The Craft - IC

[King_of_GRiffins]

For years, the Empire of Zentronica used it's magic to dominate the western sphere until a group of adventerous young rebels managed to topple it once and for all; yet another national player biting the dust in a long list of them. To the elders of the world, it's hardly anything new. Now, the western world is once again free to choose it's own path, or give rise to yet another dominion of force.

Meanwhile, the distant world of the east remains under the foot of the Armanria Empire, home of a corrupt senate vindictive of the people, and a deliquent emperor rumored to be a powerful and assuredly evil necromancer. No sattelite of the state dares oppose it's dominance.

Despite the runnings of politics, the world moves much as it always has. Vast woodlands and mountain ranges dominate impossible landscapes and rivers flow with a sparkle of magic. The sun and moon shine with auras of thier own, and forces not always seen move with a steady stride. Ancient valleys with tombs left undisturbed emmanate their spooky calls, and mountain tops have thier wise hermits to whom they dispense wisdom to none.

There is no doubt this is a world of magic, and everyone has had a small taste. Only a few though have ever made of meal of magic, examined each of it's flavours, and become a true connoisseur of eldritch powers. These few practice magic like an art, crafting energies into magnificent acts of power, constructing towers, flying machines and other artifacts at a seeming whim. They trick the gods into handing over thier most valuable works, control the deadliest of dragons, and change thier shape at will. These are high mages, and today we turn our eyes to those in the western sphere, and the legends they may leave in their wake.

OOC: Thread started up, hopefully everyone still around will introduce their character, and provide their going ons, and we'll get some interaction going as well. :smallsmile:

[RJ45]

The scent of pastries filled the temple, traveling all along the mountain, even down into the city. Despite being fairly isolated, it's actually well-known. One thing is certain - when you die, this is the temple that you'd want your soul to rest in. All is at peace as everything is remarkably silent. With the sun shining, the birds chirping, and the sea of blue stretching on forever in the sky, it truly is a wondrous thing they have been blessed with today.

Rania was still dressed in her plain, brown training clothes. No less than an hour ago, you could find her in the training ground, working to perfect her body. In sharp contrast, the muscular woman is wearing a white apron now, cleaning a few dishes she used to make batter with. The pastries were cooking and they would take time to reach a golden brown perfection. With the dishes cleaned and put away, "Good things come to those who wait." she reminds herself.

"But I wish you'd cook faster." as she stares at the oven. A few moments of Rania pacing around later, she pulls the delicate treats free from her forge. On a pan, she allows them to cool an entire three seconds before plucking one of the strudels off the pan, juggling it between her hands and blowing on it, trying to cool it down. Taking herself out into the courtyard, she has a seat cross-legged and enjoys her strudel. She could eat these forever and she would never be tired of them.

[WrathOfLife]

Mort Tool

Deep under the largest city in the western sphere, a figure cloaked in a dark flowing robe that seems to move in a non-existent breeze strides into a small room, lit with black candles. In the room are a distraught blindfolded woman who clutches to a strangely blindfolded baby, less than a year old.

Mort had come to do business.

"What do you wish of me?" Mort asks in a voice that sounds like two rocks being dragged against each other.

The young woman, her nerves already in tatters falls to her knees and begins sobbing uncontrollably.

Mort waited for a few moments, simply watching this display of human emotion before repeating in the same voice "What do you wish of me?"

Between gasping sobs the woman pleads "My baby is sick. The local healer said he would die." tears roll out from her blindfold as she determinedly continues "I heard you had power over life and death. Please. I don't want him to die."

Mort moves forward quietly and gracefully, he looks down at the child held close to the woman's chest. It was indeed close to death. Mort spent some time quietly studying the child, so long that the woman became worried Mort had left.

"Please!" she cried out loudly "I'll do anything, I have money, please, just save him! I can't lose him..... please"

Mort considered this before gently taking the child out of the woman's arms. The young mother resisted Mort's to start with, but then collapsed on the ground and began to cry in truth.

Mort looked the young baby over again. He could save this child he decided.

He turned around and walked to the door way, on reaching it, he spoke over his shoulder.

"The child will be returned to your house in a week. He will live. You shall be shown out now." With that Mort left the room, baby in hand. The child would need the full week to recover from the healing it would need, magic would play only a small part in his healing.

