helping hide or cover for them?
Osanna: Feel free to fill in Kongesalan gossip as you see fit and make something (or not) of the tunnel. Perhaps a collab with Arte (Dietrich) might be in order. Depending on how things go, feel free to play through a lesson with either Inga or Snorri. Queen Astrid may pop her head in. Outside of your little bubble, shit may hit the figurative fan.
Dietrich: You have some freedom to explore and discover. What are people saying? Is there anything interesting you've learned? How about the kids? Maybe you can spend time with the one that Osanna isn't working with. In general, this is a good opportunity for your two characters to storyline a meeting and whatever comes of that. Of course, things may e happening outside. Will you be dragged into them?
An old man sat by a fire. He could feel the bodies approaching them, for that was all they were: living bodies while his business these days seemed the making of dead ones. The essences inside of them burned with caution, and he paid them no notice. Perhaps they would try to kill him. He neither knew nor cared.
"Old man, why are you here?" Sweyn did not move. Perhaps, had he mind enough, he would've noted that the questioner's Eskandr, while good, was not perfect.
"Bringing glory to my king and my people," he responded after a long moment. "Can't you see?" He was working a twig over in his hands, breaking it up and plucking bits off. "So-" he twisted and glanced up. The man was young, fair, and looked like a fighter. "-have you come to bring glory to yours?"
Arsene was the newcomer's name, unbeknownst to Sweyn, and he listened to the older man as he spoke in a somber tone. It seemed to hold a deep sadness, as he spoke to his hands before raising his head to look towards Arsene and questioning his purpose here.
The Drudgunzean scoffed and glanced towards the fires before looking back down at the wizard who seemed to almost wait for something, "Myself? I'm here to protect. To do some good..." Arsene threw a light gesture across the village and turned as he lightly kicked a rock as he seemed to think a moment before turning back to the older man and continuing, "...obviously doing a crack up job on that".
As Arsene sighed, he looked down towards Sweyn and said, "So with that glory you are bringing, have you found it yet?". He made a gesture towards the village that still lay softly burning.
Sweyn Thunderspear knew the plan, of course, but he could not simply spill it out to one whom the gods had ordained his enemy. Its execution would bring him yet another line in the sagas. He was not elderly, but old enough that he had a good deal more life behind him than ahead. Would the retellings fashion him as clever or wise? Would he be simply a magician who was loyal to his king? A mentor to heroes? A hero himself? A footnote? If the Parrench were to win and their culture consume the continent, he would be painted a murderer, and he found himself fighting, these days, simply to avoid that infamy in death. Yet, here I am, a murderer anyhow, and I know it truly. He did not raise his eyes toward the village. Instead, he shrugged weakly. “Perhaps I might, someday.” He glanced the young man’s way. “But why do you fight for a foreign country that looks down on you? That occupies good land your people could use? That, as recently as the year of your birth, would’ve named you barbarian?”
Arsene looked towards the plains of Parrence as he spoke about why he chose to fight, "Myself? I fight not for the country that looks down on me. I fight for those who cry out to find peace-". Arsene shifted on his feet as he looked towards the men who’d followed him here. Many seemed almost ready to charge at any moment, wishing to either find glory or to kill the great Sweyn Thunderspear before he decided to wipe them all out. Arsene sighed as he continued, "I am here wishing to give those who I can a life better than I. For I lost my home to raiding, my mentor to injustice, and my mother to my negligence". Arsene sighed as he shifted once more on his feet, now to face the old man before him. He considered why he was even talking to this man: a murderer who killed innocent people in the name of glory, yet even that was an excuse to maybe give himself some absolution. Arsene thought of what more to say as he sighed and spoke out, "What of you, why do you do such things for your king? Is it to give a better life to your people? Or is it to please the greed of a King?"
Sweyn rose, then, and was now a bit more like the legends said he was. At the very least he was tall. “For the greed of a king?” he remarked. “Perhaps the Black King is greedy.” He shrugged, calling his mighty spear to hand, and continued. “It is not my place to judge anyhow. What I know is that his greed pales in comparison to that of Parrence. How much of the richest, greenest land do they keep for themselves? How much more do they covet?” He rolled his neck back and forth, as if limbering up, and took notice of the thirty or so other men at the edge of the forest. He could kill them all within seconds, should he have so desired. Yet, he currently did not. “When the Avincians, who had uplifted those people, would not cede control of the empire to them, did Avince not burn for daring to refuse?” He hardened his mouth, switching to Parrench so that all could understand. “When they came to found a new town on the coast not so far from here, they named it Relouse and built it right beside the nest of a mother Silverscale. Did not a monk named Defrois kill that creature as it defended its young and receive a sainthood for it?” Sweyn rapped the ground with his staff, voice rising. “When the yasoi of Loriindton established for themselves an independent spirit some twenty years ago and wished to uplift their own people instead of paying tribute to us humans, pray tell did not Loriindton - that thousand-year city - burn for daring to defy good Parrence?”
Sweyn began to gather energy to himself and the power of thunder fizzed and snapped in the air about him. “You do not know it, boy, for though your people were once mine, you were raised in a garden that the Parrench have cultivated and that they will continue to grow. Oh,” he relented, “they will usually try some method other than the sword first.” He smiled bitterly. “Their herbs and spices are legendary, their trinkets and wares quite pretty, their cloth the envy of every foreign woman, and these, they pair with their false gods, their language, and their way of life as if what they replace is lesser or does not matter.” He had found himself again: his resolve. “Make no mistake, though-” Sweyn Thunderspear’s eyes narrowed. “-in the end, it all comes down to force of arms. Those who resist the Parrench have always died for it, and everything they stood for with them. In truth,” he concluded, stepping forward, “Parrence is a blight upon this land and we are your last, best hope for rooting it out.”
