- Location
- Hyperborea
I'm sorry, but I think you mean:
[] Plan Scouring the Heavens and the Earth for Materials to make a Sword for killing Druchii
-[] Bits and Bobs: 3 AP
-[] The Metaphor, the Mystic - 2 AP
--[]Azyr
Right?
To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
[] Plan Scouring the Heavens and the Earth for Materials to make a Sword for killing Druchii
-[] Bits and Bobs: 3 AP
-[] The Metaphor, the Mystic - 2 AP
--[]Azyr
Right?
QuietlyObserving
The Railgun That Walks Like a Bear
- Location
- Here.
Wow, I just caught up to this quest, and I'm already invested. A great depiction of High Elf society and thought processes (even if my inner Dawi grumbles at the shade thrown towards them).
Also, Tethia being the utterly stereotypical haughty ojou love interest gives me life. I want to see an omake of her after he left, and she starts hugging a pillow and kicking her legs because the bonehead finally got it.
Looking forward to more!
Also, Tethia being the utterly stereotypical haughty ojou love interest gives me life. I want to see an omake of her after he left, and she starts hugging a pillow and kicking her legs because the bonehead finally got it.
Looking forward to more!
- Location
- United Kingdom
We have enough on our plate at the moment that I don't think spending any more than 1AP on Bits and Bobs for our sword is worthwhile.
Honestly, considering we made a Tier 2 sword without any special materials back in Turn 1 (when we were less magically skilled at that), I'd probably be fine going without any Bits and Bobs, but I want to put 1AP in to get an idea of how the action works for a low stakes crafting action, and because it could help bump it up to Tier 3.
My current ideal plan for Turn 6 would be:
[] Plan Mystic Managed
-[] The Metaphor, the Mystic - 2 AP
--[]Azyr
-[] Bits and Bobs - 1AP
-[] The Art of the Blade - 1AP
-[] The Cure - 1AP
If we complete Mystical Azyr this turn we can't do both Blade and Bits and Bobs, so do a bit of both for the latter then add in 1AP on the Cure because a) it soothes our focus and b) Runestones is less urgent, and is better left until we can afford to put 3AP in at once for the trait proc.
I kinda figured she was the picture of self control until we left, then spent the next hour screaming into a pillow at not realising he'd been misunderstanding.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Every time Dwarf Posters have been racists on the internet (usually about other fantasy species. Usually)
I have prepared one (1) cutting remark.
As you might expect, I have gathered a small arsenal.
QuietlyObserving
The Railgun That Walks Like a Bear
- Location
- Here.
*Insert various rage-filled Dwarf reactions here*
More seriously though, it's one of those settings where it is absolutely on point when either side talks shit. Which makes it all the more enjoyable.
Voikirium Exercise Regiment (+5)
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Small? Just a small arsenal?
As for the Turn 6 debate, I'd say that if the Temple finally opens up this turn, then I'd suggest putting in 3 AP for that. Temple Procs nothing, so it would need 6 AP investment over the next couple of turns. And I'd like to believe that most people here would really like to see what's inside the Temple, more than anything else.
On the other hand, if the Temple isn't unlocked from the Art of Two, then we have a lot more choices. I'd suggest putting in 2 AP in Bits and Bobs, as we have a couple of crafting projects waiting for us, including the gift to Tethia's dad, our own sword and the weapons for the Long March, and hence should accumulate a bit more material for all of them. And the final 1 AP can be spent in either training a Wind, learning Azyr spells, The Cure or The Art of the Blade.
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Turn 5 Results
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn Five Results
There's no running from it, no hiding from it, no fleeing from it. It cannot be denied.
If you are to succeed in your, many, ambitions, you require more raw skill at the art of weaving together magic, and some extra power wouldn't go awry either. Oh you understand plenty of it, and the lesser things of magic, the grimoires of the simplest of spells, flow from your hands with the same ease as water flows through air, and with considerably less mess. But if you are to unveil the truest mysteries of magic, if you are to finally enter the Temple and see what your god has planned for you, if, if, if, you need more refinement and more skill, more ability and more knowledge. It taunts you, seems to say right to your face "you are not able" and most damningly, right now you are not able.
And that is where the Archmages come in. Always a looser grouping than the Loremasters, unified by little except for one simple truth: they are surpassingly skilled at all forms of their chosen magic, and that magic is most often High Magic. The Hekartites rub shoulders with the Geomancers of Saphery speak with the Seneschals of Avelorn study with the Mist Mages of Cothique, refining their arts and their ability. As varied as the many hues that make up the Winds of Magic themselves, for all that, over the centuries, the White Tower has become the epitome of the Art. Many wield magic more toward practical or warring ends, rather than the pure artistry and love of knowledge that drives the Loremasters, though it would be a mistake to regard them as not scholarly—even the most blunt and straightforward, at the least, knows magic the same way you know your parents, and many attempt to advance the arts of their own, chosen tradition aside from any more immediate duties they feel to kingdom and kin and their own honor, near and dear to them. And of course, some are simply unwilling to serve Hoeth in the way a Loremaster requires for one reason or another but are otherwise attuned to the studious portions of magic.
The Loremasters' mysticism and invocation of Hoeth would also make you a mightier mage, of course, and advancing in service to the Bearer of the Sword would offer you great accolades and acclaim…
But it's not pure magic.
And that clenches it for you. You take up quill and vellum and scratch out a simple letter, only a dozen pages (truly, how lazy you have gotten in your dotage) and send it off to Saphery. To Ythil, for all it seems centuries since you spoke to her in spite of the fact that it has been only a scant few decades, requesting the training only the Archmages can provide. The lessons only they can teach, the wisdom only they know.
The response back is even shorter, a scrap of paper carried in the claws of a hawk that simply will not leave you alone until you give it some of your tea:
Be ready.
Who Comes:
She comes with the beating of wings, the crashing of the air and the shattering of the winds. She comes with a great screech as the Winds of Magic are stirred and twirled and shaken and ignited by her presence, the presence of one of the truly greats. A harbinger of mysticism, a harbinger of magic, a bringer of sorcery. Not merely an Archmage, but the Court Mage of Nagarythe itself, and one who fights Morathi with all the vigor and all the efforts and all the energy that implies.
