Success*
- Location
- New Brunswick, NJ
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Success*
As the last door slams shut in the Obsidian Hall, you continue to sit quietly, appearing for all the world perfectly calm and collected. It would take a better eye than even those possessed by your fellow Grey Wizard Lords to discern how nervous you are, how tempted to keep your seat and not issue your planned challenge. But you've had long practice in the art of following through on your decisions once they'd been made. Your peers are relaxed in truth -- and why wouldn't they be? Nobody expects anything to happen today; holding it was just a formality required by law. The defeat of the Thirteenth Everchosen a mere three years ago had both culled the ranks of potential challengers and solidified support behind the incumbent. Nobody wanted to rock the boat.
For that matter, you don't want to rock the boat. It had been a close-fought thing, when you decided that you would be issuing a challenge today. But... you have to know. Despite the victories you've claimed over the years, something inside you would never rest easy until you tested yourself against this particular measuring stick. The one that feels the most real. The one that matters.
The Magister Patriarchs of the Colleges finish their introductions. Silence reigns in the Obsidian Hall; as expected, nobody rushes to challenge. But before enough time could elapse to declare victory through no contest, you let out the breath you were holding and stand. Your peers have too much dignity and poise for murmurs and whispers to rise behind you in your alcove, but their external control didn't matter to your Windsight; you can feel the Ulgu seething in your wake as easily and naturally as someone might feel a breeze blowing behind them.
"Eike Hochschild of the Grey Order challenges Mathilde Weber of the Grey Order."
The challenger, of course, stands in front of their Order's alcove, so custom dictates that, to begin with the Staff between them both, the challenged party move to the one opposite. This gives you plenty of time to watch as your former Master crosses the room to stand in front of the Lights. You know her to be in her mid-seventies, but the touch of Ulgu upon her soul and body gives her an ageless, timeless quality, similar to but distinct from the elves you had spent your Apprenticeship among: from the fog-grey hair and eyes, to the unnaturally lean build, to the face your mind insists is different every time you look at her.
As she takes her position, you adjust your collar, a gesture that will mean nothing except to the two of you. Her gaze flicks to your neck, and her expression flickers not one whit at what she sees -- or, rather, doesn't. She set aside her runed items during her title challenge and subsequent defenses, and so, in keeping with her example, the necklace wrought for you by Thorek Ironbrow currently sits hidden in your storage dimension. You wanted as pure a test of skill against skill as was possible to have, both for the sake of what the position meant and for your own pride. You don't need to say anything; you know she understands.
She completes her circuit of the chamber. You are both in position, now. You let out a breath. The Staff of Volans shivers, and your soul thrums as the Grey Wind billows unchallenged in the Obsidian Hall.
It's time.
[Initial clash: Martial, 54+24=78 vs 49+28=77.]
With matched speed, you and the Supreme Matriarch weave Ulgu into your Shadeblades, shadowy greatswords forming in your hands as you each teleport to the plinth at the center of the arena, blades already in the motions of stroke and counter-stroke. Without word or gesture, the robes you each wear pulse and Aethyric Armours snap into place around each of you, protecting you from the weapon of your foes and preventing fatigue from touching you. You had followed your Master's example in this, as in many things, and you were both fit to degrees that would not be out of place in the standing armies of Reikland -- but with the blessing of the Mastery she developed and then taught as your first Lesser Magic, you could fight at full force for long enough to leave even a Greatsword blown and trembling.
For a full half-minute -- an eternity in a mundane duel -- the two of you do battle, each unable to gain advantage over the other. Matched weapons clash in a duel possible for none but the Greys: empty hands twist in the air before a sword materializes within them, is parried, and then vanishes again as you adjust your grip and angle. The forms of Branarhune were different when adapted to the Shadeblades, to compensate for the lack of Kragg's Master Rune. With Branulhune she would have had an overwhelming advantage, needing to travel far less distance to land a telling blow, but the Shadeblades require momentum to cut, and in the time that required it was possible to react. Your greater size gives you longer reach, but she can press inside your guard to counter it. It evens out.
