You wake to a world of oxygen-deprived delirium, blinking haphazardly as your eyes attempt to...
A Song of Pride and Magic: A Grindelwald Quest (HP/ASOIAF)
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Isle of Faces
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
You wake to a world of oxygen-deprived delirium, blinking haphazardly as your eyes attempt to situate, your hearing all but drowned out by the thrumming of blood and frantic breathing. As you slowly calm and your vision focuses, you look up at... a different sky? Then, you remember. Memories of faces, places, sights and sounds, of a life, flash by with absurd clarity. You are Gellert Grindelwald, and you are confused as all fuck.
You stagger to your feet, steadying yourself on the trunk of a nearby tree which you vaguely notice is starkly bone white. While the debilitating headache you woke up with has thankfully passed, some sense of vertigo still stubbornly persists.
Your attempts to speak end in a series of dry coughs as your throat is parched and your mouth feels like you've been gargling sand. You absently conjure a small stream of water and cup your hands to catch some of it, as you drink greedily. Even if the water won't last long before vanishing into the ether, the feel of it is divine. As the moonlight catches on the surface of the water, you're taken aback by what little you can see of your reflection. Your face is not the one you bitterly remember, gaunt, more akin to a skeleton than a man.
Instead you look as if you're in your prime, as if you've woken up during your war against the Ministries. You glance downwards and at last see why you've been feeling so exposed, you are naked, completely at that. Wonderful. Of all of what you might have expected the afterlife to be, waking up at night, naked, in the middle of the woods, and looking like you got slapped with the Fountain of Youth, probably wasn't it. You're quite certain that this isn't your former life though, you do vividly recall the flash of eerie green light leaving that unhinged fool's wand after all. You recall the sensation of... levity. After that, well, it's fuzzy at best and completely incomprehensible. You idly wonder if this might be another of those fevered dreams, the only method of escape you've found in the decades of your imprisonment.
No, all at once a zeal comes over you. Even in your dreams the overbearing presence of Nurmengard was ever present, always lurking in the background to remind you if you ever felt too free. Here, wherever here is, you feel none of that. You feel free.
With that realization, a sudden onset of euphoria washes over you, ridding you of whatever worries and doubts you've been nursing until now. You vaguely feel the beginnings of a manic smile form as you grasp the water still in your hands along with the conjured stream. You weave, you twist and warp, simply reveling in your magic. You ignore whatever protests your body makes as you laugh uproariously, not caring a whit that you're finding far too much amusement in something even the most feeble wizard can do with a wand.
When you at last come down from your high, you're not quite sure if a few minutes or an hour passed as you pranced around like a lunatic beneath the alien sky. Oh well, at least you can be thankful that the only witness of your hopefully brief mania is the presiding wildlife.
You conjure up what feeble amount of light you're able to muster in your present state, the pearlescent orb floating about as it lights up the surroundings enough for you to discern that your prior assumption might have been a tad presumptuous. There are faces on the trees around you, intricately carved facsimiles of human expression. You see some with laughter, some with rage, a few are weeping, while others look trapped in horror. You come upon the tree from before, its bone white color even more striking under the false light you've conjured. This time you see that the leaves are blood red, each seeming to have five points. Dripping sap draws your attention to a grotesque visage that looks almost beautiful with how macabre it is.
As you look into its weeping bloody eyes, you get the strange feeling that you're being watched, as if there was some sort of ephemeral presence observing you from behind that carved face.
[] Two can play at that game. You want answers and chances are whoever or whatever this is will lead you to them. You will find out just how ephemeral this presence really is, one way or another.
[] You are still weak from whatever ordeal brought you here, further compounded by the fact that you are limited to wandless magic. You know enough wandlore to craft something fickle, but workable, with your own blood if need be. You doubt that the presence will wait for you, though.
[] To be honest, the presence might be nothing more than some minor genius loci or a bored poltergeist. Or you could just be imagining things, you're not exactly of sound mind right now. Your time is best spent trying to find civilization, information is key right now.
You stagger to your feet, steadying yourself on the trunk of a nearby tree which you vaguely notice is starkly bone white. While the debilitating headache you woke up with has thankfully passed, some sense of vertigo still stubbornly persists.
Your attempts to speak end in a series of dry coughs as your throat is parched and your mouth feels like you've been gargling sand. You absently conjure a small stream of water and cup your hands to catch some of it, as you drink greedily. Even if the water won't last long before vanishing into the ether, the feel of it is divine. As the moonlight catches on the surface of the water, you're taken aback by what little you can see of your reflection. Your face is not the one you bitterly remember, gaunt, more akin to a skeleton than a man.
Instead you look as if you're in your prime, as if you've woken up during your war against the Ministries. You glance downwards and at last see why you've been feeling so exposed, you are naked, completely at that. Wonderful. Of all of what you might have expected the afterlife to be, waking up at night, naked, in the middle of the woods, and looking like you got slapped with the Fountain of Youth, probably wasn't it. You're quite certain that this isn't your former life though, you do vividly recall the flash of eerie green light leaving that unhinged fool's wand after all. You recall the sensation of... levity. After that, well, it's fuzzy at best and completely incomprehensible. You idly wonder if this might be another of those fevered dreams, the only method of escape you've found in the decades of your imprisonment.
No, all at once a zeal comes over you. Even in your dreams the overbearing presence of Nurmengard was ever present, always lurking in the background to remind you if you ever felt too free. Here, wherever here is, you feel none of that. You feel free.
With that realization, a sudden onset of euphoria washes over you, ridding you of whatever worries and doubts you've been nursing until now. You vaguely feel the beginnings of a manic smile form as you grasp the water still in your hands along with the conjured stream. You weave, you twist and warp, simply reveling in your magic. You ignore whatever protests your body makes as you laugh uproariously, not caring a whit that you're finding far too much amusement in something even the most feeble wizard can do with a wand.
When you at last come down from your high, you're not quite sure if a few minutes or an hour passed as you pranced around like a lunatic beneath the alien sky. Oh well, at least you can be thankful that the only witness of your hopefully brief mania is the presiding wildlife.
You conjure up what feeble amount of light you're able to muster in your present state, the pearlescent orb floating about as it lights up the surroundings enough for you to discern that your prior assumption might have been a tad presumptuous. There are faces on the trees around you, intricately carved facsimiles of human expression. You see some with laughter, some with rage, a few are weeping, while others look trapped in horror. You come upon the tree from before, its bone white color even more striking under the false light you've conjured. This time you see that the leaves are blood red, each seeming to have five points. Dripping sap draws your attention to a grotesque visage that looks almost beautiful with how macabre it is.
As you look into its weeping bloody eyes, you get the strange feeling that you're being watched, as if there was some sort of ephemeral presence observing you from behind that carved face.
[] Two can play at that game. You want answers and chances are whoever or whatever this is will lead you to them. You will find out just how ephemeral this presence really is, one way or another.
[] You are still weak from whatever ordeal brought you here, further compounded by the fact that you are limited to wandless magic. You know enough wandlore to craft something fickle, but workable, with your own blood if need be. You doubt that the presence will wait for you, though.
[] To be honest, the presence might be nothing more than some minor genius loci or a bored poltergeist. Or you could just be imagining things, you're not exactly of sound mind right now. Your time is best spent trying to find civilization, information is key right now.
Last edited:
The Old Gods
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
[X] Two can play at that game. You want answers and chances are whoever or whatever this is will lead you to them. You will find out just how ephemeral this presence really is, one way or another.
Your decision made, you allow a sort of calm determination to kindle, you've always felt far more at ease with a plan in mind, than without.
Frankly, wand or no, in a contest of wills you've experience and confidence aplenty. Now if the tree was to say... uproot itself and attack you, then you would be worried. Though, you're also quite confidant in your ability to outrun a tree if need be.
You rest your hands on the bark, staring at those eerie eyes all the while, and then Legilimens. You find yourself in darkness, yet you see. The past and present blur into one, as if mere concepts in this place. You see your arrival to this world, as if reality was split asunder. You see yourself, naked and full of unrestrained mirth, as you revel in your magic. You see yourself looking at yourself, which is when you feel the lightest of touches upon your memories as the presence makes itself known at last. Your blood runs cold as you realize just what had happened in your momentary distraction.
