Ganurath
Literal Enthusiast
- Location
- A Valid Location
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I didn't realize that the staff had such restrictive living arrangements.
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Of Wolves and Witches (WHF Wizard Quest)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
- Fantasy
deadcrystal
Slaaneshi Cultist
- Location
- The Warp
It might be nicer than student digs, but if you live on campus you just have to resign yourself to living in a cupboard.
UrsaTempest
Don't Panic!
It is magical university though. And Erika, who knows her teacher pretty well, seems to believe they all do threesome there, so...
... granted, I wouldn't discount them doing threesome in a cupboard, but still.
... granted, I wouldn't discount them doing threesome in a cupboard, but still.
- Location
- Germany
I can't imagine the Celestials being much invested in big and nice dorms.
But access over the quarters with or in a tower will propably be fought over to the blood.
Monofocused stargazers...
- Location
- London, England
The amount of space and resources provided to individual Wizards at the colleges is very poorly defined. Presumably there are good reasons to get your own space, otherwise there would never be people with sweet wizard towers out there in the world, but it's also good enough that master wizards and the patriarchs of the orders can and do just stick around in Altdorf anyway.
NotInventedHere
MSV, Desert Class
- Location
- UK
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It may well be a similar situation to real-world academia - that is, there's *some* really nice offices, but there's an extremely limited number of them compared to the number of people who want them, so some people fight tooth and nail over the good offices and other people decide to peace out and go set themselves up somewhere else.
If you're a full-blown Magister then I imagine you probably get some decent rooms, in the same way a professor's office and on campus accommodation is probably better than that of a graduate student. Wizards want towers because they are as jealous as cats, except if cats could build magical death rays.
Also, I've stayed in university accommodations built before 1900. It was downright spacious, and had two rooms, because it built under the assumption that everything necessary for life takes up more space, that the person living in it will need a fire, that they are of a certain social class, and that they may have a servant. Magisters may or may not have servants, human ones anyway, and they are not necessarily nobles at all, but certain attitudes are probably going to be reflected in the design of buildings and rooms for what is a fairly important institution.
Also, I've stayed in university accommodations built before 1900. It was downright spacious, and had two rooms, because it built under the assumption that everything necessary for life takes up more space, that the person living in it will need a fire, that they are of a certain social class, and that they may have a servant. Magisters may or may not have servants, human ones anyway, and they are not necessarily nobles at all, but certain attitudes are probably going to be reflected in the design of buildings and rooms for what is a fairly important institution.
A testament to the inferred horrors of the Cerventes Sulk. You kind of kneecapped the possibility of another option winning with that threat in the air.
Sinsystems
Patron Librarian
On the plus side, I'd imagine that the Bright College probably has a very large well heated bathing facilities.
- Location
- A place
Our pet now.
Mopman43
Mountain-Hermit of Nitpeak
- Location
- Vermont
It was an option that wasn't voted for, I think.
notanautomaton
I've got 99 quests, I've finished one
There's also a third axis: Being in the College. The College is where all your peers are, it's got libraries you don't have to build yourself, it's got laboratories and workshops you don't have to build yourself, and so on. So if you stay in the college, you have to have academic and literal knife fights over access to everything, but you do have theoretical access to everything. Building a tower of your own means that you have to get everything yourself, but you don't need any academic or literal knife-fights just money, and you can keep it forever. This means you're far away from everyone else, but also means that if you're tower is good enough you get bragging rights.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
i love burny mom
XXX - Homecoming Drinks
- Location
- London, England
For a moment that seems to stretch on for eternity, you hesitate, thoughts dancing through the myriad other possibilities you could use to occupy your time. Maybe you could take a trip to the library, or see if you can find someone capable of turning your trophy into something worth using… but that would make you a coward. Perhaps not by any reasonable measurement, but the heart is as the heart is, and yours would fill with shame if you were to avoid meeting your master merely out of fear that she might be 'indisposed'.
Besides, she'd sulk, and no one has time for that.
Sighing, you square your shoulders and cross the hall, knocking on the door before you can bring yourself to think twice. There is a long pause, and then a muffled call from somewhere inside that you choose to take as an invitation. The door swings open at your touch, and with a moment to brace yourself you step inside.