Even. It's even. You have practiced that style from its inception, when the Shadeblade was first invented. Here, before the assembled Wizard Lords of the Colleges of Magic, you prove yourself your Master's equal in every exchange of blows.
[Trying again: Martial, 31+24=55 vs 30+28=58.]
[Breaking the stalemate: Learning, 26+30=56 vs 49+32=81.]
Too equal. It must be very confusing for the audience to watch: two forms wrapped in Ulgu and dueling with identical swords around the Staff of Volans, practically mirror-images of one another. But you can't just be a mirror image of her: she's had a lot more experience being herself. You need a way to break the stalemate. Both of you know better than to risk trying to unleash your Nightbringers against the other -- you both understand the bindings well enough to slip in a nasty counter and turn it against its owner -- and Battle Magics would require enough concentration to give your opponent a perfect opening. But lesser spells in your repertoire may still prove decisive, if intelligently applied.
In the back of your mind, you weave Ulgu in a practiced pattern, and then with a shouted incantation your Illusion comes forth, a dozen shadow-wrought duplicates of yourself. Mastered, they mimic your actions and follow your intents without needing further concentration, and you tied in a Smoke and Mirrors to put you amidst the throng. Thirteen Shadeblades lash forward, the true one indiscernible from the false even to Windsight as keen as hers, and she could only parry one.
The Supreme Matriarch's solution, of course, is to reject the dilemma entirely.
Her mutable face takes on a terrifying cast as her shadow surges forth in all directions around her in orgiastic violence. Your shadow clones are countered by tendrils, by spears, and by her flickering blade. Your attack comes close to landing, but even you are not immune to her Dread Aspect, and your moment of hesitation is enough for her to deflect it into a glancing blow on her enhanced robes. She didn't bother teleporting away from your attack, and you see why as her own Shadeblade swings in from an angle you weren't expecting and lands the first clean hit of the fight: a long shallow cut on your left thigh.
The equilibrium has broken; what was previously an equal exchange is now a furious defense. Your sword flickers back and forth, meeting the followup attacks, but in a fight previously as evenly matched as this one, the slow loss of blood will eventually take its toll. You are at a steadily growing disadvantage now, and will need to do something drastic to make up ground.
Just according to plan. Well, more or less; you didn't know what would put you in a corner, but that you would wind up in one felt obvious, given who you were challenging. Your training to master both Ulgu and the EIC has taught you this: the best way to scam someone is to show them exactly what they expect to see. So you break contact, falling back with Shadeblade dismissed, and begin to weave Ulgu into the strongest Battle Magic you know: Penumbral Pendulum. If she takes the opportunity to seize the Staff, she leaves herself open.
[Does she buy it: Intrigue vs Learning, 70+29+15(Magical Mimic)=114 vs 25+32+10(Windsage)=67.]
This is the part you had identified as most dangerous, when you planned this out: if she just pounced on you with her sword, you were ruined. But that was such an obvious opening that surely you had something ready for it, you thought she'd think, in the prediction and counter-prediction of two masters of the Grey Wind. So, as you had expected but mostly hoped, instead she readies herself to snuff out your spell, trusting in the runic enhancements to the hall to prevent any miscast from turning truly catastrophic, leaving her able to claim the Staff in the aftermath.
But you know something she doesn't know. And, while much of her career was built on the back of studying other magic and adapting its principles, you have taken that and gone even farther with it, and your skill at imitating magic is second to none. Such as, for instance, Battle Magic.
You can't help your smile, and her eyes widen, but it's too late: in the precise moment she commits to countering your spell, you take the magic you had been pretending was a half-formed spell and instead complete the reappearance cantrip of the Shadeblade.
And teleport.
[Telefrag (True Strike nullifies Martial to defend): Martial, 91+24-5(Wounded)=110 vs 38.]
You reappear behind her, already swinging, and only her well-trained reflexes save her from losing the fight right there. Your blow almost, but not quite, severs one of her plaits as she ducks under it -- but does knock her hat off, to a shocked silence from the crowd. But you take no time to savor that, because you're in motion again and again, as you appear and disappear with your own Shadeblade, slashing at her over and over, every angle an unexpected one because she doesn't know where you'll be.
