ghastlyInc

L'Mordryn Academy

-Room 1, 6th floor, house Bestia-
@Artifex
A soft vibration on his chest alerted Odhra that it was time to wake up, bleary eyes opening weakly to the clacking mandibles of a giant blue and white spider shaking violently on top of him. Most people at this point would probably have started screaming, but Odhra had long since become accustomed to such morning calls. "Good morning Snuggles" he coo'd, stroking the beast gently atop her head. It was an admittedly silly ritual of hers, the poor dear. Afraid that if she did not wake him up early enough he would not feed the various spiders and scorpions littered about his room, most in small plastic cages to keep them safe but a few freely wondering about on the walls in small nests of webs. As if he would ever let his babies go without their meals, but Snuggles was a sweetheart like that.

Carefully he let his hands roam around his body and towards the edge of the bed. Not for any sense of comfort, but because of a hard lesson he'd learned long ago about scorpions and their love of dark warm places. His bed being a prime candidate for such things. Losing a baby due to his own mistakes was always hard, especially when he accidentally squished them, but it was the nature of owning this many wild animals. They weren't summons, there was no desire to obey as there was with Snuggles. Only primal needs and knowledge and a frustrating lack of trainability. Working AROUND them was the only option sadly, the creatures too unintelligent to know how to work with him and only encouraging bad behavior if he worked FOR them.

That wasn't to say he was unhappy with the situation, far from it. Of the ten (eleven he reminded himself) arachnids currently sharing his space most were happy to be held or occasionally petted. But it was a small thing, tolerance and not love, for none of them were built for such things. Pushing himself up from the bed he stepped carefully over to his desk (eyes keenly watching for any wandering souls) before opening the desk and taking out a seal plastic jar, filled half way with writhing maggots and discarded fruit.

Reaching inside and ignoring the faint squishing sensation of rotting fruit he withdrew the four he'd need for today. Another hard lesson. The temptation to over feed all of his pets was there but it would only hurt them more if he did. Strict diets and regimented feedings was the way to do it. Just as important was growing his own food for his babies, carefully monitoring the intake of the maggots and roaches he gave to them to make sure they were free of harmful contaminants like heavy metals or mold.

The first three went well, the four spiders sensing their prey and hungrily snatching them up and giving him little to no mind. The fourth, a small brown scorpion missing a pincer, instead flared itself threateningly at him as he opened its cage. "Mr. Gigglesworth..." Odhra sighed, trying to sound disappointed to his newest arrival despite still being half asleep and the admittedly illfitting name. The poor scorpion probably had reason to distrust him, having been stepped by a heartless jerk when he was first rescued. But still, after all the effort he'd gone through to nurse the poor little guy back to health it was a little frustrating to still be considered a threat. Closing the cage he left the scorpion to his meal, noting to find some gloves and handle him a little tonight after classes when he might be more relaxed and active.

He left his room, stopping only to grab a fresh set of clothes and check the seals around his door. Escape attempts were common, though thankfully his roommates were more or less familiar with standard opperating procedure now. Herd his babies into a jar with a hole in the lid and wait for him to collect them. Or there would be hell to pay in the form of Bubbles.

Odhra ran through his morning shower, not really enjoying the hot water or the fevered scrubbing as he cleaned himself. When you spent a lot of your time washing your hands already, bathing sort of lost its relaxing element. As he finished dressing a heavy weight slammed into his back, attempting to climb atop him but sending him tumbling to the ground. "Snuggles..." He grumbled, pushing the large spider off him. "Baby girl we talked about this. You're too big to carry around campus sweetpea..." He said, trying to ignore the pained look on the giant creatures face as it was reminded again that it was no longer the cute little hatchling that sat atop his head.

"Don't worry..." he coo'd rubbing her mandibles gently as she chittered her begrudging pleasure. "I'll let you and Bubbles out during my free period today...and if you behave I'll let you feed today. Okay?" he asked, the giant spider shaking for a moment before disappearing back to her own realm with what Odhra recognized as a pouting look. Satisfied she would behave herself Odhra finished dressing and made his way out the door, heading to the cafeteria to grab some food himself, reminding himself that Snuggles was looking a little thin recently and that he'd need to have a fat heavy breakfast today.

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-Gates to the Cafeteria-

Lorcan rolled his eyes and suppressed a chuckle at Isobel and Ceirvia's threats of retribution. "I'm certain you will try. But alas, I don't think my insult so great that it could not be resolved with a massage and liberal application of mint candy respectively." He chuckles into the earwrym as he sauntered up the stairs. Gods there were WAY too many of these. He was about to ask if Isobel wanted to meet up for lunch when the girl practically exploded on the other end of the line, a cry of tardiness being all he could make out before the line went dead. A small snort of amusement escapes him as he takes the earwrym off and pockets it, glad to see that his 'cousin' was as much a disaster waiting to happen as ever. Some people, like himself, were reliable bastions of order. Some folks might have found comfort in that. Lorcan preferred the proxy catharsis that came from watching Isobel wing...well pretty much everything to varying degrees of success.

He could ask what all that was about later though, for now it was best to orient himself. Reaching the top of the stairs (FINALLY) he reaches into his bag, pulling out a small map of the school and his itinerary for the day. "Penjani..." he huffs, the familiar sense of warmth that came with a gate opening suffusing him as said summon apperated next to him, purple hair wiping about for a moment as she took in the surroundings before relaxing fully. "We've arrived at L'mordryn's." He offered simply, the explanation not really necessary for his dragon-gir-companion. But it would have been rude not to provide it. "I'll need your aid in navigating for the next few days." He says, a faint bubble amusement as the summons eyes widened with excitement, eager as always to earn some well deserved praise. "Yes yes you will be doubtlessly invaluable." he added, the snark lacking any real venom as he gently patted her head, the dragon girl fussing for a moment before leaning into the gesture.

"For now, let's start simply..." he continues, glancing down at the map for a moment while continuing to pet her. "The cafeteria's not far. Lead me there." he commands, the bliss on the dragon girls face hardening instantly to determination as she nodded. Lorcan removes his hand from her head, letting the dragon whip her gaze back and forth as she went through her process of finding the path, something he was still unsure the exact mechanics off. After a moment her eyes lock onto a small side path, grabbing his hand and attempting to drag him forward. Though, in truth the act was fairly ineffective, Penjani looking for all the world like an overly excited puppy at the end of its leash as she lead Lorcan, content to follow but moving at a decidedly slower pace than her.

L'Mordryn Academy

Odhra Bebinn

Name | Odhra Bebinn
Age | 17
Gender | Male
Level/Tier | Virtuso 1 (V1)
House | Bestia
Appearance/Attire |
Odhra is a short thin young man, almost deathly so. Mostly due to the long list of health issues he had growing up, so his figure is far from fit. Still, after much effort, he's at least almost to a healthy weight again. He tends to favor simple styles with bright colors, though inevitably a lot of what he wears just ends up getting covered in blood...mostly not his.

Alignment | Dynamo

Personality/Habits | Odhra is...an enthusiastic young man, to say the least. He loves L'mordryn and is always an eager student and peer, happy to help out whenever anyone asks. He is chipper, optimistic and always ready with a warm smile! Looking at him, you'd assume he's a true shining example of Bestia's spirit and natural lust for life with naught a savage bone in his body.

That pretty much goes out the with the speed of a terrified student body the moment he starts talking about his 'hobbies'. Odhra wishes to become a doctor, so has dedicated a large portion of his time studying the human body and the various magical creatures that can be summoned to help aid in its repair. He also loves to talk about these discoveries with the same energy as everything else he does, sparring no gory detail to his often captive audience.

Its not out of some sadistic pleasure, its more that their discomfort and horror just don't register in his mind until its far too late. For him, watching a live surgery is amazingly fun! And informative! Its silly and frustrating to him that other folks get uncomfortable even thinking about it. Why should they? Its perfectly natural and it helps people. Those are nothing but GOOD things darn it!

It also doesn't help that his preferred beasts to summon are arachnids, the young man often dotting and cuddling even the most horrifying examples one could pull from the realms with a casual joy that even masters would struggle with. He often helps at the school clinic, though he is not allowed to make any treatment decisions.

Background |
Odhra was often sickly during childhood, rarely able to leave his room for more than a few hours at a time well into his early teens. While his parents weren't poor exactly (his father being a butler to a rather well to do, though not prestigious, noblemen and his mother acting as a secretary to a large cotton tycoon) his continuous need for treatment and the cost of schooling out of his home put considerable financial strain all of them. The stress bore down on all of them in different ways, his dad often refusing to acknowledge it in favor of remaining the family's emotional rock and his mom just threw herself into work.

He had few friends...actually scratch that. He had NO friends. Friends required going outside, something he was just incapable of for the most part. Isolated and thoroughly miserable he often let his mind wander across the realms, believing himself to be in possession of a rather active imagination. His parents weren't invokers, so as far as he knew there was no chance he was.

One night, whilst lost in the throws of exploration, he managed upon a vast sea of silk. It felt...odd, but comfortable. Coiling and brushing against his mind and cool to the touch. Like the way mint tea felt on his tongue. It eased the perpetual wheezing in his chest and out of instinct he pulled at it. And promptly passed out.