Arsene witnessed the old man rise to his feet to stand and face him, looking more like someone befitting the legend that preceded him. However, the Drudgunzean was not one to fold to anything, be it man or beast. As Sweyn spoke, Arsene checked himself, lightly rolling his wrists and ankles as if in preparation for what was to come. He knew when a fight was coming, and he knew why he had come here.
Sweyn spoke very clearly of things that Arsene would have never known in his life. The Parrench were greedy, they were the ones who trampled those they cared not for, it was them versus everyone. They would destroy and dominate everything they saw fit so that they might rule over it. This was something he’d had to deal with as had his mentor before him, yet as much as Sweyn spoke some sense, Arsene cared not for it.
He looked the Eskandr in the face as he spoke his last bit, "They are a blight, you are correct; the people who rule are quite often terrible". Arsene lightly tossed his hand to the side as he continued, "They trample on those under them to make themselves richer or more powerful. They will play nice, using tricks so that they may later do what they wish, yet they hide things to allow them to fulfill agendas."
As Arsene continued to look Sweyn dead in the eyes, his message evolved, "Yet I am not here for them. I am here for the men and women who are trampled upon by your people. I am here to stop this from happening." Arsene gestured at the girl who lay upon the ground next to the burgeoning confrontation, before continuing, "So you may be the ones to destroy Parrence. Yet, with that, you will destroy many more lives, all in the hope of maybe ‘rooting out’ this blight. And so what if you succeed? Wouldn't it come back? After all, to destroy a nation and its pride and sense of self, you need to destroy its people. Will you do that?"
The die was cast and Sweyn knew it. His heart still heavy with regret, but also buoyed by a grim and worthy purpose, he glanced at the small corpse before looking back at the Drudgunzean. “Every last one,” he replied unflinchingly, and his body now surged and sparked with energy. His eyes began to glow with Father’s chosen power and thunder crackled in the bellies of storm clouds that had drawn in overhead. “Now, boy, it is time for you to either live up to those lofty ideals you lay claim to or go to your gods having tried.”
In the very moment before he unleashed his wrath, however, before Arsene of Avalona could either go bravely to Eschiran or commence a legend of his own, there echoed in the distance a phenomenal sound. Great and low, it seemed to shake the very ground that they stood upon. It rose into a bone-shuddering shriek that lingered and reverberated through the near-night sky.
Vast black wings beat over the forests and fields of green Parrence and the petty fires of human war seemed a small thing in comparison to the brilliant pillar of death that spilled from the dragon’s throat. With its baleful breath, it tore furrows in the land and left roaring walls of flame where had been whispering seas of wheat and gently chirping crickets. That the inferno was yet distant only made it more terrifying. One could perhaps countenance flight and escape. One could understand the great and desolate scale of it. Like black blood pouring from wounded earth, smoke billowed into the sky, first seizing the stars in a hazy grasp and then blotting them out entirely.
More than one soldier made the sign of the Pentad. Others cried out for Echeran’s mercy or strength, and their choices said much about them. After a moment, some made the unenviable choice of turning their attention back to the far lesser but far more immediate threat of Sweyn Thunderspear. Yet, when they searched for him, they found that he was gone.
Far closer to the epicentre were Ulfhild of Ulven, Hildr the Red, and the Nashorn. A Fiery Mountain Dragon - a Tyrannus Monsigneus - had arisen from Mont Errant in a towering rage and it now circled above the plains spewing doom in the twilight. They had tried to blunt the beast’s attack but even the efforts of dragonslayer and Æresvaktr alike had done precious little against its impossible power. Again and again, the maddened beast made passes over the region, breathing death upon what little remained alive.
Hundreds of brave Eskandr fled before it, for there was no honour in death as prey. Crying out to their heathen gods, they scattered as vermin at the appearance of a boot. Like the panicked creatures that they were, most failed to take heed of the approaching army of Queen Eleanor de Parrence. They ran up against it, in full flight, either waves to be broken upon the shore, people to be shown mercy, or allies of convenience in an unexpected struggle for survival against an enemy far more fearsome.
Whatever the state of given individuals, the arrival on the Fields of Fire of Sweyn Thunderspear rallied them to a man. Massive black clouds rolled in with terrifying speed and brought lightning that writhed, snaked, and shook the very earth. Beside them, even the dragon was not so great, and it disappeared into their depths, consumed for the time being. From within echoed roars and howls and thunder. Brilliant flashes illuminated a vast draconic shape and running figures slowed and craned their necks in awe and terror.
The sorcerer himself seemed more a personification, an avatar of human hope, pain, and rage. Tangles of long white hair and beard whipping behind him, he charged in on an ivory-white stallion, glowing incandescent. Unto the Fiery Mountain he called forth a colossal bolt of lightning, and then a second, then a third, then a fourth that split the sky in sheets. Common soldiers staggered and blinked. The sheer energy was so intense that some dropped to their knees. Eyes wild and bloodshot, veins pulsing and bulging, Sweyn Thunderspear drove a fifth thunderous lance into the creature’s back and, illuminated momentarily within its shroud of black, it shrieked and contorted in pain. Wings flapping erratically, it fell out the bottom of the clouds and they cheered. How great a noise went up, from Parrench and Eskandr alike, from human and yasoi, from enemies and allies of the man who had delivered them from this demon of myth made flesh!
Queen Eleanor, racing in to provide either aid or else capture the terror known as Sweyn in his weakened state, witnessed a man who had devastated entire armies collapse to the ground, utterly drained and defeated in victory. A decision now fell to her. Here was arguably her greatest enemy laid low before her and a fresh, powerful army at her command. She knew well Eskandr practice: the prisoners of war would be sealed safely in one of the mountainside caves, unharmed and potentially hers to ransom back. Yet, the Thunderspear had given his all to save her people as well as his. She could sense the staggering, inhuman levels of power that had coursed through him and how close to death he had pushed himself. He lay helpless before her and one who could singlehandedly slay a Tyrannus Monsigneus… she still struggled to fathom it. Could she really let this opportunity -
“What is that!?”