Your Mastery, developed on the battlefields of Kislev, lets you weave Smoke and Mirrors, not just into the initial casting of the Shadeblade, but into every use of the minor spells that banish and rematerialize it. Your Mastery: an insight all your own, and something the inventor of the spell would never be able to replicate. And it's working here just as well as it worked against the daemons you cut down years ago. Soon, the Supreme Matriarch takes a wound, and then another, and then another. All minor, but the momentum is yours. You see the realization that you're going to win enter her eyes, though this final release of your strength.
[Any secret cards to play: DC 100, 85+20(???)=105.]
And she smiles. Not the "proud Master" smile you know so well; the other one. You've seen it a thousand thousand times, and you wore it yourself not long ago.
She knows something you don't know.
[What's she got: 4, Smoke and Mirrors Mastery.]
[Uno reverse: Martial, 3-5(Wounded)=-2 vs 71+28-15(Badly wounded)=84.]
While you're in the timeless moment between moments in the space outside space, something goes wrong. You reappear, but not where you were meant to. You are not behind her; instead, she is behind you.
And her Shadeblade takes you through the lung.
You think she says something, but you can't hear what: the crowd is tumultuous again, and besides which your concentration is on walling off the pain long enough to send up the Marsh Lights that signal your concession. Then the sword impaling you disappears, and you let yourself collapse to the floor.
You have lost.
[Mastery revealed! Baleful Transposition: Redirect other teleportation within the vicinity. Must be cast as Battle Magic; not compatible with being incorporated into other spells.]
"Don't know what she was thinking," Pan fumes in the recovery room, fussing over you. Magical healing meant you'd be back on your feet very soon, but she had been slow and cautious in her application of it, not wanting to create Dhar unnecessarily by simply flooding your body with a foreign Wind. "She could have just dropped you at the edge of the room and grabbed the Staff while you were out of position! She didn't have to stab you."
"Perhaps she got caught up in the competition of it all?" Sidrofissa asks. Your familiar perches on the headboard of your bed, peering down at you with concern. From the floor beside you, Wolf sneezes, and the parrot wheels on him. "Yes, I know, but I don't hear you offering a better explanation." Wolf responds with a chuff that is his equivalent of laughter and resumes licking your hand companionably.
You lie there, content to let activity swirl around you, but know that if you don't say something Pan will start thinking that you're sulking. Which you're not. You're not sure what you are, but it's not that, and your long accord with the Grey Wind makes you comfortable with the ambiguity of your feelings. So you clear your throat. "You knew about this trick of hers?"
"Oh yes. Saw it in action when some dark elves came to assassinate her, back before the war. They tried to dart around keep her on the back foot, but she dropped them into each other's attacks as neat as you please."
From the entranceway, a voice: "You give me too much credit. I dropped them into your attacks, too." The tap of a staff, and a short woman with a Witch Hunter's hat back on her head walks into the room.
The Supreme Matriarch has come to visit.
Her human partner strides over to her, lips pursed in a half-frown. The canine partner stays where he is, which you appreciate. "You took longer than I expected," she says.
Your former master reaches out a hand and intercepts hers with the ease of knowing exactly where it will be, as automatically and naturally as for Branulhune. "After Eike's strong showing, a few others decided that, now that the ice had been broken, they felt comfortable taking a swing at me themselves. Nothing serious, you understand; just young bucks seeking to measure themselves against the old lady." She smirks. "Mandred was one of them. I suspect he'll be making a habit of it. But right now, I have other priorities." She turns from Pan, and she looks at you. "And how are you doing, Lady Magister?" she asks.
Her stormcloud eyes seem to pierce straight to the back of your head. You look back at her. You don't know what she's looking for; you don't know whether she's finding it. You know what you want, though. See me, you silently implore. Not the little girl my grandmother surprised you with. Not the future partner you brought to Karak Eight Peaks on a lark. Not the Apprentice, nor the Journeyman, nor the Magister, nor even the Lady Magister who fought by your side in the war. Me. Your grandmother began the shaping of you, when she needed an heir and you seemed like adequate raw material for one. Then her frightening silent partner picked you up, when she noticed you perceiving magic, and continued the work after her own fashion. And since then it's been up to you to take over, now that your fate was in your own hands, and be both crafter and craft. Did I use my time well? How have I done? Is it good enough?
