Kinner of The High Chruch of Krenta Interacting with: Ehkota of the Royal Family of Drakka @Ellion
Železna Kri was barely three days walk from Jerun, but it always surprised Kagan how stark a contrast there was between the two cities. Železna Kri roared with life, men and women (and Gems, if one were to consider those people) hurriedly pushing past one another with only muffled obscenities and the occasional clacking of horns to signal they were even aware of the horde that surrounded them. The air of the city seem to weigh on everyone, heavy and wet with the stench of sweat, blood from battles long forgotten, and...sexual musk. Though Kagan would wager that last one was a more recent addition, and an unwelcome one if his nose had anything to say on the matter.
Jerun, meanwhile, was barely a whisper by comparison. It was by no means small, its proximity to the capital had assured its impressive growth, but it was less densely contained. A hide away of the middling classes, who could afford the greater luxury of privacy he supposed. A cramped apartment style home, as seemed common here, would seem almost quaint among the sea of gothic stone spires in Jerun. Conversely, gardens (however small), seemed to be exclusive to the wealthiest among the city and Kagan found himself longing to see even the smallest hit of green, if only to break up the miasma of brown rock that was this town.
There were only two things that could ever make Kagan consider living in Železna Kri permanently. First and formost as the local temple to Krenta, a tall white spire of alabaster graffiti-ed with reliefs to the death god and his followers. And, more importantly, a maze of tombs and catacombs holding the remains of some of the greatest men in Drakka's history below.
Second was the food. Jerun was a Drakken city, through and through. Its meals simple, filling, and with little else behind them. But in Železna Kri food from the Gemminite's flowed more freely than its women. Rich vegetable broths, flavorful greens and spice meats were just a few things Kagan justly held in far higher regard than the women who would cook them. Tea, in particular, had struck a harmonious cord with him. Most Drakken wouldn't piss in a kettle for the stuff, it either being too sweet or subtle for their palates. But for Kagan, it was a guilty pleasure, and he made it a point to stock up on his rare ventures into the town.
And so he sat in a small cafe, mercifully freed from the foot traffic and pack now heavy with freshly bought herbs. He sips his drink enjoying the soft lemon like flavor (not that he had much context of what a lemon was meant to taste like), patiently waiting on his meeting. He attempted not to dwell on why a Prince of all people needed to met him, but the idea of losing his tithe to a technicality was worrying.
Kagan complains via medium of narration about Železna Kri and its few benefits, namely food and a lovely temple. He sits in a small cafe avoided by Drakken whilst waiting for Prince Ehkota so they may have a meeting about the tithe owed to him.
Kagan Galegar Race: Drakken Age: 145 Element(s): Air and Water Height: 7’8
Bio: Kagan was raised in the monastery Krenta’s Crest, deep in the heart of the Salshee salt flat near the center Drakka. A massive structure of hewn stone and sunbleached glass, jutting defiantely through the salt and scrapping the sky high above, it is considered a marvel for Drakken of a religious nature, though few have braved journey for purpose of pilgrimage. No, Krenta’s Crest is where young Drakken boy of brighter minds go to be carved into the noble servants of the death god.
Kagan speaks rarely of the 50 years he spent as a neophyte, in part because it bores him to tears. But on the occasions he does, he opts to be deeply sardonic, indulging in extravagant aesopic tales of torture and theological meditation. Days spent chained to a stone, screaming the writings of Hiolic the sage as the sun burned lay lines of pain across him. In reality, the worst he can remember was being forced to recite scripture while a saw was dragged across his horns should he slow or quote a passage incorrectly, feeling the reverberations deep in the quick of his horn and skull.
While it is an endless joy to horrify young secular Drakken (and Gems of all ages) with horror stories of self-flagellation, Kagan would be the first to admit that his upbringing was almost...painfully tranquil. Neophyte's more likely to self-flagellate for want of something to do beyond learning yet another one of several dozen funerary rites they were expected to know.
At 112 Kagan was deemed theologically competent enough to granted the rank of acolyte and, by extension, the right to leave Krenta's Crest and go wherever he wish in Drakka. After a year of homelessness, he managed to become an apprentice Kinner in the city of Jerun, a small satellite city of the capitol.
When a child of the Drakken is found to be unfit for survival or a Drakken becomes feeble of mind or body due to age or illness, a Kinner may be asked to kill them in ritual combat in exchange in steep tithes to the church. If the target dies at the hands of the Kinner the victim is buried with the full honor as a member of the Drakken, regardless of what sort of shame they brought upon themselves in life. If the target lives, the Kinner is left for the birds to consume, shamed beyond the point of deserving even the most basic funerary rights and the tithe returned.
Of course, with the Drakken being a waring peoples, the position required he learn to fight, at least on the level of most common warriors. Kagan took the training well, the nuances of a blade coming far more naturally to the young man than theology ever had. And, if nothing else, there was an indescribable joy to be found in the eyes of a man or child as they fell into Krenta's embrace.
His apprenticeship came to a sudden end with the arrival of local warlord, Krisov Harin, an elderly Drakken pushing far into his 650th year. The man was a prodigious warrior, having killed Warlord Kalix during the Fourth War of Succession and claiming his position as warlord some 300 years prior. However, shortly after the war, his mind began to slip slowly into dementia, and the once fine example of Drakken kind was little than a quietly ignored (often confused) voice in the court. And while his mind had dulled, the mans fighting edge was a sharp as ever, a considerable pain for his sons who were eagerly awaiting end to claim his estate for themselves. To that end, they promised a tithe of a gem bride in the coming to Kagan and his master, should they succeed in ending Krisov with the dignity they felt he deserved.
