Dealing With Idolatry (Solo)

[Allennia]

Fall, and I will catch you. Weep, and I will hold you. Fear, and I will save you. Love? You are on your own.


A long time ago I used to feel part of something. A long time ago, I felt inspired, alive, part of a transient thing. In the diminishing sense of time I have come to lose all such lust for passionate arias and discourse in the dark, I am a broken mind, a broken man. Where once we shared council and talked of our desires and our freedom, we now discuss nothing more than idle pedantry, chatelaine courtship and ironic occurrences at dance, regalia and midnight ball. We are soulless, bourgeois puppets to our own fantasies.

Of course, this present view recollected is a biased one, perhaps the world I see is not what you see, nor what has truly come to be. The cold stone chairs of the central chamber of House Isould may very well be the seat of power of this valley, it may well still be the glory days of old. If such times still exist, and I am a liar in my own infinite sorrow, then mayhap I should find myself a new seat, somewhere beyond the pines of Concordia, beyond the salt marooned seas of Corone’s fair borders. I should elope with the night, but I do not, for fear of losing what shattered remnants remain here in these walls, behind this title I cling to, behind my honour.

My name is Abhorrash, I am the son of Lord Isould the Third, seventh son to the founding father of the Seven Councils, I am his ancestor, and my father’s heir to the seat of power, the title of nobility, and the reigns and trappings of our domain. All these things are true, but all these things are inconsistently reticent of a dying age. Whilst the lords and ladies of the Seventh Heaven dwindle, I for one will not be parley to this petrifaction. I vow to break free from my responsibilities, or to find some small nook to dig into that will allow me the chance to leave without throwing it all away. Odd, isn’t it? To be so tired and world worn and longing to find life anew, yet to be so scared of burning your bridges, lest the world forget to throw you a new life line in whatever endeavours you dive into.

The vestments of Isould and it’s nobility and the path of Knighthood will burn brightly in my blood for all the ages, that much will forever remain. I am a Knight, a mage, a scholar, a son of the Seven. I am Abhorrash, I am the hound and the council’s hand, I am it’s scholar, it’s mage, it’s practical demonstrator of mystical arrangements. These ideals make me a romantic, passionate and stubborn man. I will defend the innocent to the last, but slay the wrong doer without consideration. I am loving, yet distant, and in that distance I find solace. I am reserved, except when in the council chamber, when the great orators of my forefather’s line burst through my skin like a beating heart and pounding lung. I am a lost sheep, searching the cold moors for my flock. I am the shepherd, herding in the sheep from the winter’s nip and I am the field itself, walked on and over for all time’s fancy.

I am angered, and I will be it’s puppet no more.

[Allennia]

Dealing With Idolatry

As the sun rose over the edge of the valley, the forest town of Isould burst into early spring life. Rays of light darted through the scattered canopy of pine trees and insidious vines, touching the dirt pathways and boardwalks that criss-crossed and spiralled up and down the rocky face that it’s inhabitants called home. Here you might have expected elves of the forest, or perhaps fairies and pixies and all manner of magical imps, but in their stead walked gruff looking human faces. Well built men on their way to the hunt, or guardsmen on patrol, or women wandering to their wells in loudly sprung conversation with one another.

The sun’s zenith gave life to the tower’s needle like form at the top of the cliff, tucked into a nook of rock and gravel with the last vestige of height forming a wall behind it. At the tallest reach of Isould, Abhorrash leant over the parapet and swooned in the heat and the grandeur of his home. Beneath him the village spread, interspersed with clusters of canopies and rooftops, plumes of smoke from bubbling porridge pots and cascading waterfalls cutting up the Cliffside with the primal force of nature. In the moment, in the ascending melody of children’s laughter and the turning of water wheels and wind sails, Abhorrash smiled.

On a clear day such as this one could see the entire length of the valley and the great plain which formed it’s heart. Hazy horizon or not, the plateau at the centre rose above the trees and the endless golden fields, like a beacon that could be seen by all the houses of the Seven. The birds flying high in the sky looked down, and Abhorrash up, a moment of pure feeling, of morning joy, of connectivity. Running a finger along the edge of the tower’s peak, the grainy texture of mud and sand compacted and dried onto a wood and stone frame reminded the scholar of the village before they had built the mansion. Everything was natural, skills built these halls with the provenance of generations, of ancestral recall. Each morning, when his duties freed him to do so, Abhorrash climbed the spiral stair case to his silent observatory and surveyed the land he would one day come to rule. He felt giddy, and not from vertigo.