Ythil, mounted upon her Great Eagle, Arhakeldri. More silent than any other, more deadly, and more vicious: she remembers, when all others forget, and so does her rider. Rather than the, relatively, more subtle formal wear she bore to the White Tower the first time you met her now she wears something much more eye catching: you cannot decide whether it is all white with black marks or all black with white marks, and perhaps that is the point for she feeds on Hysh and Ulgu alike. Made of a material you have no name for, one you are not sure you have ever seen before, it is a broad shouldered robe, coming to twin points; it is embroidered with imagery of the ancient history of Nagarythe. A cloak, trimmed with raven's feathers, falls to the ground around her feet, shifting around her in the shadow. A circlet of white gold, studded with eight jewels for the eight Winds and the eight Cadai, rests upon her brow, gleaming in her midnight hair. A staff tipped with Lileath, favored of the Shadow Landers, is gripped in her right hand; in her left, a sword of midnight black ithilmar, its pommel carved to resemble dread Drakira, Goddess of Vengeance.
Pure vengeance. Not to be forgotten, nor forgiven. Everything they have done, remembered—
You force the magic away. You will face the Druchii when, and as, you must; but there is something…disquieting in hearing the voice of that particular goddess whispering in your ears.
"Vardanis." She nods even as you bow. Your own clothes are less sumptuous, being merely a billowing cloak of blue over a fine amber robe, but they will suffice. "I would have thought you would have summoned one of us earlier."
"I was preoccupied. There were incidents."
"Druchii infiltrators? I heard. I commend it, even if others will not. I would have come to help myself, but it was requested I not. Elliriad hardly needs more support for his cause, I suppose." She shakes her head. "But in any case, let us not dally. Have you prepared what I asked?"
"They are ready, good Archmage. We may both have plenty of time but that's hardly an excuse to waste it." (Well that and you asked Tethia for a certain portion, but details).
"Excellent. We shall begin at midnight tonight."
The world is dark and cold. Snow falls, shadows snake around you, and the woods that surround the clearing constantly shuffle. The circle you have drawn in chalk is ready, the snow forced away by copious applications of Shyish mixed with Aqshy: bringing the snowflakes to their inevitable end, melting and flowing away. Aqshy and Chamon, meanwhile, have dried the ground so that rather than the muddy, snowy mix that covers most of the earth it is a solid, if still freezing chunk. At two opposite points, staring each other down like opposing generals, a statue of Hoeth and a statue of Hekarti.
Finally you place the last mark.
Finally the ritual, the lesson, can begin.
"Strip," Ythil says in her voice like an eagle's and without complaint you take off your outermost layer, your robe and cloak, leaving you in just your trousers in the whistling cold. Immediately you feel a cold settle on you, but you do not draw on Ashy to force it off, not yet. Instead you grab your newest walking stick and a carving knife and bring the steel to the wood and start to slice, carving into the layers of deadened tree with each move.
"Hoeth, who deals in mysteries." Ulgu pours from it in the shape of mist as you feed it a simple spell, a light thing of Ulgu and puissance that makes its shape warp and shift to the eye. "Let me understand your mysteries."
"Hekarti, who sings the song." Hysh, a simple, lilting cantrip that makes a song-that-is-not pour from the thing like incense from a burner, a melodic, monotone song, one in harmony. "Sing through me."
"Hoeth, who knows all ends." Shyish pours from its eyes, radiant and brilliant amethyst that dances as motes, the ice melting even more quickly. "Make mine a good one."
"Hekarti, mistress of Alchemy." Chamon goldens the statue's nature, makes it shine bright and hard as stone, reflecting in the moonlight. "Make my potions healing and tinctures hardening."
"Hoeth, Eagle-Lord." Ghur and an amber sheen fills the statue's sword, even as the eyes seem to grow more feral in spite of not changing an iota. "Let me fight like your herald."
"Hekarti, Screaming Storm." You force Azyr into the statue, and electricity arcs up and down its serpent-headed staff, striking the mud and the dirt. "Let me fall upon my foes like lightning."
"Hekarti Torrential." Ghyran flows from the statue like a river, and so the snow below becomes a puddle, thick with the emerald Wind. "May the Winds obey me as they have obeyed you."
"Hoeth, bearer of the wise passion." The statue burns with fire and warmth and life and you burn with the desire to push every boundary, to journey ever onward, constantly and unceasingly finding, seeking that which you do not know. "Bear your flame upon my spirit."
The eight Winds called, the eight Winds bound, the eight Winds servile. Forced into the statues of the twin gods of magic, they burn bright with mystic puissance. But the Winds do not touch, do not interact, do not dance.
And that, that is what this is about, is it not?
So you turn your walking stick around, twisting it, and begin carving in the opposite direction and drawing on the magic, even as you begin to weave the magic together. You are not some bumbling Haclad Runesmith, beating the magic with your hammer until it obeys you because it is so beaten into submission. You are not a Sorceress, forcing all magic together, stripping it of life and light and hope for the sake of immediate power.
You are a mage, a wise one, and so it is with wisdom you work as you shift the knife and the walking stick, watched by Ythil here to ensure that no Dhar can attack you.
"Hoeth, who brings wisdom." There is a wordless, calming, invigorating chant through the air as you bind Hysh into the statue around the Ulgu, the air around it seeming clearer and brighter and more as light pours from it, shafts through the fog. The mist shakes before the volume of the chant. "Enlighten me."
"Hekarti the Shifting," you say, and not merely mist but a fog thick as silk falls around the statue as you feed it the Ulgu, shifting and hiding and moving, one moment to the next, and yet the statue remains the same, a bright spark of Hysh. "Guard me from those who would seek to know me for evil."
"Hoeth the Refined," you say as you weave together Chamon and Shyish. Gold joins Amethyst as arcane runes inscribe themselves on the statue. "Let me withstand those evils. Let me know what ends come for me, and prepare myself for them. Let me endure."
"Hekarti the Slayer," you say as purple light screams out of Tethia's statue, from the serpent head of her staff and from her eyes, shifting in the fog, "allow me to do your grim work."