When he woke up he was in the hospital (which wasn't surprising.) and greeted by a rather amused looking police officer (which definitely WAS surprising). A brief panic attack later the officer informed him he wasn't in trouble and managed to explain to him what the had happened after he'd passed out.

Apparently Odhra had managed to unknowingly open a gate to one of the realms, the effort of which (combined with his weak health) managing to knock him unconscious. The gate had remained open and the residents began to pour out, responding to an unanswerable call with sheer numbers.

Thankfully he'd not managed to summon anything dangerous, just hundreds of tiny spider like creatures which swarmed over him in a protective cocoon of living chitin. When his parents found him in the morning (after they finished screaming) they immediately called the police, pest control, and an old friend of his father who apparently had a warrant out for his arrest for "illegal possession of precision flamethrowers".

Making a long, and frankly hilarious (if the officer was to be believed anyway), the police departments resident invoker managed to shut the gate and shoo the spiders back to their home, keeping a few bonded to himself just to see if they were harmful. They were not, in fact they were rather helpful. Apparently they were just content to feed off the various harmful bacteria, parasites and other maladies present in his body and returned the precised favor with protection (from rescue services in this case) and a considerable boost to his immune system. They'd yet to figure out which realm exactly he'd tapped into or even how its residents functioned.

It was not a preternatural boost mind you, just enough that he was comparable to your average 12 year old. But still, it had awed him that in a few hours (even if not intentionally) those little critters had managed to do what years of medical treatments couldn't. After that Odhra started studying in earnest, fully dedicated to becoming an invoker, finding and paying back those little guys, and making sure they became a house hold name in the medical community.

Favorite Summons |

Snuggles

Snuggles is one of the first summons Odhra ever bonded with. She is a hunter who specializes in filtering toxins from blood...by medium of sucking it from a humans body and pumping it back into them through her fangs. Acting as a sort of living hemo-dialysis machine. This process isn't painful but its definitely not wholly comfortable either. She can process anything, from natural build up of toxins to deadly poisons. She cleans her fangs and mandibles obsessively (so as to not risk her prey getting sick) and is all around a very tidy summon. Once a month Odhra will let her feed from him, as its quite safe and it's a good bonding experience. She's a hugger, you have been warned.

Bubbles~!

Bubbles is Odhra's only combat summon and for good reason. Bubbles is a physical power house, even among the beasts of Bestia. While he's not exactly bright or subtle, he can tear through reinforced metal like its tin foil and can regenerate rapidly. Thanks to this combo of strength and healing factor, he prefers to just tank blows and strikes until he either reduces opponents to red smears on the ground or utterly exhausts them into giving up. The downside is he's a bit exhausting to keep around because of this, so Odhra DOES try and make him fight more sensibly when he thinks it necessary.

Bubbles is also well known for being an immense softy, exceptionally gentle outside of combat and easily won over by strangers. He often forgets his own size and, despite being the size of a truck, would love to be sitting in your lap getting his horns scratched. Thankfully, Odhra is pretty good about reminding him.

Baily

Baily is Odhra's first experiment into creating a summon from his mind. A hybrid of a few varieties of arachnids he's pulled from the realms tied up in a roughly humanoid form at the suggestion of his teachers. Mostly because, despite his feelings, his summons methods of healing people can be absolutely terrifying. She has some weak healing magic, but can only heal minor wounds. A product of Odhra not being as familiar with the mechanics of such things yet. But her silk is anti-septic and can be pulled into strings for use as stitches or produced in large globs for generally disinfecting a wound. Her stinger tail is deceptively dexterous highly precise, allowing her to administer pain killing venom where and whenever necessary.

Personality wise, she is modeled after an ideal bedside nurse. Cheerful and energetic like her master while remaining notably more soft spoken in an (often failed) attempt to keep her patients calm. She is Odhra's current go to partner for first aid response, both for her general versatility and to see how he can improve on her current form and behaviors.

L'Mordryn Academy

Lorcan stirred from the weak attempt at sleep as his carriage rolled over yet another subtle bump in the road, an annoyed sneer smearing across his face as he added it to his ongoing count of sleep depriving detritus experienced over the last few hours. Realms above and below he hated traveling, especially overnight. His carriage was finely made, Brougham style and made from a richly blue-purple wood that he could not name. Gold leaf inlaid into richly detailed filigree carved into its sides and pulled by twined stallions of alabaster white and intimidating physique. All of which was likely to distract from the faint glow of magi-tech plates resting between the passenger car and the wheels.

A more reasonable soul might assume the plates acted as a form of suspension, a magically crafted guarantee of a smooth ride. And had a more reasonable soul commissioned the construction of this vehicle, it probably would have. Sadly, his father was not a reasonable soul, and instead had insisted on the traditional image of a horse drawn carriage be maintained and egregiously decorated. Even the horses were mere affectations, the rich thud of their hooves against the road to their bodies being little more than minor illusory effects. Courtesy of some here to unknown (but doubtlessly expensive) mystical bauble a machina alum was doubtlessly proud of.

No the real ‘horsepower’ of this gilded affront to rationality were the aforementioned plates; Magi-tech engines that thrummed quietly as they pushed the carriage along at an (admittedly) impressive clip. However, by this point Lorcan was far from being impressed. Being trapped inside the damnable thing for two days somewhat robbed one's appreciation of even its finer qualities. The inside was decorated with stiff leather, embossed with gold nailheads that dug into his back after the first hour. It helped little that the thing was packed to the gills with luggage. Only one case of which he personally had deigned to bring. The rest had been ‘helpfully’ provided to him, much of it formal wear, should he have need of it.

The carriage would likely turn heads when he arrived (if anyone was even awake at this hour to see him), but as it stood he was thoroughly miserable inside it. Only his driver having it worse, the open air seating he was given doing little to protect him from the elements. With a swallowed sigh he pushed open the curtains and leaned his head out the window, addressing the man in question.

“Feston.” He said primly but softly, honestly not wanting to agitate the poor man unduly. Last night’s storm had done more than number on the poor man’s spirit thank you very much. “I apologize but how much furt-”

Feston, a balding man of his forties with a normally lush and well groomed moustache, wiped his head back towards Lorcan, voice creaking with an agitation constrained only by years of practice. “A few minutes young master.” He huffed, voice raspy and thick. “Ye can see L’mordyn oncein we crest this hill.”

Lorcan took the brusque response in stride and did not let his instinctual reaction to show on his face. Being angry with Feston wouldn’t help either of them and, by this point, suffering the man’s ire was more than a little deserved. “I see. Thank you Feston. Please, let me know when we are at the gates, I wish to freshen up.” Lorcan chimed pleasantly, the subtle grunt being the only acknowledgement the order was accepted.

Carefully closing and securing the curtain Lorcan grabs a small jug of water and opens a random suitcase, grabbing a freshly pressed shirt to use as a rag. His parents likely would have been aghast at him stripping and washing himself (albeit with some limitations) in such a manner, but they were thankfully not here. And right now, Proprietary could eat a fat dick. He was NOT attending classes smelling like the back end of a wyvern.

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“Young Master.” Feston said a good half hour later, a note of relief ringing heavily in his voice. “We’ve arrived.” Lorcan leans out of the carriage window, looking up towards the vast stairwell that lead into L’mordryn proper. Staring up the stairs (and boy where there a lot of them) up at the main entrance allowing his eyes a moment to roam up the yellow-white brick to the statue of a four winged angel, weapons at ease in their hands as their immense form stood sentinel over the school.

“Very good.” Lorcan says, stepping out quickly and dusting off a fresh uniform, a small bag draped casually across his shoulder. “Please see to my luggage being delivered to my room if you would be so kind...I’m sure the school has some staff who could happily assist you.” He said, watching with some amusement as the man’s deep scowl quickly evaporated the moment he was not expected to do so alone. Like Lorcan could be so cruel.

The sun had only just risen, so classes had likely yet to start, which meant he’d arrived on time at least. As much as he would have liked to settle in today, the school was already being more than generous in taking him in so late in the year (even if he DID study while competing). It would be an intrusion on that kindness to skip the first day in his new home.

“Speaking of intrusions…” He said, pulling a small golden dragon ear piece from his pocket, the metal cold and stinging against his skin in the cold autumn morning. He concentrates for a moment, wondering if (given the sheer size of the campus) if she was even in range. A soft tinny ringing from the dragon banishing the concern from his mind just as quickly as it came.

“Isobel. I hope I did not wake you…” He said, smirking as he began to ascend the steps and knowing full well he did. The day Isobel was an early riser was the day he ate his own hat. “I just wanted to let you know I’ve just arrived safely. How have you been?”

L'Mordryn Academy

Lorcan Brigh

Name | Lorcan Brigh
Age | 17
Gender | Male
Level/Tier | A1
House | Dracona
Appearance/Attire |
Lorcan is a svelte young man standing around 5'10, only just starting to broaden out in the shoulders despite his age. He has a fencer's build, all fast twitch muscle and long limbs with only the barest amount of core strength necessary for the art. While he certainly does not cut the most traditionally masculine figure in any given room there is no arguing there is an appealing regal elegance to the young man.

