The Last Daughter -- Dragon-Blooded Sorcery School Quest

The two days of rain have gotten rid of the last of the snow, but the cold has lingered on, the air outside the school hovering just above freezing. So it's a clammy, bone-chilling morning when your small group gathers around a strange sort of training field.

You watch what's left of a host of flickering, ephemeral soldiers, the flayed-alive wreckage of their bodies leaking iridescent blood all over the paving stones, the lucky ones trying to drag allies to safety, or just breaking and running. Some of these put a foot down on the razor-edged obsidian butterflies littering the area, falling and cutting whatever exposed flesh they have to ribbons, screaming soundlessly.

Watching this, you try your best to remind yourself that these are not real people. Just the sad, faded images of them.

At the far end of the little courtyard is a stone wall, bricks interspaced with strange, irregular prisms. If the older students are to be believed, these were recovered from an old battlefield in Cherak, strange echoes of the Cheraki legionnaires who fell against the forces of the sorcerer Bagrash Köl. They're not ghosts, or true spirits of any kind, but they react like they did in life.

"Any of you could have learned sorcery at the House of Bells," says Instructor First Light. She's old and weathered, her walk revealing a pronounced limp. The pale light through the cold mists around you shimmers slightly where it lands on her, as if passing through shallow water. "They'd have taught you how to manage soldiers and plan a battle, use spells for communication and logistics, and how to cut down dozens of people with flashy killing spells. It doesn't take all that much theory to be a military sorcerer, in practice."

The words are self effacing, but for just a moment there's something faintly hostile in the grin the old woman gives, her scarred face twisting the expression downward on one side. First Light had learned sorcery in Pasiap's Stair, you understand. You doubt it was a gentle learning environment. "But your families sent you here — where we study the deeper mysteries of the art. Where we make some fumbling attempts at why, not just how. If you find yourself staring down a hundred enemy soldiers, though, giving them a detailed explanation of spirit taxonomy isn't going to be what saves you."

She claps her hands, and a strange presence seems to sweep across the courtyard behind her, vanishing the false soldiers, and sweeping away the broken pieces of obsidian butterfly laying on the stones.

"Death of Obsidian Butterflies," she says, unnecessarily. "Effective at killing people and animals and tearing apart fragile targets, but it can't get through heavy armour." She waves a hand at the scale of phantasmal soldiers already appearing behind her. "They're lightly armoured. If they were properly led — and real, obviously — they could stumble past the worst of the wreckage, reach me, mob me. It has its time and its place. Every offensive combat spell has trade offs like this. Anyone want to help me demonstrate?"

She looks around at you all, clearly hoping for a volunteer. You raise your hand. "I would."

"Good," First Light says, beckoning you over with a jerk of her head.

There are six students present, yourself included, all sitting around a semi-circular table carved from granite. The other five include Sola, looking distinctly interested in whatever you're about to use, and, much less welcomely, Simendor Deiza. Deiza just looks amused in a way that makes you almost want to smack her. Beyond them, there are two older students; a Mnemon boy, and a quietly watchful fifth year girl named Peleps Nalri. The solitary younger student is a Cathak in his second year, distinctive for the pair of blue jade lenses he wears perched on his overly long nose — it's mildly impressive that he's far enough along as a sorcerer to benefit from this exercise.

As you approach the edge of the courtyard, you try to gauge the distance ahead of you. You need to time this right, or it will be both very underwhelming and very ineffectual.

"This is as simple as can be," First Light says. "No one is doing anything tricky, or throwing actual javelins at your head. Just a few ranks of soldiers. It will never be this easy on you again."

"Yes, I understand," you say. You take a second or two to centre yourself, drawing on the power you got from burying a coin the previous day. Your hands flash through a quick mudra, and you murmur an incantation under your breath, describing the Pole of Earth itself. Fixed, unmoving, inexorable, eternal. Then you breathe out slowly, emptying your lungs so you can fill them again with raw, foreign Earth Essence, as different from your own as seawater is from a mountain spring.

