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Post by Tingon on Feb 28, 2017 10:41:17 GMT
Therien had archives. Archives he hadn't seen in... At least a handful of decades. His high collar stood picked out in thread-of-silver that gleamed almost white, with cultured sea pearls stitched in elven designs, lettering in a long forgotten tongue that most commoners just took for Elvish flowed along the lapel and across the sleeves and hems was done in the same metal. The overall effect with the sea-blue fabric and embellishments was quite striking, and his dark hair was for once held back by a delicate circlet resembling an artistic take on a bridge arcing over waves, a large moonstone flanked by two sapphires in it.
Three rings adorned each hand on the pinky, ring, and middle finger. They varied in metal, style, and design, but all seemed to gleam with an inner light. Each index finger was covered in a jointed sleeve of metal, much like a finger from an articulated gauntlet, and each thumb carried a broad beaten wedge set with onyx and covered in Saurian text. A simple finely spun chain made of more metals than most knew of hung about his neck, and a pouch at his belt clinked rather finely as if with small trinkets. But he was not, at current, in the archives. At current he was standing near a Therinese war-wizard as he tried to incant protection.
His intent was noble, this war-wizard. However, the force that had caught any mage in the city's attention was far too malignant and malevolent, and so Thingon stepped forward with a flourish of his left hand, drawing a symbol in the air and speaking as he did. Ancient words that sounded like elvish, but not quite, rang out like silver chimes on the air, and the emerald on his left ring finger flashed, flaring along its' adamant band. The war-wizard and all nearby would feel a definitive solidity come to them as the energy of the earth flowed into them.
Another flourish as the green set of runes he had traced hung in the air glowing. This time an opal on his right pinky twinkled merrily, and the jet-black steel band it was set in seemed to drink the light and reflect back a nauseating prizm of light. The chanting continued, though the words seemed more recognizable to those who could speak High Elven. It was a slightly 'younger' form of the Estellian tongue. Thingon smiled at the war-wizard, gesturing for him to continue, as the shimmery pearlescence of the second set of runes began to hover in the air.
This spell would not be swift, nor would it be weak. He might even exhaust a few of the rings he bore keeping this chunk of the city isolated and safe. But it would be worth it. Nothing he was using at current was irreplaceable, all of them would just need new gems charged and set. At best it would save lives. At worst, he would be out a few minor gemstones. A few around him began to notice the strangeness of his presence. An elf with a beard? To them, that was foreign, though it was common in Estellian fashion. His mode of dress was overly mystic and exotically formal as well, and his words jarring when compared to the modern tongues.
Whatever he was, several people were obviously not sure, but aetheric energies flared along his arms and sparked at his fingertips as he worked in tandem with the other mage. If he did not help here, and now, there would not be a Therien in all likelihood. Nor would there be an archive to ransack for knowledge or anything of the sort. Altruism was not his best or foremost quality, but even he could see the service to his own ends inherent in this effort. And so, he brought the Gift of his People to bear, and this small corner of the world saw magics long unwielded spring to life.
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Post by Taun-Lok on Feb 28, 2017 16:11:39 GMT
Ignore.
