They say if you can’t throw the first punch, throw the last. Rook says: why settle—throw both.
Rook’s a veteran. Since Pariah’s first beta, she’s been there, to everyone’s chagrin but her own. At first she hated it; which was fair enough, no love lost either direction. PvE was fine, she guessed. Killing big monsters was cool, shiny loot was cool, and suffering catastrophic bodily damage only to respawn shortly thereafter was cool too.
Less cool was that most of this had to be done with other people. People with loud voices, dumb faces, and slow, stupid hands or heads or whatever it was you played Pariah with. They’d interrupt the fun to do shit like ask questions or socialize, and when she reacted accordingly, she was more often than not kicked. It was bullshit.
Then she discovered PvP, and oh, the stars, they just aligned. Here was a world where she could inflict herself upon others and be rewarded for the resulting carnage. She jumped in with both feet and never looked back. Rook didn’t just thrive here, she excelled. What she lacked, tremendously, in working with other people, she more than made up for with her ability to hurt them. Duels, free for all’s, even team-based games; as long as she could punch someone, she was happy.
With a seemingly bottomless furnace of rage, fueled by a steady stream of angry DMs from salty opponents, Rook found a home for herself. A home on the PvP leaderboards, a home on Pariah’s battlegrounds, and a home on the shit lists of damn near every PvP guild and bounty hunter in the game. Her life became a revolving door of challengers and arenas and PEGI 18 rated bloodsports.
She wouldn’t have it any other way.
Signature
Terminus The cornerstone to Rook’s playstyle lies in the arcane brace attached to her spine. The device is socketed with a quintet of jutting nodes, which can be activated in sequence to instill her with ramping power—at a cost. This process puts Rook on a time limit, as once the third node is activated, Terminus will continue its sequence, draining mana until she's spent, dead, or both. Ultimately, this makes Rook exceptionally well suited for fast, bursty combat, but she suffers in protracted encounters.
Passively, Terminus gives Rook a baseline enhanced strength, as well as the ability to rapidly regenerate mana when inactive. Once activated, Rook can subconsciously allocate a node to her skills of Enhancement or Alteration, up to five times, meaning she cannot hit the capstone of both skills.
Enhancement
Each node allocated to Enhancement grants Rook an exponential increase to strength, speed, and reflex, with the most notable increase at three. Each allocation unlocks a new spell.
Relapse ★ Rook's next strike hits twice.
Eidetic Agony ★★ Rook memorizes the damage of the next attack that hits her, mimicking it with her next strike.
Damocles ★★ Rook becomes momentarily invulnerable, restoring her body to full health temporarily, and replenishing her mana but draining it at an increased rate. Once Damocles ends, Rook suffers the damage she took prior to its cast.
Alteration
Each node allocated to Alteration grants Rook mastery over her arcane gauntlets, allowing access to new spells with each dedicated node.
Polverize ★ Rook marks the last target she hit with arcane polarity, allowing her to either repel herself away from them, or rush directly to them.
Mercurial Agony ★★ Rook traps the arcane energy of the next attack that hits her, allowing her to either replenish a small amount of mana, or infuse her gauntlets with an absorbed element. Defaults to a raw magic infusion if no element is absorbed. This spell does not deflect or diminish the damage of the attack.
Meteoran ★★★★★ Rook throws her Hail Mary, channeling all of her mana, recently trapped energy, and memorized damage into a single, explosive strike. This immediately ends Terminus.
World of Nails : Rook does one thing: she hits people. She's exceedingly good at it, some might even say born for it. Put her in front of a target, and she will, inevitably, find a way to make it cry. Alas, it is also the only thing she's good at. She's not a crafter, she's not a raider, and she's certainly not a public servant. She's a PvPer; she needs a player to versus, or she kind of has no idea what to do with herself.
No-Lifer : Between her veteran status, and the fact that she hardly ever seems to log off, Rook has an amount of hours in this game rivaled by few players. One would think this would make for a well-rounded experience, but no. As stated, Rook has spent a majority of her time either in arenas, or fighting out in the open world. This has, at least, made her rather knowledgeable of Pariah's lands. She probably couldn't draw you a map, but if you dropped her in a random place, chances are she's murdered someone or been murdered there. If all else fails, she could make a living as a particularly ornery wilderness guide.
Metalhead : Rook is, for better or worse, determined to the point of incorrigibility. When she sets her mind to something, it's damn near impossible to dissuade her, especially with force. Fortunately, she's rather dense, and it usually doesn't take much to convince her of something. Using big words is a risk; after four syllables she'll either assume you know what you're talking about, or get incredibly angry. Which, to be fair, is her reaction to most stimuli.
Small Heart Beating : Rook is cruel, but not wantonly. She doesn't necessarily enjoy being mad, but there's not much catharsis in anything else. Life isn't fair like that. Still, there's a part of her, tiny as it might be, that takes every opportunity it can to twist her anger towards more noble pursuits. It doesn't always succeed, but when it does, she finds the satisfaction lingers just a little bit longer.
Sybil stopped mid-bite at Quinn’s request, hesitated, then finished up the last quarter of her burger in no particular hurry, contemplating. Quinn was polite, which was fine, but it was Cyril’s anticipatory silence that irked her. She could see him in her periphery, wide eyed, stupid smile spreading slow across his face, masking his excitement with all the guile of a kindergartner waiting for recess.
Eventually she caved, sighed, said, “Fine,” and fished her phone out of her pocket.