"Hoeth, star watcher," you say even as you grab the Azyr. Sweat falls down your forehead at this point as you try to maintain the coherence of the Wind, binding together both Ghur and Azyr. Unbidden, images of the movements you saw from Asuryan's view after your journey with the lightning fill your mind, the shifting of the phoenixes on the black silk of the sky, and with nothing better to do you try and follow. And it works, it more than works. It is a work of art, a plan come to fruition, wisdom put to use. "Let me look above myself, to higher, brighter ends than mere survival."
"Hekarti, mistress of Hydras." You force the Ghur into the statue and wrangle it together with the Azyr. With greatest prowess and ability you do it, your first and favored Wind more easily understood and so controlled, weaving together like rope and making the six arms on the statue burn. "Let me fight as savagely as your beasts."
"Hoeth who stills anxiety," you say and let the magic flow from you to the statue, shrouding the mist that surrounds it in a healthy, green glow, "let me know calm."
"Hekarti of the great inferno." There is silence for a moment. A then a mountain of fire erupts from under the statue of Hekarti, rising higher and higher before with not more than a twitch of your knife you force it under control. "Let me rage and burn as brightly as you."
Two statues, all eight Winds in both. They burn and throb and rage and shake as with all the focus you can muster you keep them from failing, falling, striking at you or falling apart into Dhar.
"Excellent." Ythil speaks, breaking the silence. "You've done it right once. Now you just need to keep doing it, until you never do it wrong."
And so again and again you did it. The statues changed. The order changed. But what did not change, was what was right. So once, ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times, more, you did it and you did it until you lost count, until all that was was you and the magic and effort. Until you forgot how to make mistakes, until you could bind together the two opposing Winds and not simply into an exercise, but into something real. For you are Asur, and you are excellence.
Until finally one day, she sits you down again, and has you focus on your walking stick. The chunk of ash has been carved with the runes of magic again and again and again, but that is not enough; it could never be enough. As you sit, cross legged and half-naked, in the snow choked forest, gripping it upright, you must draw on all of the skill you possess, weaving the magic apart and then pulling it together as it softly hums and throbs with power. Ulgu and Hyish circle each other like duelists. Aqshy and Ghyran swim in the mystic waters, and cast you about. Azyr and Ghur fly on the skies like great phoenixes. Shyish and Chamon rot and strength all together.
Then all at once, it happens.
Your walking stick does not break. It evaporates, turning into ash and dust in a thousand-thousand scintillating colors, ash falling apart as the mystic energy flows within, too hot and too bright and too fierce. Like you forced the sun into the simple, unvarnished, unwrought wood.
But. The spell remains, the magic remains. That puissance of magic, it remains. You force it so, keep it so, make it so.
And so you force away the Ghyran and the Aqshy, the Shyish and the Chamon, the Ulgu and the Hyish, until you are left with nothing, nothing, nothing but the woven together strands of Ghur and Azyr. You let it fall into you, and feel it course through your veins as you become aware of the world around you, more than aware, as you feel the wind brush through you and it has been perturbed by an eagle hidden in the trees, hear the sweat fall from your body, smell the blood of prey on the horizon, and know exactly how it all came to pass as your senses are sharpened in the now and in the coming, in the future, the perfect survivor, the purest animal.
"Very nice," Ythil says, and you almost flinch for how sensitive your ears are now, how deep your hearing. You discast the spell slowly, gingerly, and let it fall away into nothingness. Sweaty and tired but proud.
Qhyash. Truest Qhyash.
"I am able," you whisper to yourself, letting the knowledge that you have done something exceedingly few creatures in all of creation can, joined a rarefied and noble and exquisite group indeed. Few know how to cast High Magic, even among your kind; they certainly do not call it that because it is an easy thing to master, that much is certain.
Impressed: 99+5=104
"Very well done, Vardanis. You're hardly the only one to ever perform this," she says as you feel your ego pop, "but you are one of few who is still cognizant after the first time." She pulls a small, blank scroll from somewhere, possibly out of her sleeve, and hands it over to you. "Here. Exercises for continuing your training. Be careful with them; but do not run from them, nor from any of the other challenges in your way. Whether they be mystical or," she looks over your shoulder as you hear footsteps from somewhere, "personal." She gets up. "Thank you for your hospitality, both of you. I will be back when he has decided to put more effort into learning the True Art."
And with that she disappears, back to her eagle. Leaving you alone with your sister. "What's on the scroll?"
You open it, only to see scrawling, shifting flowing text; and that is not simply a metaphor or a figure of speech in this case. The ink is literally moving on the vellum, though you catch snatches of something about a mystical lock. "A test."
"Yet another one?"
"Everything is a test, Fhiron. The only question is whether we meet them or not."
"Mages." She rolls her eyes pulls something from over her arm, a white square of wool. "Here." She tosses a robe to you and you quickly hastily wrap it around yourself—it's cold, and you still feel vaguely sore from the magic you were just tossing around so there will be no Aqshy warming for the time being.
"Thank you."
"What was it like?" Wordlessly you bind both Azyr and Ghur into a reflection of the same simple spell, letting them flow together and brighten your instincts once again. Scintillating, brilliant blue energy the shade of sapphires and a brown like rich and thick amber flow around and from you in your mundane sight, never mind through your sixth sense, before you let it flow away. "Asuryan's flame…"
"What was it like?" Unbidden curiosity, emboldened by your newly reified grasp of magic, flows from you; but it is not unwelcome.
"What was what like?"
"The March."
She leans back, and sits down next to you.
"Planning on joining it then?"
"Possibly, but unlikely. But I have considered creating armaments for it."
"Hm." She closes her eyes and thinks. "You will never be as disgusted and as bewildered and as impressed by the world around you as when you journey out beyond Ulthuan and see what the world truly has in store." She turns as though remembering something. "Tell me, are you aware of the Empire? A small kingdom, within Elthin Arvan, founded on the bones of what was once our land by humans?"
"I have heard rumors, but they have scarcely greatly occupied my thoughts."