Krisov, for his part, ardently objected to the ceremony. Or, at least, thats what Kagan guessed as he watched his master be decapitated with a swiftness that seemed almost unnatural coming from such an elderly source. Kagan almost doubted the state of the mans mind, for he'd never seen a Drakken who commanded death with such fluid ease.
He remembers feeling his knees quiver beneath him, over joyed that (despite the forth coming shame) he would be killed...no. SLUAGHTERED by such a heavenly example of his own kind. He eased forward, blade almost shaking and his mouth twisted into a manic smile before Krisov eased as his mind once again betrayed him, asking the young priest where he was.
Kagan could only feel cheated as he drove the blade into the elders throat, who stood staring with honest confusion as to what was going on while his life dripped slowly onto the floor. They stayed that was for a few moments, Kagan's aborted high evaporating into the aether as Krisov breathed his last. He was tempted to leave the bastard to the birds, the fury of being robbed of such a challenge burning in his chest like nothing before. He swallowed bitterly as the sons of Harin pushed a letter into his hands. The Choosing was in but a few days, and he'd have to be quick if he was to collect his tithe. Adult content preference: Move to PM.
Kagan Galegar Race: Drakken Age: 145 Element(s): Air and Water Height: 7’8
Bio: Kagan was raised in the monastery Krenta’s Crest, deep in the heart of the Salshee salt flat near the center Drakka. A massive structure of hewn stone and sunbleached glass, jutting defiantely through the salt and scrapping the sky high above, it is considered a marvel for Drakken of a religious nature, though few have braved journey for purpose of pilgrimage. No, Krenta’s Crest is where young Drakken boy of brighter minds go to be carved into the noble servants of the death god.
Kagan speaks rarely of the 50 years he spent as a neophyte, in part because it bores him to tears. But on the occasions he does, he opts to be deeply sardonic, indulging in extravagant aesopic tales of torture and theological meditation. Days spent chained to a stone, screaming the writings of Hiolic the sage as the sun burned lay lines of pain across him. In reality, the worst he can remember was being forced to recite scripture while a saw was dragged across his horns should he slow or quote a passage incorrectly, feeling the reverberations deep in the quick of his horn and skull.
While it is an endless joy to horrify young secular Drakken (and Gems of all ages) with horror stories of self-flagellation, Kagan would be the first to admit that his upbringing was almost...painfully tranquil. Neophyte's more likely to self-flagellate for want of something to do beyond learning yet another one of several dozen funerary rites they were expected to know.
At 112 Kagan was deemed theologically competent enough to granted the rank of acolyte and, by extension, the right to leave Krenta's Crest and go wherever he wish in Drakka. After a year of homelessness, he managed to become an apprentice Kinner in the city of Jerun, a small satellite city of the capitol.
When a child of the Drakken is found to be unfit for survival or a Drakken becomes feeble of mind or body due to age or illness, a Kinner may be asked to kill them in ritual combat in exchange in steep tithes to the church. If the target dies at the hands of the Kinner the victim is buried with the full honor as a member of the Drakken, regardless of what sort of shame they brought upon themselves in life. If the target lives, the Kinner is left for the birds to consume, shamed beyond the point of deserving even the most basic funerary rights and the tithe returned.
Of course, with the Drakken being a waring peoples, the position required he learn to fight, at least on the level of most common warriors. Kagan took the training well, the nuances of a blade coming far more naturally to the young man than theology ever had. And, if nothing else, there was an indescribable joy to be found in the eyes of a man or child as they fell into Krenta's embrace.
His apprenticeship came to a sudden end with the arrival of local warlord, Krisov Harin, an elderly Drakken pushing far into his 650th year. The man was a prodigious warrior, having killed Warlord Kalix during the Fourth War of Succession and claiming his position as warlord some 400 years prior. However, shortly after the war, his mind began to slip slowly into dementia, and the once fine example of Drakken kind was little than a quietly ignored (often confused) voice in the court. And while his mind had dulled, the mans fighting edge was a sharp as ever, a considerable pain for his sons who were eagerly awaiting end to claim his estate for themselves. To that end, they promised a tithe of a gem bride in the coming to Kagan and his master, should they succeed in ending Krisov with the dignity they felt he deserved.
Krisov, for his part, ardently objected to the ceremony. Or, at least, thats what Kagan guessed as he watched his master be decapitated with a swiftness that seemed almost unnatural coming from such an elderly source. Kagan almost doubted the state of the mans mind, for he'd never seen a Drakken who commanded death with such fluid ease.
He remembers feeling his knees quiver beneath him, over joyed that (despite the forth coming shame) he would be killed...no. SLUAGHTERED by such a heavenly example of his own kind. He eased forward, blade almost shaking and his mouth twisted into a manic smile before Krisov eased as his mind once again betrayed him, asking the young priest where he was.