Is this what you wanted?
You don't know if she sees any of that. You don't know any of what she sees with Ulgu's eyes. But she leans back, her mouth now set in a slight smile you've only witnessed rarely, but would recognize on any of her faces. "Doing well, I see. I'm glad. Recover quickly; I'll feel much better for knowing that you're here to cover my back." She glances to the third wizard in the room. "I have to attend the Empress. I'll see you for dinner at the palace?" Pan nods, and one kiss later, Mathilde leaves. Pan returns to checking up on you, but then ultimately departs, with stern words (directed to the familiars rather to you) that you aren't to get up for another hour or use any magic for another two, to give the healing time to knit you together and fade away.
And you lie back and close your eyes, victorious.
As the last door slams shut in the Obsidian Hall, you continue to sit quietly, appearing for all the world perfectly calm and collected. It would take a better eye than even those possessed by your fellow Grey Wizard Lords to discern how nervous you are, how tempted to keep your seat and not issue your planned challenge. But you've had long practice in the art of following through on your decisions once they'd been made. Your peers are relaxed in truth -- and why wouldn't they be? Nobody expects anything to happen today; holding it was just a formality required by law. The defeat of the Thirteenth Everchosen a mere three years ago had both culled the ranks of potential challengers and solidified support behind the incumbent. Nobody wanted to rock the boat.
For that matter, you don't want to rock the boat. It had been a close-fought thing, when you decided that you would be issuing a challenge today. But... you have to know. Despite the victories you've claimed over the years, something inside you would never rest easy until you tested yourself against this particular measuring stick. The one that feels the most real. The one that matters.
The Magister Patriarchs of the Colleges finish their introductions. Silence reigns in the Obsidian Hall; as expected, nobody rushes to challenge. But before enough time could elapse to declare victory through no contest, you let out the breath you were holding and stand. Your peers have too much dignity and poise for murmurs and whispers to rise behind you in your alcove, but their external control didn't matter to your Windsight; you can feel the Ulgu seething in your wake as easily and naturally as someone might feel a breeze blowing behind them.
"Eike Hochschild of the Grey Order challenges Mathilde Weber of the Grey Order."
The challenger, of course, stands in front of their Order's alcove, so custom dictates that, to begin with the Staff between them both, the challenged party move to the one opposite. This gives you plenty of time to watch as your former Master crosses the room to stand in front of the Lights. You know her to be in her mid-seventies, but the touch of Ulgu upon her soul and body gives her an ageless, timeless quality, similar to but distinct from the elves you had spent your Apprenticeship among: from the fog-grey hair and eyes, to the unnaturally lean build, to the face your mind insists is different every time you look at her.
As she takes her position, you adjust your collar, a gesture that will mean nothing except to the two of you. Her gaze flicks to your neck, and her expression flickers not one whit at what she sees -- or, rather, doesn't. She set aside her runed items during her title challenge and subsequent defenses, and so, in keeping with her example, the necklace wrought for you by Thorek Ironbrow currently sits hidden in your storage dimension. You wanted as pure a test of skill against skill as was possible to have, both for the sake of what the position meant and for your own pride. You don't need to say anything; you know she understands.
She completes her circuit of the chamber. You are both in position, now. You let out a breath. The Staff of Volans shivers, and your soul thrums as the Grey Wind billows unchallenged in the Obsidian Hall.
It's time.
[Initial clash: Martial, 54+24=78 vs 49+28=77.]