“My Queen!”
“There!”
“Oh my Gods!”
“How is it possible!?”
“Echeran have mercy!”
“My Queen!”
“Gods no!”
A cold dark roar raised tremors from the earth and hairs on the back of Eleanor’s neck. Gargantuan black wings beat with a vengeance and the beast hurtled towards them. It opened its mouth and fire glowed in the back of its throat. All at once, the Queen of Parrence both called upon her gods and made peace with them.
The fire had scorched her in slight measure, but it had not been intended to kill. That was the only explanation Eleanor could think of for why she was still alive. Perhaps the leviathan had been wary after Sweyn had struck it so strongly. Maybe it had only intended to impress upon them its intent to continue the fight and kill them all. It may have simply missed due to its wounds. Whatever its reasons, it had blasted the area with indistinct and undirected flames and flown on. They had all watched it consume the remains of the village, eagerly scooping back great mouthfuls of wood, brick, livestock, and corpses. Now, so said their scouts, the Fiery Mountain rested, half-submerged in a small nearby lake, the water around it steaming.
Eleanor had Sweyn Thunderspear and a small group of Eskandr soldiers at her mercy and that of her larger army, but most of their force remained at large. She had called another of her famous 'three minute councils' and was presently soliciting opinions from those she regarded well. There were dangers and opportunities, both, from different angles, and she was under little illusion that an unwise choice could have disastrous consequences.
This chapter should provide numerous action opportunities. A few are listed below for players' convenience.
1) Eskandr-aligned players (Hildr and Ulfhild) may detail their earlier fight against the dragon, how they continued to try to handle it following that fight, the effect of Sweyn's re-emergence, any brief clashes that they had with Parrench forces, and the conundrum they now find themselves in. They have no orders from Sweyn and it looks as if he is about to be captured. Here are some things to consider:
Should they try to break him out or wait to see what the Parrench do?
Maybe they might argue for his release since he fought and nearly died for all of them?
Perhaps, they'd best carry out what might've been his likely orders to ride on to Chamonix and let the Parrench bleed their strength against the beast.
They could choose to hold the prisoners hostage to guarantee his release.
In the end, should they temporarily ally with the Parrench against a potentially larger threat?
2) Parrench-aligned players (Arsene, Camille, Maerec, and Caelum) may detail their first notice of the dragon, their race towards the danger (or not!), any encounters or skirmishes with Eskandr fleeing the scene or otherwise, impressions of the brief combat itself, and their 'three minute council' with the Queen. Similarly, they also find themselves in a tricky spot. Here are some things to consider:
Should they imprison Sweyn, who was powerful enough to face down a Fiery Mountain one on one and injure it while he's weakened?
Might they use him as leverage to have all of their prisoners returned? How far are they willing to go? What does honour dictate?
Should they take the opportunity, while they have it, to cut down the Eskandr forces?
Should they instead risk allying with their enemies against this greater threat?
Would it be wise to send word to Arcel and ask for reinforcements? Might the Eskandr be using them?
Everything should have returned to normal. The sun rose, the birds chirped, and the fogs still rolled in at night. The weather grew warmer as Assani prepared to give way to Velles and, with it, stresia to dorrad. Nights lost that cool humid tingle that they sometimes carried and the first of the dorrad rains began to fall in preparation. In the subtropical forests surrounding Ersand’Enise, subtle shifts abounded. The rhythms and schedules of animals adjusted.
So, too, did those of people. The students still attended classes, walking back and forth in their little groups each morning and evening. The teachers still taught. Merchants still did a bustling business in the busy port of the city, perhaps even moreso than before, and anticipation built, as it did every year, for the Student Societies Faire and The Trials of Thaumaturgy.
Yet, things had irrevocably changed. One would be unobservant at best were it to go unnoticed. More than ever, clusters of Revidians walked only among Revidians and others of like alliance. Perrench skewed prickly and irascible perhaps even more than usual. The Belzaggics drew into themselves in mourning and quiet anger when it was announced that their king had indeed heard the call of Ahn-Eshiran.
For the first time in fifteen years, the Century was called. One hundred of the mightiest and most renowned battle-magi, their loyalty lay with the good of the city, its magic, and the human and yasoi races world round instead of with any one nation. The summons had gone out the moment that parties unknown had raised their blades against four kings. In the month since, members of the legendary force had been trickling relentlessly into Ersand’Enise, augmenting an already-doubled city watch, drilling in Arc-en-Ciel Plaza and on the Champs d’Echeran outside the New Gate.
By day and night alike, the stoic armoured figures, each sporting the Cloak of Centuries, patrolled the streets, their very presence enough to dissuade pickpockets, confidence men, and tiffs between rival groups of students. Security at the gates was now comprehensive and aggressive. More than a few merchants of less–than–savoury repute found their usual… compensatory arrangements no longer bought them entrance and at least a handful of wagons and travelers were now turned away by each evening.
Despite this, agents of the Traveler became increasingly active, preaching against the evils of war on street corners, railing against the greed of the elite and oppression of the common people, decrying despots and monarchs and eagerly offering their vision of a world without classes, borders, or a hierarchy increasingly ossified by wealth and unequal magic use. By night, they raced through the streets, defacing statues and the part-time homes of the elite, smashing windows and plundering from shoppes that they deemed exploitative. While they usually fled and scattered like vermin before the might of the city’s new guardians, they grew increasingly bold and, for all of the arrests that were made and all that they swelled the gaols of Ersand’Enise with their numbers, there always seemed to be more of them, and at least a few seemed to slip through the patrols every night.
