To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Location
- Dethklok
you're right, I forgot about that
[X] Plan: The Blade of Beasts
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] Your brother and sister apparently want to talk to you about an important, if by no means urgent, affair
- Location
- Australia
[X] Plan: The Blade of Beasts
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] Your brother and sister apparently want to talk to you about an important, if by no means urgent, affair
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] Your brother and sister apparently want to talk to you about an important, if by no means urgent, affair
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- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It would be extremely interesting to see what exactly the Book of Blackfang would give us, tbh.
- Location
- Hyperborea
[X] Plan: The Blade of Beasts
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
I could go either way with social, but it would be fun to have a scene of Tethia seeing the fruits of our forging or having a spar against us as we approach mastery with the sword.
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
I could go either way with social, but it would be fun to have a scene of Tethia seeing the fruits of our forging or having a spar against us as we approach mastery with the sword.
It might not matter this time since it does have overflow, but shouldn't The Book of Blackfang also trigger Beastly Mind as well?
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- Location
- A Pit Of My Own Making
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Plan: The Blade of Beasts
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Seems like Tethia is gonna win, again!
Had an idea for peace in Chrace, btw... Try to romance the Champion of Kurnous, too, and set up a ménage a trois so that everyone lives happily everafter.
Had an idea for peace in Chrace, btw... Try to romance the Champion of Kurnous, too, and set up a ménage a trois so that everyone lives happily everafter.
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- Pronouns
- sapper
[X] Plan: The Blade of Beasts
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] Your brother and sister apparently want to talk to you about an important, if by no means urgent, affair
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] Your brother and sister apparently want to talk to you about an important, if by no means urgent, affair
in suspicious voice: sounds like something a Druchi member of the cult of pleasure would propose...
Last edited:
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Like I am honestly not sure if Elves dislike polygamy or what...
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
@Voikirium when are you calling the vote?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I had intended to yesterday but then I forgot. So today, probably around
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Enjoy your weekend!
And I think someone asked about it earlier too, since Book of Blackfang deals with Beast Care, why does it not trigger Beastly Mind as well? Or are we misreading the description for it?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It should, my brain is just smooth like glass. I think I thought I did fix it at some point, but didn't. Going to edit that now.
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
So now Book of Blackfang goes 5/4 for 3 AP. Be interested to see where the overflow goes.
Turn 7 Results
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn 7 Results
You call up the Winds. You draw bright and shining Aqshy, as fierce and bright as the sun, and weave that magic like rope and cord, taut and strong and thick. The magic flares into life, and you unleash the bolt of fire like the very breath of Asuryan. It flies freely, like the phoenix, and strikes the Manticore.
It does nothing.
Enraged by your attack it turns, and opens its venomous maw, and white—
You rise up in your bed, soaked in sweat. It is not a nightmare. It is not. It is Ghur, wounded and insulted and reminded. Reminded how close you came to disaster, how near you were to death. Like the great lion, it prowls, insulted that one has insulted the leader of the pride. The hare jitters, well aware of how close you came as well and with prey's instinct too, too, too aware of how near run a thing it was. If the manticore had decided, rather than the Phoenix, to kill you for the insult, there is astoundingly little you could have done. Wyssan's Wildform, perhaps, but there was not enough magic there for you to trust or rely on it, never mind wield it.
You need a weapon. But too you must learn to wield it.
There is one you may write who will teach you. Not a Loremaster, no. But one who wields the blade as finely, one who battles as truly, one who is as skillful.
Methelian. You must speak to Methelian. He will instruct you. How hard can it be?
"No, no," Strong and soft hands wrap around your wrists, guiding them into exactly the right place. You can feel his heartbeat shifting the very air around him, minutely but plainly for your Ghur enhanced senses. The same way you can catch the surprisingly clean smell of incense and paper, enough to make you nostalgic for the White Tower. He has stripped down to his bare chest and in spite of the exertion he has been putting into it is barely breathing hard. His hair, rather than being plastered by the sweat, only glows for it, falling as it does past the small of his back in long, leonine braids that speak to a warrior's courage. And, of course, he is right behind you, and near you, and warm.
