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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4 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
likes
4 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Rikard is a paradox in many ways: young and very much wet-behind-the-ears, he often comes across as overwhelmed and a bit fearful, but there are moments when he is possessed of an almost reckless determination. When fixated on something, he is a relentless pursuer of it, and a fiendishly eager student. Not quite so naive as he looks (though not quite as worldly as he wishes), the boy is very much fond of the snappy rejoinder and of experimentation for its own sake. Magic is fun for Rikard, when he's given some free reign to learn it as he desires. Beyond that, he's... well... young. His nervousness at being the most junior of students makes war with his impulse to get up to all sorts of mischief, and he can be a pretty slippery character at times (though not quite as slippery as he likes to think) sometimes.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
A barely fourteen-year-old boy on the cusp of puberty, Rikard sports a mop of thick black hair that is consistently just unruly enough to resist attempts at cohesion unless attacked with a comb. His eyes are grey brown and he tops out at about five feet on the nose. He's a fairly handsome kid, but still very much a kid. He is also very much a fan of dressing like a 'real thaumaturge' and goes to some pains on account of it, often throwing in random fashion choices on the rule of 'they look cool'.
L A N G U A G E S
Rikard is flawlessly fluent in his mother tongue of Budesrnish, as well as Avincian. As a result of learning the second tongue, he is passable in both Revidian and Torragonese as well. His Perrench is strong, though accented, and he knows a few simple phrases and can read Enthish and Belzaggic to some extent.
T H E G I F T
There is little doubt, or so Rikard has been told, that he will pass that magical number of 8.00 in RAS Capacity once he hits his big growth spurt. In truth, he isn't all too worried about that. All that the boy can really concern himself with is the study of magic. He has been a relentless pupil of Magnetic and Kinetic magic and particularly of the synergies between them. He is considered somewhat (and only somewhat) of a prodigy in that regard and has also dabbled in the Arcane school. As a distant relative of the legendary Hugo Hunghorasz, there are, of course, other magics potentially at his disposal. He has been seen to be wary of those, however.
If Rikard has to hear, one more time, how greatly he reminds people of his famous ancestor, Hugo Hunghorasz, he will kinetically slap whoever says it across the face or pull down their breeches in public. He swears it. He swears it every time! Sometimes, he actually does it, later on, if the consequences aren't too great. The truth is that, while he's flattered by the comparisons, they just feel weird. For starters, Hugo isn't even his ancestor. He's distantly descended from the recently-deceased paradigm's younger brother, Sandor. Then there's the matter of Hugo's legacy being more or less impossible to live up to. Finally, there are all these people talking as if they really know both him and this great-great-great-uncle of his. It's just... awkward.
Mostly, Rikard's lived an unremarkable life. There's no tragedy here. He's the son of a minor baron, scarcely above landed gentry, but his ancestry earns him respect, and his family's always been pretty good with the Gift. He's a regular sight around town and trains with the sons of knights, merchants, and artisans. He's a proper noble, but doesn't really see the point of looking down on people unless their behaviour warrants it. His family's funds were enough for a practical education and even some of the more airy stuff, and he took to it eagerly. In general, the boy just likes learning... a lot, and by any means necessary. He's known to bite off more than he can chew, and his bold inquisitiveness can flip into equally brazen cowardice on a dime. He tends to be equal parts curious towards and terrified of the more forbidden magics, spending long hours imbibing their theory but precious little on actual practice. Someday, he swears he will just get over the hump and try them in earnest: someday.
M O T I V A T I O N
It's a chance to go to Ersand'Enise! Who would ever be dumb enough to say no to that!? Even if he has to play up his very distant relation to some famous recently dead guy that he met like... twice, it's worth it. There's just so much awesome stuff that happens there, so many secret ancient mysteries and hidden bits of magic, and he doesn't have to wait five more years! Basically, Rikard just wants to milk the school for all it's worth and learn. He wants to go on adventures, discover new magics and magical applications, and blaze a trail that he'll be remembered for. Just... don't expect him to stand front and centre when things get hairy. He's... still working on courage. Also, boobs. Boobs are a motivation. There are girls there he can actually maybe even date. Maybe, if he grows already. Who's he kidding? He still looks like a kid! Why won't he just grow!?
I N V E N T O R Y
Rikard believes in dressing like a mage: dress the part, get in the mindset, and be the thing! He's collected plenty of cool 'magical' bits and bobs, supposedly enchanted, of dubious pedigree. He's careful not to slip over into outright garish or tacky and generally has a good sense of it. He's also in the habit of always carrying some coin on his person, but never too much, as well as a pocketknife and some lockpicks, though he never actually uses them.
His most prized possession, however, is the wand that his grandfather gave him. It belonged to Hugo himself, and then Rikard's great-great-grandfather, Sandor Hunghorasz. A genuine Hegelan imbued and enchanted item, it boosts his capacity, looks cool, and has some as-yet-unknown enchantments that he's still trying to unlock. Someday, he hopes: someday soon.
Rikard is an eager student, first and foremost: clever, witty, and often willing to push the envelope, so long as he feels as if he's in control or can assure himself that his attempts to do so won't blow up in his face. He's a decent kid, as well, on top of it, and smart. He doesn't go out of his way to act like a know-it-all unless condescended to or challenged. Don't do it, please.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S
❖ Young ❖ Cowardly ❖ Immature ❖ Obsessive ❖ Provincial
What do you expect of a very provincial fourteen-year-old? Honestly, Rikard's the youngest student in the school and he acts it. He gets tongue-tied around pretty girls, overwhelmed by genuine danger or threat, and can be rather socially graceless at times, revealing an immature streak a mile wide. He's often insecure about his age and size and just being talked down to as if he's a child.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S
This space is reserved for something of import later on. For now, have a... HEX code: a187be
They were gathered in a single room: the leaders and colossal figures of many of the world’s greatest nations. Among them were various zenos and arch-zenos of the academy. If yesterday’s negotiations had been utter futility, today’s represented only a marginal improvement. “…and yet Rouis is too craven to even show his face!” barked Silke of Kerremand. For a moment, other speech died down, and the voice that replied to her dripped with the patience of a learned elder addressing the concerns of a very small child. Ironically, it was the prince, Arcel. “I have said it twice already and say it now a third: my father does not believe his presence would be conducive to a peaceful settlement. I am empowered to speak with his voice and act in his stead.”
“More like your pop wants war, kid!” It was Prince John of Enth, brother to the king. “‘S a calculated insult.” He sat with his arm draped over the back of his chair, two empty bottles on the table in front of him and smoke slowly curling from the pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth.
“You assume much and know little,” snapped Salman Gahari, Vizier of World Affairs to his Magnificence Osman of Virang. “Who can know, beyond certainty, another man’s mind?” He rose and shook his head. “And, if it was, has not Perrence earned such a right after the disgraceful fiasco that was the conclave?”
“Hear hear!” roared a handful of voices. They hammered raucously on the tabletop and Salman was emboldened to continue. “We know it for an absurdity and injustice that Virang remains still outside the halls of power, and now Perrence, while minnows such as Joru and Kerremand occupy their rightful places!”
Atundo Yibozo, who had mostly been reading, looked up at those words. “A minnow that, if I remember correctly, you were not eager to tangle with last time around. I only pray that you recall that restraint and cooler heads prevail.”
“If much was slander, then the last bit was at least truly spoken,” interjected Arcel. Towards the back of the room sat the hulking figure of Horik. He had refused to speak among “imbeciles, vipers, and weaklings,” and contributed mostly the occasional glower. It was Namiri of Belzagg who spoke next, instead. “I share the concerns of my colleagues from Perrence and Joru,” she began. “Is not the idea of this conference to avoid a ruinous conflict, or am I yet young and missing some vital piece?”
Prince John leaned over, then, and whispered in the ear of one of his attendants, smirking. The attendant stifled a laugh. Namiri knit her fingers before her. “My Enthish colleague says that the piece in question is a ‘penis’.” She stood tall and stoic, expression regal and unamused, and a dozen sets of eyes found John. He glanced about and cleared his throat. “You mishear, my lady. I would never -”
“That is ‘your majesty’ to you, prince.” She looked down her nose at him before pointedly shifting her attention elsewhere. “Now,” she resolved, “Is this a council for peace or is the goal here to justify a war? Tell me, for this is my first such performance.”
“And a stirring one it is,” interjected a voice. Its bearer was a man in robes of state, his silver hair swept back. A signet ring on one finger. “And I shall answer your question in the spirit that it was asked.” Much in contrast to his customary approach, Prospero Malatesta had spoken little thus far. It had served as a source of great speculation. “Perrence desires war and Revidia, peace.” He clasped his hands at his back, pacing forward like a lecturer before a room of pupils. “The former is a declining power and unwilling to accept their changed status, while the latter shall make no apologies for its rise. Is it not natural that the one should seek to overcome the other? The results of the conclave are a referendum on Perrence’s place in the world. The only blow struck was to King Rouis’ pride. His fields are still green, his borders secure, and his people fat and happy.” The doge rapped his knuckles on the table. “We have done them no violence. I have said it before and will say so again: we are not desirous of war. It is in the best interests of no nation here and most especially of the common people under our care. The decision lies solely with my Perrench counterpart or, since he lays bare his contempt by his refusal to attend, his young son.” Prospero turned to face Arcel.
There were shouts of affirmation. People hammered on the table. From a far corner of the room, where a screen hid its occupant, attendants rushed in and out. Then, it was the prince’s turn, and Arcel stood. “I present to you the Revidian lie.” He was met with both vociferous denials and cheers alike as he gestured in his opponent’s direction. “They will frame this as a natural process. They will employ knowingly flawed logic and reductive reasoning to hold up a simplified picture where all of us, versed in statecraft, know it is not so. Nations do not rise and fall on their own. They do so as a result of greater processes and the machinations of their fellow nations. If Perrence is to decline, as the Revidian party so eagerly proposes, then it is because they would act to make it so. Was not the farcical removal of Perrence from the conclave just such an act? Is not the fact that we now conduct this meeting under the umbrella of the Revidian navy’s guns further evidence?” His voice had risen. “This man,” he gestured, open-handed, at the doge, “has made no secret of his enmity towards us Perrench. Is it not then our right - nay, our prerogative - nay once more, our duty to resist him?” He leaned forward, fists upon the table, and scanned the room slowly. “Were it your nation thusly attacked, would you not seek to take action? I do not believe that any of you would stand quietly by and allow what you have built, what it is your divine right and responsibility to protect, to wither on the vine, courtesy of a thousand small cuts.” Arcel shook his head, golden curls swaying as he did so. “It is a less obvious attack than the fire and brimstone of war, but one every bit as dangerous. Perrence will not bow to it. We come with demands and they must be met.”
“Belzagg stands with her allies,” confirmed the empress.
“I speak with the sultan’s voice in lending my support to our allies.” It was the Virangish vizier.
A Nikanese man in fine but simple clothes stepped forward. “His Divinity, the Emperor, recognizes Perrence’s right to act in its best interests.”
Johann the Pious stood, making the Sign of the Pentad. “I shall speak for all of Eskand, as Horik and myself are of one mind on this matter: the overreach of Revidia is unacceptable. We demand our nation’s reinstatement and make common cause with Perrence and our further allies.” He was quickly seated. Horik crossed his arms.
Further affirmations of Perrence’s position streamed in, from the quarters that one might expect. Queen Anne of Huulendam made clear her objection to Kerremand’s ‘aggressive actions and bald-faced self-promotion to the detriment of a great many others.’ Representatives of the other Darhannic nations followed that of the vizier. As Inipor and Virang went, so did they.
