You scratch the back of your head. “I didn’t expect her to try and lunge for you.”

Her laughter is derisive, but not at your words. “I didn’t expect for her to be that stupid. Truly, the woman has cock on the mind, and the desire for a quick finish. But we must be quick. Crownguard Marcus Painel, for your services that you've done for my family, what do you desire from the Mazurs?"

>Fulfill your promise to Claudia and protect the Alchemists’ Guild from malignant treatment.

“Once this whole…debacle is over and done with, what do you think your father’s attention will return to?”
She had not expected a question. At the confused look on her face, you further elaborate, “I’ll put it this way. Once your father’s temper cools and we make our way out of Alnerwich, what do you think is the next most urgent issue for him to peruse?”

It only takes her a moment to think before answering in turn. “Without a doubt, the Alchemists’ Guild. There is a matter of the Blutlinge and the Warlock to be dispensed with,” she replies, even as her brow furrows in suspicion. “Where are you going with this? I thought we were going to discuss your reward.”

You nod. “We are. And I wish for a favor.”

“A favor…” Klara mulls over the word as if it were a morsel on her tongue. “Very well. Then what is the nature of this favor?”

From this wing of the fortress, you can trace the southern arm of the Anosar as it snakes around the town. Sheets of ice and meltwater flow along its southernmost arm, bringing in fresh water and carrying away the wastes produced by the commoners. Near the docks and the fish market, the building of the Alchemists’ Guild lies atop the artificial hill.

Clearing your throat, you say, “I made a promise to a friend that I would protect the alchemists and the guild from the wrath of your father in the light of what happened. It’s not their fault that a blood mage, let alone the Warlock of Envy, infiltrated their ranks and stole the face off their guildmeister. They’re more than willing to cooperate, and marginalizing them would only impede their efforts and cause a further rift between the nobility and the guild.”

To her credit, her surprise does not last terribly long. “Ah…that’s right. You are an alchemist, after all. It would only make sense for you to establish like-minded friends among practitioners of the art. Who is this friend? Clearly, they must have had quite the profound impact on you if you’re easily willing to spend your reward for them.”

The memory of Claudia upending a flask of acid onto the twitching body of the homunculus brings a quiet chortle out of your throat. “…they are indeed. And well worth the reward. You would have seen her the other day prior.”

(cont.)

“Ah…the girl who spoke against my brother the other day.” Klara’s eyes brighten in recognition. “She is a brave one, certainly…but my goodness, Painel.” Her smile takes on a mirthful quirk, and her tone becomes playful. “And here I thought that I was the only one outside of the Crowmonds to have the privilege of your rather particular…services. You’re quite cavalier and mercenary for a Crownguard…”

At your stony look, she laughs to herself, before offering her hands in a placating gesture. “Please, Marcus. I only jape. I do understand what you mean…”

“Pardon my bluntness,” You retort dryly, “But having seen your brother’s reaction to their plight…there is a significant concern as to whether or not they’ll be treated fairly. I’ve not seen much of your father, and what I have seen of him is in a borderline violent rage. All I have is Patrik to use as the measurement for your father’s character.”

Klara exhales, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “You don’t mince your words, do you? Very well then.” She offers her hand out towards you and meets your gaze with solemn promise. “I promise that I will do everything in my power to shield the Alchemists’ Guild from the worst of my father’s rage and unjust treatment. You and Silvera’s daughter will have my solemn word on that.”

Surprised as you are from her forwardness, you can’t help but sport a grin as you reach to clasp her hand. Her grip is firm and tight, a sharp contrast from the dainty grip you’d held her hand with the night prior. “Thank you, milady.”

The two of you shake on it, and quickly depart for the trial of the Rudnicks.

>The Great Hall of Alnerwich

Cleared of the dining tables and the great wooden benches, the only proper furniture left is that atop the dais. At the center of the table, Lord Adamus Mazur sits on his chair, adopting an expression that could have been carved out of stone. To his right and left, Patrik and Klara are seated beside their father, each with their own reactions to their current predicament. The young lord seems to still be in shock at the news, but his sister hides a vulpine smile behind a sheaf of folios.

Beyond the family, the officers of the court take their respective seats: steward, marshal, justicar and chamberlain. The only one absent is Court Mage Clirharn, Mazur’s allegedly incompetent sorcerer. He seems to be laying low. But you digress. Those present all share the same grim, cold expression that their lord wears.

Seated at an adjacent table, the Crowmonds and Lord Pullman take their seats. Adrianna and her siblings look on, having decided to abstain from the procedure to remain impartial. The Imperial Crown will not intervene unless absolutely necessary. Likewise, even as the Lord of the Vale shifts uncomfortably in his seat, he holds his silence, preferring to listen to the assembled courtiers and low-ranking officers as they mill about the edges of the hall.

(cont.)

The prisoners are brought in within minutes after all of you settle in. First come the retainers, the maids and manservants that accompanied Lady Rudnick. Other than the grime of the dungeons and some disheveled clothing, they don’t appear to have been abused or further mistreated beyond manacles on their arms. A point in favor towards Mazur. Because the fallout of holding a trial without Lord Trevor Rudnick is already going to hurt…

Then come the ill-fated lovers, Ser Royce and Lady Rudnick. All in all, it seems that the oubliette was not kind to Royce. His flesh seems to be recovering from a night where it had snowed, and terrible shaking almost lends a limp to his steps. From what you can tell, there doesn’t appear to be any frostbite damage, but hypothermia is only a breath’s away from settling in.

And Lady Rudnick herself is a far cry from the beauty she’d presented herself as the night prior. They’d left her torn gown on her, giving only a threadbare cloak to cover herself with, a fabric she clutched as if her entire life had depended on it. Her hair is a bedraggled mess, and her eyes are a puffy red. It seems that she’s moved beyond past anger, now settling upon grief as Mazur’s guards escort her to her own respective seat.

The trail formally begins with the chaplain, a mousy, effete man of no more than forty, opening with a prayer. But before he can begin formally, Mazur cuts him off with a harsh wave of his hands. The meaning is clear. There will be no frivolous or unnecessary procedure. The minimal will do. Offended, the priest begrudgingly continues, quickly invoking a prayer to the gods before settling down back in his seat with a severe frown on his face.

The charges are laid out with the delicacy of a carpenter’s hammer: Sofia Rudnick, betrothed to Lord Adamus Mazur, has been caught and accused of infidelity, and adulterous relations with one of her knights. Evidence has already been collected, and the proof must be documented before witnesses and within the Imperial bureaucracy. The trial is already as good as done, some muse to themselves. It is only a matter of time…

Standing behind the Crowmonds, you likewise hold your silence as the procedure continues. Gasps of shock and horror echo through the room when Klara presents the maidenweed. And those give way to indignant roars and angry shouting when she presents the aphrodisiac. That causes the entire court to erupt into a cacophony, as some shout for threats of violence and bodily harm to the horrified prisoners.

Even as Royce and Sofia grow paler with every allegation, Mazur’s face continues to redden, almost purpling with rage. He’s long since bypassed grief and sorrow of betrayal. Now, only anger remains, an anger that seems to be worrying Patrik. Klara maintains a neutral face, refusing to turn and break away from the dominating look towards the two foremost prisoners.

(cont.)

INFIDELITY TRIAL GIT HYP

“Sofia…” Mazur shakes his head, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist. “You’ve really done a good job of digging a hole for yourself. And I must admit, I’ve never seen such…stupidity, burying yourself deeper with every action you’ve taken. Maidenweed is certainly questionable, but slipping tonics into my drinks is a grave crime, benevolent as they might have been. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

She does not. Out of the collective prisoners, all of Rudnick’s maids and manservants have testified that no, they did not know anything about what happened between Royce and Sofia. They were too busy trying to get used to serving in Alnerwich, a job that they’ll no longer be able to perform now that the wedding’s been called off.

On the other hand, Ser Royce continued to stress that this was a farce of a trial. Without Lord Trevor Rudnick, this was all just a sham. And to a certain extent, he is correct. It is extremely improper to put the daughter of a noble on trial without her family to come, comfort and defend her.

But Mazur ignores him, favoring to stare at Sofia with the smoldering anger of a wronged man. “Ah…Sofia. Damn you. I don’t understand why you did it, but I won’t go to such great lengths as to try and even think about it. But I’m not nearly interested in the aphrodisiac as much as I am with this…”

He takes the box containing the maidenweed, giving it a small shake. “It’s a curious thing, really. This herb is not completely foolproof in preventing unwanted pregnancies. Sometimes, the little bastards survive in spite of their mother’s efforts. But since you were so eager to proclaim your innocence…”

Sofia turns paler than the snowfall outside the fortress as some horrifying revelation dawns on her. “Adamus…you wouldn’t…”

“…oh, I would. Because if you’re truly as innocent and unsullied as you claim to be, then there wouldn’t be any need for you to drink tea brewed from maidenweed,” Mazur snarls. “The road back to the Hinterlends is long and dangerous, especially in the dead of winter. So we'll be sure to take care of you and your entorage until spring comes. And then, you’ll go back on your way to Lord Trevor come the spring, when all the ice has gone, the weather is nicer…and Ser Royce’s hypothetical bastard planted firmly in your belly...unless of course we were horrifically wrong. So in order to prove that...”

It takes a moment for you, the Crowmonds, Lord Pullman, Mazur’s children, and the assembled court to process what Lord Mazur just said. And in that silence, the Lord of Alnerwich stands up, walks to the closest brazier, and tosses the box of maidenweed into the fire and the glowing coals.

And then all hell proceeds to collectively break loose.

(cont.)

>>1791535
........ Hooooo boy

This seems like a class 10 nnono

>>1791535
Everything happens at once. Ser Royce attempts to lunge for the brazier, and Lord Pullman stands up with outrage written across his features. Patrik stares, both in shock and awe at his father’s actions, and the blood collectively drains out of Klara’s face. Adrianna’s mouth falls open in transfixed horror, even as Ellana tries to get a better view of the commotion. And for all his trouble, Allanus stirs from his nap to a fantastic spectacle of human chaos as the Crownguard tense and prepare for trouble.

The justicar is unable to regain order in the great hall. The assembled witnesses, officers and courtiers are on the verge of rioting. Some have to be held back by Mazur’s guards, pushed away by shield and spear. Sofia is in hysterics, desperately clawing and fighting against her restraints, vainly reaching for the lacquered box as the fire licks at its surface. And for his efforts, Ser Royce is rewarded with a sharp CRACK of a spear haft, sending the man back onto the floor, stunned and dazed.

A sudden tugging at your sleeve draws your attention away from the cacophony. Ellana pulls you down to her level, but she has to almost shout to make herself heard above the din.

“Marcus, why did he do that?” Her voice is not nearly as horrified as you thought it would be. It’s more anxious, a worry devoid of the hysteria that’s gripped the room. Is it the innocence of youth that blinds her to the implications of his actions? Or something else entirely? “Even as much as Lady Rundnick’s crimes were horrible, I’m not sure that it was right of him to do that…”

>Your answer may have a profound impact on how Ellana sees the world around her.

>“It was an excessively cruel punishment.” (Just)
>“Maidenweed is available for those with the coin.” (Arbitrary)
>“That is his own form of dispensing justice.” (Cruel)

>>1791638
>“It was an excessively cruel punishment.” (Just)

Come on man I played CK2. Just is one of the best traits and Arbitrary is one of the worst.

Cruel has it's uses but Ellana isn't a going to be a military leader.

>>1791638
>“It was an excessively cruel punishment.” (Just)

>>1791648
I mean.. she might. If her family dies she may find herself at the head of an army.

>>1791638
>He was angry, felt betrayed, and wanted revenge. It was not Justice but spite that drove his hand princess, for he was too overwrought by emotion to see it or sense.

>>1791535
>>1791638
I'm sorry if this is obvious, but what exactly did he mean? I don't understand

>>1791739
Sofia is potentially pregnant with Royce's child since they were fucking the other night and she hasn't taken her contraceptive tea yet.

Mazur just burned all that contraceptive and implied she won't get any more so she'll have to have a bastard child.

>>1791739
>>1791756
What he said, yes. And he's kind of being a dick about it, taunting her about her "innocence".

Side note, this wasn't a part of Klara's plan, or something she anticipated.

>>1791774
>Spoiler

Kind of figured that.

Although personally, while he is being an asshole about it, I pretty much approve of the punishment.

>>1791788
It going to start a civil war.

>>1791756
>>1791774
Oh yeah, that's pretty bad then.

>>1791638
>“It was an excessively cruel punishment.” (Just)
>other
"Love is an emotion that can uplift men into the highest peaks of existence; when it is perverted and destroyed, a man's grief and anger may drive them to do the blackest deeds. I hope that you will never have to experience the anguish that Lord Mazur is undoubtedly feeling. And what I had felt as well..."

>>1791808
The diplomatic fallout will be interesting to watch, but I think "civil war" would be too strong of a word since it isn't engulfing the whole Empire. It's just one lord from one providence taking the piss out of another lord of equal social stature from another providence.

I think I have enough for one or two more before I hit the sack. Writing...

>>1791808
Well then she shouldn't have fucked her knight.

>>1791638
>“It was an excessively cruel punishment.” (Just)

>>1791638
>>“That is his own form of dispensing justice.” (Cruel)
>>1791756
Ah, I'd forgotten you can take contraceptives after.
>>1791788
Same. Cheating is just about on of the worst things you can do to someone.
>>1791808
Shouldn't have raised a whore then.

“In my honest opinion, your highness,” You whisper back, “It was an incredibly cruel punishment. He was angry, he felt betrayed, and he wanted revenge. It wasn’t justice that drove his hand, but spite, pure and simple. And he’s too overwrought by emotion to see it otherwise.”

Even as you say the words, you keep a sharp gaze on Klara. It turns out that vengeance runs in the family, for both good or ill will. But the main difference between hers and her father’s is the reason behind it, as well as the end goal. Klara desired vengeance for a servant, and she wished to expose Rudnick for what she was. Mazur wants to punish Sofia’s infidelity, and wishes to humiliate her further.

To her credit, however, it seems that she’s equally surprised at her father’s actions as much as everyone else. But it’s hard to tell. All she does is stare, turning from the burning box to the weeping Sofia and the arguing forms of her father and Lord Mazur. She is too good at hiding her emotions.

“…punishment…” Ellana pauses as she mulls over your words. “…then what would be a just punishment?”

You shrug. “If I were in his place, I would simply let her drink the tea and be done with it. Her reputation is already in tatters from this. All he’s doing is rubbing salt into the wound. Or in more graphic terms, kicking a dead horse or beating a wounded puppy."

Her face puckers in distaste. “How horrible. All because of his love…it's disgusting, Marcus...”

You take a moment before you slowly reply, “…love is an emotion that can bring us into the highest peaks of existence. When it’s perverted and destroyed, one’s grief and anger can drive them to commit the blackest deeds.” You place a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I hope that you’ll never have to experience the anguish that our host is undoubtedly feeling…”

And what I had felt as well. Even as the words became less about Mazur, your voice had already faded. And the cacophony of the din is all but too eager to replace it, leaving the three Crowmonds and their Crownguard as silent witnesses to the ensuing pandemonium.

>Ellana has gained the Just trait.

>>Later

In the end, it took another half an hour before a semblance of order could be restored. The trial is to be postponed tomorrow, this time with a limited audience and set of witnesses. Those who could be trusted not to make a scene or public disturbance upon controversy. There was almost a riot within the Great Hall.