In terms of clothing, Lorcan is rather uninteresting often wearing military esque uniforms more at home at a Officers school than a school than an Invoker's. Still, they are tailored well and offer a great deal more freedom of movement than their stuffy nature would suggest. He also has a large selection of formal wear, though he hates this sordid collection of cloth with a passion. If you ever see him dressed in such a state and appearing happy, expect the sky to rain blood and the world to come to a shattering halt in the next few hours.

Alignment | Judge

Personality/Habits | At first glance, Lorcan is rather typical of house Dracona. Stiff, prim and proper with a noblesse oblige that practically defines the house, all wrapped nicely in an vague sensation that somehow you've offended him by presenting him with your less aristocratic heritage. He is dedicated to excelling at whatever task he sets himself to be it becoming a concert pianist (by age 11), a champion fencer (age 15) or now as an invoker.

As they should be, for the Brigh family's meteoric rise to prominence these last few generations (of which he would not deny no small deal of pride in) demands that anything short of perfection be considered failure.

And if he were being honest...he'd admit to hating all of the above with an intensity to shatter mountains. He WANTS to be lazy and childish, the very idea of spending an afternoon skipping out on his various exercise regiments and goofing right the hell off with friends filling him with such deviant glee that he would burst into a fit of giggles...if propriety allowed for such things.

The common folk have far too much fun in his mind. They're never expected to choke down the saccharine compliments of foppish nobility with a winner's smile glued uncomfortably over their face. They don't have the joy of a hobby stripped away because an opportunity to accumulate accolades and prestige is more important than anything else. They get to chose what friends they keep, by virtue of their character and not the frankly stupid rules of heritage.

The unfairness of it makes him want to spit, but pride is really the only thing that keeps that venom contained. Still, L'Mordryn is an opportunity in his mind to indulge in that freedom (even if only for a while).

Background | The Brigh family was, but a few scant generations ago, a painfully minor noble house. Oh yes, they owned land and conducted the business of their petty fiefdom loyally for countless generations just as the greater houses had but they were decidedly....mundane. There was no great bloodline of dragons flowing through them, no great deeds of daring doo by some distant heroic ancestor or anything of the like. In fact, their rise to nobility was (as far as the historians were concerned) born out of administrative necessity and being competent enough to read and write in an era were such skills were rare.

All of that changed with Lorcan's great grandfather Tuathal Brigh. Tuathal was always an ambitious man, eager to prove the Brigh's Noble standing was more than a token gesture (it was, but nobody ever claimed Tuathal was well versed in history either). The Dust Wars gave him the opportunity, severing with distinction under General Ilan Mulryan whom he later married. Ilan, while not the heir to the family name, was none the less something of a hotly desired suitor at the time so the fact that an as of then unknown noble managed to win her over came as something of a shock back home (something Tuathal was always quick to preen over, albiet with the good nature of a man just as pleasantly surprised as his audience.)

After the Dust Wars concluded, the two set about a frankly terrifying campaign of reconstructive efforts both domestic and abroad. Charity events, dogged diplomatic meetings to simply being champions of comfort to those affected. In hindsight, it was perhaps a comical over compensation by Tuathal but it was good work none the less. There are even a few nobles who make it a point to reserve seats for him and Ilan long after their passing, if only for fear that the two may leap from their graves and break down their doors for not giving them the chance to help in some fashion or another.

Without having been there, it is difficult for Lorcan to say what had changed his family. The Brigh family is still known for its charitable efforts and its continued presence among the military elite, and for much of the population they are regarded with a nostalgic warmth imparted by his great grandfather. But among the noble classes they were decidedly not the same family.

Where once there was an eager welcoming charisma presence at their events and estate, there was now the distant weight of influence and standing...and all the insecurities of a family who had not had it for long enough to count. His father was almost predatory in his pursuit of sustaining the 'family honor', wheeling and trading favors for favors with a knack for polity (both social and otherwise) that may have left Tuathal with more than a few concerns.

His mother was one such example, an heiress to a family who were just short of coming to blows with the Mulryan family for generations. The marriage was not one born of love, one side wanting to expand their power base should their long time patrons become unfavorable and the other just pleased to spite the red eye'd bastards. Proximity and time ultimately made it a happier marriage than it had any right to be, as Lorcan's birth might suggest (or at least he desperately hopes).

Growing up in such a home wasn't...well it wasn't life threatening. His parents, for as cloying and affluent they might've been, weren't cruel. They encouraged his hobbies and passions as any good parent should, though perhaps with...an unknowingly misplaced eagerness.

When he was little he had expressed awe at his mothers ability to play the piano. Once. Exactly Once. His parents had practically drowned him in tutors, studies, and practices. At first it was wonderful, a shared gift between the three of them that won him their praise and private moments of subtle affections that neither parent realized as being rare.

By the time he was ten, it had soured. He no longer played for them privately, instead to audiences of hundreds all equal parts enamored with his proficiency in the art and amused that he could perform as well as someone easily three times his age. That did not stop his parents from attending his concerts, or the various after parties where they would ply their speechcraft among the other well-to-dos.

They lauded him a prodigy and were all too happy to accept the praise of vapid old fools who likely had never been within forty feet of the damnable instrument on his behalf. Their praise should have made him happy, but it didn't. As selfish as it was he wanted that praise for his own benefit, not to grease the wheels on some overly wealthy HAG who just had to attend his next performance at one of his parents innumerable charity balls.

He can't remember what prompted him to tell them he wanted to quit. But he remembered the argument that followed. Loud screaming from two sides, ironically more emotional than they'd ever been, cascading violently across the halls of their estate and heard only by servant who knew better than to get involved or had enough survival instinct to feign ignorance the conflict. His parents won the exchange, eventually cowing him into submission with reminders of their investment into his success and the necessity of paying that back to the family name. He didn't care a whit for their reasoning, but the intensity and certainty of their voices carried with it a promise of consequences that left him ill.

He continued to perform for little over a year after that, though his parents rarely attended anything other than the after parties there after. If it was a move designed to hurt or punish him in someway it did, but it also provided him with a wondrous and uncontested excuse to duck out of the parties all together. He'd spend that time better locked away in whatever private sanctuary he could find available (it would be improper to be seen in such a state afterall), where he could flip flopping between silent seething anger or cracked hushed sobs in peace.

So it came as something of an immense panic when Isobel Mulryan found him one night. He knew about her, they WERE relatives as distant as that connection might have been. But they were hardly close and the girls reputation was...not the most comforting. The image of a dumpster fire came immediately to mind. At first he feared she would run off and rat him out, either out of naive concern or an attempt to try her hand at shaming a potential political rival. That the latter was a prospect even occurred to him as an eleven year old almost shocked him into action, where it not for the little girl wrapping her knuckles against his skull and dragging him bodily from the bathroom like it was about to explode with the loud (VERY loud he might add) proclamation of his status as a quote 'Dweeb'.

The sheer alien absurdity stunned him more than the blow did, a miasma of complacency robbing him of the strength needed to pull himself out of her grip as she dragged him into the hall. Not that it mattered, the last punch was a pretty sound indication that that she could have beaten him soundly with little effort if that was what she wanted. When she finally turned on him, he flinched away and prepared for another blow.

Instead she decided that he was not yet confused enough and launched into a pep talk. He wished he could say it was profound, that through simple eloquence she had lifted him subtly from his mood. Gods though, it was anything but. It was the awkward clumsy attempts of a ten year old girl (Correction: ten and three quarters) who knew maybe one twelfth of a percent of the situation. With all the subtly and elegance as the aforementioned dumpster fire. Scratch that, with words alone she'd not only up ended said dumpster fire but, in fact, managed to set ablaze every dumpster within a four mile radius with after shocks to follow. But the concern was there, naked and freely given as the praise (and boasting...) that accompanied it.

It did help him feel better, though he made sure to never be on the receiving end of such a scenario again. He did not fancy his chances of surviving if he burst into laughter in front of her like that. He did a little digging on his would be savior after that. Not out of some childish crush of course. The fact they were related but a swift and violent death to that notion thank you very much!

It was more an excuse to find a way to be around someone remotely comforting, if not her then someone (literally anyone at that point). Swordsmanship was first obvious inlet and he latched onto it like a drowning man, his 'cousin' being more fond of it than graceful as he'd been told. His first instinct was to try and emulate her style (what little there was anyway), but that was quickly put aside for a variety of reasons.

Firstly, his fumbling attempts with lifting a heavier blade (pilfered from a suit of armor on the family Estate) told him he was definitely not suited to that sort of thing. Secondly, it would have been all kinds of creepy to copy her in an attempt to win her attention. He might have been desperate, but he was definitely not THAT desperate. But most importantly, learning to fight like Isobel didn't suit the image his parents had cultivated of him. He was demure, sophisticated and eloquent beyond his years by design. He was NOT a hyperactive kid with ready access to medieval weaponry and a panache for the dramatic and the world would sooner burn than his parents let him be.

Competition fencing, however, was all the things he was supposed to be. Perhaps not demure, but a carefully worded reminder to his father that such skills would be invaluable for when he entered the military let him successfully let him avoid that counter argument. And soon enough he was thrust (pun very much intended) into the sport with the rabid fervor his parents normally used.