"Right. We were journeying for the Waystone in Tor Lecvrais, near the lands of the exiles, when we came upon a band of them facing the corrupted. I saw one of their Sensevir unleash unleash a shout so thick it burst the foemen's eardrums, a savage clad only in furs and armed with just an ax made of raw horn." She smiles slightly. "He never even realized what we were as we entered the clearing ourselves, arrows and spears flashing. None of them did. Thought we were Eonir, or Asrai, I think." Her smile fades as memory continues before her, less pleasant this time. "And then he tried to kill a twelve year old, because she had the touch of magic on her." Her breath catches in her throat. "One of the mages managed to weave Ulgu to convince the barbarian he'd already done it, but…I don't think he was alone in such evils, and I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't. And that was hardly the only such wickedness I saw." She opens her eyes again and is suddenly looking back at you, and no longer so very far away as she was. "All because they've spent so damn long listening to whispered lies from mad little men about how magic is inherently evil and corruptive, and they're so damn busy paying heed to the bastards that they can't, or won't ask themselves whether their 'hard-won wisdom' is truth, or just something it feels good to believe." The smile she has borne throughout all your life is fully gone now as she looks at the ground. "We protect all the world, Vardanis. But that does not mean we love all of it. Can't mean we love all of it."
There is silence, but comfort for it and from it. You shape comforting Hysh and soothing Ghyran together, not so much a spell as the simplest expression of comforting light and soothing coolness, and gesture at her with them. She nods and so you allow it to flow over her, hoping to offer some aid to that particular scar, the two of you not speaking.
After you recover from your training, you turn yourself to a less strenuous form of advancement: Azyr. Your thoughts constantly turn to the skies now, and to that which lies within them: To the lightning, and to the stars, and to the birds, and especially, of course, to the sun. You have a grasp of the Elemental Wind, of the lightning and of star's fire and of the ice cold the blizzard; you have an understanding of Cardinal, of the raw and pure Wind, that which lies above.
And so now it behooves you to grasp the Mystical, the metaphor, the half-truth. In comparison to the earlier star gazing you engaged in your camp is much more luxurious, with a simple tent and a small, flickering flame for cooking; you have also made sure there are no lightning storms overhead. Asuryan, of course, can smite you from the heavens whether or not you time it so but, there is something to be said for not tempting fate.
And so you look at the stars. Not simply counting them, like some army's quartermaster seeking to know how many arrows he has, but truly looking at them. Watching them, seeing them dance like phoenixes in the great black blanket up above, the great easel of the world, the tapestry woven by Lileath and studded by Asuryan with the feathers of His heralds. Comets burn too, streaming through the night sky, perturbing that dance, and the planets that dance with them, and the moon (only the one, you are proud but trying to stare down the Hell Moon? No thank you). Birds fly, streaks of color through the blackness, much closer and forcing Ghur into the sky above, where it mingles with Azyr in a particularly potent combination of both colors, beautiful, lightning blue dancing with the amber browns in a symphony and a story, instinct and wisdom melded together to survive, to thrive, even in a world so cold.
Too you see…Aqshy and Hysh melding with the Azyr.
It is not simply the stars that control the dance. They are part of some greater woven thing, a strand in the string of fate, touched by many forces both greater and lesser than they are, all melding together to produce the movements of the heavens above you. All in balance by cosmic forces, all in balance by the will of Asuryan, all in balance by the will of the gods. The stars move the winds and the winds move the living and the living imbue the stars with what meaning they have, which allows them to move the winds. There is something, something before you, something you cannot see, something that lurks. You do not know it, but it is there.
It is there.
And you will find it.
Whisper and Rumor:
The Challenge: The Prince Elliriad of Avelorn has set out to acquire the Heartsword of Avelorn, an ancient artifact bound in magic to keep it from Vengril, a traitor and servant among the Druchii. A thing of awesome power, strong as the heart of the bearer, whoever wields it would be quite potent indeed: potent enough, even, to threaten the Druchii?
Results:
-High Magic 1/??? complete: May create spells combining two Winds, begin studying High Magic
-The Metaphor, the Mystic: 0/4->2/4
-Mastering the Beast Within New Totals:
--Flock of Doom, 0/4 AP
--Pann's Impenetrable Pelt, 0/6 AP
--The Amber Spear, 0/8 AP
--Curse of Anraheir, 0/8 AP
--Savage Beast of Horros, 0/8 AP
--Transformation of Kadon, 0/12 AP)
-Gained Scroll of Challenge from Ythil
[X] Plan Second Heaven
-[X] The Art of Two - 3 AP
-[X] The Metaphor, the Mystic - 2 AP
--[X]Azyr
-[X] The Art of Two - 3 AP
-[X] The Metaphor, the Mystic - 2 AP
--[X]Azyr
VIII 38, 1, 19
There's no running from it, no hiding from it, no fleeing from it. It cannot be denied.
If you are to succeed in your, many, ambitions, you require more raw skill at the art of weaving together magic, and some extra power wouldn't go awry either. Oh you understand plenty of it, and the lesser things of magic, the grimoires of the simplest of spells, flow from your hands with the same ease as water flows through air, and with considerably less mess. But if you are to unveil the truest mysteries of magic, if you are to finally enter the Temple and see what your god has planned for you, if, if, if, you need more refinement and more skill, more ability and more knowledge. It taunts you, seems to say right to your face "you are not able" and most damningly, right now you are not able.
And that is where the Archmages come in. Always a looser grouping than the Loremasters, unified by little except for one simple truth: they are surpassingly skilled at all forms of their chosen magic, and that magic is most often High Magic. The Hekartites rub shoulders with the Geomancers of Saphery speak with the Seneschals of Avelorn study with the Mist Mages of Cothique, refining their arts and their ability. As varied as the many hues that make up the Winds of Magic themselves, for all that, over the centuries, the White Tower has become the epitome of the Art. Many wield magic more toward practical or warring ends, rather than the pure artistry and love of knowledge that drives the Loremasters, though it would be a mistake to regard them as not scholarly—even the most blunt and straightforward, at the least, knows magic the same way you know your parents, and many attempt to advance the arts of their own, chosen tradition aside from any more immediate duties they feel to kingdom and kin and their own honor, near and dear to them. And of course, some are simply unwilling to serve Hoeth in the way a Loremaster requires for one reason or another but are otherwise attuned to the studious portions of magic.
