To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)

Voikirium · Mar 4, 2023

Turn 4 (VIII 28-37)

Feathered wings beat the air with great, quick, strong and powerful strokes. Feathers blacker than sable and lightly oiled flow through the air like fish scales through the water, carrying you along and keeping the frosty touch of the cold wind this far up from your sensitive flesh. This high up the only thing you're worried about is an eagle deciding you'd make a fine meal but, the risk is worth it to your eyes: while a Raven's eyes are only mildly better than an elves', the sleek black body and small smize means you are very stealthy in this place, against both mundane predators and your true prey:

Druchii. The savages who have been poisoning the wild places may be dead, but who knows if that is all of them? If they had backup, or some other figures survived their lethal run in with the hidden Shrine of Asuryan in the mountains, they may well plotting something, up to some bleak, vile mischief no doubt, the traitors.

And so you fly overhead in this form looking for any sign of your depraved kin.

It helps that it is a hell of a view from up here.

The forests, primordial and ancient and powerful, emerge like arrows stuck into the dirt by Asuryan's own bow, vigorous, pined evergreen piled with snow-flakes like gold and ice like deepest sapphire. Animals rest within, hibernating in the face of the ancient cold. Twinkling rivers flowing too fast for ice to form carve through the frigid white-blanketed dirt as though Vaul Himself took chisel and carved the most beautiful and intricate of lines into the black rock and filigreed it with blued-gold. Lakes are damascened onto the black iron of the dirt as well, sapphires fit snug and for the moment covered over with ice, good and thick and natural, and as you watch children and parents alike play: everything from simple games of catch to more complicated ones involving skating on the ice and trying to take control of a ball.

Did you and your parents ever enjoy anything so simple? Ever?

You leave melancholy thoughts behind to scan once more. Chimneys in the village puff out smoke, gray and white and black, as the inhabitants try and keep their homes warm in the cold of Ulthuan's Frost: not so terrible compared to the bleak colds of Elthin Arvan that can pluck a man's heart from his chest and show it to him, or especially those unlucky souls stuck at the south portion of the Gate of Calith. Gods that place is cursed enough as is, and then to be there in the cold months? There is a reason they try and cajole so many mages to it, and it certainly isn't because the Beastfiends produce more than adequate Bray Shamans of their own. That kind of cold insists on magic to endure it in anything even close to civilized circumstances, and even sent halfway across the world to protect the waystones, the need for civilization endures.

You flap your wings and head towards the ground.

Claws hard and sharp bite into mud as you lope through snow choked forests where the beasts all rest. All is as it should be. The beasts sleep waiting for noble Asuryan's sun to wake them from their slumber. This close you can see the fish swimming through the rivers or underneath the glass glaze of ice that rests atop the lakes like a mantle of sapphire. This close you can see things more clearly, more detailed, than you could under the mantle of the raven.

More importantly, you can smell them all better. Clad as you are in the shape of a wolf navigating the forest, even covered as it is by ice and frost, is no more difficult to you than breathing is to an elf, or murder is to the Haclad. A vital mist, a fog, of scents travels onto you and you examine each of them in turn, looking for even the slightest hint of the bright iron stench and sooty coal stink of the Druchii and their ill-works.

So far all you have seen, or rather smelled, is exactly what it should be. The wafting smell of the evergreens, the hidden stink of animals, the juicy pungence of berries. Each you catch. Much as you catch burning wood and perfumes when you travel too near to the cities, and then you catch the smell of the White Lions (the beasts, that is, of course) and hear their growling in the distance as well.

You must not hate. You must not hate. It is the edict of the Everqueen herself, beloved Ystrielle the Wise, protector of the Asur and avatar of Isha. Sage of counsel, skilled of magic, benevolent of purpose and beloved of her people. It is the edict of Asuryan, who can no more hate elves, any elves, than He can unbalance the world. It is the edict of the White Tower. To hate is to descend to the level of the Druchii, to become like that which wounded your family.

But they make it so easy with their deeds. Their acts, vile and abominable. Slaughter, slavery, conquest and genocide, all beneath the dignity of your people, of an elf. You were born to save the world, to protect it and those who share it with you, not stride it as murderers and slayers and killers yourselves, no better than the creatures that slither and crawl their way from the north and south poles, than the goblins and the orcs, than the undead. They refuse this task, and cling to ancient glories even as they slather themselves in blood, justifying it all the while as their right for their sacrifices during the Incursion.

You must not hate them…but then what is this feeling in your chest? What is this feeling that blossoms every time you consider the bringers of darkness? What do you call the twitching fury that grows—

You sniff. There was an odd stink on the wind, mist meddled with…something. You can hardly know what, but it was like…wisteria, brewed with hydrangea and oleander.

You sniff some more, but nothing is forthcoming.

Curious.

And troubling.

The tree shakes under your weight as your claws dig into the bark and the supple evergreen wood underneath, smearing them with sap. Since that day you have not caught a whiff of that which you smelled so long ago but it lurks within your mind, and so you have hunted for it. For now in the shape of a bear, climbing the tall evergreens, the resting oak, the ash and pine. Flowers now wait to bloom once more even as the magic around you, flowing into the vortex, grows more and more perturbed.

The shape of a bear, perfectly suited for this work.

Adroit and skillful you go onward, looking and looking and thinking as you do.

You must not hate. So decrees the Everqueen. So decrees Asuryan. So decrees the White Tower.

But then what of the Shadowlanders, the Nagarythians of this age, those left behind, those loyal? They have never run from their hate, not in truth, not the Shadow Warriors certainly. If the blood betwixt you and Druchii is thickened with rivalry and treachery and slaughter, then how much worse for those that have battled with the Druchii from the beginning, and likely as not to the end? You do not know how much merit to place onto the stories flowing from those who visit their lands, who neighbor them, for what lies and half-truths and myths might spread? Would the Phoenix King truly allow children to be kidnapped? Would he truly allow in turn that an innocent soul should be brought up by the Druchii and turned to their evil workings? In good conscience, could either option be allowed?

And then there is your family history burning, just as surely as the general causes all people have to hate those who would invade them, slay them, murder and enslave them. By the foolishness of your kin, your honor is impugned. By the foolishness of the Blackfangs what was right in this world is made just a little worse, and what was noble at heart is broken down, shattered and sent away. From the friends of beasts to their slayers and slavers, cruel hearted and empty of spirit—aye, Karond Kar must be broken, the Beastmasters must pay for their crimes, nature must be restored to harmony. It is the duty of your family, and as a child you drank it down with your mother's milk, and learned to read with such letters as your Great-Grandfather wrote trying to cohere a defense against the traitors.

Can you do that without hating? Can you restore your honor and the balance and all things without becoming that which you fight again? Should you? Is there no argument to be had that hating these people is only right and just, in its own way? No. Not if the Everqueen says otherwise. For through her speaks Isha; and through Isha, speaks wisdom. So then you cannot hate them; but they still must be fought, for the sake of those they enslave, mortal and beast alike. A difficult line to walk.

Not for the first time today you envy bears and wolves and ravens, who need not worry about the line but only seek to feed themselves.

No treachery of forms this time, no clever moves with magic. You simply walk about the forest idly and without much of a plan, trusting that fate will carry you where you need to be.

Anything to get away from home. Since your argument those twenty years past things have been…awkward between yourself and your parents and not without cause. It needed to be said. THe words would have burned in you like a brand otherwise. But did you say them adroitly, skillfully, with rhetoric and reason? Or were you simply like the beasts which you love, raging and raging against the injustice you feel done to you? Both? Neither?

It says something that thinking about your duty against the Druchii held less weight and was considerably more straightforward.

On instinct you kneel down and give a squirrel a handful of nuts from your pack, the creature looking dreadful thin from the Frost and drawn by the Hysh and Ghyran that flow around you as motes. Yes, yes, balance of nature, predator and prey, the Cycle, so on and so forth but what is the point of being adjacent to and capable of examining nature if you could not also, on occasion, supercede it? Nature is not inviolable in the first place, your entire profession is testament and mark of that. The Rules of the World should be abided of course, and you will certainly not be warping any beasts for fun; but is a handful of nuts to a singular creature truly such a violation of your ethos? To hear it told by the folk of the White Tower who study Ghur, to the Beastwalkers it is so; but then odds as not that they are simply bitter that so many of that group refused to accede to the tower's authority. You've hardly examined them enough to have an opinion on the matter anyway.

You continue to walk. Your boots dig trenches through the snow as you resume the streams of thought your walk had taken you on, one of the privileges of your beloved Ghur rather than odious Azyr.

Yes, you must confront the Druchii. Their empire in Naggaroth must be broken, the evils they done confronted. But then what? Are you to slaughter the lot of them, women and children too? Absurd. Obscene. Vile. An aberration against nature; even predators will not seek to devour the prey of the young, lest there be no prey at all left to feast on. But what then? Are you to break them and then leave them, and run the risk that they will in time readhere, reform, and attack again except now with their grudge bloody-doubled, and weighty with that great defeat? Are you to stay and try and beat the evil from them as one beats iron into shape for a sword? It must be done, your ancestors insist on it. But how? What is the cost?

Unbidden you sit down under a tree, drying the soil with a spot of Aqshy, and pull out the sheaf with the story you have been reading. The Avelornian has just brought her Druchii captive some bread, honeyed and layered with cinnamon, if you aren't mistaken…

(5 AP available, Focus is currently soothed)

Requests and Commissions

[] Keeping Them Out: The Druchii have apparently been managing to sneak into Chrace and into Ulthuan. Magic, of course, is an excellent answer for how but that is only part of the story. While your parents and the rest of the Kingdom have been hard at work examining the entrance and the body you found, you could contribute in ensuring it does not happen again. (0/5 Progress, Procs Ancient Embers, soothes Focus, Standing, Favors from Chrace)

[] Arming the March: The Long March always, always, always needs more weapons, more armor, more everything for its soldiers: not everyone can march to war armed with Wyraza Drengul, after all. It would please all of Chrace to show your wealth and power by sending yet more enchanted weapons out, though you lack the supplies for more advanced construction as yet. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Favors)

[] Hometown Pride: Normally you would leave Tor Gard to sit and spin but their prince has been insulted by none other than a Khaine-loved Ellyrion and that simply will not do for he is still of Chrace. Create a treasure to show the wealth of Chrace to the world. The Horse-Lords will be unenthused but, you quite simply cannot find it within yourself to care. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Chrace favors, -To Ellyrion standing, Crafting Turn)

[] Bits and Bobs: There are treasures lurking within the forests of Chrace, oddities and rarities and so on. You doubt anything too special, short of things going very awry, but you could use whatever you find the next time you are called on to create something special. (Requires at least 1 AP, Gain Craft Materials)

[-] A Gift for the Prince: As the daughter of Prince Firemane, Tethia could help you present a gift to her father the Prince of Chrace though there are certain standards expected of who he will accept gifts from in turn. Your immediate family is of course supportive of the idea; however the broader House will need to be brought around. It will, however, certainly increase your standings with the higher levels of Chracian society at least. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Favors and Standing, currently locked since magic is not developed enough)

Research & Development

[] Stellar Seeker: To be reduced to primal Elementalism like some…fumbling child! It is a disgrace and an embarrassment and you will tolerate it no longer! You will grow to understand the Heavens, to fully understand Azyr, even if you have to forge the damn telescope and grind the damn glass yourself! (2/3 Progress, may Overflow, unlocks Cardinal Magical Comprehension of Azyr, unlocks further developing comprehension for other winds, Activates Sky Seeker)

[] The Art of the Blade: To be a Loremaster, one must master the sword, at the least a bastard sword though truly mighty two-handed blades that require the grip of both are growing more and more popular. Furthermore you must forge your own blade. While it is a sign that one desires to become a Loremaster, it is hardly unknown for others to learn their art. (0/3, does not lock you into the path of the Loremaster, is however a step on it, -10 favors)