Kagan could only feel cheated as he drove the blade into the elders throat, who stood staring with honest confusion as to what was going on while his life dripped slowly onto the floor. They stayed that was for a few moments, Kagan's aborted high evaporating into the aether as Krisov breathed his last. He was tempted to leave the bastard to the birds, the fury of being robbed of such a challenge burning in his chest like nothing before. He swallowed bitterly as the sons of Harin pushed a letter into his hands. The Choosing was in but a few days, and he'd have to be quick if he was to collect his tithe. Adult content preference: Move to PM.
It seems that the idea of a priest is a popular one. Hopefully we get more gems so we can engage in MANLY THEOLOGICAL DEBATE like true warriors.
Mori doesn't allow his surprise at Yvette working on her own to show beyond raising an eyebrow. ”I have the balls to imply it because I'm normally right." He starts slowly, taking a moment to enjoy the seething anger in the girls eyes. He could probably get her to snap if he kept pressing, and part of him wanted to. He'd heard rumors that Yvette could be brought to a literal frothing rage if one tried hard enough. However, Yvette was nothing if not unpredictable on her own, and he couldn't rightly risk collateral damage, no matter how amusing it would be.
He weighs his options for a moment, before continuing. ”Provided you're telling the truth, I..." He pauses, inching his face a little closer, eyes falling awkwardly between a heated glare and faux teenage bliss. ”Might be so inclined to let you play your game. But no injuries Yvette. Period." He adds, his tone uncharacteristically cold and devoid of his normally chipper trillings. It was not a tone he liked to use, it was an ugly clacking noise that grated on the ears. Something that a decidedly perfect young man like him should ever dish out casually.
And as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The warmth flooded back into his eyes as a more genuine smirk retook its place. ”In exchange, the moment we leave the cafeteria you shall be officially a fuck free zone"He chirps, before mumbling something quietly about that not being anything new. ”That said, I hope you have an exit strategy for this little silence spell of yours." He adds, bumping his nose gently against her. A prodding reminder of how this little meeting probably seems to onlookers. ”I believe you may have fucked yourself on this one Tiger." He adds, glad he was getting a parting shot in, and one so graciously gifted to him.
Bawen felt his eyes quiver with a sudden flash of pain, a small pitious groan escaping him for a second. His head felt like murder, and he doubted he looked much better. It was strange, a moment ago he felt exhausted, but otherwise fine. Perhaps not eating since he left home was starting to affect him? He lifts his head from the table, resigning himself to get some food before looking to his immediate left, catching sight of Mark. ”Ah...” He grunts wordlessly, now keenly aware of what had spiked his agitation.
”Though...” He thinks, brow furrowing as his glare intensifies, ”The half-breed has at least learned how to shut his noise hole in the last twenty four hours.” He watches as a human girl hands the dog-boy a note pad, glare easing slightly as he realizes frenzied thrashings that followed resulted in barely passable text. ”Ye Gods...its literate.” he says quietly, actually shocked the chimera had the capacity. That his penmanship was better than Bawen’s was a revelation that went purposefully unaired.
He debated for a moment of stopping the exchange, but decided against it, unable to summon forth the energy. He couldn’t really read the notepad from his angle, and judging by the humans reaction, whatever impropriety Mark had spewed forth was more baffling than offensive.
Instead he turns to Magnhild, the only familiar face he was willing (or permitted, as was the case with Rikka) to speak with. ”It’s Voll right?” He asks, tone bored and flat as always. ”Marnahilde Voll? If I remember correctly, you took your practical examination after me. How did you fare? I’d have watched but I...was not in a position to do so at the time.”
Mori
Mori chuckles cooly as he feels Yvette’s claws dig into his arm, but does little else to stop her. He leans in a little closer, resting his chin right on the girls shoulder as he glaces about the room, his faux wings holding in a surprising amount of warmth as they cocoon both him and Yvette. They were getting more than a few stares, a mix of freshmen,unsure of how to respond the the frankly absurd display of PDA and implied sexual rompings of their upperclassmen, and a few older students. If he had to hazard a guess, he would wager that both his and Yvette’s looks had won them a few would be suitors, and now collectively they were expressing their disapproval to their opposite. That, or they were simply glaring at Yvette due to her being Ivy’s pet lap dog...er. Cat.
”Oh my Tiger..” he whispers softly into Yvette’s ear, voice tinged with venom despite the tenderness of the act. ”If It were not for you tearing a hole in my arm, I would have been convinced you were telling the truth. So what does Ivy have you doing this for?” He asks, huffing his words just enough to make them hot on the girls ear. He doubted he’d have such a rare opportunity to agitate Yvette like this again, so he should milk it for what he can. He leans in, planting a small kiss right behind the chimera’s ear, a rough clicking chuckle escaping his throat. ”The three of you aren’t really know for your aultruism after all.” He continues, the clicking chuckle still in his voice. ”And considering I’m the one who would have to patch them up, I think you could tell me that much...If not, I’m sure Elsa would be more than willing to talk to me..”
Mori watched Yvette from across the cafeteria, smirking to himself as she regaled the younger students with tales of the ‘haunted’ abandoned building. He had to admit, he was impressed. She was betraying nothing of her cold little black kitty heart with her words. Frost must have had something especially nasty planned to get her little sycophantic kitty to play the caring upperclassmen so well.
He rubs his chin for a moment, antenna twitching idly as he wonders if he should intervene. The trio were terrors when you knew what they were capable of, most of their victims either dropping out to escape or...worse. The moth boy had lost more than a few projects to their bullying, either from the relentless pursuit of Yvette scaring his work in progress away or a well timed (often singular) word from Frost undoing months improvement.