He excelled at the sport, as was expected of him, and continued to perform at his parents request interspersed with the occasional reunion with his 'cousin' at social events (and the only savings grace of being forced to attend them). Frankly he was so busy that training to be an invoker had all but slipped he and his parents mind. But L'Mordryn was a school for a reason, he could afford to enter is with a novice understanding of the art.

...and if he could not, then the look of horror that would be on his parents faces if he failed would be worth their weight in gold.

Favorite Summons |

Penjani

While a humanoid dragon is...an unusual choice, Penjani is possibly Lorcan's most used summon. She is a diminutive waif of a summon, barely 4'5 and actually physically WEAKER than most humans. She is capable of simple tasks when given commands, though anything more complex than opening a chest and grabbing a specific item is beyond her somewhat limited intelligence. She is entirely unsuited to combat but will engage when ordered (not that he ever would).

The reason he keeps her around is that she does have one exceptionally useful trait. If an object or person and their vague position is known to her summoner, she can lead him to them to their approximate position. As she cannot speak (either lacking in the intelligence need or simply not able to) the only way direct her summoner is by physically taking them their at a normal walking pace. There are limitations however. If Lorcan wrongly assumes the vague location of something she will be confused and lead him in circles wordlessly. In the case of people, if they desire to NOT be found (even casually) the result is much the same.

She is a fairly shy creature, often hiding behind her summoner to avoid the gazes of others unless ordered otherwise. But she is eager to please and a dutiful companion, happily acting as Lorcan's assistant or performing menial tasks that would be considered below his station.

Warin

Warin is Lorcan's go to summon for combat. As a Psuedodragon Warin is the lowest form of dragon life, practically a pest by most standards. Their barbed tail can deliver a venomous payload that, while harmless (save for minor numbness for a day or two after), is exceptionally painful. He can also breath small gouts of fire that can leave fairly minor burns.

Generally a psuedodragon would have no place as a combat summons but Warin and Lorcan work well together. Mostly because Warin is a vicious little bastard with just enough intelligence to fight dirty. He likes to crawl along Lorcan as he engages an opponent, leaping on to them and stinging relentlessly at any available flesh and fleeing the moment they turn their attention to him. He also enjoys setting hair on fire.

While not in combat Warin is little more than an overprotective pet, roosting on his summoners shoulders and fixing heated glares at anyone that fails to meet the little buggers unknown standards. However he is easily bought with neck scratches and gifts of fried fish.

Odhra Bebinn

Name | Odhra Bebinn
Age | 17
Gender | Male
Level/Tier | Virtuso 1 (V1)
House | Bestia
Appearance/Attire |
Odhra is a short thin young man, almost deathly so. Mostly due to the long list of health issues he had growing up, so his figure is far from fit. Still, after much effort, he's at least almost to a healthy weight again. He tends to favor simple styles with bright colors, though inevitably a lot of what he wears just ends up getting covered in blood...mostly not his.

Alignment | Dynamo

Personality/Habits | Odhra is...an enthusiastic young man, to say the least. He loves L'mordryn and is always an eager student and peer, happy to help out whenever anyone asks. He is chipper, optimistic and always ready with a warm smile! Looking at him, you'd assume he's a true shining example of Bestia's spirit and natural lust for life with naught a savage bone in his body.

That pretty much goes out the with the speed of a terrified student body the moment he starts talking about his 'hobbies'. Odhra wishes to become a doctor, so has dedicated a large portion of his time studying the human body and the various magical creatures that can be summoned to help aid in its repair. He also loves to talk about these discoveries with the same energy as everything else he does, sparring no gory detail to his often captive audience.

Its not out of some sadistic pleasure, its more that their discomfort and horror just don't register in his mind until its far too late. For him, watching a live surgery is amazingly fun! And informative! Its silly and frustrating to him that other folks get uncomfortable even thinking about it. Why should they? Its perfectly natural and it helps people. Those are nothing but GOOD things darn it!

It also doesn't help that his preferred beasts to summon are arachnids, the young man often dotting and cuddling even the most horrifying examples one could pull from the realms with a casual joy that even masters would struggle with. He often helps at the school clinic, though he is not allowed to make any treatment decisions.

Background |
Odhra was often sickly during childhood, rarely able to leave his room for more than a few hours at a time well into his early teens. While his parents weren't poor exactly (his father being a butler to a rather well to do, though not prestigious, noblemen and his mother acting as a secretary to a large cotton tycoon) his continuous need for treatment and the cost of schooling out of his home put considerable financial strain all of them. The stress bore down on all of them in different ways, his dad often refusing to acknowledge it in favor of remaining the family's emotional rock and his mom just threw herself into work.

He had few friends...actually scratch that. He had NO friends. Friends required going outside, something he was just incapable of for the most part. Isolated and thoroughly miserable he often let his mind wander across the realms, believing himself to be in possession of a rather active imagination. His parents weren't invokers, so as far as he knew there was no chance he was.

One night, whilst lost in the throws of exploration, he managed upon a vast sea of silk. It felt...odd, but comfortable. Coiling and brushing against his mind and cool to the touch. Like the way mint tea felt on his tongue. It eased the perpetual wheezing in his chest and out of instinct he pulled at it. And promptly passed out.

When he woke up he was in the hospital (which wasn't surprising.) and greeted by a rather amused looking police officer (which definitely WAS surprising). A brief panic attack later the officer informed him he wasn't in trouble and managed to explain to him what the had happened after he'd passed out.

Apparently Odhra had managed to unknowingly open a gate to one of the realms, the effort of which (combined with his weak health) managing to knock him unconscious. The gate had remained open and the residents began to pour out, responding to an unanswerable call with sheer numbers.

Thankfully he'd not managed to summon anything dangerous, just hundreds of tiny spider like creatures which swarmed over him in a protective cocoon of living chitin. When his parents found him in the morning (after they finished screaming) they immediately called the police, pest control, and an old friend of his father who apparently had a warrant out for his arrest for "illegal possession of precision flamethrowers".

Making a long, and frankly hilarious (if the officer was to be believed anyway), the police departments resident invoker managed to shut the gate and shoo the spiders back to their home, keeping a few bonded to himself just to see if they were harmful. They were not, in fact they were rather helpful. Apparently they were just content to feed off the various harmful bacteria, parasites and other maladies present in his body and returned the precised favor with protection (from rescue services in this case) and a considerable boost to his immune system. They'd yet to figure out which realm exactly he'd tapped into or even how its residents functioned.

It was not a preternatural boost mind you, just enough that he was comparable to your average 12 year old. But still, it had awed him that in a few hours (even if not intentionally) those little critters had managed to do what years of medical treatments couldn't. After that Odhra started studying in earnest, fully dedicated to becoming an invoker, finding and paying back those little guys, and making sure they became a house hold name in the medical community.

Favorite Summons |

Snuggles

Snuggles is one of the first summons Odhra ever bonded with. She is a hunter who specializes in filtering toxins from blood...by medium of sucking it from a humans body and pumping it back into them through her fangs. Acting as a sort of living hemo-dialysis machine. This process isn't painful but its definitely not wholly comfortable either. She can process anything, from natural build up of toxins to deadly poisons. She cleans her fangs and mandibles obsessively (so as to not risk her prey getting sick) and is all around a very tidy summon. Once a month Odhra will let her feed from him, as its quite safe and it's a good bonding experience. She's a hugger, you have been warned.

Bubbles~!

Bubbles is Odhra's only combat summon and for good reason. Bubbles is a physical power house, even among the beasts of Bestia. While he's not exactly bright or subtle, he can tear through reinforced metal like its tin foil and can regenerate rapidly. Thanks to this combo of strength and healing factor, he prefers to just tank blows and strikes until he either reduces opponents to red smears on the ground or utterly exhausts them into giving up. The downside is he's a bit exhausting to keep around because of this, so Odhra DOES try and make him fight more sensibly when he thinks it necessary.

Bubbles is also well known for being an immense softy, exceptionally gentle outside of combat and easily won over by strangers. He often forgets his own size and, despite being the size of a truck, would love to be sitting in your lap getting his horns scratched. Thankfully, Odhra is pretty good about reminding him.

Baily

Baily is Odhra's first experiment into creating a summon from his mind. A hybrid of a few varieties of arachnids he's pulled from the realms tied up in a roughly humanoid form at the suggestion of his teachers. Mostly because, despite his feelings, his summons methods of healing people can be absolutely terrifying. She has some weak healing magic, but can only heal minor wounds. A product of Odhra not being as familiar with the mechanics of such things yet. But her silk is anti-septic and can be pulled into strings for use as stitches or produced in large globs for generally disinfecting a wound. Her stinger tail is deceptively dexterous highly precise, allowing her to administer pain killing venom where and whenever necessary.

Personality wise, she is modeled after an ideal bedside nurse. Cheerful and energetic like her master while remaining notably more soft spoken in an (often failed) attempt to keep her patients calm. She is Odhra's current go to partner for first aid response, both for her general versatility and to see how he can improve on her current form and behaviors.

Fran Odile

Name | Fran Odile
Age | 18
Gender | Male
Level/Tier | V2
House | Phantasma
Appearance/Attire | Fran is often dressed sloppily, normally in ill fitting pants or sweaters with the buttons half way done if done at all. He's short, barely 'standing' taller than 4''3'. His figure is waifish and cute, which tends to get him in trouble on day where he feels particularly lazy and barely dresses himself at all. The only things which he seems to take exceptional care of are his hair and glasses, which he cleans to the point of it being obsessive.