You are not much worse off than he is in terms of stamina, to be honest. Whatever you lack in refinement, you make up for in the Bestial Wind. You are no madman to intentionally castrate yourself magically and gain an Arcane Mark, but one cannot bathe in the Wind without a measure of it remaining inside your very soul. Rather than reside in the library reading tomes, you have climbed trees to speak with the birds. You have wrestled with deer to learn their haste. You have swam with the whales in the sea to speak their tongue. Such an active life has left its mark, and combined with your naturally large build and muscular frame, you are an athletic figure indeed, if built more for speed than raw power.
But it does exceedingly little for you as you go through this…awkward…training, and it does not help that you are shirtless too, curse Ladroi. He moves your hands and with them you move the blade, traveling through kata after kata after kata. The training sword, a simple thing of steel and wood if lightly constructed, flows through the air under…your hands? But no, now is not the time for questions. Now is the time to succeed, for you are Vardanis and there is no task that is beyond you.
You spin, so quick that none could take the advantage but many would take the bait. In the brief seconds between the imaginary foe blocking that spinning cut you disengage in a moment briefer than the fall of a drop of rain in a storm you then follow through with an overhead slice that would flow through his shoulder like a rack of lamb. As that foe is disarmed you immediately catch the next imaginary cut on your hilt, grip the haft of the imaginary spear and then in the second that the Druchii in your mind has to contemplate, you cut through his weapon and wrists alike, sending him to the ground, disarmed. A stab to the last, imaginary foe in this moment, stopping the Executioner's draich with, letting him slide his down your sword so you know where it is, and the moment you have the greater reach, backhand him. In the brief moment before he can get back up your slam the sword through his armor and the dirt and him, and leave it there.
"Excellent," Methelian says. "You have grasped it quickly, as I hoped."
"You left me behind?"
"I wanted to see what ability you had," he says apologetically, "and you did not disappoint. Now we only see if we can instruct you in the ten-thousand other katas."
You groan and roll your eyes and grab your sword and prepare yourself once again.
When you are not learning from Methelian, you study the Book of Blackfang. The small, leather-bound text reeks of ancient power and Ghur, and is altogether wrapped in it. Old, old and powerful, and yours is perhaps the only copy the true Heirs of Aenarion still have; not, that is to say, that others have not copied the information, have not even passed along the knowledge within the text, but magic itself has seeped into the velum and ink of this book, and that is not easily replicated.
If you are reading this, I am dead.
But the family endures.
So it begins, the great text of your family's roots.
And so I shall teach you my secrets. The secret of beast and wild, hunter and hunted, prey and predator.
The first secret? The lion. The truest hunter. The most capable of beasts.
The Asun and Onai flow together like river and ocean, branching apart and coming together with a smooth, artistic grace. Shining, shimmering, splendid.
Steel swims through air, and your blades touch, sending sparks flying. You stare into Methelian's eyes, amber layered onto a backing of the most well-quarried marble. Your swords slide together for a brief moment, and then you disengage, bring your own, blunted blade around to slam into him. In spite of the thick training armor he wears, he manages to dodge, only letting the hard steel get scratched, before his foot lashes out and strikes you to the ground.
You cough and wheeze from the dusty earth, hearing the grass rustle from the breeze your soaring carcass unleashed.
You plant your arm on the ground, only for him to step down on you. "Yield."
Many now living claim that to raise the White Lions, one must wield the ancient scrolls of binding and loyalty to lead them, and to become master of the pack. It is not so, but I blame no man for seeking such surety in this matter. For their part the beasts are fine companions, only a little more rambunctious than children and demanding far less gold. If you would raise the beast without such methods, you must find a cub for any real hope of success. Allow Kurnous to guide you, and you will find them. Burn the branches of Raema Lock, and He will smile upon you.
Workmanlike, if still with a craftsmanship, and a care, forced into each and every rune, scratched with the hardened bronze of the quill.
Oh the familiar places. On your back, breathing heavy, as your tutor advances towards you. He plants his foot on you, though he breathes heavily at least this time.