Your master's room is akin to something out of those salacious travelogues written about the lands of the Indi. Silk curtains hang from every wall, dividing the chamber into a dozen private dens of half-hidden sin, while ornate braziers fill the air with clouds of narcotic smoke. Cushions lie in thick piles everywhere you look, bordered by silver goblets of wine and wooden trays piled high with exotic delicacies, while some enchanted musician plays beautiful harmonies beyond your view. And in the middle of it all, sprawled out like a Sultana in her harem, is your master.
Helena Cervantes is a woman in her prime, beloved by the gods and blessed with a build only relentless martial training can obtain. Her shoulders are broad, her arms corded with muscle, the bare handful of scars visible on her mahogany skin seeming to enhance her beauty rather than spoiling it. Long black hair cascades down her side like a waterfall, artfully arranged to cover what the half-open silk gown does not, and in one delicate hand rests a long pipe of beautifully engraved silver.
"My my, dearest, back so soon?" she croons, eyes closed as she luxuriates in the middle of her cushions like some kind of exceedingly hedonistic dragon, "Such an appetite..."
You sigh, then lean up against the nearest identifiable patch of wall. "You are a gods damned stereotype."
There is a momentary pause, the haze of narcotics still hovering in the air dulling your master's reaction speed, then her eyes fly open and she scrambles hurriedly to her feet.
"Erika?" She asks, a delighted smile crossing her face as she tosses the silver pipe aside and holds her arms wide, "It is you! Ah, my little savage, it has been too long!"
Oh no, you have quite enough deep-seated issues to work through without making a habit of embracing the closest thing you have to a maternal figure while she's half naked and fresh from an orgy. Helena all but lunges across the intervening distance, arms outstretched, but a single sidestep takes you out of her path and leaves her to tumble face-first into another conveniently positioned pile of cushions.
"Wow," you drawl, circling back through the room and making a show of studying the wide range of bottles, bedding and 'tools' scattered haphazardly across the floor, "even for you, this is a bit much. Tilean wine, that old music box, a mild euphoric… and two Ambers, really? Can you even see straight right now?"
There is a faint groan as your master rolls back over, pulling herself back into something approaching a sitting position. "You are being positively horrid. What have I ever done to deserve such treatment from my own student?"
"Would you like a list?" You roll your eyes and head for the door, "Whatever. I came by to tell you I was back in Altdorf, but I guess you're too busy re-enacting your Arabyan slave fantasies. Talk to you later."
There is a word, a phrase that fades from your mind like smoke the instant after it is spoken, and beneath its echo the red wind of aqshy boils like water. The braziers explode in flame, narcotic fuels sublimating into nothing, and the silken veils turn to blackened ash and drift away on the breeze. The music stops, and when you slowly turn around even the fancy cushions are gone, carried away to some other place by a sheer blaze of arcane power.
This is your master. The Lady Magister Helena Teresa Maria Cervantes, with a name for every occasion and a title for every name. She is Princess of Estalia, a land that has gone without hereditary monarchy for centuries, and a master swordswoman in the Figueroa style. She is a titan of the battlefield and a slayer of monsters beyond compare, the glittering steel in her hand etched with the names of thirteen vampires committed to the flame by her hand alone. Rubies adorn her robe, flashing and shimmering with hidden power, and behind her eyes dance emerald flames that will never cease to burn.
"Apprentice," she says, iron in her voice and sparks upon her hand, "there is a fine line between banter and disrespect. Take care not to cross it."
You have no idea where your master was hiding the sword but right this second seems like an exceptionally poor time to try asking her about it. She probably won't stab you, but you haven't grown as old and pretty as you have by pressing your luck with angry swordswomen, so instead of saying anything particularly outrageous you simply swallow and bow your head.
"My apologies, Master."
Lady Magister Cerventes glares at you for a few moments longer… then relaxes, laughing, as the sword in her hand dissolves into smoke. She steps forwards, the gem-encrusted robes vanishing as she walks through them, and takes you lightly by the arm.
"There, you see? Much better," she says, as you blink and splutter and try to work out what the hell just happened.
"Was that… but aqshy can't…" you try to voice your thoughts, but too much that you thought you knew about how magic works is screaming at you inside your skull, "Did you start learning shadowmancy?"
"Hardly," Helena sniffs archly, as though somehow offered insult by the question, "that was a creative application of mirages and emotional manipulation. There is more to the Red Wind than setting everything around you on fire."