[] The Art of Two: To properly mingle together two Winds is an even more arduous task than merely to develop in such a way that you can wield any of the eight Winds. You can theoretically mingle together two neighboring Winds, such as Ghur and Hysh, for their mindsets are close enough; however two oppositional or orthogonal Winds evade you as yet. The Archmages know the secret, though so do many Loremasters for all they are more likely to study the Eight Winds separately. (0/3, Unlocked thanks to gaining standing and favors, does not lock you onto the path of the Archmage, is however a step on it, -10 Favors)

[] The Runestone: The Shadowlanders keep a tight grip on their Runestones but even they cannot fault you for examining what was taken from the Druchii. Strange, arcane stones bearing symbols of power in Eltharin, they are most notably used by Nagarythian mages, Shadow Weavers, to help them dispel the magic of the enemy and that is something you are not uninterested in. (0/3, Proce Ancient Embers, may overflow)

[-] The Temple: In your efforts to hunt down the source of the monsters coming down from the Annuliis, you located something alright: an ancient temple to Asuryan, surrounded by the bodies of dead Druchii. It was protected by magic beyond your grasp, if not wholly your comprehension. (0/9-1(Overflow)=0/8, Locked until further personal development IE Loremaster or Archmage options)

[] A Cure: Well, you will probably not ever be capable of fixing the most long term projects but you can certainly work on stopping the degradation process in its tracks from the beginning! The Druchii alchemy is not so advanced you cannot study it for now, though higher comprehension is likely to elude you for a time. (0/5, Procs Ancient Embers, Soothes Focus, gain capacity to cure up to mildly mutated creatures)

[-] The Book of Blackfang: A sorcerous Tome dating back to the ages before the sundering, when Snowmane and Blackfang were one and the same. Ancient secrets are woven into every page, and magic seeps from every syllable. There are multiple sections, but most tie back to varyingly mundane forms of Beast Care, if you were to judge it so. Who knows what else lurks within, however? (0/4, Procs Ancient Embers, Soothes Focus, currently locked since it is as beyond you as magic is to the murderers trained under Dwarfen feet in the Old World)

Social

Independent of plan, and requiring no AP lest Vardanis should fully lose himself to his obsessions

[] You speak to Merel about home, since he has been there more often

[] You speak to Fhiron about the outside world, and the Long March

[] You speak to your parents, since you are, apparently, the one who has to be the mature one

Moratorium for ~24 hours.

Voikirium · Mar 8, 2023

Turn 4 Results

[X] Plan Stellar Sniffing Around

-[X] Keeping Them Out: 4 AP

-[X] Stellar Seeker: 1 AP

[X] You speak to Merel about home, since he has been there more often

-VIII 28, 4, 1-

You peer through the telescope up at a night sky that is damascened with clouds of dark silver, small and slight things and yet potent with Azyr that roils and shakes and burns waiting for the chance to strike; and yet in spite of the fact it is Azyr you hunt for, Azyr you desire to understand, Azyr which you must grow to comprehend you do not touch that which is trapped in the growing rain clouds and the growing storm, very probably the last before it becomes snow in the season of frost. For one it is a league away for all it presses against your senses, and you are not so grown as a mage that you can yet harness such arcane power from so far away. You scowl at the thought, and then raise your borrowed telescope once again. For another you damn well understand the lightning; it is the stars you must grow to comprehend. Meteors dance among the stars, burning like little jewels on the black dress of the night.

Different constellations, this time. But a similar pain to last time, though it begins in your left, rather than right foot. Oh, excellent.

First, the Brand of Hoeth. The Hell-Moon does not feed it its light tonight, so its glow is pure golden fire rather than mottled sickly emerald interlaced in the flames, and the Winds that pour from it are hale and whole and hearty: many wizards will be born by the stellar song it sings. Eldrazor's arrow is soft, and so you shall be blessedly free from duels and feud-slaughter for a time at least, and those born now will not bring war with them as they age. Sunfang blazes bright in the night sky, bringing a clarity of mind and purpose with it, one free of the taint of the Widowmaker, of Khaine and of murder, only that understanding of what must be done and a willingness to pay the price to see it happen.

The ache travels up your leg, to just behind your knee. Excellent.

The Gold Rooster has begun to stir, burning brighter and brighter and pouring out magic that floats along the celestial orrery until it reaches the ground and saturates it with the stuff. The merchants of Eataine, of Lothern, are no doubt pleased by this for themselves even as they disparage it in others. Mathlann's wave swells with light and clarity and insight, and many born this year will find themselves drawn to the crafts to make their living, both those involving shipwork and those not.

The ache travels to your back. Ach.

And so finally your gaze goes to the Phoenix. It burns bright in the night sky, undimmed, untouched, by the vile moon, which hides as cowardly as its master. That which lives; that which dies; and that which lives again. That which bears mercy, that which bears the fire of Asuryan. The fire of justice, the fire of judgment, the fire of creation. It is the jewel that marks the crown, it is the encapsulation of all that He is. When it is bright there is light in the world, His light. Manifold of a creative intent and a skillful disposition shall bee born now, bearing the mark of Asuryan's fire.

The ache makes its way up and up and up—

Move.

More than animal instinct, more than mere senses, more than thought, but true foresight for the first time in your life compels you: you toss yourself away even as you force Ghur into yourself, artlessly but sufficient.

A moment later the world becomes fire.

A great cloak upon the world, woven by your wife's hand. A vast cavern, deep beyond depth and dark beyond reckoning.

But it is not done, not your part.

Hither, thither and yon, sparks, not even jewels, brief and fluttering. There for a moment, then gone in an instant a flash, beating like wings and then returning to life, studding themselves, working themselves into the fabric of a dark darker than even the pitchest cavern, a dark like ink and a dark like tea. Phoenixes, except larger and more terrible than any phoenix before or since, the largest of them trailing a pure prism of fire behind their soft, downy feathers and the embers and the feathers left behind are woven into that black silk blanket of the night sky, becoming stars. As they grow old and ancient and icy their sleeping, graceful forms become meteors, fire and ice forced into a graceful, delicate balance by their nature as creatures of both Aqshy and Azyr, like you and yet so different. But even that pales in comparison to some of the creatures swimming through the night blackness, gracefully pirouetting through the skies as their master.

And then there is music, song, light, life, fires burning and blazing as black and white flames scream into existence and you—He—enters, a thing as roaring as Dragon's fire, as booming as the thunder, as clear as the night sky. His will is celestial, and you know Him, and so you know that which is celestial. From atop the Fiery Pyramid carved of purest marble and etched with runes you watch in contemplation, mind racing with thought upon thought, judgment upon judgment, notion upon notion, taking them up and discarding them as is the Imperial right. The Throne of the Heavens supports you even as you look out in silent contemplation and judgment. And then a decision is reached, a decision is reached, and what is right is decided, and what is wrong is discarded, as you see a cancer lurking within your Heavens, threatening your realm, unrighteous and vile at heart. And then your hand—His Hand— stretches out, and—cold?— fire and will and rage, yes rage, pour out like wine from the bottle, and then—

And then you are back at your campsite, feeling rather singed but…alive? Your robe is an absolute write-off however, the entire upper half turned into nothing more than tattered scraps littered like the broken art of a child along your upper form. And then the pain starts, as you feel like your entire body has been transformed into one, massive, burned bruise after suffering a beating at dragon's hands. If it were not for your quick thinking in managing to shove the Ghur into yourself like you did—well you did, and so proved your excellence. Where you once sat has been turned from a forest clearing, ringed by flower laden, darkly green trees, into a seared if not scorched pit, though the trees remain standing. The same can hardly be said for the grass.

Wait.

The telescope is still fine where it landed. But your knotted walking stick has been turned to naught more than ash and fond memories, damnations.

Woozy from your spot on the ground you manage to shape the ambient magic around you into a spell. "Ilavon," you manage to croak out, and the steed you have been borrowing approaches as comprehension flows through him at your command. He nuzzles at you, and you pet his long snout. "Good boy, good boy," you say and get yourself up, throwing yourself on top of the saddle and then slumping as the beating you've taken fills you yet more as your mind returns from the outer darkness, the celestial reality and visions of divinity, to mundane reality. "Home." You begin weaving things of healing, things of restoration, things of goodness and gladness and Ghyran, feeling it soothe burned flesh and end the pain where it stands. The vision plays through your mind again and again and again the entire time as you make the journey.

-VIII 28, 4, 4-

You ride through the city streets, gaped and gawked at by the ignorant crowd. The roar of agony that was your world for a time has dulled to a slight murmur, like the clinging of chimes compared to the great smashing bells of Loec.

Very well—let them stare. You are Vardanis, and their opinion matters precious little compared to what you have just gone through. You have survived, and that is everything.

You see someone working their way through the crowd, and though he may not have quite the oak among hawthorns effect as your sister or your mother, you'd have to be blind and for that matter deaf not to notice your brother with all the ruckus he's making. Finally he manages to clear the last of the crowd out of his path, leaving him within arms' reach of Ilavnon. "Vardanis! Brother! What in the world happened to you? Why are you half nude?" He puts a hand on Ilavnon's head, and the creature stops, snorting.

Traitor.

"Asuryan has touched me."

"Asuryan—what?" His eyes widen in shock and dismay. "Vardanis, you don't intend—"

"To join the Phoenix Guard? No. No, that is not my path." You shake your head, and get down from Ilavnon's back, the cool stone refreshing to step on compared to the heat and warmth and light and stars and—you shake it off, lest it consume you. "There is too much work I need to do here to spend my time guarding the Phoenix King and the Shrine, when neither needs me."

"How about we talk more when we get home?"

The journey through the crowd is quick after your brother drapes his cloak over your shoulders. And so finally the two of you enter the estate, and the foyer, your brother shooing out any unwanted guests even as you sit down at one of the small white tables that lurk underneath every hanging pelt, made of the same hardwood as the floors.

"Now…explain to me exactly what happened."

"I was studying the constellations again, as I did a decade hence now." You close your eyes and fold your hands and lean back to remember, letting thought flow from you like water. "I had made the west to east journey, and an ache within me had traveled itself up and along my body. Finally I came to the Phoenix, and looked upon it. There was an unleashing of Azyr as I have never know, and that saved my life—allowed me to draw on such Ghur as to be strong in its face. But as it struck me I saw…much. Much and more. I saw the lighting of the stars in the sky, and I saw the coming of the Phoenixes." You fix him a hard look. "I was also reminded that I never did thank you for apparently telling Tethia about my reading material even after I gave you a not inconsiderable sum of gold."

"That was Fhiron, and woefully off topic aside." The way he brushed it off, he is either lying much better than usual or it is the unfortunate truth. That leaves you with the question of how your sister determined this, but then that is a topic for another time. It is only then you notice the small flask your brother has thrust under your nose. Taking it you sniff and recoil at the smell of brandy, and strong stuff at that.

"What the devil is this for?"

"You're going to need it with the trouble you've just brought down on yourself." He sighs and then forces his hair out of his eyes to look you in yours. "Tell me, while you were off galavanting around in Saphery, did it occur to you to ask what was happening here, in Chrace?"

"I paid Chrace as much attention as Chrace paid to me."

"Spiteful mage. Tell me, what do you know of House Ironglaive?"

"That they are seeking the Phoenix King's favor to a truly embarrassing extent."

"Hm. And why do you suppose that might be, elder brother?"

"Well, obviously because they'd like his support for something." You blink as the shape of what that means, really, occurs to you; obviously it requires more detail but you expect nothing good.

"Something is right. For five-hundred years has House Firemane ruled Chrace as the Grand Prince, but they are hardly the only Princes and you and I both know this. For five-hundred years have the traditionalists complained that the Firemanes have ruled. For consorting with Hekarti, at the beginning."