The cause of all the conflict? Little more than ashes. Lord Pullman was too late in trying to save the bx. By the time he scooped it out of the brazier, uncaring of the heat that licked at his gauntlets, its contents were already spent husks or a fine powder. There was no recovering them. And in the dead of winter, maidenweed does not exist until the late vestiges of spring, or imported from the southern parts of the continent.

(cont.)

Not nearly enough time to prevent Ser Royce's seed from quickening within his lady's womb, many note with grim and anxious amusement. Without a doubt, there will be a reckoning for this. Lord Trevor Rudnick is not the most powerful lord of the Hinterlends, but he is still a noble. The diplomatic nightmare would be almost too catastrophic to envision, even if the fault lay with his daughter's adulterous habits.

With the end of the trial, the prisoners were sent back to their cells and oubliette. Claudia had already departed back for the Alchemists’ Guild before the session started, leaving you mostly free for the rest of the evening. But only within your predetermined plans, of course…

>Confront Klara about the trial.
>Return to the Crowmonds.

>>1792051
>Confront Klara about the trial.
Though confront is a strong word. I'd rather have more of a 'Well ain't that some shit' tone.

>>1792051
>>Return to the Crowmonds.
git training, those blutlinges won't shank themselves....at least, shank themselves and STAY dead.

>>1792051
>>Return to the Crowmonds.
Not sure there's anything else to say.

>>1792051
>Return to the Crowmonds.

>>1792069
I have to agree. Anything left to be said seems more commiserating.

Everyone here already knows the score.

I suppose if we're interested on Klara's feelings on the matter, but it doesn't seem like it'll be very relevant in the future.

Though I will note that Mazur and his daughter both have a taste for making their enemies incriminate themselves in public. That was as good as an admission of guilt from Royce, regardless of what happens in the end.

>Return to the Crowmonds.

>>1792051

I think itd be funnier to brew a pit toss the rest out and see if she drinks it.

>Return to the Crowmonds

>>1791123
>>1791200
wait

Are we still planning to tell them we killed the blutlinge?

>>1792120
Yeah I thought we were gonna fill Klara in on the full story? What happened to that?

>>1792051
>>1792120
>>1792173
Yeah. Could we talk to Klara about that before
>Return to the Crowmonds.

I don't think
>Confront Klara about the trial.
would involve much unless we want Klara to become Just too.

>>1792051
>>Return to the Crowmonds

>>1792051
>>Return to the Crowmonds.

>>1791638
Shit, the answer I'd actually pick is the apparent Cruel one, Can't be giving best little sister bad traits.

But seriously, you reap what you sow. She all but poisoned her betrothed, murdered his servants and slept with her bodyguard.

She's still getting off lightly.

>>1792051
>Return to the Crowmonds.

Better start putting our ears to the ground to see if the shitstorm will affect our charges.

>>1792359
I disagree. I'd "burn" the container, then have an agent offer some maidenweed at ludicrously high cost, and send that over along to Lord Rudrik after taking any valuables from Sophia.

I'd feel bad for the bastard child, is all. Also, it could turn quite a profit if Mazur wins this little war and forces Rudrik to pay 500% the IOU for defaulting on it.

In the end, you decide against confronting Klara. It would do nothing, really, getting angry with her over her father’s actions. Vindictive as she might have been against Sofia, you have little doubt that what Mazur did was borne from any external influence other than his own. Her expression of utter shock was enough to inform you that she truly had no knowledge of what her father intended.

All you can do now is maintain your vigil over the princess, and observe the fallout of Mazur’s actions. At the very least, it’s guaranteed to be an interesting couple of days…

>You gained approval with the Crowmonds.
>You gained approval with Klara Mazur.
>You gained slight approval with Claudia.

>Winter 68, 238 ACR
>Alnerwich

With Raleigh fit enough to travel without nausea or motion sickness, there is little reason for you to stay in Alnerwich any longer. There is a notable tension in the air between Mazur and Pullman, one that seems to have transferred to both house guard and Eagle Knight. Their arguments carried throughout the hallways, shouting on and on about “mercy” and “punishing harlots”.

It is not a secret that Pullman strongly condemned what Mazur had done. Inexcusable as her actions were, forcing her to carry a bastard child was a cruel punishment. Any day, there was bound to be a message coming from the Hinterlands, bearing the seal of the Rudnicks on the fine vellum sheets. There was no way that Lord Trevor Rudnick was going to take this slight against his family lying down.

Mazur was more than willing for a fight. If Rudnick brought his army at the foot of the Anosar River, the city would be more than ready to withstand a siege and repel all borders. Let the old man come, he said, gesturing wildly towards the sheets of ice along the riverbanks, let him come and try to force me to reengage on my judgment from the tip of a spear.

You shake your head as you stand against a nearby wall. With servants’ current rate, you estimate that you’ll be on your way just before noon. And doubtless, even with the lingering tension between the two of them, Mazur and Pullman would still exchange a formal goodbye. However awkward that might be.

What a terrible shame. You won’t be able to see the response and words Lord Trevor might have to Mazur’s proclamation. Or his reaction to his daughter and knight. Royce had managed to survive the oubiette, but even with her house arrest, Sofia looked like a pale shadow of herself. The lady of the Hinterlends was unable to go anywhere, and was under constant supervision for fear of “harming” the baby she carried.

A wild theory, but one that seemed to be growing more likely with how often she vomited in the morning…

But, you digress. You’ve got some time before you have to leave. And with everyone off doing their own thing, perhaps it’s time you take some time for yourself…

>Stay with the Crowmonds.
>Visit Claudia at the Guild.
>Custom option.

>>1795220
>Visit Claudia at the Guild.

>>1795220
>>Visit Claudia at the Guild.
damn promises. We should be gitting gud at combat.

>>1795220
>>Visit Claudia at the Guild.

>>1795220
>>Visit Claudia at the Guild.

>>1795250

I dunno about getting better at combat, but we could definitely stand some more bonding with our fellow Crownguard.

Still wish we had told Klara the true story about the blutlinge. The logic that someone in their family needs to know the full story holds. Thought we voted to do that? Or some of us did.

>>1795266
You did tell her. I'll be sure to have her bring it up when you exchange goodbyes, so don't worry about it.

Writing...

>>1795266
>more bonding with our fellow Crownguard.
same thing. Exploding blutlinges quickly is going to need teamwork and bomb arrows.

>>1795220
>>Visit Claudia at the Guild.
We ought to say goodbye, at least. I'm tempted to have us go back to the guild disguised.

>>1795271
Okay so not in the conversation about Claudia? Weird not to do it then, but okay, at least that base is covered.

>>1795276

This is very true. Marcus and Urath are going to need to do some plotting to handle them efficiently. Bomb arrows are a excellent idea.

Bellatrix...might actually be able to rip through them on her own actually, but she better not try it alone.

Raleigh has magic and magic will do as magic does. He probably can't solo them but his fireballs should at least help.

>>1795325
Bellatrix can bisect them, which will keep them down long enough for some spellcasting coup de grace.

But Raleigh is more useful as support and quickly cycling through various elements/attack types so we know what bombs to mass produce.

>>1795325
We've roughly got a typical party layout:
Fighter
Mage
Archer
Rogue

Dammit. Fell asleep typing. Gonna resume tomorrow after my doctor's appointment. Sorry guys.

>>1795458
No worries, thanks for running.

>>1791111
>12.5
>Finale
>cont.

>>1795519
>12.5 Finale cont. part 3.6 closing++

>>1795220
>>Visit Claudia at the Guild.

File: Claudia Hildegard.jpg (221 KB, 708x900)

221 KB JPG

>>1795228
>>1795250
>>1795253
>>1795266
>>1795298
>>1795536
In any other situation, you might have gotten recognition for your part in defending Claudia from Patrik’s words. Sadly, it is not the case. With your hood down and your identity still hidden among the alchemists, you are still regarded as the no-good foreigner that’s under suspicion of seducing the guildmeister’s daughter. One only slightly mitigated by Lord Silvera’s begrudging approval to invite you, but the case remains that you’re under heavy supervision.

Ignoring the stares of the guards and other passing alchemists, you knock on the door of Claudia’s laboratory. At the tell-tale “come in!", you promptly enter, shutting the door behind you. At her surprised look, you flourish a quick and low bow in her direction.

“Apologizes if I’m disturbing you,” You mutter. “And for dropping earlier than you’re used to. And for not coming as often as I could…”

Claudia is quick to dissuade you of such a notion. “No, it’s quite alright!” She insists, setting aside her books and glass tinctures. “We do have the princess’ lessons to talk, do we not? It’s two birds with one stone: making an impression on a member of the imperial family, as well as spending some time away from my father…”

You can’t blame her for how her voice trails off, or how she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Mengus Silvera has an incredibly long road before he could ever hope to make a full recovery. Or as full as one can get missing the flesh of their face and their own eyeballs, you grimly note.

But enough with the maudlin thoughts. “…how is he doing, by the way?” You offer politely. That in of itself manages to get a tired smile to pull at her lips “Good, I hope?”

“We’re making progress.” She nods. “He’s getting stronger with every passing day, and he’s eating more food.”

That's good to hear. It would be a terrible shame for the guild to lose their meister, and a tragedy for Claudia to lose her father. "Is there any danger of infection? Marrow rot can set in you're not careful.”

“Thankfully not. There has been no time for pus or otherwise any sort of infection to set in. That bastard was…careful to ensure that my father remained alive and well. And we are, after all, alchemists. We know the importance of sterilization."

That bastard happens to be one of the seven deadly Warlocks of Blood. Still, you digress. All in all, it could have been much worse for Silvera. “Then I’m glad to hear it. And if he’s anything like you, then he’ll be quick to recover from his injuries.”

To your surprise, she blanches at that, shaking her head in vigorous denial. It seems that she’s embarrassed…no, reluctant to accept the comparison between the two of them. “I…no, it would…be the other way around,” she manages in a low voice. “…if…I was only as strong as father…”

(cont.)

You blink, adopting a perplexed expression. “I don’t quite see how you could say that. You helped save his life and uncover the conspiracy behind the Alchemists’ Fire. And I certainly did not brew the acid that destroyed the homunculus’ brain.”

You’re not laying it on thick. All you’re doing is being incredibly honest to a brilliant girl who just happens to be a little shy. She should be no stranger to hearing compliments from you. Before the Rudnick affair, when you were still Amadeo to her, all of your praise was genuine. Truths are, after all, the best lies.

Still, even as she flushes and offers a wan smile at your words, she still is reluctant to accept them.

“If you’d not intervened, I can’t imagine what Mazur’s son would have done to the guild because of my outburst. I just…couldn’t…” Claudia mutters, gesturing helplessly to herself. “…I’m not the most social of individuals…outside of the Guild, I really don’t have…much experience with…interacting with others.”

“You seemed to do it just fine in the aftermath of Patrik’s little tirade,” You counter, “And make polite enough small talk with the princesses. What about the lessons with Princess Ellana? The two of you were very animated, from what can recall.”

“Those are…different. For the introduction…you were there. And I’ve never been uncomfortable within the realm of alchemy, those who learn or practice their hand in it or even customers coming to purchase ingredients. But if you take me out of that familiarity…”

She exhales, offering you a self-depreciative smile. “Humans are not static formula. And though my father was sure to give me the best education in the art…it sadly does not translate well into interacting with others. Or holding my tongue, apparently…”

>“All you need is some practice.” (Earnest)
>“Then let me help you get better.” (Flirt)
>Custom option.

>>1796060
>"All you need is some practice." (Earnest)

>>1796060
>“All you need is some practice.” (Earnest)

>>1796060
>>“All you need is some practice.” (Earnest)

>>1796060

>“All you need is some practice.” (Earnest)
Ide throw in the flirt option as a joke.

Really having a known alchemist prodegy will be useful in future for our charges, especially our princess, to make use of as a contact.

>>1796060
>>“All you need is some practice.” (Earnest)
Maybe throw in a little flirting to tease her, but don't go for it earnestly.

>>1796116
Seconded

File: Serena.jpg (431 KB, 768x1024)

431 KB JPG

>>1796065
>>1796086
>>1796108
>>1796112
>>1796116
>>1796336
…it’s almost as if you’re looking into a distorted mirror. With Claudia, at least she has her father’s clear love, and the bonds of a close-knit community that looks out for her. This is a place where she belongs, even if she doesn’t know where her future might take her. She can continue to pursue her trade and craft without too much care for the world around her.

But what did you have? Lucien gave only death and pain. And though you were eventually able to forge bonds with the Black Alley Locusts, there was always a lingering tension among your comrades in the gutter. Even after you’d made enough to earn your keep, paying your services in a harvest of blood, you never really knew if they trusted you.

The dissonance in similarity does not stop there. Shy as she is, she could at least properly express herself, blunt or crude it may be at certain instances. And this is a trait that she’s carried well into her adolescence. But when Serena pulled you off the streets, battered and bloodied from your battle with Lucien…did you even truly possess emotions until she taught them to you as you lay in a sickbed?

Listen to your mentor’s orders. Eat, drink and rest to replenish your stamina. Fall into this position and perform this technique. Pay the price for improper execution. Mark and stalk your prey, search for the opportune moment to strike and retreat into the shadows. Return to Lucien for further instructions…

You never had trouble [seeing] the emotions that individuals expressed. There is the frustration of a merchant haggling over poultry, the grief of a wife mourning her husband’s murder, the laughter of drunken sailors clutching onto frothing tankards, the ecstasy of brothel customers. These and more you have [seen], but not truly been able to express. You perceived and took the world in through a lens of indifference towards everything save for the next order.

That was the existence of Painel, the Wraith of Black Alley.

But now?

“All you need is some practice.” Claudia starts at the hand you place on her shoulder, even as you offer a comforting smile. “It’s no different from learning how to cut an ingredient or dissolve a reagent, or measuring and maintaining a set of scales and precision tools. Just like all acquired skills, you can only gain proficiency through practice.” At her hesitation, you come to her side, gesturing around her laboratory. “And sadly, staying in here will not do anything to improve it.”

How did Serena ensnare your cold, uncaring heart? Was it her patience with all the questions you asked, or the times when she would starve herself so that you would get a larger share? Or how she defended you from her brother’s accusations, how she smiled whenever you came home with bloodied hands, never once accused you of being the traitor that brought the gang crashing down…

(cont.)

>>1796060
>>1796112
>>1796116
>>1796377
Support.

>>1796392
What's with this retarded bullshit?

>>1796396
What?

>>1796406
I keep seeing people posting support linking to bunch of posts even though the vote is well over and done with and the OP is writing and posting the update. Your input is, for the most part, meaningless during an update.

>>1796417
He probably lagged when posting that.

>>1796377
…but those days are long since over. No matter how they came to be, you’re no longer simply emulating emotions. That black abyss of indifference is still there, lurking in the darkest corner of your mind. It sits like a weight in your pocket, waiting patiently for you to return to being incapable of feeling anything. And it‘s so tempting, to just surrender to the darkness once more, as you did when you found your lover’s corpse…

“Marcus?” You blink, coming out of your thoughts to find Claudia staring at you with concern across her features. “Marcus, are you…are you alright? It looked like you’d…” Her voice trails off uncertainly. “…like you’d seen something horrible.”