His most striking feature however are the six long black tentacles that frequently slither in and out of his clothing, each about as thick as his arm. The tentacle seem to move with a mind of their own, though he can actively direct them. But most of the time he cant be bothered and simply allows them to roil around his body as they please.

Alignment | Bystander

Personality/Habits | Most folks cannot figure out how Fran became such an accomplished invoker. The first impression he gives off is of someone so chronically lazy that it borders on damaging. ...The second and third impressions he gives off are of a similar notion. But this is really not his fault. Fran is fairly intelligent and reasonably skilled at his craft, he just doesn't really do well in a fast paced school environment. He can sometimes be seen as ditzy or forgetful, but when he is allowed to move at his own (often glacial) pace, most find that he's astonishingly through in his work (largely because he knows he can't be bothered to go back and correct things if they're wrong the first time).

He regularly sleeps through classes or, if the teacher is particularly bothersome, reads material while ignoring the class all together, but he DOES manage (if only just barely) to keep his submitted work to an acceptable level. If only to avoid having to get lectured.

Really the only time Fran ever seems to expend energy is when he is forced to, either because the consequences of putting things off further is going to be MORE tiring than just dealing with it now or because whoever is bothering him as proven to be exceptionally motivated to get him off his ass.

On the subject of habits, he has many. He likes to sleep in random places, which this year have included: An air vent, a girls bathroom, the dracona dorm roof, the head masters office, the Bestia girls dorm laundry room, the Machina Dorm's workshop and on the skirmishers field. A random betting pool has sprung up around campus as to where he will be discovered next.

In the times he's not sleeping, he enjoys hot baths or doing sketch art in charcoal, which he seems to be exceptionally good at. He tried to combine them once. Didn't work out.

Background | Fran's background is fairly normal, all things considered. He parents were to two middle class invokers, house Machina alumni who met and school and started a business maintaining magiteck boilers together in one of the kingdoms larger town. While not over flowing with wealth, the Odile family carved a rather profitable little niche for themselves. Enough, atleast, to support a rather large family of three young girls, with a fourth on the way. To say they were...upset when they discovered their only son was born with a spine disorder that left his legs effectively paralyzed would be an understatement. But there was nothing that really could have prevented or even predicted the freak accident, and the Odile family are a stubborn bunch.

Much of his childhood was spent with or around his family, doing what little he could on his own but largely being dependent on them for day to day life. And while in the early years he was more than ok with this, at times even enjoying the fawning and spoiling his sisters would provide. But as he got older he started to realize there were...annoying downsides to his circumstances. As you can imagine, being in the troughs of puberty and having to need your sisters to help you into and out of a bath on a daily basis is hardly an enjoyable for comfortable experience for anyone.

When he was 15, he discovered he'd been the only one of his siblings to inherit the gifts of an invoker. At first he brushed it off, seeing it as bothersome and not an occupation he could feasibly do anyway. But once his father started showing off the summons and equipment, the wheels began to turn. Nobody really expected him to take up a real job anyway, but at least with training he could be independant enough to avoid some of the more annoying aspects of his disability.

With no real risk of failure to him, Fran began attending L'Mordryn at 16 and set about the task (albiet slowly) of mastering his laxly chosen profession. He didn't rise meteorically through the ranks, but he did well and soon found he'd an attitude for the more...wiggly realms and their inhabitants.

Favorite Summons |

Legs

A set of six black tentacles which attach to a small bulb of flesh that rest between Fran's shoulders. They are not particullarly intelligent creatures (creature?) but seem to hold some animal like affection to their master. Each tentacle is approximately six feet long and as thick as the young mans arm. They are moderately strong individually, able to lift nearly a hundred pounds on their own. Combined they provide Fran with some much needed mobility, and he's since stopped using a wheel chair all together in favor for them when he can. When not in use, they tend to squirm and fidget underneath his clothing.

Icon Of Pain (Penelope)

Penelope is a combat summon that is about as active as her(its?) master, atleast physically. She has no real mobility to speak of, generally just lounging ontop of her master whenever she is summoned and letting his tentacles do all the work of holding the two of them up. However, she is a devastating magician, able to tear a battle field asunder with fire and earth based magic. Mostly though, she just helps her master by walling opponents away while the two of them find a nice spot to sleep the problem away.

Miltias'hura'beltarom'chiziklakborp (Milti)

An entity who has taken this humble form to serve its (her?) master as a caretaker. She acts as his maid and is pretty much solely responsible for his dorm and clothing NOT being an unmitigated disaster. While she is a passable melee combatant, the form she has really isn't built for it. To combat this, she often splits the skin of her disguise open, letting a small fraction of her cosmic visage spill forth. This is generally enough to terrify more simple minded summons back to their realms and spook the shit out of more inexperienced invokers.

L'Mordryn Academy

Lorcan Brigh

Name | Lorcan Brigh
Age | 17
Gender | Male
Level/Tier | A1
House | Dracona
Appearance/Attire |
Lorcan is a svelte young man standing around 5'10, only just starting to broaden out in the shoulders despite his age. He has a fencer's build, all fast twitch muscle and long limbs with only the barest amount of core strength necessary for the art. While he certainly does not cut the most traditionally masculine figure in any given room there is no arguing there is an appealing regal elegance to the young man.

In terms of clothing, Lorcan is rather uninteresting often wearing military esque uniforms more at home at a Officers school than a school than an Invoker's. Still, they are tailored well and offer a great deal more freedom of movement than their stuffy nature would suggest. He also has a large selection of formal wear, though he hates this sordid collection of cloth with a passion. If you ever see him dressed in such a state and appearing happy, expect the sky to rain blood and the world to come to a shattering halt in the next few hours.

Alignment | Judge

Personality/Habits | At first glance, Lorcan is rather typical of house Dracona. Stiff, prim and proper with a noblesse oblige that practically defines the house, all wrapped nicely in an vague sensation that somehow you've offended him by presenting him with your less aristocratic heritage. He is dedicated to excelling at whatever task he sets himself to be it becoming a concert pianist (by age 11), a champion fencer (age 15) or now as an invoker.

As they should be, for the Brigh family's meteoric rise to prominence these last few generations (of which he would not deny no small deal of pride in) demands that anything short of perfection be considered failure.

And if he were being honest...he'd admit to hating all of the above with an intensity to shatter mountains. He WANTS to be lazy and childish, the very idea of spending an afternoon skipping out on his various exercise regiments and goofing right the hell off with friends filling him with such deviant glee that he would burst into a fit of giggles...if propriety allowed for such things.

The common folk have far too much fun in his mind. They're never expected to choke down the saccharine compliments of foppish nobility with a winner's smile glued uncomfortably over their face. They don't have the joy of a hobby stripped away because an opportunity to accumulate accolades and prestige is more important than anything else. They get to chose what friends they keep, by virtue of their character and not the frankly stupid rules of heritage.

The unfairness of it makes him want to spit, but pride is really the only thing that keeps that venom contained. Still, L'Mordryn is an opportunity in his mind to indulge in that freedom (even if only for a while).

Background | The Brigh family was, but a few scant generations ago, a painfully minor noble house. Oh yes, they owned land and conducted the business of their petty fiefdom loyally for countless generations just as the greater houses had but they were decidedly....mundane. There was no great bloodline of dragons flowing through them, no great deeds of daring doo by some distant heroic ancestor or anything of the like. In fact, their rise to nobility was (as far as the historians were concerned) born out of administrative necessity and being competent enough to read and write in an era were such skills were rare.

All of that changed with Lorcan's great grandfather Tuathal Brigh. Tuathal was always an ambitious man, eager to prove the Brigh's Noble standing was more than a token gesture (it was, but nobody ever claimed Tuathal was well versed in history either). The Dust Wars gave him the opportunity, severing with distinction under General Ilan Mulryan whom he later married. Ilan, while not the heir to the family name, was none the less something of a hotly desired suitor at the time so the fact that an as of then unknown noble managed to win her over came as something of a shock back home (something Tuathal was always quick to preen over, albiet with the good nature of a man just as pleasantly surprised as his audience.)

After the Dust Wars concluded, the two set about a frankly terrifying campaign of reconstructive efforts both domestic and abroad. Charity events, dogged diplomatic meetings to simply being champions of comfort to those affected. In hindsight, it was perhaps a comical over compensation by Tuathal but it was good work none the less. There are even a few nobles who make it a point to reserve seats for him and Ilan long after their passing, if only for fear that the two may leap from their graves and break down their doors for not giving them the chance to help in some fashion or another.

Without having been there, it is difficult for Lorcan to say what had changed his family. The Brigh family is still known for its charitable efforts and its continued presence among the military elite, and for much of the population they are regarded with a nostalgic warmth imparted by his great grandfather. But among the noble classes they were decidedly not the same family.

Where once there was an eager welcoming charisma presence at their events and estate, there was now the distant weight of influence and standing...and all the insecurities of a family who had not had it for long enough to count. His father was almost predatory in his pursuit of sustaining the 'family honor', wheeling and trading favors for favors with a knack for polity (both social and otherwise) that may have left Tuathal with more than a few concerns.

