To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)

[Voikirium]

To Forge A Sword

[X] Remain home. Gird yourself in the strength of your ancestors and prepare yourself for the Druchii. For they will come again, and this you know well and truly.

You think for a moment, allow your thoughts to flow with the Winds along the path of the Vortex. They swirl in and out and along.

Your mind flows to the Colonies. To what you have heard of them. Of the Gates of Callith and of the strange Snakemen of Khuresh, snapped in half as clearly and as painfully as your own people, broken in war, instructed by the Arhat in what was right and proper living on one hand, slaves to darkness on the other, who visit so often seeking to purchase fine wares or gain knowledge or even simply to speak to another so long lived. Of the Tower of the Sun, where the Wizards of Ind seek to purchase such mystical knowledge as you will offer in return for their own divine lore, and man and elf stand against the pitiless Beastmen. Of Arnheim, where war, bloody war, is waged against the Druchii for their many, vile deeds by free man and by elf, by natives and by those rebelling against their former masters and by elves themselves.

And then it turns to The Long March. To truly and honestly go out and fight evil, as your ancestors did and as is only proper that you should as well? To preserve the Waystones, which protect the world from the evils Chaos, which are a living link to the past, faded though it might? To see the world, and all its horrors and splendors—to see the Old World and Elithis again? As is your right, and perhaps, in some sense, your duty?

What can compare?

Your mind turns to fire red hair, to your rival, your equal, the sole constant in your life, if for so long, an annoyance of one. To a father who first taught you how to read, to sketch and fight and set you in the first place, on the path of magic. Of a mother, who took you camping, hunting, fishing, to sing, who ensured that it would be Ghur which claimed your soul in the fullness of time? Your sister, who once broke the arm of a boy who bullied you, who spoke poorly of your witch-like ways, the rube, who you still must pay back for letting Tethia know about your reading habits? Your brother, your brother who you saw grow into a man, who you shall in turn repay for keeping true by telling his besotted to speak to him?

No, it is time to be a light of truth as Asuryan Himself would: It was not simply abandonment, but betrayal, that made those hundred years sting. But betrayal can only exist between a people who have cared for each other in at least a broad sense, and it only hurt because you cared for them. And that…that does not, cannot change. For they are your family.

And too, what of the bright sun shining overhead, dancing along the touch of magic as it never will anywhere else for in no other place is the magic so worked, so touched by the swirling vortex to create nothing less than a prism of infinite possibility? The breeze twirling through the flowering trees, carrying their scent with them? The roar of lions? The smell of the honeysuckle, mingled with rose? The Glory of your turning aside the beasts of the Annulli? And to leave it all defenseless, in the face of the Druchii, or of any other who would dare to threaten your home, your people?

"I confess, my mind turns with curiosity towards the world entire. Towards the colonies. And I desire to protect the world. But." You grasp the two of them in a hug, crushing them against you. They look shocked but return it quickly, and the three offer each other a comfort that has been missing for much too long. Merel is stiff, and awkward, always the withdrawn that one, but after a time he returns it with arms strong as all archers. Your sister, proud and uncaring and defiant of those who would mock her for…anything, returns it quickly, and you can scarcely breathe. And you, for your part?

Well, it is only natural. You are a thing touched by Ghur, not forced into the mold of the Arcane Marks but no matter how skilled a mage one cannot know the Winds and their heart and not be touched by it. And so your soul is a thing of beasts; but for all it may be forgotten in a song of predator and prey, even the beasts hold to their family, to their kin. The wolf, the falcon, the elephant and many more alike will stick together as siblings, never mind their sires; and who are you to deny that portion of the animal kingdom its dues, for all so many other, lesser mages seem willing only to consider that portion of it, long of fang and red of claw. "You are my family, and this is my home. And it will always be so."

"Alright. That…Alright, Vardanis."

"Now then, I do hope will you excuse me but I do need to forge my sword." You meaningfully shake the bar of steel in your hand, and none too subtly gesture at the statues of Asuryan, Vaul, and Hoeth you have around the Forge.

"Hm. What were you thinking?"

"Simplicity. I know what I want it do. It will blaze with magic, and any blow of true heart will strike down my foe."

"Excellent."

"It is all I can be Merel. Now, if you don't mind, I must enchant."

"Of course we don't mind, right Merel?" She claps his back in what is, you think, meant to be friendly camaraderie but judging by the breath he lets out, was decidedly less than camaraderie.

"Actually, I would like to speak with Merel about something briefly if you don't mind."

"About what?"

"I still need to rake him around the coals for telling Tethia about certain habits."

"Oh, oh of course," her face splits into a particularly satisfied grin. "Have fun." She walks out right quick.

Merel looks confused for a minute as you stare at him, before you light the forges with a simple fire, ensuring she cannot hear even though she is all but certainly eavesdropping to laugh about it later. "Next time she cause you trouble, just say the name Volund Emeraldsea and see how she reacts." His eyes widen, and then he gives a smile, one that is very unfriendly. "Oh, and do me a favor won't you, and look mildly to moderately chastised when you go out, please, and ideally babble something to her though I won't stop you if you want to pretend to be so traumatized you can't speak."

[] Write in sword aesthetic (Go as detailed or as simple as you like, just keep in mind it has to be at least a bastard sword. Posting a picture is also fine, if that's what you'd like to try)

[] Write in sword name (Sample names: Drodano, Elugal, Kelindri)

---

Vote will open in roughly twelve hours.

I did not forget about Tethia, she is incoming.

 

[Voikirium]

The Claw of Death

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw

[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.

Rolled: 35+30 (Bonus from Manticore Claw)=65+10 (Two Ap Invested)=75

You meditate upon the steel, your eyes closed, sitting cross-legged within the forge. The fire does not burn, but the statues of the gods seem to glower down at you in judgment as you become them and they become you, god and mortal entwined together as it ought to be. It is as white as Manticore bone, you know this, and much like bone the enchantment you desire is wrought upon it. You are not some bumbling Druchii conjurer of parlor tricks, but a Mage of the White tower and so you will not force the magics you seek upon this artifice. No, that is not your way. Instead you follow the grains of magic already hidden within it, just waiting for someone to coax them out, and begin to pour your will, your skill, into the vessel.

The might of Ghur, the grace of the predator. You remember the first time your mother ever took you to hunt; an oddity, for by rights it is only proper that man should teach his son. But at the time you neither knew nor cared. All you cared for was the sound of the birds in the sky. The grass under your feet. The wind in your hair. And when the time came, you cared that your bow shot was delivered…adequately, at best. You were a hunter who wanted to eat, not a tormenter who enjoyed suffering, and so you delivered its end swiftly.

Amber light slowly drifts out of the steel in delicate motes.

The quickness of the lightning and the thunder. There in one moment, and gone in the next. And in surety there is only destruction left, only flickering fires and shattered glass, the certainty of destruction. The lashing of the winds and rain. The crashing of the waves. The rolling of the clouds. All that is destructive in the storm, channeled through you and through your memories. Who knows how many storms you've seen, how many trees toppled by lightning, how many raging forest fires begun by the power held within the lightning and the thunder? Azyr, in its most primordial, elemental form.

Sapphire light burns brighter as the two are entwined by your will, strengthening it.

Counterparts.

Some swear the more Winds the better.

They are wrong. That is not to say that one could not, of course, feed all eight Winds into a thing to make something of wonder. But better to do as you are doing and weave them well. You take the two antipodal motes and bind them together in what they have in common, the raw power of nature, feeding it. With the hurricane and with the diagrams of gryphons. With the lightning and the study of lions. With the comet ad the speed of hawks.

All at once it is ready.

You are ready.

With an expression of pure Aqshy you light the furnace and the fires beneath the gods, giving them a divine light, a mystic light, for they are one and the same. You thrust the steel into the fire within a pair of hard tongs even as it begins to glow a strange and mercurial shade that dances between an orange like jasper and a blue like sapphire, and the metal soon enough begins to glow red hot, as the magic fire touches it and as it does you chant and then you are not you and yet you are and—

She has killed your guest.

The metal sings as you move it to the forge and as you take the ground manticore claw and pour it on the hot metal, allowing the curdled Ghur and Azyr within to separate from the Dhar caused by the mutations forced on the poor creature by the Beastmasters. The Dhar itself sets alight as the enchantment of Asuryan burns into being, falling apart into the eight separate Winds and coming to mundane reality as a rainbow of light, even as whatever is not cleansed is whisked away into the vortex.

She has killed your guest, but She cannot kill your hope, for what is your hope but your plan? Draugnir's body cools before you, and She thinks She has won. Has proved Herself the better hunter, even if She is bound into the Underworld for it, never again to know the Heavens. You will not let Her win. You will not let hope die. So you begin to cut.

The next time you are you, the blade has begun to take shape. A curved thing, the better to dance and cut, if not quite so much so as the Arabyan's wield. It is, proportionally, thin, the better for speed. As long as the length between your knee to the top of your head, big enough that you would require two hands to wield it. Not so large you could not hold it in one hand, and so a staff remains possible; but perhaps a wand might serve you better now? Questions for later.

The first thing you take are the scales. Dark as a muttered curse, and yet lustrous as the sun-warmed sea. These you give to Isha, fair Isha, who weeps for the slain dragon, for that is Her, it is what She does, She is the pity in every heart given shape. You take the flesh, and you smooth it and work it, and becomes the plains of what is to be the home of your people. The bones you take and carve and scrimshaw and forge, and they become the mountains. It is Ulthuan.

The next thing you see, you are taking your chisel and intricately carving the runes within the fuller, the filling them with gold, the better to shine. Cyanthyal, Claw of Death—Deathclaw, and there is an odd amusement in the name. The runes shape the magic you cultivated in the steel, allowing it to express itself more fully. The magic flows as you desire, as you crave, as you follow a path that has been trodden before but never so skillfully.

The heart you leave behind, the heart shall be worked for another day, the heart shall be the heart of hope when all hope seems faded and worn, a thing to be kept safe. Instead you march on the Underworld, where dread Khaine who rules by the Sword holds court, waiting for the day of reckoning. He laughs as the Huntress boasts of Her Murder, and if you had not already proclaimed your judgment She would suffer more for Her deed. But rather than to turn back on your word, you let them laugh, revealing their ignorance, until all at once you unveil Ulthuan and let them understand that they shall not have it, for your children will guard it.

Khaine, in turn, promises that He will see it burn.

You relish the challenge.

The next thing you know you are carving the hilt. A fine hunk of oak, and held within two rubies (don't ask what spells you had to perform to earn those) hold a glimmer of the magic each, far from power stones but a representation, held within the curved crossguard of gilded steel, which flows over your fingers and over your wrist to protect them the better. Wrapped around the grip proper, simple leather, worked though until it is soft as silk, and dyed a brilliant red. The pommel is a golden phoenix, and dangling from it, a tassel of white lion's fur.

You hold it aloft and let it catch the rays of glimmering light, as awareness returns back to you. Moving, shifting, flowing, you are not stiff nor slowed nor stilled; but your mind returns to awareness. Your will becomes clear again as the magic fades from you. The world makes sense slowly and surely.

It is…it is not perfect. The lingering touch of the creator's vision on your eyes assures you of that much. You can see the flaws, the places where the magical matrix could be more finely woven, a weakness in the steel, a flawed touch of the chisel.

But.

It is a superb weapon indeed.

"It is quite a sword," Tethia says, in her intricate, long robes. She says nothing about the fact that you at some point stripped off your own top, though she does toss a simple tunic to you, one you slide on with little fanfare, for you are too busy examining your sword for it.

"It is Cyanthyal, and it will be a bane to all evil."

"You seek the path of the Loremaster then?"

"I seek that the next time I am face to face with a damn Manticore, I have options aside from flight or fire."

Any spell truly worth a damn against a Manticore runs the risk, remote but present, of a miscast, even for an elven Mage. And that, that you cannot allow.

"You fear the beast, so you form a weapon that makes you get close to fight it. Truly the wisdom of a mage."