The purest hunter, and our kin. For as surely as we are born of Kurnous and Isha, father and mother, hunter and farmer, does He not raise them? Did not Kurnous adopt Rahagra as His own blood brother? Is he not the father of beasts? All bound together we are, Elf and Lion, Lion and Elf. Their rage is our rage, and our hate is their hate. Understand that, understand them, and there is no battle you will win together, no foe you cannot face.
Plain. Unadorned. Unlovely and unbeautiful.
An all too familiar position. On your back, grass caressing you, bloody and breathing hard. You have spent everything, burned everything, given everything you have for victory and yet Methelian still advances towards you. Methelian still claims victory. Methelian still is your superior.
In this.
Not in everything.
For too long you have been playing by his rules. Little magic except that which is elven. Little mysticism. Little everything.
But you are not he. You are a wizard, a student of the White Tower and Servant of the Eternal Flame.
Aqshy roars, but you do not need it.
Azyr thunders, but you will not use it.
Ghyran soothes, Ulgu lies, Chamon refines, Hysh hopes, Shyish prepares.
But Ghur? Ghur fights.
Your muscles expand and harden and you roar like a lion as you do not so much cast a spell as simply let it flow through you, Ghur making you more like itself for a time, and then a moment later you are flinging Methelian like a doll, light and grabbed by the wind. He spins in the air and manages to land on his feet. His eyes widen with delight.
"Finally."
And then he lunges at you.
And yet now heed me, ye who would read this tome. One might do worse in their life than in emulating the loyalty of a lion.
Jagged, if not quite ugly yet. Tinted red and black and many other colors. Anatomical diagrams not unlike those you produced in the white tower, though where yours were all of things generally smaller than you your forebear's are of the lion's. Notes are laden everywhere around it, scribbled understanding, descriptions of behavior. Even as his life degraded as his kinsmen fell further and further into the depravity of the Druchii, Thinat's work only grew greater. More detailed, more understandable.
His handwriting, however, has grown fully jagged and ugly.
"So much effort to understand the art," you say, watching as your tutor flows through the estate's courtyard, clad in his armor and wielding the sword you made for him as a delicately as another dancer. His armor is forged of Ithilmar, that you can tell simply by examining it. The cuirasse, sculpted around his form, is night blue trimmed with moon white, as are the solid greaves and gauntlets. The scale that flows to his elbows and knees, on the other hand, is all pure moon white, except for where it has been filigreed with the brightest of gold. His helm is crafted of purest night blue, but the trim around the open face and a golden crescent moon gripped by a pure white hand, Lileath's own.
"There is much to be said for focus," Methelian says from the courtyard even as he whirls to gut an imaginary opponent, only just slow enough, after so much training, that you can see him now. "Clarity and commitment. I have been told by my father that thus is similar to the reason they spend such effort learning to understand the Winds separately."
You arc an eyebrow, interest piqued. "Oh?"
"Can you imagine an Archmage of the tower journeying to Caledor and joining the Order, simply for the pleasure of learning to understand the artistry of Chamon? Of joining the Judges, and wandering and handing out and proclaiming justice and judgment and doom in old Tiranoc? Of joining the Oracles?" Priests of Lileath, and watchers of the sky. They clothe themselves in Azyr, though as all the wise must they do not mar themselves with the Arcane Marks.
"And can you imagine many Loremasters allowing themselves to call on Hekarti, even if it were necessary and prudent?"
He stiffens at Her name. "Better to die with honor than to owe a debt to Her. Heed me now, Vardanis of Chrace." He interrupts his kata to march up to you and place his hand upon your bare shoulder and leans in. "Pity those whose desire for power outweighs their sense enough to make them turn to Her, who has neither pity nor remorse. But never forget, never, that the Cytharai live in us, as unpleasant as they are they represent us within the heavens as surely as the Cadai. And what would you see in Her, hm?"
"Dedication." You fix him with a particularly archy look, and he in turn only glances at you with pity.
"Ambition. Ambition without restraint, or good sense, or pity or empathy or mercy." He sighs deeply as though he is in a far away place, and looks over your shoulder at something only he can see. "I know you and Tethia are close. But do not let yourself forget who she serves."
"She serves the Phoenix King," you say with a barely restrained snarl, the beast of Ghur within clawing at your control as your m—p— as your friend is insulted and judged by someone who does not even know her.