It was like this everywhere, so some of the avvisos said: in Relouse and Solenne, in Avince and Orlan, Torra Corda and Varrahasta, Meldheim, Yabusa, Gandakar, Zewaggah, and Hetzelburg. Others claimed that the activities, reach, and impact of this bold miscreant and his followers were being greatly exaggerated. In the background, matters were eerily quiet. Few ambassadors met between Perrence and Revidia. On the 25th of Assani, the Corriere di Orlano reported that lands abutting the Parrench border had been temporarily requisitioned by order of the Doge. Through networks of their contacts, mercenaries began to receive offers of substantial remuneration. South of the border, the Légion de la Flamme Sacrée was quietly called to Ardeaux, only sixty miles from Revidian land… and that of the academy.
It was against this backdrop that students awoke on Lepdes, Assani the 29th to prepare for the Student Societies Faire: a sorely-needed escape from the near-constant bombardment of worrying news and one of the highlights of the school year. It promised to be a weekend of wonder, spectacle, discovery, and excitement. First, however, upon waking, many found themselves met with an unexpected and - for some - unwelcome surprise.
Day One
It was a lazy Lepdes morning. There were no classes today because of the faire and Marceline was in no hurry to get up. Last night had been spent hunched over a table with Zaz, planning out every little aspect of Zeno Bucks, drafting correspondence by candlelight, and figuring out supply chains. As little as she yet knew of the world, she knew much of these things, herself and Isabella having been Warden Ortega's primary secretaries. At different points, Ingrid, Jocasta, Ayla, and Manfred had all drifted in and out. She had fallen asleep on the sofa in Zarina’s drawing room, the walk home proving too daunting, and it was there that she found herself when a loud and persistent pounding on the door caused her to jump awake. "Coming," she groaned, "coming!"
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she swung herself into a sitting position and stretched.
"This is the Draconic Regulatory Association and Group for Organizational Nomenclature! Please open the door," said an insistent voice from the other side.
What the… Marci scrunched her face up. Draconic what? she wondered, looking down at her feet and realizing that she didn't have her braces on. It was easy to forget what a cripple she was these days. "I'll be there in just a minute!" she replied with patient sweetness, reaching down and fiddling with them. The fourteen-year-old glanced about for Zarina, but she was nowhere to be found. Where the hell are you, Zaz!? She berated her friend mentally.
“By law you are required to submit to an inspection of your dragon's living situation and to apply for a license. Please open this door.”
“Eshi,” she cursed under her breath. "I said that I'm coming!" The Kerreman added a bit louder, tightening the last of her bindings, calling for her cane, and rising both quickly and unsteadily.
Then, just as she was rushing for the door, a freshly washed Zarina appeared, effortlessly brushing past her with a quick but genuine apology. "What the hell do these guys want?" she griped, and Marci could only shrug. "I think we're about to find out."
2)A guide to all Clubs can be found under the Student Societies hider in School Lore.
3) An in-depth guide to some specific clubs of interest can be found here.
Marceline and Zarina were not the only ones who received visits from D.R.A.G.O.N. agents that morning. Indeed, every single student who had been fortunate enough to come away with one of the coveted eggs from their recent adventures found themselves awoken by an insistent knock on the door. Rough initial impressions aside, they would find the agents rather helpful and reasonable once their registration fees were paid. These went straight to dragon conservation, rehoming, and public outreach, they explained, offering to sign the students up for courses on dragon hatchling care. Those who resisted were met merely with grim looks and promises of a 'rescheduled' visit at some point in the near future.
For those not so (un)fortunate, the excitement of the day was able to begin uninterrupted. It was, against all odds, warm and somewhat sunny after a persistent drizzle during the Hours of Ipte. Clouds cleared, birds chirped and chittered in the trees, and puddles began drying in the late stresian sun. All about campus and, indeed, much of the city, was a bustle of activity. Those who slept in for too long found themselves awakened by the busy whacking of hammers and clatter of wagons. Voices drifted in from the street and, soon enough, they were joined by music of a great many flavours and varieties. Over the past few days, the city’s inns, guesthouses, and guest rooms had filled up with graduates from the two previous cohorts, returned to help advertise the clubs and societies that had been such a grand part of their experience. Along with those who had remained to study in the Tan–Zeno program, these now emptied onto familiar and nostalgic byways and boulevards. A handful had brought husbands or wives. Others taunted the current students, shouting often-rude awakenings and making gratuitous noise to draw out the stragglers.
And so they rose, dressed and, chattering eagerly as they gathered, began to fill the streets. By the fourth hour of Shune, Ersand’Enise was alive with light, sound, and revelry. Dozens of student societies, great and small, ancient and newly-established, dazzled potential members and patrons with what they had on offer. From the carnival of nourishing delights set out by the Pumpernickel Clubbe, to the roving performers of the Bards’ Society, temporary zoo of the Fauna Society, and Katterhorn procession of the Eskandish Circle, it was truly a spectacle. Yet, not every student society found itself possessed of either the funds or the compunction to put on such a grand display. For every Brewers’ Brotherhood biergarten, Tasters’ Union smorgasbord, or Society of the Grapes party, there were the simple, earnest entreaties and rubbish gathering of the Egalite Fraternite, Rat Bastards who lurked down sideroads and flitted through crowds hawking test answer keys, and the first aid centre of the Carnation Accord. Some whispered that, in the shadow of enrapturing displays like that of the Red Table Society’s war reenactments or the sheer… theatre of the Fingersteeplers, lurked darker elements: Traveler’s agents stirring up class resentment, stealing and rabble-rousing, and perhaps even the infamous and long-rumoured group of clandestine agitators known only as The Faceless.
Yet, as the faire continued into the afternoon and five galleons of the Revidian Regia Marina offered a spectacular rolling broadside in salute to start the hours of Eshiran, it became clear that something was amiss. In the fauna society’s petting zoo, animals became skittish and uncooperative. Horses and other ungulates pawed nervously at the ground and paced. The Vossoriyan yaks and Eskandish kæmpe ko formed defensive circles, snorting and glancing uneasily up at the sky. The lesser and even mid-sized dragons of the Draconic Order stirred and flapped in agitation, some straining at their tethers.