"I am no beast's prey, so I make a weapon that makes me its predator. Truly the wisdom of Ghur." You give her a meaningful look. "Never forget that, Tethia Firemane." You know it is the Aqshy that burns around her, but much like a poison simply because you know it is present does not make it less so. At best it allows you to brace yourself for the mix of courage and anger and other, lesser things her presence inspires within you. It is not something imposed on your spirit, of course; all the flame is that which you bring with you. But it burns all the same.

"I think if you were to become a Loremaster, Vardanis, you would need to follow the Old Way. Asuryan demands much of His Servants."

"By serving Hoeth, I serve Asuryan. Besides, Lileath too marks mages; what is one more god. But yes, I have considered it. It will be nice, I think, to see what others think, to learn what others learn, to know what others know."

"Hm. Very well Vardanis. I care little whether you should walk the path of Loremaster or Archmage, neither is beneath you, but I do hope you keep up." As though to punctuate her point, she grabs Ulgu and Hysh, Aqshy and Ghyran, and weaves them for a brief moment, though only a moment, into not so much a spell as a show, singing as she does in imitation of her Goddess.

"I do not think your heart so bleak, Tethia, that you should abandon me so easily."

"Oh you are not so lucky, Vardanis, rest assured of that. I would keep you as amusement in my court before I allowed you to fade from my side, and then force you to become the Mage I know you can be. But the world keeps turning, and there are those who are not so amused so easily."

Your repartee is stopped by the sound of hooves upon the stone outside. The smell of…Wisteria?

You hoist your sword over your shoulder. "Well I would hate to disappoint, wouldn't I?"

---

Epic Creation of note:

Cynathyal/Deathclaw: A masterfully made sword, if one sometimes surpassed. Every blow that strikes true strikes deadly, as surely as a griffon's claws. (+15 to all combat rolls)

Improve forging to 15 Points per AP.

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 8

68-77

Hands wrapped around the hilt of your sword, you let the wind flow through the open windows, chilling your body. You are dressed as a mage ought to be, a long outer robe of darkest amber trimmed at the wrist and at the hem with a darkest, sapphire blue, made of wool from far Avelorn. A sash studded with eight gems, one for each Wind of magic, a gift from your mother, keeps it closed over the inner robe, a shorter, tighter thing, made of that same fine wool and colored black and white, the colors of Asuryan, damascened with images of phoenixes and dragons, intertwined with each other.

Cynathyal is light in your hand as you rise in the darkness, though the flickering candlelight makes the red gems twinkle. The soft yellow gilding catches light too, and it dances on the bright metal like the Cinderkeepers of Ellyrion. You wrap your left hand around it as well, and bow your head to the statue of Hoeth. "And I thank you, master of knowledge, that my blade should please you. May it cut swift and true as your wit."

And then you move. The blade suits the wielder, and the wielder suits the blade. Each Swordmaster of Hoeth, and each Loremaster, develops their own style of swordsmanship. Oh there are commonalities of course, obvious exceptions aside there is one elven body, with two arms and two legs, two hands and two feet, ten fingers and ten toes, two eyes and two ears, so on and so forth; you are unlikely to find someone who fights by tying their sword to their wrist and then stabbing with it.

But. Different features become emphasized.

And yours? Yours is precision. If you hit, even more than would be the case generally, the enemy will die. You are strong enough, stable enough, secure enough that you can trade strikes, by feasting on the essence of Ghur. So, you make sure you hit.

So you twirl to practice, imagine you are gliding under some cursed Beastmaster's whip to deliver the point of your sword to his throat, tangling it in your robe's sleeve only to in essence push off his head. Grim, but effective. Next you accept an imaginary cut from an Assassin and your mind, riddled as it is with old, well worn stories from Avelorn, helpfully produces exactly the sort of numbing up and down the right side of your body that you can expect, but not enough to keep you from a shoulder check that knocks your imaginary menace to the ground, and then with a brutal downward cut you gut him like a fish. Finally, the winds which whisper the past and the present and the future to you, not quite foresight but much more than mere imagination as a human might imagine it, present something new to you.

A Druchii wizard, in all her, their, glory. But something is off, odd, wrong, she is not, they are not—

You smell Wisteria.

The Winds fade away as you hear two sets of footsteps enter the forge you have claimed as your own. The first, of course, is your brother's. The second is a harder one to place. Foreign, at a guess.

Who follows is not a woman you have ever seen before. Eyes dark as jet, hair yellow blond, short and thin of build. The clothes are a soft, sumptuous green that speaks of Avelorn. Except for her cape, which is instead a pure, snowy white, soft and luxurious seeming, that seems to reach all the way to her ankles, with three red red heart embroidered on it, each with a rune inscribed in that same pure white thread: Denla, Drathro, Dromui.

Freedom and unwoken heroism bring hope.

The smell is even stronger now. Rose and pine needle lily and mistletoe may fade into it, but the scent of wisteria is strong. Too strong. That particular phoenix still burns bright red.

Or emptiness until the blackhearted ascend.

You school your features into the general apathy expected of a mage even as your suspicion explodes. You can prove nothing of course, and how would you even find proof? But that smell…you know it too well.

"Vardanis," Merel says with a broad grin, "I would like you to meet Antheus of Avelorn. She is a servant of Lord Ellirian, and looks to recruit men to join his force. Perhaps we may be free of the damned Druchii once and for all if he is to succeed, eh?"

"Perhaps," you say and then turn to her. "A pleasure to meet you miss, have you long enjoyed the pleasures of Chrace? In particular there is a spring not far from here, where the water is clear like finest glass and the beasts are plentiful."

"Unfortunately I have not," she says with. "There is little time to tarry, and much that is to be done, no?" No reaction out of her. Perhaps the instincts of Ghur have led you astray?

"So it seems. I have considered, at the least, providing that host with my works." Considering it in the fifteen seconds between smelling the wisteria and actually talking to her constitute considered it, so you are scarcely even lying really. "There is much one can say about the Sorceresses of Naggaroth, but they are not entirely without a raw power to them, if nothing else."

"Oh indeed."

"Of course, power without control, without wisdom, will eventually consume them; but eventually can be a very, very long way away, particularly for an elf." You nod at the both of them. "But if you will excuse me, I must be getting on with my training. You are welcome to stay and watch, if you would like; though I warn you now, I have created my style more for precision than for beauty or grace."

"There can be I think," she says, "beauty in doing what you set out to do, even if it is not done with the most artistry. But alas, I must go and to round up some more men. Perhaps later I might?"

"Excellent. Your quarters are ready, Antheus, and I am sure you must be exhausted. I will have a meal sent to you as soon as possible…"

The two wander up the stairs, and the moment they are out of sight and out of hearing your eyes narrow and you lean on your sword.

Wisteria. Connected to Elliriad. Foe to Druchii. The thought will not leave…but how to see, without becoming a madman and destroying your house's reputation in the process? More importantly, yours?


(Focus is unbothered, 5 AP available)


[] 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)


[] 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, Procs Beatly Heart)


[] Elliriad's Will: Prince Elliriad of Avelorn, one of the Everprincess' consorts, makes ready an army to ravage Naggaroth and finish what Tethlis the slayer started. He intends many things to become ready. To gain the Heartsword of Avelorn, a magical blade of astounding potency. To tame a mighty griffon. All so he can stand against his own brother, Vengril. Ulthuan is split. There are those who would let the Druchii dwindle on their own time and in their own way, and those who support him to the end. Nagarythe, Chrace, Eataine, Cothique, and of course, Avelorn, support him by and large. Caledor, Ellyrion, Saphery, Tiranoc, and Yvresse, by and large, do not, though then if you take ten elves you will find eleven opinions, of course. You could make him something…if you had the stronger magic you need for it. It will be a battle with the traitors after all. (At least 1 AP, gain favors and opinion from Nagarythe, Chrace, Eataine, Cothique, and Avelorn, lose favors and opinion from Caledor, Ellyrion, Saphery, Tiranoc, and Yvresse, Currently locked—Your wares can not yet compete with the magical items produced by the artists of other lands and ages long past. Your magic must be refined before you can)

Research & Development​

[] The Art of the Armor: All Loremasters prepare armor for themselves. It is uniquely balanced between all eight Winds of magic; not properly enchanted per se, any more than you might call a leaf enchanted because it is full of Ghyran. Only just…prepared, made ready to be what it is and fit for one who would bear the full power of the Winds within themselves. And of course there is the matter of making it fit for the wearer. You could learn it yourself…or you could simply ask the Loremasters for their assistance in such training. (0/5, -20 Loremaster favors, create suit of armor which still allows you to cast spells, further progress along the path of the Loremaster though you still are not "stuck" as it were)


[] 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. May overflow


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, may overflow)


[] 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, ???, May Overflow)


[] 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, may overflow)


[] Taming a Beast: You have received permission to hunt the White Lions near Tor Gard, and that would include claiming one of them to serve as a boon companion, or a mount of sorts. You have the book of Blackfang as well, which offers mystical insight into the taming of the creature. If nothing else, it will be an excellent proving of your raw ability as a mage; and further, let you refine your magic as well as perhaps allowing you to peer further into the Book of Blackfang. (0/6 AP, gain a White Lion cub to raise as a War Lion, +2 Chrace Standing, +3 House Snowmane Standing, +20 Chrace favors, Procs Beastly Mind)


[] 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, gain Archmage favors and Standing, overflow unknown)


[] 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)


[] Writing It Down: You managed to get to the heart of what had been done to the beasts of the Annuliis, but your results were sloppy and unfocused, as perhaps is to be expected of one who had not even mastered wielding two magics at the same time yet. Now that you have, at least, that you could go back and reexamine them and write what you see; the farmers of Chrace have what they need, after all, but the Archmages may be interested. If nothing else it will be further data for the effects of Warpstone on flesh. (Requires at least 1AP, Will Proc Beastly Heart, Will Proc Ancient Embers, Will gain Archmage Opinion and Favors)

Social

Independent of Plan and requiring no AP, lest Vardanis should lose his mind​

[] You write to Lady Ythil

[] You speak with Methelian. A part of you is still angered about how he spoke to your friend, but another part would like a fellow paranoiac around for a bevy of reasons

[] You speak with your parents. If anyone would know if Antheus is up to something, it would be your mother and your father
--
Vote will open in twenty-four hours.

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 8 Results

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[X] Plan Lion and Temple

-[X] Taming a Beast - 4 AP

-[X] The Temple - 1 AP

[X] You speak with your parents. If anyone would know if Antheus is up to something, it would be your mother and your father

—VIII 67, 4, 2—

"I don't like this," you say around the delicate cup of qulfi, letting the rich, aromatic blend, imported from Araby, play across your tongue. The caffeine invigorates you like nothing else, letting you cut through the fatigue of the little sleep you have enjoyed as you have worked on your sword, the fugue ending at last. You sit on one of the balconies overlooking the manor's courtyard, looking down on your brother and his new…friend. Supposedly you are meditating.

"What do you like?"

"Plenty. I like magic. I like Asuryan. I even like you when you aren't abandoning me because your hatred of the Druchii has driven you mad," you say to your mother who chokes at a simple, honest statement of fact, even as your lips quirk up as the Aqshy of mirth and hopes burns in your mother and father, the slightest willingness to believe that they have not, perhaps, alienated you irreparable. "I'd even like to like that Merel has finally found someone who can challenge him." Indeed, down below the two have begun a friendly archery challenge, their arrows striking true.

"Oh?" Your father's voice lilts with the slightest edge of teasing and humor. "Are you sure you should be judging anyone's romantic escapades, Avelorn boy?"

"Oh no no, did you not see dear?" Your mother takes on a faux sweet tone, and you feel your anger rise once more as she plays at having some understanding of you after abandoning you for a century, but you kill it. Judgment can come later. After Qulfi. "It takes a Caledorian to break our son's heart."

"You are lucky I still recover from the vast mystical energies that were channeled through me, the both of you, or I would turn the both of you into newts," you promise with the glower expected of a damn two-hundred-seventy year old mage. They grin, and you can almost feel the quivering chuckle as the two of them pat themselves on the back.

"Or are you jealous that your little brother is spending time with somebody else?"

Once again you glare, though more seriously and that seems to clear the air. "Hardly. I was, and am, desirous that my siblings should be happy. But I do not trust this somebody. For she smells of wisteria, hydrangea and oleander."