You drop all sense of subtlety as you truly focus for perhaps the first time since you awoke, and you push back. The presence reels in surprise and just as you are about to show your utter displeasure, the darkness ebbs and the whole place shifts around you.
As your surroundings settle, you find yourself in some manner of cavernous hall, lit by lights that aren't there. You feel an odd sensation then, as you realize that you have eyes and are corporeal once more, or at least a clever imitation of such. Hmph, you know this game and so you will yourself some clothes to 'wear', a nice set of robes you remember you were fond of. You feel the presence once more, and this time you are more than ready as you whirl around to face... a mass of roots? As you stalk closer and closer, you feel a sense of disquiet, but also more than a little curiosity, as you come face to face with truly one of the most bizarre sights you've ever seen. What you at first thought to be a mass of roots reveal themselves to be more of a throne, or more accurately in your opinion, a prison, for a man that looks to be more wood than flesh.
You hear him speak then, though his lips barely move and his words largely nonsensical other than the fact that they remind you vaguely of the hodgepodge that is English. He frowns then, or at least you think he frowns, it's really rather hard to tell with how his corpse white face barely even changes, whereafter he proceeds to speak in what you assume is a different language than the one from before, seeing as it's more... melodic? He pauses as he notices your likely bemused expression, and then he makes a gesture that causes some sort of animated painting to appear.
Your expression sours the more you understand of what he's offering, does he think you a fool? That you would just allow him another chance to meddle with your mind?
Still, this does give you an idea, one most delightfully ironic. If this was the real world it'd all be far more time consuming, but here, you hold out your hand as you weave memories of a language together, motes of thought and sight and sound coalescing over your open palm. In the end, it looks like something one might put in a pensieve, if a tad more extensive. You make your own gesture which sends it floating over, after which you watch and wait for how he will react to your counter-offer.
Sadly, his features are as stoic as ever, so you can't really make out what he's thinking aside from what might be unease or wariness, a bit of chagrin even, though you're probably imagining that last one.
To be honest, you're rather surprised when the weave of memories careens almost violently to be absorbed by the roots around him. Though as his expressionless gaze clouds over, you suspect that they're likely a part of him in some way.
His waxy blood red eyes stare at you as he speaks, "Interesting language, far different from anything I've ever encountered, but I suppose that's to be expected."
Pronunciation-wise his speech is rather stilted, but really, it's actually quite a bit better than what you yourself expected. You respond in flawless Greek, "Now that we can actually understand one another, it'd be most rude of me not to warn you that if you left any manner of compulsion or tampered with my memories in any way," this time you lock your own eyes with his as you continue, "I'll know and I will return the favor ten-fold by burning down that menagerie of horrors masquerading as a forest and piss on the ashes, you have my word on that."
A bit of a bluff really, as you've yet to even craft a wand, but you've likely made your point.
"There's no need for such bold words, Gellert Grindelwald, you'll have to forgive an old man for not remembering the proper courtesies at times." The slightest of smiles appears on his lips.
Oh ho, you honestly weren't expecting such cheekiness from him, with one hand he offers conciliatory words, but with the other he just rubs it in. And yet, you suspect that he's just told you what you really came here for. If he truly had a hand in your arrival to this world, it'd be hard for him to resist bringing up your own hypocrisy, like the fact that you've done far far worse than what you yourself accuse him of.
He continues in such a sincere tone, that even if he is lying, you'd likely be more impressed than upset, "While I freely admit that my actions were discourteous, they weren't as sinister as you might believe. When you used whatever magic it was that brought you here, you somehow managed to connect to the weirwood, as a greenseer like myself might. It may seem a convenient excuse, but my intention wasn't to ransack your secrets, merely to knock you out of the mania the experience left you in."
For all that Legilimency was capable of, you're quite sure that it was never meant to work in the way that he was implying, and yet, it's certainly possible this weirwood is more than the macabre tree it appeared to be at first glance.
"That's all well and good, though it's not like I have much choice other than to take your word for it." You know nothing of this world's magic, but you will, in time. "Either way, for while you've made it quite clear that you know my name, you've yet to tell me yours."
"Of course, of course, I was born as Brynden Rivers, though in life most knew me as Bloodraven," here he pauses for a moment as he gestures to himself, "Nowadays I'm simply known as The Last Greenseer, if people know of me at all.
He continues before you can respond, "Now, while I wouldn't mind answering whatever questions you no doubt want to ask, and mayhaps ask my own as tit for tat, I have an offer of sorts to make." His expression is almost expectant now. "I would offer you the hospitality of both myself and that of the Green Men of the Isle, as a way to apologize or as a sort of recompense, if you want to see it that way."
[] Accept. You are tired, weak, famished, that much is obvious by now. Besides, while this 'Last Greenseer' might be plotting some sort of ruse, you expect him to be far more subtle about it, a trick of false hospitality would just disappoint you.
[] Decline. You will owe no debts, real or imagined, nor can you say for certain that his concept of hospitality is the same as your own. You would rather not be locked into some kind of magical contract or a vow you cannot break.
[] Write-in. Perhaps you'll think of something bombastic?
Your decision made, you allow a sort of calm determination to kindle, you've always felt far more at ease with a plan in mind, than without.
Frankly, wand or no, in a contest of wills you've experience and confidence aplenty. Now if the tree was to say... uproot itself and attack you, then you would be worried. Though, you're also quite confidant in your ability to outrun a tree if need be.
You rest your hands on the bark, staring at those eerie eyes all the while, and then Legilimens. You find yourself in darkness, yet you see. The past and present blur into one, as if mere concepts in this place. You see your arrival to this world, as if reality was split asunder. You see yourself, naked and full of unrestrained mirth, as you revel in your magic. You see yourself looking at yourself, which is when you feel the lightest of touches upon your memories as the presence makes itself known at last. Your blood runs cold as you realize just what had happened in your momentary distraction.
You drop all sense of subtlety as you truly focus for perhaps the first time since you awoke, and you push back. The presence reels in surprise and just as you are about to show your utter displeasure, the darkness ebbs and the whole place shifts around you.
As your surroundings settle, you find yourself in some manner of cavernous hall, lit by lights that aren't there. You feel an odd sensation then, as you realize that you have eyes and are corporeal once more, or at least a clever imitation of such. Hmph, you know this game and so you will yourself some clothes to 'wear', a nice set of robes you remember you were fond of. You feel the presence once more, and this time you are more than ready as you whirl around to face... a mass of roots? As you stalk closer and closer, you feel a sense of disquiet, but also more than a little curiosity, as you come face to face with truly one of the most bizarre sights you've ever seen. What you at first thought to be a mass of roots reveal themselves to be more of a throne, or more accurately in your opinion, a prison, for a man that looks to be more wood than flesh.
You hear him speak then, though his lips barely move and his words largely nonsensical other than the fact that they remind you vaguely of the hodgepodge that is English. He frowns then, or at least you think he frowns, it's really rather hard to tell with how his corpse white face barely even changes, whereafter he proceeds to speak in what you assume is a different language than the one from before, seeing as it's more... melodic? He pauses as he notices your likely bemused expression, and then he makes a gesture that causes some sort of animated painting to appear.
Your expression sours the more you understand of what he's offering, does he think you a fool? That you would just allow him another chance to meddle with your mind?
Still, this does give you an idea, one most delightfully ironic. If this was the real world it'd all be far more time consuming, but here, you hold out your hand as you weave memories of a language together, motes of thought and sight and sound coalescing over your open palm. In the end, it looks like something one might put in a pensieve, if a tad more extensive. You make your own gesture which sends it floating over, after which you watch and wait for how he will react to your counter-offer.
Sadly, his features are as stoic as ever, so you can't really make out what he's thinking aside from what might be unease or wariness, a bit of chagrin even, though you're probably imagining that last one.
To be honest, you're rather surprised when the weave of memories careens almost violently to be absorbed by the roots around him. Though as his expressionless gaze clouds over, you suspect that they're likely a part of him in some way.
His waxy blood red eyes stare at you as he speaks, "Interesting language, far different from anything I've ever encountered, but I suppose that's to be expected."
Pronunciation-wise his speech is rather stilted, but really, it's actually quite a bit better than what you yourself expected. You respond in flawless Greek, "Now that we can actually understand one another, it'd be most rude of me not to warn you that if you left any manner of compulsion or tampered with my memories in any way," this time you lock your own eyes with his as you continue, "I'll know and I will return the favor ten-fold by burning down that menagerie of horrors masquerading as a forest and piss on the ashes, you have my word on that."