The Loremasters' mysticism and invocation of Hoeth would also make you a mightier mage, of course, and advancing in service to the Bearer of the Sword would offer you great accolades and acclaim…
But it's not pure magic.
And that clenches it for you. You take up quill and vellum and scratch out a simple letter, only a dozen pages (truly, how lazy you have gotten in your dotage) and send it off to Saphery. To Ythil, for all it seems centuries since you spoke to her in spite of the fact that it has been only a scant few decades, requesting the training only the Archmages can provide. The lessons only they can teach, the wisdom only they know.
The response back is even shorter, a scrap of paper carried in the claws of a hawk that simply will not leave you alone until you give it some of your tea:
Be ready.
Who Comes:
- Archmage of the White Tower
- Archmage of the Hekartians
- Sapherian Geomancer
- Mist Mage of Cothique
- Seneschal of Avelorn
VIII 38, 1, 30
She comes with the beating of wings, the crashing of the air and the shattering of the winds. She comes with a great screech as the Winds of Magic are stirred and twirled and shaken and ignited by her presence, the presence of one of the truly greats. A harbinger of mysticism, a harbinger of magic, a bringer of sorcery. Not merely an Archmage, but the Court Mage of Nagarythe itself, and one who fights Morathi with all the vigor and all the efforts and all the energy that implies.
Ythil, mounted upon her Great Eagle, Arhakeldri. More silent than any other, more deadly, and more vicious: she remembers, when all others forget, and so does her rider. Rather than the, relatively, more subtle formal wear she bore to the White Tower the first time you met her now she wears something much more eye catching: you cannot decide whether it is all white with black marks or all black with white marks, and perhaps that is the point for she feeds on Hysh and Ulgu alike. Made of a material you have no name for, one you are not sure you have ever seen before, it is a broad shouldered robe, coming to twin points; it is embroidered with imagery of the ancient history of Nagarythe. A cloak, trimmed with raven's feathers, falls to the ground around her feet, shifting around her in the shadow. A circlet of white gold, studded with eight jewels for the eight Winds and the eight Cadai, rests upon her brow, gleaming in her midnight hair. A staff tipped with Lileath, favored of the Shadow Landers, is gripped in her right hand; in her left, a sword of midnight black ithilmar, its pommel carved to resemble dread Drakira, Goddess of Vengeance.
Pure vengeance. Not to be forgotten, nor forgiven. Everything they have done, remembered—
You force the magic away. You will face the Druchii when, and as, you must; but there is something…disquieting in hearing the voice of that particular goddess whispering in your ears.
"Vardanis." She nods even as you bow. Your own clothes are less sumptuous, being merely a billowing cloak of blue over a fine amber robe, but they will suffice. "I would have thought you would have summoned one of us earlier."
"I was preoccupied. There were incidents."
"Druchii infiltrators? I heard. I commend it, even if others will not. I would have come to help myself, but it was requested I not. Elliriad hardly needs more support for his cause, I suppose." She shakes her head. "But in any case, let us not dally. Have you prepared what I asked?"
"They are ready, good Archmage. We may both have plenty of time but that's hardly an excuse to waste it." (Well that and you asked Tethia for a certain portion, but details).
"Excellent. We shall begin at midnight tonight."
VIII 38, 1, 31
The world is dark and cold. Snow falls, shadows snake around you, and the woods that surround the clearing constantly shuffle. The circle you have drawn in chalk is ready, the snow forced away by copious applications of Shyish mixed with Aqshy: bringing the snowflakes to their inevitable end, melting and flowing away. Aqshy and Chamon, meanwhile, have dried the ground so that rather than the muddy, snowy mix that covers most of the earth it is a solid, if still freezing chunk. At two opposite points, staring each other down like opposing generals, a statue of Hoeth and a statue of Hekarti.
Finally you place the last mark.
Finally the ritual, the lesson, can begin.
"Strip," Ythil says in her voice like an eagle's and without complaint you take off your outermost layer, your robe and cloak, leaving you in just your trousers in the whistling cold. Immediately you feel a cold settle on you, but you do not draw on Ashy to force it off, not yet. Instead you grab your newest walking stick and a carving knife and bring the steel to the wood and start to slice, carving into the layers of deadened tree with each move.
"Hoeth, who deals in mysteries." Ulgu pours from it in the shape of mist as you feed it a simple spell, a light thing of Ulgu and puissance that makes its shape warp and shift to the eye. "Let me understand your mysteries."
"Hekarti, who sings the song." Hysh, a simple, lilting cantrip that makes a song-that-is-not pour from the thing like incense from a burner, a melodic, monotone song, one in harmony. "Sing through me."
"Hoeth, who knows all ends." Shyish pours from its eyes, radiant and brilliant amethyst that dances as motes, the ice melting even more quickly. "Make mine a good one."
"Hekarti, mistress of Alchemy." Chamon goldens the statue's nature, makes it shine bright and hard as stone, reflecting in the moonlight. "Make my potions healing and tinctures hardening."
"Hoeth, Eagle-Lord." Ghur and an amber sheen fills the statue's sword, even as the eyes seem to grow more feral in spite of not changing an iota. "Let me fight like your herald."
"Hekarti, Screaming Storm." You force Azyr into the statue, and electricity arcs up and down its serpent-headed staff, striking the mud and the dirt. "Let me fall upon my foes like lightning."
"Hekarti Torrential." Ghyran flows from the statue like a river, and so the snow below becomes a puddle, thick with the emerald Wind. "May the Winds obey me as they have obeyed you."
"Hoeth, bearer of the wise passion." The statue burns with fire and warmth and life and you burn with the desire to push every boundary, to journey ever onward, constantly and unceasingly finding, seeking that which you do not know. "Bear your flame upon my spirit."
The eight Winds called, the eight Winds bound, the eight Winds servile. Forced into the statues of the twin gods of magic, they burn bright with mystic puissance. But the Winds do not touch, do not interact, do not dance.
And that, that is what this is about, is it not?
So you turn your walking stick around, twisting it, and begin carving in the opposite direction and drawing on the magic, even as you begin to weave the magic together. You are not some bumbling Haclad Runesmith, beating the magic with your hammer until it obeys you because it is so beaten into submission. You are not a Sorceress, forcing all magic together, stripping it of life and light and hope for the sake of immediate power.