“Yes!” Cyril hissed, gobbling down the last of his fries and scurrying over to the couch. It almost put her off, but that wouldn’t have been fair to Quinn. Not that she was sure why that mattered; she barely knew the girl.
“Okay, uh…” she flipped through her photos, regretting now as she did every time that she had no folders, no albums, no organization of any kind. Thumbnails of paintings amidst sketches amidst scenic photographs amidst memes amidst pictures of other people’s pets. “Uh. Oh, here.”
She pulled up a painting from her first weeks on the Ange, of the Ange. Minimalist in the fact that there was really just the station, and a brushy black void, and nothing else. A sharp white shape, like an elegant spinning top, edges fuzzing into the black around it. She hadn’t even put in stars, because there hadn’t been any on the exterior cameras. Space was scary like that. Full from afar, empty if you looked too close. Overall it was exceedingly simple; she hadn’t submitted it anywhere, though she was sure the CSC could have hocked it to some pretentious collector, or at least an opportunist in search of one.
“This was sort of an exercise,” she said. “Did the black first, but left space in and kinda, like, shaped the station out of that, rather than put it on top. That’s why the spine looks so jagged, left all the mistakes in actually. Figured that’s what exercises are for.”
Cyril leaned over the cushion, pointed. “She added our rooms, too! That’s her, there, cause it’s by the lettering, and I’m one over. I think you’d be…there? No, wait, maybe you’re on the rounding side. Oh! Oh! Show her the cat! The cat!”
Sybil sighed; of course he wanted the cat. She’d been about to show that one anyway, but, still.
She scrolled and pulled up a wider canvas, another exercise she hadn’t sent anywhere, which was now collecting dust in the space under her bed. It was partially a subject of the cat, and partially a landscape. She’d caught the little thing standing on a railing overlooking the sea, at sunset, where the twilight turned its glossy black coat into an oil slick. Frankly, it looked a bit ridiculous; far too much rainbow on the pelt, and she’d taken liberties with the brightness of its eyes. But it was pretty, at least she thought so.
That had been two days before they came to the Ange. Cyril had pointed it out to her, and she knew that if he’d been faster, they would have brought the little stray up with them. Some days she wished he had caught it. The idea of a little kitten meandering around the pilot’s deck brought a little smile to her face, if only briefly.
“Her name was Truckstop,” Cyril said wistfully.
Sybil shook her head. “You’re an idiot,” she said, and turned to Quinn. “There’s a truck stop like, five feet off to the side. Worst one in Casoban.”
“Worst one in Casoban,” he agreed. “Rotisserie salmonella and rotten hotdogs. No candy. Condemnable bathrooms. Cute cashier though.”
“Sure, yeah.” She put her phone away. Sharing her work, even the good, completed stuff, carbonated her stomach. “Anyway, uh. Nothing fancy—at least that’s not already sold off somewhere—but there you go.”
Cyril rolled his eyes. “There you go, she says, like she isn’t the most talented artist in the—”
“See? Idiot.”
“I don’t mind being proud for both of us,” he said, still grinning. “Back me up, Quinn. Right? Didn’t you just want to reach out and squish Truckstop’s cheeks?”
Time moved with liquid imprecision, marked not by clocks or alarms, but by the waveform excitement of the crowds, denoting the approximate starts and stops of scheduled events that strayed further and further from their schedules as the day went on. Quinn would find it difficult to disappear, but easy to maneuver. Always there were eyes, often there were words, rarely were there blocks.
It wasn’t until she passed behind the local community center that someone finally got in her way. A lone shadow that stepped into the light and sprouted bright colors, fluffy hair, and a relieved expression.
“There you are!” Cyril said. “Quick—come with me!”
With a theatrical wave to the passersby who saw, he led her gently but insistently through a staff door and into the back rooms of the building. The sounds of an overstuffed city quieted almost immediately, replaced by the dim and incessant hum of fluorescent lights, and the slightly sweet chemical smell of a recently mopped tile floor.
“We commandeered the offices for lunch,” he said, leading the way through the halls, past doors with empty nameplate holders, and corkboards tacked with fliers for events that had happened months ago.
Eventually they entered a faculty lounge. It wasn’t overly large, but it did, in a way, look somewhat like her living room on the Aerie. A couch, a TV, some chairs and tables, a kitchen with far less amenities, and the addition of a pinball machine in the corner.
Sybil was splayed out on the couch, a large baggie of fast food on the communal table, printed with the swooping logo of a place called ‘Benji’s’.
“Huh,” she said. “You found her.”
“Much more that she found me,” Cyril said, shutting the door behind them, only to recoil out of the way when Quinn darted back to wedge a stopper at the threshold, keeping it just slightly opened. They had been advised, briefly, that she might be given to erratic behavior. They'd seen as much, but still, it would take some getting used to. But used to it he'd get. Cyril had never met a challenge that wasn't worth giving at least a healthy try.
He stretched tall and long like a cat. There were pops, he let out a satisfied hum. “What a morning. Oh, Quinn, help yourself. Picked that up from a local spot. Apparently it’s been around since the captain was a kid.”
“So like a million years,” Sybil said humorlessly.
“She’s really not that much older than we are.”
“She is for a pilot.”
Cyril rolled his eyes. “Ignore her, she’s been painting fruit all morning. Still-life makes her moody.”
“Nobody in or out of art school wants to paint a fucking apple on a fucking pillow.” Sybil rummaged through the bag and tossed Cyril a burger in paper wrapping. She picked one out for herself, then slid the bag over towards Quinn. “There’s fries too. Got a large ‘cause the captain’s not around to yell about calories.”
