Riven Wight

Northwood Academy

YAY!!!

*Gasp!* I've actually heard of the Voynich manuscript! xD

Mystic Orphanage (Aristocles and Siaya Dragalorn)

“It’s been brewing all day.” Thayva went to close the window in the room as a wind began to whip violently at the curtains. “Catch enough of the frogs, and we’ll have that extra meat for the table!” She gave her husband a small smile, but the expression sobered as he continued. She sighed deeply. As much as she hated the idea of one of them being away from the orphanage, she nodded.

* * *

The night brought with it a fanfare of thunder and flashes of lightning that kept many kids, especially the younger ones, awake, huddled beneath their blankets. Rain beat down on the roof, a gale battered the house, and phantom gusts rushing through the halls made the flames of the few sconces remaining lit flicker, threatening to go out.
In the dining hall, with their duties done for the day and the children in bed, the many staff members had gathered, their posts to patrol the halls afterhours temporarily abandoned. Thayva stood with her husband near the head of the group, fidgeting with the tip of her tail, and letting Serapis do the talking.

* * *

In the boys’ dormitory--a room crowded with beds with only enough empty space for them to maneuver through the aisles--Nick was among those who could not sleep. While the thunderous snoring of a few of the other boys filled the room, the booming thunder drowned out even that. With an irritated sigh, he glanced to the door in the dim light filtering through the room, grabbed a candle from beneath his bed, and lit it with a quickly muttered spell.
Tossing his blanket aside, he went to the bed belonging to Aurelian. He placed a hand on the other boy’s shoulder and shook.
“Aurelian!” he whispered, flinching as another blast of thunder felt like it shook the floorboards beneath his feet. “You up?”

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When Cerasus looked to her, though Izzy wanted to turn away from his piercing stare, she forced herself to hold his gaze, and nodded at his question.
“I never figured you for the sentimental type,” she said, not unkindly, wondering where he kept the sword, or if its storage had something to do with a vampiric power.
When he stood, Izzy uncrossed her legs and got to her feet as well, standing further from the roof’s ledge than Cerasus as she watched him, wondering if he was going to jump. She inhaled and flinched when he instead reached into his stomach. Though not as dramatic as when he had rooted around in his skull, it was still unsettling. Her jaw slackened when he impossibly pulled a sword from himself, blood glistening on the weapon.
Weirdest. Storage place. Ever, she thought as his body healed itself and the blood evaporated. Even so, her gaze locked on the well-crafted sword. Though she was no expert on weapons, it certainly looked like a fine one.
“‘The voyage across the heart,’” she read aloud. She took a partial step closer to get a better look at the weapon, unsure if the inscription was meant to be morbidly literal, or sweetly metaphorical. “That’s an impressive sword.” She glanced away from the weapon to Cerasus. “What was his name?”

Mystic Orphanage (Aristocles and Siaya Dragalorn)

Sorry. I'm having inspiration troubles for this right now. Heh. *Sigh.* I'll get something up soon, though.

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Of all the things Izzy had seen herself doing when she had accomplished her mission, sitting on a rooftop simply chatting for the sake of chatting with Cerasus was certainly not one of them. She glanced up to the stars twinkling above them when there was a moment’s lull in the conversation as Cerasus thought upon her question.
She blinked in surprise at his response, which changed to curiosity as he cut himself off, changing the topic too quickly for her to question it further.
[i]What had he been heading to do that would make him want to stop here? she wondered. Or, was he expecting something to happen?
“If it makes you feel any better,” she muttered when she realized who Cerasus was talking about, "I didn’t even see him flinch when he put it in my hand."
At the mention of “that man,” she gave him a sideways look that said, “Now who’re you talking about?” She inhaled through her nose and turned her full attention to him when he amended his statement.
“Riley mentioned a rumor about that.” And now was her chance to ask about it. “What happened to him? I mean, if his existence is just a rumor to someone like Riley...” She let the statement trail off.