You are a mage, a wise one, and so it is with wisdom you work as you shift the knife and the walking stick, watched by Ythil here to ensure that no Dhar can attack you.
"Hoeth, who brings wisdom." There is a wordless, calming, invigorating chant through the air as you bind Hysh into the statue around the Ulgu, the air around it seeming clearer and brighter and more as light pours from it, shafts through the fog. The mist shakes before the volume of the chant. "Enlighten me."
"Hekarti the Shifting," you say, and not merely mist but a fog thick as silk falls around the statue as you feed it the Ulgu, shifting and hiding and moving, one moment to the next, and yet the statue remains the same, a bright spark of Hysh. "Guard me from those who would seek to know me for evil."
"Hoeth the Refined," you say as you weave together Chamon and Shyish. Gold joins Amethyst as arcane runes inscribe themselves on the statue. "Let me withstand those evils. Let me know what ends come for me, and prepare myself for them. Let me endure."
"Hekarti the Slayer," you say as purple light screams out of Tethia's statue, from the serpent head of her staff and from her eyes, shifting in the fog, "allow me to do your grim work."
"Hoeth, star watcher," you say even as you grab the Azyr. Sweat falls down your forehead at this point as you try to maintain the coherence of the Wind, binding together both Ghur and Azyr. Unbidden, images of the movements you saw from Asuryan's view after your journey with the lightning fill your mind, the shifting of the phoenixes on the black silk of the sky, and with nothing better to do you try and follow. And it works, it more than works. It is a work of art, a plan come to fruition, wisdom put to use. "Let me look above myself, to higher, brighter ends than mere survival."
"Hekarti, mistress of Hydras." You force the Ghur into the statue and wrangle it together with the Azyr. With greatest prowess and ability you do it, your first and favored Wind more easily understood and so controlled, weaving together like rope and making the six arms on the statue burn. "Let me fight as savagely as your beasts."
"Hoeth who stills anxiety," you say and let the magic flow from you to the statue, shrouding the mist that surrounds it in a healthy, green glow, "let me know calm."
"Hekarti of the great inferno." There is silence for a moment. A then a mountain of fire erupts from under the statue of Hekarti, rising higher and higher before with not more than a twitch of your knife you force it under control. "Let me rage and burn as brightly as you."
Two statues, all eight Winds in both. They burn and throb and rage and shake as with all the focus you can muster you keep them from failing, falling, striking at you or falling apart into Dhar.
"Excellent." Ythil speaks, breaking the silence. "You've done it right once. Now you just need to keep doing it, until you never do it wrong."
VIII 43, 1, 31
And so again and again you did it. The statues changed. The order changed. But what did not change, was what was right. So once, ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times, more, you did it and you did it until you lost count, until all that was was you and the magic and effort. Until you forgot how to make mistakes, until you could bind together the two opposing Winds and not simply into an exercise, but into something real. For you are Asur, and you are excellence.
Until finally one day, she sits you down again, and has you focus on your walking stick. The chunk of ash has been carved with the runes of magic again and again and again, but that is not enough; it could never be enough. As you sit, cross legged and half-naked, in the snow choked forest, gripping it upright, you must draw on all of the skill you possess, weaving the magic apart and then pulling it together as it softly hums and throbs with power. Ulgu and Hyish circle each other like duelists. Aqshy and Ghyran swim in the mystic waters, and cast you about. Azyr and Ghur fly on the skies like great phoenixes. Shyish and Chamon rot and strength all together.
Then all at once, it happens.
Your walking stick does not break. It evaporates, turning into ash and dust in a thousand-thousand scintillating colors, ash falling apart as the mystic energy flows within, too hot and too bright and too fierce. Like you forced the sun into the simple, unvarnished, unwrought wood.
But. The spell remains, the magic remains. That puissance of magic, it remains. You force it so, keep it so, make it so.
And so you force away the Ghyran and the Aqshy, the Shyish and the Chamon, the Ulgu and the Hyish, until you are left with nothing, nothing, nothing but the woven together strands of Ghur and Azyr. You let it fall into you, and feel it course through your veins as you become aware of the world around you, more than aware, as you feel the wind brush through you and it has been perturbed by an eagle hidden in the trees, hear the sweat fall from your body, smell the blood of prey on the horizon, and know exactly how it all came to pass as your senses are sharpened in the now and in the coming, in the future, the perfect survivor, the purest animal.
"Very nice," Ythil says, and you almost flinch for how sensitive your ears are now, how deep your hearing. You discast the spell slowly, gingerly, and let it fall away into nothingness. Sweaty and tired but proud.
Qhyash. Truest Qhyash.
"I am able," you whisper to yourself, letting the knowledge that you have done something exceedingly few creatures in all of creation can, joined a rarefied and noble and exquisite group indeed. Few know how to cast High Magic, even among your kind; they certainly do not call it that because it is an easy thing to master, that much is certain.
Impressed: 99+5=104
"Very well done, Vardanis. You're hardly the only one to ever perform this," she says as you feel your ego pop, "but you are one of few who is still cognizant after the first time." She pulls a small, blank scroll from somewhere, possibly out of her sleeve, and hands it over to you. "Here. Exercises for continuing your training. Be careful with them; but do not run from them, nor from any of the other challenges in your way. Whether they be mystical or," she looks over your shoulder as you hear footsteps from somewhere, "personal." She gets up. "Thank you for your hospitality, both of you. I will be back when he has decided to put more effort into learning the True Art."
And with that she disappears, back to her eagle. Leaving you alone with your sister. "What's on the scroll?"
You open it, only to see scrawling, shifting flowing text; and that is not simply a metaphor or a figure of speech in this case. The ink is literally moving on the vellum, though you catch snatches of something about a mystical lock. "A test."
"Yet another one?"
"Everything is a test, Fhiron. The only question is whether we meet them or not."
"Mages." She rolls her eyes pulls something from over her arm, a white square of wool. "Here." She tosses a robe to you and you quickly hastily wrap it around yourself—it's cold, and you still feel vaguely sore from the magic you were just tossing around so there will be no Aqshy warming for the time being.
"Thank you."