Your eyes narrow. "Tethia—"

"Is hardly the only problem we both have. As time has passed the Ironglaives have grown more and more extreme in their beliefs. From the debatably justified distrust of the Hekartites—"

"Do not speak poorly of her again, she is the only rival I have—"

"I am not finished. From distrust and disdain of Hekarti and a smattering of the most tempestuous of the Deep Folk," he looks over his shoulder with a certain trepidation at invoking the name in a particularly superstitious gesture, "to all of them including Eldrazor, Mathlann, and Nethu, none of whom should invoke such distaste. To believing that, as the sacred land of Kurnous, only a champion of Kurnous has the true right to rule Chrace. They have spent time and money and blood attempting to prove this by creating such a champion of Kurnous, and maneuvering against the Firemanes, both subtly and not. Whether by allying themselves to the Beastwalkers or keeping their retinues divided from Firemane's. And now they have their champion, for all you have not heard of him. But he will require challenges to prove his worth, and now here you are, about to steal his thunder."

"...Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

"How many do they have on side?"

"House Lionmane weakly in that they would back anyone so aggressive against the Druchii, and House Windborne strongly, in that as Beastwalkers they are deeply opposed to any Cytharai influence greater than existing at all." He sits down next to you even as you continue to drain the brandy, letting the sweet flavors play over your palette. "And with House Firemane, the lesser Princes and House Goldmane."

"And one Vardanis of House Snowmane."

"Truly? And how many houses is one Vardanis worth?"

"Enough."

He looks at you, his face unreadable.

You look at him, unerring.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

And then his face splits into a smile and he grabs you and hugs you, clapping your back. "By the gods it is good to have you returned, big brother." You freeze at the unasked for contact. Ah well, just this once. You take your hand and pat him on his back, clapping him with more than a little aggression.

"It is good to be back." You break apart after a moment and fix him with a more serious look. "Now then, I don't suppose anything good happened while I was gone? Random fortune falling onto the House, a new seam of gold, anything that is good news?"

"Well, with your help we've managed to expand the logging processes further."

"I said good news, little brother, good news!"

"I'd call it pretty damn good news myself when the arrows they build, axes they haft and fortifications they construct help us force out the damn Druchii just that little bit better and more skillfully, brother."

"Yes, I suppose that would be the case, wouldn't it?" You slump a bit, though a thought occurs to you. "Least I might manage to enter that temple before ennui kills me, then."

-VIII 32, 3, 3-

Rolls: 19+5 (Omake Bonus)+10 (Ancient Embers)=34

Such conversation, of course, puts a fire under your hide; and that, that makes you put in some real effort. Not to try and embarrass your so-called rivals. Not for your pride. Not for your House, even, for all you must stand for it. Not for any of that.

But to stop the damned Druchii. Because they have to be stopped. Your fault. Your mess. Your responsibility. Who else is going to, the Dwarfs? Only scarcely better. The Empire, newly forged and young as fresh fallen snow? Hah. The Lizardmen? Too broken and busy contemplating for that sort of fight, not now, in this age so smothered in shadows. No, if it is to be done it will be you, the High Elves, who do it.

And so you have come here to this place, a small spring located not far from where the Druchii dropped off their mutated monstrosities to try and kill the innocent. A pristine and pure place, an excellent spot to center yourself and so to find that which you seek in magic. Qhyash flows like water through this place, motes of every Wind playing against each other in an auroral dance for the senses. The trees are thick and vividly green, and the smell of roses, pine, and loam wafts pleasantly through the air. Squirrels, chipmunks, deer, even White Lions visit on occasion though you never drew too near: you are rather attached to your head, after all. The waters were pristine and clear blue. Birds chirp in the distance, and there too was the sound of flowing water.

Were. Was.

Now instead the waters are a sluggish slimy gray that makes a sound not entirely unlike what you produce after a rough night, and there are no birds to speak of. The thick carpet of grass has become a particularly loathsome, muddy, root infested mire littered with spiky little grass strands, sad, wilted, things of a particularly putrescent green. Rather than lions and deer and squirrels the only life that now endures at the spring are flies, mosquitos and slugs that carpet the land, and not natural examples of the creature which are a part of a healthy ecosystem but aggressive, biting, stinging little things, though a fireball convinces them to cease. The trees have been coated in a slimy moss, and now loom like malignant fingers. The smell of wisteria, hydrangea and oleander fill the air list a mist after a strong rain, marching through your nose.

Your replacement walking stick shatters in your hand.

Damnation, you'd replace it if you had the materials!

Suspecting the cause you let your sixth sense flow out and examine the world; but nothing can ever really prepare you for what you see.

Magic, magic in the air, warping and whirling and twisting and shifting. But not healthy Qhaysh, the shifting things of infinite possibility; but Dhar, real and true Dhar. A certain amount, even on Ulthuan, is to be expected; one cannot live next to the Vortex and not suffer some strange effects. Magic colliding together in a spectacularly unhealthy way as it heads forward isn't, well it's not usual but it's not mind-bendingly unusual, either. For all it is a vile smear sullying your art, you could, perhaps would, be tempted to brush it off.

If.

You weren't Vardanis of House Snowmane. Brush it off? And make the sacrifices your grandfather paid, the efforts he put, the suffering, all meaningless? No, if there is even the slightest chance it may be Druchii you must press forward as though it is certainty. Let peace lull others to ignorance; you know the truth, and you know what must be done. This did not simply happen, some stroke of poor fortune; it was done.

And you know who did it.

Dodge.

Both foresight and instinct warn you and so you move, and that keeps the bolt that passes your body from slamming into you. You are already whirring, your mind supplying the hand gestures and the syllables necessary for the work even as you advance on your opponent, who has cast aside their crossbow to instead pull out one of the overwrought blades of the enemy.

Conflagration of Doom would end the fight, but destroy the spring, and you will not end what you love to save it. Fireball is a similar state of affairs, simply lesser. A Lightning Bolt runs the risk of blinding you and missing them and then you would die, dismembered.

No.

The best way to do this is up close.

Death's Scythe springs to life in your hands, the eldritch purple energy leaking like a sieve and ending the Dhar as it touches it. The Druchii sneers, the arrogant shit.

And then you do something the more impressive.

Your muscles expand and tighten. Your pupils grow. Your ears perk. Your skin hardens, toughens, becomes like leather, even as your hair becomes wild, shredding through the ties that had kept it contained. You stand taller, stronger, your robes tighter around the arms and the chest and the leg, your nails long and iron hard and sharp.

The Druchii's eyes widen.

"Wyssan's Wildform!"

Battle Magic. The least of it, but still.

They take off in a dead sprint clear in the other direction, weaving through the trees. You follow, cutting through the branches even as the foe remains quicker than you. Forcing Ulgu into shape they toss knives of shadow at you, but she is a pretty shoddy shot, and you are of the land of the White Lion and fed magic like an infant given mother's milk besides. Each knife is carved through with the pink scythe you hold even as you race after her not quite effortlessly, but certainly not half as much as she needs.

And she does need it.

The two of you race through the forest for some time until she turns around, and draws Azyr to her, and unleashes a Lightning Bolt— a big one.

But you—are the servant of Asuryan, Emperor of the Heavens. The Lighting is His to command. You feel flesh burn, and robes light, but you are standing. You are standing. Dispelling. Unmaking it, on the anvil of your skill, forcing it down and taking the hammer of Ghur to it, ripping the hastily, sloppily, poorly made excuse for a spell into constituent bits of magic, slamming it again and again on the anvil of your control. There is no more amount of Dhar sufficient to make up for the lacking skill of the Sorceresses of Grond, but this—this is sad.

You see her eyes widen before she beats a hasty retreat, using magic to shift her form to something more masculine.

Finally the bolt dissipates.

You slump to the ground, tired but not exhausted.

And you try so very, very hard to wrestle the hate that is the bane of Snowmane, that is the foe of the Everqueen, that is damned by Asuryan and the White Tower alike back under control. You try, and you try, to force the black fire burning in your breast to cool, as chilled and snowy as the mane of your Great Grandfather.

You do not know if you succeed.

VIII 32, 3, 6

A letter arrives, sometime later, with the heraldry of House Snowmane. Opening it and cutting through the jargon, its message is refreshingly pleasing:

As regards to his current deeds in service to both Ulthuan and to Chrace in exposing the infiltration by Druchii, we do endow Vardanis of House Snowmane the right of the the hunter: He may hunt one lion of the pack of Tor Gard to acquire a pelt; further, he may study the beasts as he desires.

-Prince Alial Firemane, Servant of Kurnous

Ah. That is good news indeed. The right to bear a White Lion pelt, of course, is one owed to all Chracians as a matter of course, but the pack of Tor Gard are both plentiful and easily found, making hunting one the more possible.

Excellent.

Most excellent.

Results:

-+2 Chrace Standing, +10 Chrace favors

New totals: 6 Standing, 50 Favors

5 Standing Bonus: Right of the Hunter, may acquire a White Lion pelt from the pack of Tor Gard, being a cut above the rest.

-Gain Cardinal Comprehension of Azyr, may begin expanding understanding of other Winds, learning spells from other spell lists, creating own spells, etc.

-A vision is seen, a vision is shewn!

-An understanding of Azyr has not made the Temple of Asuryan you located more comprehensible but it has made it seem possible? (The Temple 0/8-2=0/6)

-Fought off Druchii infiltrators, put pressure on them throughout the decade, ???

Voikirium · Mar 10, 2023

Turn 5 (VII 38-47)

You sit under the light of Asuryan's sun and ponder. The clouds rumble overhead, making many to flee, to run, to hide inside and escape the lightning.

Feh.

You have passed through the lightning and the judgment once; you shall never fear it again. Unbidden you allow sparks of electricity, little gusts of wind and a slight rime of frost to flow from you, keeping the animals away for the moment. How…embarrassing, how sad, to have not understood the whole nature of the Wind at one point? How like the bumbling shamans of the beastmen, of the northmen, of the daemons to be so limited? So blind? You can barely stand it.

In every Wind there are three portions, three ways to examine it, three ways to understand it, though there are those like the Shadow Weavers of Nagarythe and the Mist Mages of Cothique who manage to modify themselves or the Winds or their own comprehension to force them to act in ways out of keeping with the traditional Lores of Magic, as they have been passed down to you from the White Tower and to the White Tower from your ancestors.

There is the Elemental, the physical substance of the Wind, either because it has been linked together or because such motes of it travel through the said substance. To call down the lightning. To shape the hardened metal. To cast light. To move in shadow. It is simple and its simplicity is its strength; there is something to be said for breathing flames and spewing lightning to solve your problems, but to only be capable of it is sad. There are still, however, those who seek to master it: the Shadow-Weavers, if what stories of which you know are to be believed. The Priests of Vaul in Caledor, for another, who work the metal to create wonders surpassing any other kingdom on this planet.

Then there is Mystical. That which is the Wind made into a metaphor, a comparison drawn between the two different entities to, among other things, make one like the other. To become strong as a Dragon. For your courage to burn like a flame. To stink like the dead. To nourish like water. Everything from plain, blunt statements to the most poetic of similes and kennings transformed into magical intent and effect by thinking minds. While a portion of you must attempt to regard it as superior to the blunt, straightforward nature of the Winds Elemental, it is it must be said, at the end of the day, still only a portion of the Wind. Such is the way of the Judges of Tiranoc, who become walking death, as certain as doom and as fading; such is the way of the Beastwalkers of your Homeland, who seek to become like the beasts to live in their own hamlets and homesteads.

Finally there is Cardinal. The Winds stripped of distractions, of the petty divisions of mortal minds trying to comprehend infinity, of lacking the right word; the magic spoken of in Anoqeyan. Without the meager trappings of metaphor, without the limitations of matter. Aqshy is Passion. Azyr is Inspiration. Chamon is Refinement. Ghur is Wild. Ghyran is Calm. Hysh is Understanding. Shyish is Fading. Ulgu is Confusion. Hence the Wheel of Magic, created as it is. Simple statements but hard to comprehend in their fullness; and hardly the only ones which describe the Wind. You will not say it is the path to High Magic, for the Geomancers of Saphery put paid to that; but you will say it is the clearest and the most straightforward, as shown by, in a particular bit of irony, the Archmages of the White Tower, as well as the Seneschals of Avelorn.