A bit of a bluff really, as you've yet to even craft a wand, but you've likely made your point.
"There's no need for such bold words, Gellert Grindelwald, you'll have to forgive an old man for not remembering the proper courtesies at times." The slightest of smiles appears on his lips.
Oh ho, you honestly weren't expecting such cheekiness from him, with one hand he offers conciliatory words, but with the other he just rubs it in. And yet, you suspect that he's just told you what you really came here for. If he truly had a hand in your arrival to this world, it'd be hard for him to resist bringing up your own hypocrisy, like the fact that you've done far far worse than what you yourself accuse him of.
He continues in such a sincere tone, that even if he is lying, you'd likely be more impressed than upset, "While I freely admit that my actions were discourteous, they weren't as sinister as you might believe. When you used whatever magic it was that brought you here, you somehow managed to connect to the weirwood, as a greenseer like myself might. It may seem a convenient excuse, but my intention wasn't to ransack your secrets, merely to knock you out of the mania the experience left you in."
For all that Legilimency was capable of, you're quite sure that it was never meant to work in the way that he was implying, and yet, it's certainly possible this weirwood is more than the macabre tree it appeared to be at first glance.
"That's all well and good, though it's not like I have much choice other than to take your word for it." You know nothing of this world's magic, but you will, in time. "Either way, for while you've made it quite clear that you know my name, you've yet to tell me yours."
"Of course, of course, I was born as Brynden Rivers, though in life most knew me as Bloodraven," here he pauses for a moment as he gestures to himself, "Nowadays I'm simply known as The Last Greenseer, if people know of me at all.
He continues before you can respond, "Now, while I wouldn't mind answering whatever questions you no doubt want to ask, and mayhaps ask my own as tit for tat, I have an offer of sorts to make." His expression is almost expectant now. "I would offer you the hospitality of both myself and that of the Green Men of the Isle, as a way to apologize or as a sort of recompense, if you want to see it that way."
[] Accept. You are tired, weak, famished, that much is obvious by now. Besides, while this 'Last Greenseer' might be plotting some sort of ruse, you expect him to be far more subtle about it, a trick of false hospitality would just disappoint you.
[] Decline. You will owe no debts, real or imagined, nor can you say for certain that his concept of hospitality is the same as your own. You would rather not be locked into some kind of magical contract or a vow you cannot break.
[] Write-in. Perhaps you'll think of something bombastic?
The Old Gods II
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
[X] Decline. You will owe no debts, real or imagined, nor can you say for certain that his concept of hospitality is the same as your own. You would rather not be locked into some kind of magical contract or a vow you cannot break.
Hospitality, you know what the word, the concept, means to you. You know well the rules, the limitations, of magical contracts, of oaths and vows both unbreakable and not.
Yet, you do not truly know this Bloodraven, this 'Last Greenseer'. You do not understand his magic, neither its intricacies, nor its limits. Your usual modus operandi in such unfavorable situations likely wouldn't work, not in this place of power not your own.
As such, you've really only one option left. "No." You blame Nurmengard as you sigh and amend that with some actual courtesy. "I thank you for the consideration, though."
His reaction is as underwhelming as ever, as if you've just told him that you like a bit of sauerkraut with your breakfast. "I understand, though if you should ever find yourself in dire straights, know that the offer stands for as long as the Isle still stands," there's a slight tinge of amusement in his tone as he adds, "Yes, I'm well aware of how cryptic that may sound, but to be frank, your arrival to Westeros has come at a most inopportune time, on the eve of events lost in prophecy and more legend than not.
Hah, cryptic's quite the understatement, though it's about on par with what you'd expect from a seer, green or not. "Westeros?" You'd ask about these 'events', but really, you doubt he'd tell you anything of true import.
"A landmass cut in twain by the Wall, that which guards the realms of men, the Seven Kingdoms, from what lies beyond. Which are themselves separated from Essos by the Narrow Sea."
You feel vaguely like you're being recited to an excerpt from some history book, which likely means you're not getting the in-depth version, whatever it may be. Seriously, though. Westeros? Essos? You wonder if there's a Sotheros and perhaps a Norros to complete a sort of quasi-compass.
On that note. "So, what would that make this Isle? Unless I'm incorrectly assuming that it's not all that common for faces to be carved onto trees?" For all you know, it might actually be some manner of rite.
"The Isle of Faces, in the Riverlands. It is a sacred place, for Westeros, for the First Men, for the followers of the Old Gods."
The Old Gods? Wait. Is he truly implying what you think he is? "And are you one of these so called Old Gods?" You tone may be a tad dismissive.
Here his words turn bitter, "Of a sort."
As you move to speak, the illusion around you shifts somewhat, as if thinning. You get the strange feeling of standing in the midst of a thunderous storm or in the eye of a hurricane, when you are suddenly aware of hundreds, no, thousands of presences, though they feel like... remnants? Did you stumble into some kind of Ghost collective? Or worse, Horcruxes? Well, you suppose that line of reasoning is rather silly as this is neither your world, nor the magic you know. Either way, as the moment passes as quickly as it came, you believe you've overstayed your welcome.
You're interrupted yet again. "Before you go, I have a question for you," he continues as if he's asking for the time of day, "What are the Deathly Hallows?"
A few seconds go by as you parse his casual tone with that of the severity of his question. It's your words that are bitter this time, "More than a name, then?" It seems he doesn't know all that much seeing as he's asking you, though you suppose he could be mocking you.
He's no doubt noticed your pensive mood. "You know, I never truly touched upon your memories, what I saw was more of an idea of who you are. These Deathly Hallows are a part of that, among other qualities, some of which are entirely foreign to me."
Is he lying, or is that the truth? Does it even matter?
"So, if you would indulge me?"
What to say?
[] The Truth. A different world, a different life. What are the Hallows to you here, aside from nostalgic memories of false glory and fantasies of power?
[] A Half Truth. Tell him of the Tale of Three Brothers, he did ask you to indulge him after all, did he not? Besides, it wouldn't truly be a lie. (DC 5)
[] A Lie. If the Hallows are indeed a part of 'who you are' then you will endeavor to spin a most convincing story, a most tantalizing tale, but a lie, nonetheless. (DC 15)
[] Nothing. You owe him no answers, no justifications, no real response. Simply go, for you've spent far too much time in this place as it is.
Hospitality, you know what the word, the concept, means to you. You know well the rules, the limitations, of magical contracts, of oaths and vows both unbreakable and not.
Yet, you do not truly know this Bloodraven, this 'Last Greenseer'. You do not understand his magic, neither its intricacies, nor its limits. Your usual modus operandi in such unfavorable situations likely wouldn't work, not in this place of power not your own.
As such, you've really only one option left. "No." You blame Nurmengard as you sigh and amend that with some actual courtesy. "I thank you for the consideration, though."
His reaction is as underwhelming as ever, as if you've just told him that you like a bit of sauerkraut with your breakfast. "I understand, though if you should ever find yourself in dire straights, know that the offer stands for as long as the Isle still stands," there's a slight tinge of amusement in his tone as he adds, "Yes, I'm well aware of how cryptic that may sound, but to be frank, your arrival to Westeros has come at a most inopportune time, on the eve of events lost in prophecy and more legend than not.
Hah, cryptic's quite the understatement, though it's about on par with what you'd expect from a seer, green or not. "Westeros?" You'd ask about these 'events', but really, you doubt he'd tell you anything of true import.
"A landmass cut in twain by the Wall, that which guards the realms of men, the Seven Kingdoms, from what lies beyond. Which are themselves separated from Essos by the Narrow Sea."
You feel vaguely like you're being recited to an excerpt from some history book, which likely means you're not getting the in-depth version, whatever it may be. Seriously, though. Westeros? Essos? You wonder if there's a Sotheros and perhaps a Norros to complete a sort of quasi-compass.
On that note. "So, what would that make this Isle? Unless I'm incorrectly assuming that it's not all that common for faces to be carved onto trees?" For all you know, it might actually be some manner of rite.
"The Isle of Faces, in the Riverlands. It is a sacred place, for Westeros, for the First Men, for the followers of the Old Gods."
The Old Gods? Wait. Is he truly implying what you think he is? "And are you one of these so called Old Gods?" You tone may be a tad dismissive.