“God, yes,” Cyril said, snatching a fingerful of fries with an undignified noise. “They don’t warn you about the dietary stuff, when you sign on. Between us, I don’t even think it comes from Toussaint. I’m positive it’s Camille.”
Sybil took a sharkish bite from her burger and made a halfhearted attempt to cover her mouth when she spoke. “More kale and protein shakes for her.”
“Are they strict on the Aerie, too?” Cyril asked, hopping onto the counter. “What with Dragon and all that.”
It took a while for her to find an opportunity. She perused the dummies, the applicants, searching for people who were neither the most skilled nor the least, but rather those with something…else. Less discernable. She wanted to avoid people who were clearly favored for spots regardless of their performance, of which there were a few—herself, shamedly, not excluded—but neither did she want to propel someone who wasn’t ready for knighthood into a life of danger. It wasn’t an easy life, not everyone could do it. And even of those who could, many still shouldn’t.
Eventually she meandered to the lesser populated dummies, where those of lower stock or from houses of little consequence batted at the dummies like cats at a post. Under the disappointed gaze of the instructors, most gradually dispersed. Only a few remained, and those, Ionna determined, were the kind of aspirant she was looking for. Unnoticed, unlauded, and undeterred. As deserving of a chance as anyone else in the courtyard. All she had to now was wait, and not for long, either.
There were distractions aplenty at the other dummies, be they for melee or archery. A thunderous crash, a small clamor as a particularly brawny aspirant obliterated his dummy and gave her the chance she needed. While attentions turned to the hammer-wielding lad, bless him, Ionna scurried over to the furthest dummy and drew her sword. A quick glance around to ensure there were no eyes upon her, and then…
It’s fine, she told herself. Just one swing. You can handle one swing.
Ionna tensed, felt a charge well in her chest, skitter across her skin and onto the blade. Inhale, and—
A thin crack, a keening electric squeal, and a click as her sword slapped back into its sheath, all in the span of a blink. Exhale. The dummy still stood, the seam of her cut too thin to see without looking for it.
See? Nothing happened.
She jogged away as people began returning to their posts, but indulged herself a glance back in time to see one of the peasants square up to the dummy under the skeptical eyes of an instructor. He clutched a simple but well-kept sword in both hands, reeled back, and swung, perhaps hoping to chip the wood or carve a chunk off the body. When instead the whole dummy split in half, both the peasant and the instructor shared a look of surprise. The former inspected his sword like it was some ancient, blessed relic, the latter walked away much more impressed than he must have expected to. Ionna grinned.
She was rewarded with a lovely display at the more populated areas. A red-haired girl made quick but expert work of one of the dummies with a sword in each hand. She didn’t catch as much of the swordplay as she would have liked, but what she saw was brutal, efficient, and utterly lovely. The style was unique, but the heart of it was familiar: wartime swordsmanship, the sort found in military families. On a proper battlefield, the girl would be quite a terror.
When she was done, Ionna half expected her to salute the crowd and march away. Instead, she hopped down with the bounce and pep of a girl attending her first dance, and made a quick line directly for her.
“Ooh! Are those Hahral date-sugar candies? I've never had one, can I try?”
Ionna blinked, looked down at the bag in her hand, then smiled right back at her. “After a show like that? Help yourself!” she said, and tossed the bag to her. “That was great! You really know what you’re doing, guess you’ve got nothin’ to worry about, huh?”
Then she saw the sheaths, and the crests, and after a quick sifting through her memories of the Itenaian houses, everything suddenly made sense.
“Ooh! Ariesca! No wonder—you guys really don’t mess around with this stuff. That’s awesome, I love seeing people dual-wield. Are the swords weighted differently? Are you good with both hands? Oh! Oh! Can you show me—can you do that part again, with the—where you like, you stabbed, and you blocked, but then you swapped and I don’t know how you—it was like…”
And she tried to mime a small section of Lina’s display, gripping imaginary swords, pointing one hand forward and angling the other as if to deflect an invisible blow from the side. Ionna wished she had the mind for two swords, but her attentions were gobbled up by just the one—and her magic. Still, that didn’t stop her from wanting to learn. She’d figured that out early on into her apprenticeship; there was always someone who knew something you didn’t, and it never, ever hurt to learn.
She should have expected this, really. What did she think would happen when she turned her camera on? She knew what she looked like, and she knew Quinn wouldn’t react well to seeing her this way. A reflex maybe, to seeing her on the screen—an impulse to make things feel somewhat normal again, whatever it was that counted for that these days. In truth though, a part of her wanted this. Wanted something to validate that last, sane part of her mind she’d shoved down, screaming that what she was doing wasn’t healthy, wasn’t sustainable. Besca was too buried, Roaki couldn’t care less, and Follen…well, she’d found a building distance growing between her and the doctor.
But here Quinn was, throwing her a rope she knew she needed, to climb out of a hole she’d dug for herself. She was too good, this girl. For RISC, the CSC, for piloting, for Illun, really. But Dahlia say there, and listened, and met Quinn’s budding sternness with small nods and a rueful smile.
Only the truth, after all.