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Post by Darrik Eckhardt on Feb 28, 2017 16:23:35 GMT
The first rays of pale moonlight struck Darrik quietly in the vale several miles outside Therien as dusk began to set in on the country side. Therien had suffered this monster before, but not in many years. The young knight had thought he would leave and Therien would be rid of suffering and monsters, but apparently they just took on a new face. Or perhaps the fact that the apex predator had left caused the new ones to settle in on the once tranquil land. Darrik's ice blue eyes were the first to change, the man grimacing and grunting in pain. He doubled over, as though his stomach was being stabbed, a thousand tiny needles digging into his skin. Icy blue eyes became pale. Where there was once iris, pupil, and X there was now only pale blue light covering the whole of his eyes. Next his fingernails tore his skin, cutting him deeply as his claws elongated and peeled back the flesh of his fingertips. Cries of pain left the man like a whimper as fur was thrust from the pores of his skin, covering him in an ashy grey coat. His head throbbed and teeth felt like they were being wrenched around as his jaw broke and re-aligned over and over again. Pain filled his senses, blinding him, rendering him deaf to his surroundings. And then it was silent. After what seemed like several minutes the sound of nostrils sniffing the air could be heard and the wolf's form stretched. Much taller and with much more bulk than its human counterpart the Wolf snorted, lifting its head to the sky releasing a nightmarish howl as dusk fell over the summer palace. So begins the hunt. Harrier Wren Braemara Kareena Tingon The Dark One
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Post by Harrier Wren on Mar 1, 2017 2:23:03 GMT
Darrik Eckhardt TingonDespite the festival, the Summer Palace's entrances boasted elite guards and serious wards. The archival wing, repository of the Empire's history and identity, was no exception. As plans went, hers didn't rank among the more dignified things she'd ever done, but it worked. Step one: catch the eye of a nearby reveler with ink-stained fingers and the clothes of a palace functionary. Step two: over wine, share a few hints about the smell of old books and the uses of bookshelves. Step three: proceed escorted into the archival wing. Step four: use a certain concoction invented by Kendrick Blayde, and put the archivist into a dreamless sleep. Step five: hide the archivist. Step six: browse. No question, this place had been worth the risk. Quartos, folios, and scrolls filled shelves that stretched as far as the eye could see. An optical illusion, perhaps. Steward Harmon was a notable practitioner, but even he couldn't make an entire library bigger on the inside. As a former third-tier Maester of the Foard of Elbion, Harrier was fairly comfortable making that assumption. Nevertheless, the place was huge, and its filing system resembled nothing she'd seen before, even in academia. Keeping an eye out for company, she set about hunting. She looked like any other courtier or low-ranked noble, in a nice green dress cut low; as disguises went, it would have to do. Instinct suggested she hurry. Powerful magic of an unknown type was opposing the fear ritual. The Therienese mages, apparently, had decided enough was enough. But there was more to it than the feel of a Mapheri Empire war-wizard.
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Post by Darrik Eckhardt on Mar 1, 2017 3:30:04 GMT
The wolf padded on all fours through the underbrush, slinking through the forests outside Therien like any other predator. Pale blue light burned from its eyes as the wolf looked out from the forests at the nearest village. The fires of its destruction were long dead and the embers cold. The wolf's mind was already set on its prey. Bestial as it was, the wolf was sentient, capable of planning and plotting its schemes and hunts with all the precision and expertise of a born serial killer. Contrary to Darrik's belief, the wolf was not above choosing its victims. Dusk was still new, the light of the sun was still dying as darkness started to drift across the land. And so the wolf was careful, picking his way through ditches and behind obstacles as it cut across the fields of Therien towards the summer palace. Once, many years ago the Wolf had sought this prey but had mistakenly slain the wrong one, they were both so similar in scent and appearance. The creature approached a darkened corner of the wall and with a bound, the beast was atop the ramparts. The lone guard was startled, almost shouting as the massive lupine figure appeared silently on the wall beside him. Managing to compose himself long enough to fire his crossbow, the bolt struck the beast in the neck with a thud. " Hel-" the man's cry was cut short, long claws slashing across his throat, turning the shout into a wet gasp and gurgling noise until he disappeared with the wolf into the darkness within the walls. Harrier Wren Tingon
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Post by Braemara on Mar 1, 2017 13:20:43 GMT
As Braemara finished the last of her bloodstones in the villages surrounding Therien, she sat back on her haunches and breathed deeply. Her ministrations had not gone unnoticed, and on the edges of her mind she could feel the protective magics of Therien's war wizards come up to counter her magic. If assaulting Therien had been her design, she would have been thwarted. Ancient magics rose up in a section of the city, something that felt familiar only to the most ancient recesses of her mind. Her mother might have better identified it, but as it was only protecting a part of the city, Braemara only grinned.