Here his words turn bitter, "Of a sort."
As you move to speak, the illusion around you shifts somewhat, as if thinning. You get the strange feeling of standing in the midst of a thunderous storm or in the eye of a hurricane, when you are suddenly aware of hundreds, no, thousands of presences, though they feel like... remnants? Did you stumble into some kind of Ghost collective? Or worse, Horcruxes? Well, you suppose that line of reasoning is rather silly as this is neither your world, nor the magic you know. Either way, as the moment passes as quickly as it came, you believe you've overstayed your welcome.
You're interrupted yet again. "Before you go, I have a question for you," he continues as if he's asking for the time of day, "What are the Deathly Hallows?"
A few seconds go by as you parse his casual tone with that of the severity of his question. It's your words that are bitter this time, "More than a name, then?" It seems he doesn't know all that much seeing as he's asking you, though you suppose he could be mocking you.
He's no doubt noticed your pensive mood. "You know, I never truly touched upon your memories, what I saw was more of an idea of who you are. These Deathly Hallows are a part of that, among other qualities, some of which are entirely foreign to me."
Is he lying, or is that the truth? Does it even matter?
"So, if you would indulge me?"
What to say?
[] The Truth. A different world, a different life. What are the Hallows to you here, aside from nostalgic memories of false glory and fantasies of power?
[] A Half Truth. Tell him of the Tale of Three Brothers, he did ask you to indulge him after all, did he not? Besides, it wouldn't truly be a lie. (DC 5)
[] A Lie. If the Hallows are indeed a part of 'who you are' then you will endeavor to spin a most convincing story, a most tantalizing tale, but a lie, nonetheless. (DC 15)
[] Nothing. You owe him no answers, no justifications, no real response. Simply go, for you've spent far too much time in this place as it is.
Last edited:
Of Hallows and Wands
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
[X] A Half Truth. Tell him of the Tale of Three Brothers, he did ask you to indulge him after all, did he not? Besides, it wouldn't truly be a lie. (DC 5)
As one might expect of a children's fairy tale, the Tale of the Three Brothers is a rather simple, if well-written, story. You had certainly found it enjoyable when you first read the works of Beedle the Bard as a child, and you had re-read it after you had become obsessed with the Hallows in your time at Durmstrang, desperately searching for any hints or clues. You found none of course, but it was enough to relieve your incessant boredom at the time, for a time.
Tangents aside, you focus on the words, the narrative, and you simply let it flow. You admit you might have embellished a tad here and there, though you feel your effort was appreciated, if the subtle interest on the greenseer's features is any indication.
"Quite the tale, truly. Rare it is to hear of any story that deals with the Stranger, for fear of the unknown is known to keep even the brave at bay."
Oh, you know that all too well. Fear of the unknown, fear of change, fear of magic. Even the Wizarding world, as paradoxical as it may seem, was not immune to such. A few of your jailors had even tried to gloat with how the status quo had been re-established after your downfall, hoping to get a rise out of you. Frankly, you were mostly just disappointed, though there was some slight amusement at how proudly they paraded their ineptitude as if it was some sort of victory. More disconcerting was the fact that you had actually begun to enjoy what bits of Muggle news they happened to throw your way, for at least there was some change there. As you sigh away the bitter memories, you notice the almost expectant expression and feel a hint of embarrassment. All this talk of the Hallows has made you a tad nostalgic.
"My apologies, absentmindedness seems to arrive at the strangest of times."
He waves it off and responds with nonchalance, "I understand. Besides, with how ancient we both are, it's to be expected, no?"
You return his knowing look with a genuine laugh of your own. Honestly, you're not all that surprised, you didn't really expect your looks to fool him after how he brought up the Hallows.
"Nonetheless, I believe I've kept you here long enough. I bid you farewell Gellert Grindelwald, though we will meet again. Whether it will be by your volition or my own, I know not, but I suppose a bit of uncertainty is par for the course."
Leave it to a seer to make a farewell like that, but you figure you might as well part with a bit of cheek as well. "Til next time, Brynden."
As you break your connection to the weirwood, you feel yourself reel back with a mental whiplash of sorts, leaving you once again staring at its grotesque visage. The chill hits you then, prompting you to try and magick up some heat, which at best somewhat lessens the chattering of your teeth.
Honestly, you tire of this helplessness. A wizard without a wand is as much a wizard as he is a rather whimsical Latin linguist. Your talent at wandless magic is impressive, certainly, but it is a cheap parlor trick compared to what you're capable of with a wand in hand. Fortunately, your research into the Elder Wand brought with it a kind of understanding of wandlore. Perhaps not as in-depth an understanding as Gregorovitch or the Ollivander family would have, but enough not to make a mockery of yourself. So you hope, anyway. There are potential problems however, for even if you are in some manner of forest or wooded area, you have no guarantee whatsoever that you'll be able to find a wood that would suit your needs, and then there's the whole issue of a workable core.
You look around, taking note of the variety of trees you're able to make out. Surprisingly, they are eerily similar to some of the species you are used to, even if there are a few subtle differences. The sky is alien, but the trees... not so much. How odd.
Which will you choose?
[] You will pick one that you are familiar with, for you will not take risks in a matter as precarious as this.
[] The weirwood interests you, for both its obviously magical nature, as well as its macabre beauty. You will take the risk, for you feel it is worth it.
Wood in hand, you walk around for awhile, until you happen upon narrow stream with a few stones wide enough to be used as a sort of makeshift table. Not all that optimal for the intricate work ahead of you, but needs must.
You pick out one of the stones best suited for this purpose, as you come to the problem you've been avoiding all this time. You doubt you'll happen upon any dragon heartstrings or phoenix feathers anytime soon, so your options are despondently few.
[] You will use your blood as a core, with all the risks that entails. The wand will no doubt be fickle and temperamental, but at least it will be perfectly suited to you.
[] You will take some water from the stream, no doubt imbued by the ambient magic of this place. You will further imbue it with your own magic. The wand will be feeble and feel a tad hollow, but it will be stable and far less prone to flights of fancy.
[] Write-in. Perhaps you will think of something else?
1D20 => 20
As one might expect of a children's fairy tale, the Tale of the Three Brothers is a rather simple, if well-written, story. You had certainly found it enjoyable when you first read the works of Beedle the Bard as a child, and you had re-read it after you had become obsessed with the Hallows in your time at Durmstrang, desperately searching for any hints or clues. You found none of course, but it was enough to relieve your incessant boredom at the time, for a time.
Tangents aside, you focus on the words, the narrative, and you simply let it flow. You admit you might have embellished a tad here and there, though you feel your effort was appreciated, if the subtle interest on the greenseer's features is any indication.
"Quite the tale, truly. Rare it is to hear of any story that deals with the Stranger, for fear of the unknown is known to keep even the brave at bay."
Oh, you know that all too well. Fear of the unknown, fear of change, fear of magic. Even the Wizarding world, as paradoxical as it may seem, was not immune to such. A few of your jailors had even tried to gloat with how the status quo had been re-established after your downfall, hoping to get a rise out of you. Frankly, you were mostly just disappointed, though there was some slight amusement at how proudly they paraded their ineptitude as if it was some sort of victory. More disconcerting was the fact that you had actually begun to enjoy what bits of Muggle news they happened to throw your way, for at least there was some change there. As you sigh away the bitter memories, you notice the almost expectant expression and feel a hint of embarrassment. All this talk of the Hallows has made you a tad nostalgic.
"My apologies, absentmindedness seems to arrive at the strangest of times."
He waves it off and responds with nonchalance, "I understand. Besides, with how ancient we both are, it's to be expected, no?"
You return his knowing look with a genuine laugh of your own. Honestly, you're not all that surprised, you didn't really expect your looks to fool him after how he brought up the Hallows.
"Nonetheless, I believe I've kept you here long enough. I bid you farewell Gellert Grindelwald, though we will meet again. Whether it will be by your volition or my own, I know not, but I suppose a bit of uncertainty is par for the course."
Leave it to a seer to make a farewell like that, but you figure you might as well part with a bit of cheek as well. "Til next time, Brynden."
As you break your connection to the weirwood, you feel yourself reel back with a mental whiplash of sorts, leaving you once again staring at its grotesque visage. The chill hits you then, prompting you to try and magick up some heat, which at best somewhat lessens the chattering of your teeth.