You want to protest, to pry for further details, but you know better than to push your luck. She'll just give you the run around and drop taunting little tidbits and there was probably a bound familiar involved there somewhere as well which she won't tell you about either. So instead you just sigh and let her lead you across the main chamber and into a side room dominated by a significantly less ornate table.
"Now, enough about that!" Your master proclaims grandly, guiding you into a seat on one side of the table and all but dancing over to a small cabinet nearby to withdraw a bottle and two glasses, "Tell me what brings you back here! In fact, last time I heard you were off to go work for some merchant concern in the back end of Wissenland, and now you turn up at my door wearing Kemperbad fashion! However did you end up in that particular pit of gilded depravity?"
"Fighting a duel, actually," you say with a faint smirk, accepting the glass and letting your master pour you a generous measure of what you think is Bretonnian wine. "Turns out noble ladies pay very well for someone able to defend their honour in the arena, and they even let me use my magic."
From there the story comes out, piece by piece and with generous lubrication from an increasingly wide variety of alcohol that your master apparently has stashed around her quarters. Most of them are from different provinces of Bretonnia, for Helena Cerventes believes in sampling every part of a nation's offerings before rendering judgement, but you think you see some Kislevite kvas and a small keg of Wissenlander ale in there as well.
"Ah, I'm so proud of you!" She says when your recitations are done, offering a vague salute with a crystal goblet filled with something you weren't paying enough attention to identify, "A string of successful missions, a solid quantity of coin, and a promised introduction to an Elector Countess! Very nice indeed, Erika. I suppose you came back to make good on that start and take your trials, then?"
"Hah! No, I came back to deliver an aspirant to the Amethyst College," you laugh, taking a sip of your wine. Then you realise what such a question implies and blink in surprise. "Why would you… do you think I'm ready for the trials? To be a Magister?"
Helena pauses at that, then sets her goblet down on the table with a soft clink.
"Darling, you are my protege, and I do not tutor fools," she says firmly, leaning over the table to look you in the eye, "You could have taken the trials a year ago if you wanted, if talent was all that mattered. The rest was formality."
Oh. Well. You always knew your master thought highly of your skill, she wouldn't have allowed you out in the world if she didn't, but to hear it stated so openly is still… pleasing. There's a little ball of warmth in your chest now, and only some of it can be blamed on the alcohol.
"Well, I am rather good," you concede, because if there's one thing your master won't tolerate its false humility… or humility in general, to be perfectly honest. "So yes, I think I will."
"That's the spirit!" Helena laughs, sitting back in her chair and letting you look at her without getting an eyeful of bounteous cleavage, "Now, I know we covered the basics in your tutoring, but how are you on the details of the process?"
"Haven't really given it much thought," you shrug, taking a mouthful of something soft and fruity and letting it sit there for a moment while you gather your thoughts, "Passing through the Seven Gates, wasn't it?"
That much at least you'd have to be a fool to misremember, for seven is the number most closely associated with the Red Wind and the keys you carry at your belt are meant for more than base utility. There are reasons the College is built around a heptagonal courtyard and features seven times seven great towers, after all.
"Just so," Helena nods, with a level of enthusiasm you are content to attribute to what must be a staggering level of narcotics in her system at this point, "Seven Gates, seven tests, and when it is done you'll have proven beyond doubt that you deserve to stand among us, a full Magister of the Bright Order. That's when the real fun begins."
She takes an elegant sip of wine, leaving you to dwell on the thoughts such words have provoked. The lure of becoming a magister is a potent one, but you know your school well enough to spot the unstated counterpoint to that promise. Aqshy is a violent, tempestuous wind, more than capable of wrecking terrible havoc at the slightest lapse of attention. Only those who can truly be trusted with such power will ever receive the blessing of the College.
There are no perpetual apprentices in the Bright Order. You will pass these tests, you will make Magister, or you will die trying.
"The First Gate is simple; it's a test of scholarship," your master continues, waving one hand in lazy dismissal, "you choose a spell or a ritual, one that I am willing to confirm you don't already know, and learn how to cast it. Self study, with full documentation, no teachers or external advice. When you're happy with it, you present your final product to a panel of magisters."
You nod thoughtfully. In other Colleges, you would have to write a paper, perform some manner of arcane research into the more intellectual and theoretical side of magic and its impact on the world, but this is the Bright Order. You are trained as soldiers, not mystics, and your teachings are focused appropriately.
