Member
Thayr
Alby47
Eviledd1984
Lexisheeps
Guardian Angel Haruki
Lord Zee
King of Rats
Scarifar
Estylwen
NanayaIdentity (Titles!): Dark Sage, Wandering Sage, Alchemy God, Betrayer
Type: Scion
Alchemy, the mystical art of transmutation of matter for various purposes; few have shown aptitude in the mysteries of magic, and even fewer could have been said to excel in the study of alchemy itself. It requires diligence, curiosity, a calculative spirit, and – as my late master used to say – whole lot of balls.
– Erst Lorein, Alchemist, Alchemy Essentials
He slid down the surface of the locked door with a sigh and closed his eyes, savoring the moment of calmness and quiet. Briefly slipping into a meditative state, he dove into his mind, into the jungle of thoughts and emotions that was his psyche.
“It’s getting better, isn’t it?” He heard a whisper floating around him, faint but clear as it drifted in formless, metaphysical wind before dispersing like it had never existed. He scanned his surroundings, filtering out other emotions and singling out the two he sought out the most. There, like two bright wisps of differing colors, they floated amidst cowardice, tiredness, and thoughts about what he ate for breakfast yesterday.
“Clearer. Aren’t they pretty?” Another whisper. He saw the wind turn to smoke and drift toward the wisps, seizing them for a moment. It was enough for him to capture and grind them down into powder that drifted away with the wind. “Time to wake up now,” he heard, and the elusive sound of chimes roused him from his meditation.
Immediately he clasped his head, letting out a grunt, but still managed to stand up and stumble his way to the bucket of water he kept beside his bed.
“A little to the right, if you will.” With a mental nod, he dunked his head into the ice-cold water. The chill crept up his face to his skull, neck and then the rest of his body, cooling him down. After a couple dozen seconds, he arose with a gasp, sucking in air and sitting back down on a nearby chair. “Quite refreshing if I say so myself… but you clearly have lagged behind on your endurance training.”
“Can you… shut up… for one… moment?” He spoke between breaths at the disembodied voice chattering away inside his head.
“Heh, brat, you are a couple centuries too young to mouth off like that in front of me… but you’re lucky I’m in a good mood today. I’ll have you eating your words soon enough…”
The reminder of what was to come cooled him down even further than what the water had; this time he could feel the chill to his bones. They were connected in a way that allowed for equal understanding through both words and emotions, and as much as those words might have seemed playful, they were nothing but. With a somber look on his face, the young man stood up and moved to the center of the room where an expensive looking carpet was situated.
He briefly paused as his eyes fell on the sigil of their house woven upon the woolen rug, a spear of light impaling an eagle to the ground, with corrupted, black blood seeping through the cracks. A strange glint appeared in his eyes as a sense of nostalgia overcame him, but he nevertheless steeled himself to move on. He rolled the rug up and to the side, uncovering what was underneath.
He had been working on the thing for some time now, ever since he first contacted the spirit and was given a well of knowledge, knowledge that created a myriad of questions that, for some reason, the spirit refused to answer. “In due time,” it would say whenever he asked, the voice sometimes sounding gruff and bearish, while other times sounding young and playful, depending on its mood.
He had asked if the thing could be inscribed on wood, but he had been ignored. A mental push to remove the flooring had been anything close to an answer, and he had followed it, albeit begrudgingly. After sufficient wood had been removed, he proceeded to scribble away at the stone floor beneath. Even now he could barely make out any meaning from the squiggly lines of the circular formation, but the spirit had informed him that it would be crucial to the procedure he was about to undertake, and so he persisted.
“Yes, just finishing touches now,” the voice echoed in his head, louder and with more eagerness. “Chopped mandragora root, four stalks; Powdered clavicle of ogre, two finger’s width of a cup; pound in a pestle a piece of emerald stone and add it to the mix; last but not least, a half cup of blood from a race other than your own…”
The young man picked out the ingredients as fast as the information entered his head, following the instructions of the voice as best as he could. When the last ingredient was called out, he pulled out a long, blackened bone from within a case. He seized up momentarily as he touched the relic, but the feeling passed just as fast as it came.