Then, it was the doge’s turn. “And who shall stand against war for the sake of pride?” he asked, rising. He scanned the room. “Revidia is committed to peace but stands ready to defend itself and its allies against the military aggression of hostile parties. Segona stands equally prepared. The interests of each serve the other.”
“Joru stands similarly resolved. We ask Perrence, respectfully, to cease this dangerous brinkmanship.” Atundo Yibozo was brief in his statement.
“Kerremand will not see the well-deserved and peacefully-earned fruits of its labour stolen away. We make common cause with Revidia.”
A colourfully-dressed Retanese gentleman stood, another having spoken in his ear moments earlier. “His Vigorous Majesty affirms Revidia’s right to peacefully advance its interests.”
Prince John scowled. “Aye, you’ve got Enth,” he spat. “This is no time for a war, but we’ll fight it if it comes to us.”
All eyes turned to King Sancho of Torragon - called ‘El Alacrán’ - for he was the linchpin on which this hinge swung. He let a brief silence build before getting to his feet. He removed his feathered hat and bowed gracefully in the direction of his royal counterparts. “Your majesties,” he began. “I lower myself before you now so that you may know that the words that I speak next are no insult but come in the spirit of honesty.” Murmurs rose. A few looked at him hopefully. Others glared. Sancho seemed unmoved. He returned his hat to his head.
“I have seen, this day and the one before it, the kings or… something like that of the world’s greatest nations gathered at one table. I have listened to their words. I have watched, with great interest, their actions.” He gazed upon them all, expression grave. “What I have witnessed fills me with shame that we call ourselves leaders.” He shook his head quietly as voices rose in protest. Prospero knit his hands over his midsection, face intense and pensive. The King of Torragon continued, however. “All of you stand here and puff out your chests, playing games with the lives of your people for the sake of your personal pride or ambition, for meaningless symbols of status and power.” He tilted his head. “You want to see true power? Look around this city. Look at the wealth, at the safety and prosperity! Much comes from magia, but much does not, and that is power! While you are busy fighting because you cannot accept that you are not what you once were -” he gestured towards the Eskandish, “Or because you still pursue an old grudge and wish to claim a piece of land -” it was the Darhannics this time, “Because many have spoken down to you and you need to be seen as strong and relevant -” Kerremand, “You fear that your bold new experiment will be sabotaged by others -” Joru, “You must maintain your power or else you fear they will feed upon your nation’s carcass -” Perrence, “You are threatened by a more powerful neighbour -” Enth, “Or you know that your country must have a friendly port on the ocean as trade booms with Callanasta -” He addressed the Doge last. “Ersand’Enise grows stronger through guarded peace and wisdom.” He paced slightly, now. “You are windows, all of you,” he decided, finger wagging about the room, taking a moment to sniff. “But what I have seen is that all of you are so afraid to lose that you don’t take the time to look.” He shook his head. “We Torragonese are known as conquerors, and it is true that we took the land that is now ours from another people, but that did not make us a country. That did not make us great. We were founded by war, but built by good policy, by wise action, by recognizing what it seems none of you care to: your goals, they do not need to be in such conflict. It is all of your weaknesses - the ones you will not share - that lead you to lie.” He shook his head. “It is these lies that fester and cut you off from understanding. Why do we believe that one nation’s rise must mean the fall of another? Why can Perrence and Revidia not both be strong? Why can’t the ships of Retan call at both sets of ports? There is no reason except the people here at this table saying it cannot be.”
Sancho clenched his jaw. He could feel the hostility in many of the expressions around him, but he hardened his resolve. “I do not say these things to insult you. I do not think that you are estupido. Perhaps you have entertained thoughts like mine yourselves, but you did not want to be the first one to say them. It was a risk and risks do not always pay off.” He nodded. “I understand, for I feel it too. In this moment, I feel it, but I must speak, for I will live in shame if I do not: the shame of failing my people, of failing in my duty as king, of failing all people!” He pursed his lips. “Why do we rule?” He spread his arms. “Are we not supposed to be a better sort of person? Are we not supposed to be above petty conflicts and squabbles?” He took a final look around the room. “Today, I speak for Torragon, and Torragon stands for the good of its people and, I hope, the good of all people. We have no quarrel with any of you and we will play this game no longer.” His courtiers rose. As one, the Torragonese turned. “Let the chips fall where they may.” They marched out, then: a single, purposeful unit. The remaining leaders were left to sort their issues out or else fail to. It was no longer a concern of Sancho’s or his subjects’.
The precise details of what took place next were known to none but those in the room and, perhaps, not even fully to them. The three arch-zenos of Ersand’Enise who were present had the next word. The Paradigm, Hugo Hunghorasz, scarcely raised his ancient head, though he could be heard muttering under his breath. Yet, that day, by methods unknown, the bickering monarchs turned reasonable. War was averted, and peace preserved. The great wizened wizard was the last to leave, visibly drained yet triumphant in his manner.
Apocalypse Now
He emerged from his bubble into a hellscape. He had known of the Zenith’s coming announcement. She had not been able to keep that from him. He knew, also, that many found it a threat and that there were others who would use the attention given to the opening of the portal to launch their own attacks for their own reasons.
Thousands of aberrations had been scattered across Ersand’Enise and Hugo knew who had done it. He had, after all, occupied a room with one of them for hours. He would likely meet them again this very night, in combat and he would succeed, for success was his only option. The world would fall to chaos if he did not.
So it was that the paradigm himself wandered the city of the bells as those bells tolled in urgency, meeting with those maddened by the gaps in reality. He handled them as people instead of problems to the extent that he could. He cleansed aberration after aberration. He reconstituted buildings. Then, his age caught up with him and the old man needed to rest. There were other arch-zenos who took up the banner, though not so effectively as he had. Zenos, students, and citizens rushed about. Many hid. Some did not. At least a few purposely absorbed the dangerous things. They had either figured out the first - encouraging- part of the secret but not the second, or they were agents of the Traveler. He could not stop all of the young and the foolish, however.
Hugo Hunghorasz sat on a bench for some time longer and watched Ersand’Enise burn. He could feel each fire and each explosion, each collapsing wall. There were flashes of temporal magic and even dark magic, but he was tired and would need his strength soon, he knew.
After his rest, he returned to his work and, soon enough, the city was set right. Soon enough, he placed himself in Balthazar hall and drew from space and time. He drew to set most everything right: to undo a thousand or more deaths, to reconstruct the devastated buildings, and to spare people’s minds the most painful parts of it all. He could not fix everything, however: not even Hugo Hunghorasz.
The aberration that formed as a result of his efforts was not one of the usual types. It was, in fact, of a kind that he had seen only a handful of times in his storied life. The first had been during his days as a student. The first had been with Benedict, Leluun, Vander, and …Enna. So the students, some twenty or so in all, proved worthy of the puzzle. Nobody else intervened. They stepped into the strange plane that existed outside of space or time as they knew it, and they emerged much as he had one hundred years ago: empowered.
Darkness Triumphant
It was that night when the titans clashed, just as he who stood at their head had anticipated. There had been the day’s other events, chief among them the opportunistic theft of the much-sought-after music box said to be able to pacify a Fiery Mountain Dragon. Moli’s Emporium had gone up in flames, its performers homeless, merchants jobless, and dozens of exotic animals released, pell-mell, into the local environment. That was not to mention the dozen or so people maimed and killed or the persistent stories that would soon spread of great flying insects, snakelike people, and a vast conspiracy involving wave upon wave of colossal sanguinaires and the Revidian Navy. To some, it seemed as if Velles the Ninth, DZ54 would be the end of the world. Those stories, however, are theirs to tell at length should they wish to share them.
Yet, this day of all five hells had saved its worst for last. As the Hours of Eshiran gave way to those of Dami, its final and most consequential act commenced.
The sun was gone and scant light lingered, deep blue, on the horizon. In a couple of places, distant fires still burned and smoke curled up into the sky, but none of the street lights were lit this night, as if Ersand’Enise was suddenly a much lesser city. There remained dozens of students milling about. Some simply sought the perceived safety of Balthazar Square. Others were in desperate search of some knowledge as to just what was taking place. Still others had emerged, empowered, from a land beyond space and time. They staggered about in a daze and, among them, lurked a predator who sensed an opportunity.
Yuliya Ilyanovna Vasilieva, crown princess of Vossoriya, in truth, but here under a ruse, was a sanguinaire, though nobody else knew it. Lurking just outside of the square, she scanned the crowd, passing up those deemed too weak, too strong, or too vigilant. Then, she found a likely target: a young Revidian girl all by her lonesome, heading into the maze of darkened side streets that marked the dormitory district.
She chose Lucia Moli: an internal chemist, and not nearly so unaware as Yuliya may have hoped. In the brief conflict that followed, the sanguinaire found herself struck by magics of unexpected power, and they turned her muscles to jelly. The unthinkable happened as her seemingly mundane prey decided that discretion was the better part of valour and ran, screaming, towards the still-busy square. "Vampira!" she wailed. "Demone!" Her calls did not fall upon deaf ears.
It was mere moments before a pair of voices shouted back, and they were Eskandish. "Øje for øje! Blod for blod!"
"You're mine, bitch!"
The twins Marlijn and Owain, generally affable and easygoing sorts, had been brutally attacked less than a weak prior, and nearly killed by just such a beast, and now they sensed their chance for revenge. The Eskandish rite of Blood Feud was invoked and, within moments, a half-dozen students of that nation had congealed. For all of Yuliya’s considerable strength, she knew that she could not fight so many. Thus, in the burgeoning darkness, as the entire world seemed to have gone insane, it tipped just a little further still. She ran. They pursued: a small but wild mob, baying for her blood.
Obligated by land of birth, Sven Bjornsson found himself among them, but he was a gentle soul, advising or perhaps demanding some levelheadedness. His entreaties, however, fell upon deaf ears as he raced to the head of the pack, hoping to nab the bloodsucker for himself and resolve this with minimal bloodshed. Owain and Marlijn streaked through the night along with him, and it was Niallus and Ingrid who soon fell off the pace, mingling with the growing gaggle of curious onlookers who followed.
Some had figured it out more than others, but the electric feeling that something big was about to happen permeated the air. “Oi,” Zarina demanded of Marci, passing the smaller and slower girl. “What's going on?"
"Eskandr blood feud!" Marci called back, bleeding anxiety. "Didn't you hear? Some sanguinaire attacked and tried to kill Owain and Marlijn last week! You been living under a rock, Zaz?"
"... I thought they were exaggerating." Zarina blinked, arms crossed, "Sanguinaire. Like, aren't those just story-things? The sort of thing you call some creepy stalker or molester."
Marci shrugged in response. "Apparently not... Marli's usually as relaxed as they come, but she was spitting mad. Owain too." She shook her head. “Honestly, it's madness, but I'm like... morbidly curious."
"Same." Zarina agreed, pursing her lips, watching her pet dormouse Nibbler grow restless. "He's super worked up over this too. I'm actually surprised." She whistles to get Nibbler's attention, and he glanced back, but his hackles were raised and fur bristling. "You alright, bud?" The small creature didn't so much as respond, not even to a chemical brain-to-brain signal, "Whatever's really happening, it's about mild on today's scale," Zarina joked nervously, but she was wrong.