Then, echoing across the open water, was heard a long screeching roar. Crowds swirled and necks craned, each trying to pinpoint the origin of the mighty noise. Many were the hands shielding eyes as they searched in the direction of the sun. People saw the shadow before they saw the beast: a great dark shape wavering across the rooftops and open plazas of Ersand’Enise, and voices rose in excitement. A second roar was unleashed and the shadow circled as people pointed and shouted, standing on their tiptoes or jumping up and down. Then, it disappeared.
Souverain shredded the clouds and for a moment it was just Jean-Claude de Toussaint and his dragon, alone above the world as they had so often been. Then, five more riders emerged, along with Oriflamme, Tempête, Volcan, Fantôme, and Lierre. “Ah, so you can almost keep up!” The Dragon Knight taunted, amplifying his voice with sonic magics. Acknowledgements and teasing challenges came back at him and he grinned, taking a moment to peer down through a gap in the clouds. The riders of the Legion had circled out over the sea and were now not so very far from the Revidian ships. “Super, Souverain,” he assured his draconic companion, taking a moment to pat it where neck met body. “Now…” He raised his voice, “Allons-y, mes frères! Let’s give these Revidien sea-pigs a bit of a show, non?” With that, he wheeled Souverain around and pierced the clouds in a steep dive.
“They’re going to hit!” “Oh my gods!” “He’s gonna crash!” “Pull up!” “Oh Eshirian, no!” Screams and entreaties rose from the crowd in Ersand’Enise as an enormous black dragon, easily larger than any of the Revidian galleons, plummeted from the sky. In panic, the ships tried to maneuver out of its way, but they were not near fast enough. Instead, at the last possible juncture, the creature spread its vast wings, air bulged them, and it pulled up mere feet above the tips of the Revidian masts. Five other dragons, in the formation of a pentact, followed, pulling up feet from the waves. The galleons, in a tight formation of their own, rocked perilously and struggled not to collide while the Perrench darted and wheeled above. Fire leapt from the beasts’ throats and formed the holy symbol for a moment in the sky, the largest of them all - a Great Volcanic Wyvern or Tyrannus Monsigneus, some were quick to point out - bursting through the middle and arrowing straight for the city.
There was not a person outdoors who did not feel the mighty whoosh of wind from its massive wings. Members of the Lamplighters and city guard pushed crowds back from the area that had been set aside in Cathedral Square and animal handlers did their best to keep the other creatures calm, particularly the small herd of eight kæmpe ko that threatened to stampede at the sight of their only natural predator. Souverain, one of only two such wyverns tamed the world over, had grown considerably since his last trip to Ersand’Enise, and he proved a tight fit in the plaza. The five other dragons, a mixture of Harlequins, Froabasses, and a Tyrant, perched atop the city walls, the last of them causing visible cracks where it alighted.
Sir Jean-Claude swung off of Souverain’s back and, with a bit of Kinetic Magic, landed softly in a crouch. He rose to the sound of thunderous applause and, after taking a moment to give the dragon some chin scritches, he bowed in all relevant directions, waved to the crowd, and descended into the Draconic Order’s display. How they flocked there. How they clamoured to enter. The lineup of young women hoping to gain a personal audience with him rivaled that of Leon Solaire, whose bombastic anthems, soulful crooning, and strobing light shows lit up Arc-en-Ciel Plaza into the hours of Dami. It all finished with a brilliant display of pyrotechnics and fireworks and many retired back to the townhomes of their Zenos for a rest before further revelry in the morning.
Marceline was not one of them. “Zaz, help me with this,” she sighed exhaustedly. She was capable enough with Kinetic magic, but she was tired, and two were better than one. They’d traded spots all day running the Zeno bucks stand after hastily deciding that a soft-opening during the Faire would hold significant benefits. Now, there was a giant pot to haul back to Zeno Afraval’s place, for she was a bit closer to the street corner they had snagged. Zarina had done much of the paperwork, Shune and Dami bless her both, and Marceline had been the cute smiling face to interact with the stuffy adult types and offer them free coffee.
Walking through the darkened streets with a giant copper pot floating along between them, just above head level, Marci got to thinking. “Hey sis,” she prodded. “Look: another one of our cups.” The little ceramic mugs had become an ubiquitous sight at the faire. While it was free advertising for their nascent business, the litter had also become a problem, not only because it was unsightly and broken fragments could be dangerous, but because it cost them money. A simple exhortation to return their cups for free had proven insufficient to make people reliably do so. Marci had yet to crunch the actual numbers, but she estimated that the rate of returns had hovered no higher than twenty percent. That would not do. “Looks like asking nicely wasn’t enough, huh?”
Zarina clicked her tongue at the sight. There was something disappointing about seeing one’s own logo - something they’d worked hard on - be left as mere detritus on the streets, “Their loss, they’ll have to buy new ones.” she groaned, “But yeah, constantly ordering these things is gonna be a shitshow. Think we should reward ‘em for going the extra step and not just toss away perfectly good cups?”
“That is exactly what I think,” agreed Marci. “The question is ‘how?’” Zarina chewed the idea for a moment and spit out a suggestion a few seconds later, “How about we give them, like, something that proves they’ve gotten a drink with a cup they’ve saved. They do it enough times and we give them a treat. Like they do to train doggies.” she snorted.
“Hehe,” Marci giggled. “How to keep track of that, though?” She scowled thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to use paper. It’s too expensive…” she trailed off as an urchin, picking through the garbage, collected another cup. “... Why not the cup itself?” Zarina’s eyes were taken by the scavenger’s effort and it so happened to have illuminated her, “We can dish out cups all we want in the end, but using the conserved cups as proof and a tool to get free shit will benefit everyone.”