"Aye. Aye, I believe it so," he says, eying you again, "But there is a damned good reason Malekith and Morathi and their brood ran to her. Do not be so quick to forget this."
"Ulgh." You shut your mouth and let it go, let it go—let it go. And allow yourself to consider the matter of the Loremasters, even as your…guest takes your silence for the reproach it is and returns to his training, allowing you to watch his movements.
It's true. The Loremasters, being what they are, have put much more effort into understanding the Winds, separately, than the Archmages, in so many different ways. Indeed the term descends, in general, from a term of honor appended from those who walked the ten kingdoms and learned at the feet of each group of divided mages in those days. The knowledge of Geomancer, Seneschal, and Shadowmancer alike, and more beside, was found in them. Each and every one, for instance, trained under the Order of Vaul to learn to forge armor that would not interfere with magic, not something most of the Archmages could say themselves. They could wield each Wind in a way that the Archmages, by and large, cannot. It helps, of course, that Hoeth, to whom they now by and large pledge their fealty, is a much less jealous god than Hekarti—suffice to say, you doubt Morathi would get away with wielding the Moon Staff even if she was not an utterly vile excuse for a person.
And they make art and beauty, in a way the more practically minded Archmages never have, for all they master the blade.
But most unfortunately, there is no rational argument you can make against Hekarti. Only just the behavior of one of the few constants in your life.
Ulgh.
I had to kill my own brother.
The light is gone out of my life.
But it is not all gone out of the world. I will not break. The manticore screams but the lion roars. Not alone does the lion protect the world. Knowledge I shall place into this book, that it may never be forgotten. Farther and farther back it will go, even unto the truest golden age of the world. And I leave you with this knowledge:
Blackfang is no mere title.
-Thinat Snowmane, last of Blackfang
You hear footsteps, and peering over the top of the book you find your brother and your sister looking at yo quite expectantly. "You wished to speak with me?"
"Aye, we did."
"Vardanis," Fhiron says, "Were you cheating on Tethia?"
"After all, we saw you eying that swordsman who was instructing you so well." Merel fixes you an expectant look, as though expecting you to react with shock.
They both wilt at your glare, surprise as plain on their face as the sun in the sky. "Do not. He has insulted a friend and an equal and both are depressingly rare. I do not have so many of those that I am inclined to allow any insults towards them to pass."
They look at you, mild shock written in their faces.
"If it makes you feel any better, I would not have restrained my behavior if he had decided to insult the two of you."
That only seems to make the shock deepen.
"Did you believe I would abandon my own family, as my family abandoned me?"
"Now that," Merel says, "is much more in character. Very well, let us be deeply serious for a moment."
"There are many ways for an Elf to make their mark on this world, but none can thrust themselves, face first, into the fray as they wish. You have done good work here Vardanis, and let none deny that. But there is a question we have been asking ourselves: What would you like to do?"
"Not in the broadest sense. You would like to face the Druchii, and anyone with eyes can see that."
"But in the…moderate term, I suppose."
Well, they do not run away from the big questions, do they?
[] Join the Long March. Make allies against the Druchii, and the other evils of the world, and face them on the field of battle.
[] Go to the colonies. Strengthen what remains of an Empire, learn the strange secrets of those places, the least of which is at least as different from Uthuan and the home country as one of the ten kingdoms from another and so loaded with its own magical lore.
[]Remain home. Gird yourself in the strength of your ancestors and prepare yourself for the Druchii. For they will come again, and this you know well and truly.
—
Results:
Finish Blade Training. Full results will come with finishing construction of the blade, which will be next post.
Finish first part of Book of Blackfang. New Options, upgrade Beastly Mind to Beastly Heart (Every 3 AP invested in an action involving beasts, gain 2 extra progress). Bonus to rolls involving White Lions (the animal not the unit). ???
--
Trying something different with the date marks to break up scenes, went from full lines to just dashes. Please tell me if it's better or worse.
[X] Plan: The Blade of Beasts
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
-[X] The Art of the Blade (2 AP)
-[X] The Book of Blackfang (3 AP)
[X] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
-VIII 57, 3, 30-
You call up the Winds. You draw bright and shining Aqshy, as fierce and bright as the sun, and weave that magic like rope and cord, taut and strong and thick. The magic flares into life, and you unleash the bolt of fire like the very breath of Asuryan. It flies freely, like the phoenix, and strikes the Manticore.