His mother was one such example, an heiress to a family who were just short of coming to blows with the Mulryan family for generations. The marriage was not one born of love, one side wanting to expand their power base should their long time patrons become unfavorable and the other just pleased to spite the red eye'd bastards. Proximity and time ultimately made it a happier marriage than it had any right to be, as Lorcan's birth might suggest (or at least he desperately hopes).

Growing up in such a home wasn't...well it wasn't life threatening. His parents, for as cloying and affluent they might've been, weren't cruel. They encouraged his hobbies and passions as any good parent should, though perhaps with...an unknowingly misplaced eagerness.

When he was little he had expressed awe at his mothers ability to play the piano. Once. Exactly Once. His parents had practically drowned him in tutors, studies, and practices. At first it was wonderful, a shared gift between the three of them that won him their praise and private moments of subtle affections that neither parent realized as being rare.

By the time he was ten, it had soured. He no longer played for them privately, instead to audiences of hundreds all equal parts enamored with his proficiency in the art and amused that he could perform as well as someone easily three times his age. That did not stop his parents from attending his concerts, or the various after parties where they would ply their speechcraft among the other well-to-dos.

They lauded him a prodigy and were all too happy to accept the praise of vapid old fools who likely had never been within forty feet of the damnable instrument on his behalf. Their praise should have made him happy, but it didn't. As selfish as it was he wanted that praise for his own benefit, not to grease the wheels on some overly wealthy HAG who just had to attend his next performance at one of his parents innumerable charity balls.

He can't remember what prompted him to tell them he wanted to quit. But he remembered the argument that followed. Loud screaming from two sides, ironically more emotional than they'd ever been, cascading violently across the halls of their estate and heard only by servant who knew better than to get involved or had enough survival instinct to feign ignorance the conflict. His parents won the exchange, eventually cowing him into submission with reminders of their investment into his success and the necessity of paying that back to the family name. He didn't care a whit for their reasoning, but the intensity and certainty of their voices carried with it a promise of consequences that left him ill.

He continued to perform for little over a year after that, though his parents rarely attended anything other than the after parties there after. If it was a move designed to hurt or punish him in someway it did, but it also provided him with a wondrous and uncontested excuse to duck out of the parties all together. He'd spend that time better locked away in whatever private sanctuary he could find available (it would be improper to be seen in such a state afterall), where he could flip flopping between silent seething anger or cracked hushed sobs in peace.

So it came as something of an immense panic when Isobel Mulryan found him one night. He knew about her, they WERE relatives as distant as that connection might have been. But they were hardly close and the girls reputation was...not the most comforting. The image of a dumpster fire came immediately to mind. At first he feared she would run off and rat him out, either out of naive concern or an attempt to try her hand at shaming a potential political rival. That the latter was a prospect even occurred to him as an eleven year old almost shocked him into action, where it not for the little girl wrapping her knuckles against his skull and dragging him bodily from the bathroom like it was about to explode with the loud (VERY loud he might add) proclamation of his status as a quote 'Dweeb'.

The sheer alien absurdity stunned him more than the blow did, a miasma of complacency robbing him of the strength needed to pull himself out of her grip as she dragged him into the hall. Not that it mattered, the last punch was a pretty sound indication that that she could have beaten him soundly with little effort if that was what she wanted. When she finally turned on him, he flinched away and prepared for another blow.

Instead she decided that he was not yet confused enough and launched into a pep talk. He wished he could say it was profound, that through simple eloquence she had lifted him subtly from his mood. Gods though, it was anything but. It was the awkward clumsy attempts of a ten year old girl (Correction: ten and three quarters) who knew maybe one twelfth of a percent of the situation. With all the subtly and elegance as the aforementioned dumpster fire. Scratch that, with words alone she'd not only up ended said dumpster fire but, in fact, managed to set ablaze every dumpster within a four mile radius with after shocks to follow. But the concern was there, naked and freely given as the praise (and boasting...) that accompanied it.

It did help him feel better, though he made sure to never be on the receiving end of such a scenario again. He did not fancy his chances of surviving if he burst into laughter in front of her like that. He did a little digging on his would be savior after that. Not out of some childish crush of course. The fact they were related but a swift and violent death to that notion thank you very much!

It was more an excuse to find a way to be around someone remotely comforting, if not her then someone (literally anyone at that point). Swordsmanship was first obvious inlet and he latched onto it like a drowning man, his 'cousin' being more fond of it than graceful as he'd been told. His first instinct was to try and emulate her style (what little there was anyway), but that was quickly put aside for a variety of reasons.

Firstly, his fumbling attempts with lifting a heavier blade (pilfered from a suit of armor on the family Estate) told him he was definitely not suited to that sort of thing. Secondly, it would have been all kinds of creepy to copy her in an attempt to win her attention. He might have been desperate, but he was definitely not THAT desperate. But most importantly, learning to fight like Isobel didn't suit the image his parents had cultivated of him. He was demure, sophisticated and eloquent beyond his years by design. He was NOT a hyperactive kid with ready access to medieval weaponry and a panache for the dramatic and the world would sooner burn than his parents let him be.

Competition fencing, however, was all the things he was supposed to be. Perhaps not demure, but a carefully worded reminder to his father that such skills would be invaluable for when he entered the military let him successfully let him avoid that counter argument. And soon enough he was thrust (pun very much intended) into the sport with the rabid fervor his parents normally used.

He excelled at the sport, as was expected of him, and continued to perform at his parents request interspersed with the occasional reunion with his 'cousin' at social events (and the only savings grace of being forced to attend them). Frankly he was so busy that training to be an invoker had all but slipped he and his parents mind. But L'Mordryn was a school for a reason, he could afford to enter is with a novice understanding of the art.

...and if he could not, then the look of horror that would be on his parents faces if he failed would be worth their weight in gold.

Favorite Summons |

Penjani

While a humanoid dragon is...an unusual choice, Penjani is possibly Lorcan's most used summon. She is a diminutive waif of a summon, barely 4'5 and actually physically WEAKER than most humans. She is capable of simple tasks when given commands, though anything more complex than opening a chest and grabbing a specific item is beyond her somewhat limited intelligence. She is entirely unsuited to combat but will engage when ordered (not that he ever would).

The reason he keeps her around is that she does have one exceptionally useful trait. If an object or person and their vague position is known to her summoner, she can lead him to them to their approximate position. As she cannot speak (either lacking in the intelligence need or simply not able to) the only way direct her summoner is by physically taking them their at a normal walking pace. There are limitations however. If Lorcan wrongly assumes the vague location of something she will be confused and lead him in circles wordlessly. In the case of people, if they desire to NOT be found (even casually) the result is much the same.

She is a fairly shy creature, often hiding behind her summoner to avoid the gazes of others unless ordered otherwise. But she is eager to please and a dutiful companion, happily acting as Lorcan's assistant or performing menial tasks that would be considered below his station.

Warin

Warin is Lorcan's go to summon for combat. As a Psuedodragon Warin is the lowest form of dragon life, practically a pest by most standards. Their barbed tail can deliver a venomous payload that, while harmless (save for minor numbness for a day or two after), is exceptionally painful. He can also breath small gouts of fire that can leave fairly minor burns.

Generally a psuedodragon would have no place as a combat summons but Warin and Lorcan work well together. Mostly because Warin is a vicious little bastard with just enough intelligence to fight dirty. He likes to crawl along Lorcan as he engages an opponent, leaping on to them and stinging relentlessly at any available flesh and fleeing the moment they turn their attention to him. He also enjoys setting hair on fire.

While not in combat Warin is little more than an overprotective pet, roosting on his summoners shoulders and fixing heated glares at anyone that fails to meet the little buggers unknown standards. However he is easily bought with neck scratches and gifts of fried fish.

L'Mordryn Academy

I'll be working up a CS sometime over the next two days if there are still slots available. Likely a Tyro for Dracona, cause someone has to be at the bottom of the top.

Spells in the Dark (18+ for Dark and suggestive themes)

Usoa

interacting with: Celosia@Kitty, Alexina @Aerandir, Taran@Ellion

Usoa had done little after the excitement of this morning's meeting, which was something of a norm for her. She had returned to her dwellings just as quickly as she could, eager to disrobe of her ‘formal’ garments and return to her normal duties. A few of the younger witches flitted about the space of the ‘clinic’ providing what minor medical attention was needed to its various residents as their patron stalked through on eight tentacles, only stopping briefly to free herself of the pants and shirt she had been adorned with; dropping them to the floor in a haphazard pile of fabric that was to be someone else's problem.

There was little in the way of work to do at the moment though, and Usoa found herself...bored. As much warmth she may have felt for Alexina, there was something to be said about her propensity towards isolation and peace. It left people like Usoa desperately under worked. The weird amalgam of eldritch and human lifts herself slightly, surveying the clinic momentarily as she tried to run through a mental checklist of things that her ‘toys’ needed, only coming up with rest for her efforts.

With an annoyed huff she slunk deeper into her clinic, arms reaching into a carved out hole in the wall near a back corner and pulling her up with (to observers) looked to be an unnatural grace. Inside there was a rats nest of blankets, most due for a cleaning but not overly so, discarded books and wooden toy people of various occupations with long faded paint.