The easiest types of protection, and the quickest to perform for war mages, were barriers that deflected rather than negated. Therien's war wizards obliged Braemara and the panic she had started to cause by bringing up just such barriers. It provided a distinct boundary against Therien, just as the running waters of the lake provided a boundary. Now, she only had to activate the final boundary and focus her spells.
She took a few moments and continued to breath, the silent presence of her earthborne undead guarded her throughout the many rituals she had done this day.
She still had one more to do.
Standing, she brushed out the door and into the night. Dark creatures were about, but she didn't worry over much. Natural creatures had fled the area, and those unnaturals that weren't likewise scattered were likely more aligned with her than Therien. That, and her servitor guarded her still, moving with a silent grace through the night.
Braemara followed the arc of villages outside of Therien, walking the invisible line of her bloodstones until she had reached the apex. A former general store sitting entirely within magical shadows now. She knelt before the door, and began to once again chant in a language that was more proper on the abyssal planes than the material.
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Post by Kareena on Mar 2, 2017 5:17:00 GMT
Kareena paused again along the path this was not a cobbled path of stone but one of dirt that many had trudged upon to get to the Citadel. Behind her the Festival played on but even there the sounds were different, the air tingled with magic.
This normally would not cause her a concern but away from home cause for concern slipped into her mind. A deep breath to calm the nerves, a quick look about to ensure she was alone. But was she for the path had grown dark what little light had been provided slipped away, and the lamplighters had began their slow walk about.
Kareena rolled her shoulders the tiny green eyed shifter gritted her teeth to keep her fears bottled up reminding herself there was no need to shift. nothing was wrong.
She was doing a lousy job of convincing herself. The magic being woven this night seemed to push upon that single nerve that said CHANGE!
Fighting that urge Kareena stiff legged walked and watched the shadows ever growing around her. Braemara Darrik Eckhardt Harrier Wren
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Post by Harrier Wren on Mar 3, 2017 21:38:49 GMT
Kareena Braemara Darrik Eckhardt Tingon A handful of scrolls and slim books, volumes she’d only heard of as obscure citations, fit snugly in Harrier’s shoulder bag. Any more finds, no matter how valuable, would encumber her and make her more noticeable. Nevertheless, she lingered at a door labeled ‘Special Collections’ and spent a good five minutes poking at its wards while glancing over her shoulder. The magical defenses were quite good, but so was she. The door creaked open.
“That was relatively rapid,” said a calm, cool voice ahead of her, between darkened bookshelves. A male elf in a loose white robe emerged from the shelves, leafing through an open book. Behind Harrier, the door closed and locked. She felt the wards she’d just unpicked take a new and more complex form, though the elf didn’t so much as gesture. He glanced up at her and tilted his head toward an overstuffed chair. “Have a seat, Maester Coreil.”
Panic flooded through her and rooted her to the floor. After a very long moment, she moved to the chair and sat down as if it was made of rusty steel. “That’s not a name many know,” she said, though her lips felt numb.
He glanced up at her again, and the faintest hint of a smile refused to reach his blue eyes. “Malina Coreil, Maester of the Third Order in the Foard of Elbion, exiled for necromancy. My dear, I am the custodian of the Mapheri Empire’s entire legacy. Do you honestly believe any magician of your calibre can operate so close to the Summer Palace without attracting attention?”
“I suppose I did.”
The elf nodded once, a motion that shifted his long white hair. “You know, Maester Coreil - or do you prefer Harrier Wren? No answer, no preference? Harrier, then. If you had come to me openly, Harrier, honestly, I would have opened my archives to you. I studied with the Council of Magi in its infancy; I do not share the Foard’s prejudices. I have no deep-set issue with necromancy that does not involve bargains with demons, and you are not that sort of sorceress. For all your crimes against good taste, basic respect, and common sense, your magic is not what I would call malevolent. Accurate?”