It does nothing.
Enraged by your attack it turns, and opens its venomous maw, and white—
You rise up in your bed, soaked in sweat. It is not a nightmare. It is not. It is Ghur, wounded and insulted and reminded. Reminded how close you came to disaster, how near you were to death. Like the great lion, it prowls, insulted that one has insulted the leader of the pride. The hare jitters, well aware of how close you came as well and with prey's instinct too, too, too aware of how near run a thing it was. If the manticore had decided, rather than the Phoenix, to kill you for the insult, there is astoundingly little you could have done. Wyssan's Wildform, perhaps, but there was not enough magic there for you to trust or rely on it, never mind wield it.
You need a weapon. But too you must learn to wield it.
There is one you may write who will teach you. Not a Loremaster, no. But one who wields the blade as finely, one who battles as truly, one who is as skillful.
Methelian. You must speak to Methelian. He will instruct you. How hard can it be?
-VIII 58, 3, 30
(Impressing Methelian: 42/50)
(Impressing Methelian: 42/50)
"No, no," Strong and soft hands wrap around your wrists, guiding them into exactly the right place. You can feel his heartbeat shifting the very air around him, minutely but plainly for your Ghur enhanced senses. The same way you can catch the surprisingly clean smell of incense and paper, enough to make you nostalgic for the White Tower. He has stripped down to his bare chest and in spite of the exertion he has been putting into it is barely breathing hard. His hair, rather than being plastered by the sweat, only glows for it, falling as it does past the small of his back in long, leonine braids that speak to a warrior's courage. And, of course, he is right behind you, and near you, and warm.
You are not much worse off than he is in terms of stamina, to be honest. Whatever you lack in refinement, you make up for in the Bestial Wind. You are no madman to intentionally castrate yourself magically and gain an Arcane Mark, but one cannot bathe in the Wind without a measure of it remaining inside your very soul. Rather than reside in the library reading tomes, you have climbed trees to speak with the birds. You have wrestled with deer to learn their haste. You have swam with the whales in the sea to speak their tongue. Such an active life has left its mark, and combined with your naturally large build and muscular frame, you are an athletic figure indeed, if built more for speed than raw power.
But it does exceedingly little for you as you go through this…awkward…training, and it does not help that you are shirtless too, curse Ladroi. He moves your hands and with them you move the blade, traveling through kata after kata after kata. The training sword, a simple thing of steel and wood if lightly constructed, flows through the air under…your hands? But no, now is not the time for questions. Now is the time to succeed, for you are Vardanis and there is no task that is beyond you.
You spin, so quick that none could take the advantage but many would take the bait. In the brief seconds between the imaginary foe blocking that spinning cut you disengage in a moment briefer than the fall of a drop of rain in a storm you then follow through with an overhead slice that would flow through his shoulder like a rack of lamb. As that foe is disarmed you immediately catch the next imaginary cut on your hilt, grip the haft of the imaginary spear and then in the second that the Druchii in your mind has to contemplate, you cut through his weapon and wrists alike, sending him to the ground, disarmed. A stab to the last, imaginary foe in this moment, stopping the Executioner's draich with, letting him slide his down your sword so you know where it is, and the moment you have the greater reach, backhand him. In the brief moment before he can get back up your slam the sword through his armor and the dirt and him, and leave it there.
"Excellent," Methelian says. "You have grasped it quickly, as I hoped."
"You left me behind?"
"I wanted to see what ability you had," he says apologetically, "and you did not disappoint. Now we only see if we can instruct you in the ten-thousand other katas."
You groan and roll your eyes and grab your sword and prepare yourself once again.
-VIII 59, 2, 13-
When you are not learning from Methelian, you study the Book of Blackfang. The small, leather-bound text reeks of ancient power and Ghur, and is altogether wrapped in it. Old, old and powerful, and yours is perhaps the only copy the true Heirs of Aenarion still have; not, that is to say, that others have not copied the information, have not even passed along the knowledge within the text, but magic itself has seeped into the velum and ink of this book, and that is not easily replicated.
