Obscene Symphony

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Radaam let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as the Magus finally spoke, hardly a trace of his severe exterior tainting his attitude toward his students—for now, at least. He answered the Magus’ address with an acknowledging smile (which was probably weaker than he intended) and a nod, breaking away from the Sorcerer’s gaze with a few butterflies still settling in his stomach.

Khaemtir seemed none the worse for wear, if the strange attempt at a huddle was anything to go by. Being around the boy really was like trying to walk through tangled river grass, but at least he meant well. Judging by the game plan he laid out, it seemed that Khaemtir had impressed him into his little posse, but Radaam supposed he wasn’t one to refuse. There was really no need to be so skittish; no one was any different just because someone hung a chain of gold around their neck, and beyond that, they weren’t brickmaker’s son and aristocrat-in-the-making anymore. As soon as they donned their white cloaks, they were students, colleagues even. Hell, maybe even rivals, if that turned out to be the way of it. Even if this wasn’t his best school of magic, and even if Radaam wasn’t the most competitive type.

Banter over messengers aside—Radaam seriously doubted one could even find his home, and he wasn't eager to advertise it to his wealthy new acquaintances anyway—introducing his family to Khaemtir’s was a surprising prospect, but then again, it really probably shouldn't have been. Given the back-and-forth he had with his tutelary as he walked away, it was easy to guess that Khaemtir’s mother was probably the overbearing type. Fair enough; his own parents would probably be happy to speak with the families of his colleagues, and be even happier to hear he was actually making friends. Radaam never saw that as an issue—it wasn’t like he was a loner or anything—but his mother had often chided him about standing more like a statue in a room than a guest. Zahra had enough outgoing vigour for the both of them in his opinion, but this at least would assuage his mother’s concerns.

Speaking of which, he probably should find his parents. His mother was almost certainly on eggshells waiting for a chance to shower him in praise, and his father’d been beaming more than Radaam had ever seen when they left the house this morning. Radaam himself wasn’t sure how he felt about all the fawning, but it was only fair to give them their chance. His stomach was calming, too, which meant in the wake of upset, it was getting more demanding. Figuring sooner was wiser than later, he opted to dive into the crowd much like Khaemtir had done, looking out for his parents above the heads of the other banquet-goers and helping himself to some interesting-looking fruit along the way.

_{Striking out like a loner for the moment, reflecting on @Achronum’s antics.}

---

While Radaam struggled with his newfound popularity, a much smaller Esi skirted around between banquet-goers and wandering musicians, taking in the foreign sights, smells and sounds with wide eyes and an even wider grin. With Toruk wrapped around her arm and shoulder like a watchful (if easily distracted) guardian, Zahra practically bounced between the tables, snatching a taste of anything and everything that looked or smelled exotic, mindless of the looks of shock from people not expecting a stick of an arm covered in half-melted flesh to reach between them for confections.

Several scraps were thrown to cats loitering under tables in the process and Toruk was tossed more grapes than Radaam would ever allow him in a week, but it was unlikely anyone but the critters would notice; to Zahra’s eye, the bounty of the banquet was as endless as it was colourful, a parade of plenty the girl had scarcely ever seen. Not that she was accustomed to hunger, either—her parents always made sure there was enough to go around—but the sheer variety and scale impressed upon even a girl as young as herself that no expense could have been spared in the name of celebrating the young novices (or whatever they were called).

Toruk snuck into a satchel or two as they perused, Zahra rarely giving more than a giggle in response and waving for the snake to come back to her when it was time to stop being nosy and look around some more. Once or twice she spotted her parents through the crowd, but other than giving a wave, she always kept carefully out of reach. Short of making sure they were still around, Zahra had no intention of getting corralled back in so quickly; there was far too much exploring to be had! She’d never seen so many fancy people in such fancy clothes—the students in cloaks that shimmered like shiny white fish, women with hairstyles that looked impossible and dripped with gems, people with so much gold on their arms she could hardly believe they could still lift their cups—it was all so exciting! It was like they were from another land completely, like they’d come down from the shining silver tower she always saw in the distance and brought little pieces of it with them for decoration.