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she was talking to Steward Harmon, ruler of Therien. “I’d like to think so.”
“You could have come to study here; an academic of your calibre could have contributed to the revitalization of the Empire.” Another, simpler chair sat by a stone fireplace. He took a seat and crossed one ankle over the other, holding his knee: a somewhat feminine posture, in its way. “Instead you attempted to impede that effort as a side effect of your rooting through the archives of the Summer Palace. And this is not the first time you’ve attempted to gain access through illicit means.”
“No, it’s not.”
“However,” he said, “your methods are much like your sorcery, Harrier. Amoral rather than immoral; dangerous on an incidental level rather than deliberately malevolent. Certain sources have indicated to me that you were employed by a private party in Ashdell to infiltrate and undermine the Summer Palace, and that once you discovered the nature of your mission, you subverted the errand rather than complete it. You could, perhaps, have done significant damage to my work. I owe you some small thanks for that.”
“You’re extremely well-informed, Steward.”
He inclined his head, half a nod and half a bow. “You were not the only contractor sent on that mission. You were, however, one of the few who did not wind up partaking in my hospitality. I trust I’m understood?”
“You are.”
“Harrier, I find myself in an unusual situation.” He gestured, fingers taking on a strange position, and dust swirled up a wall from the corners of the archive. The dust took the form of a vertical map of Therien. “A number of powers have sprung up in my territory tonight. Some are benign, and others are not. Some are within my reach and the reach of the war-wizards patrolling the vicinity of the festival and the Summer Palace. Others are some distance away. The nearby powers are not necessarily hostile, but they do require close attention, and I cannot afford to commit to the more distant issues.” He gestured again, and a knot of dust swirled around a certain location in the Therien countryside. “I will make you a bargain, Harrier. Leave the books you stole, investigate the source of the ritual you have been tracking, and I will give you access to knowledge that makes those books seem like undergraduate work. Your other choice is a second exile.”
Her mouth had gone dry, but she felt she’d done well at keeping her face under control. Not trusting her voice, she nodded once.
“I would urge haste,” said the ancient elf. “There are serious powers at play.”
Five minutes later, the door of the archive closed behind her, and she headed out through the festival again. Night had come on in full force, and she found herself shivering. Something wasn’t right.
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Post by Darrik Eckhardt on Mar 4, 2017 3:56:03 GMT
The wolf padded silently into a small cottage through the second story window. Pale blue eyes cast on the bed of the parents that had retired from the party and festivities early. What an unfortunate mistake. The man felt a weight on his chest and blinked awake groggily. He could feel something wet along his side and the side of his face as though he had been drooling, at first he glanced at his fingers seeing they were red and sticky, the viscous liquid still warm. With a start he jerked upwards coming eye to eye with the Wolf, maw agape and teeth bloody, drool and blood dripping from its jaws onto the blankets. " What the, AHHHHH!" The man's cry was cut short, the sound of flesh tearing and bones snapping erupted in the room. Outside at the palace Steward Harmon ordered a group of his knights to go looking for something. He was vague in his instructions, but told them to investigate a particular neighborhood thoroughly. Rumors of a Knight of the House of Eckhardt in the region weren't taken lightly, especially given their close ties to the Steward in years past. The honorable young Knight had acquired quite the name for himself as a benevolent warrior, still hunting after the monster that had killed the rest of his family but never able to catch it. Steward Harmon was a bit more knowledgeable of the situation; old Berethon Eckhardt having revealed the truth many years ago. That was why he had told the Knights to carry silver, however Silver swords weren't exactly lining the walls of the Summer Palace so they had made due with silver coins for now, only told that they must carry it on their persons. Why Darrik had chosen to return however was troubling. Now of all times the young Knight of the Griffin had returned to his home. Pale blue eyes lurked in the attic, the scene below him grim and messy. Only the hearts were eaten, the wolf's favorite meal, leaving the rest strewn from corner to corner in the house. Pale blue eyes watched a young brunette in green dancing, jovial and happy. The wolf grinned as the young woman and a small escort of courtesans and would be suitors left towards the Palace proper laughing and smiling among themselves as they left the main group of attendees, silently stalked by an supernatural predator moving from rooftop to rooftop. Harrier Wren The Dark One Kareena Tingon
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Post by Prince Ineirin on Mar 6, 2017 0:21:09 GMT
"Gwythion," Ineirin said after a moment, as a sense of dark terror and other magics sent sparks through his blood. "I fear something dark is afoot. Let us return to the palace as quickly as possible." His voice was taut and low, barely audible above the sound of the revelry. They turned and made their way back to the palace, taking what shortcuts they could, passing by a group of young partiers, including a young woman in a green dress. A shiver ran down Ineirin's back. He searched the alleyways and streets, but found no danger. He loosened the sword in its scabbard.