[A'den]

A cold wind blew out of the east the threat of winter's breath raised the hairs on the back of General's Fereo's neck. Summer in the East was always short and Fall didn't seem to last long either most of the trees around him were bare with only evergreens still claiming their leaves. The wind brushed the tree branches and made them sway like silk dancers in the setting sun. Fereo was sure he would of heard the groan of the forest if not for the rhythmic beat that drowned out noise for miles. Tens of thousands of feat pounded that staccato on ground already in the grip of permafrost. Fereo turned his gaze from trees to the sight that stretched about below his bare knoll.

The Legions of Armanria marched forward out of the wood line, like a wall of steel and flesh the ranks of men marched to one beat. Three legions wide the tide of soldiers was almost a half mile wide as the Army marched out of the foot hills of the Dreshen Mountains. Soon they would be making camp in the valley below. Legion Scouts had reported a river with good water cut across the Army's path and would require some labor to cross in the next few days. Fereo was simply glad the Army had made the march across the pass before the winter snows set in.

The sun just touched the flat horizon in the West plains of verdant growth and rolling grass lands for a moment Fereo thought he saw something glitter but he averted his gaze as the sun's glare swallowed it. Another week's march there was a city of good size that lay parallel to the mountain pass, strange goods and wealth flowed into Armanria along this pass for the last few months had cut off as the Army took the pass and made its months long march into these lands. The Emperor had ordered the Frontier pushed forward and Fereo's armies filled His request.

The General a man of his middle years with wings of gray escaping from his helm spurred his horse to rejoin his Legion, a black cape stretched behind him on broad shoulders and pale skin like most Armanrians he was tall, broad chested and pale skinned. Only his almond shaped brown eyes suggested a lineage of mixed descent but no one questioned a man in the Emperor's favor. Tomorrow would begin a new epic of Imperial expansion for back home.


Almost a thousand miles away the sparkling citadel of the Capitol sat like a fat spider among a web of flickering lights it was late in the night. But it was motto of Armanria that industry never slept, or the foolish and brave would say Greed never slept. Far above the bustle of the city a quiet chamber of black marble with vaulted ceilings that revealed the stars above a man sat on a black throne. The room was bright even with the dark decor twenty men and women in flowing garments of silk and gossamer clothes stood arrayed in a crescent around the throne. Their pale faces thrown into sharp relief by the light cast from globes of light sitting on top lamp stands, warmth and light filled the room from these stands against the walls but the man speaking at the moment still shivered.

"...also General Fereo has requested another twenty Mages be moved to the Forward Legions to help move supplies across the Dreshen mountains the snows are forecasted to begin another week or so and a portal gate has not yet been erected between his new camp and the Capitol. Though I recommend only twelve be sent since Northern Tribes seem to be organizing another winter resurgence as Governor Cladus reported."

The Imperial functionary swallowed a moment he had almost said rebellion. A poisonous word to echo in the palace. The black robed man on the throne stirred a hand and the entire gathering took a step away from the man. Examples had been made of those who spoke of sedition in the Imperial Palace, the example tended to be very prompt. Instead the figure laughed for moment from under the black hood that hid its face.

"Tell Cladus if he cannot keep order with five legions I will make a personal call to assist."

The functionary, a representative of the Army in a burnished gold uniform swallowed again and smiled with a pasty face. "I'm sure he will redouble his effort, Highness."

The man bowed and backed into line with the others who seemed let out a collective breath when nothing happened. Silence filled the room again.

"Tell Magister Tyractus to send the Mages to General Fereo. Leave me."

The gathered members of the High Council filed out of the room in twos. There was a collective sense of relief, it was the first time in a while a High Council meeting had been summoned by the Emperor without an execution. The loftiness of Imperial politics tend to make one reach for more than they should when the Emperor was absent. The last two months there had been a weekly meeting with High Council, and each time a High Lord or Lady poised to gain something that would set them above the others had died. Six new members now graced the High Council.

Archer let out a breath as the audience chamber's door closed, a statue against the wall shimmered a moment before melting and becoming the form of Magister Tyractus the elderly man walked across the floor and stood on the dais with Archer.

"Twenty students, there's hardly three hundred apprentices left in the tower Archer I have to send more and more untested Mages out to maintain this beast that has become your bureaucracy. The Homeland will be dry of Talent if you don't give them a day to even make a child." The elderly man's complaints sounded like an oak tree groaning in the wind. He was the only man in the entire Empire who could call Archer by his first name and not wet himself.

"Enough Tyractus, when Fereo takes this new city you'll have a plethora of young minds untapped to gather. What news of what I asked you to look into?"