“I…” she sighed. “Can’t…make that promise. I’m sorry. I know you’re right, I know I’m not handling this well. I want to do better, but I just…can’t make you a promise I might break. I don’t know what’s going to happen in a week, or two weeks, or a month. I don’t know where my head will be, or what I’ll have to do, or…” Or anything. God, she didn’t know anything. No pilot did, that was the point. That was the life. Quinn had to understand that by now, had to get that neither of them were guaranteed their next hour let alone their tomorrows.
If something happened, it was on them. It was always on them. It was always…
Dahlia rubbed her eyes. She was tired. More than that, she was willing to admit it right now, which was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to waste on being cynical and bitter. Quinn was right, and for as long as her mind wasn’t going to fight her body, she was going to follow her advice.
“I can try,” she said, smiling apologetically. “For now that’s what I can do. I can promise to try. And I’m about to fall over as it is so, I’m gonna go now so I don’t pass out in the shower. Then get some sleep.”
She turned off her phone’s camera, about sick of seeing herself in this state, and certainly not wanting to show it to Quinn anymore. Instead, she tried to put some of the life back into her voice as she pulled herself off the sim room floor.
“We’ll get those shakes out to you asap, just try to keep them to yourself. Don’t think they’ll win you any friends for their flavor.” she giggled, it felt genuine even if it was a bit weary. “Talk to you again soon, Quinn. See you soon, too. Love you.”
“In Chains we find Reason. In Chains we have Virtue. In Chains we are Human.”
Before the Chains, humanity was an unbound monstrosity, corrupting everything it touched. Base creatures beholden to nothing but instinct, their shadowy masses would have consumed all life on Reah and left the world a silent, starving husk in the void. Even the Arbiters, bearing the wills of their celestial lords, could not hold them back, and little by little humanity pushed into the kingdoms of beast and fey, of dragon and titan and all mythos lost to time.
It was only the appearance of the Moon, and the intervention of the Mother of Prudence which forestalled Reah’s end. By binding her lunar vessel to the world, the Mother also bound humanity with Reason. Her Chains gave form to the blight, carving and shaping each shadowy vestige until the amalgam was unmade, and in its place stood the first, true, humans.
The rest, as they say, is history. Some of it written, much of it lost. In some ways nothing was changed; humanity did, eventually, supplant the kingdoms of the Arbiters, and many of the mythos earned their name, fading into legend. The Mother never left her Moon, but her silent presence was felt all the same.
In her shadow, in her Chains, humanity came to rule Reah after all.
The Chains which bind humanity, the conduit of its power, and the only thing preventing its devolution. The malignance from which they came was not destroyed, only bound by the Mother’s Virtues. Each person is a flood, each Chain is a dam; should they be broken, there would be no person at all, only a monstrous force of nature.
That is to say, should all be broken.
Old humanity was so destructive for a reason—it was powerful. While the Chains do prevent them from devolving, they also restrict that power unique and innate to humans, and had they remained as strictly bound as they were, Reah would still be under the celestial rule of the Arbiters.
It is only by breaking these Chains that one can access their ancestral power. The process is highly regulated, its particulars known only by a select few across every kingdom, but it can be done. Some would say it must be done. Breaking a Chain is a difficult feat to perform, but even more difficult to endure. Done indelicately, one can flood the body with too much power at once; the person may die, or worse, the flood may shatter every Chain in its rushing and they may devolve into monster, endangering countless lives before they can be slain. Likewise, a person who has not prepared themselves physically and mentally for a breaking may fail to contain their new power, and suffer similar consequences.
Each Breaking is more dangerous than the last, and for every one who has achieved the godlike status of First Chain, tens of thousands fail to break their Fifth. To free oneself without fully understanding the Virtues that bind them is doom, but to embrace them, to realize them, is both an entirely individualistic journey, and also only the first step.
The Chains are as follows:
Using one’s reason to determine the nature of a thing, be it right or wrong, selfish or selfless, good or evil. It was judgement that allowed humanity to first distinguish itself from the blight, to understand consequence and remorse, to feel, for the first time, as a thing with choice. Through judgement one understands the weight of their actions, and also the actions of others. They forge laws by which to govern and abide. They form opinions through the crucible of their values. They mete out justice by the rigor of their principles.
Using one’s reason to confront danger, pain, fear, and uncertainty. Sometimes disparaged by those who see doing so as the abandonment of reason, but for the valorous, bravery is reason. When humanity emerged from the blight, doubt and sin heavy upon their backs, it was valor that strengthened their bodies. When the creatures of Reah sought to extinguish them in their weakened forms, it was valor that drove them to break their Chains again, it was valor that carried their spirits and ambitions into the future they now possess.
Using one’s reason as a means of resisting temptation. The temperate are merciful and humble, almost monastic. Tempering oneself is a long process, and most are judged by the content of their journey rather than its length. As humanity rose, as their desires exceeded their means, it was through temperance that they found the path towards growth. Restraint is critical to the evolution of one’s capabilities, without it every Breaking would end in disaster. Only through understanding one’s limits can they be expanded. Only through knowing when to stop, can one know when to begin again.
The first of the non-cardinal virtues. Hope exists beyond reason, almost by necessity. Hope is the Chain of imagination, creation, and belief beyond logic. When the Mother of Prudence severed the Chain of Faith, it was humanity’s own hope, its belief in itself, that allowed them to push on and utilize the Chains that remained. The hopeful, often thought of in tandem with the brave—though they are distinct—stand against the odds, or create their own.