With matched speed, you and the Supreme Matriarch weave Ulgu into your Shadeblades, shadowy greatswords forming in your hands as you each teleport to the plinth at the center of the arena, blades already in the motions of stroke and counter-stroke. Without word or gesture, the robes you each wear pulse and Aethyric Armours snap into place around each of you, protecting you from the weapon of your foes and preventing fatigue from touching you. You had followed your Master's example in this, as in many things, and you were both fit to degrees that would not be out of place in the standing armies of Reikland -- but with the blessing of the Mastery she developed and then taught as your first Lesser Magic, you could fight at full force for long enough to leave even a Greatsword blown and trembling.
For a full half-minute -- an eternity in a mundane duel -- the two of you do battle, each unable to gain advantage over the other. Matched weapons clash in a duel possible for none but the Greys: empty hands twist in the air before a sword materializes within them, is parried, and then vanishes again as you adjust your grip and angle. The forms of Branarhune were different when adapted to the Shadeblades, to compensate for the lack of Kragg's Master Rune. With Branulhune she would have had an overwhelming advantage, needing to travel far less distance to land a telling blow, but the Shadeblades require momentum to cut, and in the time that required it was possible to react. Your greater size gives you longer reach, but she can press inside your guard to counter it. It evens out.
Even. It's even. You have practiced that style from its inception, when the Shadeblade was first invented. Here, before the assembled Wizard Lords of the Colleges of Magic, you prove yourself your Master's equal in every exchange of blows.
[Trying again: Martial, 31+24=55 vs 30+28=58.]
[Breaking the stalemate: Learning, 26+30=56 vs 49+32=81.]
Too equal. It must be very confusing for the audience to watch: two forms wrapped in Ulgu and dueling with identical swords around the Staff of Volans, practically mirror-images of one another. But you can't just be a mirror image of her: she's had a lot more experience being herself. You need a way to break the stalemate. Both of you know better than to risk trying to unleash your Nightbringers against the other -- you both understand the bindings well enough to slip in a nasty counter and turn it against its owner -- and Battle Magics would require enough concentration to give your opponent a perfect opening. But lesser spells in your repertoire may still prove decisive, if intelligently applied.
In the back of your mind, you weave Ulgu in a practiced pattern, and then with a shouted incantation your Illusion comes forth, a dozen shadow-wrought duplicates of yourself. Mastered, they mimic your actions and follow your intents without needing further concentration, and you tied in a Smoke and Mirrors to put you amidst the throng. Thirteen Shadeblades lash forward, the true one indiscernible from the false even to Windsight as keen as hers, and she could only parry one.
The Supreme Matriarch's solution, of course, is to reject the dilemma entirely.
Her mutable face takes on a terrifying cast as her shadow surges forth in all directions around her in orgiastic violence. Your shadow clones are countered by tendrils, by spears, and by her flickering blade. Your attack comes close to landing, but even you are not immune to her Dread Aspect, and your moment of hesitation is enough for her to deflect it into a glancing blow on her enhanced robes. She didn't bother teleporting away from your attack, and you see why as her own Shadeblade swings in from an angle you weren't expecting and lands the first clean hit of the fight: a long shallow cut on your left thigh.
The equilibrium has broken; what was previously an equal exchange is now a furious defense. Your sword flickers back and forth, meeting the followup attacks, but in a fight previously as evenly matched as this one, the slow loss of blood will eventually take its toll. You are at a steadily growing disadvantage now, and will need to do something drastic to make up ground.
Just according to plan. Well, more or less; you didn't know what would put you in a corner, but that you would wind up in one felt obvious, given who you were challenging. Your training to master both Ulgu and the EIC has taught you this: the best way to scam someone is to show them exactly what they expect to see. So you break contact, falling back with Shadeblade dismissed, and begin to weave Ulgu into the strongest Battle Magic you know: Penumbral Pendulum. If she takes the opportunity to seize the Staff, she leaves herself open.
[Does she buy it: Intrigue vs Learning, 70+29+15(Magical Mimic)=114 vs 25+32+10(Windsage)=67.]
This is the part you had identified as most dangerous, when you planned this out: if she just pounced on you with her sword, you were ruined. But that was such an obvious opening that surely you had something ready for it, you thought she'd think, in the prediction and counter-prediction of two masters of the Grey Wind. So, as you had expected but mostly hoped, instead she readies herself to snuff out your spell, trusting in the runic enhancements to the hall to prevent any miscast from turning truly catastrophic, leaving her able to claim the Staff in the aftermath.