Ah…dammit. What kind of idiot are you to get lost in reverie when there’s a pretty girl right next to you?

“Nothing horrible,” You assure her, masking your dark mood with a lopsided smirk. “Far from it, actually. I was actually thinking about how cute you looked when you look perplexed…the way your brow scrunches up and your mouth pouts…”

She chokes on her own breath, pushing away from you with a furious blush dusting her cheeks. At your chortle, the surprise on her face becomes an embarrassed frown, one that only deepens and grows redder at your chortling. “M-Marcus!” You’d think she’d almost stomp her feet in frustration.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” You offer in a conciliatory tone, lessening your smile to something more amicable and less…sardonic. “I couldn’t help myself there. But do mean what I say, Claudia. You need practice, and you’re only going to get it by stepping outside of your boundaries.”

The red still dusts her face, even as she regards you with a dubious expression. “…are you telling the truth?”

“Absolutely,” You answer.

She is silent, and you can see the gears in her head turning at your words. “…I’ll make mistakes-”

“There isn’t a single person who hasn’t made a mistake to get to where they are today. And given what you’ve accomplished…” You point towards the silver pin on her tunic. “…you’ve already a major advantage. And I have faith that you’ll be able to overcome it so long as you take the first step.”

There is a moment of silence that passes. Then, Claudia exhales deeply before offering you a small smile. “...that is certainly high praise, especially coming from an Imperial Crownguard.”

You chortle, gesturing for her to take a seat. “I wouldn’t tell you that if I didn’t mean it. And I, among many others within your own little family of alchemists, would be more than happy to support you in whatever you would do.”

>Claudia sharply approves!

(cont.)

>>1796423
He linked to the update.

>>1796443
Marcus has a bad habit of monologuing to himself in the middle of conversations, either giving history exposition to the studio audience or remembering his terrible life.

I can only imagine the scene from the perspective from the person he is talking to wondering why he suddenly stopped talking and looking a Bioware protag waiting for a dialogue prompt to be chosen.

>>1796457
>Bioware
Hopefully the video game adaptation for BRQ doesn't have nearly as much glitches as their last title.

Writing...

>>1796461
Bioware stopped being good at making games after EA had their way with them.

>>1796457
>Marcus just staring off into the middle distance mid-conversation
>'He... He does this sometimes. You just have to give him time. Don't try to snap him out of it or he'll just swear a life debt to you.'

File: Claudia2.jpg (292 KB, 850x1202)

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>>1796443
“…it’s very encouraging that you say that,” She replies as she sits down at the bench, “…but we still have to worry about Lord Mazur, with or without the scandal and my little…ah…problems...” Suddenly, she sits up in her seat, swiveling around to face you so quickly, you thought she would fall down from her seat. And the look on her face is just as intense as it was when she saw past your disguise. “…you promised me that you’d talk to them. Before we stormed my father’s tower and discovered the homunculus…that the Mazurs’ wouldn’t punish the Guild…”

…ah. That’s right. You haven’t told her yet.

“What?” She demands, seemingly insulted at the smile on your face. Her shyness fades away at the potential threat that the Guild faces. “Why are you smiling? Did you not talk to the princess, or even your Lord Commander?”

“No, I did not,” You answer, and the look on her face is priceless, but you’re quick to cut her off before she can become truly upset. “I did not tell them because I went directly to the source. In exchange for services rendered to her family, Klara Mazur promised me that she would intercede on your behalf upon the completion of the trial. If Lord Mazur is going to listen to anyone, it’s bound to be the one who uncovered his betrothed’s infidelity.”

For a single moment, Claudia’s face is blank, completely devoid of all other emotions save for surprise. Her mouth is halfway open to an angry retort, and her brow is angled in a severe frown. She’s gone absolutely still, and the breath from her mouth comes in halted chokes.
Then, without any warning, she moves.

You feel a pair of arms wrap around you, uncaring as you stiffen from the unexpected contact. A joyous whoop echoes within the laboratory, and the sound of relieved laughter fills your ears. She’s crying, you realize, but not from any sort of sorrow or tension born from anxiety. Pure, unadultered joy and relief.

“Thank you!” Her voice is lighter than air, and the sound of her laughter sends shivers down your spine. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Marcus, that’s more than I could’ve ever wanted…what I’d even expected!”

“Eh…ha…” You manage to reply, even as your discomfort grows. It is with great hesitation that you respond in kind, patting her with no small amount of trepidation. “You’re quite welcome…it would be selfish of me to spend a favor when I made a promise.”

“Selfish?” She looks at you quizzically. “A favor from a noble goes a very long way. But that aside…thank you!” You stiffen as Claudia tightens her grip on you, as the airy scent of her hair fills your nostrils. “We…I…no, it’s all upon my shoulders, because I asked you. Marcus…I don’t know how I could possibly repay you!”

>“A kiss from a pretty girl…”
>“Become a great alchemist.”
>“I saw a book of formulae…”
>“You’ve already paid me back.”
>Custom option.

>>1796502
You've helped me a great deal when you had little reason too. You don't have to reapy me.

IF she presses it

A few recipes she can give out freely that we don't know.

>>1796502
>“Become a great alchemist.”

It's hard for me to resist waifu option but I don't feel it's narratively appropriate, just yet.

>>1796502
>“I saw a book of formulae…”
"I can transcribe most of the important bits for my work and have it back to you the next time I pass by here."

>>1796502
this
>>1796509
Man this feels so cheesy, but actually asking for anything would kinda ruin the moment. I think us being able to bring her joy is all Markus needs.

>>1796545
>bring her joy is all Markus needs.

Yeah. Until Ellana gets poisoned and the antidote formula is only found in the book we could get. ;)

>>1796502
>>1796529
This. I don't care if we flatter her but the more we know the better we are as a protector.

>>1796502
>>“Become a great alchemist.”
>>“I saw a book of formulae…”

On the condition that this isn't overreaching and that it is not exploiting Claudia's position.

I feel like the strength of their friendship is built on their mutual appreciation of alchemy. Asking for Claudia to realize her dreams and in doing so make Marcus happy seems perfectly fair.

I feel like the book of alchemy receipes is best when presented as a gift instead of us dragging it out of her. In the sense of, here are these formulae, study them and when we meet again we'll have more to talk about, more experiments to perform.

Give it a sense of, until we meet again, let the the formulae be a substitute for her company and friendship. Not nearly as good as the real thing, but also something that helps keep Marcus and Ellana alive, gives Claudia a bit of presence in Marcus' life until they meet again.

If that can be arrange, I feel that's ideal. If it can't....well darn.

>>1796502
>>Custom option.
A Life Debt

>“You’ve already paid me back.”
>“Become a great alchemist."

>>1796493
I nearly choked you fucker

>>1796502
>>“Become a great alchemist.”

>>1796502
>"You were there, Claudia, when the Warlock of Blood took notice of me. I cannot guarantee any amount of protection to you as I serve my duties as a Crownsguard. It may not be soon, but the Blood Mages are making their move. For you and your Guild to survive it and remain loyal to the crown would be plenty."

Very carefully, you manage to extricate yourself from Claudia’s embrace, fighting down the urge to simply tear yourself away. She doesn’t make it easy at first, but she eventually relents. It seems that her initial elation and courage has worn off, and the giddiness on her face quickly becomes replaced with a sputtering embarrassment.

She stammers, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she’s still holding onto you. “I…er…that…I didn’t…”

“It’s…alright,” You manage, forcing a smile. Slowly, you gently take hold of her arms, pulling them away from your body. “Just…don’t do that again without any warning. I don’t like being touched…”

“Ah…I’m sorry!”

It takes several moments before the two of you can compose yourselves. The iron grip that your fist has tightened into eases, and the tension in your body, wound tight like a spring, gradually leaves your body. Sudden contact like that…is definitely something you’re still not going to be used to for a very long time. Old habits, bad memories…they’re not going away any time soon.

No matter how many times she clears her throat, the red on her cheeks refuses to go away. Thus, it is with a weary, embarrassed sigh of resignation that Claudia tries once more to apologize. “I’m…sorry for that. I just…I got so excited that…I just had to…”

You wave away her apology away. “It’s fine. Just…I’m just not used to sudden contact like that without warning. It’s a downside of my…upbringing.”

“…with your alchemy teacher?” In spite of herself, she manages to put out a teasing retort.

“…yes, I suppose,” You snort. It’s a good sign, for her to be playfully ribbing you. “With my alchemy teacher…but that aside…you wanted to know how to thank me.”

That gets her attention. She brightens up at that, straightening in her seat to give you her undivided attention. “Yes?”

“You can thank me by becoming a great alchemist,” You declare. At her surprise, you fish out the sigil of the Crownguard, tapping it with your free hand. “Become one of greatest alchemists for the Empire, and continue to work towards its betterment. Because between you and I, there’s bound to be trouble coming down the line, and we’re going to need all the help.”

“…trouble?” She frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

You return the medallion into your tunic before continuing, “Much as I hate to bring it up…the night we rescued your father, the Warlock of Envy took notice of us.” As blasé as she was earlier, even she couldn’t help but twitch at the mention of the name. “I don’t know whether or not they’re working with the Vascieli, but either way, they know your father, yourself, and me, though my face was hidden underneath my cowl. The Circle of Seven will make their move soon…and I don’t know if they’re going to come back to Alnerwich-”

(cont.)

“Let them come.” The venom in her voice surprises you, along with the fierce expression gracing predominantly neutral features. The glass beaker she’d idly been playing with creaks in protest as her fist tightens around its neck. “Let them come and see what happens when they transgress against the Alchemists’ Guild one more time. Not all of their magic can possibly hope to match the products of science…”

“With some of what I’d seen you working on, I have no doubt that you’ll catch them and their acolytes by surprise,” You reply, “And by safeguarding the Guild, you’ll be serving the crown, and repaying your debt to me. It’s more than plenty in the means of thanks.”

Claudia’s face softens, and she looks at you with something almost resembling sympathy and a quiet admiration. “…you’re a very selfless man. Putting someone else’s happiness above your own…not all men think like you, Marcus.

“But with that said…” Her eyes harden with determined resolution. “It would be extremely poor of me to let you depart without something of substance. You are a Crownguard, an entity sworn to the protection and service of the royal family. Let me lessen your burden. There must be something I can do to help you in your task."

Before you can even refuse, she cuts you off. “And I’m not going to let you go without receiving something from me..."

…you smile. It seems that she’s already taking steps to be just a little more assertive. “Very well. If you insist, then, there was a tome I had my eye on for a while…”

>>Choose a reward:
>Four Bomb Formulae. (Bombs)
>Four Curative Recipes. (Antidotes)
>Four Poison Recipies. (Poison)

>>1797144
>>1 bomb, 1 poison and 1 curative, and one ???

>>1797144
>>Four Poison Recipies. (Poison)

>>1797144
>Four Curative Recipes. (Antidotes)

>>1797144
>Four Curative Recipes. (Antidotes)
We must protect our charge.

>>1797144
Excellent, real friends aren't lessened by giving gifts. This is the spirit of camaraderie.

Hmm. Bombs are good for mass combat and the like, which is definitely a niche we could fill further. Antidoes is not a bad thing either, but didn't we already make an anti-everyone antidote?

Hmm.

>Four Curative Recipes. (Antidotes)

On the grounds that it will help protect Ellanna and we can teach it to her without overmuch comment.

But to be honest, bombs is also close to my heart. I love my BOOM.

>>1797161
I'd love bombs but can you imagine how assblasted we'd be if she gets poisoned and we passed up the cure?

>>1797163
Yeah, but one has to admit that antidotes will see WAY less actual use than poisons and bombs. I'm voting for it too, but it's by a narrow edge.

And I'm....pretty sure we got a panacea or someting from a Nat 100, which kinda make sme less enthused about having the right Antidote to a job, when a bit of luck gets you a universal cure.

>>1797144
>>Four Curative Recipes. (Antidotes)
Better if we aim for particular bombs anyway.

Curatives are locked in.

Writing...

Sorry for the delay. Coming up with potions on the spot is easy. Naming them is incredibly hard.

>Blutergut – A Vethic potion that rapidly accelerates blood clotting. Instantly cures the status of Blood Loss.
>Miseroscula – An Eridian potion that alleviates stomach aches as a general medicine. Confers a +20 bonus to rolls made to resist low-ranking poisons.
>Onganul’s Draught - An Ingulan potion that induces a healing coma into those who consume it. Greatly accelerates recovery while resting.
>Walkir’s Spirit- A Vlennish potion that temporarily induces numbness into its imbiber. Doubles hitpoints and ignores the negative effects of Wounds.

“An interesting choice,” Claudia notes as you copy these potions, their ingredients, and their method of creation into your own codex. Your quill moves feverishly quick along the parchment, as fast as you can without creating smudges. “You do not take Bombs or Poisons, but you take Curatives instead.”

You pause your writings to drag a sleeve across your brow, taking the sweat that would have otherwise ruined your transcription. “Let it not be said that I can’t turn any of these to my advantage. I know for a fact that Walkir’s Spirit was more commonly used by Vlennish Berserkers than as a curative. Those mushrooms are not only for medicinal purposes....”

She fails to hide a knowing smile behind her hand. “Ah, I almost forgot who I was talking to.”

The two of you continue to exchange playful banter and talk until you’ve finished your transcriptions. It does not take too long for the ink to dry, but you spend what time you have left exchanging teasing banter and idle pleasantries. All the while, the sun continues to rise, and the hour of departure from Alnerwich draws nearer.

Once you’re certain that nothing is going to stain, you gently close the book and return it to your satchel. The individual bones of your spine crack and pop as you stretch out the kinks from being hunched over a manuscript. It is a good pain, the brief and momentary discomfort that is immediately replaced by waves of relief.

But before you go…

“I know that you’re leaving today, Marcus.” Claudia’s little smile is sad, melancholy even. “It’s the buzz of the town that Lord Pullman wants to leave as soon as possible, and several of my fellow alchemists saw your caravan purchasing dried fish from the market.”

You shake your head. “…the prince and princess aren’t going to be happy with those rations.”

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Fish is a supremely healthy meal, even when dried and salted.”

That elicits a laugh out of the both of you, but you immediately sober up when the gravity of the situation settles upon you: you’re leaving Alnerwich, and by extension, all of the company that you’ve made. The Mazurs will come later in delivering their farewells from the fortress courtyard, but right now?

(cont.)

There is no one else in the entire town that deserves a formal goodbye from you no more than Claudia Hildegard, journeyman of the Alchemists’ Guild and daughter to Mengus Silvera. And above all else, she is the first person in a long time to make you temporarily forget about the weight on your heart, and ease the troubled thoughts plaguing your mind…

>I’ll never forget our time together.” (Flirt)
>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)
>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)
>Custom option.

>>1797320
>Custom option.
I owe you a Life Debt.
>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)

>>1797320
>>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)

Tempted by Heartfelt but....fuck it, be glorious Claudia. Be the best alchemist the world ever sees.

>>1797320
>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)

>>1797320
>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)

>>1797320
>Custom

"We'll meet again someday Claudia, I promise that. In the meantime, I fully expect you to become the greatest Alchemist that Aderaveth has ever seen. Show me what that mind can accomplish Alchemistress."

>>1797320
>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)

>>1797320
>>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)
when we do,
>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)

>>1791111
I just wanna say that I find it hilarious that, out of all of the Princes and Princesses, it's Ellana who has the most dangerous Crownguard.