Once thought to be inextricable from the broken Chain of Faith, the Chain of Charity—sometimes called the Chain of Love—much like Hope, is removed from reason and deals much more with humanity’s heart. Through Charity was humanity given its second chance, through innumerable and unspoken sacrifice has it survived to realize that chance. To give unbidden and without expectation, to introduce kindness where it may not exist, and to bolster it where it does, is perhaps the most virtuous act of all.
Once foundational to the magic of virtue, this Chain was shattered by the Mother of Prudence herself, so that her descendants could evolve without her. The belief in a higher power, while perfectly reasonable, is not necessary for humanity’s growth, and for the love of her children such a power would not wish it otherwise. However, through profaned rituals—ironically made viable by the act of removing piety—some have reforged this Chain in order to bind themselves to other beings of great power, so that they themselves may taste godhood.
The power once wielded by the qovu was devastating and manifold. However, with nothing to guide them their capabilities stagnated. Now, bound by the Chains, humanity can improve their capabilities through rigorous mental and physical training.
But as in all things, caution is key. The limits imposed upon one’s body by their Chains exist for a reason, and attempting to surpass them prematurely can easily result in a catastrophic Breaking. While outliers exist in every statistic, the capabilities of each Chain level are generally understood, and those who set out to study and improve will most likely be aware of when they have reached their limit.
The Links are as follows:
One’s strength can be trained in a multitude of ways. Raw power, speed, durability; strength encompasses countless aspects of one’s life, and so this Link is one of the hardest to master in its entirety. Indeed, most practitioners choose to focus on one or two facets, evening out their experience with other Links along the way. Fifth Chainers who have mastered this Link might find themselves able to run farther for longer, might find their skin less likely to bruise, or themselves more likely to leave bruises. Fourth Chainers might find they run much faster than their lower Chained peers, and their fists pass easily through stone and concrete, where Third Chainers would see similar results with steel, and their bodies might be able to weather the edges and impacts of mundane weapons.
Also called the Link of Reflex, as both are necessary for one to successfully master it. Instinct is vital to one’s evolution; as one grows, so too must their intuition, their ability to perceive and react to things be they physical, mental, or arcane. Without instinct, the strongest warrior may not know where to throw his punch. Without reflex, the fastest runner may overlook an obstacle, or trip as a result of their poor reaction. With good instinct, one can learn to read the intent of another. Fifth Chainers who have mastered this Link might find they never miss a stair, or have an easier time swatting flies at supper. Fourth Chainers would begin to anticipate attacks from their opponents, and in the right circumstances might find themselves capable of deflecting bullets. Third Chainers may find their duels escalating into protracted feints and parries as both intuit and recalculate their moves.
The simplest and also most crucial of all the Links, the Link of Capacity pervades all other disciplines and cannot be ignored. Tied directly to the well of power innate to all humans, training capacity is what allows one’s limits to be pushed, and indeed, is necessary for a successful Breaking. It must be mastered both generally, and also specifically for each discipline. A Fourth Chainer without the proper capacity for Fourth Chain strength would find themselves at best no stronger than they were at Fifth Chain, and at worst, tearing their body apart with power they were not ready to wield. One’s capabilities are tied directly and inextricably to their capacity.
Proto-humans wielded all manner of magics, albeit in much more banal forms than exist today. The Link of Arcana is indisputably the most expansive and thus most difficult to master of the Links. In fact, those who have not unfastened their lifespans would find mastering it impossible, and those who have would still struggle. There exist so many schools of magic, broad and narrow, popular and obscure, and so many spells within them that one could spend even an extended lifetime trying and failing to master them all. Naturally, most choose to specialize either in private practices or at academies. Fifth Chainers might study pyromancy and manage to conjure modest flames. Fourth Chainers with their mana expanded by their Link of Capacity, might focus on golemancy, and forge constructs of raw materials or even elements, whereas a Third Chainer might harness illusionism to warp an entire battlefield into a nightmarish landscape to confuse and harass their enemies. The possibilities for this Link are nearly limitless, and as such, it often bleeds most heavily into the others.
WIP
Magic existed in Reah long before the Mother lifted humanity from its monstrous origins, and has taken many forms throughout history. The Arbiters channeled power from their celestial gods; the fey cultivated their magic from the earth; the magics of titans and dragons was entirely unique to them. Even old humanity possessed profaned, horrific magic of its own, still utilized by the creatures that sprout from Reah’s ley lines.
But humanity is no longer limited. Through a process known as Arcane Sympathy, humans are capable of learning any type of magic, be it elemental, material, primordial, draconic, and so on. To this day, new schools of magic are still being discovered at various established institutions across the world, but also, occasionally, in the homes and minds of particularly determined individuals.
One’s magical aptitude is tied closely to their mastery over not only their Arcane Link, but the others as well, depending on their schools, and even the paths within those schools. One cryomancer may focus entirely on the conjuration of projectiles and frigid conduits and have no use for Links like Strength, or Instinct, where another may center their discipline on enhancements to their body or their weapons, necessitating good strength or reflexes.
Likewise, there are schools of magic that seem to fill the gaps in the boons offered by the Links. Vitality magic, for instance, focuses on the warding off of disease and the reduction of fatigue or the length of time one might take to recover from an injury. Most importantly, it offers the sole method of extending one’s natural life—a path sought after by practitioners of nearly all Chains. In other areas however, magic is narrow in particular ways. For instance, there is only one school of restorative healing magic, practiced almost exclusively by devotees of the Charity Chain, in which one takes the wounds and ailments of another onto themselves.