"The Mage I sent to study the outland Mages failed to report to me three days ago. And his last letter only raved about some food he had that was divine. I almost summoned him but he's stopped carrying the Stone."

Tyractus trailed off, every Mage carried a Stone, and it was a capital crime to practice Magic in Armanria without one.

"Perhaps I will turn my eye farther West then."

"Archer you have a duty here, Lord Wilvem almost seized control of a plurality of the Nobility and had half the common people talking of reforms before you showed up again. If you leave now you'll let the power vacuum be filled by someone else again."

"The Nobles will be too busy licking their wounds and snapping at each other over Wilvem's corpse to risk my ire much. Start an Exhibition in the Capitol, a week long Festival of Winter will keep the commoner's occupied. Bankroll some brothels and arenas offer a bounty for largest attendance in a month. That should keep them pleased.

Archer trailed off and the opening of the black hood turned right looking West.

"I will be gone tonight, do as I have said.


A few hours later an elderly looking man dressed in clothes of rich browns and gray walked a gray stallion down a lonely road. He sniffled against winter's chill and pale blue eyes harder than iron kept any bandits at bay. A wonderful smell teased at the edge of his throat. Archer's stomach growled in protest, skipping dinner before traveling was nothing new but the smell seemed to remind the body all it lacked. Pastries like Mother used to make them.

Armranria marched West.

[RJ45]

The kitchen was busy today - as it always was. There were fifteen people constantly shuffling pans, skillets, spatulas - almost every utensil you can imagine. In the center of the room lied a large table that was becoming quickly covered with sweets. Chocolates. Taffy. Rock candy. Cookies. Sugar cookies. Pudding. Miniatures. Mints. Pies. Cakes. Jellies. Caramels. A little bit of everything could be found on that table. Preparation. The caravan would be traveling through the neighboring towns and villages. Every so often, a naughty hand reaches into the table and snags something to snack on. It's to be expected - after all, nobody can resist the tongue-seducing flavors of these creations. Even so, Rania wasn't among those in the kitchen.

Outside, ten more of her apprentices are arranged in a circle. Rania is among them, seated with their legs crossed. In their hands are glasses of water. Everyone is clothed in brown garments. Some of them have their eyes closed, as if focusing very, very hard - but one thing remains common for all but one. Damp spots. Their clothes are wet from the top to the bottom. Sweating. They are becoming exhausted by a cup of water. Rania is not in the least. Some of the water in the cups begin to freeze.

"To do it, you must weave magic through the water before doing anything else. If it's not perfect, it will unravel and fail. You have to be able to do it instantly, without trying." she told them. More often than not, they'd try and cast a spell rather than focus on weaving their powers into it. The first step in learning to imbue food with mystical energies. If only she had some way to help them beyond her explanation. She sips on her own water. After all, she wasn't practicing. She was here to help them. Soon enough, she leaves to the kitchen. It'll take time and practice - their personal journeys.

Rather than being the one cooking, she helps package the goods. It's a group effort. A couple unlucky rascals get their wrists slapped for snacking on the sweets. The next day, on an early morning, the caravan leaves to make sales.

[Ganurath]

West of Armrania, Terin Bol looked over the shoulder of Anna Tokien. The less capable of the two spellcasters was performing a simple divination on the progress of Armrania's forces. The half elf's eyes narrowed at their slow yet steady progress. While those in the House of Blades assumed Terin Bol's concern stemmed from fearing their arrival, the reality of the matter was that the illusionist wanted them to pick up the pace. "If action isn't taken, they'll arrive soon enough for the militia to be equipped, but before the siege defenses can be set up."

Anna nodded, the assessment matching what she had learned from divining on the expanded militia guard. Both police and soldiers, the city's military was of concern to criminal organizations like the House of Blades. "It'll be a bloodbath. The Shade wants us to make precision attacks against the invaders, try to slow them down long enough for the siege defenses to be put in place."

"He would." Terin sighed and examined the scene in Anna's scrying pool. There was no way the Shade and his subordinates could effectively disrupt such a force, at least not without massive casualties. So how... Ah, that might work. "See that patch of trees, ahead of their main force? Keep the spell focused on that for a moment."

"Sure thing, boss." Anna grinned, easily complying with the half-elf's request. In the months since becoming the face of the remaining House Heads, Terin had always been one to take the initiative rather than wait for the bueraucracy, something that the Tinker admired. "I assume you have a plan."