"Weak poisons for the appetite of the Druchii." Your father would be the expert, though in a pinch you expect either could provide a dissertation on the various concoctions the traitors spit out to assail you.

"I know what I smelled!" You snap from your seat at the table. "I caught them on the breeze in the form of a bear, and then I came upon the spring and it was attacked. This, and the time…it is too convenient."

"Perhaps." Your mother clasps her chin in her hand to think, even as below the two have begun a particularly blatant bout of flirting. "Cadai know the Druchii enjoy sending their spies, even if only Nagarythe will believe us when we speak of. But 'I found her stink unpalatable' is not the unimpeachable evidence you would need to accuse her, my son, not of something like that."

"It should be when it is backed by a predator's instincts," you mutter with a particularly sour tone. The skies, at least, seem to support you, for there is not but clouds in the sky.

"Perhaps, but even a predator does not invest themselves into a hunt until they know what they're hunting."

"Oh and, Vardanis?" Your mother speaks, tone hard as iron. "I do not hate the Druchii. Hate corrupts and degrades, and I will not let them have that victory. I mean simply to stop them."

"Oh I'm sure." You roll your eyes and get up from the table, though less dramatically than you do when you're really upset; why robes only flutter, rather than really billowing. "In any case, I have work to do."

—VIII 69, 4, 20—

(Liontamer: 92+25=117)

The high, thick grass of the plains crunches under foot, your bare sliding through the mud easily for you are the master of the wilds this day. Rather than robe and cloak, you have stripped down to your a simple pair of breeches and a deerskin cloak. Intricate, Ghur symbols have been painted on your flesh in amber paint by your own hand as you inhaled the smoke of Kurnous' Mark, and let that fill you, guide you, control you. On your right hand the rune of Asuryan, for with that you shall judge. On your left hand the mark of Isha, that you might be merciful. On your heart, the mark of Kurnous, for He is the Master of Lions.

You smell it on the wind. Something has broken the natural cycle. A predator has slain not to survive, and not even to feast, but for the joy of slaughter. Shyish and Dhar mingle together as the trumpeting, braying ass of a hunter lurks in wait near the duo's corpse, even as the Azyr of potential found in all youth is dimmed as creatures lose their parents.

You advance forward stealthily, allowing Ulgu and Ghur together to make you a predator yourself. You see it, a giant wolf, red of fur and black of heart. Touched by Khorne, touched by Dhar, touched by Slaanesh, does it really even matter? It smiles as it sees the lion cubs, a male and a female, advance towards what they think is their parents. It intends to make them a meal as the moons rise and the sun falls.

Instead you bark in Anoqeyån, not so much casting as forcing Claws of Fury into reality, the Winds shaking as you bring them into shape. Its eyes widen as it sees you and it moves, but you move the faster, sinking the sharp knives that your fingers have become into the thing's body and forcing it to the ground. Then with one savage blow you strike the heart, and that, as they say, is the end of that.

The two sniff at the corpses that were their kin, not even a day ago. Many lose their young and their parents in the Wild, you are not so naive as to think otherwise; but there was a cruelty, a treachery, to this particular deed, beyond the usual. A wolf mutated, one way or another.

You simply sit, long into the night. Eventually the cubs start sniffing at you, once they are done pawing at their parents. You take out a bit of jerky and slowly hand it to the beasts and they start to chew at it.

You'll cast the spells of binding eventually. For now you would let the beasts grow. It won't be too long until they are full matured, after all. What's a mere decade to one like you?

—VIII, 73, 2, 10—

After far, far too many years, you finally return to the temple of Asuryan. The bodies of the enemy have been removed, not by your hands but by the will of Asuryan. The magical enchantments still lie thick and expert crafted and strong and full of magic, but you can see them more clearly now. Can see how they inter—

Your thoughts are interrupted by a nuzzle at your hand. Looking down, one of the lions, the boy, has begun nuzzling at you, even as the girl continues to chew on the fish you caught for her. "Glutton."

Your mind returns to the gate, and to the magic therein. It is, written, inscribed, in Anoqeyån if you leave behind merest eyes and look with your soul, now that you can do that without risking your very sanity. Like one made ink of the Winds, and then sheafs of parchment, and then wrote the one on the other. You…could do it, if you had two-hundred years worth of focusing on nothing but it. Daunting, to realize what your forebears were capable of. But tellingly, they are not simply enchantments. Each tells a story. But for all you called the language Anoqeyån it is…not off, but different? Strange. Almost like comparing Fan-Eltharin, Druhir, or Tar-Eltharin to Eltharin from before the Sundering.

Except, of course, that that is nonsense because what kind of ancient thing would have spoken Anoqeyån of an even older branch than that they teach at the White Tower? On Ulthuan of all places? The Slaan before their dementia, their degradation, their senescence, perhaps, but you are far, far from Lustria, and far from the Southlands. The Snakemen of Khuresh? Unlikely.

Then who?

In either case you unerringly put what you can on parchment. Though much of it is nonsense, you can at least translate three terms, for they have changed little:

Draugnir.

Phoenix.

Hope.

—

Ulthuan affairs:

Standardization: After many decades and much yelling and fighting and debating and the other signs of a vigorous academic community, the White Tower has formalized that all students from now on shall begin their studies with the Wind of Aqshy, the Wind which most fits the soul of the Asur.

—

Results:

+1 Progress to The Temple, now 1/6

-Gain 1 Snazzy Wolf Cloak (No mechanical effect, but extremely fashionable)

-Finish Taming a Beast, gain two White Lion cubs

Name 1: [] Write in

Name 2: [] Write in

Shorter turn this time, simply because there was only the one thing. Hope the embiggened social makes up for it.

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 9

78-87 VIII

Tor Enthlui is not the smallest town, but it's far from the largest either. So as the supposed Noble of Avelorn walks the white stone streets, freshly paved and made of marble from the Annulii Mountains, quarried under the best of guard on the lower slopes, all while accompanied by a fine band of spearmen and archers, there is naturally some curiosity. They have, of course, abandoned the spear, a weapon meant for war, for single-handed swords. Their kite-shields retain that same shape, as ever, but are smaller, lighter, more maneuverable, meant once again for battle in the streets of the city or other urban confines rather than war. Their armor is a mix of plate and scale, good hard steel, made red and green in equal measure, each a number of runes etched on every scale.

Antheus herself is dressed in a beautiful silken dress of that same color, made of good silk. At base it is a light and refreshing green, the same tone as the Ghyran that rises from a spring filled with flourishing life, life that grows and is in turn nourished by that same spring in a virtuous cycle. Embroidered in that same fabric are curling rose stems and the unfurling flowers in emerald and ruby shades of silk in turn. A cape drapes around her, green trimmed with red with embroidered white runes woven into the fabric. A belt of softest leather, studded with rubies in the shape of a heart, is wrapped around her waist.

Yes, she's quite a sight. And almost certainly aware she is being watched.

But probably not aware that one of the ways she is being watched is by the raven perched on the roof overhead.

Your soul may not be warped by Ghur the way the Beastmen and the Horikin would have it, but one cannot think and feel and live in such a way and not have it leave some influence. Some measure of itself. You can balance it out, have balanced it out, will continue to balance it out, but it will be there, like an echo spreading from the spoken word, the fallen rock, the toppled tree. It cannot be undone. And so you have done as an animal might do when threatened by a predator:

Tracked it.

Because your instincts are never wrong. They aren't. Honed by Ghur you know much that others miss. There is a scent to her, to them. Not simply the wisteria, the hydrangea, the oleander, though to your senses, enhanced by Ghur, it may as well be as obvious as Asuryan's own fire; an oddity, however, that she would not think to cloak it better. But there is more than that, more than that indeed. There is a tension, a nervousness, a sweat about her guards. Only a keen mind, soaked in, yes, Ghur, might notice it and so the Beastwalkers, it seems, should have noticed them; but there is more to it than that. More, much more. Twinges of rainy air like Naggaroth's own bleak weather. Cold flashes, like you step into a blizzard for a moment when they are around. What does it mean? How can the others not notice? It seems, to your mind, like madness. Most maddening of all, a sound like the bitter chill winds of the far north, distant, so very distant, but you can hear them, you can hear them, pouring in from the horizon like a tune played on a music box far down the street.

And yet, there it is.

Is it you? Are you the mad one? Has obsession, the dedication of your mother and your father and your forefathers finally unveiled itself in you, made you see and feel and smell things that are not there? Has the hatred of the Druchii, which you should not feel lest it consume you, finally in truth, consumed you? Or are the others simply ignorant, choosing to ignore it?

A blade of light falls across your eyes however and stops your rambling, even as you take off in the form of a raven.

Tethia, it seems, would like to speak with you.

---

"Snowmane," she says as you approach, hidden inside your courtyard. She wears a simple robe, fit for a daughter of Chrace. It scarcely suits her in truth, the plain white and gold, but then it is only proper that, in presenting herself as a Princess of Chrace, she should dress as a princess of Chrace. You have done worse for what is proper, yourself. Her guards are similarly attired and adorned, though it suits them better than her which is, perhaps, only correct.

"Firemane," you say in turn.

There is a part of you, shaped and touched and moved by the Ghur, that dislikes being outnumbered in a closed environment, though another part remains very smug that if you wanted there is little they could do to keep you from fight or flight, as the mood took you.

And of course, you are only really so outnumbered.

The padding of paws on the ground, faster than faster, quicker than quick. Eight of them, which makes Tethia quirk an eyebrow.

And then they burst in. Mountains of fur, white as snow. More than just fast they are right big too, not quite going to break records but a cut above the common White Lions all the same. They circle around you for a minute even as Tethia's guard shift to keep their weapons more easily accessible. As Chracians themselves they have some experience with the beasts…but one, this close to their charge, would be bad enough. Two must be a whole other nightmare.

They lay down beside you, all but glaring at the guards and at Tethia. You kneel down a bit and scratch them both before pulling some deer jerky out from your belt and handing first some to Indrion, then to Indrast, letting them both feast on it in equal measures. You point to the female, "Indrion." She is well groomed, her claws manicured and well-protected by the magic that binds the both of you together, ensuring they will live…well, not necessarily as long as you but considerably more than the mere fifty or so years a beast would otherwise have. You point to the male. "Indrast." If anything he has been even more groomed than his sister. His claws have also been manicured and protected, but quite aside from that his mane has been combed until it is soft as silk, then braided in intricate, woven patterns, and finally layered with golden trinkets.

"Your pets then?"

"War-Beasts," you say as you scratch under Indrast's jaw.

"And the petting then is—"

"An attempt to ensure should the bindings be broken they do not devour me."

A mage like you, keeping pets. Ridiculous.

You hand some more deer jerky to Indiron, the glutton, who huffs and puffs in contentment.

"Right, well, when you're done dealing with your pets I suppose you might want to know that my father has spoken to Bel-Eshain." You tense up. The Wildwalker, leader of the Beastwalkers, is not to be trifled with or invoked likely. Priest to Kurnous and Wizard in equal measure, he has proven…resilient to the idea of centralizing Mage education, and further mocks the idea that 'namby pamby Sapherian high-types can convey the true wilderness of Ghur.' You doubt anything he would, or could, say would be good for you.

"He's not opposed to letting you access their library."

Your eyes widen. Very, very far.

That is an exclusive club indeed. But more importantly, it will allow you to understand another facet of Ghur: That of Kurnous.

Oh yes, the tripartite division is the basest, most unbreakable formation of the Winds. If you have Magesight and the ability to cast, at least on the scale of a society you will divine it. Even the Haclad were on its path before they cast themselves to madness. But gods, and other powerful entities, they cast their own weight on the Aethyr themselves, give it its own touch. Its own weight and rules and blend therein. Break what would normally happen, theoretically; the priests of Nehekara, for instance, relied on their gods to cast spells of many Winds without going mostly insane.

Mostly.

---

A sheet of paper at your door, news itself.

House Snowmane, it seems, have decided you are worthy to trade within their greater network for reagents, though they tell you now there is only so much they can get to you and so quickly.