"The Second Gate is where things get serious," Helena says, and her voice is abruptly serious as she looks at you, "I'm not allowed to tell you the details, but that is where we test your purity. Every few years we get a journeyman who goes astray while out in the world."
You swallow. She doesn't need to tell you what happens to those who are foolish enough to put themselves through the crucible of a Magister's trials with any such flaw in their soul for the inquisitors to find.
"Won't be a problem," you say as firmly as you can manage, forcing aside the memory of a witch hunter and nails piercing your flesh, "I'm not… I'm not that stupid."
"For both our sakes, I hope not," your master says primly, taking another sip of her wine and leaving you to wonder if it is merely her reputation on the line should you fail, "Now, as for the Third Gate… that too is fairly straightforward. It is a test of skill - you will perform magic, as wide a range as you know how, before a board of review."
You frown slightly. "This seems… far easier than I would have expected. I understand the idea that I must prove myself capable of the foundations, but surely any journeywoman would be able to pass at least the first three trials?"
"Funny you should mention it," Helena grins at you, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "Because the fourth test is that of Will, and this is where most fail. You will go to the top of the College, before the eyes of your would-be peers, and you will throw yourself on the pyre."
You blink. "You're shitting me."
"My dear, I have never 'shit' anyone in my life," Lady Cerventes says archly, taking yet another mouthful of her wine, and how much has she drunk by now anyway, "and I do not intend to start today. The pyres atop the towers are the closest thing to pure aqshy as anyone has ever managed to create. If your will is strong, you will master the flame and take it into your soul. If not… well, that's what apprentices are for."
You swallow, remembering long days spent at the top of those towers, scrubbing down charred bronze and baked-in ash while an inferno raged mere handspans away. You always assumed the stains were a natural byproduct, but… gods.
"With the Fourth test behind you, you will have proven your skill, your scholarship, your purity and your will," the explanations continue, your master having apparently decided your stunned silence constitutes an invitation to resume, "The Fifth and Sixth are often combined; you will be assigned to an existing army formation for a variable time, your behaviour and choices overseen by a more senior Magister. The goal is to assess your insight and reason, but dear Thyrus often likes to throw in additional challenges here and there."
Only your master would refer to the Patriarch of the Bright Order in such a familiar tone, and… wow ok you did not need that immediate flash of insight into why she might feel so comfortable doing so, moving swiftly onwards…
"And the, uh, seventh test?"
Helena Cerventes, Lady Magister of the Bright Order, your master and the closest thing you have to a parent, gives you the single most ghoulish smile you have ever seen on a human face.
"The Seventh Gate is that of Might," she says, and you can feel the ground opening up beneath you, "and it is arguably the most simple of them all. In front of all our peers, I will do my level best to kill you. All you need to do… is not die."
You stare at her, at this woman who has all but raised you, for a long moment. Then you pick up the bottle and pour a small fortune in imported Bretonnian wine down your throat.
You refuse to die sober.
Besides, she'd sulk, and no one has time for that.
Sighing, you square your shoulders and cross the hall, knocking on the door before you can bring yourself to think twice. There is a long pause, and then a muffled call from somewhere inside that you choose to take as an invitation. The door swings open at your touch, and with a moment to brace yourself you step inside.
Your master's room is akin to something out of those salacious travelogues written about the lands of the Indi. Silk curtains hang from every wall, dividing the chamber into a dozen private dens of half-hidden sin, while ornate braziers fill the air with clouds of narcotic smoke. Cushions lie in thick piles everywhere you look, bordered by silver goblets of wine and wooden trays piled high with exotic delicacies, while some enchanted musician plays beautiful harmonies beyond your view. And in the middle of it all, sprawled out like a Sultana in her harem, is your master.
Helena Cervantes is a woman in her prime, beloved by the gods and blessed with a build only relentless martial training can obtain. Her shoulders are broad, her arms corded with muscle, the bare handful of scars visible on her mahogany skin seeming to enhance her beauty rather than spoiling it. Long black hair cascades down her side like a waterfall, artfully arranged to cover what the half-open silk gown does not, and in one delicate hand rests a long pipe of beautifully engraved silver.
"My my, dearest, back so soon?" she croons, eyes closed as she luxuriates in the middle of her cushions like some kind of exceedingly hedonistic dragon, "Such an appetite..."