Regardless of school, all magic relies on one’s Arcane Link, which develops in tandem with their skill, but also just as importantly with their Capacity Link, which dictates how much of their innate mana they have access to. While outliers exist, the general pools available to each level of Chain are understood, up to First, where there is no true record. As such, most schools classify their spells not only by discipline, but by Chain level. While some spells improve as one sheds their Chains (e.g. A Fifth Chain lightning bolt versus a Third) others simply cannot be cast by higher Chains due to their cost exceeding the pool. For example, the Vitality school’s coveted spell which extends one’s lifespan is not only closely guarded, but also requires a Third Chain pool to perform.
Once the lands belonging the five Arbiters, humanity now reigns. Each nation is led by its sole First Chain, called their Sovereign. While there is a degree of cooperation and global trade, the kingdoms rule independently. That said, outright war has been stifled by stifled by ancient treaties, prioritizing a combined effort to stand against the creatures of the ley lines.
Led by the Sovereign Dysos, called the Judge, Hyphon holds itself and its citizens to the highest standards of law, order, and justice. From it came the institution of courts, of prisons, and systems of punishment and reform. While all nations operate independently, many adopt Hyphon’s laws and mimic their methods of law-keeping in at least some capacity.
Hyphon boasts one of the largest landmasses in Reah, but its northernly placement renders much of it into poor farmland. Its mountains, however, burst with rare metals and other precious resources. Several prosperous ley lines run through its lands, making it a leader in energy production as well.
The people of Hyphon are hardy and taciturn, valuing unspoken adherence to order, but also and sometimes paradoxically, a devotion to one’s own principles. It is the sentiment of the people that a person must decide for themselves what is right and what is wrong, and that when ideals clash, it is by the Mother’s will that one triumph over the other.
As such, though Dysos has created much of the law, he leaves its interpretation and especially its execution, in the hands of his lords. Disputes are often mediated in court, but Hyphon has always allowed for more martial determinations of victory, and there have been no shortages of small-scale wars fought between the various lesser rulers of the land.
Once ruled by the Phoenix, the only Arbiter sympathetic to humanity, and the creator of the fey race. When he died his final death, his flames passed on to the Sovereign Genwynir, who inherited the remnants of his undyingly loyal Fey Knighthood. Though regarded as a hero, Genwynir’s sickly nature and lack of martial achievements has begun to erode her reputation amongst her people.
Munedori is a nation of glory, ruled by a code of chivalry. Comprised of a massive, moonlike peninsula as well as nearly a hundred coastal islands, Munedori is the beating heart of Reah’s waterborne trade, and also boasts the largest military force in the world. And no wonder, because the largest and most active ley line runs directly through its mainland, and splinters off even into its island territories.
As such, the people of Munedori grow up fighting. They train their Links from early childhood, so that even those who never rise above Fifth Chain may stand some chance of defending themselves. Every vassal commands their own army, and every family seems eager to add their name to the sacred Hero’s List. To live with honor is to fight fiercely, to love bravely, and to die in service to one’s fellow man.
But, life is not always so simple. Munedori warriors seeking glory may find themselves in one of countless mercenary troops, bolstering the ranks of armies all across Reah. Here, the code of Chivalry can be muddled for the sake of a beautiful battle, or the chance to cross blades with someone of greater renown. Those that fail to find their glory in honorable ways may walk less savory paths, blinded by their own ambitions.
Currently led by Myal the monk, Waywen is the only Kingdom whose Sovereign does not extend their life, and as such, the seat shifts with relative regularity compared to the other nations. In fact, the practice is quite rare in Waywen overall.
A nation of massive mountains and cavernous valleys, one might see the wavelike geography of Waywen as antithetical to the balance at the center of its identity. In fact, Waywen’s people see its lands as perfectly emblematic, offering both the highest highs and the lowest lows in all of Reah. Cities climb up the mountainsides and spread through the sprawling valleys, but also, one can find plenty of steads suspended in the gaps between peaks. Bridgetowns and Bridgecities are a common sight, offering temperate living conditions and also, importantly, safety from the ley lines that plague the earth and even some of the mountains.
Waywen is a peaceful land of, not plenty, but enough. Excess is rare but so to is poverty, and those who seek to capitalize on its amicable nature find themselves politely but firmly rebuffed, either in diplomatic negotiations or, if necessary, at the hands of warrior monks from any of several highly regarded schools. This societal structure leads to Waywen being a leading exporter of all manner of goods and services deemed unnecessary within its own borders. Be it food, minerals, or labor, one does not have to look hard to find something or someone from Waywen no matter where in Reah they are.
Which leads some to believe the people who live there would much rather live elsewhere. A gross overexaggeration, but not one without a degree of merit. Some find the monasteries’ regulations stifling, climbing above one’s station is at times considered impossible without the right connections. Social capital, after all, cannot be weighed on a scale—but it can most certainly be felt.
Led by Luca the Painter, their Sovereign’s appointment is testament to Riello’s ideals: to be passionate is to be human. Riello is the home of innovation and creativity, of artists and musicians and inventors. Galleries, theatres, concerts, cinema, all things that originated in Riello that now permeate Reah as a whole. To many in Riello, there is no life without art, fundamentally, the two are inextricably linked.
A nation of rolling hills, pastel woodlands, and expansive fields, many consider Riello to be the most beautiful kingdom in Reah. Even its cities blend industry with artistic expression, producing wild and striking skylines and strange but beautiful architecture. Outside of the more urban areas, one can find countless picturesque towns set beside tumbling hillsides and scenic beaches.