"What was it like?" Wordlessly you bind both Azyr and Ghur into a reflection of the same simple spell, letting them flow together and brighten your instincts once again. Scintillating, brilliant blue energy the shade of sapphires and a brown like rich and thick amber flow around and from you in your mundane sight, never mind through your sixth sense, before you let it flow away. "Asuryan's flame…"
"What was it like?" Unbidden curiosity, emboldened by your newly reified grasp of magic, flows from you; but it is not unwelcome.
"What was what like?"
"The March."
She leans back, and sits down next to you.
"Planning on joining it then?"
"Possibly, but unlikely. But I have considered creating armaments for it."
"Hm." She closes her eyes and thinks. "You will never be as disgusted and as bewildered and as impressed by the world around you as when you journey out beyond Ulthuan and see what the world truly has in store." She turns as though remembering something. "Tell me, are you aware of the Empire? A small kingdom, within Elthin Arvan, founded on the bones of what was once our land by humans?"
"I have heard rumors, but they have scarcely greatly occupied my thoughts."
"Right. We were journeying for the Waystone in Tor Lecvrais, near the lands of the exiles, when we came upon a band of them facing the corrupted. I saw one of their Sensevir unleash unleash a shout so thick it burst the foemen's eardrums, a savage clad only in furs and armed with just an ax made of raw horn." She smiles slightly. "He never even realized what we were as we entered the clearing ourselves, arrows and spears flashing. None of them did. Thought we were Eonir, or Asrai, I think." Her smile fades as memory continues before her, less pleasant this time. "And then he tried to kill a twelve year old, because she had the touch of magic on her." Her breath catches in her throat. "One of the mages managed to weave Ulgu to convince the barbarian he'd already done it, but…I don't think he was alone in such evils, and I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't. And that was hardly the only such wickedness I saw." She opens her eyes again and is suddenly looking back at you, and no longer so very far away as she was. "All because they've spent so damn long listening to whispered lies from mad little men about how magic is inherently evil and corruptive, and they're so damn busy paying heed to the bastards that they can't, or won't ask themselves whether their 'hard-won wisdom' is truth, or just something it feels good to believe." The smile she has borne throughout all your life is fully gone now as she looks at the ground. "We protect all the world, Vardanis. But that does not mean we love all of it. Can't mean we love all of it."
There is silence, but comfort for it and from it. You shape comforting Hysh and soothing Ghyran together, not so much a spell as the simplest expression of comforting light and soothing coolness, and gesture at her with them. She nods and so you allow it to flow over her, hoping to offer some aid to that particular scar, the two of you not speaking.
VIII 45, 4, 17
After you recover from your training, you turn yourself to a less strenuous form of advancement: Azyr. Your thoughts constantly turn to the skies now, and to that which lies within them: To the lightning, and to the stars, and to the birds, and especially, of course, to the sun. You have a grasp of the Elemental Wind, of the lightning and of star's fire and of the ice cold the blizzard; you have an understanding of Cardinal, of the raw and pure Wind, that which lies above.
And so now it behooves you to grasp the Mystical, the metaphor, the half-truth. In comparison to the earlier star gazing you engaged in your camp is much more luxurious, with a simple tent and a small, flickering flame for cooking; you have also made sure there are no lightning storms overhead. Asuryan, of course, can smite you from the heavens whether or not you time it so but, there is something to be said for not tempting fate.
And so you look at the stars. Not simply counting them, like some army's quartermaster seeking to know how many arrows he has, but truly looking at them. Watching them, seeing them dance like phoenixes in the great black blanket up above, the great easel of the world, the tapestry woven by Lileath and studded by Asuryan with the feathers of His heralds. Comets burn too, streaming through the night sky, perturbing that dance, and the planets that dance with them, and the moon (only the one, you are proud but trying to stare down the Hell Moon? No thank you). Birds fly, streaks of color through the blackness, much closer and forcing Ghur into the sky above, where it mingles with Azyr in a particularly potent combination of both colors, beautiful, lightning blue dancing with the amber browns in a symphony and a story, instinct and wisdom melded together to survive, to thrive, even in a world so cold.
Too you see…Aqshy and Hysh melding with the Azyr.
It is not simply the stars that control the dance. They are part of some greater woven thing, a strand in the string of fate, touched by many forces both greater and lesser than they are, all melding together to produce the movements of the heavens above you. All in balance by cosmic forces, all in balance by the will of Asuryan, all in balance by the will of the gods. The stars move the winds and the winds move the living and the living imbue the stars with what meaning they have, which allows them to move the winds. There is something, something before you, something you cannot see, something that lurks. You do not know it, but it is there.
It is there.
And you will find it.
Whisper and Rumor:
The Challenge: The Prince Elliriad of Avelorn has set out to acquire the Heartsword of Avelorn, an ancient artifact bound in magic to keep it from Vengril, a traitor and servant among the Druchii. A thing of awesome power, strong as the heart of the bearer, whoever wields it would be quite potent indeed: potent enough, even, to threaten the Druchii?
Results:
-High Magic 1/??? complete: May create spells combining two Winds, begin studying High Magic
-The Metaphor, the Mystic: 0/4->2/4
-Mastering the Beast Within New Totals:
--Flock of Doom, 0/4 AP
--Pann's Impenetrable Pelt, 0/6 AP
--The Amber Spear, 0/8 AP
--Curse of Anraheir, 0/8 AP
--Savage Beast of Horros, 0/8 AP
--Transformation of Kadon, 0/12 AP)
-Gained Scroll of Challenge from Ythil
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- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That was some really good imagery right there. The Winds being manipulated like that seemed seriously cool.
And it would be interesting to check out just how much effort we need to put in to complete the Test from our teacher. She sounds like a seriously impressive character, and I am really glad we managed to impress her so well. 99 is good, dammit!
Truly glad the cost of spells came down. I'd say we should do another step up the ladder before we try to learn the spells. Best for our AP economy, at the very least.
Now the only thing left is to see how many locked projects got unlocked for the next turn. Hopefully the Temple, at least, did.
And it would be interesting to check out just how much effort we need to put in to complete the Test from our teacher. She sounds like a seriously impressive character, and I am really glad we managed to impress her so well. 99 is good, dammit!