And then there is Dhar. Darkness, apathy, evil made manifest; all things wrong with mortality, all things wrong with magic, forced into form. Elementally ice, darkness, mud; mystically poisons, toxins, and beasts. Cardinally? At best pure obsession so great that losing your soul to own the world becomes acceptable; at worst, megalomania reified into an artform. The True Dhar which the Sorceresses of Ghrond so love may make them able to stand against you magically; but your sanity is much, much too high a cost to pay.

And you are sane. In spite of everything, you are sane. In truth the fact that you are sprouting long diatribes on the nature of magic within the peace of your own skull rather than lingering on melancholic thoughts of facing the Druchii assures you of that.

Unbidden you hear the patter of little feet and see young elves racing down the street, trying to get out of the storm. Except a handful of children, truly young, who excitedly babble about magic and mages and so on. Spoiled creatures; but you are not without pity for the parents and nursemaids and servants that accompany them on this day and so you offer a small showing of magic, blending together Chamon and Aqshy and Hysh together into a "rope", not a spell but a beautiful image indeed, and let it twirl around you and the children are stunned to silence.

The parents nod at you in thanks, which is, of course why you did it.

And it is that same sanity of which you were thinking that has kept you from speaking, over much, about what you saw within your vision, what was shown to you by the Emperor of the Heavens. That your mind returns to this formulation, rather than the more usual, says much in and of itself. But you do not feel different, not really. You are still Vardanis of House Snowmane, Vardanis of the First Taught, Vardanis the young. You are not like Aenarion, who became more than any mortal before or since. You are not like the Everqueen, who can banish the darkness with her presence and brings goodness to all that she sees. You are not, and may the gods themselves spare you for making this comparison, like the Murderer in Karaz A Karak, bloodsoaked by his vile ancestor Grungni into forever seeking murder as a solution to all of his problems. You are naught but you.

And that might be a problem.

Since, apparently, you have just stuck your head under Vaul's Hammer without realizing it in so experiencing the vision that you did. The Ironglaives have produced their Champion, a man who, by rumors, journeyed clad as Kurnous into the Annuliis and slew a damn Manticore and now rides about with the thing's pelt around him like a second skin. He was dispatched to face Anath Raema worshipers too, and returned with the hands and heads they took as trophies, and shattered them, forever denying their power to the Huntress. He was to journey the length and breadth of Chrace, facing other infiltrators; until you swooped in and started hard pressing them. And then started speaking of a vision, half delirious as you were.

His name is Thirion; and you are a mite worried, since that is some competition to engender for yourself. And you have engendered it; you will not abandon the only other mage of any skill you've seen to be predated upon by these pretenders. You will not,

And yet, how are you to stand against him?

Unbidden, your mind turns to the Shrine. To the Temple. To that which is hidden. There are no coincidences in this world, and all things turn upon the wheel of the gods. And the gods turn upon Asuryan. There is no doubt in your mind He meant you to find it; and if to find it then no doubt to make use of it. It is a temple not (only, at least) to the Creator, but to the other, less often spoken of facets of Him. The Emperor of the Heavens, and the Keeper of the Balance; that which makes the sun to shine, and ensures the world turns upon rules, rather than being burned to cinders or swallowed up by the waves. To enter it, to learn it, is your destiny, as surely as the sun rises to the east and sets to the west and your mother loves you and rain will fall. But that does not mean you are ready for it. And if you are not ready for it, and you attempt it anyway…

Well. You do not have the sycophants, servants and fools to spirit you away and stick you in a magic suit of armor to survive what that kind of magic unleashed would do to you. Unbidden images of Savan, hair burned white as lightning and eyes made scars, come to you as legends of the old mage appear in your mind. Yes, the magic locked within would be potent, a more than helpful aid against the darkness; but that fate, that fate is to be feared and dreaded more than anything. To never speak again, to never cast spells, to never use magic?

No.

No it must not happen.

Death would be preferable.

And so you are split in twain, and wage war against yourself. You must secure your position, and the position of the House, and the position of Tethia (and what a strange thing to think), and this against a champion of the gods. And yet you also must not fail, fall, and die trying. That, you cannot allow. So before you can you must become more able as a Mage, more skilled, more refined, more everything. Whether that means learning to wield High Magic or studying the eight Winds separate, it must be done.

And then also there is the matter of the Druchii, the Dark Elves to the ignorant, bumbling, foolish tongue of the Haclad, and the poor humans subjugated to their witless whims and their mindless hatreds. This too you have been circumspect in if not quite so much as the matter of the Vision, since none are shocked to hear of their infiltration. Neither those who would deliver the blow to their heart once and for all, finish the Sundering and take Malekith's head as a trophy; nor those who believe the Dark Elves must fade, fall, fail, and that time itself can be your weapon against them. The first for obvious reasons, and the second because of course, if you can fight off the Druchii already then why would firmer, more troublesome preparations be needed?

It is not a train of thought you are entirely unsympathetic to: peace is a fine thing and well worth loving, and you can fight the Druchii all by yourself. But, that does not make it wise, nor just, nor a sagacious idea. Peace bought by ignoring war on the horizon is no real peace at all; but then they do not see it that way, do they? But in any case, when and if you want to actually get support for your anti-Druchii efforts and get them all to see as you see, you are going to need to advance rather further as a Mage. You have, of course, finally mastered the Cardinal nature of Azyr, meddling with the pure energy of the Wind rather than moderating and modulating and meddling with the elements. It is not however, enough. Aethis is too wise, raised in Saphery as he is, to fall for mere magical gibber gabber. You will need to grow in wisdom, in position, in many things. Become Lordly. Become an Archmage, or a Loremaster.

Then, and only then, will you be able to truly stand against the Druchii. Then and only then, may you meet your destiny, and the destiny of House Snowmane, and face and defeat House Blackfang in battle, and finally bring an end to a conflict more than three-thousand years long by…by…

Well what will you do? Wipe them out to the last? Kill men and women and little children alike? No.

And here you thought you were done with grim, brooding trains of thought about the traitors. Perhaps that shall always be what the Druchii bring, grim brooding? It would hardly be the worst thing they've done to your people, and yet it is perhaps the most all-encompassing.

You shall free their beasts. That, more than anything, will be your first goal. They have made slaves of those which you share the world with, and thrown all of reality out of balance and for that you cannot forgive them. More than your name, more than your pride, they sully the world itself, and all who live in the world you.

Yes, yes, that shall be the first thing you do.

Liberation of the beasts.

You lean back, mind full of thoughts of bursting open menageries full of suffering creatures…

(5 AP available, Focus is currently soothed)

Requests and Commissions

[] Arming the March: The Long March always, always, always needs more weapons, more armor, more everything for its soldiers: not everyone can march to war armed with Wyraza Drengul, after all. It would please all of Chrace to show your wealth and power by sending yet more enchanted weapons out, though you lack the supplies for more advanced construction as yet. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Favors)

[] Hometown Pride: Normally you would leave Tor Gard to sit and spin but their prince has been insulted by none other than a Khaine-loved Ellyrion and that simply will not do for he is still of Chrace. Create a treasure to show the wealth of Chrace to the world. The Horse-Lords will be unenthused but, you quite simply cannot find it within yourself to care. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Chrace favors, -To Ellyrion standing, Crafting Turn)

[] Bits and Bobs: There are treasures lurking within the forests of Chrace, oddities and rarities and so on. You doubt anything too special, short of things going very awry, but you could use whatever you find the next time you are called on to create something special. (Requires at least 1 AP, Gain Craft Materials)

[-] A Gift for the Prince: As the daughter of Prince Firemane, Tethia could help you present a gift to her father the Prince of Chrace though there are certain standards expected of who he will accept gifts from in turn. Your immediate family is of course supportive of the idea; however the broader House will need to be brought around. It will, however, certainly increase your standings with the higher levels of Chracian society at least. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Favors and Standing, currently locked since magic is not developed enough)

[] Facing the Lions: Conveniently, there is a lion currently prowling about eating the cattle of farmers and other such troublesome behavior. You hardly intend to race into the affair, that being a good way to die, but you can face one, somewhat stubborn, animal, and see it brought down. (0/4, Gain 1 White Lion Pelt to either wear as is or use in construction, +1 Chrace Standing, no Favors)

Research & Development

[] The Art of the Blade: To be a Loremaster, one must master the sword, at the least a bastard sword though truly mighty two-handed blades that require the grip of both are growing more and more popular. Furthermore you must forge your own blade. While it is a sign that one desires to become a Loremaster, it is hardly unknown for others to learn their art. (0/3, does not lock you into the path of the Loremaster, is however a step on it, -10 Loremaster favors)

[] The Art of Two: To properly mingle together two Winds is an even more arduous task than merely to develop in such a way that you can wield any of the eight Winds. You can theoretically mingle together two neighboring Winds, such as Ghur and Hysh, for their mindsets are close enough; however two oppositional or orthogonal Winds evade you as yet. The Archmages know the secret, though so do many Loremasters for all they are more likely to study the Eight Winds separately. (0/3, Unlocked thanks to gaining standing and favors, does not lock you onto the path of the Archmage, is however a step on it, -10 Archmage Favors)

[] The Runestone: The Shadowlanders keep a tight grip on their Runestones but even they cannot fault you for examining what was taken from the Druchii. Strange, arcane stones bearing symbols of power in Eltharin, they are most notably used by Nagarythian mages, Shadow Weavers, to help them dispel the magic of the enemy and that is something you are not uninterested in. (0/3, Procs Ancient Embers, may overflow)

[] Elemental Puissance: The material manifestation of magical energy, Elemental Magic is simple and straightforward and powerful for it. How difficult can it be to understand, truly? You understood Lightning before you understood the Heavens, after all. (Pick one Wind, begin project to learn Elemental form of that Wind, 0/4, may only begin one such project a time)

[] The Metaphor, the Mystic: The Winds Mystical are that which holds the metaphor of the Winds. It is regarded as a more sophisticated and truer expression of magic by many in Ulthuan, though not to a foolish extent. You are well acquainted with it, many of the spells the White Tower teaches regarding Ghur rely on it and it is near to Cardinal in some ways. (Pick one Wind, begin project to learn Mystical form of that Wind, 0/4, if used for Azyr Procs Sky Seeker, may only learn one such Wind at a time)

[] Mastering the Beast Within: You already know Wyssan's Wildform; but there are other, more, spells of war, spells of battle, locked within the Wind of Ghur. It is dangerous, but you may learn them, work to study them, and then unleash them when the time is right, like a bolt released from a thrower. (Will begin project to learn Battle Magic Spell from Lore of Beasts, will enter Learning Turn to decide precisely which spell, Procs Beastly Mind. Only one may be worked on at a time.
Possible Spells:
-Flock of Doom, 0/5 AP
-Pann's Impenetrable Pelt, 0/8 AP
-The Amber Spear, 0/9 AP
-Curse of Anraheir, 0/10 AP
-Savage Beast of Horros, 0/10 AP
-Transformation of Kadon, 0/16 AP)

[] Cardinal Heavens: You now understand the fullness of the heavens; now is only the time to master that understanding, and truly master yet more spells.. (0/3, Procs Sky Seeker, gain missing portion of Cardinal Spell List in Azyr)

[-] The Temple: In your efforts to hunt down the source of the monsters coming down from the Annuliis, you located something alright: an ancient temple to Asuryan, surrounded by the bodies of dead Druchii. It was protected by magic beyond your grasp, if not wholly your comprehension. (0/8-2 (Cardinal Azyr)=0/6, Locked until further personal development IE Loremaster or Archmage options)

[] A Cure: Well, you will probably not ever be capable of fixing the most long term projects but you can certainly work on stopping the degradation process in its tracks from the beginning! The Druchii alchemy is not so advanced you cannot study it for now, though higher comprehension is likely to elude you for a time. (0/5, Procs Ancient Embers, Soothes Focus, gain capacity to cure up to mildly mutated creatures)

[-] The Book of Blackfang: A sorcerous Tome dating back to the ages before the sundering, when Snowmane and Blackfang were one and the same. Ancient secrets are woven into every page, and magic seeps from every syllable. There are multiple sections, but most tie back to varyingly mundane forms of Beast Care, if you were to judge it so. Who knows what else lurks within, however? (0/4, Procs Ancient Embers, Soothes Focus, currently locked since it is as beyond you as magic is to the murderers trained under Dwarfen feet in the Old World)

Social

Independent of plan, and requiring no AP lest Vardanis should fully lose himself to his obsessions

[] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.
[] You speak to Fhiron about the outside world, and the Long March
[] You speak to your parents, since you are, apparently, the one who has to be the mature one
--
Moratorium until Mar 11, 2023 at 11:00 PM.