In its heartland stretches the largest unbroken farmland in Reah, from which the food exported serves as the economic backbone to Riello’s artistic endeavors. All the kingdom’s people study agriculture in their youth, and in place of a mandatory military service, every citizen of Riello spends two years working in the heartland—plenty of whom find their passion as farmers and remain thereafter.
Its lack of a proper military force and reliance on mercenaries for protection from the ley lines, leads some to view Riello as a helpless nation. However, its arcane universities have produced some of the most fearsome and accomplished mages in Reah’s history, and hopefuls from all across the world fight tooth and nail for the opportunity to study there. Even the Sovereigns of other kingdoms have been known to grace the halls of Riello universities, and on one occasion, the venerable Judge Dysos was said to have sat middle-row in a lecture taught by Painter Luca himself.
There is no Kingdom of Charity. Ixil was lost in a profane ritual conducted by a sect of heretical humans, who, in an effort to slay the dragon Arbiter Vormorri, reconnected with their unspeakable origins. The resulting destruction did indeed slay the Arbiter, but also turned Ixil into a hive of terrible power, infecting Reah’s ley lines and bringing the locked-away monsters of old back into the world.
Those who strictly follow the path of Charity ceremoniously call Ixil their home, and as such these devotees wander as nomadic healers across the world, establishing no schools and claiming no homes. Likewise, the identity of their Sovereign, known colloquially as the Saint, is unknown to the world outside of a select few.
Humanity’s origin, their monstrous beginnings. Though restrained and refined by the Mother of Prudence into proper humans, the Qovu remain an ever-present threat—not just from their emergence from the ley lines, but from the Chains themselves. All those who fail their Breaking inevitably devolve, losing their humanity in form and function, and becoming some bestial creature, devoid of all but their most basic instinct: hunt, destroy, consume.
Dahlia knew what it sounded like when Quinn was putting herself back together, the quiver in her voice, the hitching in her breath. It was like plugging a hole in a boat with your hand; good enough for now, but a little water still leaks in, and eventually it fills up, or your arm gets tired, and you sink. Some days Dahlia felt she was up to her neck already. Some days she didn’t.
Seeing Quinn on the other end of the line made it one of the latter days.
She looked like a mess, but Dahlia couldn’t judge. When she turned on her own camera, the face she saw shocked her. Greasy hair pulled into a bun, eyes sunken into dark pits, lips chapped from long, dry stints in the sim pod. Her clothes were rumpled, her fingernails were jagged from chewing, and if she chanced a brief sniff at her arms, she had no doubt she might retch on the call.
Quinn laughed, Dahlia blinked, and then she burst into laughter too. Uneven and garbled and teetering on the edge of something less happy, but she could hardly control it. God, she looked like the dead.
“Yeah,” she said, when she finally got ahold of herself. “I think we can swing that. Not like we’ll miss them here. I’ll tell her tonight, after I go through every ounce of soap we have and maybe take a nap. Think I need one of those, bad.”
It was so stupid. She was so stupid. A glance at her recent sims would have told her how tired she was, how badly the spiral was impacting her abilities. Besca had said it a thousand times: it didn’t matter how much she trained if, when the time came and she had to act, this was the state she was in. She couldn’t protect Quinn if she felt like a zombie in her own skin. And right now, at least in this single moment, she didn’t have to. Quinn didn’t need saving—all she wanted was a god-awful protein shake.
“Call me again. Whenever. Okay?” She laid her head back against the wall, settled into something that might have resembled a smile in the right light. It felt comfortable, anyway. However long this moment of clarity lasted, she was glad for it. “This’ll be over before we know it.”
Well, she had been aptly forewarned. As the goons armed themselves and moved into what might have loosely passed for some kind of formation, Yam pulled the trigger on her contract. A chill washed over her, like someone was brushing cold paint down her limbs. Her skin shifted, her arms most noticeably; they didn’t grow larger per se, but they hardened like chitin or scale or some kind of hellish tree bark. They were heavier, but with that heft came a surplus of strength, which she quickly stoppered once she had enough to work with. Power was influence, and if she borrowed too much, it was harder to turn off. Bel’s strength was soda spilled on a carpet; water would dry just fine, but all the sugar and chemicals would take much longer to wash out.
She looked down at her hands, at the obsidian claws glinting on each finger. Her eyes—their eyes—flicked up at the goons, scanned over their weapons. Clubs, knuckles, miscellaneous bludgeons of dubious integrity. Nothing particularly sharp, and nothing that could blow holes in her. Seemed like they weren’t interested in adding corpses onto the list of whatever other shit they were dealing with.
“Less paperwork,” she said. Bel sighed, and the claws receded.
I give you hands to get dirty, and you still insist on wearing gloves.
The goons moved first. One came at Marty, and though she felt an instinct to cover him, two more lunged for her. She took hold of her righted chair with one bolstered arm and launched it like a fastball at the closer one. It connected full on with his chest, splintering like rotten driftwood and sending him sprawling onto his back. The second swung at her with his club, but Yam stepped in, took him by the arm and torqued around, lifting him up over her hip and slamming him hard into the ground.
Her mind went back to Marty, but before she could check on her partner, something hard connected with her face, and it was only by the split-second shift of Bel’s skin on her cheek that her jaw wasn’t shattered. She stumbled, blinking back her composure as the hulk of a goon drew back his brass knuckles for another swing. Yam whirled into it, meeting his fist with her own. Sturdy metal smashed into jagged demonic knuckle. The metal caved with a crunch, splitting skin and cracking bone. The goon yelped, clutching his bloodied hand back before Yam caught him in the gut with an uppercut and shoved him on the floor.