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around!” squealed Marceline. She nodded with an exaggeratedly enthusiastic motion. “Maybe we mark them somehow at first? A certain number of marks nets you the good stuff?” Zarina nodded as she brushed some of the shattered pieces on their way to the side with her foot, “The underside, yeah? Like, something simple but can’t be easily imitated. Is there a way we can do that? I know mother did something like that a while back …”
They were nearing Sienna Afraval’s place, a handful of other clusters of students still milling about or tiredly stumbling back to nearby homes. One, a binder, was paused in place, using her magic to repair a small tear in her clothes. “Oh!” Marci chirped. “We could use binding!” She paused. “That, or just a standard brand to score the underside. While it’s just you and me, binding’s cheaper, as long as we have like… the same design we’ve settled on.”
Zarina clapped her hands together, “Binding! Yeah. That’s probably the way.” her eyes darted around, hoping to find her next piece of express-inspiration. The only bit of natural light they would have at this time provided both of them with an answer, “Easy. A white moon that fills every day they bring their cup. Five days of good behaviour, they get a little treat and a happy star. Seven stars for seven weeks in a month, big treat.” she opened her arms in an exaggerated shrug with a smirk on her face, “Eaaaaaaasy. Now you figure out how we prevent other asshole binders from just doing that.”
They’d reached the door and Marceline yawned. “In the morning, though, huh?” she replied. “For now, this thing’s going in the cellar, right?” the Virangish nodded, “That’s it. We really gotta get our own storage at some point, when we get that sweet dough.”
“Those sweet, sweet Zeno bucks,” Marci agreed. Zarina used the gift to assist her in these final steps and, after a door or two were unlocked, the pot nestled snugly in the little alcove where they’d been keeping it for the past week or so. “We’ll find something soon. Don’t worry, buddy. I’m looking!”
Marceline reached over and gave her friend a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Virangish Pepper!” she teased, backing away. “Bright and early! Barely after Ipte!” In the event, she barely made it back to her own bed.
Day Two
She was awoken by the sound of thunder and the pelting of raindrops upon her window. “Eshi, nooo,” the girl moaned, rolling over in bed. She’d been offered the spare room on the bottom floor so that she wouldn’t have to climb too many stairs and, often to her chagrin, she’d let Penny have it instead. Being on the top floor of a rather tall townhome had its benefits, though. When she pushed open her curtains, Marci could see clear across the Cathedral District, and she wondered at the sight of Souverain. The colossal Monsigneus shuffled around lazilly, shaking his great head back and forth and letting out a little puff of flame from his nostrils that bathed the area around him in shimmering white steam.
For a long moment, the girl was enraptured. It was a titan of old: a creature so massive and ancient so as to far outstrip mere humans. Yet, she and her friends had killed something very much like one and Marci suddenly found herself thinking it quite a great shame. “N’ what are you starin’ at, Brandæble?” teased Marlynn, suddenly awake and leaning over her way. The younger girl started. “Scheiße!” she yelped, flinching back. “Do you always just sneak up on people like that!?” Marlynn shrugged, locks of wavy auburn hair cascading over her shoulders. “I guess so,” she admitted. “I’m honestly not even trying.”
“Humblebraggart,” grumbled Marci. “Anyways, you should see the show Souverain is putting on this morning: snorting fire into the rain.” Marly came and sat on the corner of her roommate’s bed. “I’ve been sneaking peeks all night,” she yawned, stretching and rolling her neck back and forth. “I don’t sleep well in storms.”
“You call yourself Eskandish.” The Kerreman shook her head.
“Yes,” retorted Marly, “because we’re all giant vikings from dark and stormy lands.” She pursed her lips. “Go get your special lil’ booties on, hun, and fetch my dragon leash and horned helm for me, would you?”
“Asking a cripple to run your errands for you,” Marceline scolded. “For shame. Truly, these barbarians have no decency.”
Marly hopped out of bed and fluttered over to her own, tossing her nightgown aside most indecently and beginning to pull on her day clothes. “Eh, you’re not that gimpy yet, Brandæble. Gonna make use of you while I can.”
Marci at least turned her back to change, but she tossed her nightgown right at her roommate’s head, hitting her target squarely. “Pff, pah, ugh!” Marly tossed it back. “Spicy throw there, Brandæble. Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“Stop calling me that,” the younger girl whined as the Eskandishwoman grinned impishly. “Stop callin’ me that,” she mimicked. “But it’s true. You’re little, rare, and sweet, but much too spicy.” Now dressed, she reached over and ruffled Marci’s hair as the girl was doing up her ankle and calf bindings. “Bruja!” the little Brandæble retorted, batting her hand away, and Marly tossed her cane over when she was finished.
They were no more than halfway down their first staircase when a shout rose up the stairwell. “What the fuck!?” It was Owain’s voice, and he was clearly much alarmed. Marly, who had been hovering just ahead of Marci, turned and bounded down the steps two at a time. “Owain!” she shouted, “what’s wrong!”
Marceline's pulse raced and she called liberally upon the Gift to hurry after them. “It was a fuckin… abberration,” he exclaimed. “It was outside my door and I didn’t even see it. I just… walked into it.”
He was gripping his head between his hands when Marci arrived, eyes bulging and face red. “You’re not going skør on me, brother, are you?” Marlijn asked concernedly, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “No.” He shook his head, releasing it. “No, I’m okay.” He breathed deeply and groaned as Benedetto emerged from their shared room. “Aahhh, Eshidammit,” he grated, “Gonna have a splitting headache all day.”
Wordlessly, Marli padded over and enfolded him in a hug. Benny’s eyes darted around warily, as if they were suddenly under siege. “Penny,” he said flatly. “She has a history with these.”
“You can’t be accusing her!” Marceline was quick to jump to the defense of the Perrenchwoman. “You have no -”
“Don’t get your panties all in a knot there, Brandæble.” He grinned like the little shit he was. Benedetto was barely older than her and he had a mean streak a mile wide. She glared at him, still unsure what Ingrid saw in the boy. “I meant we’ll probably have to save her from herself.”