[Gain access to library of the Beastwalkers, and therein their arcane lore. Actions that Proc Beastly Mind may gain Bonus AP, Learning new Ghur Spells may gain bonus AP, Creating new Spells that involve Ghur may gain bonus AP]

[Gain access to trade network of House Snowmane, allowing you to buy and sell reagents]

(Your focus is lightly agitated, 5AP available)

[] 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)

[] 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, Procs Beatly Heart)

[] Elliriad's Will: Prince Elliriad of Avelorn, one of the Everprincess' consorts, makes ready an army to ravage Naggaroth and finish what Tethlis the slayer started. He intends many things to become ready. To gain the Heartsword of Avelorn, a magical blade of astounding potency. To tame a mighty griffon. All so he can stand against his own brother, Vengril. Ulthuan is split. There are those who would let the Druchii dwindle on their own time and in their own way, and those who support him to the end. Nagarythe, Chrace, Eataine, Cothique, and of course, Avelorn, support him by and large. Caledor, Ellyrion, Saphery, Tiranoc, and Yvresse, by and large, do not, though then if you take ten elves you will find eleven opinions, of course. You could make him something…if you had the stronger magic you need for it. It will be a battle with the traitors after all. (At least 1 AP, gain favors and opinion from Nagarythe, Chrace, Eataine, Cothique, and Avelorn, lose favors and opinion from Caledor, Ellyrion, Saphery, Tiranoc, and Yvresse, Currently locked—Your wares can not yet compete with the magical items produced by the artists of other lands and ages long past. Your magic must be refined before you can)

Research & Development​

[] The Art of the Armor: All Loremasters prepare armor for themselves. It is uniquely balanced between all eight Winds of magic; not properly enchanted per se, any more than you might call a leaf enchanted because it is full of Ghyran. Only just…prepared, made ready to be what it is and fit for one who would bear the full power of the Winds within themselves. And of course there is the matter of making it fit for the wearer. You could learn it yourself…or you could simply ask the Loremasters for their assistance in such training. (0/5, -20 Loremaster favors, create suit of armor which still allows you to cast spells, further progress along the path of the Loremaster though you still are not "stuck" as it were)

[] 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. May overflow

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, may overflow)

[] 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)=1/6, Opened by advancing along the path of the Archmage, ???, May Overflow)

[] 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, may overflow)

[] 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, gain Archmage favors and Standing, overflow unknown)

[] 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)

[] Writing It Down: You managed to get to the heart of what had been done to the beasts of the Annuliis, but your results were sloppy and unfocused, as perhaps is to be expected of one who had not even mastered wielding two magics at the same time yet. Now that you have, at least, that you could go back and reexamine them and write what you see; the farmers of Chrace have what they need, after all, but the Archmages may be interested. If nothing else it will be further data for the effects of Warpstone on flesh. (Requires at least 1AP, Will Proc Beastly Heart, Will Proc Ancient Embers, Will gain Archmage Opinion and Favors)

[] An Order: You have an order you would like to make for a reagent. (Cost: 0 AP, TX X 5 Snowmane Favors, 1-3 Turns depending on reagent rarity, may not order T-5s, Ithilmar however is available as are Power Stones (Both T2))

[] Creating A Spell: You really wanted to wait until you had mastered your magic further but it seems that if you keep waiting you will never do this. Two Winds can make a fine enough spell anyway. Creating a spell, a good spell--hell, even a merely acceptable one--is an excellent way to make friends with both the Loremasters and the Archmages. For the Chief Archivist has powerful friends, and it looks good for him to expand the archives. (Cost: 1 AP to Begin, Gain Favors from both Archmages and Loremasters, Will begin Spell Creation Tutorial)

Social


Independent of Plan and requiring no AP, lest Vardanis should lose his mind​

[] You write to Lady Ythil, for if anyone would understand your dread it is

[] You speak to Tethia about your suspicions, and your worries about how it seems you are noticing what others do not

[] You speak with Methelian. A part of you is still angered about how he spoke about your friend, but another part would like a fellow paranoiac around for a bevy of reasons
--
Moratorium for 24 hours.

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 9

Spoiler: WINNING VOTE

[X] Plan temple exploration:

-[X] The Temple x 5

[X] You write to Lady Ythil, for if anyone would understand your dread it is

—VIII 78, 1, 10—

You are…lost.

You are lost.

Not physically perhaps, but spiritually, mentally. All you have managed to do of late is stalk a woman out of paranoia, even if you are right that doesn't make it not paranoia, and craft a few treasures. Call it preparing for the Druchii, call it aiding your house, call it filling the standards of your forebears, it does not, fundamentally, change what you are, and what you are doing. Where is the boy who marched off to the White Tower, to an entire other kingdom, and burned his mark into the future of your people? Where is he? What have you done with him? Buried under indecision and self-doubt like some bumbling child and not a Mage of Ulthuan? Not a servant of Asuryan, certainly, nor a servant of Hoeth.

It is beneath you.

And so you meditate, Indiron and Indrast padding around you, sometimes rubbing their heads on you looking for head scratches, or more likely, food. Their presence, their Ghur, is comforting to you.

Focus. Focus.

Focus.

The statues of the Cadai surround you inside the smithy once again, though you have moved the brazier and instead sit yourself, cross legged and in a robe of finest blue and amber silk. Directly before you is Ladrielle, and behind you Her husband, for it is to the mistress of the lost and the wandering that you would turn. The sun is rising outside, and so beams of bright light fall through the windows, letting you feel the warmth and the heat on your skin.

First they light the marble of Ladrielle.

There is nothing.

Lileath. Knowing and just beyond all.

Loec. Cunning and merciful, in His own way.

Vaul. Maimed in service to that which is right and just.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

A silence as you have never known. They do not answer, will not answer, cannot answer. Where are they? Is all but ashes on the wind? Must you go unseeing?

Hoeth. Wise and noble.

Kurnous. Wild and free.

Isha. She who you Know.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Even Isha, She who has never abandoned the Elves. She who would suffer and die with you, indeed even for you, in abeyance to all the Druchii claim in their death worship, will not answer. None, it seems, will answer.

There is a glow.

You turn to the statue of Asuryan, and it softly glows with the dawnbright sun, like a ruby pulled from the, like gold fresh worked, like honey traded with the bees. It is soft, but there is reproach and judgment there. It seems almost to speak in your mind, though of course nothing so simple as the agitation of air and the shifting of a stone mouth occurs. Abandoned, hm? And what of you, who abandon my temple for seventy years? Think you that that is not some sort of abandonment?

Some of course would say that you have spoken to Asuryan Himself.

Some would say you have merely placed a face, a label, to natural process.

The wise realize they are but one and the same; certainly it is a better use of your time than angst, if nothing else, to grow your comprehension. So you grab a quill, and a bottle of wine, and the sheafs of parchment that bear your sketches, your rubbings, your work, and begin trying to translate what, by rights, should not exist.

—VIII 85, 2, 23—

Years pass in the seeming blink of an eye, as you throw your body, heart, and soul into finally translating this. You know, of course, that Anoqeyån is the tongue of the Old Ones. That is, in fact, the root of the problem. The Old Ones knew everything. When they created Anoqeyån, they created terms…for everything. It should not go through the process of mundane languages, whether that be Drukhir barking, Khazalid grunting, or Eltharin song: it was already perfectly made. It was not, in fact, a fully natural language at all, but one constructed for the purpose of magic. Unless something burned itself into reality; unless the very fundamental of the world itself changed in some precipitous moment, then there should be no changes to it. Devolution, perhaps, as their heirs fell from grace; but this is too old even for that.

So then.

"What happened?"

Indrast tilts his head then goes back to chewing on his deer. He is not much for conversation, but monologuing sometimes helps to get your mind flowing.

Whatever the case, however, you have translated it.

You understand…enough. Enough to enter the temple.

You begin to read aloud—

AZYR SHYISH AQSHY HYSH ULGU CHAMON GHYRAN GHUR

QHAYSH

[] …And hope returned like a phoenix. It blazed (Burned? Shone? The word has many synonyms, dependent on its exact position) and cast away the darkness, its fire its judgment. "I am not fallen," he said, as in the heavens above it was like the mortal world below. Phoenixes followed it even as it entered into being, the Creator. And He took a fine material, and He shaped it into a weapon; and where he wielded it Daemons (shall? Did? Both? As it was, so it shall be? You cannot even rely on Azyr to tell you, for all strands of magic were woven into these carvings, these writing) die. They fell, and His weapon was bright, and there was hope. And as there was hope, there shall be hope again…

[] …And the Balance was Kept. The (Hunter-Killer-Scoundrel-Poacher, all of that conveyed in a term best translated to the mortal tongues as Andas Raymath, no point for guessing who) was cast out from the heaven we had made, stripped of all (Sovereignty? Authority? Wonder? …Permissions?) even as the wonder we had (convinced? Tricked? Failed? Promised?) bled out on the steps. But we did him last service; we ensured his children would have allies, safety, safe harbor, as a pack…

[]…And the Emperor of the Heavens spoke, and the world buckled before a voice like the thunder that was His birthright. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me; and none may occlude my vision." And so mighty Asuryan, whose plans are infinite, walked through the labyrinth that trapped Him, guided by the light of the ever bright sun and his wife's brilliant, milk-white moon, He forged a path through the realm of the mad god…(???)

…Hm. Strange. There was a moment where the magic seemed to shift.

Oh well. Not enough to turn you from the path.

"Indrast! Indiron! We go!"
—
You wanted to see what putting five AP into the temple would get you? Have fun with five AP into the Temple.

Event time!

Moratorium for 24 hours. I'd like to think I was reasonably obvious where each would lead.

 

[Voikirium]

Heavens' Temple

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[X]…And the Emperor of the Heavens spoke, and the world buckled before a voice like the thunder that was His birthright. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me; and none may occlude my vision." And so mighty Asuryan, whose plans are infinite, walked through the labyrinth that trapped Him, guided by the light of the ever bright sun and his wife's brilliant, milk-white moon, He forged a path through the realm of the mad god…(???)

When you woke up today, the world was lit by the great burning sun. The sky was a soft, sweet blue like the shimmering spring. The clouds, sprinkled hither and thither and yon, were rolling, calm, mist like things that dimmed the sun without cutting it, making it pleasant. The song of birds unfurled across the valley like a soft tapping rain, and the smell of flowers, sweet honey suckle and rose and jasmine cultivated not by mortal hands but by the work of the gods. Kurnous' own land, to be sure, the land of a civilized outdoorsman rather than the savage of the Cytherai. Deer prance and roam over the rolling hills (unlike Saphery, none of them have moved—not a feature you miss) and the people play and farm and live in peace.

So of course, as you approach the temple, new walking stick in hand, it has begun not just raining but a true blue storm pounds the mountain slopes. Rain heavy and thick as arrows pounds down on your simple deer skin cloak and hood, wrapped tight around the plain blue and amber robes you wear, the only decoration on them intricately painted arcane symbols and invocations of the gods. You hold Cynathyal in the other hand; you can hold the thing in one hand, particularly so long as you hoist it over your shoulder to help keep track of the tip, but fighting with it means throwing away your walking stick.

Again.

Lightning scorches the earth, blue as sapphire and golden as the sun, Asuryan's arrows falling like a constant staccato beat as He wars against dark power. The Four of course, but Khaine as well, ever Khaine. The wind roars like the mightiest and most ancient, most powerful of the Star Dragons, howling its challenge to the world and ensuring you can barely hear yourself think. The sun is strangled, and the world is dark under bleakest, blackest cloud that roil and boil and shift with the vast energies released by the storm. Aqshy and Ulgu and Azyr in unequal measure drip from those clouds in a swirling, tri-colored array, lightning and mist and storm.

Naturally, of course, Indrion and Indrast are playing as the three of you walk towards the destined place, the thunder bearing, the world shaker. The two swipe at each other, prance around, sniff at the ground and wrestle, rolling in the mud and the dirt even as they continue to follow, begging that you shall rub their bellies or pet their heads. Graceful and masterful predators indeed.

Finally you see the Temple that you seek. The statues of Asuryan are as you left them, and you bow as you approach even as you feel…feel a presence settling on your shoulders. Like a fire, there is heat but it does not burn. The most minute, slightest, fraction of something peerless, an absolute, pays attention to you, turns some portion of its, His, gaze down onto the world below; and not as He watches all things, but he pays some special merit to you.