If you are reading this, I am dead.
But the family endures.
So it begins, the great text of your family's roots.
And so I shall teach you my secrets. The secret of beast and wild, hunter and hunted, prey and predator.
The first secret? The lion. The truest hunter. The most capable of beasts.
The Asun and Onai flow together like river and ocean, branching apart and coming together with a smooth, artistic grace. Shining, shimmering, splendid.
-VIII 60, 3, 30-
Steel swims through air, and your blades touch, sending sparks flying. You stare into Methelian's eyes, amber layered onto a backing of the most well-quarried marble. Your swords slide together for a brief moment, and then you disengage, bring your own, blunted blade around to slam into him. In spite of the thick training armor he wears, he manages to dodge, only letting the hard steel get scratched, before his foot lashes out and strikes you to the ground.
You cough and wheeze from the dusty earth, hearing the grass rustle from the breeze your soaring carcass unleashed.
You plant your arm on the ground, only for him to step down on you. "Yield."
-VIII 61, 2, 11-
Many now living claim that to raise the White Lions, one must wield the ancient scrolls of binding and loyalty to lead them, and to become master of the pack. It is not so, but I blame no man for seeking such surety in this matter. For their part the beasts are fine companions, only a little more rambunctious than children and demanding far less gold. If you would raise the beast without such methods, you must find a cub for any real hope of success. Allow Kurnous to guide you, and you will find them. Burn the branches of Raema Lock, and He will smile upon you.
Workmanlike, if still with a craftsmanship, and a care, forced into each and every rune, scratched with the hardened bronze of the quill.
-VIII 62, 3, 30-
Oh the familiar places. On your back, breathing heavy, as your tutor advances towards you. He plants his foot on you, though he breathes heavily at least this time.
-VIII 63, 1, 9-
The purest hunter, and our kin. For as surely as we are born of Kurnous and Isha, father and mother, hunter and farmer, does He not raise them? Did not Kurnous adopt Rahagra as His own blood brother? Is he not the father of beasts? All bound together we are, Elf and Lion, Lion and Elf. Their rage is our rage, and our hate is their hate. Understand that, understand them, and there is no battle you will win together, no foe you cannot face.
Plain. Unadorned. Unlovely and unbeautiful.
-VIII 64, 3, 30
An all too familiar position. On your back, grass caressing you, bloody and breathing hard. You have spent everything, burned everything, given everything you have for victory and yet Methelian still advances towards you. Methelian still claims victory. Methelian still is your superior.
In this.
Not in everything.
For too long you have been playing by his rules. Little magic except that which is elven. Little mysticism. Little everything.
But you are not he. You are a wizard, a student of the White Tower and Servant of the Eternal Flame.
Aqshy roars, but you do not need it.
Azyr thunders, but you will not use it.
Ghyran soothes, Ulgu lies, Chamon refines, Hysh hopes, Shyish prepares.
But Ghur? Ghur fights.
Your muscles expand and harden and you roar like a lion as you do not so much cast a spell as simply let it flow through you, Ghur making you more like itself for a time, and then a moment later you are flinging Methelian like a doll, light and grabbed by the wind. He spins in the air and manages to land on his feet. His eyes widen with delight.
"Finally."
And then he lunges at you.
-VIII 65, 1, 30-
And yet now heed me, ye who would read this tome. One might do worse in their life than in emulating the loyalty of a lion.
Jagged, if not quite ugly yet. Tinted red and black and many other colors. Anatomical diagrams not unlike those you produced in the white tower, though where yours were all of things generally smaller than you your forebear's are of the lion's. Notes are laden everywhere around it, scribbled understanding, descriptions of behavior. Even as his life degraded as his kinsmen fell further and further into the depravity of the Druchii, Thinat's work only grew greater. More detailed, more understandable.
His handwriting, however, has grown fully jagged and ugly.