Voikirium · Mar 15, 2023

Turn Five Results

[X] Plan Second Heaven

-[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

Rolled:1

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

Voikirium · Mar 20, 2023

Turn 6

VIII 48-57

It is beautiful. It is astonishing. It is a scintillating display of every color of the rainbow and a million more you have no words for. Sparks of red like the dawn sun whirl hither, thither and yon with bright emeralds like the clearest green lake. Light clear and bright embraces the gray shadow, giving new depth to that which it touches. Brown like eagle's feathers follows a blue rich as the sky above, so pristine and untouched by ever-sullying mortals as instinct gives insight clarity to fulfill greater ends than disaffected star-gazing. Gold as brilliant as the lightning and a great velvet light weep from each other as people endure, and are refined by, the tragedies and the trials and the tribulations of the world.

It is wisdom. It is knowledge. It is to see beyond mere mortal eyes.

"It's the same city now as it was when you left, Vardanis." You flinch to hear your mother speak. Cireon Snowmane was many things. Dedicated, of course: she killed a hundred Druchii to convince your grandfather to let her marry father. Focused, obsessive even, in her battle against your wayward kin—many foes she had slain all to protect Chrace from those who would see it destroyed. Charismatic: many would follow her into battle, knowing they would die, for they believed that under her, their death would have meaning, would bring some measure of victory.

But never, ever, has she been called combative.

So what does it say about you that you, her own son, keep getting into fights with her?

"Yes," you say, turning around, looking at her and tearing your senses away from the great tapestry that is the city down below to instead focus on her, rich as she is with Aqshy and Azyr and Shyish. She wears her beautifully made, ancient armor, a cuirass of Ithilmar white as the driven snow dotted with fiery red jewels. Her limbs are protected by scales that themselves alternate between that same pristine white and a sapphire blue until they meld seamlessly into greaves and gauntlets, with sacred runes of Kurnous embossed upon them in precious gold and amber—the odd one out among your family you are, the sole worshiper of Asuryan in that more dedicated sense. "But I am seeing it with new eyes now. New light has been shone on them, and so in a new light I do see much that once was hidden to me. For instance, you see that statue there?" You point at a smooth stone replica of a simple spearman, weapon and shield alike both clenched adroitly. The armor suggests War of the Beard, but the weapon the Sundering— a two for one. "What do you see when you look at it?"

"Shyish, of course." A symbol of the dead, a healthy amethyst shroud is indeed draped along its shoulders. But that is not alone, and a furnace burns underneath, one even you can scarcely separate as it melds into the purple light.

"Yes. But look, look closely and intently, mother. Let yourself see, and you will find too that there is much more than that. Aqshy like a furnace as hope and courage, the desire to live up to the standards of those who have fallen protecting the world, burn within the blazes of those who visit. Sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, all who have lost have their hearts kindled one way or another?"

"Rage, too?" She looks aside, as though…remembering.

"Aye, rage." There is flickering fire, of course there is. You Asur may be above hating the Druchii, may be above hating anyone in such a way; but how can there be justice if there is no anger that injustice has been done? Indeed Asuryan's Judgement and Asuryan's Rage are one and the same; and you, of all people, will not suggest you are above the King of the Gods in wisdom. "But above the rage there is dedication. Not some wild eyed desire to slaughter, but a keen edged focus and desire to save the world from those who would sully it."

"Indeed." She breathes and looks at the city below. "You have grown wise in your journeying my son."

"My…journeying." You breathe, once, and then let it flow out. "Is that what you call your absence?"

"Vardanis, be reasonable." She looks you in the eye, but you are a mage, and a servant of Asuryan aside and nothing and no-one will turn you from the path you have chosen, and the fire inside you would not allow it even if you wanted to.

"I have been reasonable. I have aided a family that all but abandoned me, a family that schemed to make use of me, a family that now will not allow me my anger, my hurt, and yes even my angst—but is angst such a bad thing when one has been abandoned? More than a century mother, more than a century I was in Saphery, and I saw you once!" You turn aside from her once more, thrusting your arms into the air, your own robe and cloak shaking from it all as the rage you have held onto like a hot coal pours out and out and out, searing the lip of the vessel as it goes. "But I have done it, because it was right and proper to stand with family.

"I was fighting to make sure you'd have a home to return to." She shakes her ax meaningfully, and you can almost imagine it choked in Druchii blood.

"Ah yes, I am sure that's it. Sure that it was a desire to keep Chrace safe, sure that it was a hope your family would still endure, hope and hope and hope." You turn aside and plant your newest walking stick into the soft earth of the forested hill, walking away from your mother, cloak fluttering in the breeze. "Not rage, not blood, certainly not something as basal as revenge."

Behind you, Ulgu and Ghur burn like a bright brand.

(5 AP Available, your focus is minorly agitated)

Requests and Commissions

[] Arming the March: The Long March always, always, always needs more weapons, more armor, more everything for its soldiers: not everyone can march to war armed with Wyraza Drengul, after all. It would please all of Chrace to show your wealth and power by sending yet more enchanted weapons out, though you lack the supplies for more advanced construction as yet. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Favors)

[] Hometown Pride: Normally you would leave Tor Gard to sit and spin but their prince has been insulted by none other than a Khaine-loved Ellyrion and that simply will not do for he is still of Chrace. Create a treasure to show the wealth of Chrace to the world. The Horse-Lords will be unenthused but, you quite simply cannot find it within yourself to care. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Chrace favors, -To Ellyrion standing, Crafting Turn)

[] Bits and Bobs: There are treasures lurking within the forests of Chrace, oddities and rarities and so on. You doubt anything too special, short of things going very awry, but you could use whatever you find the next time you are called on to create something special. (Requires at least 1 AP, Gain Craft Materials)

[] Avelorn Remembers: Few Asur have anything but disdain for the Haclad; but the searing contempt, the burning vitriol, the sheer, unmatched loathing that pours out like a tide every time one so much as breathes the word beard around the Avelornians. The reason is as simple as it is enraging, even for you: after you left the Colonies, the Dwarfs burned every forest they could get their hands on, killed every spirit that did not return to slumber, and sullied the rivers with their industry, all for the sake of naked spite. And the Avelornians, ever attached to the natural world, felt it all. To say there is bad blood is to say "water is wet," "fire burns," and "the sky is blue." Naturally the Seneschals of the Everqueen have a number of games and activities to prepare for the next time you must face the murderers (they have always been evasive about who they see as starting the war) so that you do not need to abandon your allies ever again. These same games do not please Cothique and Eataine, for it makes the already tense happenings that come to pass when Haclad and Asur merchants interact in Araby even worse, but the prize is rather substantial: a power stone and according to rumor knowledge in how to construct them to Avelornian standards, friends among the oldest kingdom of Ulthuan, and for you in particular, a good word given by an Archmage, which could be helpful in growing your abilities. (Requires at least 1 AP, gain Avelorn and Archmage favors, definitely Avelorn standing and possibly Archmage standing, Power Stone and Power Stone research, Lose Eataine and Cothique standing and favors)

[] A Gift for the Prince: As the daughter of Prince Firemane, Tethia could help you present a gift to her father the Prince of Chrace though there are certain standards expected of who he will accept gifts from in turn. Your immediate family is of course supportive of the idea; however the broader House will need to be brought around. It will, however, certainly increase your standings with the higher levels of Chracian society at least. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Favors and Standing, opened)

[] Facing the Lions: Conveniently, there is a lion currently prowling about eating the cattle of farmers and other such troublesome behavior. You hardly intend to race into the affair, that being a good way to die, but you can face one, somewhat stubborn, animal, and see it brought down. (0/4, Gain 1 White Lion Pelt to either wear as is or use in construction, +1 Chrace Standing, no Favors)

Research & Development

[] The Art of the Blade: To be a Loremaster, one must master the sword, at the least a bastard sword though truly mighty two-handed blades that require the grip of both are growing more and more popular. Furthermore you must forge your own blade. While it is a sign that one desires to become a Loremaster, it is hardly unknown for others to learn their art. (0/3, does not lock you into the path of the Loremaster, is however a step on it, -10 Loremaster favors)

[] The Mastery of Four: One may not simply mingle four Winds. It requires the truest clarity, the greatest focus, comprehension and understanding to perform successfully. It also, however, allows one to turn their magic even more precisely to absolute skill and ability. (0/5, Unlocked thanks to gaining standing and favors, does not lock you onto the path of the Archmage, is however a step on it, -20 Archmage Favors)

[] The Runestone: The Shadowlanders keep a tight grip on their Runestones but even they cannot fault you for examining what was taken from the Druchii. Strange, arcane stones bearing symbols of power in Eltharin, they are most notably used by Nagarythian mages, Shadow Weavers, to help them dispel the magic of the enemy and that is something you are not uninterested in. (0/3, Procs Ancient Embers, may overflow)

[] Elemental Puissance: The material manifestation of magical energy, Elemental Magic is simple and straightforward and powerful for it. How difficult can it be to understand, truly? You understood Lightning before you understood the Heavens, after all. (Pick one Wind, begin project to learn Elemental form of that Wind, 0/4, may only begin one such project a time)

[] The Metaphor, the Mystic: The Winds Mystical are that which holds the metaphor of the Winds. It is regarded as a more sophisticated and truer expression of magic by many in Ulthuan, though not to a foolish extent. You are well acquainted with it, many of the spells the White Tower teaches regarding Ghur rely on it and it is near to Cardinal in some ways.

You have begun to steady Mystical Azyr, and made some progress, but more must be done. (Pick one Wind, begin project to learn Mystical form of that Wind, 2/4, if used for Azyr Procs Sky Seeker, may only learn one such Wind at a time, currently working on Azyr)

[] Mastering the Beast Within: You already know Wyssan's Wildform; but there are other, more, spells of war, spells of battle, locked within the Wind of Ghur. It is dangerous, but you may learn them, work to study them, and then unleash them when the time is right, like a bolt released from a thrower. (Will begin project to learn Battle Magic Spell from Lore of Beasts, will enter Learning Turn to decide precisely which spell, Procs Beastly Mind. Only one may be worked on at a time.

Possible Spells:

-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)

[] Cardinal Heavens: You now understand the fullness of the heavens; now is only the time to master that understanding, and truly master yet more spells.. (0/3, Procs Sky Seeker, gain missing portion of Cardinal Spell List in Azyr)

[] The Temple: In your efforts to hunt down the source of the monsters coming down from the Annuliis, you located something alright: an ancient temple to Asuryan, surrounded by the bodies of dead Druchii. Having learned to make Qhyash yourself, the deed, while still time consuming, is eminently possible.(0/8-2 (Cardinal Azyr)=0/6, Opened by advancing along the path of the Archmage, ???)