But you know something she doesn't know. And, while much of her career was built on the back of studying other magic and adapting its principles, you have taken that and gone even farther with it, and your skill at imitating magic is second to none. Such as, for instance, Battle Magic.
You can't help your smile, and her eyes widen, but it's too late: in the precise moment she commits to countering your spell, you take the magic you had been pretending was a half-formed spell and instead complete the reappearance cantrip of the Shadeblade.
And teleport.
[Telefrag (True Strike nullifies Martial to defend): Martial, 91+24-5(Wounded)=110 vs 38.]
You reappear behind her, already swinging, and only her well-trained reflexes save her from losing the fight right there. Your blow almost, but not quite, severs one of her plaits as she ducks under it -- but does knock her hat off, to a shocked silence from the crowd. But you take no time to savor that, because you're in motion again and again, as you appear and disappear with your own Shadeblade, slashing at her over and over, every angle an unexpected one because she doesn't know where you'll be.
Your Mastery, developed on the battlefields of Kislev, lets you weave Smoke and Mirrors, not just into the initial casting of the Shadeblade, but into every use of the minor spells that banish and rematerialize it. Your Mastery: an insight all your own, and something the inventor of the spell would never be able to replicate. And it's working here just as well as it worked against the daemons you cut down years ago. Soon, the Supreme Matriarch takes a wound, and then another, and then another. All minor, but the momentum is yours. You see the realization that you're going to win enter her eyes, though this final release of your strength.
[Any secret cards to play: DC 100, 85+20(???)=105.]
And she smiles. Not the "proud Master" smile you know so well; the other one. You've seen it a thousand thousand times, and you wore it yourself not long ago.
She knows something you don't know.
[What's she got: 4, Smoke and Mirrors Mastery.]
[Uno reverse: Martial, 3-5(Wounded)=-2 vs 71+28-15(Badly wounded)=84.]
While you're in the timeless moment between moments in the space outside space, something goes wrong. You reappear, but not where you were meant to. You are not behind her; instead, she is behind you.
And her Shadeblade takes you through the lung.
You think she says something, but you can't hear what: the crowd is tumultuous again, and besides which your concentration is on walling off the pain long enough to send up the Marsh Lights that signal your concession. Then the sword impaling you disappears, and you let yourself collapse to the floor.
You have lost.
[Mastery revealed! Baleful Transposition: Redirect other teleportation within the vicinity. Must be cast as Battle Magic; not compatible with being incorporated into other spells.]
"Don't know what she was thinking," Pan fumes in the recovery room, fussing over you. Magical healing meant you'd be back on your feet very soon, but she had been slow and cautious in her application of it, not wanting to create Dhar unnecessarily by simply flooding your body with a foreign Wind. "She could have just dropped you at the edge of the room and grabbed the Staff while you were out of position! She didn't have to stab you."
"Perhaps she got caught up in the competition of it all?" Sidrofissa asks. Your familiar perches on the headboard of your bed, peering down at you with concern. From the floor beside you, Wolf sneezes, and the parrot wheels on him. "Yes, I know, but I don't hear you offering a better explanation." Wolf responds with a chuff that is his equivalent of laughter and resumes licking your hand companionably.
You lie there, content to let activity swirl around you, but know that if you don't say something Pan will start thinking that you're sulking. Which you're not. You're not sure what you are, but it's not that, and your long accord with the Grey Wind makes you comfortable with the ambiguity of your feelings. So you clear your throat. "You knew about this trick of hers?"
"Oh yes. Saw it in action when some dark elves came to assassinate her, back before the war. They tried to dart around keep her on the back foot, but she dropped them into each other's attacks as neat as you please."
From the entranceway, a voice: "You give me too much credit. I dropped them into your attacks, too." The tap of a staff, and a short woman with a Witch Hunter's hat back on her head walks into the room.
The Supreme Matriarch has come to visit.
Her human partner strides over to her, lips pursed in a half-frown. The canine partner stays where he is, which you appreciate. "You took longer than I expected," she says.