Honestly, you tire of this helplessness. A wizard without a wand is as much a wizard as he is a rather whimsical Latin linguist. Your talent at wandless magic is impressive, certainly, but it is a cheap parlor trick compared to what you're capable of with a wand in hand. Fortunately, your research into the Elder Wand brought with it a kind of understanding of wandlore. Perhaps not as in-depth an understanding as Gregorovitch or the Ollivander family would have, but enough not to make a mockery of yourself. So you hope, anyway. There are potential problems however, for even if you are in some manner of forest or wooded area, you have no guarantee whatsoever that you'll be able to find a wood that would suit your needs, and then there's the whole issue of a workable core.
You look around, taking note of the variety of trees you're able to make out. Surprisingly, they are eerily similar to some of the species you are used to, even if there are a few subtle differences. The sky is alien, but the trees... not so much. How odd.
Which will you choose?
[] You will pick one that you are familiar with, for you will not take risks in a matter as precarious as this.
[] Elm. A wood most known for its stability, sophistication, and precision.
[] Maple. A wood that is more adventurous, not to mention curious and ambitious.
[] Walnut. A wood of innovation and invention, of versatility and adaptability.
[] Yew. A wood with a bit of a bad reputation, unusual, but powerful.
[] Maple. A wood that is more adventurous, not to mention curious and ambitious.
[] Walnut. A wood of innovation and invention, of versatility and adaptability.
[] Yew. A wood with a bit of a bad reputation, unusual, but powerful.
[] The weirwood interests you, for both its obviously magical nature, as well as its macabre beauty. You will take the risk, for you feel it is worth it.
Wood in hand, you walk around for awhile, until you happen upon narrow stream with a few stones wide enough to be used as a sort of makeshift table. Not all that optimal for the intricate work ahead of you, but needs must.
You pick out one of the stones best suited for this purpose, as you come to the problem you've been avoiding all this time. You doubt you'll happen upon any dragon heartstrings or phoenix feathers anytime soon, so your options are despondently few.
[] You will use your blood as a core, with all the risks that entails. The wand will no doubt be fickle and temperamental, but at least it will be perfectly suited to you.
[] You will take some water from the stream, no doubt imbued by the ambient magic of this place. You will further imbue it with your own magic. The wand will be feeble and feel a tad hollow, but it will be stable and far less prone to flights of fancy.
[] Write-in. Perhaps you will think of something else?
Last edited:
To Craft a Wand
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
[X] The weirwood interests you, for both its obviously magical nature, as well as its macabre beauty. You will take the risk, for you feel it is worth it.
[X] You will use your blood as a core, with all the risks that entails. The wand will no doubt be fickle and temperamental, but at least it will be perfectly suited to you.
You stare at the branch of weirwood, spindly and rather crooked, but not too bad considering what few branches were scattered about in the first place. While it'd have been simpler to just take directly from the source, you would prefer to avoid whatever unintended offense might come of that.
Besides, potentially oddly-shaped wand or not, you're far more interested in the wood itself, what with the subtle magic suffusing it. Using wood with magical properties may be a tad unorthodox, seeing as the magic of the wood tends to interfere with that of the core, but in this case you're not really all that worried. Blood as a core rarely emits any conflicting qualities as say a unicorn tail hair or a phoenix feather would, so in theory you should have no issues on that front. What truly worries you is that you simply do not know what properties the weirwood conveys.
Will it act as a sort of balancing act to the innate fickle nature of blood? Will it only destabilize the wand further? What if it just flat out refuses to click with your likely unfamiliar magic? The possibilities worry you, and yet, you're excited.
You've always liked to tinker, to experiment, whether it be with charms or transfiguration, jinxes or hexes, to curses of the worst kind. Now you have the opportunity to explore magic of a sort you've never encountered before, and so, risk or no, you will endeavor to learn.
You sit down at your makeshift table and get to work. You have no real tools to work with, but a few clever spells here and there leaves you with a length and shape you're comfortable with, if not entirely ideal. The tricky part will be to hollow out enough space for your blood to permeate without weakening the structure of the wood itself, no easy task, especially when you're limited to lackluster charms and using condensed air as a sort of improvised drill. You make do, and honestly, an hour or two of repetitive work is nothing compared to the monotony of Nurmengard. You beckon the conjured orb closer, as you rigorously check for any errors, the stark contrast of the wood under the false light only helping the process along. Satisfied, you lay the hollowed-out wand on the stone as you prepare for what comes next.
You run your index finger over the fingertips of your left hand, practiced motions that lead to pain you've long become accustomed with. As your blood begins to drip, you grasp and gather it before you, directing the flow to the waiting wood.
The moment the blood connects with the wood is when you notice something rather odd. You absently levitate the unfinished wand closer to you so as to better observe exactly what is happening, and frankly, you're confused. The bone white pallor of the weirwood has only become more pronounced, more eerie, as it seems to exude some manner of subtle luminescence. You realize then that the pooled blood has also begun to change, first to something resembling the consistency of sap, then to what looks like... butter? The wand is full to the brim of it now, so you cut off the flow and reach out to pluck it from the air. As you stare at whatever it is that your blood changed to, you wonder as to what effects will come of this, whether it will be a boon or a hindrance.
Normally, if one is desperate enough to use blood in the first place, the blood would need to be kept in some sort of stasis, lest nature take its course. Now, you're left with some vaguely butter-like substance, which has actually begun to crystallize somehow.
Well, it's not like you expected nothing out of the ordinary; on the contrary, really.
You're about to fix up the breach you made, when you see the wood actually trying to do so on its own. Your curiosity piqued, you leave it be, watching as it slowly reforms to what it was, if perhaps a tad different.
Your job done for you, you come to the moment of truth. You hold your newly made wand upright, your posture relaxed, and you simply let your magic flow. For the briefest of moments there is a slight resistance, before you focus your will and swat it aside. Then, you feel it, you understand it, you know. Your first, original wand, was always comfortable, warm, like an old friend. The Elder Wand was powerful, self-assured, arrogant even. This wand though, it is wild. You felt boundless greed, and yet, untold patience. A sudden realization knocks you out of your trance, then.
This is the first time you've held a wand in over fifty years. Even wandless magic was nigh-impossible under the wards you yourself created, that work of art you named Nurmengard. Now, you are free, your magic is free.
A twirl of the wand leaves you naked no more, the robes comfortable, if not all that ornate. You run the tip of the wand along your fingertips, closing up the cuts that had already begun to clot. A flick banishes the chill and you sigh as the warmth suffuses you. There are no words for how much you've missed this feeling, how much you longed for it when you had nothing but a ragged blanket and your own innate resilience to protect you against the cold Atlantic breeze. Your gaze falls on the stone that served as your workbench, when an idea comes to you.
You step onto the stone, steadying yourself as best you can as you wave the wand upwards, your intention clear and concise.
You rise above the canopy, you rise and rise, though you make sure to stop long before you could reach the clouds. You look out, as the break of dawn chases away the night. You see the Isle, the lake that surrounds it, you see the lands that stretch beyond.
A new world.
OOC vote
[] 281 AC, The Year of the False Spring. The Mad King reigns, in the midst of the Tourney of Harrenhal. This is the eve of the Targaryen dynasty, where the seeds of the Rebellion take root.
[] 297 AC, The Long Summer. King Robert reigns, yet the Game of Thrones goes on and on. All the while, the Others stir beyond the Wall, the Long Night comes.
This will set the framework for the entire quest, so choose wisely.
[X] You will use your blood as a core, with all the risks that entails. The wand will no doubt be fickle and temperamental, but at least it will be perfectly suited to you.
You stare at the branch of weirwood, spindly and rather crooked, but not too bad considering what few branches were scattered about in the first place. While it'd have been simpler to just take directly from the source, you would prefer to avoid whatever unintended offense might come of that.
Besides, potentially oddly-shaped wand or not, you're far more interested in the wood itself, what with the subtle magic suffusing it. Using wood with magical properties may be a tad unorthodox, seeing as the magic of the wood tends to interfere with that of the core, but in this case you're not really all that worried. Blood as a core rarely emits any conflicting qualities as say a unicorn tail hair or a phoenix feather would, so in theory you should have no issues on that front. What truly worries you is that you simply do not know what properties the weirwood conveys.