I really want to know what people think when they see each of the Guards standing next to their charge.

>>1797320
>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)

>>1797320
>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)

>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)

>>1797320
>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)

>>1797320
>“Show me what you can do.” (Challenge)

>>1797320
>“We’ll meet again someday.” (Heartfelt)

You know, with all of the talk about social skills and pushing the boundaries of your own comfort zone I think that just maybe we should give her a hug.

No better time to start the healing than after a heartfelt speech, and I don't think Marcus would be a hypocrite in that regard.

>>1797320
>"We will meet again someday"

>>1797320
>>1797347
This


>>1797383
Think Morgana still trumps us.

>>1797794
Ah, right, Morgana is Emeron's Crownguard.

Of the publicly known Crownguard of the Royal Children.

File: Ghathyed, Primordial of C(...).jpg (125 KB, 1680x840)

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Have to get some blood work. Postin' this for you guys to look over til I get back.

The Ingulan Creation Myth

THE BEGINNING OF ALL THINGS

At the Beginning of All Things, long before the first Songs and Dances, the whole of the universe was empty, save for the Void and the vastness of the Great Beyond. It was a cold and barren existence, lacking definition and form save for the trails of the aether, the coiling, primal energies of Creation. And for an untold number of eons, this would remain the status quo, spirals of aether trailing aimlessly and without direction through an indifferent and uncaring Void.

However, this would all come to an abrupt halt when three of these coils brushed against each other in a chance collision. The energies seized, drawn together at this point of impact, pulling their neigh-endless lengths of aether as they slowly began to fuse. From a single point, these coils would soon draw other tendrils of energy, lashing out and drawing them into what would become the center of the cosmos. And in the center of this cosmic maelstrom, a sphere of pure aether came into existence, shaped over eons as the energies merged and lapped at its surface like a celestial tide. But it would take eons more before the sphere began to pulsate with life.

This is the Cosmic Egg, the root from which all life in the universe would stem from.

THE PRIMORDIAL ONES

Brimming with aether and gestating for an eternity, it would not take long for the Egg to quicken. And when the energies reached a critical point, the first cracks began to appear along its surface. Then, in a single and powerful moment, the Cosmic Egg hatched, and unleashed its contents upon the whole of Creation in a cataclysmic display of power. In an instant, the cosmos was flooded with the quickened aether, the foundations from which the very first stars and celestial bodies would be born. Yet, even in that exhilarating rush, the Egg still had much more to offer.

Long before the very first stars had even achieved their flickering brightness, the very first sentient beings emerged from the shell of the Cosmic Egg as its remnants lay cooling from the Hatching. These were existences of pure aether, creatures of limited sapience that wielded power over the very foundation of Creation itself. In time, they would attain further degrees of sentience, but in these early days, their motives and actions were born out of nothing more than pure instinct. For this, they are known as the Primordial Ones, the first inhabitants and masters of the universe.

The first to emerge from the shell's husk was Ghathyed, Master of the Void and Primordial of Creation. In the infancy of its existence, it was content to sup upon the aether, feasting upon the shell that gestated and birthed it into the world. However, it would gaze upon the emptiness of the universe, eventually desiring to tend, prune and foster its growth as both its gardener and master.

(cont.)

File: Aetherion, Primordial of (...).jpg (341 KB, 800x600)

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The second was Ushoklanc, the Silent One and Primordial of Fate. It is an entity that exists beyond the reach of space and time, residing within its realm of persistence. Blind to its own destiny, its role is to forever observe the skeins of fate for all living beings in the universe. It its realm, it has only sporadic urges to feed, and is seemingly content to live out the eternity away from the presence of its siblings.

Many more would come in the wake of the Hatching: Iavga, Primordial of Time; Kathgriorg, Primordial of Paths; Veldu, Primordial of Space. These and all of the Primordials lorded over some aspect of the cosmos as the embodiment of these concepts. And like their elder siblings, they were content to feast upon the remnants of the Egg until achieving higher sentience. From that point, they dispersed across the cosmos, pursuing their own interests and designs each to their discretion. Though not particularly adverse of each other, they simply wished to be alone and solitary. Seldom would two or more come together and remain in long-lasting partnership.

But this would all change. Last to emerge from the egg and depart from the shell of the egg was Aetherion, the Beast of Chaos and Primordial of Destruction. While its siblings attained higher thought, Aetherion remained little more than a ravenous beast with a cruel and cunning intellect. Where others sought to create or merely wander, it craved destruction, to feed a bottomless hunger and slake an unquenchable thirst for carnage and chaos. Its sole contribution to the cosmos is the siring of the five primordial offspring, excised from out of its bloated body: Aguilen, Primordial of Fire; Agwealan, Primordial of Water; Kiduln, Primordial of Stone; Habulonb, Primordial of Air; and Erithion, Primordial of Beasts.

With its spawn, it seemed that the Beast of Chaos would easily overwhelm the rest of the Primordials if their destruction crossed its mind. However, Ghathyed was shrewd, and knew of a method to keep its youngest sibling in check. For every ten heavenly bodies it created and brought into existence, Aetherion and its children could consume a single one of its choosing. Star or moon, barren or teeming with life, the choice of what to destroy would lay solely on Aetherion. And should the Master of the Void find some flaw, dissatisfaction or simple boredom in its creations, then it would be consigned to its sibling's maw without hesitation so that the process would start anew. The Beast agreed, and for eons, the two Primordials worked together as an unending cycle of Creation and Destruction upon the myriad worlds of the universe.

(cont.)

File: Ghathyed's Garden.jpg (164 KB, 1600x1087)

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THE ELDER GODS

If the Primordial Ones were created within the gestation of the Cosmic Egg, then the Elder Gods came into existence from the remnants of the Hatching. These were the shells left adrift in the Void, the shards of the Egg composed from pure aether. In time, these individual shards would awaken on their own, and become sentient beings with their own power. To the Primordial Ones, these shards were a primary source of food for them to feast upon, and many of these shards were denied a chance to awaken. Worst yet, the infantile gods who did awaken were similarly easy prey, helpless before the might of their forbears.

Yet there were some who awakened and survived to live on in the cosmos when the Primordial Ones dispersed. There are several of these gods, some with names, some nameless, and those who have been lost to the sands of time. Yet among these deities, there are two who would go on to a greater destiny.

From a single fragment of aether, two gods came into existence. These were Ingur and Ingul, the Twins of the Void. There is neither elder nor younger sibling, as both awakened simultaneously with the other. The two spent their infancy in the shadows of the Primordial Ones, hiding from the lesser beings while negotiating with those of higher thought. As a shared existence from a single spark of power, both could not exist without the other, and were wholly dependent on each other's powers to survive. In time, they would not only travel the cosmos as siblings, but as lovers as well.

They were content to wander through the seemingly endless boundaries of Ghathyed's garden, reveling in the adventures that befell them. Sometimes, they would journey in the company of other gods, battling strange creatures and monsters in the dark spaces between the stars, or feasting upon the rich bounty of a verdant world. Still, there were times when the twins would sojourn on their own, or take the unexpected company of a Primordial One. Perhaps the highest point of their travels was the meeting with Ghathyed and Aetherion, as they lay in the middle of their cycle. The Twins were in awe, enraptured by the creation of a new world, and terrified at another's destruction. At that, they resolved to remain as far away from the cycle as they could, content to explore the further corners of the garden of Creation.

But this period of bliss would not last forever, and would come to a violent end that none could have predicted.

(cont.)

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THE BETRAYAL

It was in the latest cycle that Aetherion's jealousy of its eldest sibling came to a boiling fruition. Where Ghathyed could create without end, all the Beast of Chaos could do was destroy that which was no longer of any use. Even his spawn, the Primordial Elementals, were forces of destruction, little better than savage beasts cowed by the power of their progenitor. It loathed the worlds that worshiped Ghathyed, took a dark pleasure in snuffing out their wails and listening to their pleas for their creator. It was in its nature to be a force of destruction, but it desperately yearned to be worshiped by lesser beings, to have the acknowledgment of its peers beyond loathing and disgust. It no longer sought to be viewed as the existence that only devoured what Ghathyed no longer valued.

It's loathing reached a breaking point when Ghathyed had it devour a series of its oldest worlds in rapid succession, simply because the Master needed more room to create and had little desire to prune on its own. Even as Aetherion committed the deed, silently obeying its sibling's wishes, it already had fostered thoughts of betrayal. And when it was done, and Ghathyed began to work once more, the Beast quietly departed, traveling to the furthest reaches of the cosmos, a space between the stars were nothing existed...save for the first step to attaining sovereignty over creation.

When Ushocklanc, Primordial of Fate, emerged from his realm beyond space and time to momentarily feed, the Aetherion had set a deadly trap. Caught unprepared, the Primordial of Fate was gravely injured, almost entirely consumed by the Beast of Chaos. Its cries for help resonated through the universe, and the rest of the Primordials came as fast as they could. But when they came, it was too late. Ushocklanc was little more than a pale shadow of its former form, and Aetherion had absorbed a significant portion of its power. Within the beast's head, a colossal eye sprouted from its bulbous flesh, the manifestation of the stolen power. This was the Eye of Aetherion, that which could see the paths of fate that all living things were bound to walk.

Even as the Primordials and their servants fought the Beast, they quickly realized that they were no match for it. Even without the Eye foreseeing every possible action and movement of its enemies, Aetherion was already a terrible existence. In its years of supping on Ghathyhed's creations, it had not shown any loss of its original and terrifying strength. It's maw was large enough to engulf three moons in a single swallow, and its breath could snuff out the light of a star. Where attacks both physical and magical struck, those that managed to score damage did not last long, as these wounds closed too quickly to have a long-lasting effect.

(cont.)

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It did not take them too long to realize that battling it was folly. They fled, but not before suffering heavy losses from both the Beast and the Primordial Elements. After slaughtering its siblings and turning their servants into little more than cosmic dust, Aetherion proclaimed itself to be the master of creation. The cosmos would be its to rule and dictate as it saw fit, according to its desires. But first, Ghathyed would have to be brought to kneel before the new Master of the Void. Its new role would be that of the scorned, endlessly doomed to creating according to the whims of the Beast.

THE WAR FOR CREATION

When Ghathyed had heard what had happened, it was infuriated. It rallied the remnants of the Primordials. There were those who answered, vengeful and loathing, and those who refused, fleeing instead beyond the corners of the cosmos. Even as it cursed the names of those who had fled, Ghathyed already gathered the sapients of its myriad worlds. And as a single army, they launched a counter-attack on the Beast of Destruction.

Already, it knew what had to be done. Even among the other Primordials, Ghathyed and Aetherion were pillars of the very cosmos themselves. Though they could suffer grievous injuries and even sundering, they could not truly die. The Primordial of Destruction would need to be sealed away, for the remainder of all time.

And then there were those who refused to fight, both Primordials and Elder Gods alike, out of fear or a desire to flee. Kathgriorg, Primordial of Paths, had opened doors to realms beyond the cosmos, where not even Aetherion could hope to penetrate. So long as there were those who would flee and agree to pay its prices or swear subservience, it would hold the doors open before slipping in itself.

Ingur and Ingul were among those who had not gone out to fight. In the midst of one of their adventures, they had heard the news, and were desperately trying to reach Kathgriorg. However, just as they came in sight of the doors, they found them under attack. Erithion, the Primordial of Beasts, had been sent by its progenitor to ensure that no one would escape. Even though it was the youngest of Aetherion's spawn, it still overwhelmed the doors' defenders, savaging its way towards Kathgriorg.

Panicked, the Primordial closed the paths, leaving hundreds of remnants trapped on the wrong side of existence. Erithion then set its sights on the survivors, tearing though them with minimal effort. The Elder Gods struggled, only now choosing to fight to survive. It was all futile, and too late for the Twins to tell anyone to flee. By the time they had even gotten within shouting distance, Erithion had torn them all to shreds and bloody pieces.

Then, the Primordial of Beasts turned its eyes to the Twins. Ingul told his sister to run, that he would use his life to purchase her escape. She naturally refused.

(cont.)

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"We are twins, brother, two born from one, bound closer than any of our kind. We are nothing without each other, both of power and in our destiny. If this is your moment of death, where you return the aether of a cold and uncaring universe, then my existence lasts no longer than yours. If you wish to fight and live, then it is my struggle as well."

There was nothing he could do to dissuade her. Reluctantly, he drew his weapon, and she readied her magics. Hand-in-hand, the Twins faced their destiny and charged Erithion.

THE END OF ALL THINGS

The forces of Creation and Destruction met in a fiery clash, in a terrible battle said to have lasted for eons. The number of souls consigned to the Void are uncountable, as are the number of planets and stars said to have been obliterated in the crossfire. Though the numbers of Creation were neigh infinite and those of Destruction only five, what led the forces of Destruction to victory was the Eye of Aetherion. All the numbers in the cosmos could not hope to match that which could read fate.

But Ghathyed would not be taken prisoner and made an eternal slave. In its final act of defiance, it detonated itself in a fiery conflagration, reducing its body into cosmic dust scattered throughout the universe. Neither dead nor alive, the Master of the Void continued to uphold a pillar of existence even in its reduced form.

Denied its prisoner, or even a scrap of flesh to devour and absorb, Aetherion raged, swearing to bring the End of All Things to the remnants of Ghathyed's cosmos. It no longer cared about being worshiped or respected. All of Creation would come crashing down, to be devoured by its insatiable hunger.

Ever so slowly, the garden of Ghathyed succumbed to the tide of destruction. The cosmos burned as Aetherion's path left ruin in its wake, and it made sure to see that nothing would survive. Stars and moons, planets and their life, all would be destroyed, all would be consumed. Nothing could stand in its way, the Beast of Chaos and its terrible spawn-

As Aetherion reached one of the last holdouts of creation, it only then realized that its youngest spawn was missing. Erithion had not returned from its hunt of Kathgriorg, and the rest who had fled when Ghathyed summoned them to battle. Something had gone wrong, and it urged the rest of its children to search for their sibling. The Primordial Elements were swift to obey. When they were but distant stars on the horizon, Aetherion returned his attention to the task at hand, ready once more to despoil and raze the area to ruin.

Then, from behind the ruined core of a star, Aetherion's missing spawn returned to its father, bearing two Elder Gods on its back, armed and ready to wage war upon the Beast.

(cont.)

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Ingur and Ingul had tamed Erithion, fashioning a rope out of the purest aether. For countless cycles, the Twins had mounted the Primordial, refusing to be shaken off its back, to let go of the rope. Only when they had exhausted the Beast did they begin the process of winning its loyalty. And in time, as its progenitor destroyed the cosmos, they had successfully tamed the Primordial of Beasts.

Seething with rage at its spawn's betrayal, Aetherion turned to the gods that had committed the act. Terrible thoughts and premonitions went through the monster's head. It would not make the Twins' death an swift and painless one. But as it gazed upon them, transfixing it with its baleful gaze and quivering Eye, it was unprepared for the first blow that struck it.

The Eye of Aetherion could see all the paths that lay before it, every single action across several different existences. But against the gods atop Erithion's back, wielding a club of dark energy, its owner could see nothing, save for the attacks that had now begun to cause pain.