"As always." Terin Bol mentally reached through the scrying spell, a simple mental technique neccesary for fooling illusions. Rather than attempting to fool it, however, the illusionist cast a sort of illusionary nothing into the cluster of trees. The magic wasn't enough to take effort to maintain, as the illusion didn't conceal or deceive, but it did function as a sort of homing beacon to focus on. "Enjoy the show, Tinker."

"As always, boss."

Terin Bol was already gone when the artificer turned to smile, having taken the nearest exit into the closet of the tavern. Terin Bol was soon wrapped in a veil of illusion, displacing the presence of the mage to an alley outside a barracks of the city militia, one that the mage had infiltrated previously. In a single instant, the illusion was pure enough to trick time and space itself, and the illusionist was genuinely in the alley. With a knock on the door, Terin was met by the barracks captain. "Yeh?"

"Captain, you and your men have a mission." Terin made a gesture, creating an illusion that impersonated that of the city's battlemages. While not sufficient to fool a caster proper, it was more than enough for the untrained eye of the captain. "I'm to teleport you and your men to the location."

"Oh? Didn't think we'd be heading out so soon. Need to train the newbies and-"

"Captain, if we do not move quickly, the newbies may not live long enough to be trained."

"...I see. Fresh intel, then. Come on in, tell us the bad news..."

The illusion of nothing is a 1 point beacon for a group teleport, one use only, which will be used in the next post. Armranian legions, beware: Terin Bol has plans for you.

[King_of_GRiffins]

David the Archeologist
Minoa City, Midnight, Back Alleyway

An old woman sat on wooden crate in the narrow brick alley, the contents of which had a stench that filtered through the wood. She pulled out a pink handkerchief and covered her nose with it, hoping to not inhale any more of it. On the piece of cloth was 'Strauss' embroidered in gold. Her eyes darted to both ends of the alley, keeping a watchful gaze for anyone to interrupt her and her unpleasant stay.

One of the walls nearby started to flex and warp under some unknown stress. A raggedy man in a brown coat and uncombed black hair began to form himself from what used to be the wall, now a disfigured mass of earth. In his hands he clutched an object wrapped in cloth. "I assume you are here for what I have. You know the agreed price," he said in a hoarse whisper, as if anyone was around to hear.

"I have half that amount, and you won't see a coin more until I verify that the artifact is in the promised condition young man," Strauss said in a smooth tone, not the least bit phased by the man as she slipped off of her box. The man grudgingly handed the object over, but bent himself forward more, as if ready to pounce should there be an ounce of treachery in her actions. She unraveled the cloth, revealing the square head of an obsidian statue. "It would seem to be undamaged," she concluded, setting the object down on the box beside her. "Now, let's discuss where you can pick up the other half safely."

Distracted by the thought of money, the man didn't notice the bearded figure sneaking up behind him. Though he noticed the club brought to his head, he did not concern himself with it for long as he fell to the ground. the figure, dressed in a brown leather jacket and high leather boots clipped the club to his belt by a ring and dusted his hands of the matter. "Well, that was by far a simple recovery, despite the set-up it took," he looked down at the man like someone chastising a child, "They always think they're so clever."

"If you say so David. Of course, the number of people who expect to be clubbed in the head are remarkably few." She said with humor. Both of them walked to opposite end of the alley, each picking up a blue disk with 'IAC' inscribed in curvy, expensive script before returning to the center. David took Strauss' hand, and they both simple disappeared from sight.

=========================
Desert of Flying Rocks, Midday a week later, The Dig

David swept himself through the alleys of tents, trying desperately to find his own. Each street was filled with camels, horses, carts, people with tools, golems following students, and migratory traders who had tagged along some time back. The maze of cloth structures was did not seem to have a path back to his tent; he swore none of them were in the same position as yesterday. He could always teleport to the disk he left on the table, but that was never any fun.

As he ducked into his massive tent, he put up a hand to stop a rock which had animated itself and taken a liking to his head. It burst into dust harmlessly as a golem knitted up the entry flap again. He flipped through a book on the table and spread out the map that had curled up in his absence. This location, as he had read, had once been a sizable center of trade in ages past. This was long before the region had turned to desert, and the land had been cursed to try attacking anyone wandering foolishly into it. The dig, he hoped, might uncover this city and from it gain all sorts of clues to cultures of that time, and perhaps directions to other such sites.