Why?

Many questions.

Only one answer.

And that lies through the door.

You leave behind merely mortal flesh and turn your soul's gaze on that which burned into the door. Even with your training it is hot and bright to look at, Azyr like flashing lightning carved into glimmering, amberous Ghur, forced by a will ancient when the Elves were young to exist.

A story you have never heard before about your god, written in a language that by rights should not exist itself. The first is understandable enough, the Kingdoms each have their own stories about the gods to reflect how that god and that kingdom are intertwined. There are ten-thousand stories of Asuryan the Creator in Caledor, where they love craftsmanship. In Saphery they know Him as Keeper of the Balance, and the Archmages believe He blesses the Loremasters and the Archmages alike who seek balance; either in themselves or in the magics they attempt to shape into Qhaysh or both. To those of the Shadowlands, Nagarythe, He is the Emperor of the Heavens, the one who will grant them vengeance, the one who will make them whole, the one who will judge the Druchii for their many sins: their blasphemy, aye, and their treachery of course, but most of all for their simple cruelty. Some hold even that the Sundering itself was His judgment, though that is a cruel judgment indeed. The Shrine—Eataine—they both try to ensure that His fullness is held in all respects, and of course none would gainsay that He is all of these and more aside. So some stories are told to all.

But that is not even a Chracian story. You would know—you checked. Extensively. So where in the world did it come from? It is either very old or very wrong or very metaphorical or something because there are claims in it that do not make sense. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me?" At least one of those is an insult, and not simply to some Cytherai either: the moon is Lileath's. By most Elven reckoning She made it, set it in the sky from Her own shorn locks, a trend Her Daughter would in turn pass along to Avelorn. And the married share their property aye, but by that same token if your mother decided to call the brush your grandfather whittled for him hers there would be words. It may simply be a reflection of the fact that as the Emperor of the Heavens all within it bears some portion of Him, even that which is not His by merely mortal reckoning; or it may reflect that His wife would not deny Him that simple thing, certainly not in the face of the Enemy; or it is an old story, carried along from before Lileath was married and before the gods were understood. Or it could simply be the nature of the infinite is hard to grasp.

You are stalling.

Enough.

You reach out and begin to unwind the locks. Not simply striking with brute force like some Druchii bearing ill-intent but properly. You are the key and it is the lock. There is, you believe, some slight forgiveness in it as you pull through the magic, rather than trying to force it too much. But you would still prefer not to learn exactly what defenses a god prepares for an interloper in His most sacred place. So you are very delicate as you weave through the Azyr, through the Ghur, the Aqshy.

And then with the crash of a door, it opens and—

Elsewhere

Elsewhen

Elsewise

Who…who are you?

You know…what you are. But who has evaded you seems to have slipped from your hands like water. You think, you meditate—

"Kill her!"

Some instinct guides you along the misty path, trees tall and leafy and shrouded in shadow and mist and darkness. Elthelu, Hell-Moon, hangs thick and fat in the night sky, but Elthelu alone does, putrid, mold green hanging in a night sky black as silk, even as it blazes with unholy power. The stars, where are the stars? Hidden, cloaked in a black sky. Lileath's own hidden, precious jewel hides in the blackness too, its silver light nowhere to be found; Elanith hides from this evil. Hides…or lies in wait.

You follow the clamoring sound of metal on metal, of soldiers jeering and arrive in a clearing, demarcated by branching, vicious, spiky trees, black and white and coated in moss and blood and no end of other, vile things. Bright fires rise up from behind the treelines and go somewhere, somewhere far, far away. At the center of the camp, a woman, a Dwarf, a Runelord lies bound in all manner of rope and chains and more, her head resting on a stump even as she glares at all of you. She wears powerful armor, covered in the scratch magic of the Haclad. Her ax is much the same. Her cloak. Her belt.

And all of them…

Her armor is made of dragon scale, dragon bone, dragon flesh, scales and plates and bone shaped and shaved and worked until it can stop just about any strike. And not the kind that can be donated without harm, either. The rich, vivid red tells you beyond any question that they were young, as well, young and full of potential, cut down as a youth. Her cloak is made from the scaled flesh of the naiads, who stood with you against their brutality and were slaughtered to the main for their trouble, so many dead and heaped up like trophies for these savages. Her ax's haft is made of the wood of dryads, a story so very similar but even more heartless, for once they were done slaying the defenders of them they then burned those forests. Her belt is of elven make…and not a gift, that is certain.

It is…is familiar, and yet not as though you lived it. As though you were told of it.

Soldiers, many soldiers, fill the clearing, the Anointed of Asuryan hefting his halberd overhead wreathed in blue flames. Phoenix Guard stand silent and idle, unreadable. The Handmaidens of Avelorn watch with grim satisfaction. The Dragon Princes will not even speak such is the extent of their fury, but only watch with grim satisfaction mounted atop their dragon companions. The White Lions joke and cavort, jeering at her for her arrogance. To try and face the Anointed herself in single combat, arrogantly believing herself his equal. He who fears no death? He who bears the touch of the god?

Yes. The very heights of your gods' champions are gathered here. The pinnacle of Ulthuan. They have decided she deserves—no, needs—to die.

Which makes it deeply unfortunate that you need to keep her alive. Hysh boils from her armor, from her ax, her belt, her cape, her everything. You know those Runes, you know not how but you do. The Master Rune of Kazrik Pleasurebane, of Morek Hopebearer, of Skalla Honestheart, of Hugrim Peacemaker. An enemy of Chaos; and not one that shall stand idle by either. And…and compared to that, what is the brief pleasure of revenge? Of violence?

You move your walking stick like a club even as you flow through the mist like some big cat, and though it is sheared through it is enough for it was strong oak, knocking the blow off course even as you once again lose your damn stick. A croaking voice emerges from the Anointed's throat, and you understand.

"You would face us all, for her?"

"I would face all to deny you, Quioriour." He smiles, a grim thing.

And then the world becomes fire again as he raises his hands.

No chance, not against such a being.

But the fight justifies itself, as you bring your sword up and meet him.

In a move he has you on your back on the ground, has planted his boot on your chest, has you controlled and so has control of your life.

In a second he manages to shatter your arm even as you strike up at him with Cyathyal,

In a third he raises his halberd and—

—

Ulthuan. Home.

But not as you would ever wish to see it.

The rebels have attacked. Chrace is caught on the front lines. You can hear metal on metal in the distance as skillful elves duel one another. Elthelu casts a grim green light, half full. Elanith is half empty, half shadowed, half constrained. The stars only flicker lightly; but that, that all is enough for you to see by, to know what comes to pass.

But worst of all…worst of all your own brother leads them. Your own House, Blackfang, risen up in service to this…this Witch King, this traitor, this servant of evil, the black lion rise up on the field in rebellion and kinstrife. They burn the forests; they burn the plains. They enslave the beasts. They turn fields to ash and cinder and dust. They make mounds of bodies, hundreds high, leaving them as a warning. Your own brother, your own flesh and blood, has fallen so far, has fallen so fast. It boggles the mind to believe, but it is so.

And so this you will not allow.

And they are coming.

You bear your fang, the white blade Cyanthyal, and head out, through the mansion doors. A band of the rebels, the rabble, surround you, armed in all manner of ways.

Your brother, armored in black and red and armed with a long, vicious looking spear dripping blue and pink venom stands at the front. "Brother!"

"Brother." You nod at the members of the Cult of Pleasure that have come with him. "It is nice to know you have made friends in your absence."

"Friends. Power. Wealth. A name for myself. A destiny. All that I ever wanted. Not that you would know, mage." He gestures at your sword. "Foolish of you to bring that. I always did win."

You enter your guard, a simple manticore tail, blade diagonal, right foot forward, waiting, passive, calm. "I let you win." He has reach.

He lashes out with a quick, poisonous, deadly strike. Artful, fast. Brutal. The wind whistles as it flows over the ithilmar. It is beautiful. It is flowing. It is swift like wind and strong like the lion and hard as the stone.

You block, knocking one blow to the side, flow around the half-feints, and then cut at his face. He catches the attack on his gauntlet and redirects the blow, but his eyes widen a tinge.

But you have balance. And in a dance that is the more important.

A rhythm quickly develops between the two of you, whirling around each other, cloaks dancing in the midnight air, pushed along by the breeze. Your weapon flashes again and again, but so does his, and the only thing quicker than your sword is your mind. This has to end. You told half-truth: you let him win, yes, but every time is taking quite a bit of stretch in the matter. You may be more balanced, but Anath Raema whispers in his ear. He may be more bloodthirsty, but you are better on the defense. This could go on a very long time.

A very, very long time. Unless someone finally chooses to stop it.

It is a bitter pill to swallow. For to kill your kin is a sin.

But to let him continue his path of destruction is a sin too.

So you make a choice.

You shift, and his spear bites into your armor and into your ribs and your lungs and you are dead, but not yet, not immediately. His eyes widen as you bring Cyanthyal up, and then he screams as you put it through his heart, all of it happening in the fraction of a fraction of a second. He falls.

You fall.

"Your own brother?"

"Rebellion…is crime." You can hardly breathe. Can hardly think. Can hardly feel. Blackness creeps in at the edges of your vision. "Kinslaying…is crime. Judgment is demanded. If not me, then who?" His eyes droop low, slowly and slowly coming together; until at last he breathes he breathes no more. "Rest."

You are tired yourself.

You close your eyes…

—

The sun is down, the sky is black. But yet still you see, and you see perhaps the brighter for it in this place of dark remnants and darker memories. For the bright stars overhead shine, even through the bleak cloud cast by Chaos' heart. Elanith is bright and beautiful and silver even as Enthlui flees in shame and dread and terror, Chaos' Harbinger on the mortal plane afraid. Magic burns as magic beyond magic duels against itself, is turned to wage against itself.

The boy—and make no mistake, he is a boy—stands before you in the darkness. He is lit in many hues of pink and blue as he unleashes bright fire against you, even as you reach out with your own senses, shift the Wind, unwind the matrices and turn it instead into Ghur, making it nothing more and nothing less than a flickering howl before it reaches you. You march forward, cloak billowing in the wind, hand outstretched and fingers splayed, chilled and dark, siphoning away what embers remain with the might of your mind and your prowess. Your blade glitters like diamond in the moonlight.

His face is scrunched in concentration, concern…fear. A patchy youth's beard erupts from his face, he can't be more than seventeen. Even for humans…even for humans, that is young. You idly bat aside another, sloppy burst of fire, even as sweat pours down his brow. His red hair is long and dirty, filthy even, from running. Running from many. Running from the Urithain, who insist on his skull presented to their lord on his throne as proof the deed is done. From the humans, who would burn him as a witch. From you. Is it any wonder, in such a situation, that he might decide to throw his hat in with somebody who promised, who lied with sweet words and saw treasures and knowledge stolen from his foe for their trouble?

"Why! Won't! You! Die!" He tosses ball after ball of fire, and you glide past them, grace and ease written in your body, in your stance, and in your walk.

"I am damnably stubborn." You wave your hand and crush the paltry remnants of Aqshy and Dhar he had forced under his control, advancing forward and grabbing him by the throat, lifting him with Ghur hardened muscles. His eyes widen.

A child. Or if not quite a child, close enough. Near enough.

On the one hand, allow a servant of the Quoriour to continue serving his bleak master. Allow that which is evil to endure. Allow that which is wrong to face no penance. On the other, end a life before it could truly begin. Slay a youth. Become a murderer, a killer, for this is certainly no battle.

The moonlight shines brightly down upon him, and you see the flickering light in his eyes. Some slight measure of youthful naivety, in spite of everything.

What you are about to do is deeply risky.

Dangerous.

Foolhardy, even.

It is also right.

Reaching out with the magic, you force Qhaysh, purest Qhaysh, into him, a rope braided around a core of Azyr.

For mercy is written in the stars.

It does not hurt. He does not scream. He does not cry, nor weep, nor perish. It is simply that you are scouring his soul of the marks of Tzeenth. And they roar, denied their feast of a future perverted by fear and ambition and envy, and your own soul burns as they unleash their rage at his denial. Now, with the Hell-Moon hidden, and Lileath's jewel strong. Now, as you are mighty and bold and merciful. It is enough. It is enough.