And that wasn’t all; the people didn’t just dress differently, but they looked different too! There was that scary-looking man that Radaam had gone to with hair and skin the colour of sour milk, and a woman near him with green hair! There were people with skin that was as light as sand and as dark as soot, and one with eyes that glowed like embers; it was like they were all painted figurines, each more outlandish than the last. But best of all were the animals. Radaam called them “tutors” or something and said that they weren’t real animals because they needed a sorcerer’s help to be born, but Zahra loved them all the same. It took all she could not to get hung up on each one, but then again, the next always seemed even more interesting!

As she scanned the crowd for what to look at next, Zahra’s eyes fell on a flash of… pink! At first she thought it was a hat or maybe a turban, but upon closer inspection, she was delighted to find it was a boy’s hair, and then even more delighted to see none other than a hawk sitting on his shoulder! In a cute little scarf no less! Eyes wide, Zahra snatched a piece of rarely-cooked meat from a table and bounded over to the pink-haired stranger, eyes on the hawk the whole way. Her neighbour the falconer could never get his bird to wear clothes; maybe this boy knew the secret.

Holding the meat up as high as she could in her free hand, Zahra quietly whistled to the bird, just as her neighbour had taught her. Impatient, she also tugged on the boy’s cloak much like she had Radaam’s, keeping her hand outstretched with the hawk's gift but beaming up at the boy when he turned.

“Are you a hawk family?” she asked the obvious question first, rocking on the balls of her feet.

_{Bothering @Scribe of Thoth}

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It was good to see that Khaemtir’s tutelary took the invasion of privacy in stride, but in Radaam’s opinion, she was too accommodating. It would be a cold noon in Photep before Toruk learned to ask before he acted, and while his little forays were usually harmless, he needed to learn he couldn’t carry on however he pleased in the Pyramids of Heka like he could at Udebtekhat.

Snakes couldn’t quite emote, but Radaam couldn’t miss the smug twinkle in Toruk’s eye at the hippo’s comparatively gentle chastising. “Zahra has you spoiled,” Radaam muttered, releasing the viper to slither back up his arm and under his cloak.

He looked back up as Ishara spoke to Khaemtir like an old friend, nodding in acknowledgement to her greeting. Radaam could feel Toruk’s pleased squirming at the mention of her tutelary - or lack thereof - and while he didn’t share the viper’s vanity, he was just as surprised. He was pretty sure Khaemtir referred to Ishara as a ‘prodigy’ of Pesedjet, hadn’t he? Radaam had imagined the vaunted students of Pesedjet to excel in every way, and now to learn a ‘prodigy’ among them had been outdone by… well, him, left him even more confused than before. Sure, he was a bit ahead of his class at Udebtekhat, but he’d been led to believe Pesedjet was on a completely different plane.

Khaemtir spoke before Radaam could inquire further, and he realized the boy must have misunderstood him. That he’d call one of the most anticipated events of the year ‘reasonably sized’ sounded strange enough, but was he really not even a little awed at his acceptance itself? Actually, maybe not; it only later occurred to Radaam that a boy of his status might really not be surprised. As a graduate of Pesedjet with a family in high standing, he may very well have expected to be summoned by the best of the best.

That wasn’t much comfort as Khaemtir continued on about a world he didn’t recognize, though he had to admit some amusement at the ‘curse of aristocracy’. Radaam wasn’t ignorant enough to think that wealth did away with all problems, but he couldn’t help but inwardly smirk at the idea of aristocrats trudging through a hard day of talking and eating only to go home to talk and eat some more.

Khaemtir left to meet their new master, and Radaam was ready to follow when a tug on his cloak stole his attention. He turned to see Zahra, apparently having slipped their parents and looking uncharacteristically shyly up at him, though by the look of it the meek facade was just about ready to crack.

Crossing his arms, Radaam raised an eyebrow at her. “And just what do you want?”

Zahra’s expression contorted as she tried valiantly to hold her look, but in seconds her little battle was lost and her face split back into a smile. “Can I take Toruk to see the banquet? Please?” she asked eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet with her hands twined in front of her.

Radaam shook his head in mock disappointment. “You’re not even going to congratulate me first?”

“I congratulated you at home!” Zahra protested, though a laugh came soon after. “Da said if we repeat ourselves too much it’ll all go to your head.”