In their travel to reach Aetherion, the Twins happened upon the shade of Ushocklanc, aimlessly wandering through the stars. The Primordial of Fate had endured the attack committed against it, but it had lost almost all of its power. However, its will to fight and attain revenge had not diminished, and as the Twins came closer, Ushocklanc had whispered the method of defeating the Primordial of Destruction.

"The Eye only sees things that have not yet happened, sees all possibilities in a single instant. Its owner cannot turn its gaze inward, or ever hope to tease the paths of the Beast of Chaos and its terrible spawn. However, the Eye is blind to events predetermined, events that cannot be changed or altered. The Eye is blind to Fate itself, Fate that dispels possibility and ensures events will happen."

Imbued within the great club, the shade of Ushocklanc, Primordial of Fate, howled in glee as the Twins brought it to bear against the Beast of Chaos. Even with its monstrous strength and fantastic abilities, Aetherion had become too reliant on the Eye. It could not hope to match the speed of Erithion, or see where Ingul's magic gouged craters along its body. The only blow it could see and predict coming, was the terrible swing of Ingur's club, racing towards the Eye of Aetherion with the vengeance of a Primordial One.

The blow had sundered the Eye, reducing it and the surrounding bone into a bloody mess. Aetherion writhed in agony, as an eternity of possibility and fate coursed through its mind, no longer held in check by the Eye. Its pained howls reached through all corners of the universe, and its spawn had heard the cal. And just like the other Primordials so long ago, they desperately raced towards the source of pain. But when they arrived, it was too late.

(cont.)

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The cost was high - countless gods had perished, the Primordials were either dust or disappeared, and the whole of Creation was left in tatters. But in spite of it all, and with the aid of Ushocklanc, Ingur, Ingul and Erithion had accomplished what Ghathyed could not.

Aetherion had finally been defeated. And his spawn would not be far behind.

MOLDER OF EARTH, INFINITE SKY

In addition to the grievous wounds dealt unto it by the Twins and Erithion, Aetherion's mind had been destroyed by the skeins of fate, ground to oblivion from eons of abuse of the Eye. But even in its diminished state, Ushocklanc warned the Twins that no matter how many eternities came later, Aetherion's mind would return. And with it, an unstoppable thirst for vengeance. The Beast would have to be contained in an unbreakable prison, the likes of which Ghathyed had once designed before its downfall, one they had to build.

Ingur recalled the sight of the Primordial of Creation, shaping worlds and bringing existence from seemingly nothing. He was no Primordial. Powerful as he was, he was only an Elder God, and defeating Aetherion had been a gamble from the beginning. Even if he were to mimic Ghathyed and somehow attain enough power to create a world, it would not be a match for the Master of the Void.

But there was little choice in the matter. And even before the bodies of the Primordial Elements began to cool, the Twins had set to work, immediately.

Using Aetherion as the foundation, Ingur gathered the remnants of Ghathyed's creations and shaped the world around the Beast's corpse. Ingul gathered her power, unraveling her existence to spread as far across creation as she possibly could, searching for the coils of aether that once created the Cosmic Egg.

Together, with the husks of stars and the lengths of aether, Ingul bound Aetherion within the core of the earth, sealing it away within a prison of both impenetrable stone and the very essence of creation. The stone would take time to give way, but the aether was not so nearly as fragile. So long as the elder gods continued to exist, so would the coils that kept the Primordial of Destruction bound endure.

For seven cycles, Erithi and the Twins would create the prison to keep Aetherion in check. And at the end of every cycle, when another layer had been completed, Ingur would ascend to the Void, catching his sister in a passionate embrace. And she in turn would pull herself back together, breaking from the weaving of the aether to come into her brother's arms.

(cont.)

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Laying on a bed of her unfinished coils, they would make love as the earth beneath them cooled. Ingul's tears of passion created the lakes, rivers and surface of the ocean, and the ice continents atop the north and southern poles. Where Ingur's seed fell and took root, mountains would grow, and the soil became a verdant green. And after every session spent, they marveled at the effects of their spent passion, resolving to continue for however long it took. If this was to be Aetherion's prison, and they were to be its wardens, then they would have complete and absolute control to decorate it as they saw fit.

For its services in battling against its predecessor, Erithion was spared, and renamed Erithi by the Twins. But for the rest of its brethren, the gods could not show mercy.

Every single Primordial Element would become an aspect of their progenitor's prison. Aguilen, Primordial of Fire, became the layer closest to the planet's core, a fiery barrier that nothing short of a god could enter. Next, came Kiduln, Primordial of Stone, forming the impenetrable bedrock of the earth. Agwealan, Primordial of Water, became the depths of the ocean that girdles the world, weighing down her siblings with an immeasurable force. Last, Kabulon, Primordial of Air, became the final seal, a barrier of winds to separate the void from the planet.

Shackled by the aether, and nursing their own injuries, all they could do was stare out in loathing as the Elder Gods chained them in their own prison. Even as they stand a reluctant guard over their sire's corpse, there are, in turn, four seals that keep the Primordial Elements in check: the Seal of the Sky, the Seal of the Seas, the Seal of the Earth, and the Seal of the Flame. When all these seals are unlocked, the gates to the earth's core will open, and the path will be laid clear to the inner prison of Aetherion, where Ingur remains to maintain and forge the Primordial’s prison for all of time.

THE ELDER PANTHEON

Even the gods are not immune to lapses in judgement, or the effects of copious lovemaking. On the seventh cycle, Ingul had truly become pregnant. After lashing Kabulon in place, Ingur refrained from copulating, moving to aid her in the first stages of her delivery. Erithi stood watch, vigilant and alert, as Ingul gave birth to the chief deities of the pantheon.

First came Aldawi, Dawn's First Light, leaping from her mother's womb to take her place at her mother's shoulder. She is the sun, the celestial body that brings light to the world, and showers all, both those of good or evil will, in the warmth of her embrace. Shrouded in robes made of pure sunlight, she travels the domain of her mother, bringing the gift of life to all corners of the earth.

(cont.)

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Next came Laptalu, the Lady in Green, taking to the cold earth with jubilant laughter. She is the goddess of spring and water, sowing the earth with her hair and crying tears of both sadness and amusement. From her hair, the first plants took root, and her tears nursed them into blooming maturity. Her rains can be signs of joy or sorrow.

Even in his mother's womb, Zethul was an unruly child. The Song of Storms and god of summer came stomping in the wake of his sister, wielding spears of lightning in all eight of his hands. His shout is the rumble of thunder, and the clarion call to war. But for his fickle and often discontent mood, his devotion to his family is unmatched, and his heart is just.

In her brother's path, Dulgora, the Bountiful Harvest, came in a wake of gold and red. The goddess of autumn watched over the plants her sister had sown, bringing each to the fullness of fruition. The bounty and soil of the earth is her domain, as is the realm of fertility and those who desire offspring.

Onganul shared none of the temperament of his siblings, exiting Ingul's womb in deliberate slowness so as to ease her pain. The Tender of Dreams made no rush of things, letting the hoarfrost of winter slowly engulf the land. His breath is that of the coldest air, and his ministry is over the sleep of all living beings, nurturing and harvesting both dream and nightmare alike.

Last to come from Ingul, Tdulok, the Shadow of Night, took his place at the other side of his mother, opposite of Aldawi. He is the moon, the solitary pearl of twilight, and his existence is antithetical to his sister's. If she is the light, then he the darkness, and he is both the master and harbinger of death. Young or old, man or woman, all souls stand equal before his cold, merciless gaze.

After the delivery of her children, Ingul fell into a deep and heavy slumber, and nothing Ingur did could rouse her from her sleep. After several attempts, he surrendered, and lay down beside his wife to join her rest. It would not be until they roused themselves, three hundred and sixty five cycles later, would they find their children at their side, awaiting their parents' orders. Though they had initially quarreled about their roles in the world, they ultimately waited for their sires to rise and give them their orders.

(cont.)

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For Aldawi and Tdulok, Ingur and Ingul were content to remain where they were, traveling along the body of their mother to divide the cycle into day and night. The rest of the siblings were given mastery over the seasons. For four months, each sibling would have mastery of the world. As the eldest of the seasons, Laptalu would herald the start of the year, a quarter of the length of cycles that Ingur and Ingul had rested. And in turn, the domain would pass from one sibling to the next: Zethul, Dulgora, and Onganul would have their time to do as they saw fit before the year would start once more.

THE CHILDREN OF THE GODDESS

It would not take long for the gods to realize that they were alone. Though they had created a world upon which they could rest and revel in atop the prison of Aetherion, it was an empty place, populated with little more than vegetation. And there were seldom any others to share in their joy. What little survivors remained in the aftermath of the War had not answered their invitations to come and join them on the earth, or refused outright out of fear for the Beast of Chaos. Likewise, the Primordials had all but disappeared, vanishing into realms beyond space and time to nurse their wounds and heal. No, the Elder Pantheon was truly alone in this little remnant of Ghathyhed's creation.

This would not do. Ingur gathered the gods and ordered them to create worthy inheritors of the world they had created. Had they not, after all, created a planet and set the natural order of things into motion? But Ingur had only seen Ghathyhed create worlds and stars. He had not seen the Master of the Void create the life that would inhabit the infinite worlds within the whole of Creation.

It would be Erithi who created the first creatures of the world. With its permission, Ingul carved pieces of its body, burying them across the continents. Using a portion of Erithi's teeth and bones, he cast them across the world, atop mountains and the deepest parts of the ocean. And with a boiling cauldron of the Primordial's blood, he watered the places where he had sown his crop. From these remnants, the first animals would be born. From its flesh, the creatures of the earth would be born, emerging from the ground to wander across the lands. And where its teeth had fallen, the ancestors of the birds and fish would hold rule over their respective kingdoms. No longer were the gods alone.

Yet it still was not enough. Grateful as they were to Erithi, the gods desired something to be created in their own image, not that of a Primordial. The only question was how they would accomplish this plan. They could not create anything else from the stuff they were made of. The aether in the universe was nigh-depleted, either used to create the earth itself or consumed in the war. It would take an eternity for enough of the energy to return before they could create even a single being truly like them.

(cont.)

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It would ultimately be Ingul who reached a conclusion. The first men and women were created in the image of the Elder Gods, and to give them life, Ingul nurtured them in her womb, expending her own energies to infuse them with the tiniest sliver of aether and spark of sentience. Ingur had lent his blood and seed, and Ingul used her own flesh, but the bodies of mankind were little more than clay and dirt. In time, even though they would be given life, they would die, they would return the dust from which they were made. Even as they were made of a god's seed, blood and flesh, created in the image of the gods and birthed from the womb of a deity, they were lesser beings, comprised more of mundane than divine materials that would fail to withstand the ravages of time.

But even then, the gods would love them. Theirs was the stewardship of the earth, for them and their descendants to maintain with the gods. In return for this gift, they would worship the gods, offer sacrifices in their names, and safeguard the world from any threats that Aetherion's bloated corpse still posed. And upon their deaths, the aether of their souls would be reunited with their creators, and embraced by the mother that had created and loved them. In her name, the first men and women named themselves the Ingulans, and with the will of the gods on their shoulders, set about to impose their will upon the earth.

This is the creation myth of the Ingulans, passed down the countless years and generations. It is told to little children, sung in sacred ritual, and brought to life through the dances of Skysingers. Though their numbers have diminished across the long annals of history, and some have turned away from the embrace of the gods, there are still those who cling to the old ways, singing and dancing and worshiping until the day where they are reunited with their gods and their beloved Mother.

Time to go get blood drawn...

>>1797867
>the Seal of the Sky, the Seal of the Seas, the Seal of the Earth, and the Seal of the Flame

I'm guessing they're the ones that are trying to kill the Crowmonds.

where the fuck is that club?

>>1797890
Probably with the guard, in the centre of the world, forever held at watch for the return of chaos and destruction.

>>1797906
"Chaos" does certainly apply as a descriptor for Aetherion, but at the core of its being, it is the embodiment of Destruction. It is neither good nor evil, lawful or chaotic; rather it is all of those at once. There are good reasons to destroy, as well as lawful ones as well. After all, it is through Ghathyed's orders that Aetherion helps "prune" the garden to make sure everything is in order. In a similar vein, there are also bad creations. Look at the Blutlinge of the Crimson Tyrant. Ravenous monstrosities created by dark magic that plague the very earth they inhabit, birthed from the. biomass of thousands of sacrificed men, women and children. Certainly neither a Good nor Lawful creation, existences that must absolutely be destroyed.

To be succinct: the predominant struggle in my setting is not that of Good versus Evil, nor is it of Law versus Chaos a lá MegaTen. At its very core, the greatest ideological conflict within the Bladebound World is that of Creation versus Destruction.

>>1797919
Did Palme tell Emeron that Marcus was the one responsible for the Red Riots?

>>1798078
Nope. Only Palme knows about it, but Emeron will almost always listen and believe what Palme tells him. So if it's no concern or threat, then Emeron doesn't linger on it and moves on to whatever comes next.

>>1798168
Does Morgana know about Marcus yet?

>>1798272
Are we gonna bang our Hot Not Sister?

>>1798278
Probably not. I just wanna know what Ruvel and Morganna think about the Assassin who is half-trained in their arts.

>>1798278
Nah. Emeron is going to plow that Crownguard eventually.

>>1798417
Yeah, Probably gonna show Morganna his "Sword Skills". Unless he gets horribly murdered like the prophecy said

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“…I’m not very good at this,” You admit. “Goodbyes aren’t my forte, especially in these troubling times.”

Claudia nods in response. “Ah…then we are the same, in that regard.”

For an agonizingly long moment, the two of you just sit there, unmoving and uncertain of what to do. But hesitantly, and ever-so-slowly, you raise your arms and hold them open in an invitation for her. She seems to be surprised, and you can’t exactly fault her reaction. After all, you don’t like being touched, especially in close quarters.

But even then, it would’ve been wrong not to offer such a gesture. Especially not after the adventure that the two of you had shared over the last two weeks. Claudia Hildegarde is not a passing face in the crowd, nor a contact of the criminal underworld. She is...your friend.

She stares at you, blinking incomprehensibly before you mutter, “Hurry up and get over here. I’m not going to hold them out forever…”

That jolts her out of her thoughts. Claudia laughs, and the sound of her voice, throaty and feminine, sends a shiver down your spine. “Oh...I’m sorry…it’s just that your face was…” She shakes her head before offering an apologetic smile. “…it doesn’t matter…”

Her hair smells of cumin, you realize as she leans into your arms, and the clothes on her back are tougher than they appear. Even through your armor, you can feel the pressure and warmth of her body. She barely comes up to your chin, almost an entire head smaller than you and at least half of your weight.

She did a terrible job of hiding those little hiccups, and tremors that ran through her body. When you pull away, Claudia has to blink away tears that have gathered in the corner of her eyes. And they only worsen, this time growing to proper size, as you r eyes meet once more.

“We’ll see each other again…” You say, gently taking her hand. “And I want to show you how much I’ve improved with my alchemy. Show me what you can do so that when that day comes…we can experiment together once more.”

Claudia’s laugh is equal measures of a sob and a chortle. She sniffs, wiping her eyes before she’s able to give you a response. But her sorrow is tempered by an answer to your challenge, the light of her passion that’s ignited in her eyes.

“You’ll soon be reading about me,” she counters, and her voice hitches only ever-so-slightly. “And I’ll attain the gold long before we meet.”