On through the Dormitory Quarter they raced, and then across one corner of the Mercantile District before barreling into the Crafters’. Yuliya disappeared into a warehouse, barely ahead of the others, and they had her surrounded. If some, like Ingrid, lost their nerve, Owain plunged headlong after his prey, finding himself alone in the building’s darkened reaches with her. A sense of seriousness and finality overtook the Eskandish, then, and they seemed to hesitate at the precipice. Marlijn used her finely-honed skills as an illusionist to render him invisible and now it came down to this: the settling of the feud with someone’s life as repayment.
The sanguinaire’s preternatural reflexes saved her life, and then a well-earned dispelling of the expected chemical attack. "Where are you all!?" Owain called out anxiously, suddenly alone with her and exposed. His heart hammered. He locked eyes with the masked figure. Then, the others came: Marlijn, under a cloak of shadows; Sven, insistent that this should not be played to the death; and Niallus, clumsily addressing his hidden ally. Then, it happened: Yuli closed the warehouse door behind everyone once they had walked in. She flicked a switch on the magic dampener that she'd acquired from the trials, letting it rest in her jacket pocket, before turning to Owain.
"One has had their chance. One chose blood, and blood shall flow, though it shan't be mine."
Without magic, she was still stronger, faster, and more resilient than a normal person. Without magic, a normal was nothing.
It was right about then that the entire roof lifted off of the warehouse.
"You savages will cease," boomed a voice. "All of you."
The parties within looked up and saw the roof come off. It hung above them in the air. Those who were nearby fled in fear or watched in awe, as Zarina hung back with Marci and Nibbler quickly retreated into the former’s arms when he sensed the overwhelming power. "Well shit." she looked up, impressed by the display, but with little context to truly admire it.
Those closer by recognized the voice of Augusto Frannemas as it cut the silence. "Your trinket, you will switch it off or I will switch you off... permanently." It was a command that chilled Yuliya to the bone as he made a near-identical promise to the rest of the students in the warehouse. "If these animals harm you, the same outcome awaits them.".
Then, as he spoke, Augusto felt a pathetic attempt to influence his perception. Owain dashed in to try to take Yuliya's head off with his shortsword. Augusto’s eyes flickered in the boy’s direction and his magics did the rest, rendering him blind, deaf, and numb as he collapsed in a heap. "Worm," came the sole word from Augusto's lips as Marlijn screamed and ran to her brother's side.
Augusto reached out again in an attempt to crush her mind but she was supremely talented with chemical magic. Her reality wavered, but she glared up at him. "You defend a murderer!" the girl snarled. “We are seeking justified revenge!"
Augusto tilted his head to one side, "We have rule of law here, savage," he replied high-handedly, looking down his nose at her. "Seek your vengeance in a court of law." He reached out again and rendered Marli the same as her brother. More than one gazed up at him in terror, but the Torragonese was unmoved. "I warned them,” he advised, “They ignored my mercy."
Yuliya, meanwhile, had gone silent, and completely ignored the people in the warehouse, staring up at the almost godlike power that was lifting the roof and taking people out like ants. Underneath her mask, she blushed intensely. She knew Augusto was cool, but this cool?
Yet, she found herself his next target and responded with instinct. As he tried to lift Yuliya from the ground towards him, he could feel her resist. He released her momentarily. "Don't fight," he warned, looking pointedly at those who had. Yuliya put her hands up, as if being asked to be lifted, while almost wanting to laugh at the two bodies on the floor of the warehouse.
Niallus looked towards Sven, meanwhile. "Help me get these out of here,” he whispered. “This is our chance to get away."
Sven nodded. "I think I can heal them. Jusht need shome time." He was not good with Kinetic magic, but the tall youth was able to heave Owain over his massive shoulder and begin his getaway. Niallus picked up Marljin simultaneously, agreeing with his ally. "We'll get away first then you can heal".
They started to move and had gotten maybe two steps before they found themselves separated from the people they were carrying and lifted into the sky. "I am not finished with you vigilantes," Augusto advised.
If those outside were not directly involved, they were nonetheless able to feel the immense energy constantly flexing and roiling nearby. Some felt sick. A couple collapsed. Ingrid had watched the roof be raised and listened to the multiple shrieks that came from inside. "Oh boy ,” she repeated. “Oh boy oh boy oh boy. This is bad." It was all that she could say.
Then, vaguely in the distance, they started to feel energies creeping about, drawing nearer. They cast about and found nothing yet, within, Augusto and Yuliya were none at all the wiser. Augusto pacified both Sven and Niallus the same as he did with Owain and Marljin. He returned his attention to Yuliya as he lifted her and the box into the air. Once she was near, the sanguinaire was able to hear. "Yuliya," he began to whisper into her ear, "do try to choose your targets more carefully in the future. You kill," he warned, "you die. Okay?" He shook his head, "and I don't want that, but we have standards here. Only if you have no other option."
Yuliya simply nodded along and smiled, as Augusto softened the blow. "You are better than your Eskandr blood. Act like it."
Then, Augusto froze. The roof dropped roughly and the air boiled with a feeling of immeasurable magic. Almost everyone within the area disappeared.
Then, there was a presence: A figure in a black cloak hovered beside Augusto. "Please release her," it asked.
Augusto obeyed, but he offered a warning of his own. "You would be unwise to try to kill - "
With a single action, he was sliced in two.
"Go feed, girl," said the figure, and Yuliya was able to feel that this, then, was the master sanguinaire, "and kill. It is your right over these lesser beings."
Yuliya looked puzzled. Even if she had wanted to be upset, or cry, or be shocked, she wasn't capable. She hadn't been for years. This was.. unexpected. Her cold rationality took over. This would cause incident. "Yes. But he was good suitor, it is a shame."
"Feed," commanded the Progenitor. "Claim your birthright!"
She went to drink from her bisected suitor. "Farewell. I will miss you."
"ASCEND!!!" he hissed, eyes glowing.
It was just as Yuliya had sunk her teeth into the mangled body that the Progenitor's chest exploded.
"Did you think I would be so easy to kill?" asked a second, utterly unharmed, Augusto. His sword retracted and he was gone.
The sanguinaire coughed up blood. He wavered for a moment. Then, his wounds healed, as a thousand upon a thousand tendrils of darkness leapt from his form.
Augusto did not respond. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen… not until a bellowing "WEAK!!!" resounded through the area. "You bloodsuckers are all the same."
The Progenitor's tendrils turned in on themselves and impaled him. He fell from the sky. Then, there was a second Frannemas. A pretty blonde woman appeared below. "You, Vossoriyan, did you just try to eat my brother?" There was something unnatural about the way that her head tilted.
"Yes. I quite like him. I thought he died," Yuliya answered calmly.
There were ten flashes. Then, they assembled: the Elder Council, ten sanguinaires, each thousands of years old and unfathomably powerful.
The strongest of them all rose from the shadows: the master sanguinaire. Being once impaled by his own tendrils seemed to almost mean nothing to the Progenitor, and he showed no sign of injury. Not even looking down at the girl who had come to help her brother, he commanded, "Kill her."
In that moment, the true violence began. Augusto's sister, Avril, stood there for but a moment as her head exploded.
Then, the elder who had blown up Avril's head screamed as her skin peeled away, followed by her muscles. Her organs sloughed out onto the concrete. Augusto set his sights on a second one, and then Avril's doppelganger exploded with colossal force. A third elder drew its power in and… nothing happened.
Then, Augusto had a hole through his chest. Things very quickly became absurd. Nothing made sense. People died but didn't die. Things happened but didn't happen.
Yet even with none dead, the Sanguine Council gained the upper hand. As Avril and Augusto stood still, Internal Chemical magics seeped their way into the siblings, rendering them helpless. It appeared that, even when things did not make sense, some magics stayed true. Even with this upper hand, however, the sanguinaires did not kill. They held.
"Who will enjoy this feast?" the Progenitor crowed. Two Elders came forward to do so.
"I think," declared a new voice, "actually nobody will."
"These humans are not yours to feed on."
A slash of pure energy sliced through the night with blinding light, causing many to reel and blink. Yet, once their sight returned, they could make out three masked individuals, each possessed of immense power, standing between the Sanguinaires and the Frannemas siblings: Gold, Black, and Silver. Over the shoulder of the third was slung an enormous broadsword held in one hand.
As the Sanguine council fell into a standoff against the Frannemas siblings and the three masked figures, the five Eskandr, plus Marci, Zarina, and Nibbler awoke some ways away on the offshore island known colloquially as The Tip. There, they found a nice warm fire going. Moths zipped and twirled around it. From this safe place, they began to heal their friends and discuss what they had just seen, trying to make sense of it.
If the alliance that had been made between the Masked individuals and the Frannemas was beneficial, it was shaky at best. Augusto mocked them, "Oh, so you care about the rich now too?".
"Silence, boy," replied the Black-masked figure, "or I will cut your tongue out when I am finished with these fiends, and you will not regrow it."
There came another flash. A figure in a pale green mask floated above the concrete. "Certosa," said the gold-masked Volto. Jocasta had arrived, unnamed but present, finding herself a minnow in this sea of sharks despite her immense power. For about a minute, now, it had been a standoff between some of the most powerful beings alive. The Sanguine Council had the numbers advantage and they knew it. They attacked.
Then, Radomir, the Elder of Vossoriya, dropped with a hole in his head. Starchilt of Kerremand dropped next. Each wound was recoverable, in some way or another, but they held up the sanguinaires, leaving them vulnerable. They searched for the cause, but they searched in vain.
In truth, it was the Volto Lupa and the young initiate Desmond, who she had found headed for the calamity and wisely held back. "Don't give up your range," she had advised, and he did not. They continued to be a nuisance: a potentially deadly one.
Yet, no action lasted. People died only to live again. Such power was, in a sense, futility when it was mirrored by another.
Until he showed up.
Karan Harrachora took a slice from reality and deleted everything within it. Itzinco, the guiding hand of Xochi, ceased to exist: forever and in all realities.
"You will all die if you continue to fight," he warned. "Stop."
They had no choice but to heed his words. Yet, it lasted mere seconds before one came for the eminent Arch Zeno. They varied their movement. They varied themselves in time. They simply... avoided him until the time was right to strike.
Then, there were six of him, and the evasion on which their lives depended became much harder. The Progenitor was next, but it was only his hand. That, he regrew in about one second. He summoned darkness of his own and three of the Harrachoras fell. Cataclysmic, was the best way to describe the action that prevailed over the Crafters’ Quarter but, outside of the bubble where they fought, nobody had the slightest notion of what was happening.
Not a soul saw, heard, or sensed the colossal powers at play, for such was the privilege of master magicians over all other beings in existence. In that same moment, another shot was fired. A bullet grazed the night empress, and she winced. Never before had she been struck by a gun. She reached out with her senses and looked for a sniper, but nothing could be found.
“There is a sniper,” she warned, turning to Zengumah the Lion, “a very good one. Watch out." A trickle of blood dripped from the wound on her cheek.
Then, the fight ended with one word:
"KNEEL."
A mage in white and gold appeared. His great hat hung about him and from it flowed long black hair and a great beard. He held a simple gnarled staff and there was something familiar about him.
Hugo Hunghorasz COMMANDED the lesser mages and the sanguinaires and, no matter the struggle, they had no choice but to listen. The nine remaining Elders dropped to their knees, the four Volti fell, Augusto and Avril were reduced, and even the Arch Zeno Harrachora bowed.
The Progenitor, however, did not. He stood and glared at the master mage. "How many times has it been?" he inquired.
"Too many," replied Hunghorasz.
"To the finish this time?" said the sanguinaire.