Truly glad the cost of spells came down. I'd say we should do another step up the ladder before we try to learn the spells. Best for our AP economy, at the very least.
Now the only thing left is to see how many locked projects got unlocked for the next turn. Hopefully the Temple, at least, did.
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- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Prolly a list of spells, if not now, then at some point further down the line. Would also allow for enchantments with two winds involved when crafting, too.
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- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
Thats a good one
To be fair it's pretty easy to say that as an elf that has millennia of magical tradition and an inherent resistance to mutation and madness to fall back on. The right thing to do here is not to tut-tut at those terrible humans it's to actually go there and teach them a better way of handling it.
- Location
- United Kingdom
I'm actually coming around to the idea of not going down the Loremaster tree at all, and just sticking with Archmage.
Originally I wasn't sure which path we should go, so I figured it was best to try both until we were more sure of which to commit to, but this update definitely made Archmage seem cool.
Of course Art of the Blade might do the same for Loremaster, we'll just have to wait and see what options we have next turn.
And that was a good look into both our sister and the Long March itself. If we get the opportunity it's definitely something Vardanis should join, if only as a way to experience the wider world outside Ulthuan.
Originally I wasn't sure which path we should go, so I figured it was best to try both until we were more sure of which to commit to, but this update definitely made Archmage seem cool.
Of course Art of the Blade might do the same for Loremaster, we'll just have to wait and see what options we have next turn.
And that was a good look into both our sister and the Long March itself. If we get the opportunity it's definitely something Vardanis should join, if only as a way to experience the wider world outside Ulthuan.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I think we'll never regret, being a master swordsman. I also probably want to go archmage long term, but there's no reason not to do Art of the Blade and shore up our melee combat first. We may well not want to go any further into Loremaster than that, but neglecting that option seems like a huge missed opportunity.
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I'd say not selecting Loremaster absolutely doesn't mean we can't learn the Art of Blade at least. As we discussed at thestart of the quest, going as deep as possible into both trees is our best idea, before inevitably focusing on Archmage career path.
That roll for High Magic was crazy and Vardanis did really well, the benefits of making Improving the Beat Within and impressing Ythil is great. The descriptions of the magic is great as always but it really sold home the High Magic is something different from regular magic.
Vardanis's descriptions of how Azyr and Ghur mix together is really beautiful and the comment about instinct and wisdom being necessary to thrive was really cool. It also makes my idea for the Azyr-Ghur precognition-instinct enhancement that much better.
The talk with his sister about the March was really sad, Warhammer is a death/hell world for all that the elves have it real good right now.
I'm really interested in delving more into High Magic and doing the challenge. I think Vardanis focusing more on the Archmage path is good from both a mechanic and character perspective.
Vardanis's descriptions of how Azyr and Ghur mix together is really beautiful and the comment about instinct and wisdom being necessary to thrive was really cool. It also makes my idea for the Azyr-Ghur precognition-instinct enhancement that much better.
The talk with his sister about the March was really sad, Warhammer is a death/hell world for all that the elves have it real good right now.
I'm really interested in delving more into High Magic and doing the challenge. I think Vardanis focusing more on the Archmage path is good from both a mechanic and character perspective.
Hmm, so time to start coming up with Beast/Heavens spells?
Some ideas for combination spells:
Murderous Omen
This spell combines Fate of Doom with Flock of Doom to conjure a cloud of crows that not only peck and claw, but also carry with them a curse of ill luck.
Form of Living Lightning
This spell combines Transformation of Khadon with Lightning Storm to transform the caster into a living lightning elemental.
Thunderous Spear
This spell combines Amber Spear and Chain Lightning into a barrage of lightning in the shape of spears that pierce and electrocute the caster's foes.
(Sorry for double-posting, didn't think anyone would mind in this case).
Murderous Omen
This spell combines Fate of Doom with Flock of Doom to conjure a cloud of crows that not only peck and claw, but also carry with them a curse of ill luck.
Form of Living Lightning
This spell combines Transformation of Khadon with Lightning Storm to transform the caster into a living lightning elemental.
Thunderous Spear
This spell combines Amber Spear and Chain Lightning into a barrage of lightning in the shape of spears that pierce and electrocute the caster's foes.
(Sorry for double-posting, didn't think anyone would mind in this case).
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Quickening
Combines Law of Ages with Steal Life. Target disintegrates.
Wings of the Heavenly Falcon
Combines Wings of the Falcon with the Wings of Heavens. The caster sprouts wings and is born aloft by the winds. Gives incredible agility while airborne, and supports flight for nearly an hour.
Combines Law of Ages with Steal Life. Target disintegrates.
Wings of the Heavenly Falcon
Combines Wings of the Falcon with the Wings of Heavens. The caster sprouts wings and is born aloft by the winds. Gives incredible agility while airborne, and supports flight for nearly an hour.
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QuietlyObserving
The Railgun That Walks Like a Bear
- Location
- Here.
Hmm...could we combine the "divine the future" capacity of Azyr with "unconscious instincts" of Ghur to create something like Spidey sense reflexes/combat precognition?
"In anticipation of the future and guided by the instincts of the past, I dance on the blade of Now."
"In anticipation of the future and guided by the instincts of the past, I dance on the blade of Now."
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Well, Qhaysh is not just blending of spells, but blending of the Winds as well, so definitely something that is possible.
Already came up with an enhancement idea for a spell like that.
Ythil is a very potent Archmage and is the Court Mage of Nagarythe, she also carries symbols of the Goddess of Vengeance on her. Combine that with her comments about our work with the infiltrators, she obviously really wants to fight the Druchii.
I think Ythil is trying to get a powerful Archmage who is dedicated to fighting the Druchii. Vardanis is a notably talented Mage with a lot of potential and has connection to Asuryan which is very important. He's a very good candidate for a Court Mage who would want to fight the Druchii when you also combine his skills and merits and his love interest.
- Location
- Australia
I want to become an Archmage certainly, but I'd also like to learn as much of the Loremaster skills as we can before we make the decisive choice. I also think we should focus on our foundational mage skills rather than learning specific spells, because its obvious (from this update) that increasing our skills as a mage decreased the time to learn new spells.
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