“She can save herself from herself, merci beaucoup, but the sentiment is very much appreciated.” Penny came to a stop just below the landing, still in her nightgown and leaning on a single crutch.
“Anytime, hopper.” He looked her up and down, rumpled hair, bags under her eyes, and all. “See you’re really putting your best foot forward.”
“Non merci, Benedetto.” She shook her head quite definitely. “Petit merdeux.” The half-stern mirth fell quickly from her face, though. “But that is not why I’m here,” she continued, quickly switching back to Avincian. Penny’s eyes took a moment to meet the others’. “I think you should all come see this.”
“If it’s an aberration,” began Marlijn, “Owain-”
“Non, ce n’est pas une faille du néant,” she blurted. “C’est différent!”
“Speak Avincian, baguette,” countered Benny, but Penny glared at him. “Shut up and come,” she insisted, turning on her heel and hop-running down the steps. “It’s not an aberration or… not a normal one.” She glanced back and Marceline was already following. The twins joined in and then, with a snort, Benedetto eagerly pushed his way past the others after a few seconds. “You will see. It’s… bizarre.”
A lingering unease: that was what Marci felt when she crowded into Penny’s room. She peered through the forest of taller people, trying to understand the feeling that had settled across her stomach. There, in the middle of the room, shaped like… a quarter-sized version of Penny, crutch and all, was… an aberration? It was some sort of nothingness, and Marci remembered the word her housemate had used: néant. It was a common enough size and had a distinct otherworldliness about it, but it was all wrong. Instead of a black gap in reality, it was… blindingly white. “Scheiße” Marceline mouthed. “What the hell is it?”
“That’s the problem.” Penny twisted on the spot nervously. “I have no fucking clue.”
“Well, it’s an aberration,” decided Benedetto. “Just a weird one. Who says they can’t be white?” He took a step towards and met with a stiff arm to the chest from Penny. It was his turn to glare. “What the fuck, Penpen?”
“There’s more to it than the colour,” she replied implacably. She glanced over her shoulder at the others. “I was… forced by circumstance to take two of these things in before, one after the other. I should be craving it, at least a bit. Instead…” she furrowed her brow and her voice lowered a bit. “Do you feel it too? That… weirdness in your stomach?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Marci, “ever since I started walking to your room.”
“I’ve been feeling it all morning!” agreed Marlijn, and Owain nodded. “I just ate one. I should be ravenous for another. Instead, there’s almost like this dread. I really don’t wanna be here, actually.”
Benny scowled and nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “Alright.”
“We should find out what it is, non?” Penny prodded.
“Would help if our rainbow-hugging Zeno was here,” Benedetto grumbled.
“Benny, stop being such a curmudgeon,”; Marlijn scolded. “You know she’s busy with the Fauna Society, and the Astronomers.”
“Sounds like a ‘her’ problem. She has a -”
“Should we… report it?” Owain interrupted. Marci would’ve but, to be honest, she was too afraid of Benedetto.
Then, Marecline looked over and Penny was absorbing the aberration “Penny, what the fuck!” she shouted, but the Perrenchwoman looked as alarmed as anybody else. “Oh putain!” she shrieked, jumping back. "Non, sors de là! Dégages! Laisse-moi tranquille! Mes Dieux, à l'aide!" She stumbled away from it but could not break free, as if the strange aberration was reaching out and latching onto her, drawing itself into her body against her very will. “Oh my Eshi!” cried Marlijn, looking on in horror, but she did not move to intervene. Neither did her brother. Marceline took a step forward but recoiled in terror after a moment. This was something new, something terrifying! What if it killed her!? Paralyzed by indecision, she stood there for a moment, before Benedetto brushed right past her without hesitation and grabbed Penny. The aberration latched onto him as well and, shamed by her cowardice, Marci stepped forward to share its burden, just as she had in the desert two weeks ago.
This one sparked and stung as it touched her, like static electricity, but then it was… oddly pleasant. The ghostly white tendrils poured into her, the aberration wavered, it shrunk, and then - just after Owain joined in - it disappeared. Marceline stumbled back and Marlijn caught her. “I…” Penny started to say, but she tailed off.
“Holy shit,” breathed Owain. “My headache: it’s just like… gone.” He furrowed his brow. “The craving, too, is a lot less.”
“This may be too personal, but I was having my monthly visit from Auntie Eshi,” added Penny, “with all of the associated… unpleasantness. It is also gone.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I slept like a pig last night too, but I feel good,” she admitted, “really good. Light on my feet!”
“Foot,” Benedetto taunted absently, as if it came so easily to him that he could do it on autopilot. “Anyways, I’m happy that you’re happy and all that shit, but I didn’t gain an ounce of power from it. Fuckin’ ripoff. If anything, I feel like it…” he trailed off, scrunching up his face. “Stole power from me.” glances were exchanged. Some concurred with him. All remarked on the lack of a headache or cravings. If anything, Marlijn announced, she very much did not want anything to do with aberrations.
Marceline, however, was not paying very much attention to the others. Instead, she was listening to her body, feeling it. “Um,” she began, and a couple of heads turned her way. “I know this isn’t something any of you would be familiar with, but, as tethered manas die, you can feel them inside you: this constant nasty little prickling right around your sensation line.”
“And?” Benedetto prodded, with his usual impatience, but it didn’t even irk her this time.
Marci looked up and regarded them all. “I’m not sure if I’m imagining it.” A grateful, hopeful, desperate smile broke across her face. “It… stopped.”