You stand there for a long moment, waiting for the group of marching soldiers to draw closer than First Light did, before you exhale, a cloud of ivory coloured vapour jetting out from your mouth, spreading in a cone to consume the front ranks of legionnaires. They barely have time to scream silently as their bodies calcify, hardening into grey stone studded with dark quartz. The survivors retreat in a general state of terror, some of them dragging partially petrified limbs.

"Well, that's fucking horrifying," First Light says, sounding faintly impressed. "The psychological effect is considerable — they'd have to march past those statues again. Would be very nasty for defending any kind of a chokepoint. Novel and intimidating, but it's got limited range and trajectory compared to some of the more common war spells. It moves against the wind?"

"Earth has its own inertia," you say, cryptically.

"Good thing," First Light says. She glances at the rest of the students. "You're all taking note of this, I hope."

There's a muted scramble for notebooks from approximately half the students present, including Sola. Deiza, notably, doesn't seem to be bothering.

"Anyone else have something to show the class?" the instructor asks, voice thick with irony, once the courtyard has been swept clear once again. To your faint satisfaction, it seems to have to actually work to clear away the statues.

The second year raises his hand with a profoundly pompous air.

"Cathak Hylo," First Light says, acknowledging him.

"Cathak Garel Hylo," he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. His brick red hair is neatly styled, and his uniform is spotless in a way that no one's is, past the first few months. At the back of your mind, you are distantly certain that, if you wanted to, you could snap him in two.

You recognise the spell he casts as Flight of the Brilliant Raptor, even as you try to clinically take notes about its effects — a bird formed of red and white flame, streaking through the air to explode into a towering inferno in the middle of the formation.

First Light eyes his handiwork critically. "Textbook. Optimal trajectory, dead centre of the enemy formation." Hylo's smile is small, and very smug. It falters a moment later, when she adds: "You look like you've got an opinion on that, Tepet."

"It's good for what it does," Sola says, "but conventional means that it's more likely you run into an enemy with countermeasures."

Hylo bristles. "And exactly how many conventional forces are going to have effective countermeasures worthy of the name? We both know that—"

"Doesn't have too low an opinion of himself, does he?" Deiza murmurs, not loud enough to interrupt Hylo's explanation or Sola's reply, but loud enough to hear.

You don't look up from your notetaking — the argument is proving fruitful for that. "I thought that was your type," you say.

Nearby, Peleps Nalri covers her mouth, as if hiding a smile.

Far from being offended by this, Deiza actually gives a small laugh. "Even I've got to draw the line somewhere, Prasad." Verdigris glares at her from your shoulder.

By the time Hylo goes back to his seat, he and Sola are still quietly sniping at each other. First Light doesn't seem to be inclined to intervene, as long as they keep it to a low enough volume.

"This kind of overly conservative, narrow-minded approach is exactly the problem with your house's doctrine," Sola says.

"Well, pardon me if practicality gets in the way of chasing after personal glory." Hylo glances at Storm's Eye, sheathed at her side — the sheath that had been made for it features many elaborate and dubiously orthodox lines of Melaist prayer. "Not that your house ever seems disinclined to reward such behaviour."

It's the kind of talk that Sola had tried to initiate with Amiti, briefly, in your first year — she'd given it up when Amiti had proven to be utterly uninterested in defending the honour of House Sesus. The rivalries between the Realm's three great military houses are old and well entrenched, but naturally some scions take them more seriously than others.

When Deiza slides herself up out of her seat and approaches the edge of the courtyard, she doesn't hurry. You've seen her work sorcery before; it's as strange as ever. The incantations she speaks are unfamiliar, done in an impenetrable mix of archaic Flametongue and Old Realm — this close, the words somehow have a heavy, intoxicating quality, weighed down by dreams of hot summer nights full of wild revelry.

So it's a little startling when the wind briefly screams around her, and the target soldiers are struck by what sounds like a small sonic boom. Some of them fall and don't get up; all of them are staggered and moving as though in pain. The sound isn't actively harmful for you, all the way at the table, but several of the other students wince, and Verdigris tightens around your neck in displeasure. You certainly didn't enjoy it.