-VIII 66, 3, 30-
"So much effort to understand the art," you say, watching as your tutor flows through the estate's courtyard, clad in his armor and wielding the sword you made for him as a delicately as another dancer. His armor is forged of Ithilmar, that you can tell simply by examining it. The cuirasse, sculpted around his form, is night blue trimmed with moon white, as are the solid greaves and gauntlets. The scale that flows to his elbows and knees, on the other hand, is all pure moon white, except for where it has been filigreed with the brightest of gold. His helm is crafted of purest night blue, but the trim around the open face and a golden crescent moon gripped by a pure white hand, Lileath's own.
"There is much to be said for focus," Methelian says from the courtyard even as he whirls to gut an imaginary opponent, only just slow enough, after so much training, that you can see him now. "Clarity and commitment. I have been told by my father that thus is similar to the reason they spend such effort learning to understand the Winds separately."
You arc an eyebrow, interest piqued. "Oh?"
"Can you imagine an Archmage of the tower journeying to Caledor and joining the Order, simply for the pleasure of learning to understand the artistry of Chamon? Of joining the Judges, and wandering and handing out and proclaiming justice and judgment and doom in old Tiranoc? Of joining the Oracles?" Priests of Lileath, and watchers of the sky. They clothe themselves in Azyr, though as all the wise must they do not mar themselves with the Arcane Marks.
"And can you imagine many Loremasters allowing themselves to call on Hekarti, even if it were necessary and prudent?"
He stiffens at Her name. "Better to die with honor than to owe a debt to Her. Heed me now, Vardanis of Chrace." He interrupts his kata to march up to you and place his hand upon your bare shoulder and leans in. "Pity those whose desire for power outweighs their sense enough to make them turn to Her, who has neither pity nor remorse. But never forget, never, that the Cytharai live in us, as unpleasant as they are they represent us within the heavens as surely as the Cadai. And what would you see in Her, hm?"
"Dedication." You fix him with a particularly archy look, and he in turn only glances at you with pity.
"Ambition. Ambition without restraint, or good sense, or pity or empathy or mercy." He sighs deeply as though he is in a far away place, and looks over your shoulder at something only he can see. "I know you and Tethia are close. But do not let yourself forget who she serves."
"She serves the Phoenix King," you say with a barely restrained snarl, the beast of Ghur within clawing at your control as your m—p— as your friend is insulted and judged by someone who does not even know her.
"Aye. Aye, I believe it so," he says, eying you again, "But there is a damned good reason Malekith and Morathi and their brood ran to her. Do not be so quick to forget this."
"Ulgh." You shut your mouth and let it go, let it go—let it go. And allow yourself to consider the matter of the Loremasters, even as your…guest takes your silence for the reproach it is and returns to his training, allowing you to watch his movements.
It's true. The Loremasters, being what they are, have put much more effort into understanding the Winds, separately, than the Archmages, in so many different ways. Indeed the term descends, in general, from a term of honor appended from those who walked the ten kingdoms and learned at the feet of each group of divided mages in those days. The knowledge of Geomancer, Seneschal, and Shadowmancer alike, and more beside, was found in them. Each and every one, for instance, trained under the Order of Vaul to learn to forge armor that would not interfere with magic, not something most of the Archmages could say themselves. They could wield each Wind in a way that the Archmages, by and large, cannot. It helps, of course, that Hoeth, to whom they now by and large pledge their fealty, is a much less jealous god than Hekarti—suffice to say, you doubt Morathi would get away with wielding the Moon Staff even if she was not an utterly vile excuse for a person.
And they make art and beauty, in a way the more practically minded Archmages never have, for all they master the blade.
But most unfortunately, there is no rational argument you can make against Hekarti. Only just the behavior of one of the few constants in your life.
Ulgh.
-VIII 67, 1, 17-
The light is gone out of my life.
But it is not all gone out of the world. I will not break. The manticore screams but the lion roars. Not alone does the lion protect the world. Knowledge I shall place into this book, that it may never be forgotten. Farther and farther back it will go, even unto the truest golden age of the world. And I leave you with this knowledge:
Blackfang is no mere title.
-Thinat Snowmane, last of Blackfang
You hear footsteps, and peering over the top of the book you find your brother and your sister looking at yo quite expectantly. "You wished to speak with me?"
"Aye, we did."
"Vardanis," Fhiron says, "Were you cheating on Tethia?"