[] A Cure: Well, you will probably not ever be capable of fixing the most long term projects but you can certainly work on stopping the degradation process in its tracks from the beginning! The Druchii alchemy is not so advanced you cannot study it for now, though higher comprehension is likely to elude you for a time. (0/5, Procs Ancient Embers, Soothes Focus, gain capacity to cure up to mildly mutated creatures)

[] The Book of Blackfang: A sorcerous Tome dating back to the ages before the sundering, when Snowmane and Blackfang were one and the same. Ancient secrets are woven into every page, and magic seeps from every syllable. There are multiple sections, but most tie back to varyingly mundane forms of Beast Care, if you were to judge it so. Who knows what else lurks within, however? (0/4, Procs Ancient Embers, Soothes Focus, Has been unlocked by advancing your magic)

[] The Scroll of Challenge: Ythil has given you a scroll protected by potent magics that promises much, gained by your great ability. To understand it will be difficult, but the potential rewards are not to be denied, nor ignored. (0/5 AP)

[] A Worthy Staff: Your walking stick keeps exploding because you keep sticking magic into it. It is starting get annoying, dangerous, and worst of all, expensive (it is, after all, fine work you do.) So why not build your own staff, out of something a bit more substantial than mere oak? If nothing else you could soak it in magic so it is a bit more used to it. (Requires at least 1 AP, enter crafting turn)

Social

Independent of plan, and requiring no AP lest Vardanis should fully lose himself to his obsessions

[] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.

[] You write to Lady Ythil

[] You speak to your parents, since you are, apparently, the one who has to be the mature one
--
Moratorium for 24 hours.

Voikirium · Mar 25, 2023

Turn 6 Results

[X] Plan Sky, Materials and Blade

-[X] The Metaphor, the Mystic 2 AP

--[X]Azyr

-[X] Bits and Bobs 2 AP

-[X] Art of the Blade 1 AP

[X] You speak to your parents, since you are, apparently, the one who has to be the mature one

VIII 48, 2, 47

On a not particularly hot day, you wake up in a sweat, and throw your blankets off, racing along the hardwood floors of the manner, feet slapping as you go. You see your brother and sister and many of the cousins who are either residing or visiting your family open their doors in curiosity, only to shut them the moment they realize it is just you being strange once again.

You throw open the door to dining room and burst in on your mother and father not quite yet ready to spar.

"The past can't change." Your mother and father look up at you, your mother raising an eyebrow, your father stopping with his tea cup not quite to his mouth yet, looking at you with a particularly potent mixture of concern, regret, and not-quite-dread. "But…but perhaps that is for the best. I do not think what the two of you did was right. But, the world is too large, too dreadful to face alone and I have very few others I can trust as much as my House, which must stand together against the darkness."

"What did you want help with?" Well, trust your mother to get straight to the point then. But as far as these things go, there could be far, far worse responses. She could have simply said no; as far as your father goes, well, he is certainly not some shrinking welp to cringe away the moment your mother says something, but by that same token well, it's not likely he'd be opposed to helping you in the first place so if it also makes her happy, well.

"There is a temple to Asuryan, not far from here, built by our Ancestors long, long ago, in the Golden Age of this world, before the madness of Haclad and the idiocy of humanity brought us so low."

How do you even begin to explain?
"I would journey there once more, and see it with my own eyes."

That your sleep has been riddled with visions? Of Phoenixes and of Manticores battling out their fury against each other, great, ravaging blows that burn and poison the very countryside each seeks to claim, the symbol of the eternal battle between Asuryan, the just ruling, and Khaine, whose sole claim to kingship is raw, naked, worthless power? Power for its own sake, power for the ability to bully, to threaten, to insult and degrade? In short, the epitome of the Druchii spirit?

Your mother looks you over, once, twice, thrice. Examining you, looking for any weakness, any failure, any flaw in your spirit. Any sign your dedication may waver, even the slightest amount of doubt or regret in your chosen course. For to doubt is to court failure and death. You cannot read her, but it is more than obvious.

And she finds nothing. This cause, this cause is yours, and you will see it done.

Her face splits in a smile, and she takes up her tea, a mix of bitter happiness and happy bitterness for a moment even as you, impatiently, wait for her to speak. "Looking back, I don't know that what I did to you was right. I can admit this now. But a part of me has to wonder whether it did not also make you more independent, more yourself and less me, less your father, less this family."

You breathe out, letting the snarling hound within remain silent, remain muzzled and leashed and caged. "I think I would have preferred having a family to having independence."

"Ha. That's because you've never had somebody try to take yours from you, Vardanis." Unexpectedly your father speaks up for the first time, reminding you both that the quiet archer does have opinions, for all he is willing to let the grander personalities of the House dominate most of the time. "Much did my father bring upon me to try and force me into compliance, to try and chain me: until his last great plan turned against him, and proved as strong as she was beautiful."

"I hardly turned against him," your mother says looking embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "But you are my husband, and he made you unhappy. What was I to do, merely allow such to come to pass and say nothing?"

"Anyway," you say to cut the two of them off before they can begin to reminisce again,"I need the two of you to prepare something for me. Please."

"What?"

"A storage room, a vault, a pantry, whatever, that just doesn't get used that much. I intend to claim reagents while I am there and I don't want somebody stumbling on them and destroying them, or getting hurt by them, before I use them."

"Alright. We can do that." Your father sighs. "And Vardanis, for what it's worth, we are proud of you. Never doubt that."

VIII 48, 2, 60

86+5=91

65+5=70

You race through the woods, wild and free. No beasts, not even the mighty White Lions, meddle with a great Bear lightly and so none have dared attempt to dissuade you as you have journeyed, constantly transforming yourself into a bear, a wolf, a raven, to more easily journey through the wild places without causing damage as you go. It is peaceful and serene, not to have to deal with great crowds of people for the time being.

And then you hear it. The screeching of an eagle, a falcon, a hawk greater than you, and then something much, much worse. The roaring of something not quite a lion, a screech not quite a bat, and a hiss not quite a scorpion's. Unnatural, beaten together into a cacophony that never should have been, forced into a hellish chorus that makes your ears begin to bleed as you grow closer and closer and yet never, ever stops being as clear as the great bells that ring in Tor Achare.

Bursting into the clearing and the entrance to the abandoned temple, you see them. The manticore, of course, as vile as possible, drool pouring out of its mouth ringed green, a body leonid and positively layered with muscle, thin batlike wing, claws sharp enough they glint in the sun, a scorpion's tail with a stinger as sharp and as hard as a lance, covered with wounds that bleed and everywhere the blood touches the grass sizzles and dies.

But that is nothing, nothing, compared to the Phoenix. Its bright and fiery plumage is neither the roaring red fires of a Flamespyre Phoenix, the great conflagration of the young and vigorous bird. Nor is it the blue hoarfrost of the Frostheart Phoenixes. It is instead a constantly scintillating prismatic band of ruby and sapphire and gold, amethyst and pearl, amber and silver, constantly flowing over the whole body, shifting and moving like a rainbow. Its wings are vast and many-hued, flowing with that same mystical fire. Its claws, talons each long as your arm, caked with blood and yet beautifully burning in the bright noon sun like precious jewels. Its tail feathers drape behind it as though it wears a livery of rainbows, and where it goes the grass is just a little greener, the trees a little brighter and more verdant. It is huge too, easily capable of biting you in half in a single move, and yet sinuous and graceful for all that.

More important, though, is to look at it with your sixth sense. Magic is rich and potent in it, harnessed by the powers of Asuryan Himself to His champion, granted as a gift. A burning rainbow, constantly dancing and charging and moving and flowing, dancing and shifting. Qhaysh, crafted not simply by mortal hands but by truest divinity. Worked, intricately, meaningfully, into each feather until it is just as saturated with the Aethyric energies as the entire rest of the body, and so each is all enchanted, making the beast more vigorous.

You cannot let such a being suffer even a single more wound, never mind die.

So you take up the magic of Chamon, and shape the Silver Arrows of Arha, each thing of purest moon light shimmering in the sun, and begin to throw them at the manticore.

The first misses.

The second clips its wings, and it turns towards you screaming and your ears do not simply bleed but burst and so you are left incapable of hearing for the moment.

It races at you, fast, too fast.

The third lances into its shoulder making it bleed even further, pouring out yet more of its life blood.

It gets close enough for you to count the follicles of its mane when the Phoenix slams into it, wrapping its claws around the thing's throat now that it's distracted. You watch as the Herald of Asuryan leans down, closes its beak around the thrashing, dying thing's neck and then sends it off back to hell.

You breath, letting out air you did not realize you had held.

After the din of roar and battle, the clearing before the temple is silent. Or perhaps it is just that you are deaf. You weave together Ghyran into Earth Blood, and let the natural energies of the world suffuse you, restoring your hearing. You look at the Phoenix and find, for all that it won, it was not an easy battle: wounds litter its body arrows upon the field of battle, great, rending cuts that leak blood that burns with arcane light and fire and yet no heat. What remains of its feathers litter the ground as it breaths, trying to recover from what was done to it.

You make a choice.

"Help?"

You forge together Ghur, and in a voice like the Pheonix's, begin to speak. "Recover, aid, beneficence?"

It looks at you and closes its eyes. "Yes."

You nod, walking toward it. "Wreath with World Dreaming. Must touch. Sorry." You raise a hand and drench it in Hysh, forcing it into the Boon of Hysh as you have practiced ten-thousand times, and place it gingerly upon the beast's leg, sensitively as possible, and wrap the Hysh like a blanket woven by a mother around it. The bright light soaks into the wounds, pouring motes of healing and comfort, shutting each and not even leaving a scar.

But a single phoenix feather falls, pristine, as a new one grows into place, and before it can be sullied by the ground you manage to catch it with your free hand even as you feed the great beast more and more of your magic.

Until, all at once, it is healed.

"...Thank you, young one." It looks at you closely, gingerly, carefully.

"You are welcome."

And then with a beating of wings it is gone, and you are left with a headless manticore body as your sole company. Its blood is too acidic for you to gather without special tools, and most of its body has been so ravaged as to be near worthless; but, there is one sharp claw still reasonably intact.

You look up at the bright sky.

Well, since you're here anyway.

You look up to the sky, and follow the patterns of the wind.

VIII 50, 4, 5

The storm howls and blows and cracks its cheeks, and yet, you dance within the rain like the wind. Thunder roars and lightning burns, and yet you fear it not, for you burn bright as a bolt of heaven's fire yourself. The breeze screams and the trees quiver in their fear and you have none for you see the dance, not as the celestial objects above with their apathy to the whims of mortal life but like the storm and the wind and the rain, the natural forge of life that allows it to fulfill its purpose. For it is of Asuryan, and you are of Asuryan, and so the two are one and same. And as Asuryan makes the lightning His arrow, and the storm His voice, and the clouds His armor, so might you do the same.

And so never again shall you fear the storm. For the wind carries His will, and His strength is the lightning, and His fury is the thunder; and so you shall not fear it. It cracks the earth around you, silver arrows unleashed by His bow Ceyaval, and you understand. Fury like lightning, and lightning like fury. It is His arrow and His judgement, and yet in His beneficence he passes such along to you, to make use of yourself, and so it was that you understood the lightning even before you understood Azyr, for the lightning and He are one.
So it was that understood the rain, for the drops are His tears and His sorrow as He understands how far the world has fallen, and how much evil has been, and how He allows Himself to remember, to grieve, and you and He are one in the same at that moment for much has been taken from your people, and your homeland itself has been cracked by evils. And yet like Asuryan for all your griefs and losses and pain you will never, ever stand down.
And the wind, the wind is His joy, for those few moments when the world is right, and all is not yet lost, and the light may yet burn, and all the evils of the world that could stand against you have not won, may not win, and there is still hope for this world that you love and are sworn to protect, and things free and beautiful and worth the fighting for and that is why Asuryan, and that is why you, yet stand.