“Abhorrash!” A voice, much distilled from rebounding up the innards of the tower drifted out into the chatter and bird song. With a disgruntled sigh, the young mage turned and walked shuffle footed over the sand into the shade and cool descent back to his chambers. The voice, although diluted, was clearly that of his mentor Jurran. Such a call to return to his desk could only mean that already, the busy matters of the Council where knocking at his door like hounds in the night. With a sudden sense of claustrophobia, he re-appeared in his vast spherical study and scoured the bookshelves and astrological contraptions. “Ah, I see you thought it wise to join us.”

Magister Jurran was a figure of haggard bark and ageing metaphors, contradicting his exuberant humour and constant activity. The long white beard, tapered and curled was one of many signs of office he carried about his person. The staff, more gnarled and twisted than his skin only out of duty and tradition carried at it’s tip a small quartz crystal, a gemstone prominently sewn into strategic places in his deep blue and olive green robes. He was no taller than Abhorrash, but somehow his stance and legality, that of the sage unwashed and intemperate gave him height and fancy long legs that stilettos never could. He smiled warmly at his student, and beckoned him closer to the small reading table in one of the bulbous glass windows that overlooked the water mill to the tower’s right. Once, Abhorrash had commented that the library looked very similar to a ‘gourd with flies eyes,’ he wouldn’t have been so crass if he’d known it was to be his gourd one day.

“I had hoped, perhaps somewhat unwisely there would be breakfast, idle banter, perhaps a brisk walk through the village before we delve further into the mysteries of this universe and the next, no?” Abhorrash’s voice carried with it enough sarcasm and dry wit to knock such a frail man over with gusto, if it were not for their sureness to one another’s ways. “What matter vague and horrid must I learn and recite to you all morning, and how important is it I do so?”

“Please, spare me the usual charade and for once in your life, take heed of my words and do as you are told, now come!” Jurran tapped a finger on the table’s dusty surface, and began to clear away the slew of open books into neat symmetrical piles to one side. “This book, tell me what it says, on the page on the left.” The mage left one tome open, a simple red chord acting as a book mark should a rogue gust of wind or mischievous sprite attempt to misplace the saved place. Abhorrash approached the table and scooped up the volume with two eager hands. He began to read at once.

[Allennia]

Passion is the place you can never return to, it is never rectified or wronged. It is like the past, unfaltering, unchanging, upending and disastrous. I could always strive to reach for it, for as much as it hurts, there can be no life without it. This is the fire, this is the shadow, this is the dark passion play.

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron

“In a beginning, there is a reticence, a transcendental chord of heaven and hell. Such a note rings out the proud proclamation of destiny, time, fate, love. As the stars formed from fire and ice, and the worlds came to be in their myriad forms, so did the Seven.”

Abhorrash paused; the beginnings of this chapter seemed familiar to him, like a childhood memory returning through swiftly opened floodgates. “The Seven were the Firstborn, like so many scattered sons of fable. Each of the Seven was gifted with a single fragment of Gryphon’s Soul, the beast of Time, the harbinger of destiny. In his war with Tanoak, he sacrificed himself to save the Universe at its moment of creation, and instilled such a remnant in his children.”

Jurran stroked his curved beard with eager anticipation, having set aside the books he had to occupy his scholarly hands without minute pursuits of distraction. Seeing his pupil pause in fear, or bewilderment, the sage stepped around the table and let his hand rest on the top of the page, “please, continue, it will become clear upon its completion.”

“They were named Gannon, Trick, Miranda, Sefter, Belial, and Antoin and…” Muttering the word under a breath, Abhorrash froze. The heavens collapsed on his head, the skies rent, the earth fell apart, and his cosy world of fireplaces and knightly disorder vanished. “Isould…” He turned his gaze over like a book leaf and fell at once to the first line on the right page. “In the days since, on a world named Althanas, the descendants of the Seven have protected the tomb of Gryphon, in what shall forever be known as the Library of Seven.”

“Stop there, for now. That is more than enough revelation for the time being. What make you of it young Isould?” The magister was taking far too much delight in tormenting a man’s religion with such blasphemous texts. “What anger boils your blood, what hatred rises to the surface?”