Schooled in Magic

Jazelle’s wary gaze never left Priscilla, watching her expression as she felt the fabric Jazelle suspected was quite foreign to the girl. She met the Priscilla's gaze when she looked from the fabric. Jazelle cleared her throat awkwardly, her lips pulling downward at the first thing that came from the older girl’s mouth.
“I grew up in a very, very secluded village,” she told Priscilla when the girl paused, making the lie sound natural as she gave a shrug. “You’ve probably never even heard of it, it’s so far off the grid.”
Jazelle nodded encouragingly as Priscilla answered her question, showing her understanding, glad when the older girl explained what the White Council was.
So, it would seem that one of the most powerful magicians had rescued her. From a Necromancer. Who had wanted to--to what, exactly? Her powers, if she even had any as Sunder had said, were neigh non-existent as far as she could tell. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she thought. Fidgeting absentmindedly with her knife inside the hoodie's muff, she let out a long sigh. Her brain was beginning to hurt, and the initial rush of adrenaline had begun to slowly fade, leaving a weariness in its wake.
“Just one," she began slowly a couple moments after Priscilla finished, sure it was a question that would only further arouse any suspicions the older girl might have. "Necromancers.” A shudder ran down her spine as the unnatural red eyes that would haunt her nightmares--or daydreams, she supposed, once she woke up--crossed her mind. “Can they...” how had Sunder phrased it? “absorb magician’s powers even if they’re undeveloped? Like, never-even-known-they-existed type of underdeveloped?”

To Cure a Curse

Sensitive creatures, horses. Powerful, majestic, and fast, yes, but sensitive, like so many other animals. They have a sixth sense, animals. At least, most of them do. Alas, the horses occupying the stables in the town all had a too keen of a dose of that extra sense, making them all fearful and antsy in Rayadell’s presence as they sensed the aura of dark magic about her, leaving her to travel to Caldavail on foot. Which was just fine by her.
She traveled through the forest and plains, heading east. She passed nearly no one on the road. Only a single cart drawn by horses heading west shattered the relative quiet of the forest. But the trees were all the company Rayadell wanted. Alas, the further east she went, traveling into the more unfamiliar territory of the Eastwood forests, the gentle, comforting whisper of the trees grew quiet, more reluctant to let her hear them. Soon, even their reluctance turned to silence.
Until, near the eastern pass, a wind rustled the leaves and a single tree sent a whisper her way, a sound that was more a feeling than an actual word:
Orcs.
Scowling, Rayadell slunk into the forest, letting the plants conceal her. When the sounds of the Orcs’ gruff language reached her sensitive ears, with swift movements and staff still in hand, she got to her hands and knees and slunk through the undergrowth, careful to not rustle so much as a single leaf.
Pushing aside a branch of a shrub to get a look at the encampment beyond, she saw the billowy black smoke of a fire rising above the trees not far from her. Traversing the treetops, she soon had the Orcs’ temporary campsite in view. With their slightly tinted skin and sharp, yellowed teeth, they mulled around, a bore with massive tusks cooking over their bonfire. They looked on edge, a couple patrolling the perimeter of their camp. One was groaning on the ground, and snapped at anyone who got too close as he tended to a wounded leg, while another still had an arrow in its shoulder as it glared murderously into the flames with its beady eyes.
She needed to avert their attention from the forest so she could pass unnoticed. Slowly, she released her staff and raised her freed hand toward their fire.
The flames flared up, making the hide of the boar catch fire and sending the Orc with a wounded shoulder scrambling backward with a screech. At Rayadell’s silent command, the flames stretched out from the hearth, the rutilant sparks turning into a fierce white as they fell to the Elagon’s will, spreading out in a line and cutting the camp in half. In the blink of an eye, the flames started to circle around them, and every Orc save for the one with a useless leg, set to trying to put out the flames.
Taking advantage of their distraction, she muttered a quick spell, turning her body into a mere ghost of herself, and she hurried through the forest, unnoticed, toward the final stretch between her and Caldavail, the flames extinguishing themselves and leaving only the faintest of scorch marks on the forest floor once she was well out of sight.