You sigh, then lean up against the nearest identifiable patch of wall. "You are a gods damned stereotype."
There is a momentary pause, the haze of narcotics still hovering in the air dulling your master's reaction speed, then her eyes fly open and she scrambles hurriedly to her feet.
"Erika?" She asks, a delighted smile crossing her face as she tosses the silver pipe aside and holds her arms wide, "It is you! Ah, my little savage, it has been too long!"
Oh no, you have quite enough deep-seated issues to work through without making a habit of embracing the closest thing you have to a maternal figure while she's half naked and fresh from an orgy. Helena all but lunges across the intervening distance, arms outstretched, but a single sidestep takes you out of her path and leaves her to tumble face-first into another conveniently positioned pile of cushions.
"Wow," you drawl, circling back through the room and making a show of studying the wide range of bottles, bedding and 'tools' scattered haphazardly across the floor, "even for you, this is a bit much. Tilean wine, that old music box, a mild euphoric… and two Ambers, really? Can you even see straight right now?"
There is a faint groan as your master rolls back over, pulling herself back into something approaching a sitting position. "You are being positively horrid. What have I ever done to deserve such treatment from my own student?"
"Would you like a list?" You roll your eyes and head for the door, "Whatever. I came by to tell you I was back in Altdorf, but I guess you're too busy re-enacting your Arabyan slave fantasies. Talk to you later."
There is a word, a phrase that fades from your mind like smoke the instant after it is spoken, and beneath its echo the red wind of aqshy boils like water. The braziers explode in flame, narcotic fuels sublimating into nothing, and the silken veils turn to blackened ash and drift away on the breeze. The music stops, and when you slowly turn around even the fancy cushions are gone, carried away to some other place by a sheer blaze of arcane power.
This is your master. The Lady Magister Helena Teresa Maria Cervantes, with a name for every occasion and a title for every name. She is Princess of Estalia, a land that has gone without hereditary monarchy for centuries, and a master swordswoman in the Figueroa style. She is a titan of the battlefield and a slayer of monsters beyond compare, the glittering steel in her hand etched with the names of thirteen vampires committed to the flame by her hand alone. Rubies adorn her robe, flashing and shimmering with hidden power, and behind her eyes dance emerald flames that will never cease to burn.
"Apprentice," she says, iron in her voice and sparks upon her hand, "there is a fine line between banter and disrespect. Take care not to cross it."
You have no idea where your master was hiding the sword but right this second seems like an exceptionally poor time to try asking her about it. She probably won't stab you, but you haven't grown as old and pretty as you have by pressing your luck with angry swordswomen, so instead of saying anything particularly outrageous you simply swallow and bow your head.
"My apologies, Master."
Lady Magister Cerventes glares at you for a few moments longer… then relaxes, laughing, as the sword in her hand dissolves into smoke. She steps forwards, the gem-encrusted robes vanishing as she walks through them, and takes you lightly by the arm.
"There, you see? Much better," she says, as you blink and splutter and try to work out what the hell just happened.
"Was that… but aqshy can't…" you try to voice your thoughts, but too much that you thought you knew about how magic works is screaming at you inside your skull, "Did you start learning shadowmancy?"
"Hardly," Helena sniffs archly, as though somehow offered insult by the question, "that was a creative application of mirages and emotional manipulation. There is more to the Red Wind than setting everything around you on fire."
You want to protest, to pry for further details, but you know better than to push your luck. She'll just give you the run around and drop taunting little tidbits and there was probably a bound familiar involved there somewhere as well which she won't tell you about either. So instead you just sigh and let her lead you across the main chamber and into a side room dominated by a significantly less ornate table.
"Now, enough about that!" Your master proclaims grandly, guiding you into a seat on one side of the table and all but dancing over to a small cabinet nearby to withdraw a bottle and two glasses, "Tell me what brings you back here! In fact, last time I heard you were off to go work for some merchant concern in the back end of Wissenland, and now you turn up at my door wearing Kemperbad fashion! However did you end up in that particular pit of gilded depravity?"
"Fighting a duel, actually," you say with a faint smirk, accepting the glass and letting your master pour you a generous measure of what you think is Bretonnian wine. "Turns out noble ladies pay very well for someone able to defend their honour in the arena, and they even let me use my magic."