In the distance, Abhorrash recognised the faint chirping of birds and the sounds of the village. They were a world apart but he clinged to the connections he feverishly tried to maintain to maintain his focus on the here and now. The great astrological mobile above their heads began to turn, its spheres and stars spiralling on primitive but functional enchantments and mechanics. Althanas moved between two larger spheres, and Abhorrash looked upwards as it passed.

“I had always wondered, wondered what was in that building. My father told me at a very young age that only the Lords of the Seven houses could enter, and only when they all did so at once, in communal throng. But this text, this,” he flipped the cover closed to read the title, “Of Gods and Monsters, how can it have ratifiable credit, when it defies the very nature of God, of the Council Deity?”

With a recombinant wobble, Jurran turned and walked up the circular steps that lined the central study to stand dramatically in one of the open buboes that served as observatory and light source during the daylight hours. He tapped the iron framework with the tip of his staff and watched the ripples flow over the surface of the shield he conjured centuries ago to stop the rain entering. “Your father believes very strongly that House Gannon has made this information public, purely in confidence to its own citizens. They have turned from the Deity, the Council, and the ideology of Gryphon as the one true god, and have come to idolise all the seven ancestors. Your father and I think it prudent to bring this matter to the council and confront them openly, but to do so we require proof of such matters.”

Sighing, Abhorrash placed the tome onto the neat pile and leant his staff against the desk. He unbound his scarf and unbuckled the top hem of his robe. His conversations and theological meanderings with his mentor were never ever describable as ‘brief.’ “I can only assume from this, that I am sure to be involved as sure as the sun is shining and Petra is swimming in the river once more.”

Jurran chuckled, a hoarse whisper of air expressing a gratifying sense of humour. “How did you know?” He pointed down, to the silver streak of water that caught the early morning light. “There are things in this world that are certain, Abhorrash, and as you are the right hand man and the Knight’s Confidant, it is certain that you will ride through Concordia to the village of Underwood shortly.”

[Allennia]

Love struck abstract melodies, these things make us meltdown inside. We’re catching arrows in our palms to satisfy another, our heart’s shatter to succumb to the motions of Love. The sun breaks, a new day, all is lost. These eternal games splatter our blood and guts and bones to the four winds, the four horsemen feast upon our souls. End times.

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron


“You…wish for me to leave the valley?”

“Indeed.”

“But-“ he cut his words short, tempted to vent away his trapped persona. “But what purpose would that serve, if we are searching for evidence that implements Gannon in worshipping prophets?”

“Come and look for yourself,” Jurran gestured outwards, and Abhorrash ascended the staircase to follow the tip of the finger to its destination. “See?”

In the distance, over the lofty treetops of House Isould, past the waterfalls and the long road that descended down the sloped valley sides sat the Council Chamber. It was nothing more than a crystalline entity on the horizon, but it was grand enough to make out. From the top of the tower you could see the River Danu beyond, a metallic trail of fire across the landscape, and further still you could make out House Miranda and it’s airships, and all the wonders of the world and the sea beyond. “All I see is the valley?” He replied meekly, knowing his faux paux would be punished swiftly.

“Look closer, beyond the petty social reality. Look at the council chamber itself…look at where it is.”

Long ago, the Magister of each of the Houses had combined their respective powers and build a grand stone temple on a raised dais of earth, ice and liquid fire as a grand conglomeration of the Seven. For a thousand years since, it’s lords and ladies had gathered in the central open aired podium to discuss the theoretical troubles of their small and isolated world. It had been built at the great bend in the river, but as Abhorrash looked closed, he saw a very different reality.

“It’s…moved? How is that possible, not even you possess such power over geomancy, and you are the head of the Magical Guild.”

“The council chamber was constructed to gravitate slowly, but surely, towards the House which most believed in its ideals, in its intent and purpose within our society. For a hundred years prior to your father’s inception and supreme lord and head of the council, the plateau moved towards House Miranda, now, it is supposed to move towards us, to the side of the valley and the green promise of a peaceful future…”

“I take it, in my limited capacity as an orator, that such things hang tantamount to power, and such movements are not occurring?”

“An astute if addled observation young Abhorrash, indeed, the council chamber we have discovered, is not moving towards us, but towards Concordia, Underwood, and in the general direction of a greater and more tangible civilization than our own. You must go out into the world, something I know all too well you long for, and discover the cause of this disruption.”

“On my own?”