He falls in a heap to the floor as you let him go and stumble away yourself, exhausted for all it was a brief moment in the mortal realm. "What…what did you do? Why can I not feel him anymore? Hear him? Sense him?"

"I have given you a choice." You pocket the necklace from the Lizardmen, to return it later. That ought, at least, to give you some leverage over them. "It is up to you to decide which is right and which is wrong." You walk away.

You hear his footsteps a moment later, following behind you, even as the moon looks down upon you.

—

The first thing you see when you return to the mundane is Indrion, sniffing at your face. Further down below you can hear what you deeply hope is Indrast sniffing at your hands. "What, trying to decide if I'm good enough to eat you gluttonous creatures?" They back away as you sit up, grabbing your head in your hands. You scratch their back to reassure them even as you get up to your feet.

You are Vardanis of Chrace.

You are Vardanis of House Snowmane.

You are Vardanis the Mage.

You know what, who, you are. You plant your blade into the stone, and look around. You stand in the southernmost point of a vast cavern. On the walls, images of Asuryan's battle with Tzeentch are carved into the stone and then painted with shimmering paint, but not that alone. There are three other entrances—and exits—heading to the north, the west, and the east. Carved into the walls, where there is not art there are statues. Aenarion, of course, and the Phoenix Kings. But all head towards a champion you have not seen before, for all he wears the Dragon Armor.

Curious.

But not, you think, your concern. Rather your mind turns to the pyramid at the center. It is made of finest glass, utterly perfect and without flaws. Carved into it is more of the antediluvian tongue. Nestled inside, and you can see it, is an egg, multi-hued, prismatic, glorious and more glorious by the moment. Perhaps it is dead.

And perhaps it is not.

There can be only one way to check. You stretch out with your mind, opening your Windsight.

A natural sieve of Qhyash, not that which is merely shaped by mortal will but that natural flowing magic which does not linger and become Dhar but flows, ideally to the Vortex though given that you are looking at it and it sure isn't going to the Vortex clearly not necessarily, itself something that would anger a number of the Loremasters and Archmages of the White Tower.

If they were inclined to believe a mere Mage, anyway.

It suffuses your senses, not merely your Windsight where it is a prismatic, beautiful flow of colors and shades mere Eltharin does not have the words for in exactly the perfect proportion, shining, shimmering, splendid, a sign not of purity but of the balance which all Elves must seek or become mad. It is a chorus, bass and tenor and soprano and alto working together in purest harmony, sometimes hot and quick sometimes somber and dark and a thousand other tones aside. Your whole body feels it has been placed in a hot fire that does not burn, lightning and thunder booming overhead. The taste of fresh wine and good brandy made of ambrosial apples. Such is the entire cavern; but its truest, surest source, the jewel upon its crown, is that egg which rests, hidden, there.

You refuse to turn aside.

Your eyes remain open, your senses remain clear and focused, your mind sharp, as you Understand.

—
High Elf Culture Corner:
Elthelu: Morrslieb. Derived from the Asun Elthrai and Elui.
Elanith: Mannslieb. Derived from the Asun Elui and Eanith. Sariour is also a term for this moon, one which places more connection to its natural state.
Quioriour: A name for Tzeentch. Derived from the Asun Quul and Sariour.
Urithain: Lizardmen, one of several terms. Derived from the Asun Urithair.
—

Full gains and effects will be listed with the Social Turn, but this felt like a more natural place to break it up.

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 9 Social

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[X] You write to Lady Ythil, for if anyone would understand your dread it is she

You walk through the halls, each of them covered with intricately carved and painted imagery of Asuryan journeying through Tzeentch's Labyrinth. A trap designed to bind the Emperor of the Heavens, but He was greater. Did He journey the same as you did, face the same tests? Wander those halls? But then, wither Lileath? Whither claim of the moon? Whither much? At the least, after that first, fateful journey through the tests—and they were tests, that much is damnably—the halls are relatively normal halls. The carvings sometimes seem to live, to swim through the time the same as you do.

Compared to an average day in Saphery, that is just about nothing.

You support yourself on the stone, walking hands on the rock, letting yourself trace the cold granite and the smooth paint.

The particular perturbations in the Aethyr that are the mark of the Archmage Ythil grow in your senses, expanding, unveiling, unrolling and unfurling. Like a flower in bloom they grow to dominate the Aethyr, the particular marks of magic that are the calling cards of the Archmages flowing from her like mist, like good, pure water from the finest spring. There is a babbling, of sorts, as the magic comes from in motes and waves.

You stumble as you walk, but catch yourself once again on the rock. You grit your teeth, slam your hand on your chest, and finally manage to step out standing ramrod straight, followed by your lions, at your right and left. You see Ythil for the first time in forty years, clad in robes black and gray. A staff in one hand, topped by the snarling visage of mighty Indraugnir, carved from a powerstone of Ulgu, resting in a staff of Starwood, itself embossed with gold shaped into the sacred writing of cunning Loec, the wood itself stained black.

You feel the rustling shadow and the slight wind as her Windsight stretches out. She walks slowly at first, tapping her staff on the green grass that grows on the slope. She quirks her eyebrows first and you feel it harder on you as she examines you even more deeply. Her face screws up as she looks to a level that one might consider invasive, but considering the likely state of your soul all things considered you can't be mad. Her placid steps become broader strides, devouring the distance between the two of you. Then her eyes go wide as saucers and she all but breaks out into a sprint, sword on her belt and bow on her shoulders jingling as she does.

"Hell-"

"What did you do to yourself?" She grabs you by the shoulders and begins poring over your soul, examining it from many angles.

"Many titles bears Asuryan. I believe I have passed through a test to learn the source of one of them."

"With all the magic pouring through you now, you're damn lucky you didn't give yourself an Arcane Mark," she says even as she grabs your jaw and shifts your head, before tracing it down along your arm and finding that the Phoenix, constellation of Asuryan, constellation of mercy, rebirth, has been burned into your flesh. Not the bright and fiery thing, but the constellation itself, lined in blue and white like delicate ink. "What happened? And not an ounce of damn mysticism now, as clear as you can, you impetuous blasted youth."

"Many years ago now as I was hunting the intruders, I discovered a temple, long abandoned, dedicated to Asuryan. It has taken time to open the door, but I have as was my duty. I entered and saw, well to be honest I am not quite sure what I saw. I am inclined to believe that Asuryan was attempting to translate His battle with Chaos, with the Underworld, into mortal terms. Afterwards I had this." You gesture with your hands. "And a new resource for all of us to wield. An older Anoqeyån for us to wield, to enrich our language, our speech, our strength."

"But that makes no sense," her face fades from its fury to angered confusion, "Anoqeyån already described all of magical reality. Why would it change like the mere displacing of air unless something changed the very nature of that reality?"

"Exactly."

She looks at you intently.

Very intently.

Extremely intently.

More intent than you could imagine.

And then she draws back, her eyes wide again. "Isha's Tears, you're serious!"

"I always am."

"But why you?" You lift an eyebrow. "Oh don't give me that, you're a skilled mage to be sure but I can name a dozen Archmages, a dozen Loremasters, all of them dedicated to Him, all of them skilled with magic. Some of them dating back to the War of the Beard."

"And perhaps that is it," you say before you can think, sighing as your mouth outruns your mind once again.

"Oh?" Her voice is more curious than arcy, but arcy it is to be sure.

Oh well, sacrifice the lamb, sacrifice the skin. "Perhaps He is tired of the ancients, who have driven us into war, failure, and bloodshed? A new era, a new people? A new tower of magic, a new Phoenix King, why not a new temple."

"Vardanis." Her voice is flat and cold. "I respect your work against the Druchii very well. But please, for the sake of every mage to walk the Kingdoms, never say that in public ever again. You hear me?"

You shrug, and roll your hand as though to dismiss the thought. "Until I am mighty enough to back myself in the matter, anyway."

"Very well. I cannot make you see sense, only hope you shall see reason in time." She looks at the temple, but seems to fade away from the challenge, as though she fears what she might see. "Do not go further into it until, and unless, you have grown stronger in your magic. More refined."

"That was the plan. Now then…shall we discuss that which I wrote to you about?"

"That we may." She breathes and stands straighter as that affair which ever lurks on the minds of the Nagarythians stands forward again:

War against Naggaroth.

"There are ways to find the truth. Ways to strike at them. Antheus is out of your reach, I think, but her retinue will not. If, indeed, they are the servants of Naggaroth, one way or another, they shall bear the mark of the Patron. Of the Unerring Arrow."

"And thou shall know the marks of the False King by the fire He leaves behind. Not merely Malekith then."

"Not merely Malekith, no. Khaine is not a subtle god. His marks can be hidden from the uninitiated…but we are initiated aren't we, Vardanis?"

"That we are."

"I will show you," she says, "and you will learn."

—

Results:

New Options unlocked!

Modified Hunting for Druchii Option!

Sky Servant becomes Heaven Servant (+25% chance for one extra AP to be invested into options involving the Heavens, in either sense (Cadai or the Skies))

1 Egg (Unknown)

Learn of Magical Comprehension: Emperor of the Heavens, Unlocked for Azyr and Ghur, others will be unlocked by Temple actions

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 10

VIII 88-97

There is an oddity in your Windsight now. You didn't notice it at first; you were too busy trying not to pass—to comprehend and integrate what you had learned. Considering what Ythila had told you. Turning your wisdom to what must be done to fully open, to fully integrate, the knowledge of the temple of Asuryan. The mark of the Emperor of the Heavens on this world must be understood, must be grasped, must be comprehended.

But that entire train of thought has come crashing to a halt as you look up, and up, and up at the handsomest man you've ever seen. Call it desperation, call it loneliness, call it the touch of Isha but it is certainly so; it seems the god of manhood has done him a service. He is tall, broad at the shoulder and at the hip, arms thick with muscle corded like iron, sinewy and tough. His hair has been worked into three braids, one at each temple and one that dangles past his waist, of hair white as the lion's. A nimble, quick and mighty ax, single bladed, with intricate runes carved on its edges and the Vengeance of Kurnous carved into the hilt, rests over his right shoulder. A tall and proud helmet, stag horns projecting from its sides and capped in Ithilmar, is held in his other arm, bright white and red. His features are leonine, as beautiful as the best of portraits and yet rugged as the finest hunter, with shockingly blue eyes that seem to glimmer in the daylight sun.

A breastplate shaped to resemble the snarling visage of a lion covers much, with scale dangling to reach his elbow which then becomes plate again, fine articulated gauntlets each marked with Kurnous' rune, clad in many brilliant, bright and beautiful jewels. That same scale dangles, a long hauberk, until an intricate harness of plate, once more pure white, once more form fitting (and what a form!), begins to cover the leg. It thrums with magic, potent things, mighty things, dread things worked into it; a thing pulled from the golden age.

And of course, the hide of a manticore, worked into a cloak, dangles over his shoulder. Bright glyphs of protection burn on it, enhancing its already extant durability until it could likely turn aside a bolt (not necessarily would, but could).

But all of that pales in comparison to the oddity you notice as you peer at him with your Windsight. For one, you don't so much see it—at first—as you hear it. A long, drawn out note blown from a mighty horn, a terrible horn, a horn beyond horns. A clarion note that fills the heart and the soul with courage and pride, a thing of might that makes you want to hunt, to join the wild things, to exult in all that is free and beautiful in nature. Odd for many reasons, first and foremost that Windsight does not work that way. While human sorcerers, from dread Norsca to dead Nehekhara, by rumor have their windsight express itself in many ways, in Elves the vast, vast, vast majority will experience only sight, hence the name. There are liable as not exceptions, but you are not one of them.

Secondly if it was hearing, you would only be hearing it, correct? It seems an acceptable conclusion, in any case. So why, instead, do you see the magic layered on him as well by a force primal, separate, and superior, to this world? Bright Ghyran, for the nurturer of wild things, the father of the Elves. Thick Ghur, for the most skilled of hunters, the most wild of slayers. Sonorous Hysh, the guardian of the cycle. Intricately worked together, like a seamstress, the most skilled in all of Ulthuan, has taken the Winds and bound them together into a great rug, with many beautiful decorations, each a fractal fragment of the greater whole. Like a smith, folding metal in on itself to make a stronger sword. Like a painter, delicately but perfectly bringing each color together to make the most wonderful of palettes.