She regarded the toys silently as she pulled the covers over herself, a brief moment of bliss shooting through her as she felt her own residual body heat still trapped firmly in its folds. She couldn’t remember where they had come from nor why she liked them. They were crude approximations of people, their faces little more than spheres with small pointed wedge like noses to complete the image. All most all posed in the same stilted fashion, arms at their side and legs straight, with only the occasional lifted arm holding aloft some icon of their profession to distinguish those of greater standing. Bakers and Coopers stood mirrored by Soldiers, holding aloft their rolling pins and hammers in mocking salute of their bladed counter parts.

As sleep began to worm its way in her chest she wondered if they appreciated the insult before brushing the thought away. Wood was not of the thinking sort. She allowed an arm to brave the cold air outside of her nest and let it flick a wooden soldier to its side before returning, coiling her tentacles around her tightly as she gave up fighting the urge to nap.

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It was dark by the time she awoke, knowing more from the sounds of deep breathless sleep that echoed into her hole from the clinic than what the light of the room. She rumbled darkly as she turned in the covers, attempting to banish her consciousness away so she could enjoy the warmth of her bed for a few hours longer with little success. After a few fruitless moments she admitted defeat, dragging her body from her nest in a tangle of limbs and blankets.

She allowed the blankets to fall from her body and pool on the floor beneath her, knowing full well she probably should clean it up herself but struggling to find the motivation to do so. Someone else would clean it, they did more often than not atleast. She yawned and stretched the whole of herself, tentacles curling and uncurling at odd angles from her body seemingly enjoying the act as much as the rest of her.

Cold air rushed over her, a pleased murmur escaping her as goosebumps erupted along her skin as she entered the final stages of waking up. She allowed her feet a rare moment of contact with the floor, a final shuddering spike of cold rising up through her as she made tentative contact with the floor. She wandered slowly and quietly over to a window, careful not to disturb the sleep of what few patients she had, gazing out over the darkened courtyard of Castle Bloodrose.

Alexina was standing sentinel at the gates, posture firm and solemn as the castle she claimed as her own. Though not an alien sight, it was rare enough to warrant a weak bubble of interest from Usoa. Alex was, for the most part, not a creature of whimsy. If she was at the gates, it was not to entrance herself in the joy of a cold nights air. She was either waiting patiently for something or something very foolish was about to walk into her. Either option struck Usoa as more interesting than spending another night doing approximately fuck and all in her own quarters.

She turned from the window and headed towards the door of her chambers, not bothering to worry about dressing. It was late enough that what few children that called Castle Bloodrose home were long since asleep so those who may see her would be more than capable of handling the sight, if not entirely used to it by this point.

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As she pushed the door to the courtyard open, two things caught Usoa’s attention. First, the acrid rot of a Death’s Fog hung weakly in the air. Too weak to have been close or recent, but it was there all the same. Usoa thanked her lucky stars she had been asleep when it rolled in, feeling herself gag against the smell slightly, having hated that stench for far longer than she could remember.

The second thing was that Alexina was no longer alone, her...child? Ward?....Welp? Whatever Taran was to Alex, he was there, his words falling weakly from his mouth after a embrace by the older witch. At his flank was another, less familiar face. Red hair flowed smoothly over soft curves, quiet literally red and quite literally flowing Usoa noted.

Swallowing the sour taste of the Death’s Fog out of her mouth, Usoa pushed outward into the night air. Fingers of too cold air crawling along the length of her spine before spread out across the rest of her skin as she approached the trio, the awkward lilting gait provided by her extra limbs being surprisingly quiet when she willed it to be.

”Taran brings us another?” She says as she gently steps past Alexina, eyes tracing over the young man’s frame in search of injuries. Her eyes spied the growing purple black stain of his wrist, swollen and angry with neglect. ”And hurts themself in the process…” She added after a quick glance to Celosia showed she was perfectly fine, sans a few minor scrapes here or there.

Usoa grabs the fabric of Taran’s sleeve, raising the injured arm up as she closed the gap between them to examine the extent of the damage. ”We know you know how to make a splint.” She said her tone carrying its normal levels of indifference, though only slightly higher with the mild aggravation one might expect from an exasperated maid walking in on a muddied floor. Celosia and Alex were treated to the sight of a tentacle sliding back into Usoa’s skin, the ichor black appendage growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared into pale flesh.

It was probably a waste to spend a coil on the boys foolishness, but Usoa doubted she would need all four over the next four days. And if the current state of his wrist was any indication, he could not be trusted to take care of himself properly if given a lesser cure. The fact that she was also a little bored perhaps also influenced the final decision, though she would not let Alexina in on that little fact.

Usoa pulled herself ever closer to Taran, wrapping her arms around his and pressing it firmly in a vertical grip against her chest, angled such that his wrist sat level with her mouth. ”You will hold very still…” She warned darkly, yellow eyes gleaming with both warning and a frightening amount of unvoiced amusement as seven tentacles wavered in the air around her.. ”Or We will be doing this again. Less comfortably.”

Giving him no time to respond, Usoa bit into the soft swollen flesh of Taran’s wrist, ripping away a not so small chunk of the poor boy in doing so. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the feel of it all; the soft ball of rolling flesh moving freely in the confines of her mouth like an over ripened piece of fruit, the metallic tang of blood against her tongue and throat, the writhing sense of movement that was slowly making its way up her throat. But she allowed herself ONLY that moment, unhinging her jaw from Taran’s arm to quickly spit the warlocks now useless flesh out before it became a hindrance.

Usoa briefly wondered if this new girl thought the whole situation looked as strange as it likely felt for Taran, but banished the line of thought as quickly as it came when she felt the tentacle emerge from the back of her throat. She clamped her mouth back over Taran’s fresh wound as it crawled forth from inside her and pushed its way into the warlock, a black worm that distended her throat to the point of near asphyxia that dug into the broken flesh of her victimpatient.

The tentacle snaked its way through Taran’s flesh, pushing vien and bone out of its way with almost no concern for comfort or care as it simply attempted to fill as much of his arm as possible. The skin around the wrist bulged unnaturally, almost doubling in width and threatening to burst for a moment before the invading ‘aid’ of Usoa seemed to find the crampedness equally unbearable and coiling part way up the young man's arm. After that, it seemed to settle and Usoa felt a familiar snap deep in her stomach signaling she’d released the tentacle successfully. She leaned back from her grip on Taran’s wrist, more tentacle flowing out of her throat for a few inches before finally ending with a wet pop.

The hole she had bitten in the warlock was bleeding less now, more a slow weeping wound than the gout of blood it really should be. ”Better?” She asks as she quickly wraps the remainder of the detached tentacle around his wrist before slinking behind him, arms wrapping around his chest as she held him firmly against her. Likely a somewhat...scandalous pose for Celosia, but Taran likely knew how draining his elders methods could be on her patients, so the support was not without merit. That and, despite not being particularly fond of men, Usoa had to admit the night air as...more than she wanted to deal with in her current state of dress. The new girl would be more ideal, but she seemed a tad….flamey for that at the moment.

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Sanjin

interacting with: Rowyn@Kitty, Flint @Aerandir, @Bright_Ops

”Not a problem!” Sanjin chirped, almost too happily as he casually stabbed the sword into the chest on an oncoming goblin. He really couldn’t help but enjoy all of this...chaos, he supposed. Sure people were dying which sort of sucked the joy out of the whole deal, but people were ALWAYS dying. Saren’s folly, as far as he could tell anyway, had a near perpetual effluvial haze of fatalism hanging about it even in the most joyous occasions. Brutal as this whole scenario was, Sanjin would be a liar if he said that the collective catharsis he felt from the other hunters (...ok. Just him really.) was wonderful.

A loud parade of squawks brought him back to reality, his eyes turning to the noise in unison with the goblins, though more out of confusion than reference for the divine fowl in question. Sanjin could practically feel the goblin hordes collective mass begin to shift away from him and the doctor, eager to recover such a holy beast. He almost laughed again, Flint’s battered and now be-chickened frame wading through the battlefield like the world's worst delivery man being the last thing he’d expected. The doctor was...far less amused, drawing her sword and cutting a clumsy path towards the bowman.

Sanjin followed in her wake, stabbing and crushing what goblins she left in her path of less than stellar sword play. He was about to ask if she wanted him to take the lead when a goblin swiped at her leg as she screamed at Flint. Something...clicked inside the woman and the words on his lips died as it did, his body immediately syncing and feeding off the suddenly vicious aura around the woman.

Whatever it was it felt GREAT. Powerful, animal and almost lustful! And it showed in the doctors sudden, though much improved, blade work. Sanjin let himself feed off the feeling, letting himself be lost in it as he too began to tear into the goblins. Details were becoming fuzzy for him, the sensation of a dull thud resonating through his club or the sleight resistance of his sword on flesh becoming far more meaningful than sight.

Those looking at the spectacle of the two hunters, it must have been hard not to start pitying the goblins (even if only slightly). Caught between two berserking storms of hunters and the object of their devotion, neither maelstrom of painless fury slowing. A cackling howl escaped Sanjin as he drove his sword straight through the wooden slat shield of a goblin, hidden manic eyes sliding over the doctor’s form before he yelled at them. ”HAHA, I fucking love it! What else ya got!? MORE MORE!” He half cackled, whatever plan Flint may have had being lost to a frenzy.