Raising an eyebrow, Radaam had to concede to a grin. “You should keep that in mind when you’re pampering Toruk,” he gently chastised, though he did oblige, outstretching his arm and allowing Toruk to slither readily onto Zahra’s. He’d admit he wasn’t sure about setting the viper loose on the banquet, but he was pretty attached to Zahra (as creatures were to those who fed them treats) and given how quickly he’d started causing trouble, maybe it was wise to have him a bit farther away from the Magi when they met. At any rate, he could summon him back if he needed him.

Zahra lit up, holding her arm out excitedly and giving a very pleased Toruk a kiss on the head. “Thank you thank you thank you!” she squealed, throwing her arms around Radaam’s waist before taking off back into the crowd. “I promise I won’t let him steal anything!”

Radaam’s smile turned pained at the sound of that, but he chose to believe she was exaggerating and instead turned to face the dais, eager to see how Magus Dagon handled Khaemtir before he approached himself.

_{@Achronum @Crusader Lord}

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The Dijat of Heka was the farthest into the centre of the city that Radaam had ever been. He’d never been to a Commencement; goodness, he’d hardly ever even had a reason to leave his own neighbourhood until he started attending Udebtekhat, and by then he was so busy with his studies and whatever odd jobs he could find to pay for them that he usually just made a beeline there and back. As such, Radaam expected to have a little trouble finding the place—if the city proper was anything like the outskirts, it would be a maze of twists and turns, a deceptively winding path through ever more lavish buildings even with the landmark of the Silver Tower jutting clear as day out of the skyline.

Still, despite the hassle, the trip was strangely pleasant. Radaam and his family had to ask multiple times for directions, and each time they’d been warmly received, strangers offering words of congratulations before they sent them on their way. Radaam hadn’t expected animosity, mind—even in the wealthier areas of the city, Photepi people were known for their accommodating nature—but it was like the moment each stranger laid eyes on his shining white cloak, they stepped aside more readily, and offered their advice with all the more enthusiasm. Radaam’s mother said it was all to be expected. Sorcerers were simply treated differently. Seen differently.

She’d meant it kindly, but the very thought chilled Radaam as he stood with the other Novitiates in the Dijat, flesh prickling with goosebumps despite the unrelenting heat. Above every other thought and feeling circling in his head, and for more than one reason, he felt thoroughly out of place. Like an imposter. What was he doing here? He didn’t belong here, standing among others his age dressed in finery that probably cost more than his home, there with his roughspun tunic and his father’s sandals peeking out from under a cloak finer and purer than anything he’d ever seen, fastened over his shoulder with a brooch that could probably have paid his entire Udebtekhat tuition. Yet there he was, towering over a throng of students who’d most likely graduated from the most prestigious academy in the world, sticking out like a mud brick in a wall of limestone. Which was precisely how he felt; frugal and plain, and not properly suited for the task before him.

Toruk must have sensed his unease, for he slithered out of his place comfortably curled up in Radaam’s pocket to wind around his arm, giving his master a comforting squeeze. Radaam glanced at him fondly—which was to say, ever-so-slightly less stone-faced—and the snake gestured with his head behind them. Turning to see, Radaam caught sight of his parents a few rows back in the crowd, beaming with pride. More notable, however, was his little sister Zahra, bouncing up and down in her clay-coloured dress at the edge of the crowd and waving frantically the moment their eyes met. Her black braids bounced on her shoulders as she did, and her smile was wide enough it threatened to split her face in two, careless of the scars on her face and arms that pulled and stretched like melted wax.

Radaam offered her a tight-lipped smile and a covert little wave of acknowledgement before snapping back to attention as the Vizier-Magistrate began his speech. No, no this wasn’t all bad. It certainly wasn’t what he’d planned for, but he couldn’t turn back now, and not all had to be lost. There was still a chance the Khenetai would choose him; surely even considering their suspicion of Sorcerers, learning the mysteries of the Cult of the Serpent would make up for it. Surely this was a blessing in disguise; not only were his dreams still well in motion, but what he learned from the Serpents may well bring him that much closer to restoring his Zahra to the perfect, pain-free little girl she used to be. Everything was as it was meant to be; he just had to have faith.

“Sorcerer-Magus Callis Dagon of the Cult of the Crow accepts under his auspice… Sorcerer-Novitiate Radaam Esi.”

...What?