"If you truly wish it," Hugo answered. At that, they disappeared, for they fought in a way that nobody else could comprehend.
Then, for a flicker of time, the two of them stood before the kneeling row of titans. Each mage or sanguinaire present could have been peerless, were it not for the others. Each of them, avatars of unfathomable power, yet seconded, here, to a mere man: one who seemed eager to play god.
It was so fast that it was almost imperceptible. The eyes of the Progenitor met those of Volto Dorato. Then, the Volti struck. A slice of pure blackness split reality and then Hugo Hunghorasz in half. He was erased.
The command magic faded and they stood eye to eye across from each other: Volto Dorato and the Progenitor. Itzinco reappeared and he and Harrachora exchanged nods. Augusto dusted himself off. Avril sighed. "That was a close run thing," she admitted.
"No hard feelings," the Night Empress clarified.
Yet, the entire sequence was not without its witnesses. In the distance, the magusjaeger Lupa and her young charge saw it all, though they were sworn to silence. Far closer tot he action, however, was Yuliya. She had been rendered unable to move by both the overwhelming power on display, and her own instinctual shock and fear. Now, it was finished, and she pulled herself together as best she could, looking to Augusto incredulously. "This… this was setup!? What? I don't.. I don't understand.. I'm sorry." Her head spun.
Augusto turned to her. "I'm sorry for my deception. There's a lot you don't know. Hugo Hunghorasz is... not a good man. He has tried to make himself into a god and nobody has that right."
She could see one of the masked figures turn his way. "Truly spoken," it agreed.
The progenitor merely watched.
"So I guess we all go back to being enemies after this?" asked Karan Harrachora, twirling a keyring between his fingers. "Seems a bit of a shame."
"At least we have our free will back," the silver Volto reminded them. "And that is most important. Our field is now level. Let the strongest win."
Hugo Hunghorasz was gone and, in the mighty place he had filled was left a yawning vacuum. Who would rise to claim it remained to be seen.
First, however, Radomir, the guardian of Vossoriya, came forward. He placed a hand on Yuliya's shoulder. "You have done well today." He smiled warmly. "I know that what happened before your senses must have been terrifying, but you survived it and you helped us immeasurably. To lead our nation is, in some ways, to serve. Remember that and hold your head high. You show much promise, Yuliya."
Yet Yuliya, who had just watched a battle of monsters play out, saw herself as nothing but weak, "I am unworthy. I could do nothing, even if I wanted. I feel the gap between us is so great, that I might never catch up. How am I fit to lead being so weak?"
"I once led, my child," assured Radomir. "It was merely preparation for the role I hold today. Someday, you will find yourself on the other side of this question."
Then, one by one, the fantastic beings who had gathered to destroy a man began to depart. It had all been a ploy: every last bit of it, but it had succeeded. Hugo Hunghorasz had risen from humble origins and, through sheer force of magic and will, had climbed to the peak of the mountain. For over a century, he had stood astride the world, ensuring his own imperfect but earnest vision of peace, order, and justice. Now, that was no more, and it was all there for taking.
There Will Come Soft Rains
They were awoken by the soft, moody rumble of thunder. Whether it was nature or the Zenos of the academy mourning the death of one great man - and, if people suspected the latter, they were loath to say so - the clouds cast a deep grey pall over Taldes, Velles the 10th.
In the short term, it was a victory of sorts. A ruinous war had been averted or at least put on hold. The Illustrious Navy departed, as did most of the quasi-military forces that had temporarily occupied the city. How Pyrrhic it all was, though. Many did not realize quite how badly so, and still, they had some inkling. The portal, opened with great ceremony the day before, remained closed, for the time being - its structure repaired, but not the magic that had animated it. Flags flew at half-mast and stores remained closed. Students who showed up to classes found them canceled for the day and for the next on top of it. For Trypano Somia, her long-awaited appointment with the Paradigm, scheduled for thai afternoon, sat there, pinned to her corkboard, a reminder of… something.
He had run a fever and died in his sleep that night, or so it was said, and few had reason to suspect otherwise. He was very elderly and had missed the morning’s event. The combat that had seen him felled had been assiduously kept from the senses of all but the most eminent of mages. And so the rain came and people huddled indoors in their small clusters, huddling around their fireplaces and discussing just what the passing of one man would mean for the world. It seemed somehow a bit of a colder place now, a little less certain.
In silent teams of five, Zenos swept the remote corners of the city, searching for remaining aberrations and either absorbing or cordoning them off for removal. Bells tolled at each hour and the rain did not subside. Yet, this was Ersand’Enise: a place where there was always a show to be taken and where it would need to go on. There flickered stubborn signs of life amid the lingering pall of death.
In a small tavern, a girl who lived under a false name leapt into her father’s arms. They held each other tightly for a moment before exchanging stories. He was worried. He was angry at others, but he placed that aside, for the girl was nearly a woman grown now and she had a full and bustling life of her own to share with him. A man used to talking stopped to listen. A girl used to listening had learned to be heard.
In a kitchen, a young couple, each half with brilliant blonde hair, moved about, endeavouring to cook a meal for friends and family to celebrate a bold and unexpected step in their lives. The young man spun his bride-to-be around and she used the Gift to lift a half-dozen implements and stir, heat, and knead ingredients.
Some of those who she found herself sitting among shortly after were also those who she left with. The mumbling groan of thunder and the spattering of rain accompanied them as they made their way across the city. The welcome was perhaps not quite so grand as it might have been under different circumstances, but the six youths found themselves passing through the threshold and into the Violet Enclave, led by the lone figure of Karan Harrachora. Before them lay the Forked Tower - an odd, ancient, and storied structure that evoked endless mystery and promises of fruitful learning. The week was theirs and it began now.
Of course, there were those left behind, but they found their own purpose. After bidding farewell to her friend, the younger of a pair of young business owners locked up and headed out in a different direction. It was… eerily peaceful as she splashed, idly childlike, through puddles. During the course of her walk, however, she came upon a cloaked man. He regarded her hopefully for a moment before turning away. There had been something of a rapprochement between them the day before, but it felt hollow now, given the context in which it had happened. They began to pass each other awkwardly until the weight in her heart grew to a point where she could bear it no longer. “...Hello, brother.”
“Hello, sister.” He turned eagerly and their eyes met. “Are you holding up alright?”
She nodded and shrugged. “As good as one can be, I suppose.” Marceline paused. “How about you?” she asked.
Manfred was about to answer a simple affirmative, as he always had but, this time, he caught himself. He paused and considered. “I’ve… been better”, he admitted, hesitating to meet her eyes. “I… failed my girlfriend. I failed my compatriot during that… aberration episode.”
“It was terrifying,” Marci commiserated.
Manfred swallowed tightly. “I… I wasn’t strong enough,” he squeaked. “She had to save me. Dory had to save me. I… died.”
Wordlessly, Marceline reached out and enfolded him in an embrace. “I’ve… failed some people too,” she admitted, patting his back. “Now, why don’t you go talk to her, hmm?”
He did not let go of his sister. “I… couldn’t burden her. I can’t let her see me like this.”
The girl rolled her eyes just a bit. “Silly brother,” she chided. “If you feel this way, do you not think she can sense it? Do you not think she is also worried?” Marceline pulled back to arms’ length.
“I did not think -”
“No, you did not, silly brother.” She shook her head. “Go to her. You need each other.”
They parted and Manfred took a few steps back before hesitating. “And you, silly sister: do you need anyone? Anything?”
The girl let out a snort. “Maybe,” she admitted, “but I have my stacks of money for now. They don’t make half-bad tissues in a pinch.”
He shrugged and managed a tight, knowing smile. “Well, I know we don’t have so much in common, but you always have me, for what it’s worth. I… love you… kid. Okay?”
Marci blushed. “Ahem… Iloveyoutoo,” she replied quickly, almost under her breath. “Thank you.”
He was walking backwards, smiling out at her from under the hood of his cloak. “No, thank you.”
The girl shook her head, also backing away. “No, thank you,” she insisted.
He shook his head. “Unacceptable. I am the more thankful party.”
“Nuh-uh,” she retorted I am and I’m the younger one, so you must concede.”
“I think not!”
“I think so!” They were quite some distance from each other now, shouting to be heard over the rain.
“Over my dead body,” Manfred warned.
“Ah, so then it is war between us, brother.”
He nodded in response. “Indeed, he called. I shall meet you on the field of battle!” Then, they were parted and Manfred found that he had strength enough for another conversation that was perhaps well overdue.
Indeed, across the city, there were myriad moments such as these, glimmering like stars amid a vast dark canvas. Sometimes, when we are pushed to our utmost, strained against the very limits of our endurance, we unlock doors, we progress. We find things within and without ourselves. Perspective is a powerful tool and it was, perhaps, Hugo’s final gift to the world.
Epilogue: The Scorpion’s Last Sting
“And you are certain there can be no rapprochement between us?” It was Sancho. “No compromise for the good of the nation?”
The man who sat across from him was Huarcan Frannemas. They were in a hunting lodge at the northwest tip of Lake Albadòn. A fireplace roared behind them and, above it, the mounted head of a froabas surmounting a coat of arms and a pair of crossed swords. The duque shook his head. “It is past that,” he stated evenly, if not quite smugly. “Though you would make things easier for the both of us and for our country if you surrendered and made this peaceful.”
“I have a great many supporters,” the king remarked. He reached for a decanter of wine. “It will be ruinous for you.” He rose to pour himself a glass and Huarcan watched him closely. “It will be ruinous for Torragon.”
“Which is why I know that you will propose something else.”
“Wine?” offered Sancho.
His great enemy snorted. The soon-to-be-deposed king poured it anyhow. “It is a very good Vintage: Casa Soledad AI51.”
He served the duque before seating himself and crossing one leg over the other. “My proposal is this, and I will toast on it: we duel, you and I.” He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Oh, there is little chance that I can win, but I must at least say that I tried. I owe this to my family and my honour. Surely, you can understand that. Can you not?”
Huarcan glanced down at the deep crimson wine in the glass. Sancho was a simple enough man. He had always been, and yet -
“What?” the king interjected with a smile. “You believe that I would win with poison?” He shook his head. There was no hint of magic being used as he took a hearty sip. “You are too suspicious, my friend. Let me give you that advice: it does not make for a good king. I would know. I have held the job for some time now, though I see I was merely keeping your seat warm.”
“Honour, I find, is a quaint concept, but there is only power, so far as I see it, in all of its various forms: social, monetary, military, magical. Why would I take even the slightest risk in dueling you?”
Sancho sighed and took another sip. Huarcan followed, though, out of habit, he cast a small chemical spell upon the drink to neutralize the taste-removing torzophine that it would contain if it were a deadly poison. That way, he might know.
“Well, for one, I will first give you the document you seek, written in my hand and sealed in wax.” The king shrugged. “The second is because it’s always been personal. Hasn’t it? You are so much better than me, and yet I have always stood above you. I will do so once again. You will see.”
It was all rather pathetic, Huarcan mused to himself, an obvious attempt to goad him. Likely, Sancho had some gambit. He was half-inclined to accept just to see what it was, and yet… one should always beware a cornered animal, even one so weak as this. “You will give it to me regardless, or your entire family will follow you swiftly to Echerran’s embrace.”
Sancho’s grip on the armrests of his chair tightened. “You are a wicked man,” he growled, “but you do not scare me. You would kill them anyhow.”
Huarcan took another sip and smiled. “Yes, I suppose I would. They are too great a political threat to be left alive.” He shrugged. “It’s… nothing personal.”