Jurran knocked back his head and clicked his tired body to life. The motion rattled the quartz chintz folded into his robes, and in the silence, Abhorrash watched his mentor get himself comfortable. The planets spun overheard with a gentle whir, like a constant reminded that the world turned, and the world turned, and the world turned…and I am but a cog in its machinations…
“You are more than capable of scouting the lands beyond the crescent of the valley, I dare say I have over prepared you with the two simple spells you have learnt, your own skill and tactile guile will see off any other trouble I am sure.”

“I am but an apprentice,” Abhorrash flailed his arms and tried to look desperate, his mentor shrugged it off and turned back to look at the swirling orbs above.

“An apprentice indeed, but we are all apprentices. Even I still have a great deal to learn, most of all, I must learn why Gryphon did not overcome Tanoak, and why the tomb is here, with Isould, now of all times.”

Silence. Utter and pure, distilled lack of movement.

“Listen to me Abhorrash.” Jurran turned to his right and stared blankly and with fervent aggression into the young knight’s eyes. “War is spreading across the world. In distant lands the dead rise to greet the living, and churches fight with gods far more foul than our own behind them. Turbulence, as the eagle will profess, may make for a rattling flight across deserts and streams, but it will settle and all will be well. Ride the storm young one, and you will find the answers."

The sun faded behind a grey cumulus, but it still cast down streaks of glory over the valley. Both men stood opposite one another and continued to stare, searching for answers behind one another’s emotionless expression. If a bard had conjured himself from the air just then, he would have sung of rivalry and transferable power, of responsibility and kinship, of a dying line and a new born son.

[Allennia]

When the First worshipped one, all was many.

When the many worshipped all, there was chaos.

When chaos became order, the universe fell asunder.

Gryphon wept seven tears, and the heroes came to heal the worlds.

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron

The astrological device above the two mage’s heads came to a standstill, its morning movements dictating that an alignment or revolution of some distant, vaguely important star had completed. Abhorrash stood dumbstruck at his mentor’s words, an illusion of storm riding schooners and the lightening charge of horses through Concordia struck the back of his mind, and he convalesced back into the familiar setting of his tower.

“You would send me away to some unknown destiny in your stead? Why can you not solve this proverbial riddle, deal with this blasphemy and treachery rising amidst the Seven?” An earnest question would, in an ideal world, earn an earnest answer; but the Magister made no motion of friendly comment.
“You are to go because your father wills it, and that will is absolute even above mine, for he is kin, and blood ties are stronger when they are observed and understood.” With a slight rising of his gnarled staff, Jurran closed his eyes and took a deep breath that could drain oceans or slay flocks of birds with ease. In the little magical training he’d been gifted with, Abhorrash recognised that the old man was preparing a spell of some description. Making an executive decision, the son of Lord Isould made several steps back away from any immediate danger, and settled in to lean against the frame of the window bulb they’d observed his sister from.

“Almur, zig na!” With a collected force of mind and body, Jurran pushed the tip of his staff into the marble floor of the study and opened his eyes. His words echoed around the grand chamber and the pages of books rustled in some mystical wind that sprung forth from nothingness. Where once there had been eyes of aged learning and understanding, there were now two bright blue irises, without shade but bound in an inner life that made Abhorrash nervous.

“Magister? What is the meaning of this, this sudden change of atmosphere; am I to learn from you now, here, so early?” The folds of Isould’s robes flowed backwards as he spiraled out of the way of a crackling bolt of quicksilver. With a rasp of static it narrowly missed his waist and rippled and crashed into the energy field protecting the books and scrolls within from the corrupting influence of weather.

“I said ride the storm, for to survive in the world you must learn to deal with the unexpected.” The staff rose and fell once more, and another bolt of lightning arced upwards into the metallic rafters and array of orbs and crystal spheres. It flickered like energy chains amongst them, darting like electrical devils back and forth before dying, along with the silence.

“Then we shall learn, and I shall listen, as the pupil I have pledged to be!” Abhorrash’s hand rose, and his second followed, he moved them together and held them clasped above his head in tight fists. Although he carried no armour, and was without his wand or his beloved weapon, slowly he had begun to learn the words of power which reigned in the fire and conflagration he’d become accustomed to casting. He smiled, not with assurance, but with happiness. These were some of the few things about his education he enjoyed, and he longed for more lessons such as this. He’d grown tired of etiquette and courtly intrigue, magic and the mystic realms were the things he wished to learn.