If Born-on-Solstice’s early rising apprentice group was the first to experience aberrations that day, it was far from the last, and two aberrations were not the sum of its quota either. Just like last time, there appeared to be one for each student. Marceline made it over to Zarina to find that her group, as well, had encountered one of the seemingly rare white aberrations, but they were running behind schedule and did not have the time to unpack everything that had happened. Marci felt good, though, as they set up. The sharp, ceaseless tingling and stinging that had bedevilled her since shortly after her ninth birthday was, for the first time in five and a half years, absent. Hope flooded quick in its wake, that the tethering could be halted, that she may yet live a normal life. All day, she found herself distracted by it, as the drizzle faded and a second one started in the middle hours of Dami. She made the rounds with her friends when her shift at the stand was up, but she did not break the news yet to Jocasta, Luisa, Bella, and the other tethered. She would see if this lasted. She would make sure that it was real.
As they walked - or rolled, in some of the other girls’ cases - they stumbled upon at least two further aberrations. Formed in the accusatory shapes of people, they had appeared and, where they were not wantonly or accidentally absorbed, had been cordoned off. Lamplighters, guards, and even the Century were in strong supply, and Sir Jean-Claude lifted off on Souverain in the early afternoon, joining one last big aerial display put on by the famed ‘Fireflies’ of the Draconic Order. Watching them, Marceline thought of her own froabas egg, now nestled safely in a warming nest provided at cost by D.R.A.G.O.N. In truth, she had despaired of ever getting to ride the magnificent creature that would emerge but, if what had happened today held true, the despair would easily turn to excitement.
Proceedings ended earlier on Victendes than they did on Lepdes, for classes would resume on the morrow. Marceline took on the truncated late shift from Zarina, and they exchanged talk of the day. She had thought about joining some of the magic-focused societies, and they were large and well-funded, but they’d felt too much like more work, like professional bodies. She had school for that. Instead, she’d opted for a series of more interest-based clubs, and a few that she thought might benefit her business.
Guild: Magicians’ Guild Clubs: Draconic Order, Drudunzean Union, Orators’ Society, Pumpernickel Clubbe, Rat Bastards, Tasters’ Union, Unchained Society
The day wound down, with crickets chirping and a foggy mist rolling in a bit early beneath heavy clouds. Thunder rumbled above their heads as students and some Zenos hustled back to their shared accommodations. Marceline, for her part, was busy counting money as she walked, safe under the mighty brim of her hat and leaning on her cane somewhat less than usual. “Marci, watch out!” came a voice and she looked up just on time to see both the small aberration in front of her and Jocasta rolling up quickly. “At least look where you’re going, iblah!” The Djamantese came around and pulled into an easy rhythm at her side. Marceliine’s cheeks burned. “Sorry, Jo.”
“Don’t say sorry for me,” the older tethered replied. “It was you who was about to eat shit.” She rolled her eyes. Marci did too. “Sorry, mom. Didn’t mean to make you worry,” she teased.
“Shut up,” Jocasta pouted.
“Oh, so when are you gonna tell everyone you’re really like… twenty?” the girl asked, and her friend’s eyes bugged out. There was a bit of a warning beneath the comical overreaction as well, though. “Your mother’s been telling you too much, Brandæble!”
“Nooo!” squealed Marci. “You too?”
“It is… inevitable,” Jocasta teased. “Maybe you can pay me with some of those fat stacks of Hugos and I’ll forget.”
“Bruja!”
“You’re the one with the hat…”
“Touché,” admitted Marceline.
“Anyways, we split up here, I think.” Jocasta brought herself to a near stop, hands resting on her wheels the way they did when she was about to push off. The younger girl gulped and gathered herself. “Actually,” she began, “can you hold on for a second?”
Brow furrowed, Jocasta stopped and nodded. The exact contents of their conversation were known to nobody but the two of them, but they spoke for nearly two hours and the night ended with Marci crying on Jocasta’s lap. Thus came to an end the five-hundred-fifty-fourth iteration of the Ersand’Enise Student Societies Faire. There had been highlights and lowlights. Friendships and rivalries had been made, wounds both opened and healed, and a common mystery to unite all students and much of the staff had now gripped the academy. Though the Arch-Zenos had approved and then posted an official bulletin in most of the city’s public areas and students were warned about the danger and exhorted to report all aberrations to faculty, it did little to blunt the gossip, the whispers and the burning curiosity, even as The Trials approached. Just what were these aberrations, and now a new variety? Who had created them? How had they placed them so exactly and, most importantly: why?
Act Three: Trials and Tribulations, begins!
While one NPC group encountered aberrations on the morning of the second day, and a few others did as well, PC groups will not. Instead, those who participated in our minigame will have encountered at least a couple at large in the faire. There were 12 aberrations to be found in all. Most were the typical black aberrations, a few were white, and one was a rare grey aberration. Player character groups will encounter aberrations in their dorm areas on the morning of next cycle's post. Individuals will also have to contend with the consequences of their aberration ingestion at the faire.
16: needle and thread 2: ethnic club area 11: bards’ society 6: ipte’s courtyard 3: professional clubs area (grey) 4: near speed demons 7: gamers’ union (white) 19: orators’ society 17: brewers’ brotherhood (white) 9: innovator’s exchange 15: oceanborne & waveriders (white) 1: magic school clubs
The map from above is reposted here for your convenience.
1) Please make sure that you fill out your clubs like I have for Marci and put them at the bottom of your post! Also, feel free to fill them in on the google sheet linked above. 2) Play out the faire! Who did you go with, what did you do, see, and try? What clubs did you join? 3) What were you up to in the run-up? How did the geopolitical tensions, social upheaval, and increased security affect you? 4) How did you approach the aberrations in the minigame? Feel free to go it solo or collaborate. Just make sure that you’re not stealing anyone else’s! 5) Did you perform? Did you learn anything? If you wanted to join an invitation-only club, DM me, please!
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>
Jumbus
Crimson Flame
dragonpiece
Guardian Angel Haruki
Echotech71
Fallenreaper
Creative Chaos
Ti
Pirouette