But this has also left you thinking.

You need a weapon. A blade, a keen cutting edge thing, for without it your options against the Manticore were mostly limited to taking shots at it from some distance, and you will not always have a Phoenix to carry your weight.

So you begin writing to your first client, Methelian, requesting his advice and counsel in how you should prepare such a blade for yourself and find his wisdom is both true and more than helpful, as he also suggests he would be willing to help you learn, when or if you should seek to take up the blade for yourself in truth.

Asur Culture Corner: Ceyaval, Just Fire, the bow of Asuryan. Fire and lightning are produced when He looses its fine payload.
Gain:

-Mystic Comprehension of Azyr

-Sky Seeker becomes Sky Servant (3 AP invested into actions involving things linked to Azyr and/or the sky gain one extra AP)

-Tier 4: 1 Arcane Phoenix Feather (Broadly useful for all manner of enchantments)

-Tier 3: Manticore Claw (Bearing the savage nature of the manticore, mostly useful for weapons)

-Plan out your sword, not proper construction yet

-Art of the Sword 0/3 AP -> 1/3 AP

Sorry it's short, hospital visit sort of threw off my mental plan for how it was all going to go. Next thing up will likely be a vote on the enchantment and materials for your sword but not the aesthetic, and you will not actually make it until the turn where you finish Art of the Blade.

Voikirium · Mar 26, 2023

The Planning of the Blade

The sword is the weapon of the mage. The sword is the weapon of the sage, the wise, the able, the high-minded and the gifted. The weapon of Hoeth, the weapon of Aenarion. The mark of a gentleman and scholar; not merely the clumsy thrusting and striking of a hammer, nor the artless biting of an ax, but flowing and graceful as the water and yet powerful and swift as the Winds. Bane of Beastmen, bane of Greenskins, bane of undead and bane of Haclad alike, the most versatile of all weapons. Make it large enough and it can bite through armor just as well, if not better, than a hammer and yet still remain graceful; gracile enough, and it is thin and fast as a spear.

Symbol of Ulgu, symbol of Judgement, symbol of Hoeth.

And now you would forge one for yourself.

It must be done with all your skill. It would not do to create an inferior weapon for yourself, one lower than you are. It must be yours, and bear the mark of your hands and your work and your abilities. Something fit for you, for your capacity and your abilities.

There is a choice you must make here:

Whether to follow the known enchantments; or, to go off on your own and experiment.

Available generic enchantments:

[] Biting: Slice through armor more effectively

[] Warrior's Bane: The foe shall be innervated, less able.

[] Torment: The foe shall be confused, befuddled, with every blow.

[] Fear: And the darkness you face shall fear this blade.

[] Sure Blow: Wreathed in magic, a solid strike will take all but a truly hearty foe from the fight

[] Write-In enchantment:

Which Reagents will you use

[] Arcane Phoenix Feather: (Write in enchantment to spend it on, if undesired, vote no)
[] Manticore Claw: (Write in enchantment to spend it on, if undesired, vote no)

Moratorium for 12 hours since it's a simpler vote

Voikirium · Apr 1, 2023

Speaking With Gods

[X] Sure Blow: Wreathed in magic, a solid strike will take all but a truly hearty foe from the fight

-[X] Arcane Phoenix Feather: No

-[X] Manticore Claw: Sure Blow

A sword. A sword you need, a sword you crave, a sword you will have. But what to make of it?

And so you sit in your room, bare chested, windows closed, on the darkest night of the year, neither silver Indrelth nor accursed Indruith sickly green.

Eight statues before you, eight statues of the gods in a circle reminiscent of the Mandala, one and six and one. At the center, Asuryan before a great bowl filled with fire that leaps and tosses and turns around itself, the light casting the image of your Emperor into brightness and yet leaving no shadows. The Cadai. Champions of Elveness. The representation of the best parts of the Elven psyche, which raise you above the beasts. An acknowledgement of what the world could be. The primordial, aethyric essence of certain states of mind, some of them, if not unique to the elven mind then enshrined beyond other peoples; others shared by all, Elf and Human and yes, even Haclad (Valaya indeed).

But most of all, they are wise. Of course they are—for they are you. And so you shall ask them.

The Fire Burns.

You meditate before the statues and allow the gods' essence to flow within you, the Winds echoing within your soul as they flow around, each that particular combination of the Winds which a Mage recognizes as belonging to the god to which they would speak. The Winds of Magic, the remains of the gods after they were made to leave mortality by the will of Asuryan; a portion of their essence remains, and that portion may speak through hope and through fire, for they are one and the same.

The part of you that is Ladrielle, the Wanderer, the Misted, speaks first, sure and clear as the fire becomes silver as flowing river water. Silver and furious it must be. Bright and quick, Ladrielle speaks. A savior, a fine thing, a light in dark places, and so says inner Ladrielle. And then She is silent, as silver fire becomes scarlet wire.

Isha next as the fire turns a bright green. Let them not suffer. Bring not pain. Such is the way of hateful things, of the Enemy, of Haclad and of things worse than the slayers of children, and so says inner-Isha. Let it be as sure and as solid as your vow, and so says Isha last, before the Winds fall silent and the fire dims down to a dull roar and becomes mere red flickering embers once again.

Kurnous, patron of Chrace and amber flame. A quick kill, and a certain kill. So says Kurnous, so says the part of you that is He, so says the part of you that sings His song and weaves His Winds. A hunter's tool must be keen and sharp, and so too says Kurnous that blasts and bellows and burns outside of you with the dancing fire the shade of amber. Then it falls aside and becomes but licking red tongues of the dancing hunger.

Loec, the dancing shadow, and the fire becomes dancing mist as His essence fills the fire. Trickery, deception, and theatricality suit your people more than raw power, mage, wizard—Wise One, not murderous one. Yes, but if it is worth to kill then it is worth to kill however it might be done.

Vaul, wounded and struck and yet not broken, and the fire becomes golden and roars as His rage becomes truth. Any artist needs his tools, and this must be your art, your refinement, a weapon worthy of you. A tool must serve a purpose, must allow an artist to surpass their limits, and what limit do you see? And then the fire dims.

Hoeth, and blue fire. The Blade is a tool of justice, a tool for righteousness, not the tool for execution, not the tool for slaughter. So let it serve justice, let it serve righteousness. And what is righteous in sowing pain, violence, suffering? Let there be a death, if a death there must be, and then let be the end of it, so you may go and bring further justice. And the fire goes red.

Lileath. Fire the shade amethyst burns bright, dancing and leaping, as the Seer of the Gods speaks. Often have Her blessings saved your people, saved you, from doom. The power of nature burns in this world; wield it. Make use of it. Beast-Minded, it is to be a weapon; and so a weapon let it be, without pretense, if not with savagery then with honesty. And then it returns to red fire.

And finally, at last, Asuryan. That which is most you takes the Winds from you to feed the Fire, and in turn it becomes a roaring, prismatic, multi-hued thing that whispers stories of the gods to you. The shadows are cast aside as, in that room, your room, it becomes as though the noon day sun hangs right there in your room.

You are Judge, so judge well. Judge righteously and judge justly. Do not bring pain and suffering and loss. Already and many times you have judged already, and have judged aright. You have taken the life of a beast corrupted by Dhar, if not by your hands then by your proclamations; and yet not hatefully, but for the sake of justice. And against the Manticore you did judge, standing with the righteous phoenix against the enemy, against the darkness, against slaughter for the sake of slaughter and violence for the sake of violence and murder as an expression of power. And you cast it aside, chose the path of the heavens. So choose again, judge again, Vardanis of House Snowmane.

And then the fire dies down to a mere red blaze, as the Winds of Magic are no longer perturbed by the bits of your soul that bear the marks of the gods.

A weapon. A weapon that can surely kill, not painfully and not hatefully but for the sake of all life. That is what you shall make of your sword. That is what you shall make your symbol. And it shall stand defiant against power-as-rule, forevermore, for it shall be wrought by your hands and your will and you shall make it so.

And so you know what is to be done with the Manticore fang, already.

High Elf Culture Corner

Indrelth: "The Fulfiller of Hope", the true moon, that which is named Mannslieb within the Empire. The realm of Lileath, it was carved by Lileath out of Her steed, Cindermane's, own eye, plucked out by Tzeentch during the Great Catastrophe.

Indruith: "The Fulfiller of Destruction," the false moon, that which is named Morrslieb within the Empire. The realm of Chaos, it is the Harbinger of Evil, the crown jewel of the Regalia of Nurgle and sought by each of the Four.

So, for the record, you did not just speak with the Gods as Big People.

Next turn proper up, probably tomorrow unless I way oversleep or something. Sorry about the wait, just sort of distracted of late.

Voikirium · Apr 2, 2023

Turn 7

VIII 58-67

The sun rises. A crimson flame bursts into life upon the great backdrop of the silk blue skies, turning and waving and shifting under Aethyric power. The clouds, white as the snow upon the very top of the Annullis, turn and shift and flow like water carving a path. Playing against the magical energies unleashed by those self-same mountains and by the Vortex, as the light plays over the horizon from the rising of the sun it is not simply the ruddy red of Khaine's fire, not on this the holiest of days, the day of the birth of the Vortex, the day when Aenarion cast down the Daemons and mighty Asuryan took up his bow to keep the darkness at bay forevermore.

The song of Slaanesh allows violet flames the shade of purest dyes to burst into being as the sun makes its journey through the sky. The roars of bellicose Khorne blast a pure, brass fire to erupt, dripping from where land and light meet each other, falling like sparks along the inner sea in a glorious blaze. Sea blue flames shimmer and dance in bright water's light, undulating as the waves of the ocean might, swirling and twisting and echoing. Green light, the color of mucus and rot and worse, flares throughout the sky, sickly and pale. But they do not work together and it becomes a smear, a mind-assailing array of shades and hues and swathes that bring no strength.

And then there is a rainbow as Asuryan and the Cadai cast away the gods of Chaos from their prison once again, bursting throughout the early morning sky and lighting up the world in pure, prismatic brilliance as the light unleashed by the power of evil is drowned under and burned away by the power of the true gods, and all you see and hear and touch is suffused by magic, balanced by its nature for twenty four hours, from this dawn to next. As the magic rebalances itself once again, a pivotal working of Caledor's sacrifice. A reminder of the true excellence to which every mage of Ulthuan must cast themselves towards. A reminder of what was almost lost.

Every ten years it happens. The Daemons strive to enter once again, and the gods between upon the gate that keeps them from mortal reality. Every ten years, like clockwork, they strike at the gates, on this the anniversary of Elven victory over Chaos. And every ten years they are repulsed. Every ten years, the magic remains as it should.

On this day, every ten years, a mighty host, perhaps the mightiest of hosts, serries forth from Athel Loren and the denizens therein, changed by their long intercourse with the spirits of that place and the magic so unleashed, go upon their Wild Hunt with a renewed vigor. Not simply beasts they seek then in that time, nor those who have dared to insult them. Daemons, the chosen of Chaos, they the Asrai, the chosen of the forest, hunt in that year, falling upon the doom bringers with a wild fury, service to the memory of Aenarion, Blood of Kings and Blood of Saviors and Blood of Defenders.

In Naggaroth, of course, the Failed Son speaks much of his father's role in that bygone time to save the world, as Morathi speaks of her fallen paramour as well. Great parades of captured slaves are marched through the streets then one of every four slaughtered in great festivals of bloodletting and Druchii superiority, for it was none but elves who saved the world—Grimnir, apparently, never existed. Then a great hunting journey sets out to gather more slaves. Few will be captured, but their fate is the more and the less grim than many: their lives shall certainly be less miserable than the many who toil and fall and perish, for they are a special sacrifice indeed marked as they are by this day, but in turn the Druchii hold that mere death will not free them: after their passing they shall be taken Ereth Khial's realm to, in turn, slave for the Druchii even after death. Neither Morr's Garden nor The Underearth nor the Isle of Wights shall wait for them. They will work for the bleak ones even in the eternity of the dead.