As he whacked the bone against the stone floor to break it, he could feel and eerie stillness in his spirit. The voice had stopped whispering to him, but he could feel a strange power superimposed on his eyes, peering into reality through him. The moment the bone cracked open, bluish-red rivulets of blood were released through the fracture, almost dripping down on the floor, messing up the formation.
“Careful, you fool…” The voice was heard, the hint of anger not escaping the young man’s senses. “Take one half and scrape the marrow into the holder, along with all the blood that is there. Then proceed to mash everything into a fine paste.”
He did as was instructed, and the end result was exactly what he had expected: strange and magical. The blood had some weird interaction with the strange mix of herbs and powders, fizzling on contact before settling down, and after the mixing it had turned a cloudy orange. Faint light was emitted from within the holder as he dipped a thin, vair paintbrush into the mixture and started painting on the lines of the inscription.
“Perfect. Now, remove your clothes and sit in the middle of the formation.” The voice almost commanded him now, but he did not mind as much; the whole process had worked him up, eliciting a certain kind of nervousness inside of him that he had never felt before. He placed the tools on a stool near him and tossed his clothes before stepping into the circle.
“Assume cross-legged position. Arms loosely situated on your knees. Close your eyes. Now this is the last, but most crucial part. Are you ready?”
Was he ready?
Why was he doing this again?
He thought back to the carpet with the house sigil, and something deep inside him stirred. In a flash, a calming wave washed over him, shutting down anything that was about to emerge. “Control yourself lest you want to die a premature death.”
Yes, this was not the time for second thoughts. The voice had warned him that in doing this, he was essentially falling in line with the Dark God and his underlings, for this was magic forbidden by the Church of the Exalted One.
With a final nod, he gave the go to proceed.
“Very well. I shall now proceed with activating your channels. Do not move. Maintain a meditative state at all times. See you at the other side, Alger.”
And then there was pain.
And darkness.
Type: Scion
Alchemy, the mystical art of transmutation of matter for various purposes; few have shown aptitude in the mysteries of magic, and even fewer could have been said to excel in the study of alchemy itself. It requires diligence, curiosity, a calculative spirit, and – as my late master used to say – whole lot of balls.
– Erst Lorein, Alchemist, Alchemy Essentials
He slid down the surface of the locked door with a sigh and closed his eyes, savoring the moment of calmness and quiet. Briefly slipping into a meditative state, he dove into his mind, into the jungle of thoughts and emotions that was his psyche.
“It’s getting better, isn’t it?” He heard a whisper floating around him, faint but clear as it drifted in formless, metaphysical wind before dispersing like it had never existed. He scanned his surroundings, filtering out other emotions and singling out the two he sought out the most. There, like two bright wisps of differing colors, they floated amidst cowardice, tiredness, and thoughts about what he ate for breakfast yesterday.
“Clearer. Aren’t they pretty?” Another whisper. He saw the wind turn to smoke and drift toward the wisps, seizing them for a moment. It was enough for him to capture and grind them down into powder that drifted away with the wind. “Time to wake up now,” he heard, and the elusive sound of chimes roused him from his meditation.
Immediately he clasped his head, letting out a grunt, but still managed to stand up and stumble his way to the bucket of water he kept beside his bed.
“A little to the right, if you will.” With a mental nod, he dunked his head into the ice-cold water. The chill crept up his face to his skull, neck and then the rest of his body, cooling him down. After a couple dozen seconds, he arose with a gasp, sucking in air and sitting back down on a nearby chair. “Quite refreshing if I say so myself… but you clearly have lagged behind on your endurance training.”
“Can you… shut up… for one… moment?” He spoke between breaths at the disembodied voice chattering away inside his head.