He sighs, standing up and walking over to the cat chimera, boot heels clicking loudly behind him as he made his way through the crowd. ”Now now…”, he chirps softly approaching Yvette from behind, his voice carrying surprisingly far in the silence of the lunch room. ”There’s no need to be selfish Yvette darling.” He says, draping his arms loosely over her shoulders as he leans over the cat chimera. He smiles warmly at the younger students.
”The only thing ‘haunting’ that building at night are the couples who sneak in their for a little...privacy.” He says, leaning forward and bringing Yvette into a lazy hug. ”Atleast...that’s what we used it for anyway…I don't see why you need to scare the freshmeat off. It's not like it belongs to us afterall. ” he adds, smirking down at Yvette. Silently, he wished he had bothered to learn any emphatic magic, as he's doubtlessly missing quiet the mental tantrum going on in the depths of her mind.
Bawen
Bawen sat at the edge of the crowd, hardly paying attention to...much anything really. It had taken several minutes before he managed to wake up, back aching from being left on the cold exam room floor. It had taken longer to drag himself back to the cafeteria and into a chair, silently cursing all the way. It had not gone as it should have, and he found himself increasingly worried over his performance at the end. He tried to busy himself with people watching, eyes bouncing from person to person for a few minutes (skipping over Mark several times) before settling on Magnhild.
She seemed to be the only one present from his exam group, and was hurriedly exchanging notes with a human, though why the poor girl was being forced to 'talk' to one of their kind he couldn't guess. The normal agitation he would have felt at their mere proximity, however, was currently being drowned out by the urge to lie down on this table and sleep until the abyss of non-existence swallowed him whole. And while he could hear someone say something about an abandoned building, he couldn't bring himself to pay it any mind. As far as Bawen was concerned, at the moment, there was no earthly force that could grab his attention until he got a much needed nap.
Mori is the picture of elegance and grace. Standing 7 foot tall 7 inches, with a lanky frame more befitting a dancer than a solider or the tottering limpness associated with stereotypical mages. His skin is a soft milky white, with semi-hard plates just below. He has no wings, sadly, but often fashions fanciful facsimiles to his outfits. While he does have a nose, it is largely vestigial, leaving his feathery antennae as his primary method of smelling. They are highly developed and sensitive (flitting about seeming of their own volition). More importantly however, they frame his face perfectly.
Age: 18
Species: 2nd generation Silk Moth Chimera
Gender:Male
Occupation: 2nd year student.
Personality: Mori is vain to a fault. He really can’t help it, when you’re a figure of immaculate beauty such as he, your ego naturally bloats. If only a little. He strives to be warm and friendly to everyone, regardless of circumstance, as he considers it only fair not to play favorites with his world wide audience.
However, if there is one thing he love more than himself, it is watching the beauty of others blossom. As such, he often engages in ‘makeovers’ with those who are odds with themselves, either in a literal sense or encouraging them. While at times he might wish to, he will never force a change anyone, as he feels thing must be unique for them to be beautiful. If he at any point feels he is having a corrosive effect on someone else's quest to become beautiful (whatever that may mean to them), he will not hesitate to abandon them and never look back.
Magic Type Preference: Healing and Biological magic.
Innate Magic Talent: Red Thread: Mori is able to boost his silk production to absolutely absurd levels by using magic to manipulate the glands in his wrists, able to liberally coat a small room in a matter of seconds. The silks properties do not change beyond changing color to red, but considering its natural tensile strength is comparable to steel, can make it a very effective way to bind people.
Interests: Designing his own clothes, himself, giving makeovers, meddling, HIMSELF, fire based magic (sooo pretty). Did he mention himself yet?
Skills: Skilled field surgeon, keen eye for detail, skilled speaker and natural charisma that could win over even the most hardened of Airelosians. Highly sensitive sense of smell.
Biography: Bombizix is a name often associated with the finest textile conglomerate that has made its home Swazivan, a boarder region of the Empire near Flynenhael. Currently lead by Shini Bombizix, a Moth Monstress as shrewd in business as she is large. A position she is likely to be the last to hold, if a male moth is not found soon for the purposes of siring heirs capable of the neigh industrial scale of silk production they enable. In their prime, the clan was home to no less than eight full Moth mothers, though this number has since dwindled to a mere three. His mother, Bella, was one of fifty eight children of Shini and a human man who caught her many eyes, all incapable of producing even the slightest amount of silk. While disappointing, the small brood(compared to normal unions of human and moth monsters atleast) was still quiet dear to the clan and they were soon spoiled to near rotten levels. During their younger years, through a combination of boredom and immense wealth, they often played hosts to lavish parties (their ‘legend’ even being known at the core of the empire for a time).
Bella and her sisters soon met their future husbands (and wife, in one case), when the local emperial peacekeeping force, known as the Swazivan Salamanders(named for their famous love affair with all things combustible), were forced to shut down a particularly ruckus party, an event which took the better part of four days to bring to a full stop. The Salamander Captain, Porious D. Ragnul, became adamant Shini reign in her children, to which she reluctantly agreed. Bella and her siblings were displeased to be placed under house arrest, but had little choice with the threat of being cut off from the family wealth hanging over their heads made worse that it would be under the supervision of The Salamanders.