From there the story comes out, piece by piece and with generous lubrication from an increasingly wide variety of alcohol that your master apparently has stashed around her quarters. Most of them are from different provinces of Bretonnia, for Helena Cerventes believes in sampling every part of a nation's offerings before rendering judgement, but you think you see some Kislevite kvas and a small keg of Wissenlander ale in there as well.
"Ah, I'm so proud of you!" She says when your recitations are done, offering a vague salute with a crystal goblet filled with something you weren't paying enough attention to identify, "A string of successful missions, a solid quantity of coin, and a promised introduction to an Elector Countess! Very nice indeed, Erika. I suppose you came back to make good on that start and take your trials, then?"
"Hah! No, I came back to deliver an aspirant to the Amethyst College," you laugh, taking a sip of your wine. Then you realise what such a question implies and blink in surprise. "Why would you… do you think I'm ready for the trials? To be a Magister?"
Helena pauses at that, then sets her goblet down on the table with a soft clink.
"Darling, you are my protege, and I do not tutor fools," she says firmly, leaning over the table to look you in the eye, "You could have taken the trials a year ago if you wanted, if talent was all that mattered. The rest was formality."
Oh. Well. You always knew your master thought highly of your skill, she wouldn't have allowed you out in the world if she didn't, but to hear it stated so openly is still… pleasing. There's a little ball of warmth in your chest now, and only some of it can be blamed on the alcohol.
"Well, I am rather good," you concede, because if there's one thing your master won't tolerate its false humility… or humility in general, to be perfectly honest. "So yes, I think I will."
"That's the spirit!" Helena laughs, sitting back in her chair and letting you look at her without getting an eyeful of bounteous cleavage, "Now, I know we covered the basics in your tutoring, but how are you on the details of the process?"
"Haven't really given it much thought," you shrug, taking a mouthful of something soft and fruity and letting it sit there for a moment while you gather your thoughts, "Passing through the Seven Gates, wasn't it?"
That much at least you'd have to be a fool to misremember, for seven is the number most closely associated with the Red Wind and the keys you carry at your belt are meant for more than base utility. There are reasons the College is built around a heptagonal courtyard and features seven times seven great towers, after all.
"Just so," Helena nods, with a level of enthusiasm you are content to attribute to what must be a staggering level of narcotics in her system at this point, "Seven Gates, seven tests, and when it is done you'll have proven beyond doubt that you deserve to stand among us, a full Magister of the Bright Order. That's when the real fun begins."
She takes an elegant sip of wine, leaving you to dwell on the thoughts such words have provoked. The lure of becoming a magister is a potent one, but you know your school well enough to spot the unstated counterpoint to that promise. Aqshy is a violent, tempestuous wind, more than capable of wrecking terrible havoc at the slightest lapse of attention. Only those who can truly be trusted with such power will ever receive the blessing of the College.
There are no perpetual apprentices in the Bright Order. You will pass these tests, you will make Magister, or you will die trying.
"The First Gate is simple; it's a test of scholarship," your master continues, waving one hand in lazy dismissal, "you choose a spell or a ritual, one that I am willing to confirm you don't already know, and learn how to cast it. Self study, with full documentation, no teachers or external advice. When you're happy with it, you present your final product to a panel of magisters."
You nod thoughtfully. In other Colleges, you would have to write a paper, perform some manner of arcane research into the more intellectual and theoretical side of magic and its impact on the world, but this is the Bright Order. You are trained as soldiers, not mystics, and your teachings are focused appropriately.
"The Second Gate is where things get serious," Helena says, and her voice is abruptly serious as she looks at you, "I'm not allowed to tell you the details, but that is where we test your purity. Every few years we get a journeyman who goes astray while out in the world."
You swallow. She doesn't need to tell you what happens to those who are foolish enough to put themselves through the crucible of a Magister's trials with any such flaw in their soul for the inquisitors to find.
"Won't be a problem," you say as firmly as you can manage, forcing aside the memory of a witch hunter and nails piercing your flesh, "I'm not… I'm not that stupid."
"For both our sakes, I hope not," your master says primly, taking another sip of her wine and leaving you to wonder if it is merely her reputation on the line should you fail, "Now, as for the Third Gate… that too is fairly straightforward. It is a test of skill - you will perform magic, as wide a range as you know how, before a board of review."