“Hah!” You grin, standing up from your seat. Everything is packed and ready to go. All you need to do is exit through the door. “Then I’m looking forward to it…farewell, Claudia.”

She doesn’t stop you from leaving. Claudia remains in her seat, and the only thing she does is trace the alchemical sign for good fortune in the air, and offer a grin of her own past the tears running down her cheeks. “Likewise...and gods walk with you, Marcus...to wherever your duty takes you.”

(cont.)

>>1798168
How much would the rest of the Royal Family disapprove of giving Ellana "dancing lessons?"

>>1798568
Heavily. This is the second time this question has been asked.

>>1798568
Stop trying to make the Princess Marcus Jr.

>>1798577
When was the first?

>>1798590
I didn't realize combat training equaled making her an assassin.

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>>1798555
>Midday
>Alnerwich Fortress

The horses have been watered, and the beasts chomp at the bit as their handlers move about the courtyard. Eagle Knights and manservants go about their business, ensuring that vital supplies have been packed and that the caravan is secure. Lord Pullman sits atop his charger, talking with one of his captains.

It seems that Lord Alistair von Roie has dispatched reinforcements, to meet with you midway through the journey. And rumor is that he himself is leading the expedition force. That comes as welcome news to all parties. For Pullman, one of his eldest friends rides out to join him, and the Eagle Knights welcome the unexpected relief. The Crowmonds are equally excited, but Ellana especially so. The von Roies were the ones to foster her for the last four years of her life.

Raleigh’s complexion looks pale, but he insists that it’s only a symptom of the cold weather. There isn’t a single one of the Crownguard or the Crowmonds that’s going to have it. He’s going to ride in the carriage first to get some color back into his face. And if he still isn’t fit to ride a horse, he’s staying in the carriage until nightfall.

With everything packed and ready to go, all that’s left is to exchange formal goodbyes with the Mazurs. That is something that no one seems to be looking forward to. Pullman hadn’t made it secret that he severely disapproved of Mazur’s actions. More than once, their arguments gotten heated to the point of raised voices. Still, protocol is protocol, and everyone must observe it.

Lord Mazur’s face could have been carved from stone as he descended down the steps of the fortress. Patrik and Klara flank his sides, along with a small company of his honor guard. His eyes meet Pullman’s for the briefest of seconds before they turn away and land on the Crowmonds. He is the first to bend the knee, and his household quickly follows suit to pay their differences to the Imperial family.

“I hope that you found Alnerwich to be to your satisfaction, your highnesses.” He speaks as if he’s reciting lines from a script. His tone is polite enough, but it’s…distant, you guess. His mind is not entirely with the Crowmonds, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where it is. “…and I apologize for the…interruptions that my family affairs may have caused during your stay.”

“…you may rise.” Adrianna clears her throat, and her lips pull up into a polite smile. “No, we did find everything to be quite wonderful. Alnerwich is truly a fine stronghold. I will commend you to my father...and to my mother as well. We do not so easily forget debts.”

Mazur stands, offering a polite nod. “Gods be with you, princesses, prince. And my prayers are always for the recovery of your father, our Emperor.”

“Gods will it,” the chaplain proclaims, and his words are echoed by those in earshot in a staggered chorus of voices.

Gods will it...

(cont.)

>>1798616
No combat training. She is a lady not a knight.

>>1798646
Plus Addrianna barely lets us teach Elanna alchemy and botany. There's no way we can get her blessing

>>1798638
Seemingly satisfied with the display, he motions for his children to step forward. Patrik refuses to look at you, even as Klara’s eyes sweep along the sight of the Crowmonds and their Crownguard. One by one, they exchange pleasantries and words of friendship.

However, just as Patrik is caught up with Allanus about the fireball in the great hall, his sister quickly moves through all of the Crownguard. She offers the traditional Hultish farewell, beannachd leat which surprises Bellatrix before she can offer a reply of mar sin leat. Urath blinks, chuckling at her butchering of her Tathalan before correcting her with a wry smile. And Raleigh remains stoic as she bids goodbye in the traditional Vethic.

And then she reaches you…

“We did not spend much time together, Painel…” She says plainly, “But I must admit that yours was a very welcome and appreciated companionship. I’m going to miss our talks.”

…what can you say? Ah, it’s best to tamp down on any potential rumors and nip them in the bud before they can blossom. You dip your head in acknowledgement, but not too low as to show deference. “Likewise, milady.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she checks to see that Patrik is still talking with the prince. “And I won’t be forgetting about that last talk we had…about how you should always protect your ingredients and reagents from potential harm.”

…she will remember protect Silvera, Claudia and the Alchemists’ Guild. That’s a relief.

To everyone’s surprise, she offers you a hand. But it is not the gesture offered from one equal to another. Her knuckles are faced downwards towards the ground. You’re to get on your knees and kiss her hand…

...she isn’t exactly helping the rumors. If anything, she’s encouraging them. What is she thinking?

…acht. If that’s what she wants, then it’s a small price to pay for her protection.

Thankfully, the ground isn’t nearly as wet as it was the week prior. The mud had frozen solid as the temperatures plummeted, leaving crystalline remnants of footprints and puddles scattered across the courtyard.

As you kneel down to take her hand, pulling it closer to your face, the fist her hand is clenched in loosens slightly, and the sleeve of her arm trembles. Something falls into your hands, something hard wrapped in fine cloth and linen. You blink, surprised, but all Klara offers you is that vulpine smile, and a mirthful glint in her eyes.

(cont.)

File: Farewell.gif (524 KB, 500x278)

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There’s little you could do without causing a scene. Exasperated, take her hand, smooth and warm to the touch, and you plant a kiss on the back of it. You’re dimly aware of Bellatrix snorting, and Urath shaking his head in amusement. Yet at the same time, you can feel a hostile gaze boring directly into the back of your head…

Instead of pulling her hand away, Klara bends down towards you, lowering herself so that she’s only a few scant inches away from your head. Her clothes still hold the smell of the wash, of soap, soda ash and crushed flowers. If Claudia smells of the reagents she’s most familiar with, then the scent to cling to Klara’s body is that which suits her the most: chrysanthemum, the flower that blooms and thrives in winter, even in the cold and looming shadow of the mountain.

“Think of me from time to time, Marcus,” She whispers, before pulling away with that same enigmatic smile. “And don’t forget about how well we worked together. If you ever find yourself out of a job…then there’s always a place at my side if you so wish to take it.”

>“All the time…including the lonely and wee hours of the night?” (Flirt)
>“Be careful of future plots...I may not always be there to save you.” (Jape)
>“My service to the Crowmonds lasts until my dying breath…” (Solemn)
>“Remember your promise to the Alchemists’ Guild…and to me.” (Concern)
>Custom option.

>>1798568
I've thought about that before, but our learning of the Dance involved a lot of pain. Teaching it to another would dredge up painful memories, and likely cause pain for the student. I've also gotten the impression Markus won't teach it to spite our teacher.

On top of that, we barely got permission to teach her alchemy, a decidedly academic pursuit, abiet one with a practical use. There is absolutely not way we'd get permission to teach her anything combat related. Maybe if she was older, and she was a he, maybe.

>>1798762
>“My service to the Crowmonds lasts until my dying breath…” (Solemn)
Sup Kaz, how was your Otakon

>>1798762
>If I find myself out of a job, I expect to be very very very dead. But I appreciate the offer Lady Klara.

>>1798762
>“Be careful of future plots...I may not always be there to save you.” (Jape)
>Custom
"I realize that you don't particularly care for rumors but I'd rather your father and brother not be after my head."

>>1798762
>“All the time…including the lonely and wee hours of the night?” (Flirt)
>“Be careful of future plots...I may not always be there to save you.” (Jape)

>>1798762
>>“My service to the Crowmonds lasts until my dying breath…” (Solemn)
and this
>>1798774

>“Be careful of future plots...I may not always be there to save you.” (Jape)

>>1798762
>“Be careful of future plots...I may not always be there to save you.” (Jape)
>“All the time…including the lonely and wee hours of the night?” (Flirt)

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>>1798769
Pretty good, all in all. Spent a crap ton of money, but I got to de-stress and take a nice moment of me time before the semester starts. Biggest haul from the con aside from autographs from Vic Mignonga and Michelle Ruff were these...I was able to snag the last Jalter for a cheap $35.

Writing...

>>1798568
>>1798577
It wasn't disapproved, at all really. Kaz just said to wait until the bruises could be more easily explained.

>>1798590
>>1798646
No. There may be a situation where she's attacked and we're not around, or those skills would be fairly useful.

>>1798803
You're lying, they would be against it and our entire job is to protect her so she doesn't have to protect herself.

>>1798803
Teach her escape and evasion. If she ever has to fight a trained assassin by herself we have failed completely and utterly.

>>1798800
Happy for you man. Jalter looks bretty damn haughty

>>1798815
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/1539046/#p1554437
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/1539046/#p1555975

Kaz literally says we should probably get permission, but nothing is stopping us, except it'd probably be best to wait until she's older so we have a better excuse for the bruises.

And our entire job is to protect her so she doesn't have to protect herself. However, we are not magic, we cannot be in multiple places at once and we're not psychic.
There may be situations where we end up lured away, or off doing some other shit like the alchemy guild shit and she ends up attacked or what have you.
I'd rather have her know how to stay alive if we ever fuck up hard enough any of those situations come to pass, then her only defense be cowering in a pool of piss infront of her attacker.

>>1798822
>If she ever has to fight a trained assassin by herself we have failed completely and utterly.
I agree. Still rather give her a 5% chance of survival instead of a 0% chance though.

>>1798843
>we cannot be in multiple places at once and we're not psychic.
There is literally only one place we're suppose to be. At her side.

>>1798854
Too bad we sometimes need to infiltrate places alone, or go somewhere we can't take the princess, or potentially go out and assassinate shit.
Unless you're planning on tying Ellana to our back and carrying her with us if Palme ever needs us to erase someone.

We also promised the Queen we'd do everything in our power to protect her.

>>1798859
Also they wouldn't approve. The linked posts only say it's possible not that they would approve.

>>1798874
Dont care, if we can teach the princess even simple basics about staying alive in a fight, im for it.

>>1798874
Shouldn't be too hard to get the Queen on our side.
Or sidestep that problem completely, wait a few years, and start teaching her when we can explain away the bruises.
It's easier to ask for forgiveness then ask for permission, after all.

>>1798883
>>1798885
How do you know it won't backfire horribly?
Why you assume the queen would ever be okay with her daughter fight at all?
Why do you not realize that training her is also likely to get her hurt?
There's a lot of problems with this plan.

>>1798931
"Guys we shouldnt do anything at all because it might fail"

>>1798931
We don't. Everything we do in quest could backfire horribly.
However, from what we've seen in quest the Queen is a very practical woman, she even took our advice on how to keep the royal family safe.
Again, that's why we wait a few years to explain away the bruises.
You seem to be misunderstanding alot of things as well. Nobody is saying turn her into an assassin or make her a soldier on the frontlines.
But if shit ever goes tits up, I'd rather Ellana know how to defend herself while we rush to her, then her just give up completely.

There are a lot of problems will all plans, unless you can see the future.

>>1798944
Don't be a faggot. Shelve this shit for later when she is old enough to actually do anything with a knife.

Until then alchemy is enough. Lockpicking and stealth and the like can come after.

>>1798957
Literally what i was supporting in the first place.
Fucking A.

>>1798931
Why ask for permission then?

>>1798769
>>1798774
>>1798778
>>1798779
>>1798786
>>1798789
>>1798798

...there are many ways you can take that offer, and there’s only a handful of them that are innocuous in nature. Even though she whispered soft enough so that no one would hear you, it’s still too close to everyone else for both of your sakes. Worse than her father or her brother overhearing, the imperial family is no less than two feet away. You’re not sure what law her words are straining against, but you’re almost entirely certain that nothing good comes from trying to subvert a Crownguard.

“…my service to the Crowmonds lasts until my dying breath,” You solemnly intone, releasing her hand. It does not take much effort to slide her gift into an inner pocket of your sleeve, nestled within the leather thong that ties your gauntlets together. “…so if I ever find myself out of a job, I expect to be very, very, very dead. Still, the offer is…appreciated.”

She does not seem unpleased. Rather, Klara pulls back her hand with what could best be described as a playful mirth. “You’re no ordinary Crownguard…but you’re a very good one, Marcus. And I do really mean what I say…I hope I’m not so dull that I would immediately fade from your memory.”

“No, you aren’t…” You respond, even as a grin tugs at the corner of your mouth. Two can play at being coy, even if it feels like bile is coming out of your mouth. “And when you say to think about you all the time…does that extend into the wee and lonely hours of the night?”

“Oh…I forget that being forward is one of your better traits…” To your surprise, she neither blushes, nor takes overt offense to your rather…lewd remark. If anything, she seems quite pleased with herself. “Marcus, your thoughts are your own, even if they are about other individuals. You may profane and stain them however you wish and with whatever you want, and I would be very flattered if you did so.”

…she...she just gave you permission for you to…

Perhaps it’s best to change tactics. You manage to save face by coughing to clear your throat. The weather promises to be ghastly. Even though its midday, the overhead clouds have completely obscured any trace of light.

“…that aside, milady,” You reply, gesturing back towards the fortress, a pointed finger to the room that Sofia had inhabited before she’d been thrown into the dungeons, “You should be careful of future plots. I may not always be there when they try to get the better of you.”

Klara follows your gesture, and her eyes soften somewhat. “Ah…you’re right. ‘Pride cometh before the fall’, does it not?”

Before you can answer, Patrik’s already finished exchanging some banality with Ellana. From the look on his face, he doesn’t seem to like how friendly Klara is acting with you. Reputation as the Crownguard to Princess Ellana aside, it seems that it fails to work on brothers that are wary for their sisters.

(cont.)

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But you won’t leave without one final word edgewise. “I do realize that you don’t care about rumors, but I’d rather not your family complain to the crown or seek my head.”

“You only extracted one favor out of me, Painel…” Klara says, continuing to hold onto the coquettish demeanor. But it fades away, and her eyes become softer, and her smile a little more genuine. “But I think I can let you off with that one without cost.

“…thank you. For everything.”

You snort. Did she really have to do all of that? Regardless, you answer politely, “You’re quite welcome, milady. I wish you all the best in the coming days...and bad weather to delay Lord Rudnick’s arrival.”

She shakes her head in wry amusement, quietly chuckling at some unknown joke. “Goodbye, Marcus Painel. I eagerly await the day when we meet again.”

>>The Vethic Road

“I didn’t know that you were that chummy with Rudnick’s brat.”

“Hmmm?” You look up from your thoughts to catch an apple from Bellatrix scant seconds before it hits your face. At your scowl, her grin only widens, and her eyebrows waggle suggestively. “What?”

“For a Vethic, her Hultish isn’t that bad,” the knightess muses, pulling her horse right beside your own. “Of course, it’s lacking the proper inflections for an authentic Straxine greeting, but it’ll do the job here. In the kingdoms…it’s gonna get some laughs. That aside…I thought that it was just a job. I’ve seen courtship rituals back home less explicit than that.

“Still…” Her boisterous tone shifts into something quieter, low enough so that only you can her. Urath plods close behind the two of you, keeping an eye out both in the nearby treeline and on the Eagle Knights. The ambient noise of both the river and the shifting forest will mask your conversation. “I did notice her slipping you something. What was it?”