Will it act as a sort of balancing act to the innate fickle nature of blood? Will it only destabilize the wand further? What if it just flat out refuses to click with your likely unfamiliar magic? The possibilities worry you, and yet, you're excited.
You've always liked to tinker, to experiment, whether it be with charms or transfiguration, jinxes or hexes, to curses of the worst kind. Now you have the opportunity to explore magic of a sort you've never encountered before, and so, risk or no, you will endeavor to learn.
You sit down at your makeshift table and get to work. You have no real tools to work with, but a few clever spells here and there leaves you with a length and shape you're comfortable with, if not entirely ideal. The tricky part will be to hollow out enough space for your blood to permeate without weakening the structure of the wood itself, no easy task, especially when you're limited to lackluster charms and using condensed air as a sort of improvised drill. You make do, and honestly, an hour or two of repetitive work is nothing compared to the monotony of Nurmengard. You beckon the conjured orb closer, as you rigorously check for any errors, the stark contrast of the wood under the false light only helping the process along. Satisfied, you lay the hollowed-out wand on the stone as you prepare for what comes next.
You run your index finger over the fingertips of your left hand, practiced motions that lead to pain you've long become accustomed with. As your blood begins to drip, you grasp and gather it before you, directing the flow to the waiting wood.
The moment the blood connects with the wood is when you notice something rather odd. You absently levitate the unfinished wand closer to you so as to better observe exactly what is happening, and frankly, you're confused. The bone white pallor of the weirwood has only become more pronounced, more eerie, as it seems to exude some manner of subtle luminescence. You realize then that the pooled blood has also begun to change, first to something resembling the consistency of sap, then to what looks like... butter? The wand is full to the brim of it now, so you cut off the flow and reach out to pluck it from the air. As you stare at whatever it is that your blood changed to, you wonder as to what effects will come of this, whether it will be a boon or a hindrance.
Normally, if one is desperate enough to use blood in the first place, the blood would need to be kept in some sort of stasis, lest nature take its course. Now, you're left with some vaguely butter-like substance, which has actually begun to crystallize somehow.
Well, it's not like you expected nothing out of the ordinary; on the contrary, really.
You're about to fix up the breach you made, when you see the wood actually trying to do so on its own. Your curiosity piqued, you leave it be, watching as it slowly reforms to what it was, if perhaps a tad different.
Your job done for you, you come to the moment of truth. You hold your newly made wand upright, your posture relaxed, and you simply let your magic flow. For the briefest of moments there is a slight resistance, before you focus your will and swat it aside. Then, you feel it, you understand it, you know. Your first, original wand, was always comfortable, warm, like an old friend. The Elder Wand was powerful, self-assured, arrogant even. This wand though, it is wild. You felt boundless greed, and yet, untold patience. A sudden realization knocks you out of your trance, then.
This is the first time you've held a wand in over fifty years. Even wandless magic was nigh-impossible under the wards you yourself created, that work of art you named Nurmengard. Now, you are free, your magic is free.
A twirl of the wand leaves you naked no more, the robes comfortable, if not all that ornate. You run the tip of the wand along your fingertips, closing up the cuts that had already begun to clot. A flick banishes the chill and you sigh as the warmth suffuses you. There are no words for how much you've missed this feeling, how much you longed for it when you had nothing but a ragged blanket and your own innate resilience to protect you against the cold Atlantic breeze. Your gaze falls on the stone that served as your workbench, when an idea comes to you.
You step onto the stone, steadying yourself as best you can as you wave the wand upwards, your intention clear and concise.
You rise above the canopy, you rise and rise, though you make sure to stop long before you could reach the clouds. You look out, as the break of dawn chases away the night. You see the Isle, the lake that surrounds it, you see the lands that stretch beyond.
A new world.
OOC vote
[] 281 AC, The Year of the False Spring. The Mad King reigns, in the midst of the Tourney of Harrenhal. This is the eve of the Targaryen dynasty, where the seeds of the Rebellion take root.
[] 297 AC, The Long Summer. King Robert reigns, yet the Game of Thrones goes on and on. All the while, the Others stir beyond the Wall, the Long Night comes.
This will set the framework for the entire quest, so choose wisely.
Harrenhal
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
[X] 281 AC, The Year of the False Spring. The Mad King reigns, in the midst of the Tourney of Harrenhal. This is the eve of the Targaryen dynasty, where the seeds of the Rebellion take root.
You descend back beneath the canopy, thoughts alight with half-formed plans and ideas on how to proceed from here.
You now know that you are in the 'Riverlands', for all the good that does you. Whether it's a nation, a region, or one of those Seven Kingdoms, you do not know. You did however manage to spot some manner of ruined castle on the lands opposite the Isle, which might be worth looking into. Not like you have all that much options anyway, aside from just wandering in another direction. Besides, even if the wreck of a castle is completely abandoned, you saw tents, meaning it might be a sort of tourist locale or what not.
As the stone lightly impacts the ground, you hop off and with a leisurely pace set off towards the shore, far more at ease now that you have a wand in hand.
The trees and the faces that adorn them are your constant companions as you trek through the woods, all the while flicking, swishing and twirling your new-made creation, the movements coming easily to you even after all this time. In spite of your growing hunger and exhaustion, you've honestly not felt this good in a long, long time, as if you've somehow managed to recapture a hint of the levity that so defined your youth. A touch of white on the fringes of your vision catches your eye, knocking you out of your retrospection.
A weirwood stands before you, though its expression is different than the one from before, a face full of boundless mirth and unrestrained laughter, so different as to be near opposites to the macabre horror you so vividly remember.
You reach out to run your hand on the familiar bone-white bark as you near it, when your foot bumps into something hard... metal? A legit suit of Muggle armor lies scattered around on the ground beneath the weirwood, the shield itself emblazoned with a caricature of a smiling weirwood, ironically enough. You kneel down to get a feel of the metal, the weight of it, as you realize it is truly genuine, not a prop of some kind as you at first suspected. How odd.
A familiar presence makes itself known then, bringing your focus back to the gregarious carved visage.
You stand back up, locking eyes with the weirwood as you did once before, though this time you don't push onwards. You hold the gaze for just a few moments, and then with a wink, you're off. A half hour or so later you reach the lake at last.
It's quite the view, all told, but you're not really all that interested in sightseeing, not after you've had the Atlantic as the backdrop to your prison cell. Instead, you levitate a pebble from the bank, transfiguring it into a decent-sized, sturdy rowboat.
You could have simply apparated, but honestly, you could use the rest, and some time to think wouldn't hurt either. The sun has long since peeked over the horizon, so you dispel the false light you've conjured way back when, just as you let your rowboat plop onto the water. You then wade through the cool murky water, heaving yourself deftly onboard. A tap of your wand against the frame sends you gliding over the water, as you find yourself a comfortable position to lie back and look up at the nostalgic morning sky. You don't truly fall asleep, you just let your mind wander, to acclimate to the situation you've found yourself in. Your daydreams are of eerie green light, of your rebirth, of the Hallows, and all the while your imagination runs wild with all that you might find in this new world, of the magic you've only but gotten a taste of.
A slight rumble jolts you out of your reverie, which you surmise is likely the rowboat running aground. The sun has also changed position somewhat, though you're not all that adept at deciphering how much time passed from that alone.
You stand to stretch out whatever kinks have built up, as you look up at the main attraction. It's still a ways away, but you're close enough to make out the details now, and truly, it's quite impressive for a ruin. The state its in only serves to give it a more intimidating feel, rather than the ramshackle wrecks abandoned castles generally tend to look like. You also spot smoke over the hill that comes up from the lakefront, the source of which is likely the array of tents you were only vaguely able to make out before.
Stepping out onto the grassy shore, you absently revert the rowboat back into the pebble it was, whereafter you start to make your way up and over the slight hill.
The sight that greets you takes you aback somewhat, you'd think it was some kind of Muggle reenactment fair if it wasn't for how real it all looked. Men bedecked in armor, in leather, chain or plate, some outright in rags, move to and fro the tents, which you only now realize is quite the vast encampment. You stow away your wand in your sleeve before you commence with exploration, frankly hoping that you're not actually stuck in what appears to be a medieval wonderland. Fortunately, no one seems to pay you much attention as you wander about, the language just as nonsensical as before.
A ways in, you spot a basket on a stool, filled with apples, peaches and pears, truly a treasure to your eyes. You glance about, as you subtly summon an apple to your hand, all red and supple.