Finally, a moment to breathe. She tried to take stock of the rest of the bar, eyes darting to find whoever else might still be standing. She quickly found the man in the purple suit, who hadn’t deigned to get involved. Yet.
“Marty, you good?” she shouted over her shoulder, not wanting to take her eyes off the supposed leader of the bunch. Marty wasn’t the biggest or meanest demon she’d ever met, but, and this was important, he did have four knives.
“Just so you know, the neighborhood we’re headed to is a real shithole. In case you’ve never been.”
Yam resisted the urge to point out that the whole city, in fact, was a shithole. From the crime scenes to the homes to their own base of operations, New Helle was one flush away from a Richter scale sewage disaster, regardless of where you looked. But, the etiquette drilled into her from years of conversation with antsy tourists begged her: “What does arguing here serve?” To which there was rarely an answer other than “Nothing, but it’d feel good.” Besides, she wasn’t sure if shit was a sensitive topic, him being a fly and all.
Anyway, he was right. The Paradise was a shithole.
Worse than that, it looked like they’d missed a very lively, very relevant party. One could have been forgiven for assuming the last person in was some sort of bomb or a living tornado, which wouldn’t have been the least believable thing they’d seen today.
The tension shifted as soon as the remaining patrons caught sight of them; the gangs in New Helle might have been underhanded and sometimes terribly occult, filled with every flavor of demon and sleazebag and demon sleazebag imaginable, except rats. Even among the rat demons. Few things opened criminal mouths to authority ears in this city. Money worked, sometimes, but no one in Section 7 got paid enough for that, and anyway, they hadn’t come bearing a heavy briefcase. Talking was riskier, but, it could work—
If you didn’t instantly brandish a weapon or four.
She wasn’t sure what an intimidating voice would sound like coming from someone like Marty. Probably not like this, at least not to her ears, but maybe the incredulity was numbing her to his ferocity. She was afraid the gangsters would suffer a similar immunity.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “You’re the good cop.”
Bel chuckled in the back of her mind.
As rough around the edges as Marty’s negotiating prowess might be, she couldn’t deny that between them he was infinitely more personable. Did that mean he could sweet talk his way through a conversation with a group of gangsters he just threatened at knifepoint? She didn’t know. Better not to gamble.
So, while Marty stepped up to the diplomatic plate to bat, Yam picked a toppled chair over and set it back upright. She shucked off her coat and draped it over the backrest, flexed her shoulders and cracked her neck, then rolled up her sleeves. Mother’s runework slithered over her ashen skin, winding in arcane patterns that she couldn't have unwoven herself even at the height of her training. She grimaced; at least if things went sideways now, her mood was already ruined.
Yam pulled her tie loose and used it to bind her hair back into a frankly still-too-big tail. She considered wrapping her belt up in her fist, but this wasn’t a tussle on the street after bar-close. Instead, she held a mental finger on the trigger of Bel’s contract, ready to shift. If she’d learned one thing about engaging with the city’s underworld, it was that you didn’t go into it half-cocked.
On the bright side, Marty didn't seem physically capable of putting less than one hundred percent into pretty much anything, for better and, much more likely, for worse.
Yam still wasn’t used to getting picked last. Growing up, her arcane aptitude and pedigree had gone a long way in making her a first draft pick in everything from group projects to school admissions. At the time she’d enjoyed it, and then, slowly, she’d come to realize how much her mother’s name was carrying her through the aspects of social life that she wasn’t particularly good at. Being rid of it, accomplishing feats on her own, as her own, was validating; her hard work paid off in the Hexen, where eventually people stopped caring who she was and were more interested in what she could do.
Except now she couldn’t do, not like that, not anymore. Now she was saddled with a metaphysical anchor and no nepotism to smooth over her…charm. So, all said, she wasn’t surprised when the scene cleared out and all that remained was her, and the bug. Maybe that was a good sign; at least there was someone equally as despicable.
Well, two someones.
Hurtful.
“I’ll drive,” she said, fishing her keys from her pocket and following Marty outside, tossing the chief a farewell wave on the way.
She led the way to her car, a sturdy, compact thing with faded paint but, surprisingly, no dents. Just as surprising was the interior, clean and tidy, which might have counted for more if it didn’t still whiff of tar. As she settled into the driver’s seat, she repaid her brimstone parasite’s sass by lightning another cigarette and taking a long, thoughtful drag. Yam didn’t know if demons could get lung cancer, but she was willing on Bel’s behalf to find out.
She turned away at the last moment, blowing smoke out of the window when she remembered she wasn’t driving alone. This would be one of the few times she’d worked alone with the…enthusiastic demon, and while she certainly had her gripes with his attitude, she couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit guilty. It didn’t take long after Marty walked into a room to see how people felt about him, and though many of those feelings were fairly earned, others certainly weren’t.
“Good call back there. Good intuition.” she said, pretending like she was waiting to finish smoking before they left, like a responsible officer of the law. “Never seen magic like that before, infernal or otherwise. Weird. But I think you’re on to something with the whole…” she made a vague, flowering motion near her head.
There, a good deed for the day before whatever shit was waiting for them at the end of their trip. She flicked what was left of her cigarette onto the pavement and started the car.
“You’ll have to navigate,” she said. “I could get lost in a cardboard box.”
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