The union proved to be mutual beneficial in the end however. The Bombizix girls mellowed considerably and eventually warmed up to their ‘wardens’, now more focused more on the family business as seamstresses, saleswomen, accountants and other disciplines. The Salamanders, for their part, changed little beyond becoming one of the few regiments in the Empire whose officers were draped exclusively in luxury silks and later, the arms of tall moth women.
Mori’s father was one such officer, Ignus Ragnul, having eventually succumb to his mother's repeated advances and fathering seventeen children (though, in fairness, that was simply one brood). However, the Bombizix clan was quickly becoming one of the largest families in the region, and even with their considerable income now bolstered with new clients in the empire’s capital, were struggling to maintain themselves economically on the silk of three moths. When Mori was four, however, it was discovered that the silk spinning gene had simply skipped a generation. While he and his 232 cousins could only spin an eight of their grandmothers, they were able to not only save the family from financial ruin, but provided enough that the family could now expand into new ventures should their generation be the last to be able to spin their signature good.
While Mori spent much of his youth being pressured to go into the family business like the rest of his clan, he rarely expressed much interest in doing so. While he loved his family, being one of literally hundreds of children left him and others somewhat starved for attention, and if his older cousins were any indication, working within the clan would do little alleviate that. During his early teens, he adopted his current bombastic nature, in the hopes of eking out some extra affection, though this won him little more than the occasional half hearted scolding from his mother.
Seeking to make a name for himself outside the family, he began volunteering his time to local clinics for initially selfish reasons. However, he soon found himself to be genuinely enjoying his rudimentary nursing duties, though became frustrated at the clinic lack of staff surgical staff skilled enough to safely perform cosmetic surgeries for those with correctable accidental or natural deformities. His request to his grandmother to bring a mage or doctor in fell on deaf ears, and he enrolled to Mordhaben in rebellion, deciding that if his family would not help then he would do it himself.
Mori is the picture of elegance and grace. Standing 7 foot tall 7 inches, with a lanky frame more befitting a dancer than a solider or the tottering limpness associated with stereotypical mages. His skin is a soft milky white, with semi-hard plates just below. He has no wings, sadly, but often fashions fanciful facsimiles to his outfits. While he does have a nose, it is largely vestigial, leaving his feathery antennae as his primary method of smelling. They are highly developed and sensitive (flitting about seeming of their own volition). More importantly however, they frame his face perfectly.
Age: 18
Species: 2nd generation Silk Moth Chimera
Gender:Male
Occupation: 2nd year student.
Personality: Mori is vain to a fault. He really can’t help it, when you’re a figure of immaculate beauty such as he, your ego naturally bloats. If only a little. He strives to be warm and friendly to everyone, regardless of circumstance, as he considers it only fair not to play favorites with his world wide audience.
However, if there is one thing he love more than himself, it is watching the beauty of others blossom. As such, he often engages in ‘makeovers’ with those who are odds with themselves, either in a literal sense or encouraging them. While at times he might wish to, he will never force a change anyone, as he feels thing must be unique for them to be beautiful. If he at any point feels he is having a corrosive effect on someone else's quest to become beautiful (whatever that may mean to them), he will not hesitate to abandon them and never look back.
Magic Type Preference: Healing and Biological magic.
Innate Magic Talent: Red Thread: Mori is able to boost his silk production to absolutely absurd levels by using magic to manipulate the glands in his wrists, able to liberally coat a small room in a matter of seconds. The silks properties do not change beyond changing color to red, but considering its natural tensile strength is comparable to steel, can make it a very effective way to bind people.
Interests: Designing his own clothes, himself, giving makeovers, meddling, HIMSELF, fire based magic (sooo pretty). Did he mention himself yet?
Skills: Skilled field surgeon, keen eye for detail, skilled speaker and natural charisma that could win over even the most hardened of Airelosians. Highly sensitive sense of smell.
Biography: Bombizix is a name often associated with the finest textile conglomerate that has made its home Swazivan, a boarder region of the Empire near Flynenhael. Currently lead by Shini Bombizix, a Moth Monstress as shrewd in business as she is large. A position she is likely to be the last to hold, if a male moth is not found soon for the purposes of siring heirs capable of the neigh industrial scale of silk production they enable. In their prime, the clan was home to no less than eight full Moth mothers, though this number has since dwindled to a mere three. His mother, Bella, was one of fifty eight children of Shini and a human man who caught her many eyes, all incapable of producing even the slightest amount of silk. While disappointing, the small brood(compared to normal unions of human and moth monsters atleast) was still quiet dear to the clan and they were soon spoiled to near rotten levels. During their younger years, through a combination of boredom and immense wealth, they often played hosts to lavish parties (their ‘legend’ even being known at the core of the empire for a time).
Bella and her sisters soon met their future husbands (and wife, in one case), when the local emperial peacekeeping force, known as the Swazivan Salamanders(named for their famous love affair with all things combustible), were forced to shut down a particularly ruckus party, an event which took the better part of four days to bring to a full stop. The Salamander Captain, Porious D. Ragnul, became adamant Shini reign in her children, to which she reluctantly agreed. Bella and her siblings were displeased to be placed under house arrest, but had little choice with the threat of being cut off from the family wealth hanging over their heads made worse that it would be under the supervision of The Salamanders.