At the least, he would not need to get his hands dirty in the matter just yet; that is what graduate students were for. He flipped on a beige wide-brimmed hat as he went out to investigate, watching as students and animated servants dug themselves into holes all around, trying to find a shard of pottery or an old piece of bone that might say that there was something here. He grinned as one of the students rose up from his hole, holding up a shriveled and petrified apple. With a few shouts from his teachers, everyone converged and started to dig again with more energy then before.

[A'den]

General Fereo (Marshal to Archer)
The morning sun had yet to crest the Dreshenen Mountains and already the crash and crush of labor filled the foot step of the mountain's shadow. Fereo stood with a small court of deputies and messengers watching the progress of a log pillar bridge being constructed below, further up the creek a solid sheet of water held back by an invisible wall began to flood its banks. Imperial Mages stood adjacent to the water maintain the simple wall of force that allowed the Engineers to dig the foundations for the bridge. It was of simple construction but follow on groups would expand it into a real Imperial architecture. Further down river the Legions marched onward fording the creek at different locations before taking to the field again. The bridge would be for the camp followers; tradesmen, smiths, fletchers, adventurers, the sort of gathering that any Army dragged after it.

"Leave a Reserve Battalion here and establish a camp. Some of Tenth Legion's Hoplites, two Mages, and a platoon from the 3rd Engineer Group, continue fording the river once the bridge is complete stark digging a palisade in and more permanent fortifications, regular patrols."

As three messengers began trotting their horses down the hill towards the separate commands Fereo walked his horse forward rejoined the procession fording the river. The human snake stretched to the woods behind him and into the rolling hills beyond the river. The Army moved slow but the ground it held was solidly in its grasp, part of how Armanria remained an Empire of vastness was the sense of permanency every action was executed with.

Fereo watched the diversity of soldiers fording the river, mostly men of Armanria, tall and stout, but mixed were many others, larger Northern Nomads stood out of the crowd by a foot or more with hulking slouched over forms, mixed in were Desert Waifs from the far East thin men with a loping sort of grace most of them carried a recurve style longbow with polished wood and engraving, and noticed only for the gap in ranks smaller men from the South most barrel chested carried spears or hammers as tall as they were on thick shoulders. Many of the diggers laboring to maneuver logs into the foundations they dug with the help of a field expedient crane were bare chested Southern men with red complexions. And those were just the common races some stranger folk also ran in the ranks though they were harder to pick out most of the time.

A loud popping noise broke Fereo's reflections as a Mage literally popped into place in front of him, the minor teleportation stone glowed warmly and Fereo could feel its counter part heat up in a leather sack tied to his saddlebags. The twenty Mages had been given were a resource he was loathe to delegate. Unlike most Battlemages who could sometimes conjure up an illusion, or heal up a minor injury in a desperate situation these were real Apprentices who could spin circles around the average Battlemage. Apprentices like the two holding back the wall of water so the Engineers could work were much more than most commanders could handle much less know how to employ.

Never the less the boy was breathing deeply, he must of teleported more than just a few miles.

"General Fereo," The man managed to remember to salute at least, Armanria was no Mageocracy much as the Apprentices believed sometimes.

"Legion I's scouts have encountered populated areas, sire, mostly small farming hamlets but it seems our goal is not more than day's reach away from there."

"Good, tell Legion I's Commander Narca to begin finding a location to dig in his Legion and pass order's on to the follow on Legions to begin North and South echelons. Legion XI will hold at the edge of these populated areas and begin digging a camp for the Army. Go."

The mage ducked a Salute and touched a his stone again another loud pop and a flash of light announced his departure.

A warm feeling brushed the back of Fereo's neck and he looked back the sun had just crested the Dreshen mountains blanketing his army in light. A very good omen, the General allowed himself a smile before returning to watch the bridge's progress.

[Ganurath]

Terin Bol

With a brief shimmer in the air, Terin Bol and the militia were suddenly in the segment of woodlands flanking the position of General Fereo's main force, exactly where Anna had divined. "Let's review. What's the plan?"

"Simple hit and run." The militia captain spoke for his twenty-some soldiers, restraining himself from rolling his eyes at the arcanist. "We fire off volleys of arrows into their position until we draw their attention, then you teleport us back out. Keep them on edge, slow their pace due to more effort spent scouting."

"Precisely." Terin Bol glanced out through the trees, appraising the Armranian forces. After a few seconds, the illusionist directed their attention toward the area where construction appeared to be under way. "Start off there, it would slow their pace considerably to lose diggers. Well within range, too."