"After all, we saw you eying that swordsman who was instructing you so well." Merel fixes you an expectant look, as though expecting you to react with shock.
They both wilt at your glare, surprise as plain on their face as the sun in the sky. "Do not. He has insulted a friend and an equal and both are depressingly rare. I do not have so many of those that I am inclined to allow any insults towards them to pass."
They look at you, mild shock written in their faces.
"If it makes you feel any better, I would not have restrained my behavior if he had decided to insult the two of you."
That only seems to make the shock deepen.
"Did you believe I would abandon my own family, as my family abandoned me?"
"Now that," Merel says, "is much more in character. Very well, let us be deeply serious for a moment."
"There are many ways for an Elf to make their mark on this world, but none can thrust themselves, face first, into the fray as they wish. You have done good work here Vardanis, and let none deny that. But there is a question we have been asking ourselves: What would you like to do?"
"Not in the broadest sense. You would like to face the Druchii, and anyone with eyes can see that."
"But in the…moderate term, I suppose."
Well, they do not run away from the big questions, do they?
[] Join the Long March. Make allies against the Druchii, and the other evils of the world, and face them on the field of battle.
[] Go to the colonies. Strengthen what remains of an Empire, learn the strange secrets of those places, the least of which is at least as different from Uthuan and the home country as one of the ten kingdoms from another and so loaded with its own magical lore.
[]Remain home. Gird yourself in the strength of your ancestors and prepare yourself for the Druchii. For they will come again, and this you know well and truly.
—
Results:
Finish Blade Training. Full results will come with finishing construction of the blade, which will be next post.
Finish first part of Book of Blackfang. New Options, upgrade Beastly Mind to Beastly Heart (Every 3 AP invested in an action involving beasts, gain 2 extra progress). Bonus to rolls involving White Lions (the animal not the unit). ???
--
Trying something different with the date marks to break up scenes, went from full lines to just dashes. Please tell me if it's better or worse.
Kaboomatic
Where the Wild Things Are
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Join the Long March. Make allies against the Druchii, and the other evils of the world, and face them on the field of battle.
ArchAIngel
Sorcerer Supreme.
- Location
- Right behind you.
Oh shit, AP booster, fuck yeah.
As for the voot...
[X] Go to the colonies. Strengthen what remains of an Empire, learn the strange secrets of those places, the least of which is at least as different from Uthuan and the home country as one of the ten kingdoms from another and so loaded with its own magical lore.
Why?
I want to learn about some of the sea monsters out there. Elven colonies were basically all ports. Ports are near the sea. And thus, sea monsters.
Why sea monsters?
Well, Ghur, innit?
As for the voot...
[X] Go to the colonies. Strengthen what remains of an Empire, learn the strange secrets of those places, the least of which is at least as different from Uthuan and the home country as one of the ten kingdoms from another and so loaded with its own magical lore.
Why?
I want to learn about some of the sea monsters out there. Elven colonies were basically all ports. Ports are near the sea. And thus, sea monsters.
Why sea monsters?
Well, Ghur, innit?
iggyfan
Verified Man-Thing
- Location
- Kentucky
[X] Go to the colonies. Strengthen what remains of an Empire, learn the strange secrets of those places, the least of which is at least as different from Uthuan and the home country as one of the ten kingdoms from another and so loaded with its own magical lore.
[X] Go to the colonies. Strengthen what remains of an Empire, learn the strange secrets of those places, the least of which is at least as different from Uthuan and the home country as one of the ten kingdoms from another and so loaded with its own magical lore.
time to go to a unexplored part of the warhammer world that I have not seen often in quest also will be cool and will help strengthen the empire and ulthuan in turn
time to go to a unexplored part of the warhammer world that I have not seen often in quest also will be cool and will help strengthen the empire and ulthuan in turn
- Location
- Singapore
[X]Remain home. Gird yourself in the strength of your ancestors and prepare yourself for the Druchii. For they will come again, and this you know well and truly.
The Temple still needs to be investigated and the winds mastered further. The Long March can be armed further and a work for a Prince made. I don't think we are done here yet.
The Temple still needs to be investigated and the winds mastered further. The Long March can be armed further and a work for a Prince made. I don't think we are done here yet.