* * *

The small village was nestled snugly amidst the spring green of the forest. Significantly smaller than the town she had left behind, wide dirt roads wove through the buildings. Protected only by those living in the houses on the outskirts of the village, it was teeming with life as people went about their daily evening chores.
As Rayadell, an air of weariness still lurking about her from both her travel and use of magic, entered the village, a couple curious heads turned toward her, a stranger amidst the familiar. But it was only one figure that caught her attention; the man she had seen in the inn’s tavern the previous day leaned against one of the buildings. The bottom half of his face was just visible in the sunlight from beneath his hood, showing a slightly pointed chin and full lips.
She sauntered toward him, her gaze wary as he lifted his head toward her.
“You’re the messenger, I presume?” she asked as she neared, keeping a safe distance between them.
The man’s lips pulled up in a smirk.
“You presume correctly, Rayadell Farrodane,” he answered in a thick, oily voice. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind.” He pushed from the wall and collected the bow leaning against the building beside him. “The Carishes are waiting.” He gestured down the road with a nod, rested a part of his longbow lazily on one shoulder, then headed down the road without checking to be sure she was behind him.
Rayadell hesitated, but followed him. She had come this far, after all, so there was no point in stopping now.
“Have you a name?” she asked as they made their way to the opposite end of the village, many heads turning their way to get a look at the cloaked newcomer.
“Hasn’t everyone?” A smirk was audible in his voice.
Rayadell scowled. “What’s yours, then?”
“You can call me Salven, if you feel so inclined to do so.”
Her brows raised. “Tell me, Salven. What can you tell me about ‘Mr. and Mrs. Carish’?
“They’re a nice enough couple,” he said with a shrug, “in need of some assistance.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you’re someone else assisting with the... retrieval?”
Salven laughed. “Nope. That’s your job. If you accept, anyway.”
Salven led her to a quaint farmhouse at the edge of the village. Animals mulled about the fenced property, a couple escaped chickens strutting around the front yard.
“Here you are.” He gestured laconically to the farmhouse with a wave of his free hand. “Knock, then just go on in. They’re expecting you.” With that, he continued through the property, offering her only a quick wave in farewell without turning around.
Rayadell went up to the simple, wooden door. She stood there a moment, looking around the farm, searching for any sign it was a trap. She lifted her empty hand and glanced to the gem-studded golden bangle hanging there. Enchanted to warn her of any spells against dragons or other lizard-folk, it gave no indication of such trickery.
Taking a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest at the prospect of being so close to abolishing her curse, she knocked, then entered the small, quaint home.
“Hello?” she called as she opened the door to a small living area furnished with crude, hand-made chairs and cabinets, not quite daring to let the door close behind her quite yet, her grip on her staff tightening as she waited for a response.

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“My granddad always called it being free-spirited.” Izzy glanced to him. She looked away as he continued, asking his questions, her expression growing sullen. She gave a dry laugh.
“Show me one person who's life has been 'free of strife,' and I’ll give the guy an award,” she muttered. She ran a hand through the lose portion of her hair. “This place... took someone from me,” she said bitterly. She exhaled heavily. “I’d think that you, of all people, would know that there’s really nowhere that’s truly ‘safe.’ Even the middle of nowhere.
“On that,” she began, her voice still grim, now the one eager to change the subject as she placed her hands in her lap, absentmindedly trying to pick at her usual nail polish before remembering there was none. “Why’d you come here, of all places? Got a thing for plains and cornfields?”

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Izzy turned her head to look directly at Cerasus at his answer. Her expression softened ever so slightly as his tone. It was not one she had expected to hear from him, be it from nostalgia or sorrow. She could not imagine what it would be like to forget even your own name.
“Wouldn’t that be a good thing in this world, though?” she asked softly.
When he suddenly looked to her, she turned her gaze back out into the distance, not wanting to meet his eyes.
She hesitated at his question, debating on how much she would want him to know. Slowly, she nodded. “Yeah. My family’s lived here for a couple generations.” She snorted lightly. “But I’m going to break that cycle.”

Mystic Orphanage (Aristocles and Siaya Dragalorn)

Do you want to do a time skip or something to the meeting?