The outgoing monarch glared at him, then. “Fight me, you carriage-riding coward,” he snapped. “I know you are curious, what trick I have up my sleeve. I know you want to see it! Why don’t you see it!?” he taunted, rising from his seat. The duque merely sipped and watched. “Or are you scared?” tried the angry little man. There was panic on his face now. He had come to the realization that it was all about to end. Huarcan was unmoved. “Sign the document and I will let your daughters live, at least. I will even marry Radolfo to the one with the eight-point-ten.”
“She will own him,” hissed Sancho, “utterly.”
Huarcan downed the rest of his glass and rose. “Oh, I know, but I have another one anyhow: a better one, and I suppose you can consider this your revenge from beyond the grave.”
They stood across from each other now and the ‘king’ glowered helplessly. He clenched his fists and his jaw alike and then he broke. “I will do it,” he grated, looking quickly away. He strode stiffly to the small table nearby and pulled a sheet of parchment. The duque stood in front of the fire, holding his empty glass dispassionately.
“Tendremos nuestra venganza,” Sancho muttered beneath his breath. “Tendremos nuestra venganza.” Huarcan could see that his hands were shaking. He dipped the quill in its ink and began to write.
“I, Sancho Afraval, eighth of his name,” the duque dictated, “do hereby declare that, upon this tenth day of Viela, Dami-Septo cincuenta y cuatro, I release in perpetuity all of my duties and titles…”
“This ink,” complained the king, “is bad. It has sat for too long.” He straightened in frustration and then, he dropped the ruse. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword.
Huarcan tilted his head to one side. “You realize that, by doing this, you doom your entire -” Then, Sancho was upon him, with a lunging strike aimed for the duque’s midsection. He just barely leapt out of the way.
The greater of the two men did not normally carry a sword, for he had no use for one. Instead, he called upon the deep and ample strength that was his Gift. he called upon it and…
Dread congealed into an icy ball in the pit of his stomach. It… wasn’t there. Sancho swept in again and Huarcan pulled for everything - anything. His manas would not respond. He could not feel them! He managed a weak kinetic shove: enough to push the king’s blade out of line. “Let’s see what sort of man you are now,” Sancho snarled, relentless. Huarcan stumbled back. “Guards!” he called. “Guards!” But they were out of earshot, as he, himself, had earlier requested.
“If you are wondering,” taunted the king, “it was plushtail oil. Your little spell to remove the taste-maskers is what activates it.” Thinking quickly, the duque snatched one of the crossed swords from the mantle and parried Sancho’s thrust. He was by no means a poor swordsman, but he had learned with the Gift.
“Your paranoia,” grunted the king, “is as predictable as your arrogance.” Huarcan could not beat him in a swordfight, not without the Gift. He began circling, throwing out feints, until his back was to the hallway that he knew led outside. He swung in a great big feint from long distance and shouted and that would have to be enough. He turned and ran with everything that he had. “And your cowardice,” hissed the king, rushing after him. Plushtail oil! How could he have been so stupid! Hadn’t he checked for poisons? He always did so but, this time, he had not! Sancho had strategically interrupted him just as he’d been about to, and demonstratively taken a sip to reassure him! He’d purified his glass, just to be sure, and tasted nothing out of the ordinary. Then, a few sips from the king, to lead him on out of passive habit. He’d been led to this juncture like a steer by the nose, every step of the way!
Huarcan Frannemas was about ten paces from the door when the sword impaled him in the trailing leg. He screamed and stumbled and instinctively called upon the Gift to heal and empower him. Only, it wasn’t there. Sancho, the man who they called ‘Alacrán’, loomed behind him, and a mighty slash, barely blocked, dropped the duque to his knees. “You will be reviled!” Huarcan roared. “Your other banners: what will they think that you murdered a duque?”
“They may not all love me,” Sancho replied, grim intensity giving way - for a moment - to sadistic pleasure, “but they hate you even more.” It was a quick combination and it slashed the would-be usurper across the shoulder and down the forearm of his sword hand. True fear filled him now. This was not real. It was inconceivable! That he would die this way! For one stupid mistake, at the hands of this… weakling! All that he had worked towards! All that he achieved and had yet planned to achieve! His children! Dear Augusto and precious Avril! He would never see them again. They would have no father. He was sorry! Truly, he was! “Please,” he begged. “Please, your majesty! I repent! I will join the Sages! I will live as a hermit.”
“You are a bad man and a worse liar, cousin.”
There was a flash of cold pain. Then, he was falling and the world was spinning. For a moment, Huarcan looked up and thought that he saw a headless body.
King Sancho, the Scorpion, strode through the doors of Villa San Miguel. His white clothes were stained in blood and his gloves soaked in it. He held a sword in one hand. In the other was the head of the would-be-king: Huarcan Frannemas. Half of the guards were his men. The rest were the now-deceased duque’s. “I claim, once more, my throne by right of conquista del guerrero,” he shouted into the blustery wind of the lakeside steppe. “This man tried to kill me. He tried to take my throne.” He tossed the head on the ground at the guard captain’s feet. “I have handled the challenge as a Torragonese should.” His men formed up around him. “Your traitorous lord is dead. I am here for you to challenge should you dispute my justice.”
The Frannemas men exchanged glances. The king waited. Then, one by one, they sank to one knee and bowed their heads. He gazed upon them from above. “Lay down your swords and depart in peace. I am a man of honour when I deal with honourable men. You are free to go.”
He had little enough time for them. Stalking up to Vencedor, he mounted the great warhorse. It would now be known that Sancho was no fool. He was under no illusion that there would be repercussions. He had not acted without a plan in place, however. “Scribe!” he shouted, tossing his bloody gloves on the ground and pulling on his riding gauntlets. “Scribe!” he repeated impatiently, as one hurried up. “You are to send a message to his majesty Prospero of Revidia and Segona.” The man fumbled with his quill and papers. “Tell him that he may act with full confidence. Whatever action he takes, Torragon stands ready.”
Action Opportunities
Welcome to our penultimate chapter! Here, you'll have the chance to play out your actions during the soon-to-be infamous Bloody Victendes. These may include:
- Any aberrations scooped up during the madness. - Any time or interdimensional travel. - Any boss fights participated in. - The Moli's Emporium side mission and its fallout. - The Death of Hugo storyline and its fallout. - Any interactions you may have had with figures of note.
Summaries are A-okay! I'm really looking forward to people's individual takes on the great many events of this chapter.
You will also be able to start moving the plot forward, as this chapter willt ake us all of the way up to the mini-timeskip that leads to the end of the semester and Nox Arcanum. Please feel free to post about the following:
- Group projects. - Classes taken. - Personal interactions and growth. - Hugo's funeral (info on this will be up Saturday evening. We may play it out on discord if peopel like). - The Secrets of the Tower (this will be run on discord as a thread over the course of the week). - The Revidian Sabotage side mission (this will take place just before the mini-skip and will be run on discord as above). - The Stolen Goods side mission (this will take place quite soon after the post and be run as above). - Whatever else you can think of! remember, most eggs aren't hatching yet!
It is true that, if the snake should bite too eagerly, he will be marked as an enemy. However, if he does not bite from time to time, at least, none shall know to fear him.
5 2 | I S H I I | D A I M Y O | 1 5 9 | T I M E R A C E R
A P P E A R A N C E ___ __ __ _ _ 外観
Kenshin is in his early fifties and looks it, though he remains exceptionally fit and capable in combat. With a full head of silver hair, he is clean-shaven and always well dressed, but never ostentatiously so. In general, his clothing and appearance follow his personal credo wherever possible: appear approachable but not overly so, be nonthreatening but exude a subtle strength. He is rarely without his prayer beads, though he is not exceptionally devout. They are a comfort item and a symbol of his devotion to the principles of Tosatsu Angism. In most regards, Kenshin does not stand out visually, Though he is somewhat above average height and his rather sharp nose seems almost intended to to be looked down from, there is a certain approachability to him that is well-honed and does not infringe upon the air of authority that he simultaneously exudes. If there are any scars from the battles of his storied youth, they are well-hidden below his clothing.
B A C K G R O U N D ___ __ __ _ _ 履歴
There are many stories about Ishii Kenshin, and the majority are true, though he does little or less to spread them. Born a second son, he inherited the domain upon the passing of his brother due to illness introduced by Eastern traders. This was in his thirty-sixth year. Before then, he served his family's interests and those of the sacred balance, growing increasingly disillusioned with the Sugawara but possessing the good sense not to say so openly. Here, I could regale you with twenty years of oni slain and others secretly befriended, bandit lords brought to heel, overambitious daimyo toppled, and grasping and exploitative merchants humbled. In those years, Kenshin truly lived. He lived and loved and slept under the stars. He is something of a retired hero, though his swords remain sharp. I shall not say more, for Kenshin would not - not unless it served his ends, and those are always difficult to discern. It is only known that they serve - always - the balance.
As one of the greatest lords in the land, how much of what you see of Kenshin is true and how much is a mask remains always a relevant question. Perhaps he has worn the mask for so long - these seventeen years - that it has become the only face that he knows. The man has secrets, but such is the respect that he commands that these are not asked after except by those young and curious and those who seek his ruin. A lover of seafood, he will only open up around the dinner table, though he is not especially fond of drink. He seems deeply in love with his wife Noriko, who is one of the few remaining holdovers from before his time as daimyo. Unorthodox at heart, he is nonetheless not one to rock the boat. He believes devoutly in the necessity of the divine balance and serves it with all but the smallest of reservations, instantly repressed when needed. Kenshin does not waste time in anything that he does. Be it the administrative work that is his as lord of a vast land, fulfilling his duties as a husband, father, and son (for his elderly mother yet lives), or the two hours of training that he undertakes each day, the Ishii daimyo does this to the utmost. Those who know him best may whisper that he does it to distract himself, for the same instinct that took him all across and even beyond Nikan in his youth still flickers and threatens to burn. If some great action is to arrive soon upon his shores, there is little question that he eagerly awaits it.
M O T I V A T I O N ___ __ __ _ _ 動機
Though his plans and actions are often complex, Kenshin is a simple creature at heart. First, he serves the balance firmly and devoutly if not with over-the-top zeal. Second, he serves the interests of the Ishii, for they serve the balance, always have, and always will. Thirdly, comes Noriko, his children, and his newly-born grandchildren. Finally, Kenshin places himself, and he knows that he is content. He craves nothing more. He tells himself so as he trains in his courtyard, marshals his men, and gazes up at the wide open sky on cold autumn nights.
T H A U M A T U R G Y ___ __ __ _ _ 魔法
It takes a great deal of self-control for the lord of the Ishii not to use his eager manas to race ahead in time at first instinct, but he has honed them well. Spare of movement and decisive when he acts, Kenshin favours chemical and kinetic techniques that enhance his abilities and dull those of his enemies. If he commits himself to battle, every blow has the potential to be decisive. Whether he uses it for that purpose is his sole prerogative. The daimyo is not unversed in spells of heat and light either, though has taken great pains to learn the arts of temporal and summoning magics. The former is used in conjunction with his unique natural abilities to strike before his opponents can even sense his attacks. The latter, he dares not delve deeply into unless the situation is truly dire.
Kenshin is well-read, well-trained, and schooled in the arts of statesmanship, thaumaturgy, and military tactics, as one might expect of a man of his stature. However, as a second son, perhaps he is not quite as well-prepared as he should be for the role that he has found himself in. To fill in these gaps, he can call upon nearly twenty years of experience as an agent of his father and lord, serving the needs of balance - often in unorthodox ways - across the land.