You frown slightly. "This seems… far easier than I would have expected. I understand the idea that I must prove myself capable of the foundations, but surely any journeywoman would be able to pass at least the first three trials?"
"Funny you should mention it," Helena grins at you, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "Because the fourth test is that of Will, and this is where most fail. You will go to the top of the College, before the eyes of your would-be peers, and you will throw yourself on the pyre."
You blink. "You're shitting me."
"My dear, I have never 'shit' anyone in my life," Lady Cerventes says archly, taking yet another mouthful of her wine, and how much has she drunk by now anyway, "and I do not intend to start today. The pyres atop the towers are the closest thing to pure aqshy as anyone has ever managed to create. If your will is strong, you will master the flame and take it into your soul. If not… well, that's what apprentices are for."
You swallow, remembering long days spent at the top of those towers, scrubbing down charred bronze and baked-in ash while an inferno raged mere handspans away. You always assumed the stains were a natural byproduct, but… gods.
"With the Fourth test behind you, you will have proven your skill, your scholarship, your purity and your will," the explanations continue, your master having apparently decided your stunned silence constitutes an invitation to resume, "The Fifth and Sixth are often combined; you will be assigned to an existing army formation for a variable time, your behaviour and choices overseen by a more senior Magister. The goal is to assess your insight and reason, but dear Thyrus often likes to throw in additional challenges here and there."
Only your master would refer to the Patriarch of the Bright Order in such a familiar tone, and… wow ok you did not need that immediate flash of insight into why she might feel so comfortable doing so, moving swiftly onwards…
"And the, uh, seventh test?"
Helena Cerventes, Lady Magister of the Bright Order, your master and the closest thing you have to a parent, gives you the single most ghoulish smile you have ever seen on a human face.
"The Seventh Gate is that of Might," she says, and you can feel the ground opening up beneath you, "and it is arguably the most simple of them all. In front of all our peers, I will do my level best to kill you. All you need to do… is not die."
You stare at her, at this woman who has all but raised you, for a long moment. Then you pick up the bottle and pour a small fortune in imported Bretonnian wine down your throat.
You refuse to die sober.
Article: Good news! Erika does not, in fact, die. She does, however, have a prolonged drinking session with Helena Cerventes, which is perhaps nearly as dangerous.
Where does she wake up?
[ ] In a Bed. Not her own. Not her master's either, thank the gods. That is, however, where the good news ends, because it turns out that not everyone is thrilled to have a drunk ex-girlfriend turn up on their threshold at an unholy hour.
[ ] In a Tavern. People in Altdorf know better than to mug a wizard, which is perhaps for the best, but they apparently have no compunction about gambling with one. You assume that's why that girl is wearing your hat, at least.
[ ] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…
[X] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…
How can we miss the chance for Erika's sense to desert her when drunk?
How can we miss the chance for Erika's sense to desert her when drunk?
Sarpedon
Knight Errant
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] In a Bed. Not her own. Not her master's either, thank the gods. That is, however, where the good news ends, because it turns out that not everyone is thrilled to have a drunk ex-girlfriend turn up on their threshold at an unholy hour.
LETS GET IT, IT RETURNS!
LETS GET IT, IT RETURNS!
mouli
Terrible QM
- Location
- United States
Such a pity, she seems fun
.[X] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…
Now that @EarthScorpion hath punned it I must follow.
- Location
- Before the Ninth Gate
[X] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…
This looks fun!
This looks fun!
Ah her master is such a charming unique women!
[X] In a Tavern. People in Altdorf know better than to mug a wizard, which is perhaps for the best, but they apparently have no compunction about gambling with one. You assume that's why that girl is wearing your hat, at least.
[X] In a Tavern. People in Altdorf know better than to mug a wizard, which is perhaps for the best, but they apparently have no compunction about gambling with one. You assume that's why that girl is wearing your hat, at least.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…
Stopped reading, must report teacher to the Silver Hammer for being heretic.
- Location
- Actually pretty lost
[X] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…
If you're going to make bad decisions, make them big ones! You might survive your hubris through sheer audacity.
If you're going to make bad decisions, make them big ones! You might survive your hubris through sheer audacity.
- Location
- Germany
[X] In a Desert. Well, more of an oasis, really, which given the geography surrounding Altdorf raises several deeply concerning questions. You really hope that this is some kind of illusion or sanctuary, but that still raises the question of what exactly you said to that irritable looking ifrit…