When his name was called, Radaam felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. For a moment he could only stand and stare, certain he must have heard wrong, until Toruk’s anxious fidgeting around his ankle reminded him to move again. Still, even as he shuffled blank-faced to the dais, he couldn’t quite believe it. This must have been some strange, horrible dream brought on by the anticipation, and any moment he would wake up on the morning of Commencement to do it all again the proper way.

But, as moments passed and names were called, Radaam was forced to accept that this was not, in fact, a nightmare. Realizing that, his mind exploded with questions, though one rose in volume above the rest: Why him? Not only was it massively unlikely for a graduate of a lowly school like Udebtekhat to be chosen for the Cults at all, but for the one widely regarded as the first among them? Impossible! What under the sun could they possibly have seen in him? Surely he was a novice compared to his fellow Novitiates, he had no special aptitude in Divination, no social or political connections to speak of—so why him?

The rest of the short ceremony passed as a blur, and by the time Radaam came back to his senses, the Dijat had exploded with colour and food and music, members of the crowd either dispersing or milling about the courtyard and the white-cloaked Novitiates dissociating among them. Once more Radaam found himself surrounded in utterly foreign finery; most of the foods adorning the tables he couldn’t even name, the instruments plucked by Sorcerers between them unfamiliar to him. He vaguely registered his mother waving chastely from the crowd, only for Zahra to tug her toward one of the tables, his parents following dutifully behind and probably deciding to give their son some time to rub elbows with his new colleagues before they set upon him themselves.

He dipped his head at the Vizier’s well-wishes without really hearing what they were, turning once he left to glance jealously at the Serpents’ Magus before his eyes landed on his own. The Magus—Callis Dagon, if he heard correctly—was another foreign and frightening sight; if Radaam didn’t know better, he’d have thought it was a phantom standing above them rather than a man. Radaam felt like his stark blue eyes pierced right through him, passing by his skin to observe whatever was underneath, and the feeling was so uncomfortable that he could only manage a reverent nod before tearing his gaze away. Apparently just in time, too, for no sooner had Radaam turned around than a cheerful-looking boy his age dressed from head to heel in white and gold all but accosted him with a greeting.

As soon as the boy—Khaemtir—opened his mouth, Radaam’s sense of un-belonging only grew more potent. Everything about him, from his fine clothes and jewelry down to the inflection of his words and the lilt of his voice, was foreign; maybe it was Radaam’s own fault for so rarely venturing out of his own community, but he could never have imagined that a simple difference in wealth could make a person seem so… different. Or, perhaps he was the different one—in this company, surrounded by wealth and luxury, it certainly seemed that way.

Radaam was silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the boy’s sheer energy and the speed at which he spoke, before he realized he’d look like a fool if he didn’t say something back. “Yes, hello, I am… Radaam Esi, son of Radames,” he managed to strangle out, as if the name of a Chenziri brickmaker could possibly be familiar to people who wore gold on their arms like linen.

He moved to press Khaemtir and Ishara’s hands to his forehead, a customary Chenziri greeting, but stopped himself when he remembered it might not be taken kindly by people of such standing to be touched by a total stranger. Of course, that left him with nothing to do with his hands, so he ended up awkwardly clasping them behind his back, unsure of what to do next. Could he tell Khaemtir from which school he hailed? Respond to his admittedly intimidating invitation? He’d moved on so fast it was hard to tell if he even wanted an answer, but Radaam couldn’t just say nothing, right?

A ticklish sensation down his shin brought him out of his deliberating for the time being, and Radaam glanced downward to see Toruk slithering off his leg and onto what must have been someone’s tutelary, a baby hippopotamus with glittering gemstones for eyes. Predictably, Toruk had climbed onto its back, curling gently around its neck to get a look at its eyes. A much closer look than was polite, to be exact. “Toruk! Stop that!”

With unexpected speed, Radaam stooped and grabbed hold of the viper, pulling him off the hippo before he got too close. “Forgive me, Toruk doesn’t seem to know his manners,” he apologized quickly, though his stern tone—and a look that could curdle milk—was directed more at the snake than his new acquaintances.

Toruk shrank away from his scolding, but Radaam knew better than to think he’d done much more than inconvenience the mischievous little thing. To make up for his rudeness, he offered the pair a small, sheepish smile. “Yes, forgive me,” he repeated, rubbing the back of his neck.