“Heh, brat, you are a couple centuries too young to mouth off like that in front of me… but you’re lucky I’m in a good mood today. I’ll have you eating your words soon enough…”
The reminder of what was to come cooled him down even further than what the water had; this time he could feel the chill to his bones. They were connected in a way that allowed for equal understanding through both words and emotions, and as much as those words might have seemed playful, they were nothing but. With a somber look on his face, the young man stood up and moved to the center of the room where an expensive looking carpet was situated.
He briefly paused as his eyes fell on the sigil of their house woven upon the woolen rug, a spear of light impaling an eagle to the ground, with corrupted, black blood seeping through the cracks. A strange glint appeared in his eyes as a sense of nostalgia overcame him, but he nevertheless steeled himself to move on. He rolled the rug up and to the side, uncovering what was underneath.
He had been working on the thing for some time now, ever since he first contacted the spirit and was given a well of knowledge, knowledge that created a myriad of questions that, for some reason, the spirit refused to answer. “In due time,” it would say whenever he asked, the voice sometimes sounding gruff and bearish, while other times sounding young and playful, depending on its mood.
He had asked if the thing could be inscribed on wood, but he had been ignored. A mental push to remove the flooring had been anything close to an answer, and he had followed it, albeit begrudgingly. After sufficient wood had been removed, he proceeded to scribble away at the stone floor beneath. Even now he could barely make out any meaning from the squiggly lines of the circular formation, but the spirit had informed him that it would be crucial to the procedure he was about to undertake, and so he persisted.
“Yes, just finishing touches now,” the voice echoed in his head, louder and with more eagerness. “Chopped mandragora root, four stalks; Powdered clavicle of ogre, two finger’s width of a cup; pound in a pestle a piece of emerald stone and add it to the mix; last but not least, a half cup of blood from a race other than your own…”
The young man picked out the ingredients as fast as the information entered his head, following the instructions of the voice as best as he could. When the last ingredient was called out, he pulled out a long, blackened bone from within a case. He seized up momentarily as he touched the relic, but the feeling passed just as fast as it came.
As he whacked the bone against the stone floor to break it, he could feel and eerie stillness in his spirit. The voice had stopped whispering to him, but he could feel a strange power superimposed on his eyes, peering into reality through him. The moment the bone cracked open, bluish-red rivulets of blood were released through the fracture, almost dripping down on the floor, messing up the formation.
“Careful, you fool…” The voice was heard, the hint of anger not escaping the young man’s senses. “Take one half and scrape the marrow into the holder, along with all the blood that is there. Then proceed to mash everything into a fine paste.”
He did as was instructed, and the end result was exactly what he had expected: strange and magical. The blood had some weird interaction with the strange mix of herbs and powders, fizzling on contact before settling down, and after the mixing it had turned a cloudy orange. Faint light was emitted from within the holder as he dipped a thin, vair paintbrush into the mixture and started painting on the lines of the inscription.
“Perfect. Now, remove your clothes and sit in the middle of the formation.” The voice almost commanded him now, but he did not mind as much; the whole process had worked him up, eliciting a certain kind of nervousness inside of him that he had never felt before. He placed the tools on a stool near him and tossed his clothes before stepping into the circle.
“Assume cross-legged position. Arms loosely situated on your knees. Close your eyes. Now this is the last, but most crucial part. Are you ready?”
Was he ready?
Why was he doing this again?
He thought back to the carpet with the house sigil, and something deep inside him stirred. In a flash, a calming wave washed over him, shutting down anything that was about to emerge. “Control yourself lest you want to die a premature death.”
Yes, this was not the time for second thoughts. The voice had warned him that in doing this, he was essentially falling in line with the Dark God and his underlings, for this was magic forbidden by the Church of the Exalted One.
With a final nod, he gave the go to proceed.
“Very well. I shall now proceed with activating your channels. Do not move. Maintain a meditative state at all times. See you at the other side, Alger.”
And then there was pain.
And darkness.