The union proved to be mutual beneficial in the end however. The Bombizix girls mellowed considerably and eventually warmed up to their ‘wardens’, now more focused more on the family business as seamstresses, saleswomen, accountants and other disciplines. The Salamanders, for their part, changed little beyond becoming one of the few regiments in the Empire whose officers were draped exclusively in luxury silks and later, the arms of tall moth women.
Mori’s father was one such officer, Ignus Ragnul, having eventually succumb to his mother's repeated advances and fathering seventeen children (though, in fairness, that was simply one brood). However, the Bombizix clan was quickly becoming one of the largest families in the region, and even with their considerable income now bolstered with new clients in the empire’s capital, were struggling to maintain themselves economically on the silk of three moths. When Mori was four, however, it was discovered that the silk spinning gene had simply skipped a generation. While he and his 232 cousins could only spin an eight of their grandmothers, they were able to not only save the family from financial ruin, but provided enough that the family could now expand into new ventures should their generation be the last to be able to spin their signature good.
While Mori spent much of his youth being pressured to go into the family business like the rest of his clan, he rarely expressed much interest in doing so. While he loved his family, being one of literally hundreds of children left him and others somewhat starved for attention, and if his older cousins were any indication, working within the clan would do little alleviate that. During his early teens, he adopted his current bombastic nature, in the hopes of eking out some extra affection, though this won him little more than the occasional half hearted scolding from his mother.
Seeking to make a name for himself outside the family, he began volunteering his time to local clinics for initially selfish reasons. However, he soon found himself to be genuinely enjoying his rudimentary nursing duties, though became frustrated at the clinic lack of staff surgical staff skilled enough to safely perform cosmetic surgeries for those with correctable accidental or natural deformities. His request to his grandmother to bring a mage or doctor in fell on deaf ears, and he enrolled to Mordhaben in rebellion, deciding that if his family would not help then he would do it himself.
The Professor launches into his explanation of the testing immediately, speaking as quickly as one with such a rough voice could. He chose Magnhild first of the six in the classroom, and following her lack of a display, called on Bawen. "That should be sufficient. Please step back so that the next student can take their position. Mr. Coridell, I'm looking forward to your display..."
...followed by retracting his request. "Actually, on second thought, you can wait, Mr. Coridell. I like to save the most promising ones for last. You there: Little Shit, I saw what you did earlier. Since you seem overly comfortable with it... Step forwards and begin your magic demonstration."
All in all, every other student in Laboratory room Six went before Bawen, including the few humans present. Their abilities were wildly varied, from "nothing at all" to electrical writing with some of the noble gases. Finally, when they were finished, Brovak turns his head towards Bawen and nods once, indicating that the sheep chimera should step forwards and begin his demonstration.
Bawen steps forward casually, politely nodding to the professor. "Is there anything in particular you wish to see demonstrated? Or shall I ...wing it?" He asks, gently picking up a long staff like fork from the table. The two silvered prongs hanging a good foot above his head.
"Wing it. I would like to see what the son of the esteemed Coridell family is capable of," the Professor says. The contempt is audible, but he does seem to expect something impressive nonetheless.
Bawen sighs, not wishing to dignify the thinly (very thinly) veiled disgust in the mans voice. Instead he reaches out with his magic, grasping at the thin wishes of objects that did not exist. He wondered, at times, how these distant thoughts of being came into...well, not existence per se, though the conversation always quickly devolved. Tense was rather difficult for an object that was, fundamentally, removed from reality.
He drags the tip of the fork across the floor, scratching the tile slightly, more to direct attention than to aid the spell. The air in the room cools considerably, the heat being drawn towards some unseen maw. There is a soft flash of purple-blue light, the warmth snapping back into place as it fades. A large, delicate klien bottle sits in the previously unoccupied space.
Brovak looks down at the object, and in an instant it disappears with none of the fanfare that had brought it in from the void. Bawen feels the slight tinge of Foundation kicking the object not only into the void, but somewhere even deeper into oblivion. "You've learned well, though I don't approve of the method. Very... Temperamental. Very well, then. Let's move on to the next stage of the test," Brovak says, scribbling down a longer set of notes than he had for any other student in the room.
Brovak half-jogs to the rear of the room, where he rips the black cloth off of the rattling cube there to reveal a huge insectoid Monster violently thrashing and trying to throw itself towards the rack of gas masks nearby. And just as he had at the start of the class, he launches into a lecture on what the next task would be. "This is an Ashhopper. It's one of the most deadly creatures in the Deadlands not because it directly kills (usually), but rather because it feeds on equipment other people need to survive there. The combat exam requires that you kill every Ashhopper in the test chamber before they 'kill' you. Try not to worry too much - the gas in the chamber is not deadly (unfortunately), so even if you fail, you will still survive and be placed in a class (against my recommendations). L'ilisht, you're up first."
Just as before, every student went before Bawen, save for Magnhild. The wait is a fairly long one, with each test ranging from one to ten minutes. L'ilisht's was the longest.
"Mr. Coridell, please put on one of the masks and enter the room. You may take this knife as well, or that fork you used before, if you wish."
"The military fork should be sufficient, though I do not think it will be necessary." He says, looking over the gas maks for a moment. "...I hate to ask and thus be a bother, but you do not happen to have a mask for a horn size large on hand do you?" He says, turning to Brovak.
Brovak looks to Bawen, then looks to the masks. He snaps his fingers once, and one of the remaining masks reshapes itself so that it would more reasonably fit Bawen's head. "There. That should be sufficient."