“This is all very overwhelming, isn't it?” he tried shyly, feeling as if everything that came out of his mouth was somehow wrong or uncouth or otherwise unwelcome. “Or, I mean—I'm happy to meet you, Ishara, Khaemtir. Your offer is very generous, although… don’t you think we should wait to speak to our master before we leave?”

_{Not understanding how this works with @Achronum and @Crusader Lord}

The Worst Writing Advice

"Tragedy and trauma makes your character more interesting."

@Rapid Reader

I have literally had a player say this to my face as reasoning for the character's comically tragic (not to mention nonsensical) backstory xD

Personally I prefer characters with a more average/uneventful backstory nowadays. I find a lot of our tragic friends end up changing not-so-much throughout the course of the story, with all their development is stuck in their past. In my opinion, it's better to put only as much as you need to support their personality in their backstory, and leave the most interesting bits for the actual IC. Putting all the conflict and suffering in the past leaves so little to be played out in the future! (Basically, leave your tragedy, your trauma, your hardcore development for the IC, IMO. It's more fun that way)

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@Dead Cruiser So just to make sure I got this right, the novitiates in each of our cults are just the player characters mentioned, right? No background npc novitiates joining us?

EDIT: as well, it looks like all but 2 of our characters are from Pesedjet. Seeing as the school is highly prestigious and probably has small class sizes as a result, how likely is it that the Novitiates who graduated from there know each other, either personally or in passing or by reputation?

The Worst Writing Advice

(In response to "skimming is fine")

<Snipped quote>

This is inherently terrible advice for obvious reasons and I feel like I've seen it in practice far too much. Both on the Guild and off it too. Hell, I've even done it myself when I'm in a hurry to deliver a response out on time. It's very easy to miss pivotal information (ex: place, time, dialogue, etc.) by skimming through responses. At least in my experience anyway. Better to read everything out and digest it as best you can.

@Hyde

Also sorry for the double post but AGAIN FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK 👏👏👏

The Worst Writing Advice

Alright, I feel like I'm going to slay a sacred cow here.

" Show, don't tell." should be changed to " Show and tell."

Yes, it's the number one golden rule of writing. It's what every English Lit teacher tells us in middle or high school whenever we get a creative writing assessment. I think the problem right now, barring first-time fanfiction writers who robotically write out every single line, is too much showing and not enough telling. In fact, I believe this rule is the ultimate source of purple prose that has plagued an healthy amount of literature. Summary and brevity can have its own dramatic effect as well and serves an essential role. There should be a balance between both. Obviously, this will vary depending on what type of genre you want to write and so forth but it's not something that you should follow dearly to your heart.

@Bork Lazer

Show, don't tell is the ideal, but it's something to build up to as you learn and improve.

I'd say the fatal flaw in that advice is that it's misinterpreted; in writing (as opposed to film) the 'show' isn't about visually representing something (or describing it in writing) rather than explaining it, as it is in film; rather in writing it's about character action and setting effect.

For example: don't tell us in narration or dialogue that a character is X thing (say, stern). Instead, show us through action that your character is stern, for example, by having them respond sternly to a situation. Don't describe that the government rules with an iron fist; show them doing something tyrannical. Basically, as a general rule, if you have to tell the audience something (through narration or dialogue) about a character or a setting, you haven't done a good enough job establishing that thing through demonstration.

So yeah, it's not really about description vs brevity, I think it's just misinterpreted that way cause a big trouble in writing (I think we all fall victim to it sometimes) is imagining your scene as a movie when film doesn't translate to paper as well as you might think.

Maybe an appropriate writing-focused rephrase would be "Demonstrate, don't describe"

or something really catchy idk you get me

Obscene's Scratchpad

Radaam
Zahra
Naaliah
Radames

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^^ Dead Island 65


^^ Everyday Mayhem 65


^^ Imagination Station 65


^^ Zing Easy 65


^^ Surfing Capital 65


^^ River Drive 65

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Oooo these are interesting assignments indeed! I can't wait!!

The Worst Writing Advice

"Fanfiction doesn't improve your writing"

Which is objectively false. Fanfiction helps one gain confidence to write in general (IMO) and thus will lead to one eventually writing their own stuff. It's why I also despise when people shit on fanfiction writers.

@metanoia

Fanfiction is also practice, and practice is ultimately the only way to get better.

As for my submission: "Romances shouldn't be planned"