Spells in the Dark (18+ for Dark and suggestive themes)

Sanjin, Hunter

interacting with: Rowyn@Kitty, Bobby and Flint @Aerandir

For the second time tonight, the tavern exploded into chaos. Men and women rushed hurried to strap on swords, re-tighten armor they had laxed to breath, or simply recover from the sheer alcoholic stupor they had put themselves into. Frankly, Sanjin was pretty sure the tavern only needed to be ‘mostly’ on fire before the image was pretty much perfect. The only real downside was the collective speed of said rowdy (now blood thirsty) group, either still fiddling with equipment or too slow to exit the front door with Bobby and Flint before a small crowd began to form at the mouth of the tavern.

Staring at the small crowd tweaked at the young man’s nerves, a harsh snarl escaping his lips as he drew his club. The town needed help, a part of his mind was still aware of that, but that did not stop the sudden flare of frustration bursting in his chest. The prospect of killing wendigos had excited him, the rabid hunger roiling in his stomach held in check only by a small shred of pragmatism drilled into him by his elders. If the goblin’s were so keen on interrupting his first true hunt, then he was more than keen to work his urges out on them.

He pushed past the crowd for a moment before spying his target, a clean window staring out onto the muddy strip of dirt and gravel that made up the roads in Saren’s Folly. He dropped to a dead sprint, flinging himself through the pane in a shower of glass and feverish growling that was steadily growing in volume. He landed on all fours, a mad scramble of limbs and club as he righted himself and chased after the receding figures of Flit and Bobby. It took him little time to catch up, one man being injured, the other long since crippled, and both occasionally stopping to deal with some minor green distraction.

Bobby was the first to finally stop, screeching in a deep baritone in language that Sanjin could (at the moment atleast) normally reserved for the most obstinate of drunkards. Flint was just ahead, slamming his back against a wall and crushing a small nuisance to death under the sheer berth of his relative weight. And further beyond Flint, a flash of gold eyes that Sanjin only vaguely recognized as the doctor from earlier, knife in hand and several dead goblins at her feet, generously pepper with both arrows and stab wounds. He made a mental note to apologize to her later for not assuming she could fight, and compliment Flint’s shooting while he was at it. All that said, the sheer number of goblins was starting to get slow her down.

Another goblin clambering from the shadows near Flint finally drew Sanjin back to the moment, his arms and as he burst into a lopping sprint, passing Bobby by in a flurry of almost barking laughter that was at odds with the goblish gibbering and screeches that filled the air. As the sneaking goblin readied his (her?) knife, they were greeted with the sight of a masked man practically barreling over Flint and bringing a vicious nail tipped club down over their skull. A small shudder of pleasure rolled up through the pack child as he sailed past the archer, the familiar sensation of his weapon striking true and sticking into his prey delighting his hunger. Sheer momentum from his mad dash and the strike carried him forward, the insane ball of hunter and goblin (hanging from the club like the worlds worst ornament) rolling forward a foot before finally stopping in a low crouch.

With the high of a fresh kill now calming him slightly, he turned to Flint and spoke, his voice barely comprehensible amongst the din of combat and the orchestra of pleased beastial rumbling he was making. ”Cover me. Helping doctor.” was probably the most accurate translation one could manage, but if Sanjin had any interest in seeing if Flint had understood him it wasn’t showing.

He darted forward again, howling gleefully as he did and relishing the fact he heard more than a few similar howls echoing across the town. A few goblins who’d not yet closed the gap to Rowyn turned towards him, their eyes widening in what likely passed for fear in their dim little minds as they saw a masked man charging their way; wearing next to no armor and dragging a club decorated with the limp body of their former fellow.

A brief millisecond of stunned silence fell over the troupe before their collective survival instinct began to scream at them in unison to kill it before it gets close, whatever IT was. Two of the goblins drew their bows and fired, but Sanjin made no attempt to dodge. At this distance, it was impractical and it was faster to just keep going. One arrow went low, slapping uselessly into the dirt. The other landed cleanly, burying itself into the pack child’s shoulder.

Pain tried to assert itself in Sanjin’s mind, but was lost among the cacophony of feral need that currently swirled about his brain. He did not stop his tear towards the goblins, bearing down on them before the realization that he wasn’t hurt enough to stop had even begun to spark in their brains.

Sanjin raised his club, a loud grinding noise of metal (or stone perhaps) and protesting muscle ringing in his ears as he brought it down on the nearest goblin, bringing the brunt of the swing and its dead companion down on its head with a sickening thunk of meat and bone. Their confidence shattered, the small cluster began to disperse, tiny bodies fleeing in whatever direction seemed to offer the quickest retreat from the mask human. Sanjin’s good arm fired out, catching on by a primitive belt of sorts and dragging it back towards himself, retching the club free from his two previous victims. The goblin had just enough time to turn and squeal an unintelligible plea before it was silenced with a dull wet thump.

With the small troup scattered Sanjin took a moment to check on the Doctor, now flat on her back as the goblins ripped at her clothing. Small tents forming alongside vicious little smiles, filling the young hunter with an...unfamiliar sense of rage. He gripped the arrow shaft embedded in his shoulder and pulled, the arrow coming lose in a small gout of blood and an explosion of pain that only fuel him more as he darted to the dog pile.

He crashed into the group in a low tackle, howling laughter erupting from him as his club found another soft body that squeak briefly before falling silent. A goblin to his left was the first to react to his presence, hastily stopping his attempts at removing his trousers and grabbing a short sword at his hip and stabbing down at the young man. Sanjin raised his club arm almost lazily in response, a sadistic smile spreading across his face as he felt the blade cut through him, sliding between the bones of his forearm. He turned the stabbed arm, forcing the blade from the little monsters grasp despite his bodies protest and shot forward with the arrow in his off hand, planting it firmly in the awful creatures throat.

Several of the goblin gang leapt back, giving the two hunters some space as they assesed this new threat. Sanjin rose to his feet, dragging Rowyn with him. ”You ok doc?” he rumbled, pulling the short sword out while they still had a moment and casting an unreadable glance in her direction. She seemed...mostly unhurt. A few scrapes here and there but nothing serious from what he could tell. He gave the short sword an experimental swing, flicking blood (his blood he noted dully) from the blade. Its balance was nothing to write home about but it would have to do. He gave a small barking laugh, a sudden realization hitting him. ”This is so much fun isn’t it?!” he asked, voice as bubbly and excited as it had been back at the bar, the feral rabidness that had brought him to her side briefly forgotten in a fit of whimsy.

Spells in the Dark (18+ for Dark and suggestive themes)

Sanjin

@TheDoctor@Bright_Ops@Kitty@Aerandir@Ellion

”Finally...Work!” Sanjin huffed, happy to hear a hunt being officially called. While he wasn’t hugely familiar with wendigos, if they were a trio of normally solo hunters then some rules should still apply. ”We should be careful while we track them down...When solo hunters start working together, it generally means they’re targeting bigger prey. It’s not unreasonable to assume that if this...pod? Im gonna use pod. Pod of Wendigos is hunting together that they’ve engaged groups of hunters as a unit before.” He said suddenly to Draco, his normal energy somewhat focusing as he unclipped his mask from his belt.

He fumbled with the straps for a moment, tightening the leather strips until he could feel them almost cutting into the skin of his scalp. Two other hunters piped up that they were interested in joining, the doctor and the nice lavender lady, which struck him as a good omen. Nobody ever complains about having a doctor on for a hunt, provided they didn’t...ya know. Die immediately.

The other man seemed experienced, but Sanjin was perhaps a little worried about how casually he was taking the whole situation. ”We’ll wait for you here.” He said, almost as an after thought, to the two women as they left. He returned his attention to the older hunter and Bobby. ”Don’t suppose either of you know if Wendigo’s have any particular weaknesses we could send a runner to buy before we leave?…also, how much are we getting paid for this?...cause I would like my share in dried meats.” He asked, for once not bouncing on his heels. Despite his excitement, he knew better than to waste energy before they set out. There would be more than enough reasons to spend it in a few minutes.

Spells in the Dark (18+ for Dark and suggestive themes)

Sanjin

Interacting with: Draco@Bright_Ops, Flint@Aerandir and Rowyn@Kitty

Sanjin nodded wordless as the doctor (as politely as she could he guessed) refused his help. He was about to ask her where she had learned to do her craft, more out of boredom than anything else when the man woke up. Flashing his savior at what would probably been a roguish grin were it not for the blood coming out of several newly formed orifices before the table gave way, planting his face firmly in the woman's lap.

The woman made no move to push him out of her lap, so Sanjin just assumed she had taken no offense to the sudden intrusion. Given the guys injuries, that made sense. Its not like he'd MEANT to be there. Though, apparently not all the hunters in the tavern shared her pragmatism, the two of them catching a few looks of what Sanjin assumed to be scandal before another hunter came over to scold his peer.

The young Pack member rolled his eyes, squatting down to Flint's level. "While you're down there. You mentioned Wendigos. I'm guessing those are the slight problem you mentioned when you walked in?" He asked, not really wanting a potentially great job pass him by.