While he appears to be the very picture of contentment, those who know him well can't help but think that he would be happier in the role that he originally seemed destined for. A man of action and impulse chained to a court and duties, he plays his role well and even enjoys some aspects of it, but one has to wonder what it would take for him to bolt for the door should it be opened to him.
I N V E N T O R Y ___ __ __ _ _ 所有物
❖ Tosatsu Prayer Beads: he takes these everywhere. They were given to him by his wife when they met some thirty years ago. ❖ Swords: every man of the martial class must have these. Kenshin is no exception. ❖ The Black Book: nobody except for him knows what it contains, not even Noriko. ❖ Random: the other regular items one might expect of a lord of his station.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ___ __ __ _ _ その他
❖ Colour Code: 7B68EE (MediumSlateBlue) ❖ He once met Hugo Hunghorasz, quite by accident. They were close to the same age.
A G E | L O Y A L T Y | C A L L I N G | P O W E R | M A N A
A P P E A R A N C E ___ __ __ _ _ 外観
What does your character look like? How does he dress? How old is he? What are his defining features? Does he have any particularly noteworthy traits, birthmarks, possessions, or scars? If you'd like to include things like height, weight, hair, and eye colour, this is where you should do so.
B A C K G R O U N D ___ __ __ _ _ 履歴
Everybody has a story, or at least a background and a context that informs who they are. What is your character's home like? Who are her people? What has she learned, experienced, and accomplished so far in life? Where has she been and who has she met? Please try to keep this to a maximum of two or three solid paragraphs. The goal is to act as a primer: to provide a sketch that we can colour in later.
P E R S O N A L I T Y ___ __ __ _ _ 人格
❖ First ❖ Second ❖ Third ❖ Fourth ❖ Fifth
I know that your conception of your character can change as the story moves along or even as you write this application and get a feel for him. The purpose of this exercise is to try to focus him by distilling his personality down to five essential traits, followed by any brief additional description below the bullet points to summarize what he's like and how we can expect him to interact with others.
M O T I V A T I O N ___ __ __ _ _ 動機
What gets your character up every morning and, more particularly, why is she involved in this conflict? What does she hope to gain (or fear to lose) and what does she want out of life in general? What matters to her, and why?
T H A U M A T U R G Y ___ __ __ _ _ 魔法
Just what can your character do with magic? What makes him more than mundane? Please provide a clear description of his magical aptitudes, favoured schools of magic (if any), prior training, magical capacity, and any original spells that he may use. Remember to leave him room to grow. The goal here isn't necessarily to be the strongest; it's to create a compelling character.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S ___ __ __ _ _ 技量
❖ First ❖ Second ❖ Third ❖ Fourth ❖ Fifth
There's more to a character than casting spells! What other skills has she acquired outside of magical ones? What are some of her personal strengths? Please remember the early-modern (roughly late 1500s) Japanese-analogous setting of this RPG and try to make skills appropriate.
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S ___ __ __ _ _ 弱点
❖ First ❖ Second ❖ Third ❖ Fourth ❖ Fifth
Nobody's perfect. What are some things that your character just tends to struggle with? What are some personality traits of his that may cause problems for himself and others? Is there anything that most people might expect him to know that he doesn't?
I N V E N T O R Y ___ __ __ _ _ 所有物
What sort of personal items, tools, cash, jewellery, or weapons does your character usually carry, and what might we find stashed in her home? These should ideally be age, gender, and social-class appropriate, have some sort of use, and be evocative. If they don't have a clear purpose or at least tell us something about her, they shouldn't be included.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ___ __ __ _ _ その他
❖ Colour Code ❖ Random Fact or Trivia
Anything not covered above goes here. You can leave this blank if you like.
@dragonpiece Awesome CS. There are few small editing issues, so please give it a quick proofread. That aside, I really like this one and am excited to see the character in action. He has a lot of depth and nuance.
Normally, the auctions at Ersand’Enise were reserved for Victendes. However, this was The Trials, and it presented a special opportunity that proved exceedingly difficult for the city’s merchants to turn down. Hence, the regularly scheduled event was being held a day early. Flush with their newfound prizes from the games, students bid extravagantly, spending their money with the reckless abandon of youth. In this instance, many of the older guard - the auction house's more usual buyers and sellers - stood towards the back of the crowded open-sided hall as the sun began to set, arms crossed over their chest, observing and gossiping. There was an uneasy air about the place, despite the outwardly celebratory nature of the day, for they knew that the auctioneers and the bidders were not the only ones buying and selling.
The first day’s worth of negotiations proved a waste, as almost all had known they would be beforehand. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Perhaps that was just the way of these things. As fortunes were lost and won in the Mercantile District, the fortunes of entire nations remained uncertain as the last of the day’s light faded and the crickets and bullfrogs in the arboretum began their nighttime symphony.
It was deep into the hours of Dami that people continued moving about the city, and into those of Ipte as well. Most of these late night ventures were innocent enough: foreign youths enjoying their final night in the city of magic, rollicking and reveling before a bleary-eyed departure the following day. Some, however, were about with real purpose.
The monarchs in their guest homes had not missed the jabs and jibes directed at them during the day. The papers had been everywhere. Their reception as they’d made their way through the Workman’s Quarter had been less than raucous. Some had opted to travel incognito. Those most foreign among them went all-but unrecognized. It was in this part of the city, seething and impoverished by comparison with the rest of it, that the ideology of the Traveler held most sway. It was here that a small group of nondescript people had been meeting - just as fruitlessly as their more illustrious peers - for hours.
“I don’t see why the vote should have to be unanimous!” roared a large man, hammering the table as he stood. In truth, while they remained in the majority, he knew that his side was slipping. It had started, seven hours ago, with one dissenter. Now there were three among the ten, and at least a couple more wavering.
“This is the best damned chance we’re going to get in a lifetime!” added a woman in a red mask. “I, as I’m sure we all do, lament the loss of life, but what is one bitter pill now if it frees us of centuries of their depredations?”
Its tone was not raised, but it cut through the hot voices that had taken over the room. “And yet it is not you,” it reminded the man and the woman, “who will be swallowing that pill yourselves.” The black masked figure remained seated. It shook its head. “Us who lead the fight against the privileged few must be wary lest we become reflections of them.”
A yellow-masked man snorted, his smiling mask belying what appeared to be his true feelings on the matter. “Fine words, Nero, but they take us no closer to our ultimate goal: the revolution.”
“Hear hear!” shouted a couple of other voices. There was a ragged hammering of approval on the table.
At the very head of it there sat a silent figure, its mask gold. For the first time in quite a while, it released its stillness by tilting its head to one side. “It is an easy mistake to make,” that silent figure interjected, “and one that I fear is becoming all too common.” It rose. “Our goal is not the revolution. It has never been.”
“I-I merely meant… that-”
A gloved hand reached up and the gold-masked figure placed a finger to its lips. There was silence. “The revolution is a means to an end, one of many possible paths.”
The black-masked figure observed it and nodded slowly for its counterpart to continue.
“Our goal has always been - and remains - ensuring the best for all people. Now, answer me this, Smiler, does a war that will kill millions ensure the best for all people?”
“Does an endless cycle of poverty and exploitation?” interjected a gravelly voice. A lean figure in a silver mask rose to be heard. “Sacrifices must be made. It is the deaths of some now for the salvation of a great many in the future.”
They had become lessened in their restraint over these past hours. A group of normally very composed individuals reduced to mere politicians in that time. The black masked figure was finished watching. It, too, stood. “If this were strictly the case, Argento, then you would be correct and we would have no argument. It is not, however, the case. You and those who have taken your side are eager to view this as a binary issue. Either we have the war and it will inevitably allow us to stage our glorious revolution and, of course, that revolution will lead to a utopia. Else, we do not have the war and the revolution will not be possible. Without that revolution, there is no utopia.” Nero shook his head. “Do you see how limited that thinking is?”
“So you would gamble on some nebulous alternative?” challenged the red-masked woman.
“If we are to be truly egalitarian, we must show some faith in people’s ability to recognize opportunities on their own and act upon these, else we are a ruling cabal, little different, in spirit, from those already in place.” He clasped his hands at the small of his back. “We do not need a war in order for things to become unbearable. If we can save lives, it is morally incumbent upon us to do so. Even a single one sacrificed in the name of our cause against her will is one too many.”
Gold spread its arms. “Brothers and sisters,” it implored, “let us not lose hold of our ideals - the very things that ignite our cause and make it worthy - in a rush to be pragmatic. We are not warriors. We do not look to fight. We do so if we must.”
The tenor of the discussion had changed. Red had nodded grudgingly. Yellow threw himself back into his seat, crossed his arms, and snorted, signalling his surrender. “You are great-hearted, as always, Dorato, but you are wrong on this,” grated Argento. “I am not so foolish, however, as to be unable to recognize that I shall be outnumbered on this.” He bowed his head. “I yield with a warning: more will suffer because of this decision than otherwise.” He sat.
“And of our army?” inquired a new voice. “What of them?” It was a woman in a blue mask.
Gold and Black twisted at the very same moment to regard each other. “Why, it shall still be used,” allowed the latter. “There is no better way to put the fear into tyrants than empowering their people.” Gold nodded in agreement. “Perhaps we shall have our revolution after all.”
“Or perhaps the war shall be avoided through these very actions.” Nero leaned forward and pressed his hands onto the tabletop. “All rise for a vote.”
It was ten against accelerating the war to zero in favour.
The masked figures who met at the edge of the Workman’s Quarter were not the only ones attempting to prevent a war or, at least a hot war. In the Violet Enclave, lights burned into the darkness and plans were made for an announcement on the morrow. If any among the group that met here harboured misgivings, they did not dare speak out. If there was less hierarchy in this meeting, there was also less democracy. Besides, the stones had already been quarried. They had been carved and now lay hidden, as did the Traveler’s ‘army’, under canvas and tarpaulin in a series of warehouses. Contracts had been signed. People had been sent. It was far too late to turn back now, and so matters were decided with many long-winded speeches but minimal fuss.
So it was that the city of Ersand’Enise finally found sleep that night of Velles the eighth. As the final fires and lanterns were extinguished, eyes ancient and arcane appeared atop the great windy spire of the Forked Tower. And these eyes looked down upon the city and its tiny people below. They stood at varying degrees of consequence to the being who watched over them, from foxbat to mosquito. Soon, they would spill each other’s blood in a war greater than any that had been fought in history: a war that had been in planning for many decades. A vast toothy grin split the lower half of the watcher’s face, teeth sharp and white and gleaming in the moonlight.
The morning dawned cool and overcast, a brisk wind causing flags to strain at their posts and great grey rivers of anvil-shaped clouds to migrate across the sky, their bellies heavy with rain. They gathered by the thousands, then, in Market Square spilling into the various labyrinthine streets of the Mercantile and Artisans’ Districts. Claresse Upta, Zenith of Ersand’Enise, was giving a speech to close out the four-hundredth iteration of The Trials. It was actually rather a good one, but Sven Bjornsson could scarcely pay attention to it. It was late the night previous when Ingrid had approached him with a plan. The funds for the music box were due today and they did not have them. It would either mark the end of their ill-advised little rebellion, or else they would be forced to take irreversible action. It had been a red-eye discussion, into Ipte’s hours, but they had settled upon a plan. The two of them and Desmond were to accept the government’s funds and make their way towards the secure facility where the music box had been stored. That was their alibi. Meanwhile, their co-conspirators - like-minded students who had joined them in the Hourglass Order - were going to use a distraction that Benedetto had assured them would arrive as cover for a daring caper.