Your former master reaches out a hand and intercepts hers with the ease of knowing exactly where it will be, as automatically and naturally as for Branulhune. "After Eike's strong showing, a few others decided that, now that the ice had been broken, they felt comfortable taking a swing at me themselves. Nothing serious, you understand; just young bucks seeking to measure themselves against the old lady." She smirks. "Mandred was one of them. I suspect he'll be making a habit of it. But right now, I have other priorities." She turns from Pan, and she looks at you. "And how are you doing, Lady Magister?" she asks.
Her stormcloud eyes seem to pierce straight to the back of your head. You look back at her. You don't know what she's looking for; you don't know whether she's finding it. You know what you want, though. See me, you silently implore. Not the little girl my grandmother surprised you with. Not the future partner you brought to Karak Eight Peaks on a lark. Not the Apprentice, nor the Journeyman, nor the Magister, nor even the Lady Magister who fought by your side in the war. Me. Your grandmother began the shaping of you, when she needed an heir and you seemed like adequate raw material for one. Then her frightening silent partner picked you up, when she noticed you perceiving magic, and continued the work after her own fashion. And since then it's been up to you to take over, now that your fate was in your own hands, and be both crafter and craft. Did I use my time well? How have I done? Is it good enough?
Is this what you wanted?
You don't know if she sees any of that. You don't know any of what she sees with Ulgu's eyes. But she leans back, her mouth now set in a slight smile you've only witnessed rarely, but would recognize on any of her faces. "Doing well, I see. I'm glad. Recover quickly; I'll feel much better for knowing that you're here to cover my back." She glances to the third wizard in the room. "I have to attend the Empress. I'll see you for dinner at the palace?" Pan nods, and one kiss later, Mathilde leaves. Pan returns to checking up on you, but then ultimately departs, with stern words (directed to the familiars rather to you) that you aren't to get up for another hour or use any magic for another two, to give the healing time to knit you together and fade away.
And you lie back and close your eyes, victorious.
This omake brought to you by the confluence of a few thoughts about the fighting style Mathilde has been working on and by my musings about the psychology of our Apprentice. Mathilde's formative experience as a child was being betrayed by everyone who claimed to love her and saved only by the law of the Empire and someone with the integrity to stand for it; Eike's formative experience was being discarded by her mother and picked up by a succession of people who thought she showed great promise for accomplishing things they cared about. The latter is clearly better, but it's going to leave its own kind of Mark on the soul. I've been working on this, on and off, for over a year, but the SV Summerfest Omake contest gave me the push I needed to finally finish it. People who read my now-finished quest will know how much I tried to avoid writing fight scenes, but the very premise of this omake required it. Joke's on me!
The title was one of the last things to come together: my frontrunners for a while were "Successor" and "Succession", and I was unable to decide until finally I hit upon "Success*." For those unfamiliar, * is the wildcard character in many scripting languages: it means "what follows this can be any character or set of characters," and so it encompasses "Successor" "Succession" "Success" and even "Success?" all at once, which is a level of ambiguity that I find delightfully Ulgu-y.
In deference to thread memes, I tried to sneakily work in a lot of references to the sorts of things Eike is a protagonist of. See how many you can catch, there's one I will be very impressed by because I think it makes sense only to me.
Gratitude to @Derpmind and @Mopman43, who looked over the intro last September and helped me tweak it.
The title was one of the last things to come together: my frontrunners for a while were "Successor" and "Succession", and I was unable to decide until finally I hit upon "Success*." For those unfamiliar, * is the wildcard character in many scripting languages: it means "what follows this can be any character or set of characters," and so it encompasses "Successor" "Succession" "Success" and even "Success?" all at once, which is a level of ambiguity that I find delightfully Ulgu-y.
In deference to thread memes, I tried to sneakily work in a lot of references to the sorts of things Eike is a protagonist of. See how many you can catch, there's one I will be very impressed by because I think it makes sense only to me.
Gratitude to @Derpmind and @Mopman43, who looked over the intro last September and helped me tweak it.
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