The militia captain nodded, and the soldiers readied their bows before sending a volley of arrows arcing out of the trees. As the militia readied another volley, the second in command looked to the half-elf. "It took you a while to cast that group teleport. When are you going to start the spell for the extraction?"

Terin Bol answered by showing the soldiers a wicked grin, and making the illusion gradually fade from the feet up. "Sometime between reviewing the mission parameters and selecting your target. My apologies, captain, but casting such a spell from here would draw undo attention, and one mage is worth more than twenty militia."

The captain could barely contain his rage, but somehow managed before looking at his men. "Don't let them take prisoners."


-=- -=- -=- -=- -=-

Tinker looked up at Terin with a mischievious grin and a perked eyebrow. "Was that supposed to slow them down or speed them up?"

Terin simply nodded. "I was supposed to prevent a bloodbath. I'll have the Shade recall our field agents in case they arrive sooner than expected."

[Dorizzit]

Asharon Gesehip

Far, far to the north, there lies a long chain of mountains, eternally locked in a frozen blizzard harsher than the countries of south could ever imagine. These mountains are craggy and rough, treacherous paths and titanic cliffs lined with ice abounding throughout their breadth. Many rare and dangerous beasts make the mountains their home. There is, however, one place they do not roam. Through the blizzard, past the deadly climbs and deadly monsters there is a library. The Library.

Despite the extreme conditions outside, within the area of the monastery, there is only peace. The weather is pleasant and warm, and the skies above are clear of clouds, allowing sunlight to shine down. The complex has a large garden and even some livestock outside of the central buildings. The Library itself is host to thousands of books, tended to by the disciples that live within. In specially designed rooms, there are pools of water or mirrors for easy divination, and others with inscribed summoning circles, or other features to ease the practice of magic within.

Deeper still, there is a staircase at the very heart of the monastery. It plunges sharply down into the ground, descending for a seeming eternity until terminating. The stairs open into a small room, about twenty square feet all told. At first glance, a visitor would think that the room's walls, ceiling, and floor were lined with a silvery white metal, but a more astute observer would realize that it was actually carved into a massive vein of ore.

In the center of this room, there is a large, flawlessly formed basin of white marble, reaching to the stomach of an average human. Within this basin, a liquid pool of the metal, Draoidite, is constantly maintained by a magic woven into the marble. Draoidite is a rare metal, which magnifies magic cast in its presence. With the pool of it as a medium, an ordinary mage could cast divinations of immense power.

The man bent over the pool now is no ordinary mage.

Asharon stares intently into the image conjured upon the surface of the Draoidite pool, his blindfolded eyes soaking up every detail. It shows a massive army moving through a mountain range, changing views periodically to give perspective, or show past movements. After several long seconds, Asharon breathes out lightly and waves his hand over the surface of the Draoidite, which ripples as the conjured image is dispelled. He turns to his attendant, one of the more experienced disciples.

"Today they have made advances in the Dreshenen Mountains. They are having little in the way of trouble or delays, however, there is a very powerful mage who is interfering with unknown intent. I have tried to divine more, but the man is...slippery. My spells almost seem to slide off of him. It will require more time and concentration for me to pierce the effect. Additionally, they face possible insurgency to the north."

The Disciple nods and records Asharon's words in a long scroll he carries. When he finishes, he rolls the scroll up and places it on a nearby table. Asharon begins the long climb back to the Library, his assistant following close at his heels. When they reach the top, Asharon looks back.

"You are dismissed. Take the rest of the day off."

Straightening his gray robes, Asharon moves swiftly through the building towards his next destination. He exits and enters the central courtyard, where a group of disciples are being instructed in magical theory.

"...thus, by applying Salak's Paradigm and inducing chaos into the spell, it is possible to rip an infinitely long hole through any surface, which is why Gerard's Finger is such a feared spell. That is also why we use caution when casting. Any questions? No? Good."

Tordan, Asharon's oldest friend and the main teacher at the library, turns and sees Asharon. He beckons Tordan over, his expression wiping the satisfied smile from the older man's face.

"What's wrong?"

"The Armanrians again. They are continuing to expand at an alarming rate. I may have to interfere personally, if this keeps up. I'm preparing to go out; as always, the Library is under your control."

"I understand."

"Good. I will go prepare."

Asharon turns and leaves, heading for his room.