It was cowardly, dishonest, and underhanded, but it could work, and Sven found more honour in preventing a war’s worth of bloodshed than he did in abetting it anyhow. The others would rob them during the exchange, along with the item, as they patriotically attempted to defend it. All would make out with upwards of two thousand magus. He had wanted to take a stand, first, but the nail that stuck up at this point would only open itself to benign hammered down, and he had made the concession. The goal here was not to burnish his ego but to save lives: both human and animal lives. In, he breathed, and out. He’d said his goodbyes, already, to some of the foreign friends he’d made. They’d exchanged addresses and would write, or so they’d told each other. From his experience, such arrangements ran about a thirty percent success rate.
Then, the customary speech was finished, and he duly provided his best applause. Yet, there was more. All at once, a colossal surge of energy filled the air. From seemingly every direction rose massive stones. They floated overhead, gathering above one corner of the expansive plaza that had been cordoned off, and there they took shape. A yawning circular gate solidified itself in front of the twin pavilions, fifty feet tall and as many in width. Then, the sky crackled with energy as students and laymen gasped and shouted. Time and space trembled and then tore. An enormous swirling mass of energy occupied the center of the portal and - faintly, on the other side - there appeared figures. “Ladies and gentlemen, students and laymen alike,” announced the Zenith, “It is my honour and privilege as Zenith of this city and this institution to announce the opening of a permanent connection to Callanast: the Silk Portal!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, gasps, and a rising crescendo of raucous conversation. A permanent portal to Callanast!? Sven could scarce fathom such a thing. He glanced about at his peers, and they seemed already to be hotly discussing its merits and drawbacks. “On the other side, as one steps through, lies the Hegelan capital of Hogh Munkhelad, now revealed in all of its majesty for the rest of the world.” She spread her arms, regal and beatific. “Every Victendes, from sunup to sundown, this great gate shall remain open, courtesy of the talents of this institution. In the future, there shall be a fee, and four more cities added to our nascent network, for the other four days of the week.” She nodded and gazed out over the crowd. “For today, this portal is free to use: free and open!”
At that, they cheered. Sven wasn’t sure how to feel, and he was not the only one. The Zenith went on to explain that all neutral cities - those engaged in neither war nor aggression - would be eligible to bid for portal connections. The benefit to trade and exchange of ideas would be immense. It would be world-altering. His head swam. The opportunities! The dangers! In the end, he joined the cheers. Most everyone did. It was that momentum that carried them all of the way through the rest of the closing ceremony. The visiting teams left, a half-dozen lesser portals closed, and the Hegelans of Shortlisted stepped through with waves and smiles.
That was when the chaos began. A massive aberration materialized in the center of the crowd, and then a second immediately outside of the portal. One missed Niallus by inches, and another latched onto Marlijn and drew itself into her. They appeared by the dozens. They appeared by the hundreds...
Did people’s true colours finally come to light when they stepped into the Chamber of Greed, or was it afterwards, during Right or Spite?
Every single prize was claimed, even the hidden ones. At least a few of the youths were clever. The remainder were either strong or found themselves flattened as their fought tooth and nail over the chamber’s treasures. In the end, it was the teams of Zenos Fades-in-Moonlight and Zander Mozaru who came away with most of the treasures, greatly enriching themselves, but it was their counterparts in Sectoxomactex’s and Luria Colloy’s apprentice groups who contested first position, with the former winning out. Oh, how alliances were made and tested, friendships strengthened or ruined, and schemes put into play.
The result was a razor-thin finish between the top seven teams, all out of Ersand’Enise, and doing the academy proud by asserting its superiority over its lesser peers. The prize appeared to be the Heartstoppers, much to Sectoxomactex’s delight, for he had boldly predicted just such an outcome beforehand. Yet, here it was the trickery of one student - the powergazer Silas Reiger - that pulled off the greatest heist that The Trials had seen in a century. Spinning a web of promises, guilt, and incentives, he persuaded four separate teams to trade votes with his in their entirety, honouring precisely none of these agreements. In the end, Zeno Hamir Zemana’s group leapfrogged all of the others from a dubious sixth into first place. You should have seen how they scrambled over each other, stepped on their fellow students' dreams, and pushed aside their better natures in the name of profit. Perhaps, in some sense, they had never truly left the Chamber of Greed.
Please find the final standings for The Trials here. Please find the results of Chamber of Greed here. Please find the final results of our Prize Selection here.
Yet, there were other matters of great and - in truth - greater import afoot. Some arrived grandly, others simply, and a few even meekly, but the delegations and leaders of nations appeared in Ersand’Enise for the conclusion of The Trials. In truth, they stood on the city state’s neutral ground in the hope of averting (or perhaps igniting) a war.
The Sage and the Scoundrel_________ __ __ _ _
“Brother, I’m going to have to appear for the both of us, aren’t I?”
The Sage did not move. He continued to sit, cross-legged, meditating.
“Ah, so I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then.”
The Sage did not move. There remained no answer.
The Scoundrel decided to take drastic measures. With the speed of a striking serpent, he reached out to slap the top of his brother’s bald head. “Why do you insist on asking if you know the answer?” replied the Sage, catching the Scoundrel’s hand. The latter blinked. After a moment, he chuckled in soft amusement and shrugged, sitting down with an almost childlike ease beside his brother. “I dunno,” he admitted. “Call it a silly little thing like hope.” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe someday you won’t be a total bore.”
“Maybe someday, you will be wise.”
The Scoundrel burst out laughing.
President Atundo Yibozo_________ __ __ _ _
The heat of Yabusa was already stifling this time of year. The rainy season was coming to an end, but much of its humidity lingered, increasingly supplanted by the dry scorching heat rolling in from the sahel. President Yibozo was in his study, busily packing a luggage full of items he might need during his stay in Ersand’Enise while swatting halfheartedly at the flies that had come in through an opened window. He supposed it would be a brief stay and he was glad of it. The city of magicians hung like a sword on a string above the heads of nations, his most especially.
With little ceremony, he threw on his jacket - an unbearable garment in this heat, or even that of the southern city, but a necessary one. The kings and queens, relics that they were, had normalized a particular dress code. If he would not adhere to it, Atundo could not entirely flout it either. As with all things in this new democratic government, it was a matter of careful balance, and it was tiring. How the weevils had come out of the woodwork since his election! How they had offered him crowns of many sorts.
Deciding that he was finished, the President stepped outside, closing the door behind himself, luggage hanging from his wrist as he finished buttoning his overcoat. He took a deep breath, brushed himself off, and headed down the Long Hall, servants - civil or otherwise - nodding deferentially his way. He had never trusted portals, but he was to arrive by one, like a king would - only, Atundo Yibozo was no king.
Empress Namiri I of Belzagg_________ __ __ _ _
“I shall be wearing black.”
“But, your radiance, the official mourning period is at an end. Perhaps, if I may recommend, it might do to display the erm… full majesty of Belzagg through other choices?”
Namiri’s chin was held high, as she had been taught since childhood, and she turned with measured grace to glance her lady-in-waiting’s way. “I understand, Megola. Nonetheless, I shall be wearing black.”
The four ladies attending her glanced among themselves uneasily. “Some say it would not do for Belzagg to remain too long in mourning, your radiance. It may send the message that -”
Namiri whirled on the speaker. It was Lady Kali - that plaything of the Kikusi. “Who says, Lady Kali, or are you too craven to take ownership of your own thoughts?” The empress spun on the spot and how they backed away, bowing profusely and joining their hands before their foreheads in gestures of atonement. “Need We remind you what happened the last time that a monarch of Belzagg ventured south to the City of the Bells? Need We remind you how they stood aside and let Jobanzaggah, our noble father, be butchered like a common thief!” She hid the trembling of her lip. She drew away the moisture in her eyes and the desire within her to hold someone. An empress must not show weakness. She whirled again to face the mirror, chin held high, gaze dispassionate down the bridge of her nose. “No, We shall make them feel what they deserve to feel for their transgressions against us. They shall be made to remember.”
Ekra was the first to come forward. She bowed respectfully, hands knitted before her. “Then I shall dress your radiance in black.”
Namiri smiled. “Thank you -” my friend “Ekra, and we shall dress most provocatively, I think.”
One of the older ladies pointedly hid a scowl. Sometimes, it was amusing to purposely ignore their subtle gestures until they were forced to either concede or lay bare their intent but, in this case, the empress decided to indulge Lady Jesaan. “I am under no illusions, my valued coterie, so steel yourselves against them as well: I am young, I am a woman, and I have not yet sat the Ivory Throne for but a month.” She began to peel out of her dress and they rushed to help her. “They shall attempt to seat me at the children’s table. They shall attempt to seat Belzagg there, else they will look to fill my impressionable young mind with their self-serving notions.”
The garment slid off of her and she stood, nearly naked, before the mirror. “We shall not entertain these.” Imperiously, she held a hand out for the appropriate dress. Each of her ladies approached holding one. “No,” she dismissed one. “No, no, yes… no. Lady Ekra, step forward.” She plucked it from her childhood friend’s hands. “The rest of you may leave. Lady Ekra, you may remain and assist me. You have pleased me this day.” Bowing respectfully, they departed, and the two youths were left in each other’s company. “Your radiance, if I may be so bold…”
Namiri blinked. Sometimes it was still strange to hear Ekra speak this way. Sometimes, she mourned it. “Of course, my friend.” She could say ‘friend’, at least, without the others listening. Ekra smiled demurely, as was her way, but then her expression settled. “They do not deserve to gaze upon your radiance.” She shook her head tightly. “Those lecherous old men.” Namiri could see the muscles in her jaw clenching.
“I… appreciate your concern,” the empress indulged, “but that is precisely why I shall do it. If I am to be in mourning, it shall not be the meek mourning of a thing that hides beneath thick shrouds of darkness, but the accusation of a lioness.”
Ekra stopped herself from raising an eyebrow, and it was not a pointed action. Namiri cracked a slight grin. “Too much?”
“You speak ever so grandly these days, you know.”
“We are Belzagg.” The newly crowned empress shrugged. She smiled tightly. “And more than one mere girl, I fear.”
“Nami…”
Namiri shot her a warning look. “It is ‘Namiri’ now, when we are alone like this, or else ‘your radiance’.”
“Yes, your radiance.”
The empress shot her friend a small, appreciative smile - almost an apology, for she could no longer offer those - waiting for her to continue.
“I… accept that matters between us must be different now,” Ekra advised, “but you don’t have to do this alone. A forest stands stronger against the wind than a lone tree, even a great one.”
How they had embraced each other when the news of her father’s death had arrived. How Ekra had been there, soothing her: an absolute rock, calm and steady amid the tempest that had been those days of uncertainty. Namiri embraced her in spirit now. “Then I accept your offer, Lady Ekra, wholeheartedly.” She smiled. “Now, let us figure out how to turn some heads. I shall see where the eyes of these old men find themselves and just what I can learn of them as a result.”
Namiri was young, and not unattractive. They could both lust after her and learn to fear and respect her. The more potent the mix of emotions that she engendered, the less control they would have and, consequently, the more that she would. “A ruler holds the leashes of her friends and rivals alike. She holds the leashes of everyone as if they are beasts that might attack both her and each other. This is why one alone is not enough. It stops them from pulling in one direction, but does nothing against others.” Those had been her father’s words to her upon her fifteenth birthday. “When it is your turn to sit the Ivory Throne, you must remember this: hold many leashes over the strongest beasts, and then they will hold the others.”