“Good,” said Jurran, smiling and pulling back the staff. With a calm motion the sage leveled it to point at his target and waited. The wind conjured by the words of power still hung in the air, and the quartz lined robes of the Magister, and the red stained attire of Abhorrash moved in unison, dancing with danger, dancing with death. “Show me the flight of the eagle, the descent of the hawk’s talon, the fire and the fury and all you have learnt! Show me Abhorrash, how your mind and heart goes about Dealing With Idolatry!”

A heat grew between the two fists, and the sun had good grace to shine on the window of the tower as it rose from dawn to early morning and high into eleven o’clock. The beam flew in between the hands of Isould and struck the sphere above their heads that had been assigned the name of Althanas. Quickly it faded, but in the moment, Abhorrash whispered the word for fire he had learnt as a small child, and conjured into his palm a sphere of flame that condensed into a tight ball of rage. He brought it down in front of his chest, looked at Jurran, pulled it back and flattened his palm before pointing at the sage with the other, a long ringed finger designating the target and declaring the beginning of their lesson.

“Class convened!” Jurran shouted and his long grey hair scattered as the static from his staff discharged a third bolt, which branched out into seven small tongues of energy.

[Allennia]

The Young Isould stood beneath the stars, watching the gods and monsters traverse the endless seas of the deuterium. As he observed, the world died, waging war with itself as his brothers and sisters fought for dominance. When he turned, and saw the End, he wept. His tears soother the lava and the flames, and the world as we know it, our beloved Althanas, was born anew. So the Library was built, by the Seven's hand, and the transgressions, the first sin, was forgotten.

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron


As the wheels of fate turned, and the stellar transcendences of the worlds moved overheard, Abhorrash ducked and reeled from the static wave that washed over him. One by one, the bolts rushed past, one by one, the hand of destiny turned until the seventh bolt struck like a doom toll. Flying backwards through the air like a crimson arrow, the young nobleman found himself tumultuously crashing into a bookcase on the far side of the open plan study with an ungratified roll and stand still.

“The gods and monsters of this world would not be so lenient, not be so forthcoming!” Wrath fell from Jurran’s lips like a waterfall, crashing out across the study and mingling with the breeze. “You have learnt much more than that from me child, now show me!”

If only it were so simple, thought Abhorrash, picking himself up from a pile of books and splinters like a shambling behemoth. “You didn’t give me a chance,” he nodded to where he’d been stood on the steps, where the air still radiated with a modicum of power left hanging, flames left burning. The fire he’d conjured died, and left nothing but an afterglow. He felt betrayed, he felt uncomfortable, unlike he’d done in any of the other lessons or tuitions he’d received from his mentor.

“But if a true duel is what my master wishes, then I shall be as pious as to offer him a reasonable level of response.” He wiped a trickle of blood from his nose, and stepped from the ruin. A red devilish grin formed on the young noble’s face, and he drew from the ether once more, channeling the energy into his palm and proceeding in his forward motion.

“You tell me gods and monsters, yet tell me such things are the backbone of the word? Why, if our very ‘true’ creator, the winged beast of the plains, the Gryphon, should such things be feared? Why is he so different than Behemoth, or Leviathan, or the Phoenix Grande?”

“Semantics are lenient only to those who misconstrue them, not those whose outright question the true nature of all things!”

“Bah, pathetic,” Abhorrash wipes the corner of his mouth and sets into motion the physical movements required to conjure a fireball, he channels it into his palm, and relish the moment that it bursts into its fiery convocation. “I am the pupil, Magister, I know nothing beyond what I am taught – who would I be, to question my elders, who would I be, if I were to question kings?”

The old man smiled a twisted reflection of his own inner glee. Goading his younger quarry into conflict was easy enough, he knew the young noble was hot blooded and eager to prove himself to any and all who would observe. “You would be a brash but honest child, challenging the gods, his voice an ascent for the rebellion in all the hearts of this valley.”

“Then I challenge the gods to give me a way to defeat you!”

Jurran hangs his head and sighs with dismay, “Can you not hear the wind, the gentle breeze that laps at your feet? Does it not remind you of the dawn breath, drifting over the mountains behind the village, down into the windswept plains beyond?”

It had been too long since Abhorrash had truly come to appreciate the power of the elements. Knowing this to be a distraction, or perhaps an earnest attempt at instilling some small modicum of education in his stubborn mind, he considered his options. He could close his eyes and see the world in a new light, or to rush blind to the edge of the cliff, and see what lay beyond…

[Allennia]

Here is the tale of Gods and Monsters, of the lords of the skies and the mortal children on the earth. Collected within these pages, are my life's teachings, my legacy, my ancestral honouring. Ensure brothers, that this secret never dies, never fades, never heals. Hide it, but remember.