That’s right. The gift she left you.

You shake your sleeve, loosening the binds of your gauntlets until the package comes tumbling out into the open. It’s a small pouch no bigger than your own hand. Whatever it contains is small enough to not poke out or make any shapes within the bag.

Untying the drawstring, you shake the bag open and empty its contents into your palm.

And for a brief moment, the sun peaks out from a gap in the clouds, and the light catches on the fine teeth of an ivory comb.

Technically this is the end of the Alnerwich arc, but I'll be more than happy to continue onwards. Just gimme a second to eat dinner, run some errands, a quick interlude, and then back to Marcus.

>Choose one:
>The Aeigis
>The Remnant
>The Sorceror

>>1798988
>Marcus, your thoughts are your own, even if they are about other individuals. You may profane and stain them however you wish and with whatever you want, and I would be very flattered if you did so.

BEST. GIRL.

>>1799084
>>The Remnant

>>1799084
>The Remnant


>Siguine's Comb
That's a significant item for Klara. Hopefully it means she's ready to move on after getting the revenge that she's been going after for years.

>>1799084
>The Remnant

>>1799084
>The Remnant

Hmm. Sorta disappointed with that flirting, seemed really asking for Murphey to drop by with Mazur right there, but at least it was preceded by the Solemn air.

Kind of Klara to give the comb, especially if it is Siguine's, but one wonders what she expects us to do with it. Use it on Ellanna I suppose? Hope she's not expecting us to just hang on forever, Marcus is already doing that to Serena.

>>1799177
Never know when Ellana will need an emergency hair combing.

>>1799191
For some reason I picture Pienel as a hand Maiden now and not even an assassin disguised as a hand maiden but an actual one that braids Ellanna's hair with flowers and gossips with her about cute Knights

>>1799191
>>1799264
I wonder if the dance can be used with a comb and trimming shears.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPSK7bw9M1A

>>1799426
Painel's true calling. Morgana is going to so jealous.

>>1799426
>>1799471
I mean, we DO have
>Nimble Fingers 2: +40 to non-attack actions involving your hands (lockpicking, pickpocketing, etc.).
We can totally become a master stylist.

>>1799552
>We can totally become a master stylist.
Let's do it!

>>1799264
>>1799426
>>1799471
>>1799552
>Marcus Painel: stylist, assassin, and lover.

>>1799629
Marcus Painel: Alchemist, Assassin, Bodyguard, Lover, Tailor, Tinker, Spy, Stylist.

We could also make a great artist/artisan.

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>>1799097
>>1799131
>>1799142
>>1799177

>Summer 23, -287 BCR
>Southern Drachenwald Forest, border of the Holy Kingdom of Opran
>The Remnant

For a moment, you can see them in the mist, hear their voices calling out to you from beyond the veil separating the corporeal from the intangible. Their images pass too quickly for you to reach out, but their voices linger, echoing throughout the grove and gliding along the trunks and branches of ancient trees. Your mind is a finely honed weapon, and pierces through the fog of disillusion and mindless thought…

No…you cannot… You can hear their voices in the rustling of the leaves, with every branch that falls onto the ground. They are everywhere and nowhere, pulling at you like vines latching onto stone. A murder of crows fly high above the tangled woods, and their piercing caws spell out your name. …you must stay away…

It has not been so long that you’ve forgotten their names. Arnost, Fryco, Juro, Hanzo, Mikelaws, Wylem, Tonda…just a handful of your friends and fellow students under the wings of the meister. Those were better times, even in the aftermath of the dragonic wars, before the plague of undeath…

You ignore their warnings, continuing to dive deeper into the Obsidian Stone. How many eons of meisters have spilled their life’s blood upon the obsidian slab, joining their minds within the stream of venerable ancients? One day, you will commit the Black Sacrament, and join your soul to Those Who Came Before, and Those Who Failed to Rise. A single mind within a tempest of souls, all joined in true unity.

There. The knowledge you seek lies with the node that is Meister Oita, a brilliant conflagration shaped like a wheel of fire. He walked the earth in the time of the dragons, and cataloged many mysteries and knowledge before the end of his life. Size is relative in this realm, but the form that Oita has assumed is easily the size of a small peak of the Whrelzwth.

Only after you’ve ensured that your soul is firmly anchored to your body do you approach the venerable meister. It would not do for your link into the tangible world to be severed, leaving you stranded in the Astral Plain. Your wards are in place, tri-ringed circle inscribed with twisting runes and symbols. The meister always made note of how yours were the best circles and bounded fields, requiring the most powerful of magics to sunder.

Within the stone, there is no sensation save for infinity, but you can feel the roiling heat of his flames. And as you approach, only now you are aware of the disparity between your powers. Your spark is but a fleeting crackle, and Meister Oita is a blazing inferno.

“Who approaches me? His voice is like the crack of thunder, and as brilliant as a bolt of lightning. “Who is the one that desires an audience with the Burning Wheel of the North?”

(cont.)

Swallowing your fear, you answer in a loud voice, “I am He Who Lies In Wait, the Verdant Man in Red, Sovereign of Drachenwald and Last of the Murder. I seek you, Meister Oita, for the knowledge to combat my enemy.”

The Wheel continues to spin, even as eyes break out across its surface. One by one, hundreds of them turn in your direction, unblinking and wholly focused on you. “Knowledge? What is this enemy you speak of? Have the dragons returned?” His voice is almost eager.

“…no. The dragons are all dead, and they have been for the last fifty years. All that is left of them are their body parts turned into trophies, and half-breed whelps and mongrels. Draklings, Linnorn, Wyvern…their blood has been diluted so thin that the demidragons are nowhere near the raw power of their progenitors.”

“…a pity, then, that none of them continue to live,” the Wheel muses. “…but I do not understand why you seek me. If not dragons or these…demidragons, what is this enemy that you seek to battle.”

“…I’ve had visions,” you begin hesitantly, “Visions of a terrible monster rising from the maggot-ridden soil of the tainted earth. It is an unnatural creature of flesh and bone, stitched together by some black and foul magic. It is neither living nor dead, and pulsates with unnatural life. Its eyes are the color of emerald flame, and its wings are large enough to blot out the sky.”

“A plague of undeath…yes…I can smell it on you. The earth beyond the Stone has become infected…the air is putrid with its rotting scent. This is the putrid stench of necromancy…yet it is more pungent, more potent. Something terrible has happened to the Shroud…”

There is nothing more abhorrent to the Murder than that which is verboten, breaking the laws of the natural world. All things are destined to die. Death comes in many forms: the Cold Lady of the Underworld, the Ferryman of the River of Souls, the God of Night and Darkness. All must bow before them when it is time for their passing.

To those who would extend their life by feasting on the energies of others…there is no greater crime against nature.

“But this creature you describe…” the Wheel continues on, and its eyes begin to drift and spin on their own accord. “It could be nothing but a dragon. Or a gryphon? Describe it further.”

You shrug helplessly. “I cannot. The vision was fleeting, and I only managed a scant glimpse of it. The color of its eyes, its smell, and the wings large enough to-”

“Bah, that could be anything! Details are everything in visions, boy! Are you sure you did not miss anything?”

More than slightly offended, you clear your throat and answer, “Yes, that’s all I was able to see. Perhaps when I receive another vision, I’ll have parchment nearby so I can immediately scrawl my findings.”

(cont.)

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Sarcasm is apparently lost upon those within the Black Stone. Meister Oita seems satisfied enough. “See that you do. Return only when you’ve collected a better description. But in the mean time, allow me to impart some wisdom…”

The wheel descends, lowering itself so that you come directly before the center where all the spokes align. A singular eye of flame opens, and a maelstrom of heat slaps at your wards and runes. Were it not for them, you might have sustained severe burns.

“Open your mind to me, Last of the Murder,” the Wheel intones. “And be filled with my knowedge!”

>>Later

The scent of sage and rosemary helps your headache as you recline into your seat. Within the cauldron, a potent mix of aromatic herbs boils atop the flame. The steam purifies your body, mind and soul, and eases the sudden burden of knowledge that the Wheel placed within your mind.

It is a muddle of thoughts, really, almost undecipherable with only a few points of reference. Cross-sections of monsters are intertwined with memories of Oita’s life. Here is the sensation of sailing on a Vlennish knar, and standing atop a parapet and winding a Dragonator Scorpion. There is a favorite meal from a favored tavern, and the memory of a favored whore with lips tasting of cherry wine…

You shake your head before you become lost in the memory. You are not Meister Oita. You are yourself, and no one else. The Black Sacrament comes later. So until then, your thoughts are your own, and no one else’.

“Father?” Ursula’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “Father, are you there?”

The ring around your finger, a small band fashioned from a lock of your daughter’s hair, is the binding agent that links your mind to hers. Immediately, you trace the link from the granary towards her location. She is at the edge of the forest, looking out towards the plains of Northern Opran.

“What is it, Ursula?” You answer back.

“There is another horde of undead making their way towards the hamlet. And someone powerful is leading them...but I cannot tell if it is merely a death knight or a necromancer.”

Of course there is. Whoever is responsible for the undead is a clever bastard. Isolated villages, far away from the cities, made for easy pickings, and less risk of losing undead in battle. Raiding a small village almost guaranteed a significant swell to the shambling horde. But to have something powerful leading them...what is their purpose?

“Shall we move to intercept them? She inquires. "They are still miles away, but we can catch them if we move now."

>Yes. For all their vices, they are still of the living. As primal mages, we must defend them.
>No. They cut down our trees and encroach our sacred lands. Let them fall and rise once more.

>>1800354
>Do so, but take no risks my daughter. You are more important than the villagers.

>>1800354
>Yes. For all their vices, they are still of the living. As primal mages, we must defend them.

You can't really make a big deal out of stopping the undead and then just let them have a village which will increase their numbers out of spite.

I mean you could, but that would make you a hypocritical retard.

>>1800354
>Yes. For all their vices, they are still of the living. As primal mages, we must defend them.

>>1800354
>Entreat the village to evacuate, and use the time available to trap it.
>When the undead arrive, we'll destroy them along with any who remain in the village. If the powerful one is caught alone in that moment, strike him down before he can hide in more corpses.

>>1800365
>>1800368
>>1800369
>>1800385
Exhaling deeply, you give answer with undisguised resignation, “Loathe as I am at their actions against us, we cannot allow the undead to gain more of a foothold on the land. We will move to defend the hamlet. How large a force is the horde?”

There is a notable pause before she answers again: “Without the presence of the anomaly, I estimate about fifty, maybe seventy skeletal warriors and walking corpses. None of them seem to be capable of magic.”

Easy pickings.

You stand up from your seat, stretching all the kinks out of your muscles and weary joints. Meditation is a comforting tool, but one that leaves the body inversely relaxed if done improperly. When you sat within the sacred grove, and placed your hand upon the Broken Stone, a wild animal (a deer, most likely) had shifted your body in search for the berries within the bushy alcove.

But, you digress. There are corpses that need to be put to rest, and a source of undeath that needs destroying. Cooped up in the mill, without little in the ways of activity, has left you excited for action.

]“Fly quickly to the village and have them evacuate across the shallow depths of the Sonir, where the great river branches into the Anosar. You must raise and lower the tides in order to safely get them across and block any stray undead.”

“Understood, father,” Ursula responds quickly, and the sound of her running across twigs and piles of leaves quickly fills the link. But she does not immediately close it, and you can feel the weight of another question in her mind. “…and if the villagers prove to be hostile?”

>>Chose one:
>Evacuate them no matter what you have to do.
>Return to my side immediately if they will not listen.
>Custom option.

(cont.)

>>1800474
>Return to my side immediately if they will not listen.
"Remind them that we are all on the same side since we are all still breathing."

>>1800474
>>Return to my side immediately if they will not listen.

>>1800474
>Return to my side immediately if they will not listen.
As long as we're able to eradicate all the undead and their source, any villagers who choose to be casualties aren't our problem.

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>>1800480
>>1800488
>>1800499
With that final answer, the link is severed, and you begin your preparations.

You shed your clothes, stripping off your tunic, trousers and loincloth as you step through the door. The ritual necessitates that you must be as naked as the day you were born, in order to better attune your body and mind to the primal energies of nature.

It has been many years since you’ve felt the need to assume the mantle of the forest, but you cannot deny the anticipation that fills your body. It is an experience like no other, a rush of sensation and power that cannot be achieved by any drug or alchemical brew. It is to merge yourself with an unstoppable force of nature, and reap a bloody harvest with your actions.

In the hollow of the ancient oak, you sit upon the soil, focusing on your Spark. Slowly, the mana within your body begins to hum, slowly vibrating as you concentrate intensely. Soon, you can feel the od of the forest matching your frequency, and the oak answers in kind to your summons.

Roots spring up from the ground, worm-like tendrils of living wood that slither along your body. Wrapping you, caressing you, you can feel the energy that thrums within them as they pull you in a tender embrace. It has been too long since you have last called upon them, and they rejoice once more at the chance to fight, serve and protect their master.

This is a mantle that was shaped by the first meister, eons ago from before the Vethics landed upon the shores of Kaithe on their great wooden arks. That man’s name has been lost to the ravages of time, but his legacy remains: of the original twenty one mantles he crafted, there are still six that remain in service to the granary. But out of those left, this is the one that has responded the best to your summons.

Eihawz. The rune for ancient yew, a sliver of the World Tree.

Berkanan. The rune for ancient birch, that which is fertile and growing.

Mannaz. The rune for man, that which must be augmented and supporting.

Othalan. The rune for inheritance, the tradition of the primal mages.

Laguz. The rune for formlessness, the potential of the unknown.

With the final rune traced, muttered and activated, the energies flare to life, and all of eternity looms before you..

...and suddenly, you are an existence beyond that of mortal ken. You can feel everything; the nest of ladybugs that have taken shelter in your branches, the angry squirrel who’s slumber you’ve disturbed, every individual capillary that brings water all throughout your body...

The forest groans as you push from the mossy stone, lifting your arms to test their movement. The mantle had enough water to make the wood flexible, more malleable for you to work with. A nearby stone is selected, weighed, and crushed by tangled branches.

This is the power of primal nature.

>Whose mantle do you wear?
>Darakthu, the Warrior of the Green. [Melee]
>Nalani, the Sage of the Forest. [Magic]

>>1800525
>Darakthu, the Warrior of the Green. [Melee]

>>1800525
>Darakthu, the Warrior of the Green. [Melee]

>>1800525
>>Darakthu, the Warrior of the Green. [Melee]

>>1800525
>Darakthu, the Warrior of the Green. [Melee]
less than a hundred. better to cut them down quickly.

>>1800540
>>1800547
>>1800551
>>1800569
Darakthu…that is the name assigned to this mantle. This venerable ancient that bore several scars of its battles. It had seen battle against the monsters dwelling in the mountains, against gryphons and other majestic beasts of the wilds. And in some layers underneath its armor, the mantle bore the scorch marks of the Dragonic Wars, battling demidragons and even lesser dragons.

For over a thousand years, Darakthu has protected the Drachenwald from all those who would seek to destroy it. Now, it marches to the aid of those who would otherwise consume the forest for all their worth.

Looking down, you see your body of flesh and bone, completely ensconced within a cocoon of roots. It is little more than an empty puppet, a soulless doll lacking even the most basic of sentience. It will continue to breathe, sleep and excrete waste, but it is reliant on outside forces to let it survive. Linked to the roots, your body will be nourished by the very earth itself.