Then they were into the building and making a hurried way to their guest quarters, where they buckled on their armor. It took time and the night grew dark before they were ready. Ineirin sketched out a chart of the surrounding landscape, trying to guess what might be causing his unease. He had nothing serious, so he would have to return to the night and seek it out, whatever it may be.
Such was the cost of not being a wizard or a mage. He was a solider. That meant his expertise lay in the skilled application of sharp metal objects. Not in sorcery and countering spells or even in finding spells. That was something he would need to work out at the rate this was going. Maybe find a compass or something that pointed to the strongest source of magic.
He strode from the room, draping a cloak across his back and sword still loose in its scabbard. No need to alarm anyone quite yet. There would be a need arising soon enough. The first question was where to look. He stopped outside the entrance and frowned as he considered the night.
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Post by Harrier Wren on Mar 8, 2017 2:02:28 GMT
Prince Ineirin Darrik Eckhardt Kareena BraemaraThe errand struck her as simple enough in its way: Go to the nearby village that Steward Harmon had marked on his impromptu map. Locate the source of the supernatural fear whose undercurrents ebbed and flowed through the festival as a sort of frenetic, manic energy. Kill it. Earn access to a world-class library. Now, granted, the complications might prove too much. Other powers, serious ones, were at work around here. Her ghostly scout had nearly been ripped from her control, and she'd caught a glimpse of a hellish army of unknown type. And the manic festival's energy peaked every minute or two, driving more bodies into the street and obstructing her path out of the city. If she could just manage to get into the countryside, though, the revelers wouldn't be a danger, she would distance herself from whatever had grabbed Mathquil's shade, and she could proceed to locate and kill the source of the ritual. First, of course, she had to get through a crammed and energetic street festival in the boozy hours of the night. A misstep ran her into a knot of young courtiers, many of them elven; one even looked a little like her, if Harrier's green dress had been better embroidered and her ears had come to a point. Harrier found herself somewhat buffeted and obstructed, to her extreme annoyance.
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Post by Darrik Eckhardt on Mar 8, 2017 2:12:47 GMT
The wolf's eyes gleamed in the night, shining as it watched its prey walk the streets. It was time. The crowds were thick and there would be chaos abundant once the slaughter began. With this many people it would be minutes before the first guards and knights could arrive on scene and attempt to do anything about the werewolf in their streets slaughtering their young people. Without a howl the wolf dropped into an alleyway, shadows covering it so that the only thing people could see where his glowing blue eyes. The wolf stood up, standing on his hind legs, taking long strides until the light of the streetlights struck it. The furred lupine face was twisted into almost a smile, blood still staining its face and chin from its earlier victims. There was a scream from one of the courtiers as they noticed him, well within the walls without a word, appearing so close to the group. A loud snarl left the beast and it began as claws slashed at the first and closest man, the knot of people all beginning to try to run off in their own directions to get away from the supernatural predator that set upon them. The wolf's eyes locked onto a green dress, ready to chase her down no matter the cost. Harrier Wren
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Post by Kareena on Mar 8, 2017 4:06:53 GMT
Something about the night air it carried the sounds of everything amplified or so it seemed. Kareena heard screaming her green eyes immediately looked in the direction of the sound. Why was someone screaming? Kareena shook her head and asked herself why?