A cough interrupts your humble feast, as you turn around to see... a knight, who looks like he just jumped out of some fairy tale. To his side is a man in rags that look ready to fall apart, reeking of fish.
He honestly looks quite spooked as he mutters in hushed tones to the knight, who himself looks more bored than anything. He holds up a hand and the whispers peter out, which is when he babbles out what's likely a question directed at you.
You respond in your mother tongue, not even bothering to hide your blatant amusement, "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
The knight frowns at you, clearly not getting the joke. His eyes meet yours then, though whatever it is he sees there only sets him on edge, made obvious when his hand settles on the hilt of his sword. He stares at you for a moment more before he beckons you to follow.
[] Cooperate. He'll likely just lead you to whoever he answers to, presumably some form of nobility. On the off chance that he actually tries to 'interrogate' or attack you, well, let's just say that you're about as frightened of a sword as you are of a feather.
[] What are language barriers to a master of Legilimency? It wouldn't give you perfect fluency, but it's not like you'll be debating the finer points of philosophy.
[] You'd rather not be beholden to some Muggle that looks like he's just stepped out of the pages of history. Besides, what would be the point when you don't even understand the language? Leave, in style.
You descend back beneath the canopy, thoughts alight with half-formed plans and ideas on how to proceed from here.
You now know that you are in the 'Riverlands', for all the good that does you. Whether it's a nation, a region, or one of those Seven Kingdoms, you do not know. You did however manage to spot some manner of ruined castle on the lands opposite the Isle, which might be worth looking into. Not like you have all that much options anyway, aside from just wandering in another direction. Besides, even if the wreck of a castle is completely abandoned, you saw tents, meaning it might be a sort of tourist locale or what not.
As the stone lightly impacts the ground, you hop off and with a leisurely pace set off towards the shore, far more at ease now that you have a wand in hand.
The trees and the faces that adorn them are your constant companions as you trek through the woods, all the while flicking, swishing and twirling your new-made creation, the movements coming easily to you even after all this time. In spite of your growing hunger and exhaustion, you've honestly not felt this good in a long, long time, as if you've somehow managed to recapture a hint of the levity that so defined your youth. A touch of white on the fringes of your vision catches your eye, knocking you out of your retrospection.
A weirwood stands before you, though its expression is different than the one from before, a face full of boundless mirth and unrestrained laughter, so different as to be near opposites to the macabre horror you so vividly remember.
You reach out to run your hand on the familiar bone-white bark as you near it, when your foot bumps into something hard... metal? A legit suit of Muggle armor lies scattered around on the ground beneath the weirwood, the shield itself emblazoned with a caricature of a smiling weirwood, ironically enough. You kneel down to get a feel of the metal, the weight of it, as you realize it is truly genuine, not a prop of some kind as you at first suspected. How odd.
A familiar presence makes itself known then, bringing your focus back to the gregarious carved visage.
You stand back up, locking eyes with the weirwood as you did once before, though this time you don't push onwards. You hold the gaze for just a few moments, and then with a wink, you're off. A half hour or so later you reach the lake at last.
It's quite the view, all told, but you're not really all that interested in sightseeing, not after you've had the Atlantic as the backdrop to your prison cell. Instead, you levitate a pebble from the bank, transfiguring it into a decent-sized, sturdy rowboat.
You could have simply apparated, but honestly, you could use the rest, and some time to think wouldn't hurt either. The sun has long since peeked over the horizon, so you dispel the false light you've conjured way back when, just as you let your rowboat plop onto the water. You then wade through the cool murky water, heaving yourself deftly onboard. A tap of your wand against the frame sends you gliding over the water, as you find yourself a comfortable position to lie back and look up at the nostalgic morning sky. You don't truly fall asleep, you just let your mind wander, to acclimate to the situation you've found yourself in. Your daydreams are of eerie green light, of your rebirth, of the Hallows, and all the while your imagination runs wild with all that you might find in this new world, of the magic you've only but gotten a taste of.
A slight rumble jolts you out of your reverie, which you surmise is likely the rowboat running aground. The sun has also changed position somewhat, though you're not all that adept at deciphering how much time passed from that alone.
You stand to stretch out whatever kinks have built up, as you look up at the main attraction. It's still a ways away, but you're close enough to make out the details now, and truly, it's quite impressive for a ruin. The state its in only serves to give it a more intimidating feel, rather than the ramshackle wrecks abandoned castles generally tend to look like. You also spot smoke over the hill that comes up from the lakefront, the source of which is likely the array of tents you were only vaguely able to make out before.
Stepping out onto the grassy shore, you absently revert the rowboat back into the pebble it was, whereafter you start to make your way up and over the slight hill.
The sight that greets you takes you aback somewhat, you'd think it was some kind of Muggle reenactment fair if it wasn't for how real it all looked. Men bedecked in armor, in leather, chain or plate, some outright in rags, move to and fro the tents, which you only now realize is quite the vast encampment. You stow away your wand in your sleeve before you commence with exploration, frankly hoping that you're not actually stuck in what appears to be a medieval wonderland. Fortunately, no one seems to pay you much attention as you wander about, the language just as nonsensical as before.
A ways in, you spot a basket on a stool, filled with apples, peaches and pears, truly a treasure to your eyes. You glance about, as you subtly summon an apple to your hand, all red and supple.
A cough interrupts your humble feast, as you turn around to see... a knight, who looks like he just jumped out of some fairy tale. To his side is a man in rags that look ready to fall apart, reeking of fish.
He honestly looks quite spooked as he mutters in hushed tones to the knight, who himself looks more bored than anything. He holds up a hand and the whispers peter out, which is when he babbles out what's likely a question directed at you.
You respond in your mother tongue, not even bothering to hide your blatant amusement, "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
The knight frowns at you, clearly not getting the joke. His eyes meet yours then, though whatever it is he sees there only sets him on edge, made obvious when his hand settles on the hilt of his sword. He stares at you for a moment more before he beckons you to follow.
[] Cooperate. He'll likely just lead you to whoever he answers to, presumably some form of nobility. On the off chance that he actually tries to 'interrogate' or attack you, well, let's just say that you're about as frightened of a sword as you are of a feather.
[] What are language barriers to a master of Legilimency? It wouldn't give you perfect fluency, but it's not like you'll be debating the finer points of philosophy.
[] The Knight. (DC ??)
[] The Fisherman. (DC ??)
[] The Fisherman. (DC ??)
[] You'd rather not be beholden to some Muggle that looks like he's just stepped out of the pages of history. Besides, what would be the point when you don't even understand the language? Leave, in style.
The Common Tongue
Paradosi
Myrddin
- Location
- VV Cephei
[X] What are language barriers to a master of Legilimency? It wouldn't give you perfect fluency, but it's not like you'll be debating the finer points of philosophy.
The knight's expression is expectant, as if you'd be a fool to refuse. Does he think you unarmed? Well, whatever his reasons, you would be a fool not to see the blatant opportunity before you.
This time it's your eyes that seek out his. You look beyond those watery blue eyes of his, beyond even the flood of memories, thoughts and emotions that greet you. A language isn't just linked to memories, but also to instincts, to specific movements of the tongue, to a rhythm of throat modulations. To get it just right, you have to mimic all of that perfectly or near-perfectly, lest you end up babbling incomprehensibly to any practiced speaker.
As you begin to touch upon the parts most delicate, you feel the atmosphere begin to fray with fear and confusion; expected, yet unwanted. A jittery psyche is rarely conducive to such efforts, so you compel him to calm, to keep his eyes locked to yours.
You arrange together pieces of the puzzle called the Common Tongue, as you substitute meanings and concepts with new words, each bringing a modicum of understanding and awareness in pursuit of greater purpose. A few are entirely novel even; those you adopt and conceptualize, rather than simply link them to and fro. You do so again and again and again, linking, connecting, conceptualizing, until you at last attain clarity, or more accurately a mimicry of it.
A moment passes and you see once more the scene you left behind. The fisherman's eyes are nervously darting back and forth between you and the knight, who has an almost dopey expression on his face.
A twitch of your fingers lifts the compulsion, causing him to almost stumble back as he looks around disjointedly, as if he'd just woken up. While the knight, who you now know as Ser Walton Wode, regains his bearing, you run your tongue along your teeth as if in preparation.