"Effective choice, in many situations," First Light says. "Less lethal than a lot of options, though. It leaves many enemies reeling and disorientated — following that up with a competent infantry or cavalry charge can be deadly. Less so in other circumstances."

"When would I ever be fighting a force of organised soldiers that I wouldn't have a squad of blood apes at my back?" Deiza asks, shrugging off this criticism. "They wouldn't need much encouragement to pounce on helpless prey. I've seen it enough times." There's something slightly chilling about that last, from someone her age.

"I suppose you would think having a small army of demons might be a given, Simendor," First Light says, sounding unimpressed by this logic.

"Oh, have you been to Chalan, then?" Deiza asks, voice mock innocent.

First Light looks at her like she's deciding whether or not to take offence. She settles on informative: "No, but I think I've heard enough about it. Not everyone will work with that many summoned spirits, and the Legions hardly ever will: They're unreliable, they cause problems it's hard to account for, they scare the regular troops. Your family's approach is not popular."

"Does popular matter, if it works?" Deiza asks.

"Sit down, Simendor," First Light says, half a growl.

The demonstrations, as it turns out, were the fun part.

Once your collective arsenal of mass killing spells is exhausted, the instructor comes to lean over the table, unrolling a series of maps and documents taken from her belt. "So," she says, "now that we've established that there's more than one way to skin a soldier, it's time to actually demonstrate a capacity to learn something. I am going to hear all of your tactical appraisals of numerous scenarios, bearing in mind what you've seen and discussed already today. And I will explain to you why you're wrong about it."

Hylo sits up in his chair, looking affronted. "Do you—"

"Cathak, If you finish that sentence with 'know who my grandmother is', I swear to you, I will pick you up and throw you into the sea myself," First Light says, evidently not unfamiliar with this line from young Dynasts. "If General Cathak Garel wants to come down here and tell me why I'm wrong about my business, I will respectfully listen. You are a sixteen year old boy, and you're either worth my time on your own merits or you're not."

You cannot say, personally, whether you're worth her time, by the end of the lesson. But you very keenly feel your inadequacies as a tactician even in this safe, isolated environment. The single most pointed lesson, impressed on nearly everyone around the table at least once, is the sheer capacity for carelessly-deployed sorcery to wreak havoc on your own allies, followed by the degree to which sorcerous assistance with logistics, communications, and transport was being overlooked by all of you.

It's a thoroughly demoralising experience, and you have to wonder if that isn't the point.

At the end of it all, though, you're all told that there will be a more advanced exercise the next month, and to not bother attending if you're not willing to put some serious research into the subject between now and then.

You and Sola walk back toward the main building, following a path that goes along a head-high stone wall carved with demon faces.

"Sometimes, Prasad, I get the feeling that you don't like me," says Deiza. You turn to see her there, appearing out of the mists behind you.

"I have a name," you remind her.

"Well, it seemed friendlier than 'Princess'," she says.

Her tone puts your back up more than the barbarian title does.

"She's not worth it, Ambraea," Sola says. A few paces ahead of you, she doesn't slow down, expecting you to follow.

It's too late, though. You turn around to face Deiza, frowning. "Simendor, this is childish," you tell her.

Deiza raises her eyebrows. "Childish?"

"The names and the stubborn rudeness and the snide remarks." You regard Deiza with a flatly unimpressed expression. "It's embarrassing at our age. It's unwomanly."

You don't expect this to have a great deal of impact -- you've seen Deiza swallow worse with only an insolent grin and an amused retort. But you see her smile die, her jaw clench. For a moment, you think she's going to strike you. In the end, it's only words she stabs you with. "Right, because that's really the problem, isn't it? Don't give me that, you don't give a shit about 'unwomanly' — you'd just love it if I were polite and sweet and pliant, so you could condescend to treat me with basic decency. The gracious Imperial daughter, deigning not to talk down to her lessers! I'm not Erona. Why don't you just stop dancing around things with her, by the way? Do you think she'd say no? Do you think she wouldn't just lay back and let you do whatever you wanted, so she could get a pat on the head from her family?"