She then took off to run in the direction of the sound she could see nothing yet. There was a group of elves, mostly dressed alike. Elves why did they dress alike? Must be that caste ideology.
There was another scream.
It was then that Kareena felt the shivers run down her spine. Oh...not now...
She stopped staring at the group of elves with the woman in a green dress, to beyond where something she had never seen lurked and prepared to move.
She knew that in her present form she could fight the elves, but not what was beyond. "Fudge." It was then her chest heaved as if choking her, as she bent over to catch her breath her body slowly began to change.
"AHHHHHH" the tiny green eyed girl screamed.Darrik Eckhardt Harrier Wren @prince Ineirin Braemara
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Post by Harrier Wren on Mar 12, 2017 16:34:38 GMT
Darrik Eckhardt KareenaEverything about this situation screamed 'bad.' The group of courtiers had taken a shortcut through an alleyway, and cut was the word: one now lay bleeding out on the cobblestones. A bipedal canid of some kind stood over the dying man. Screaming, the courtiers scattered, largely away from the canid. They stopped again, screaming louder, and Harrier whirled to see a small, red-haired woman beginning some sort of physical transformation. At a guess, the entire group of courtiers seemed to be trapped in this alley between two werewolves. All things considered, Harrier didn't have much in the way of close-range combat magic. Such things just weren't a priority for a former Maester of the Foard of Elbion, or for a proper necromancer. She'd always made do on the road with tricks and wits and the occasional undead servants. For assets, right now, she had two bound shades: Mathquil the scout in her ring, and al-Kaateb the scribe in her jade pen. The scout couldn't carry a load as heavy as Harrier, not up the steep, unbroken walls that flanked the alleyway. Nor did she have time to improvise a more kinetic working. Fortunately, there was a third spirit available. In her mind's eye, she saw the courtier leaving his crumpled body. She issued a silent command to drive him back in and bind him to his task. The dead man convulsed and lashed out with arms and legs, looking to bind or tangle the werewolf. Harrier turned and ran. She burst out of the knot of panicked courtiers and sprinted past the transforming red-haired girl, the potential second werewolf. If that transformation took a while, and if her new undead servant managed to delay the first werewolf, running into a more crowded area of the festival might be an option.
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Post by Grozkalla on Mar 13, 2017 8:14:54 GMT
The festival whirled about. Colorful, very colorful, from the people to the language bandied about. It seemed, however, that the one color no one wanted present was green. A large, bald orc stumbled out of an alehouse. "And don't you come back, crow-eaten greeny!" The orc, face tattooed with swirling designs in woad, wiped a bit of fruit from his face. "Apologies for the intrusion, good evening." "Go back to yer herd, you goat-kisser." "Ah yes, well, I bid you farewell." The barrel-chested fellow went on his way, trying to not bump into anyone in the festival, though that proved easier said than done. Inevitably, someone collided with him and spilled a horn of wine all over his tartan. "Watch where yer goin'!" He sighed heavily. "Apologies." Wondering if the night might end with the town fool stabbing him to death, the orc turned away from the incident and wandered to try and find somewhere to stay for the night. A sudden commotion stirred up ahead, and a dark haired woman flew from a knot of people and nearly bumped full on into him. She did not look well. "Excuse me, madame. Can I help you?" rumbled the orc in his rich bass. Harrier Wren Wren | Kareena | Darrik Eckhardt Eckhardt | @prince Ineirin
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