"What... what was that?" His words are halting and seem to almost pain him, as he grips the handle of his sword as if to steady himself.
You move to answer before the fisherman can gather his wits. "What was what?" You smile in a self-deprecating manner as you continue. "I admit it was a poor jest, but not that bad surely?"
"You do understand, then." The knight's focus is back on you, his demeanor seemingly more at ease now. "Bennet here has told me quite the story about you." He gestures to the fisherman beside him, whose agitation visibly skyrockets when you glance his way.
A memory not your own flashes by for but a moment, informing you of this 'story'. You should have been more careful with the boat, but honestly, does it even matter? There is no Statute of Secrecy here, no pathetic sycophants to annoy you at every turn. For all you know, there might not even be any wizards here, let alone a wizarding world. The thought both worries and excites you.
"A fine story no doubt, no one tells a story like a fisherman after all." You put on an air of nonchalance with practiced ease. "I'm curious though, why a story about a merchant and not something more exotic, like say a mermaid?"
"I know what I saw m'lord! The boat went and rowed itself and him along with it, and then it just bleedin' disappeared!"
The knight let out a sigh of exasperation at that. "You know I'm no lord Bennet, or did you mistake me for my brother?" He turns to you then. "You speak like a highborn, yet your accent is odd. What do you haggle anyhow?"
You reach into your robes with one hand, just as you tap your concealed wand with the other, pulling out a pristine glass figurine of a bat, which you hand to the knight with a wink.
"I see." He appears almost mollified before he looks to you with a frown. "Your accent is like no Myrish accent I've ever heard. Also, why exactly would the Isle interest a glass merchant so?"
"Oh, I come from farther afield than Myr." Truth be told, you're not even sure where Myr even is. "As for the Isle, well, I'm a bit of a traveler you see, so I couldn't just pass up the opportunity to visit a place so sacred, so steeped in history."
"Sightseeing even after the King's proclamation?" Going by his unenthusiastic tone, it looks like he's bored once more. "Whatever your reason, Lord Whent asked to be informed of such, under orders from His Grace."
Hm, well isn't that interesting. Would this 'proclamation' refer to you somehow, or is it just coincidence? You might as well play along for now, while you think on how to proceed from here.
You give a nod to the knight, who in turn bids farewell to the fisherman, which reminds you. Is a dose of obliviation needed here?
[] Yes. You would rather remain low-key for now. While his tales may be rather fantastical, he truly did see your magic first-hand, which could result in unwanted complications.
[] No. Why bother? You were never all that fond of the Statute, so why would you care now?
You follow the knight a ways about the encampment, which is when he introduces himself as Ser Walton Wode. How quaint. A bit of smalltalk and you eventually reach an area close to the entrance to the castle, which you now know to be Harrenhal.
The crowd is far more numerous here, presenting you with opportunity.
[] Continue on and meet with this 'Lord Whent'. Now that you know the language, a bit of intrigue is par for the course, no? However, the knight is somewhat suspicious of you now, obvious enough even with how he tries to mask it with boredom.
[] To vanish into such a crowd would be child's play, the question is what happens after.
[X] The Knight. (DC 10)
1D20 => 9
The knight's expression is expectant, as if you'd be a fool to refuse. Does he think you unarmed? Well, whatever his reasons, you would be a fool not to see the blatant opportunity before you.
This time it's your eyes that seek out his. You look beyond those watery blue eyes of his, beyond even the flood of memories, thoughts and emotions that greet you. A language isn't just linked to memories, but also to instincts, to specific movements of the tongue, to a rhythm of throat modulations. To get it just right, you have to mimic all of that perfectly or near-perfectly, lest you end up babbling incomprehensibly to any practiced speaker.
As you begin to touch upon the parts most delicate, you feel the atmosphere begin to fray with fear and confusion; expected, yet unwanted. A jittery psyche is rarely conducive to such efforts, so you compel him to calm, to keep his eyes locked to yours.
You arrange together pieces of the puzzle called the Common Tongue, as you substitute meanings and concepts with new words, each bringing a modicum of understanding and awareness in pursuit of greater purpose. A few are entirely novel even; those you adopt and conceptualize, rather than simply link them to and fro. You do so again and again and again, linking, connecting, conceptualizing, until you at last attain clarity, or more accurately a mimicry of it.
A moment passes and you see once more the scene you left behind. The fisherman's eyes are nervously darting back and forth between you and the knight, who has an almost dopey expression on his face.
A twitch of your fingers lifts the compulsion, causing him to almost stumble back as he looks around disjointedly, as if he'd just woken up. While the knight, who you now know as Ser Walton Wode, regains his bearing, you run your tongue along your teeth as if in preparation.
"What... what was that?" His words are halting and seem to almost pain him, as he grips the handle of his sword as if to steady himself.
You move to answer before the fisherman can gather his wits. "What was what?" You smile in a self-deprecating manner as you continue. "I admit it was a poor jest, but not that bad surely?"
"You do understand, then." The knight's focus is back on you, his demeanor seemingly more at ease now. "Bennet here has told me quite the story about you." He gestures to the fisherman beside him, whose agitation visibly skyrockets when you glance his way.
A memory not your own flashes by for but a moment, informing you of this 'story'. You should have been more careful with the boat, but honestly, does it even matter? There is no Statute of Secrecy here, no pathetic sycophants to annoy you at every turn. For all you know, there might not even be any wizards here, let alone a wizarding world. The thought both worries and excites you.
"A fine story no doubt, no one tells a story like a fisherman after all." You put on an air of nonchalance with practiced ease. "I'm curious though, why a story about a merchant and not something more exotic, like say a mermaid?"
"I know what I saw m'lord! The boat went and rowed itself and him along with it, and then it just bleedin' disappeared!"
The knight let out a sigh of exasperation at that. "You know I'm no lord Bennet, or did you mistake me for my brother?" He turns to you then. "You speak like a highborn, yet your accent is odd. What do you haggle anyhow?"
You reach into your robes with one hand, just as you tap your concealed wand with the other, pulling out a pristine glass figurine of a bat, which you hand to the knight with a wink.
"I see." He appears almost mollified before he looks to you with a frown. "Your accent is like no Myrish accent I've ever heard. Also, why exactly would the Isle interest a glass merchant so?"
"Oh, I come from farther afield than Myr." Truth be told, you're not even sure where Myr even is. "As for the Isle, well, I'm a bit of a traveler you see, so I couldn't just pass up the opportunity to visit a place so sacred, so steeped in history."
"Sightseeing even after the King's proclamation?" Going by his unenthusiastic tone, it looks like he's bored once more. "Whatever your reason, Lord Whent asked to be informed of such, under orders from His Grace."
Hm, well isn't that interesting. Would this 'proclamation' refer to you somehow, or is it just coincidence? You might as well play along for now, while you think on how to proceed from here.
You give a nod to the knight, who in turn bids farewell to the fisherman, which reminds you. Is a dose of obliviation needed here?
[] Yes. You would rather remain low-key for now. While his tales may be rather fantastical, he truly did see your magic first-hand, which could result in unwanted complications.
[] No. Why bother? You were never all that fond of the Statute, so why would you care now?
You follow the knight a ways about the encampment, which is when he introduces himself as Ser Walton Wode. How quaint. A bit of smalltalk and you eventually reach an area close to the entrance to the castle, which you now know to be Harrenhal.
The crowd is far more numerous here, presenting you with opportunity.
[] Continue on and meet with this 'Lord Whent'. Now that you know the language, a bit of intrigue is par for the course, no? However, the knight is somewhat suspicious of you now, obvious enough even with how he tries to mask it with boredom.
[] To vanish into such a crowd would be child's play, the question is what happens after.
[] You will meet with this Lord on your own terms, or perhaps even go and meet this King. Your curiosity is piqued now, and if either of them are aware of your arrival, you will know.
[] You have no interest in staying for this Muggle cock-fighting contest. It is time you seek out the magic of this world, as that is what truly interests you. You will use the info you've acquired to this end.
[] Oldtown and the Citadel.
[] King's Landing and on to Essos.
[] The Wall and Beyond.
[] You have no interest in staying for this Muggle cock-fighting contest. It is time you seek out the magic of this world, as that is what truly interests you. You will use the info you've acquired to this end.
[] Oldtown and the Citadel.
[] King's Landing and on to Essos.
[] The Wall and Beyond.
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