Earth does move in the end. Your vision blurs -- the next thing you know, you're launching yourself at her, fist aimed right for Deiza's startled face. In the last possible instant, a body interposes itself between you -- it's not enough to stop you, but the blow is diverted. Your fist hits the wall beside Deiza's head, and the structure noticeably shudders.

"Get out of my way, Sola!"

"When you stop trying to put Simendor's head through the wall!" Sola's arms tremble with the effort of holding you back. Behind her, Deiza scrambles back up to her feet from where she'd thrown herself clear, hands rising in a spell-casting motion.

"Did you hear what she said?" you demand. Verdigris has reared up on your shoulder, hissing a warning at Deiza. Prepared to strike.

"Yes, I heard." Sola gives Deiza a piercing sort of look, and for the first time, you see something approaching shame on Deiza's face.

Deiza puts her hands down slowly, not meeting either of your gazes. "Do not try to hit me again," she says, a note of warning in her voice. Then she turns on her heel and walks away.

You take in a deep breath, forcing yourself to be calm. "You can let me go," you tell Sola, voice stiff.

She does, pretending not to be relieved. She's a better fighter than you, all around — you're not arrogant enough to believe otherwise, after more than a year of training with her. In terms of sheer strength, though, you're stronger than her. "You know, you're pretty scary when you actually snap," Sola says.

"I wouldn't know," you tell her, trying to swallow the last of your anger as you brush stone dust from off your knuckles.

"It's a shame you didn't just let Ambraea hit her." You turn to see Peleps Nalri, having apparently been watching all this for an indeterminate length of time.

"Does Simendor seem like the sort to let a few knocked out teeth slide afterwards?" Sola asks. She does not, admittedly, but you hadn't cared in the moment. "Then it's a real fight, someone gets hurt, and it's punishment duties on top of regular work."

Nalri waves this off. "Obviously, I would not ordinarily condone two Dynastic ladies brawling over an insult to a patrician, but, well, Simendor barely counts as either of those things, and she frankly needs to be put in her place, at some point." Her smile reminds you of a dagger — small, sharp, and ultimately just not a good sign. "Of course, there's more of that going around than one would hope, at this point." She moves sedately past you, until the mist swallows her up too.

You decide that you don't particularly like Peleps Nalri.

---

"I can't even picture that," L'nessa says, looking at you as if you've been replaced by a stranger.

You sigh. "My patience has a limit, like anyone else's."

"Yeah, so it would seem!" L'nessa says.

You, L'nessa, and Maia are in your dorm rooms later that night. You and Maia are sitting at your desks, while L'nessa stands in the centre of the room, a large basket at her feet. L'nessa's hands begin to flash through a series of precisely timed mudras, a bright orange leaf drifting out from her hair as a sign of her concentration.

"So... what exactly did Deiza say? About me, I mean," Maia says, frowning.

"Nothing I would repeat in polite company," you say. It's likely she'll hear some version of what happened, if you have a correct read on how likely Nalri is to gossip, but at least it won't be from you directly. Just thinking about Deiza's insinuations while Maia looks at you like that makes a small part of your earlier fury kindle in your chest.

Maia pauses, glancing down at the blank page in front of her, the ink on her brush drying through indecision. Finally, she says: "You shouldn't be starting fights over me." It's a much more assertive sentiment than you would have heard from her in your first two years.

"Simendor started the fight," you say. "And whether or not I defend my friends' good names when they're being disparaged is my decision." It's a little more forceful than you intended.

Maia seems torn between gratitude and a sort of quiet frustration. "I don't want to cause you—" She falls silent, though, as L'nessa draws both of your attention back to her.

"There!" The air around her has filled with a slowly falling cascade of what looks like bright pink flower petals, which she is deftly gathering up in the basket before they can touch the floor. "Now we can stay in tonight."

"We might wish we'd gone down for some real food anyway," you say, eyeing her basket full of sorcerously-created rations. "Those things taste like nothing."