[A'den]

Fereo had been down off his horse inspecting some of the measurement for laying the cross members for the bridge when the first volley of arrows came out of the woodline. Only the sudden shadow and a sudden cry of pain told him what happened. More than a dozen men were down in the ditch with arrows protuding from torso and limb injuries, the angle the arrows stuck in their flesh was what struck him as odd.

A second flight of arrows broke out of the treeline behind him Fereo was surprised for a moment before mounting his horse and waving the small honor guard of mounted men forward. Already a line of hoplites had broken off from the main column into a wide line flanking the supposed archers. There were fewer cries of pain this time as the diggers sheltered against the lip of the creek that and the slow ones were already dead.

As the small company of horsemen charged into the treeline militiamen became easy to pick out in guard uniforms and tabards. A few arrows flashed out at point targets taking one horseman from his saddle to Fereo's left. Then the cavalry was among them. The woodland was bare with winter's grip and the underbrush less dense than it would be in Spring, the charge through the archers was like a knife through a tomato. Then the Hoplites hit from their left flank mopping up with spear and sword.

The engagement was barely longer than a minute and over two thirds of the militiamen were dead or close to death. The leather jerkins and snapped bows seemed a pale pittance compared to the full breastplates and helms the Imperial Hoplites wore. Four men were taken prisoner one seemed to be the leader.

Fereo reigned his horse and turned to look at them.

"Find out who they are, then hang them." He ordered curtly.

-=-

A few hours later four corpses decorated the trees east of the creek and a spur seemed to be under the General's saddle. The Army stepped with a quicker pace, they knew who drew firstblood and were eager to show them why no one resisted the Imperial Army.

[RJ45]

Rania Tretheim
Temple Tretheim, late afternoon, "Whispers of the Wind"

As usual, it was a quiet day. The loudest event of the day involved pans clattering against the floor, as someone without the best balance decided to put them away. No harm was done. After all, they are just pans.

In the training grounds, a lone apprentice is standing on one foot, balancing on a small part of a log that had been placed upright in the ground. His eyes are closed. He wobbles messily with every small change in the wind. "If he can't feel the balance in his body, how will he ever find balance in anything else?" Rania thought to herself. A fitting punishment for the terrible crime of dropping pans. A light smile crosses her face. She knows with every wobble and every tumble this young man might take, he will become better than before.

Alas, even now, something isn't right. There's a disturbance in the temple. She can feel it. Even as everyone around her is busy, seeming as normal as every other day that would pass, something inside of her burns with discomfort. Standing still and doing nothing quickly adds to that discomfort. Walking along the stone path leading back into the temple, Rania gently pulls open one of the heavy, wooden doors. In a sense, this temple is a mansion. A small castle, even.

Entering from the back of the temple, these heavy, dark wooden doors lead to a lobby. The lobby is bathed in a soft candle light, the lobby itself seeming rather empty. Oddly enough, there is no furniture to be found here. Several doors lead down long corridors to the remaining rooms of this temple - none of which are her goals. Opening a closet in the corner, she pulls free a broom. This is not a castle, and Rania is not a queen. Therefore, she should do her part to keep the place tidy. Stepping outside, she begins sweeping around the temple, trying to figure out what it is that so irritates her. As the broom is brought against wood, a particularly fat finger is pressed against her shoulder.

Turning around, Vaclar has returned from his journey to the neighboring towns on Mythical Sweets, distributing their hard work to the people. "How was it?" Rania asked him. With a jolly smile, "It was as entertaining as always. Why, I saw a couple children absolutely mesmerized by some of the chocolates! An older couple became younger before my very eyes at the taste of some cake." He giggles lightly. There is enjoyment to be found in everything, and Vaclar knows this lesson better than any. "It's always fun to watch, if you can see over the crowd." she smirks.

Tilting her head upwards to the sky, there isn't a single dark cloud to be found. "Vaclar, has today felt... strange to you, at all? Simply out of the ordinary?" one hand holding the broom, as she stops sweeping. There's a delay in his response - clearly he has noticed something as well. Their rather ordinary, peaceful discussion quickly becomes something else.

"Yes, but I thought it was just me..." he scratches his messy, black hair. A few gray hairs can be found among them. "There's odd rumors going around. About a lot of things. I didn't have the opportunity to hear them all through as I was busy, but... I heard something about a lich."