And would not Aenarion and Caledor be so happy, to learn that to mark their legacy of saving the world they love, the Druchii would go and make it worse?

The Asur celebration, of course, is as it has ever been, and that is only right: Five times you shall sing, five times to mark the Five Defeats, and to break the Unholy Number.

And you are no exception for all, rather than tolerate your family, you have chosen to go into the wild places to celebrate this day. The old spring is not as it was; but it heals, it heals, as the Dhar is driven out and burned away, as nature reasserts itself once more. Murky the water may be, but you can see spots of clarity and so you do not fear to strip and enter and feel the Ghyran soothe aching muscles as you go cross legged in a shallower part. The trees may bloom only a little, and the green may be fragile, but green it is and the grass is thin but softening. And most of all animals return, and not simply the stinging, crawling things but ravens and robins, bears and badgers, wolves and if the smell is to go by, lions too.

Something you have done has had some meaning, at all.

So among the birds and the bees and the beasts you open your mouth, and your voice begins to pour out, joined by the symphony of the World Aenarion died to protect:

Brother spoke the four as one, together we shall rule,

Surrender to the Darkness within your heart you know holds true.

In his hand the sword of Khaine did promise power untold,

As God of Light and God of Murder battled for his soul.

One by one the Daemons fell and Elf Lord he stood tall,

For should he fail upon his task then mortal world would fall.

Upon the isle beneath the fight, wise mages cast their spells

And Daemon minions howled in anguish, cursed to eternal hell.

And on this day we bow our heads to he who world did save,

Aenarion the Proud Defender, Aenarion the Ever Brave.

Defiance. Defiance to the darkness, defiance to hopelessness, defiance to cruelty. How can they not see this? How can the Druchii be so blind, so deaf, so unseeing? To look upon these mortals, and they were indeed mortal, and believe they would be happy to see…slaving, and slaughter, and ruination? Yes, Aenarion the Wanderer would seek to dim foreign shores, reduce the world he loved. That Caledor, who negotiated with Dragons, who loved them and sought to speak with them, would ever consent to such a vile thing as slavery, it is all madness, all arrogance, all stupidity. Evil, something rotten in the Elf soul, something that must be faced within all of you yes, but to fall so deeply within it that one becomes…that, one falls to that, one becomes a slave to the very gods that Aenarion sought to cast out—it defies comprehension.

Hm.

Wisteria on the breeze?

Your thoughts are interrupted by the clacking of boots on soft mud as you feel the Aqshy and the Azyr barely constrained by Tethia's soul and her devotion to her goddess approach you in the spring. You are not quite decent, but you are not truly nude either, and in this water she could see nothing anyway and so you do little.

"Vardanis?"

"Tethia."

She looks at you framed by the woods, clad not in her usual repertoire of the most extravagant of dresses but in a plain sun-golden thing.

"Your parents asked that I should find you." Why she and her band should come to your estate is a question in its own right, one you choose not to ponder for fear of the depths therein.

"I desired solitude, for at least this brief moment. To see the work of the gods."

She ponders for a moment.

"May I join you?"

"Of course."

She steps out of her dress and into the pool across from you.

And there is peace and contentment, for a moment.

"You know your family will want to see you today."

"I know. And I will go. But I wanted, once today, to sing for, and of, myself, and not how another desired."

"I understand."

(5AP Currently available, Focus moderately agitated)

Requests and Commissions

[] Arming the March: The Long March always, always, always needs more weapons, more armor, more everything for its soldiers: not everyone can march to war armed with Wyraza Drengul, after all. It would please all of Chrace to show your wealth and power by sending yet more enchanted weapons out, though you lack the supplies for more advanced construction as yet. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Favors)

[] Hometown Pride: Normally you would leave Tor Gard to sit and spin but their prince has been insulted by none other than a Khaine-loved Ellyrion and that simply will not do for he is still of Chrace. Create a treasure to show the wealth of Chrace to the world. The Horse-Lords will be unenthused but, you quite simply cannot find it within yourself to care. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Standing, Chrace favors, -To Ellyrion standing, Crafting Turn, the lord of Tor Gard is a well-known lion tamer himself)

[] Bits and Bobs: There are treasures lurking within the forests of Chrace, oddities and rarities and so on. You doubt anything too special, short of things going very awry, but you could use whatever you find the next time you are called on to create something special. (Requires at least 1 AP, Gain Craft Materials)

[] Avelorn Remembers: Few Asur have anything but disdain for the Haclad; but the searing contempt, the burning vitriol, the sheer, unmatched loathing that pours out like a tide every time one so much as breathes the word beard around the Avelornians is unmatched. The reason is as simple as it is enraging, even for you: after you left the Colonies, the Dwarfs burned every forest they could get their hands on, killed every spirit that did not return to slumber, and sullied the rivers with their industry, all for the sake of naked spite. And the Avelornians, ever attached to the natural world, felt it all. To say there is bad blood is to say "water is wet," "fire burns," and "the sky is blue."

Naturally the Seneschals of the Everqueen have a number of games and activities to prepare for the next time you must face the murderers (they have always been evasive about who they see as starting the war) so that you do not need to abandon your allies ever again. These same games do not please Cothique and Eataine, for it makes the already tense happenings that come to pass when Haclad and Asur merchants interact in Araby and Ind even worse, but the prize is rather substantial: a power stone and according to rumor knowledge in how to construct them to Avelornian standards, friends among the oldest kingdom of Ulthuan, and for you in particular, a good word given by an Archmage, which could be helpful in growing your abilities. (Requires at least 1 AP, gain Avelorn and Archmage favors, definitely Avelorn standing and possibly Archmage standing, Power Stone and Power Stone research, Lose Eataine and Cothique standing and favors)

[] A Gift for the Prince: As the daughter of Prince Firemane, Tethia could help you present a gift to her father the Prince of Chrace though there are certain standards expected of who he will accept gifts from in turn. Your immediate family is of course supportive of the idea; however the broader House will need to be brought around. It will, however, certainly increase your standings with the higher levels of Chracian society at least. (Requires at least 1 AP, Chrace Favors and Standing, opened)

[] Facing the Lions: Conveniently, there is a lion currently prowling about eating the cattle of farmers and other such troublesome behavior. You hardly intend to race into the affair, that being a good way to die, but you can face one, somewhat stubborn, animal, and see it brought down. (0/4, Gain 1 White Lion Pelt to either wear as is or use in construction, +1 Chrace Standing, no Favors)

Research & Development

[] The Art of the Blade: To be a Loremaster, one must master the sword, at the least a bastard sword though truly mighty two-handed blades that require the grip of both are growing more and more popular. Furthermore you must forge your own blade. While it is a sign that one desires to become a Loremaster, it is hardly unknown for others to learn their art. (1/3, does not lock you into the path of the Loremaster, is however a step on it)

[] The Mastery of Four: One may not simply mingle four Winds. It requires the truest clarity, the greatest focus, comprehension and understanding to perform successfully. It also, however, allows one to turn their magic even more precisely to absolute skill and ability. (0/5, Unlocked thanks to gaining standing and favors, does not lock you onto the path of the Archmage, is however a step on it, -20 Archmage Favors)

[] The Runestone: The Shadowlanders keep a tight grip on their Runestones but even they cannot fault you for examining what was taken from the Druchii. Strange, arcane stones bearing symbols of power in Eltharin, they are most notably used by Nagarythian mages, Shadow Weavers, to help them dispel the magic of the enemy and that is something you are not uninterested in. (0/3, Procs Ancient Embers, may overflow)

[] Elemental Puissance: The material manifestation of magical energy, Elemental Magic is simple and straightforward and powerful for it. How difficult can it be to understand, truly? You understood Lightning before you understood the Heavens, after all. (Pick one Wind, begin project to learn Elemental form of that Wind, 0/4, may only begin one such project a time)

[] The Metaphor, the Mystic: The Winds Mystical are that which holds the metaphor of the Winds. It is regarded as a more sophisticated and truer expression of magic by many in Ulthuan, though not to a foolish extent. You are well acquainted with it, many of the spells the White Tower teaches regarding Ghur rely on it and it is near to Cardinal in some ways.

(Pick one Wind, begin project to learn Mystical form of that Wind, 0/4, may only learn one such Wind at a time, currently working on no Winds)

[] Mastering the Beast Within: You already know Wyssan's Wildform; but there are other, more, spells of war, spells of battle, locked within the Wind of Ghur. It is dangerous, but you may learn them, work to study them, and then unleash them when the time is right, like a bolt released from a thrower. (Will begin project to learn Battle Magic Spell from Lore of Beasts, will enter Learning Turn to decide precisely which spell, Procs Beastly Mind. Only one may be worked on at a time.

Possible Spells:

-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)

[] Beastwalker Business: The Beastwalkers do not really like the wielders of Ghur within the White Tower. They regard you as too civilized, too touched by the trappings of society, too attached to the ephemeral matters of mortal civilization. Because soap is bad, apparently. The fact remains, however, that not only did you manage to stop the mutated beasts pouring out of the Annuliis when they either did not care or could not do so, you are the only one who has really advanced notes on them if they should return. Perhaps you could speak to them of such matters? If nothing else the Loremasters are always happy to gain new lore for the tower. (0/5, Gain ??? Loremaster Favors, Gain ??? Loremaster Standing, Who knows where interacting with the other magical traditions of Ulthuan might lead, procs Beastly Mind)

[] Cardinal Heavens: You now understand the fullness of the heavens; now is only the time to master that understanding, and truly master yet more spells.. (0/3, Procs Sky Servant, gain missing portion of Cardinal Spell List in Azyr)

[] The Temple: In your efforts to hunt down the source of the monsters coming down from the Annuliis, you located something alright: an ancient temple to Asuryan, surrounded by the bodies of dead Druchii. Having learned to make Qhyash yourself, the deed, while still time consuming, is eminently possible.(0/8-2 (Cardinal Azyr)=0/6, Opened by advancing along the path of the Archmage, ???)

[] A Cure: Well, you will probably not ever be capable of fixing the most long term projects but you can certainly work on stopping the degradation process in its tracks from the beginning! The Druchii alchemy is not so advanced you cannot study it for now, though higher comprehension is likely to elude you for a time. (0/5, Procs Ancient Embers, Procs Beastly Mind, Soothes Focus, gain capacity to cure up to mildly mutated creatures)

[] The Book of Blackfang: A sorcerous Tome dating back to the ages before the sundering, when Snowmane and Blackfang were one and the same. Ancient secrets are woven into every page, and magic seeps from every syllable. There are multiple sections, but most tie back to varyingly mundane forms of Beast Care, if you were to judge it so. Who knows what else lurks within, however? (0/4, Procs Ancient Embers, Procs Beatly Mind, Soothes Focus, Has been unlocked by advancing your magic)

[] The Scroll of Challenge: Ythil has given you a scroll protected by potent magics that promises much, gained by your great ability. To understand it will be difficult, but the potential rewards are not to be denied, nor ignored. (0/5 AP)

[] A Worthy Staff: Your walking stick keeps exploding because you keep sticking magic into it. It is starting get annoying, dangerous, and worst of all, expensive (it is, after all, fine work you do.) So why not build your own staff, out of something a bit more substantial than mere oak? If nothing else you could soak it in magic so it is a bit more used to it. (Requires at least 1 AP, enter crafting turn)

Social

Independent of plan, and requiring no AP lest Vardanis should fully lose himself to his obsessions

[] You speak to Tethia about, well, many things, even as you do your work.

[] You write to Lady Ythil

[] Your brother and sister apparently want to talk to you about an important, if by no means urgent, affair
--
Moratorium for 24 Hours.

Voikirium · Apr 11, 2023

Turn 7 Results

[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.

-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)

"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-

~~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.

To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)

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