"We'll all actually get those observations written up tonight, though," L'nessa says, offering the basket to you. With a sigh, you take a handful — the pink flakes are soft, and dissolve almost instantly on your tongue. You know by this point that they'll fill your stomach, but that's about all you can say about them. "Before I forget again, though — I need a favour."

"What is it?" You ask, curious and grateful for a change of subject.

"Darting Fish is running an experiment for after Calibration, and he needs some help," L'nessa admits. "I'll be there, but he needs a couple more hands. It's going to be clambering around on cliffsides, apparently."

"Why isn't he working with some of the older students?" You ask. V'neef Darting Fish is in his sixth year now; you haven't had any noteworthy contact with him since he'd ferried you and L'nessa to and from Eagle Prefecture, but he's always been polite enough toward you.

"Well, the other senior students don't particularly like him," L'nessa admits, Offering the basket to Maia. "He got here the year after our house ascended, and he hadn't exactly had time to adjust to suddenly being a Dynast, even ignoring that peasant name his mother saddled him with — and you can be sure no one here has. I'm the only other member of our house at the Heptagram, so I'm trying to help, within reason." She gives you a pleading sort of look. "I'm asking as a friend."

Well, you can't exactly say no to that. "Fine," you say. "Maybe it will be interesting."

It will be — unfortunately, not in any way you'll appreciate.

Article:

One other close friend comes with Ambraea and L'nessa to help V'neef Darting Fish. Who is it? Although your friends have all broken through to the first circle of sorcery or necromancy, they all have very different skills, focuses, strengths and weaknesses. Both these things and their very different personalities will affect how this adventure plays out.

Spoiler: Ambraea

Earth Aspect Dragon-Blood

Ambraea is a talented sorcerer focused on elemental summoning and elementally-resonant spells. She's also a trained swordswoman with enhanced senses and superhuman strength and durability.

Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Pact with an Earth Dragon
Shaping rituals: A gift of gems (wealth sacrificing ritual)
Spells: Plague of Bronze Serpents (control spell), Summon Elemental, Breath of Wretched Stone

Spoiler: V'neef L'nessa

Wood Aspect Dragon-Blood

L'nessa is already a competent sorcerer for her age, although her focus is on useful, support orientated spells. She's a gifted socialite when given the chance, a trained medic, and a competent archer by Exalted standards — extraordinary by mortals ones.

Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Student of the Heptagram
Shaping rituals: Sevenfold Art Evocation (precisely memorised mudras and equations to open the mind)
Spells: Infallible Messenger (control spell), Food From the Aerial Table

[ ] Maia

Spoiler: Erona Maia

Water Aspect Dragon-Blood

Maia has only recently began to truly unlock her sorcerous potential, but the illusion magic she's already learned syncs up well with her talents. Maia is trained in stealth, brutal combat, and assassination.

Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Student of the Heptagram
Shaping rituals: Sorcerous Archives (ritual research and study)
Spells: Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon (control spell)

[ ] Amiti

Spoiler: Sesus Amiti

Air Aspect Dragon-Blood

Amiti's morbid preoccupations have translated to an intense focus on necromancy, the death, and related subjects, as well as esoterica about Essence manipulation and other arcane subjects. She is not particularly physically inclined, and mortifying in social situations.

Necromancy:
Initiation level: Ivory Circle
Initiation: Half-Souled
Shaping rituals: Soul-Forged Token (draw on soulsteel pendant to focus necromantic power)
Spells: Raise the Skeletal Horde (control spell), Summon Ghost, Flesh-Sloughing Wave

[ ] Sola

Spoiler: Tepet Usala Sola

Air Aspect Dragon-Blood

The ancient daiklave, Storm's Eye, allows Sola to synergise her gift for swordfighting directly with her sorcery. Even at her age, she is already deadly with a weapon in her hand and studied in tactics, but only just beginning to truly explore her more esoteric talents.

Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald
Initiation: Blade of Ten-Thousand Eyes
Shaping rituals: Inner Storm (focus inner eye to flood the body with sorcerous power)
Spells: Beckoning That Which Stirs the Sky (control spell)