Oddity number three: you can see it. You don't know what it is. But stretching from his form, to the great mantle of the sky above, that same prismatic light flows upward, splitting apart into many rivers as it joins the greater whole of the magic itself. Becomes a part of something greater. Seems to follow his every move, seems to follow him, to know him. It is almost like…like a cloak, a mantle, that trails behind him.

And yet.

And yet.

Some part of you is not impressed.

He turns as he hears you approaching, and his lips tilt up as he examines you head to toe.

This, then, must be Thirion Ironglaive, champion of House Ironglaive, and…Champion? Anointed? Blessed of Kurnous? In any case, he is likely as not the most blessed by the Hunting God in all of Ulthuan, perhaps the most blessed period; certainly it is a different portion of that which is Kurnous which dominates him than the Hunter that flows through Orion, as the Colonists are so fond of showing. That portion of Him which insists there are rules, that portion of Him which blesses the White Lions as they guard the Phoenix King. That is what flows through him.

"Vardanis Phoenixtouched."

"Thirion Ironglaive."

"They say a man is only as impressive as his rivals." He puts on his helmet, his tilted lips becoming a full on grin as he seems to take your full measure. "If this is so then I must be quite impressive indeed." His smile does not disappear, but it does fade as he seems to consider his next words very carefully. "But I should warn you now. I will not leave this land in the tender mercies of Hekarti. She has brought enough miseries to last a lifetime and I will not tolerate them. Stand with the Firemanes at your own peril."

He may be Anointed, but then so are you. He only in blood; you in the lightning.

"I respect your honor, noble guard." You tilt your head, in mockery of his own need to choose his words. "But she is my friend; and I do not surrender easily."

"Good." He nods, and turns his back to you. "That is…good. Your honor is righteous."

And with that he leaves, marching off to his next hunt, or his next battle, or his next attempt to gather forces for the Avelornians' campaign. Leaving you alone, and with questions, even as your brother and the rest of your family come out to interrogate you about your past whereabouts.

What was the mantle, the pillar?

Why were you hearing things, what were you seeing? So many questions, and so few, so very few, answers.


(Your focus is mildly agitated, 5 AP available)

[] 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)


[] 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, Procs Beatly Heart)


[] Elliriad's Will: Prince Elliriad of Avelorn, one of the Everprincess' consorts, makes ready an army to ravage Naggaroth and finish what Tethlis the slayer started. He intends many things to become ready. To gain the Heartsword of Avelorn, a magical blade of astounding potency. To tame a mighty griffon. All so he can stand against his own brother, Vengril. Ulthuan is split. There are those who would let the Druchii dwindle on their own time and in their own way, and those who support him to the end. Nagarythe, Chrace, Eataine, Cothique, and of course, Avelorn, support him by and large. Caledor, Ellyrion, Saphery, Tiranoc, and Yvresse, by and large, do not, though then if you take ten elves you will find eleven opinions, of course. You could make him something…if you had the stronger magic you need for it. It will be a battle with the traitors after all. (At least 1 AP, gain favors and opinion from Nagarythe, Chrace, Eataine, Cothique, and Avelorn, lose favors and opinion from Caledor, Ellyrion, Saphery, Tiranoc, and Yvresse, Currently locked—Your wares can not yet compete with the magical items produced by the artists of other lands and ages long past. Your magic must be refined before you can)

[] Druchii Hunting: Enough. Such simpering, treacherous, deceitful move as the stalking, and the hiding, and the lurking in the form of beasts, such is fit for the traitorous Blackfangs, not for a true son of Ulthuan, a loyal servant of the Phoenix King and a loyal servant of the Emperor of the Heavens. Ythil was right, has been right, was always right. You shall move to find out whether Antheus truly is Druchii or Asur once and for all, and let that be the end of it, by examining her retinue. Khaine is not a subtle god, after all. A false fire may deceive even the righteous; but you shall know the tell-tale sign. (0/ 5 AP, Chance of Proccing Heaven Servant, Procc Ancient Embers, Soothe Focus)

Research & Development​

[] The Art of the Armor: All Loremasters prepare armor for themselves. It is uniquely balanced between all eight Winds of magic; not properly enchanted per se, any more than you might call a leaf enchanted because it is full of Ghyran. Only just…prepared, made ready to be what it is and fit for one who would bear the full power of the Winds within themselves. And of course there is the matter of making it fit for the wearer. You could learn it yourself…or you could simply ask the Loremasters for their assistance in such training. (0/5, -20 Loremaster favors, create suit of armor which still allows you to cast spells, further progress along the path of the Loremaster though you still are not "stuck" as it were)


[] 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. May overflow


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, may overflow)


[] 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 Heaven Servant, gain missing portion of Cardinal Spell List in Azyr)


[] 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, may overflow)


[] 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, gain Archmage favors and Standing, overflow unknown)


[] 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)


[] Writing It Down: You managed to get to the heart of what had been done to the beasts of the Annuliis, but your results were sloppy and unfocused, as perhaps is to be expected of one who had not even mastered wielding two magics at the same time yet. Now that you have, at least, that you could go back and reexamine them and write what you see; the farmers of Chrace have what they need, after all, but the Archmages may be interested. If nothing else it will be further data for the effects of Warpstone on flesh. (Requires at least 1AP, Will Proc Beastly Heart, Will Proc Ancient Embers, Will gain Archmage Opinion and Favors)


[] An Order: You have an order you would like to make for a reagent. (Cost: 0 AP, TX X 5 Snowmane Favors, 1-3 Turns depending on reagent rarity, may not order T-5s, Ithilmar however is available as are Power Stones (Both T2))


[] Creating A Spell: You really wanted to wait until you had mastered your magic further but it seems that if you keep waiting you will never do this. Two Winds can make a fine enough spell anyway. Creating a spell, a good spell--hell, even a merely acceptable one--is an excellent way to make friends with both the Loremasters and the Archmages. For the Chief Archivist has powerful friends, and it looks good for him to expand the archives. (Cost: 1 AP to Begin, Gain Favors from both Archmages and Loremasters, Will begin Spell Creation Tutorial)


[] Preliminary Results: A secret, Golden Age temple to Asuryan? Recording what you can of that will make you many friends with both the Loremasters, the Archmages…and the Priesthood of Asuryan. Though the Priests in Eataine do have an aesthetic focus on His Fire, they recognize each of His aspects, and are likely to be interested in, if nothing else, a story describing His nature they do not otherwise have, as well as, potentially, another source of objects or entities blessed by Him. Of His magic. All will be happy with you, and that is a rare thing indeed. This will also include writing down what little you have discerned of the Anoqeyån that coats the walls and doors, the floors and ceilings, of that place. (Cost: at least 1 AP, more AP will result in a better end product, gain favors and opinion from Loremaster, Archmages, and Cult of Asuryan)


[] The Inner Chambers: The deeper parts of the Temple no doubt hold secrets of their own. More magic, deeper magic, secrets long since forgotten. The things of ancient days, the things that lie unknown. What is it? (-LOCKED, 1 / 8 AP Invested, must further advance magic through Loremaster or Archmage training, will proc Heaven Servant)


[] The Oddity: Something has happened to your windsight, but what? Only practice and effort can show you; but even that may not be enough. (0/5 AP, Grow to understand what has happened to your Windsight to at least some extent, Procs Heaven Servant)


[] The Egg: You have discovered an odd egg in the temple. Its physical shell is prismatic, as it is in your Windsight; but etched into the magic of it is yet more of the odd Anoqeyån, in particular a looping sentence, simple, indeed almost childlike, but potent:

Bajneth Alu Kuryin.

Roughly?

Oathlord denies __.

But then, you always did enjoy spending time among the birds more than you did studying linguistics. Your Anoqeyån is not subpar, but it is not that impressive, either. In any case, you may as well study it. And you have no idea what the devil Kuryin could be.

Well, there's only one way to find out.

(1 / 8 AP, Procs Heaven Servant, Proc Beastly Heart)


Social

Independent of Plan and requiring no AP, lest Vardanis should lose his mind​

[] You speak to Tethia about your suspicions, and your worries about how it seems you are noticing what others do not

[] You speak with Methelian. A part of you is still angered about how he spoke about your friend, but another part would like a fellow paranoiac around for a bevy of reasons

[] Your parents, because they are your parents and do you really need a reason?

[] Your siblings, because they are your siblings and again, do you really need a reason?

---

Vote will open in 24 Hours.

I get the distinct feeling I have forgotten something, and if I did please forgive me, but I was starting to get into a particularly unpleasant bit of bashing my head into a wall and I wanted to have it out before that got too bad. Just let me know and I will edit it in.

 

[Voikirium]

Turn 10 Results

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[X] Plan A Cure, Heavens, Challange, and an Order V2

-[X] A Cure 0/3 - 3 AP + 2 AP (Beastly Heart) + 1 AP (Ancient Embers)

-[X] Cardinal Heavens 0/3 - 1 AP + 25% chance for 1 AP (Heaven Servant)

-[X] The Scroll of Challenge 0/5 - 1 AP

-[x] An Order -

--[x] Starwood (T2) - 10 Snowmane Favor

--[x] Ithilmar (T2) - 10 Snowmane Favor

--[X] Azyr Powerstone (T2) - 10 Snowmane Favor

-VIII, 88, 1, 37-
You walk through the forest of Chrace with your father, keenly navigating through the woods, Sariour hanging like a silver circlet overhead. Hunters and farmers once again reported mutated creatures in the woods near the village, though less monstrous and more strange. Five legged deer, bats with four wings, eagles with pink feathers, twin-tailed wolves, all seen in glimpses, flashes of the moonlight and the daystar. Of course, hunters and farmers claim many things and so it comes to your father to hunt down the truth and discern what is fact from what is fiction. What is truth and what is the terrified claim of a Khaine drunk smith girl trying to make her exploits sound even more impressive than they really are.

"The Winds blow strangely."

You are here, on the other hand, because Asuryan's Fire have you been stuck in civilization for too long. You are a master of Ghur, a creature of the beasts. You are no Beastwalker, to chafe at a moment or two outside of the wild places; but a handful of years on your own, simply in the wild with the creatures? Aye, that will do your soul some good. And since you were coming anyway, you decided to tag along with him, make sure he doesn't get ambushed. Indarast and Indiron are off hunting themselves, searching for good prey.

"Do the Winds ever blow normally?"

"Yes but I don't say anything for the same reason you don't when the sun shines and the sky is blue."

The conversation stops as you hear a noise rather like a strangled horn, slight and small but apparent to the finely tuned senses of an Elf. To you. It helps that there is a flash of Shyish, a bolt of Ghur, and a tinge of Dhar; the same magical recipe for much of the undead, particularly those caused by the writhings and convulsions of Chaos.

"We need to hurry."

And with that, robes fluttering and walking stick tapping on the dirt, you flow through the trees and the clearing towards the slight gathering of such magic, followed by your father who has pulled out a knife though not strung his bow yet. You weave adroitly through the trees and past the roots, flowing with the natural direction of these things, bobbing and weaving past branches and through leaves. Not sure what to expect, but grabbing Ghur, old and faithful companion, for you are no prey but predator.

You burst into the clearing, where a truly massive tree, easily the largest oak you've ever seen, rises from the earth like some pressing Caledorian prince's lance, sharp and keen, splitting fruit. Vast roots, each larger than your arm, thread out from the craggy thing, its bark hard and tough, its leaves green as as flame and the hard exterior brown like leather, a king as superior to the lesser oak that fill the forest as an elven steed to a Norscan's ass.

And at the center…the magic knot you sensed.

"Poor thing must have been one of Karond Kar's experiments." You and your father both peer down at a struggling bird, a hummingbird with feathers of vibrant splashes of an amber brown, a sky blue, and a patch of feathers just over the heart that are a pure, electric white, like thunder falling from the sky. Its wings are delicate and beautiful, alternating rows of the amber and the blue like cut gems. Its eyes are like limpid pools, like the freshest and purest of spring water has been trapped in it.