It was early in the hours of Ishun and the cavernous expanse of the Radiant Hall was thick with incense and the sounds of tambourines, flutes, and drums. Various courtiers, nobles, and servants stood about in their hastily-dressed finest, busy rubbing sleep from their eyes and conversing in whispers and murmurs. Then, there was a clank, and the colossal doors at one end of the great chamber opened. “Namiri, first of her name,” thundered the crier, “Queen of the Zangyewo, Warden of the Ivory Throne, Mistress of Sedge and Bee, and Empress regnant of Belzagg!” They blinked and covered their eyes as she emerged from the rising sun, a growing spot of utter contrast amid the brilliant rays.
The young ruler wore a loose black dress with golden clasps, accents, and collar. Slit high up on each thigh, it deferred to her in every movement, gathered about her waist, and bared the entirety of her back. Namiri did not so much walk as she glided, head held high, hair carefully braided into a great circular halo that framed her young and noble face. She paused before the raised dais where the Ivory Throne lay and turned to face her court. “We shall not be seated today,” she announced. “My trusted advisor, Kejammah of Ikon, shall act in our stead. Let none doubt his authority.”
They bowed and raised their hands to their foreheads in acceptance of her decree. She lifted her right hand and the third and fourth fingers on it and they rose. Behind her came a surge of Temporal energy. From the courtiers emerged twenty escorts, chosen for their power with the Gift and their loyalty. The empress turned and now stood before the swirling nothingness of a portal. The escorts preceded her and Namiri followed, five more bringing up the rear behind her. Then, she stood beneath a large gazebo. A great green lawn stretched about the empress and her retinue and, beyond it, the school she had so desperately wanted to attend before circumstance had decreed otherwise.
Rouis XI_________ __ __ _ _
“Oh no,” proclaimed the king, “I shall not be attending their little desperation meeting. I am Perrence and Perrence does not stoop. Let them scramble.” He grinned smugly, skewering a slice of his eggplant with the tip of his knife and shoving it into his mouth.
“But… father, you shall be in the city,” protested one of his sons - one of the lesser ones. Rouis had half a mind to correct him - it’s ‘your majesty’ - but he did not. Sometimes, one needed to indulge even his less preferred children. “I shall be in the city, Charles,” replied the king, swallowing, “in an unofficial capacity. None shall know of my presence but those who need to. I shall send Arcel in my stead. It is known as a calculated insult.” He gestured with his knife. “You’d do well to learn.”
The boy stood and bowed tightly at the waist. “I shall endeavour to do so.” This one was not made of kingly stuff and, unlike his father, was unlikely to learn it. Rouis at the same age would’ve challenged his father or grandfather immediately as to the reasons for such a slight and as to the nature of their business. A king does not ask, he demands and - if he is any true king whatsoever - his demands are met. “Good man,” the elder Perrenchman replied, “now begone and let me eat my meal in peace.”
“As you wish, your majesty.” How submissive they all were. How it tore him up inside.
Sancho de Torragòn_________ __ __ _ _
A king paced before his guardsmen, hands clasped at the small of his back, the plumes on his wide-brimmed hat fluttering in the stiff breeze of Torragòn. “We do not come as conquerors this time, but a show of force is still required, to remind them who we are.” He paused, pivoting crisply on his heel and starting back the way he had come. He looked up to address the four hundred. “I do not trust our enemies to play with honour. I trust some of our allies even less, but we must appear to trust them, so we enter through the front gate but have a plan to leave through the rear on a moment’s notice. If they wish to fight, then they will fight, but Torragòn will make its own terms.”
King Sancho’s personal guard, standing beside their horses, saluted. Their monarch nodded. He made the Sign of the Pentad and they followed. “Now,” he announced, coming to a stop beside Vencedor, his great black warhorse, “that is all I have to say, so we go!” In a single, smooth motion, he swung himself into the saddle, hitched up his gloves, and took the reins. “¡Adelante, a la boca del dragón!”
Prospero Malatesta_________ __ __ _ _
A king stepped onto the dock. He did not call himself a king, though he was, and he did not arrive by portal, though he could have. Perhaps it was a way to remind people how very close to Ersand’Enise Revidia and its capital were. Perhaps it was to demonstrate that he was not some distant monarch, but merely a man, same as any other. Regardless of its intent, it was most certainly planned. Everything was planned with Prospero Malatesta.
What was not, however, were the signs and papers plastered about Mudville and the port: pinned to wooden posts, walls, and noticeboards, they pegged him for a war criminal, a greedy and grasping robber baron, and a lying despot. His guard attempted to take the offending pamphlets down in his presence, but the doge forestalled these efforts. Calmly, he walked up to one, plucked it from its place, and examined it, letting out an amused snort. He folded it and stuffed it into a pocket. “It appears they’ve debunked me, Rodrigo.” He smiled tightly and was on his way. Out, beyond the harbour, where gulls bleated and wheeled under the morning sun, anchored two dozen ships of the Illustre Marina della Confederazione di Revidia.
Few ever lay eyes upon it. None call it home. For as long as men can remember, it has been an eerie and unnatural place. Its silent shores emerge from the fog, littered with the timbers of shipwrecks and failed settlements, a cold wall of pines standing stoic sentry. Why, then, are you foolish enough to try? Is it because you know that the empire is collapsing, or is it because you've never truly liked or trusted your human neighbours? Ever have they outnumbered the yasoi. Ever do they seek to claim land as their own. Grasping is what they are. Yet, are you not doing as they do? Do you not seek advantage for yourself and your kin, or is it something else that drives you? Something darker? Is it desperation? Or have you come for Tarlon's secret?
You fool. This place will break you as it has broken all others.
It was eight minutes and forty seconds of chaos - in truth, one hour eight minutes and forty seconds - for the preparatory period beforehand saw more than its share of skullduggery, sabotage, and hurried or even preparation. By a myriad of means, one thousand two hundred eighty youths from the world over ascended into the air.
In practice, this meant kinetic, magnetic, or even chemical magic for most. Skyborn abilities were in great demand. For many, it meant climbing countless flights of steps, launching themselves into the air, or hitching some sort of ride. Some had dragons or other beasts of the air, but most did not. A handful bought or rented hot air balloons. The Travendours of Perrence made a small fortune that day. Then, there were the contraptions: magically or mechanically powered, they fluttered, flopped, strained, and sometimes even rose into the sky, rarely majestic but always entertaining.
The problem was that they sure made nice targets. Dozens were the youths who fell, screaming, from the sky, saved either by their own magic or that of the many Zenos on patrol. It was more than one who grumbled and griped about the thankless and demeaning job, but such was the unquestioned strength of this tradition that they dared not voice their open objection.
When the bells began to chime and half a minute remained, what a show it became! How they flung themselves into the air! How they battled, swooped, and flew! Balloons went down in flames, frontrunners crashed and burned, desperate last-second gambits either came to sudden fruition or - more commonly - backfired. The great aerial faire came to a conclusion as the powerful Temporal Magics of the most eminent masters held time still long enough for the various teams’ heights to be measured and recorded.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. They gathered in the Grand Plaza before Balthazar Hall as wooden panels flipped and fluttered in the grasp of kinetic magics and the leaderboard came to reflect the results of the recent event. While there were some new faces who had ascended and some dominant forces who had fallen, the majority of the upper echelons remained the same. The handful of teams - mostly of the Academy itself - who had dominated from the outset continued to do so, though the race had tightened to a scintillating degree heading into the final event: Chamber of Greed.
Thin Air Standings
Colloy: 1600
Solstice: 1368
Luna: 1330
Secto: 1290
Afraval: 910
Zemana 909 (920)
Mozaru: 850
Misadventures
With that, they found themselves dismissed. It was not quite yet noon and much of the day remained. For all teams ranked below twenty-fifth, the scramble to gain enough signatures to join in the final event commenced, for the Chamber was open only to the top twenty-five and the same number more of those who gathered enough support to join them. The rest… dispersed. They dispersed to their various interests, pursuits, errands, and socializations. Many got up to mischief and some found themselves genuinely in hot water, for the City of Magic was very much a powder keg by this juncture, its leadership desperately trying to keep the lid on matters until the festivities concluded.
There were misadventures in Mudville, trips into Perrence, and the rumblings of an unadvised youth rebellion during the night that did go according to plan. Perhaps the greatest mystery was just what took place on the Ensollian island of Djamant, for a half-dozen students of some of the competition’s most dominant teams found themselves there by means of Temporal magic and then in a fight for their lives against forces unknown. The mystery only deepened with the disappearance of the team fielded by the Holy See of Varennes: Covenant, and the intrigue sharpened as news spread of the coming arrival of multiple heads of state.
Greed
The day dawned with the rumble of thunder and a steady downpour: an early summer storm of the subtropics as if to mourn the end of the Games and the approach of war. Yet, it did not dissuade the teams who had been gathering signatures for the past twenty-three hours. After a final scramble, twenty-six of them (for one qualified automatically due to the mysterious withdrawal of Covenant) joined the automatic qualifiers and the stage was set.
It was 5:00 HS when the first of the contesting groups stepped through a swirling violet portal to find themselves in a vast anteroom. White marble floors and pillars held up a ceiling of the same colour that seemed almost to glow, so clean and bright was it. As soon as the last of them arrived, a new portal opened before them and numbers appeared, ethereal and hovering in the air, counting down from ten, nine, eight…
The Chamber of Greed opened and the scramble was on. While some gave into their more selfish impulses immediately, the majority held back in the hopes of making it to the final round: legendary for the rarity and quality of its hidden prizes. In the end, precisely ten qualified: The Gunboat Diplomats and Blaze of Glory from the Group of Ipte, Snaked and Afraid and Vyshta's Favoured from the Group of Shune, SYCAMORE and Good Guy Team from the Group of Oraff, You Could Never and Lucky Seven from the Group of Eshiran, and Heartstoppers and team VOID from the Group of Dami. Some learned the trick of breathing within the treacherous chamber. Others remained in the dark.
Regardless of what they had or hadnt' learned, after a brief and late lunch, the ten remaining teams gathered once more in the White Hall. The numbers appeared. The players took their positions, each trusting or distrusting their teammates as they would. Then, the timer reached zero and the final game of the Trials began!
Rules and Resources
Welcome to the final cycle of The Trials. Though each team will participate in two matches IC, we will only be playing through the final one. This will be played out the same way that we did The Dragon, with strategies of up to 300 words being submitted to me, on this forum, by Direct Message (DM). Each active player will need to submit one. This must include which spot that player is going in (from first to fifth), a priority list of which chests or treasures they will be going for, and your responses to any trivia that you will need to answer to open those chests. The responses will not count towards your word limit. This DM will be due by Monday, December 26, at 10:00 PM EST. Please read the hider below thoroughly. If you have read it and still have questions, feel free to ask myself or a moderator for assistance.
Resources
All information on the game itself is available in this document.
A detailed, high-resolution map for this event can be found here.
Though there are no allies in this event, profiles of all guest teams are located in this document.
The leaderboard may be accessed through this page.
The follow-up to this event, Right or Spite, will take place during the week after, once results are released.
Event five, Chamber of Greed, starts now. Good luck!
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?<br><br>Stay awesome, people.</div>
Fallenreaper
Emeth
BlackRoseSiren
Ti
Not a Sayan
Echotech71
FourtyTwo