Bawen adjusts the straps to the newly refitted mask, pulling the leather tight against him until he could feel it cut into the skin. Satisfied with the fit, he stands in front of the door, preparing himself to fight. Well...in so much as one can fight with a glorified roach.
The Deadlands environment within invited Bawen inside, complete with parasitic glowing vines - distant relatives of some of the plants Bawen was familiar with from his home region. Nothing was moving inside, and Brovak readied himself by the button to seal Bawen in once he entered.
The young sheep steps inside, looking a lot smaller compared to the flora surrounding him. If he was nervous, it didn't show. "To be clear, is there a penalty for damages done to the environment?" He asks, digging the pommel of the fork into the ground slightly.
"None whatsoever. Just keep your mask intact," Brovak says, right before he presses the button, slamming the blast door closed behind the Chimera. With the door closed, all light save for the dim purple-pink glow of the vines vanished, and moments later a thin white mist spread through the test chamber. Immediately after, Bawen is struck with what's immediately identifiable as magical energy - presumably to start the test. The room remains dead silent, save for the wheezing of the sporeflower several meters in, and soft 'clicking' noises echoing around the room's concrete walls from the left, right, and center.
Bawen waves his free hand in front of him, five small orbs of realized nothing hissing into life. They thrummed and glowed slightly, wanting to return to the void they came from but kept anchored (if only for the moment) by the sheep as they orbited the tip of the fork slowly. He would have preferred more, but they were draining to maintain, and he doubted he'd nail the first shot. Now comfortably armed, Bawen cautiously steps forward, fork gripped in both hands tightly.
The creatures in the room shuffled about almost invisibly in the darkened room. The motion of their large brownish shells almost stood out in the darkness, where they crawled on the walls, and though it was almost impossible to tell how large they were exactly, there were perhaps three. At least, if there weren't more hidden somewhere in the plantlife.
Bawen fires an orb at one of the ashhopers on the wall, he had no real hopes of it connection, but he wanted to test their speed. And if he happened to take one out, so much the better.
The orb strikes just behind where the creature had been, and a loud buzzing sound fills the room as it lept off the wall and flew almost directly at Bawen. Unlike the creature displayed in the cage, this Ashhopper is a dull shade of grey rather than brown, and its eyes are affixed to its head rather than on swiveling eyestalks. Small bumps and ridges cover its entire body, and it zigzags through the air with its circular mouth aimed towards Bawen's filtration canister.
The other dark shapes on the walls scatter and seek cover behind plants, save for one, which slowly creeps towards him through the razor grass.
"Hm. Well aren't you cute." Bawen scoffs, watching as the concrete where the orb struck violently break apart as the orb collapsed in on itself, violently forcing matter around itself to fill the now 'freed' space. He taps the pommel of the fork on the ground, a small slap of stone hurling itself at the grey hopper, his free hand swinging wildly, launching a second orb into the razor grass. Faster this time, hoping he's gauged the speed right.
The stone strikes the grey hopper directly between the eyes. The creature falls to the ground and rubs the space where the stone had lodged itself in its chitin. It glares upwards at him, with some sort of animalistic or insectoid wisdom and hatred in its black compound eyes, and launches itself at his chest with the sound of a loud gunshot.
It takes all of Bawen's self control not to flinch as the creature smashes into his chest, instead craning his neck upward to give the filter some distance. That was probably going to bruise, but better than failing without a kill under his belt. It was attached to him, too close to teleport now. He brings his free arm down, sweeping across his chest onto its head. He spares a glace back to the razor grass patch, keeping an eye on the brave hopper he thought he could sneak an attack in.
The creature clings to his chest even more tightly and glares at him as it moves its mouthparts towards the filtration canister. It's taking its time as though actively taunting him. Elsewhere in the room, some of the sounds of movement have stopped. At least one of the creatures was struck with the orb he had flung moments before.
Bawen weighs his options for the moment before grasping the section of stone protruding from the hoppers head. "You are not NOT a rod." He says, for the hoppers benefit, as the slab elongates, pushing forward into the creature.
Something like realization flashes through the Hopper's eyes when it sees the stone embedded in its shell changing shape. The Hopper falls over, off of Bawen, before the rod has even pushed into its head. The creature is rocking back and forth on its side, desperately cleaning its own legs as though it had been told something utterly horrifying. It looks like it is going to file a sexual harassment suit against Bawen when it gets up. More loud buzzing noises come from behind, followed by a second Ashhopper landing next to its comrade and brushing its forelimbs over the terrified one's head, and a third landing a few feet away to keep its distance from the other two. The third Ashhopper stares at Bawen accusingly.
Bawen stares the third down, raising his fork threatening before bringing it down as hard as he can. To the hopper, it must have seemed a strange sight, him stabbing at nothing. More so as the sheep blinked from existence, a coldness shooting through the air as he reappeared behind the uninjured loner. The trio of orbs did not seem to make the trip with him and they hang limply in the space he formerly occupied.
The second Ashhopper scoots forwards to investigate Bawen's sudden disappearance, while the third instantly throws its head to the ground and fires off a two-legged kick at Bawen's left knee with the sound of a small rifle shot. The fork comes down on top of it, pinning it to the ground immediately after. The first is still traumatized, but its rocking is slowing down some, and it seems horrified by its brother's sudden, almost inexplainable death.