You reach into the ground, slicing open your hand on a nearby stone to let amber blood weep into the earth. All it takes is a single command from your mind, and when you remove your hand, out from the ground comes a sword of hardened amber. Its jagged edges have sundered through flesh and scales, unyielding and completely invulnerable to destruction. A single swing would cleave the trees around you into piles of lumber.

The trunks of your legs moan as you step forward and out of the clearing. You stand easily at a third of the size of the tallest tree, and easily six times the size of a normal man. Every single step causes the forest to tremble, and the trees shudder with every step you take. Animals cease their activity, scattering out of your way as you begin to pick up speed.

What starts as hesitant steps quickly turn into a lumbering walk, and then an all-out sprint. Leaping over fallen logs and weaving through thick copses of trees, the mantle responds to your commands as flawlessly as your original body.

There. It takes only a few minutes for you reach the edge of the forest, but you can sense them long before you can see them. It’s a large number of them, warriors in various stages of decay. Here is a Vlennish raider, an Opranite Paladin, an Eridian Centurion and a Hultish charioteer. Every culture from every period of time now marches to the beat of their fell master.

Your amber blade hums as you flood it with magical energy, and flames burst along its edges. There is a terrible noise as your/its mouth opens, a groan of wood that is not meant to behave that way. It echoes through the woods, taken up by the inanimate trees that sway in your wake.

And with a terrible roar that comes deep from within your soul, you break through the forest and charge the undead.

>Roll 1d100 + 50 (+20 Combat + 30 Bonus for Darakthu)
>Best of three.

Rolled 77 + 50 (1d100 + 50)

>>1800611

Rolled 89 + 50 (1d100 + 50)

>>1800611

Rolled 39 + 50 (1d100 + 50)

>>1800611

>>1800474
>Custom option.

Ensure they cannot be used by the enemy to swell his ranks.

>>1799087
Indeed.

Kaz said the game would resume in 1 To 2 hours approximately 2 hours ago.

>>1805361
Writing...

File: Darakthu, the Warrior in Green.jpg (148 KB, 600x600)

148 KB JPG

>>1800633
>>1800653
>>1800681
By the time they react to your presence, swiveling on bleached joints and half-rotted ligaments towards your charging form, it is already too late.

Your first strike sends an entire front line of warriors back into the earth. Shattered bones and broken weapons go flying in the wake of your burning blade, and the ground is stained with rotting bile. Three more strikes carve more from this first regiment until, as one, the undead jerk to startling alacrity. The unhallowed fires in their eyes seem to glow brighter as they fall into a ramshackle rank and file.

The hollows that serves as the mantle’s eyes narrow into tiny slits. You reach out with your spirit, teasing through the skeins of the aether that surrounds the immediate area. Clogged as they are with the foul scent of necromantic energies, the corruption spreads only from the undead horde. Though their fell master is not within sensory distance, it seems that they are powerful enough to give orders from a distance.

Still, it matters not. It will only be a matter of time before you destroy these abominations. And then, you will be free to pursue their leader at your own leisure.

Half-rotted archers raise bows of blackened bone, nocking shafts tipped with rusted iron on strings of muscle sinew. At some unspoken command, they unleash their volley even as the second line moves to reinforce the shattered vanguard. The arrows are little more than an annoyance, but you’ll take no risks.

The arrows either bounce off of or scratch your hardwood armor, and only a scant few manage to bypass your hand and reach your head. You can feel every single impact, every little prick and damage that the mantle suffers. The pain is comparable to colliding into a bush full of stinging nettles, mild and ultimately discomforting, but purely superficial and without major consequence.

You rush towards the bolstered line, and every step you take crushes the twitching remnants of those you sundered in the initial charge. The stench is unbearable, as skulls burst open like ripe fruit and coat your roots in a vile substance. Alas, it is a necessary sacrifice, for only method of destroying an undead creature is complete and utter annihilation of the head.

Even with shields raised and spears leveled in a grotesque parody of an Eridian phalanx, they are still no match for you. A lumbering kick sends a dozen flying backwards. And before they even fall, you snatch up a cluster of them in your empty hand. They bite and gnash at the branches, but it is a futile effort. All they accomplish is breaking their own teeth before you crush them into dust.

(cont.)

File: umen35-undead-horde-art.jpg (322 KB, 700x400)

322 KB JPG

Skeletal charioteers driving skeletal horses bring their teams around your legs, harrying you with strikes and jabs. Even in their diminished state, they are simply too fast for you to catch with both sword and strike. With an irritated snarl, you widen your stance, intent on stabilizing yourself before dealing with the more pressing matter…

>Ensnare the charioteers.
>Smash the phalanx.
>Custom option.

>>1805428
>>Smash the phalanx.

>>1805428
>Ensnare the charioteers.

>>1805428
>Smash the phalanx.

Chariots can be handled by our support.

>>1805428
>Smash the phalanx.
There's your vote nerd

>>1805428
>Smash the phalanx.

>>1805428
>>Smash the phalanx.

>>1805443
>>1805468
>>1805475
>>1805504
The charioteers can wait. And though the phalanx certainly can as well, you don’t know when you’re going to get another opportunity for them to cluster in such a tight formation. Ensuring that your stance is wide and well-balanced, you return your attention to the warriors in formation.

You are no military tactician, but even you cannot help but cringe at the sight. Edirian scuti clash with Vlennish roundshields, and the spears of the Hults are not nearly the same length as the Opranite pike. It is to be expected, reviving the corpses of the long dead. Their only conformity is their mutual enslavement and thralldom. Truly, generals would sacrifice much to have absolute control and direction over their pawns.

But no matter the general, they are no match for a Mantle of the Forest. Thus, it is not a battle that you walk into as much as it is a massacre.

The mantle crashes into the formation, uncaring of splinters or sloppy attacks that drive into its legs. A single swing cuts both through broken weapon and tarnished armor alike. Your blade comes away steaming with rotting entrails and fluids of the slain. Those that are still whole enough to counter with shambling thrusts and sloppy chops with spears and swords are quickly dealt with.

But even for the massacre, you cannot hold back the savage glee that fills this body, fills your mind and spirit. It goes beyond the desire to eradicate the undead, to drive away corruption and the taint of black magic away from the earth. No, you can feel the glee of being in a position of power, of holding the lives of your enemies within the palm of your hand, and snuffing them out like some cosmic conductor.

There is never anything like it.

Within a minute, all your feet are stomping at is the shattered remnants of the archer detatchment. The phalanx is little more than a ruined pile of scrap metal, with the occasional twitching limb and chattering skull. To the undead still moving, you put them out of their misery. One by one, the unnatural light is extinguished from their eyes, and the bodies of the long-dead fall limp and repose once more.

…all that is left…

No, something is wrong. The charioteers have disappeared. In your bloodlust, you did not notice their departure. But you can still trace the path that they took, see the grooved notches in the soil and the hoof prints of their undead mounts. They go north, traveling over the hill in the distance, and towards the town where Ursula is…

(cont.)

>>1805547
Good job getting distracted and letting the fast attack units escape, guys.

File: Acolyte Necromancer.jpg (487 KB, 1280x720)

487 KB JPG

But you cannot give chase. Something is wrong.

In an instant, the air becomes foul as a malignant aura pollutes the air with the stink of gravesoil and rot. Retreating inwards into your spirit, you once more trace the lines of aether, feeling along the ley lines from where the source of the disturbance is coming from…

There. Distance is no match for the eyes of Darakthu, twin orbs of amber polished by the first meister. It matters not if your target is two feet or two leagues away. They are visible all the same, down to the very detail.

The differences are clear as night and day. Unlike his minions, the leader is a living man, with pink, fleshy hands gripped tight on the reigns of an armored horse. For all the swords, spears, pikes and axes the horde had thrown against you, the man only held a single staff of polished ash in his gnarled and wrinkled hands. It is no death knight that you face, but a true necromancer.

“You! You are the one I have seen in my visions!” The cloaked man rambles. He is half-mad, you realize, as frothy spit gathers in the corner of his mouth and his eyes widen with hysteric glee. “You are the one that stands between me and my place at the Master’s side!”

This isn’t good. You can’t risk chasing after the cavalry without the risk of the necromancer reanimating his horde. And the only thing to come from the link since you first entered the mantle is silence. For all you know, Ursula could still be evacuating the villagers, or even worse, convincing them or defending herself from a brutal attack. For their lack of formal training, serfs are dangerously vicious.

Ursula…she’s powerful enough in her own right, a veritable prodigy in the primal arts. She’s done and seen her fair share of nature’s brutal combat, and even the odd mob who would try to burn down the mill. But against the better part of an undead army, against charioteers who specialized in shock tactics and surprise?

“Hey, monster! You there!” The necromancer’s eyes and the tip of his staff glow an eerie green. The flavor of the air takes a foul turn as he channels the energy of undeath through his Spark and into the material world. “If I defeat you and bring back your head, the Master will be very happy with me! He's never seen a magical creature like you before, so he might even make me his favored acolyte!"

>Chase after the charioteers and help your daughter.
>Trust in Ursula’s powers and challenge the necromancer.

>>1805575
>>Chase after the charioteers and help your daughter.

>>1805575
>Trust in Ursula’s powers and challenge the necromancer.

>>1805575
>Trust in Ursula’s powers and challenge the necromancer.

>>1805575
>Trust in Ursula’s powers and challenge the necromancer.

>>1805575
>Trust in Ursula’s powers and challenge the necromancer.

>>1805575
>Trust in Ursula’s powers and challenge the necromancer.

Killing him should deactivate the chariots, right?

File: Ursula2.jpg (189 KB, 653x963)

189 KB JPG

>>1805592
>>1805748
>>1805848
>>1805888
>>1805939

Beyond the battlefields of ancient past, there is no bloodier place than the wilder places of the world. Underneath all of its beauty and splendor, from the misty fjords of the Vlennish north to the low everglades of Opran, the cruel and indifferent reality of the natural world lies underneath a deceptive veneer.

How many fledgling birds have you found beneath the great pines and oaks, desperately trying to move broken wings? The swallowtail gliding along the spring breeze is trapped in the gossamer web of the orb weaver, even as the newborn pegasus foal is snared by a passing gryffon.

The bond between parent and child is not exempt from this harsh rule. A black eagle will simply watch as its offspring tear each other apart in a squabble over food. Rabbits will abandon their warren a month after giving birth. You yourself know this rule all too well, in the long and brutal years underneath the meister’s tutelage…

It is a tough and oft cruel love, but it is still love in the purest sense. Does not every drakling wish for all their clutch to spread their wings and fly? Animalistic pride it may be, but the only difference between a human and an animal are sobering low. For all your ways that you differ from your meister, you will never see Ursula unleash her full potential if you insist on smothering her.

She must manage. No, you correct yourself. She will manage on her own against the racing charioteers. You’ve trained her for this day, honed her powers from a blunt instrument to the sharpest knife. As it stands, Ursulla’s power is equal to yours on the night death claimed your meister.

It is with that rationale that you return your attention to the distant necromancer. Even as the fool continues to ramble, you concentrate, extending your senses through the branches of the mantle and beyond its physical form. They are faint, but you can tease the links that hold the connection between the necromancer and his creations, protoplasmic veins that pump necromantic energy. Had you the mantle of the Sage of the Forest, you might have been able to sever them.

But it is not such a shame. You will have to completely destroy the necromancer in order to permanently return his creations to the earth from which they came.

“You are intelligent, then?” The necromancer grins as he urges his mount forward. Metal plates and hooked mail rattle against ossified bone as his undead steed races forward. “Then killing you will not do! Instead of your head, I will return to the Master with your entire body, walking tree. It would be such a waste to rid the world of such a fine creation.”

You would sooner destroy the mantle and consign your soul to the void of oblivion before letting it fall into the hands of this addle-minded fool and his dark master.

(cont.)

“Ah, but since you are of a higher rationale, it would be rude of me to not announce myself first!” Somehow, the man is able to bow deep and low atop his charging mount. “I am Marcellus Calidius Garilianus, former magister of the Veridian Order and acolyte of the Black Bone Coven of necromancers.”

"▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅!” The answer you give is something that no human lung could ever produce, a roar burning with hatred and a bloodlust for those who would pervert the natural order of things.

Marcellus cackles wildly, even as he traces the air with a glowing hand. “Excellent, excellent! Now, show me what you can do, treeman, and I will show you mine!”

>Attempt to analyze the spell he’s casting.
>Close the distance while he’s casting his spell.
>Play it safe and launch a ranged attack.
>Surprise him by revealing your name.
>Custom option.

>>1808086
>>Play it safe and launch a ranged attack.
>Close the distance while he’s casting his spell.

>>1808086
>Attempt to analyze the spell he’s casting.

>>1808086
>>Attempt to analyze the spell he’s casting.

Eh. I don't want to cede the initiative, and I suspect after seeing us go for the Phalanx he's ready for a charge.

I'd vote for a ranged attack, because we need to win fast, but we haven't seen enough high level magic to know how much of a threat this could be.

>>1808086
>>Attempt to analyze the spell he’s casting.

>>1808088
>>1808183
>>1808220
>>1808306
To be a primalist is to embrace the fullness of one’s emotions, and the output of one’s magic depended on how high their passions were running. In stark contrast, high sorcery is cold and lifeless arithmetic. The same somatic gestures and arcane words repeated in sequence will yield the same result without fail, time and time again. You have never been apprenticed to a sorcerer, but you have borne witness to the full extent of their power. And in your time with the meister, you’ve come to possess a wide breadth of knowledge, both magical and mundane,

For all their differences, spells of both disciplines fall into two categories: Creation, magic which adds, enhances or restores the world, and Destruction, that which would be used to further the breaking of the world. You’ve honed your senses to be sharp enough to detect the faintest traces of magic lingering in the air. It is simple child’s play to identify the magic of this Marcellus Calidius Garillanus…

…it is a spell of Destruction, one whose energies salivate from an insatiable hunger. It is a parasitic spell, that which would drain the life from those caught in its snare until its targets are but empty husks. The mantle itself is a walking beacon of power, thrumming with the energies of the primal earth. It would take a spell of significant power to drain Darakthu of its power, but you’re not going to take any risks. Gods know what might happen if a madman were to get their hands on the primordial energies of nature.

But you’ll burn that bridge when you get there. It seems that Marcellus is still a whiles from completing his spell. Sweat breaks out across his painted brow as he struggles to contain the energies that dance atop the tip of his gnarled staff…

Ancient wood creaks as your mouth curves into a twisted smile. It seems that the acolyte is trying to reach for a spell beyond his power. All it would take is a simple action to interrupt his casting, or cause some other, potentially catastrophic effect…

>Close the distance.
>Launch a ranged attack.
>Custom option.

>>1808313

I'm inclined to do ranged attack so that there's no chance of our energies being absorbed, but can you confirm that our ranged attack getting nommed wouldn't have similar consequences?

>>1808313
>Launch a ranged attack.

Just lob a fucking rock at him while he's casting

Honestly, mages without tanks? What was he thinking.

>>1808322
Darakthu has two methods of launching a ranged attack. You can either pick up a boulder or a tree and throw it at Marcellus, or you can launch spiked branches from out of your body. I can safely say that throwing a boulder will not in any way cause an energy drain.

>>1808327
>Necromancer
>Thinking
I laughed