Aye, all four of its eyes.

Two heads sprout from its body, even as you pull out a journal and begin to sketch it. It twitches, its wings shifting and moving in disconcerting, random, anti-rhythmic patterns, a slight, small trill the only noise it can make. Looking at it with your Windsight shows about what you'd expect: Ghur, for it is a beast. Azyr, for it is of the skies. And Dhar, for something—someone, more likely—has mutated it. A great, choking maw scarfing down what should be, devouring the natural shape and form of the magic, of the bird's essence

A stubbornly common misconception about Shyish is that it is only drawn to death, the sort of false knowledge that effort is spent unmaking throughout much of the early years of training as a mage. But in truth all that is certain, all that is inevitable, all that will come to pass by the merest passing of time, belongs to it, is saturated with it. The taxman is slightly tinged with it, for unless things go truly awry he will be coming along. The rivers are laced with motes with it, for they must go one way, inexorably forward, to whatever end, just as life. Healing houses, not for the dead but for the certainty that all will be wounded are sick, are full of them.

And it is here, in this clearing in an unnamed, unwalked stretch of forest too. For this poor creature is dying, has been dying, cannot avoid it and it is both immediate and painful. But it has sufficient Ghur that it has endured longer than such a creature should, wracked by agony and pain. And this is no a random burst of mutation and Dhar either; there is, well you can't call it control, but the marks of an intelligent mind trying to make this happen. Somebody decided that there weren't enough monsters, enough abominations, enough beasts in this world, already clouded in darkness.

Perhaps it was a trap left behind by the intruders.

Perhaps it was a curiosity bought by Corsair and freed from his ship with his death.

Perhaps a sorceress performed some kind of bleak ritual to transport a creature dangerous to the environment of Ulthuan out of naked spite, or as some sort of test for her demented mistress, or simply because they are everything wrong with curiosity given shape and form and slapped in black silks.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

But you think you know what is the truest source of Shyish, which is and is not bound by cause and effect. Not that your father steps forward to put the thing out of its misery. A source perhaps, but if every death caused this kind of Shyish the necromancers would be much, much more dangerous than they are.

No, the source of the Shyish seems to be that you are participating in the most inevitable thing of any Asur, any right minded thinking being, upon seeing the work of the Druchii.

"There will be a judgment for this."

Aye, some vow it when they see a village burned to the ground, the inhabitant's blood and a smattering of ash the only remnant of what was once a people, innocent and caring. Some when they stumble upon the slave-ships, holds filled to the brim with elves and humans and dwarfs and halflings and who knows what else? Some when they see the shattered remnants of Ulthuan, see what their evil wrought so long ago; buried cities, cast beneath the waves.

But for you, in this moment, it is this little hummingbird that did not deserve whatever experimentation the animals of Karon Kar or the psychopaths of Ghrond or the demented duo of both unleashed on it for the sake of raw spite which draws your ire. Your rage, forced down like your bile to see the state that creature had been in before your father had granted it what mercy it could be granted. He brushes the knife off on his sleeve and turns to look at you with concern. He opens his mouth, only to shut it as you raise your hand.

"...Go home father. I have work to do."

-VIII 92, 1, 40-

You whistle. Indrast and Indiron perk up from where they laze in the sunlight, look at you, blink slowly, then go back to chewing on the boar flesh. The night is moonless, and black clouds cover the stars. Only a crackling fire, dimly lighting the trees. You whistle again, a lighter, airier, happier tone, three notes repeated again and again.

The clamping of hooves lets you know it's working.

Appearing from the treeline, a well-formed young stag, well-proportioned and strong. His coat is a tan brown, his eyes crisp and clear. His movements are graceful and quick. In spite of the White Lions not even feet away he approaches, even as you hold out a handful of berries foraged from deeper in the forest. His antlers in this season are tall, proud and sharp.

Aye, all three of them.

As he kneels down, in a manner you can't help but compare to a courtier before a prince, you wrap one hand around the third, mutated thing, and he starts to rear but before he can you shove enough Ghyran and Ghur to make a troll calm into him, forcing him not to panic, to remain still and stable and calm. That settled, then you start weaving the spell. Strands of Ghur, strands of Hysh. Not unlike the spells of Rebuke, not unlike the spells to change and shift your shape and your form. To boil out the Dhar, to burn away the Warpstone, to heal what has been done.

As you will it, so it shall be, as the stars in heaven follow surely the Emperor's Will!

There is a wrenching crack as you pull with all your might, and a brief gaping wound that swiftly slams shut as the healing magic flows through it, sealing it shut, stopping the spurt of blood before it can begin. The stag's eyes widen and it runs off, healed, even as the horn crumbles into dust in your hands.

You let the pieces fall.

"And who says you've won yet?"

Somewhere in the distance, a stag cries its approval.

—VIII 93, 2, 11—

Mynol approaches the appropriated shed that the young Mage has claimed as his by right for experimentation. She opens the door without knocking, in spite of propriety, as was approved by both his parents and the other servants; a mage in the thrall of magic, after all, will hardly notice anything so anodyne as a knock on the door.

The first thing she sees is arcane writing she can't quite understand, but which is plainly laced with magic, covering the parchment that is itself strewn along the floor. Well, that's not quite true, she knows the basics well-enough, any Elf with the proper senses would, but nothing more than…the alphabet, the characters, yes, that is good enough she supposes. It is not all pell-mell, she realizes next, but reasoned and ordered everything is where it is with a reason. She recognizes the rune of Asuryan well enough, but is more confused—much the more confused—by the runes arrayed next to it. Cadaith, arhain, ismuir, but modified, shaped, shaved. Vardanis himself, long blond hair left free and loose but beautifully combed, sits at a desk opposite the door, his back turned, peering through the book. In spite of a growing reputation he is fully clothed, a light, sleeveless overcoat of night-blue silk belted shut with a red sash atop an amber colored robe, a phoenix of gold on the back and a pattern of scintillating fire seeming to protrude out from it.

She puts the chest, filled with a simple blue stone, and a bar of Ithilmar, right next to the door, hoping to slip out before he can ask after the Starwood—

"Wait." He looks up, peers around. Grabs the book, approaches her, even as she is transfixed by his eyes. They have changed, according to the other servants—she would hardly know, she only just started—but they are vivid, bright and clear blue, aquamarine she thinks the shade is called, bright like the seafoam, and deep and clear and glimmering as the waves, or as a prism, a rainbow bright. The pupil seems black as a stormcloud, and where the light falls and it shines it seems almost like lightning has been captured in the orb.

"Yes?"

"Firstly, thank you." He nods slightly. "Secondly, aye she has the ability."

She tilts her head, confused, bemused, until her eyes widen as she is forced to run along a mental path she has not long considered. Hope blooms in her heart as there is a possibility that there had not been for her. "She can learn the Art then?"

"Aye, from the White Tower I'd suggest but there'd be no shame in going to the Beastwalkers if that's what she wants, either way I'd offer her my good word. Not much more than that mind you, but it will get her in the door and she will be more than able enough." Her daughter, a mage, the thought alone drowns out any questions, like how he had known that, in favor of fantasies of her daughter wealthy, powerful, respected, a woman of means and esteem, and happy most of all.

"Finally," he says, breaking her out of her state, "what do you make of this?" He shoves a book in her face, and she blinks as she takes it in for a moment. Looking, examining, thinking, then—

"Why, that looks like the Dance Steps!" The old rituals to Loec, ancient dance and solemnity and song. Ancient things, to celebrate and rebuke the daemons, to show that they had survived, that there was still some joy left in the world, or at least that was what the stories said. The truest masters of them are in Nagaryth, among the Shadow Warriors, though by rumor the colonists in Athel Loren had once not been too unskilled either, before the War of the Beard.

"Oh good, you see it too, I haven't gone insane then." He plants his face back into his book, and she takes that as a dismissal.

She won't notice the jingling of coins in her purse, coins that had not been there, until she finally gets home.

-VIII 94, 1, 17-

"Hunt her down then," Methelian says after you've finished your sparring match. His purple and white robes have been plastered to his body by sweat even as you use magic to close the slight wounds in his form opened up by your training blades—you are not some human savage, beating yourself half-to-death out of barbarous notions of somehow "preparing yourself" and then using magic to return to the brink and it is for that that you have not wielded Cyanthyal—but they are live, if not very sharp, steel. Enchanted not to cleave and maim and slay and ruin, if not a true enchantment, the work of Saphery's finest, but a good blow would still open a cut. The better to simulate real combat.

You have more wounds, but his are deeper.

"It's not that simple," you say even as you lay your hand on his right shoulder, feeling the well-honed muscle and flesh and sinew mold back together, your own simply folding shut. "You should see how my brother dotes on her." At that very moment you see him walking by, humming slightly, ax in one hand and bow over his shoulder, as he readies to accompany her shopping. He doesn't even notice the two of you in the courtyard as he goes to join her, all but running. "Ulgh."

"Poor fool."

"And it's not like I haven't been. I followed her in the shape of a crow, I keep watch of her magic. But she is subtle; I think if I were to discover she was, it would require deep focus, the kind that would make it obvious. Too obvious. And he would fight for her, and I would not strike my brother down no matter the cost nor cause."

"Hm. Her lackeys then? Is that not what Ythil said to do?"

"Aye, but they keep a close watch on her and she keeps a close watch on them. I would need to come up with some reason to make Antheus either loan them out, or to separate from her for a lengthy period."

"...A battle."

"What?" He turns to you and rolls up his sleeve, allowing you to check a gash on his forearm.

"You say, have said, and will likely continue to say that in their intrusion the Druchii left behind monsters, yes?"

"Yes."

He lowers his sleeve as it finishes shutting, leaving not even a scar since you are so very good at your job. "Simply say that you have sensed a larger monster, a larger thing, in front of her. If she is Avelornian in truth she will send them for the sake of the kingdom; if not for the sake of the deception. Either way, there should be plenty of time to examine them then, and determine whether they do bear the mark of Khaine, or of the rest of Cynarath.."

"I will…consider it." You turn away to close a cut on your own thigh that had stained the robe, a cheap thing of linen dyed pure black, and exposed a good bit of your leg in the process. "Nothing to say?"

"Asuryan is the Emperor of the gods, and I…mostly…trust the judgment of all Mages of the White Tower." He shrugs. "And insofar as I don't it has far more to do with mortal affairs than the divinity they choose to cast themselves after, though I can't imagine that will make dealing with Hoeth easier."

"Hoeth is…" You pause and blink. You've offered your fair share of respect to the master of wand and wit, mind and magic; but perhaps there is more you could do? If Morathi can please both Hekarti and Atharti, then the more reasonable Hoeth and Asuryan can certainly be pleased by one mortal in, if not equal measure, then sufficient for some favor from both. It certainly cannot hurt in any case. It helps that you have lived in His temple. "Hoeth is a growing concern in my mind, one I intend to please as soon as I can. One way or another."

There is a small but growing chance you will be off to war soon enough, after all.

"I wouldn't doubt it Vardanis. But travel careful, the wilds are not as safe as they once were."

Results:

Created Spell Rebuke of the Warp!

Winds: Ghur, Hysh

Comprehension: Emperor of the Heavens

As Asuryan may with the storm, you cleanse the touch of Minor Corruption. Third horns, discoloration, wounds, so on and so forth. Hardly makes you the Everqueen, however.

(May be codified, recorded and taught to the White Tower for Favors and Standing but has not been yet)

Cardinal Azyr: 0/3-> ⅔, Heaven Servant Procced!

Starwood will arrive in 2 more turns! Ithilmar and Azyr Powerstone have arrived, and may be studied.

Finished A Cure!

Book of Challenge: 0/5->⅕

Hoeth Option???

Upgrade Ancient Embers to Primeval Fire: Your...dedication, to stopping the Druchii, to facing them, to fighting them, has grown further. As has the desire to surpass their wicked works. It truly does not matter whether or not the Druchii are going extinct; you will fight them because they must be fought. For two AP invested, gain one extra progress. In battle against Druchii or their allies or servants, +15 to all your rolls. +10 against Chaos in combat. Gain Focus: Preparing for War. Narrative effects