The wild kick slams into Bawen's knee, buckling it, and the chimera swears at himself for getting cocky. He wrenches the fork upward, intending to gore the creature in petty revenge. Seeing that the grey hopper is beginning to recover, he wills the orbs to fling themselves at it. He'd have to 'reload' before hey could deal with the last one, the air already causing the newly minted cut to his leg to itch beyond reason.
A life threatening emergency is enough to snap any creature out of a foul mood, and the perhaps unusually intelligent Ashhopper swings its head towards the black orbs, not entirely certain of what they'll do. They collide with its forehead, and... Nothing. The orbs simply vanish, and the two Ashhoppers turn back towards Bawen. The one he had already injured lifts off into the air, while the other rears back on its hind legs in preparation for another pounce. And the familiar feeling of magical energy springs to life in the room's atmosphere.
Bawen grimaces as the orbs fail to injure the creature. Brovak...he must have meddled somehow. " Wouldn't be much of a test..." He grumbles backing up, keeping an eye on the two as he scans the rest of the room. looking for a better position to fight the trio from, or retreat if possible.
The airborne Ashhopper flung itself towards Bawen's head as the one on the ground lept straight for his chest. The feeling of magical energy intensifies as the two approach.
Bawen flings the fork at the pair, rolling to the side. It had served its purpose, and now was only good for a distraction (he didn't trust himself to get into an exchange of blows with them). As he lands, he forces the earth up around him, forming a rock cocoon, huffing as he does so. He lays in it for a second, catching his breath as he thinks about what to do.
Two thumps sound out around the inside of the cocoon where the two Ashhoppers flung themselves back at him. Then silence, and the feeling of magical energy begins to rapidly build outside the shell.
Bawen curses, his voice muffled by the mask. He couldn't even take satisfaction in swearing now it seemed. He racks his brain, trying to come up with a plan, but between the hoppers and the gas causing his leg to itch, he cou...Something hits him, a smirk spreading across his hidden face. He reaches out with his magic once again, feeling the air and its properties. It was wet, and sickly with the gas.
He starts with the air first, denying its ability to hold water as best he can. Fat globs of condensation forming on the sides of the walls and rivulets rolling off the large mushroom in the middle of the room. When half the water was freed, he stopped. It'd have to do.
The walls of the cocoon begin to lose temperature and frost over as the magical energy reaches a crescendo. The effect is slow, weak, but it's undeniably a use of magic that Monsters are supposedly able to use. Eventually, as Bawen finishes his own atmospheric modifications, the outer shell of the cocoon begins to chip and break apart. Water is seeping into the stone shell, prying it apart as it freezes. A crack forms and the open maw of one of the two hoppers is clearly visible through the tiny gap.
Bawen throws his magic outword, no longer worried about having energy after the fight. Normally, he'd have preferred to analyze the gas, and gently deny what he needed it to be. He could feel himself sweat, despite the shiver flowing through him as the cold raced through him. The air begins to smell stranger than normal, the normal sickly sweetness replaced by the harshness of what might be rancid meat. He supposed this was a side effect of denying the air its inflammability. It was starting to react abnormally with other elements in the air, though thankfully not quickly.
He grins up at the Ashhopper, eyes shinning with malic as he gently pokes a finger just before the hole, a small spark leaping from his hand.
The Ashhopper stares back for just a moment, and leaps back in time for much of the room to erupt into flame. It lasts only a short while, but the inferno outside seems to have done the job, judging by the smoke rising from where the Ashhopper had been, just barely visible through the crack.
Bawen pushes his way out of the cocoon, the earthen shell crumbling to bits, scanning the room for survivors, admiring the fine char everything seemed to have at the moment. Well, he DID ask if he would be penalized for damages.
One survivor is immediately visible. It's surrounded by a puddle of water, where the other, now thoroughly incinerated, Ashhopper had flash frozen it. The surviving Ashhopper stumbles over to the ashes of its ally, then turns to Bawen and leaps at his head one last time, this time erupting into smoke, with a small flicker of flame visible in each eye.
Bawen was surprised the Ashhoper had survived, he'd thrown everything into that spell. Time seemed to slow for the chimera, his frustration building a lovely cottage in his stomach as the offending...THING dared to charge. He felt something primal snap inside his mind, his neck arching back. "LEARN YOUR PLACE!" He shouts, voice clear with fury even through the mask as he rams his head down on the Ashhoper.
The insect's smoking body collides with Bawen's hooded horns, and it violently splatters with enough force to throw the chimera to the ground unconscious. The hooded mask is slightly charred where the insect had detonated itself, but still intact.
The remaining wisps of white fog flow out of the room, and the blast door opens, followed by the incinerated remnants of the Ashhoppers disappearing and the light damage to Bawen's mask being reversed. Brovak just stands there, looking at Bawen as the repairing magic floods the room. "...I may have overdone it this time. Still, even though you lost consciousness, I suppose you fulfil the requirements of killing all of the Ashhoppers and keeping your mask intact... You pass, you may go after you remove the hood. ...Wait, you're still out? Fine."
Bawen emits an unconscious trill/gurgle of victory as he lay on the ground. Once he regains consciousness, he is sure to be delighted by the praise. Brovak steps into the room, grips Bawen by the horns, and drags him out before turning to Magnhild.
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