Her eyes that were previously fixated on his now stare at the ground. Just a rumor. Still, it made her uncomfortable. It would definitely explain why she was feeling strange. She sighed. If this was true, this day might mark the end of these peaceful months. Turning her back to Vaclar, she begins walking away.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm going to investigate."

"How?"

"I'm going to climb to the heavens and look down upon the world."

As she says that, she doesn't smile in the least. She is serious. With that, she swings open that very door she had entered moments ago, placing the broom back where it rightfully belongs. As she returns outside, her hand is found in her pocket, plucking from it a wrapped piece of candy. She begins to unwrap it just as Vaclar begins to speak.

"Well, ah... say hello to the gods for me, would you?" he mentions, obviously in disbelief, yet cheerful all the same.

"I will. Farewell."

The candy revealed is a square, blue-tinted licorice. The only kind like it in this world. She pops it into her mouth as she walks towards the gigantic front gate. The temple had walls around it - walls that were far too great to jump over without a ladder. Hunger drives all sorts of things here, almost all of which become annoyances of sorts to the lifestyle of Rania and her apprentices. As the caravan had recently come in, the gate was unlocked. Rania steps outside and walks along the walls. Walking towards the back of the temple - because her goal was up the mountain. Alas, at this rate, she would be late for dinner.

She chews on the licorice as she starts her climb. She begins to jog uphill, down a small path the people of the temple had made up the mountain. After all, it was a beautiful mountain. Lush, healthy flowers, plants, herbs and grasses are found all around. The trees with their lovely green leaves sway to the touch of the wind. Her jog becomes a run as she can feel the effects of the licorice. Soon enough, that 'running' could hardly be called such - her legs become a blur as she tears through the forest like a cheetah giving chase to prey. Within moments, the path comes to an end - but this path didn't extend to the top of the mountain. Few had the stamina for such a venture. She continues, avoiding bushes and swiveling around trees as the incline of the mountain increased. It did slow her down ever slightly. In this, a task that could take a day is done in a matter of hours.

Rania stands below the peak of the mountain. The actual peak of the mountain was unsafe to stand on, and it was only a matter of a couple hundred meters away. Her body is covered in sweat - her clothes are dampened entirely as she pants. Even through this, she isn't exhausted - but she does find a small sized boulder to be seated on. She had said she would climb to the heavens - this was as far as the mountain would go. The cold winds that blow so high in this mountain refresh her, as she peers into the distance, combing through her hair once with her hand.

Even from here, she can see something in the distance. An entire mile of land that moves. Yet... something about it seems... different. Untainted. She begins to focus, the magic within her stirring forth as she lifts one hand, drawing runes on the very air before her. The arcane, white glyphs light up as she stares on - her eyes closing. What she was seeing was not through her eyes, but through the arcane.

A sea of people. Armored. As she observes closer, she notices... no skeletal creatures, no risen dead, nothing that would be a sure sign of the work of a lich or other dark art. Indeed, these were wild rumors - but why? Why were they there? Why were they armed? There was something she was not observing. There was more to this tale than what could tell through this sight alone. She observes other directions, before being forced to start back down the mountain - back towards the temple. The sun had set.

A thousand questions were raised, to which only a handful could be answered.

[Bryn]

Siraim the Singer
A mountaintop, southeast of the Library, early morning.
The wind howled over the mountains, sending a fresh shower of hail clattering across the surface of the Clownfish. Trig ducked as a lump of ice the size of his head shot towards him, and Siraim winced as the interruption to his singing allowed another one to hit him in the gut and send him flying across the deck. A few notes sent him back under cover and she turned back to the storm.

Doctor Tor helped Trig to his feet, and they watched for a few minutes as Siraim sent the hailstones out around the deck, orbiting her in a series of rings. Then Trig sang one more note, wincing, and a gust of wind sent the entire construction flying away back towards the mountain.

Siraim joined them in the menagerie, where the drake - currently the only animal on board - had obligingly created a large fire. She was grinning. "Trig, you fool! The orbits of the planets have been destroyed! Even now, we are spinning towards the great space mountain..." She stopped, noticing Trig's new bruises. He did not look happy. Siraim did her best to cheer him up. "Well, Trig, that's the best singing you've managed yet. I was impressed. Most students end up with broken bones in their first hailstorm - why are you looking at me like that? It's true!"

Today, the Clownfish was on a short detour to investigate rumours of many mole-apes gathering on this mountain. As soon as the storm ended, they would venture out to make observations; the next day, they would be heading back to Stort. The Constabulary had sent an official summons. That could only be bad.