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron

Abhorrash closed his eyes momentarily, his hand bobbing up and down to keep the fireball burning bright. True enough, the gust of wind that had sprung forth from the Magister’s spell still lingered in the air, like a limpet to a rock, clinging onto its new found existence with fervent rage. He pondered for a moment, thinking of ways to turn this boon to his favour, disregarding all he had been taught about traps and acting rashly in the heat of the moment.

“I see…” He opened his eyes, pulled back his hand and pushed. With a rush of air burning into nothing, the fireball trampled forwards towards the old man, frail and feeble in body, but quick in the mind. Abhorrash did not expect to be so fortunate as to fell his mentor with a single spell, but the winds beneath his feet carried him to new heights of hope. “Shall we dance?”

The winds roared, the fireball brightened, fanned by the simplest of mental tugs from the young noble on the strands of ether hanging in the air. They formed threads to fate one’s destiny closer. Jurran watched and keened his eyes on the advancing projectile, but clicked his fingers and tapped the polished marble floor with the end of his staff just as it seemed to have gotten past his defenses. With no effort at all, the fireball faded with a pathetic whirl of smoke.

The staff crackled once more, and Abhorrash tenses. The folds of his long red robes, lacking the armour he typically wore to battle or court formed an intricate pattern about him, the vestiges of the wind dying out. They were still there, beneath the pages of discarded books, or rattling about in vials and jars, but lay dormant once more, awaiting a kind master’s touch to goad them into the air.

“This is not wrath, Abhorrash. This is feeble might, a pallid pool tilting to a great wall instead of a tumultuous wave tearing down my defenses. I have taught you better than this, show me what you know, prepare your mind to defeat the insurmountable, as the seven heroes did before you, and as the seven shall do once more!”

Jurran dropped his staff onto the floor once more, and from its tip formed a small white sphere. He rose and dropped it three more times, so that the first magical entity had three brothers, hovering together like a will-o-wisp family, a soul entity pulsating with energy. “There are, after all, more dangerous things in the world than senile old men!” He roared, his age fading in a flash of light and turning his withered skin and long grey hair into moisturised youth and golden locks for just a moment. The magical wave formed a sphere and with a crack of atmosphere, the four orbs and the barrier rushed towards Abhorrash, crashing through the desk and the piles of books with reckless abandon.

The noble went down low on both knees and prepared to dive out of the spell’s way. It was the Thunder Crack Orb, a blunt battle mage technique far beyond him, but one seen many times in the conflicts with the other houses; the barrier would bludgeon, and the orbs within would explode in a quadrangle of magnesium flares. He curled his lip, and jumped to the left, away from the stairs and the windows. Blessed is the maker, he thought as he closed his eyes and felt himself fall.

[Allennia]

Could you, if given the chance, save the fabric of the worlds with whim and luck and destiny? Could a mere man be a god, gifted with the prize of walking amongst the makes of life!

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron

The darkness within is a cruel and yet gentile creature, both appeasable with reason and unquenchable in thirst. In Jurran I saw a twisted schism of reality torn, fabricated lies aimed to drive daggers into my logic. Why would my father send me on my way, his general and commander and spokesman in the council if indeed House Isould was to go to war? Perhaps, just perhaps, I was too naive to see the truth, or perhaps my trust and reverence for my mentor clouded my judgment and prevented me from accepting I was being deceived. The impact of landing once more on the cold tiles of the study knocked the thought from my mind, instead it was replaced with reeling confusion and a desire to end the duel as quickly as possible.

Abhorrash stood slowly, smiling at the after image burnt into the air where he ought to have been singed or slain by the branching bolts of primal power. The fireball still sat suspended in the air, burning brightly even after he’d purposefully disconnected his mental control over it. The sphere the magister had thrown had touched the spell and erupted prematurely, its force propelled the flying knight further still when mid-air to safety. Praise the Seven he whispered, adjusting his robes and entering a braced stance with legs split apart.

“What new trick or feint notion is this, Abhorrash? I have not yet taught, or expected you to learn how to misdirect or attract using the flow of manna. Impressive.” The ancient man’s staff moved unceasingly on its tip, rotating clockwise as if to draw on some unseen motivation. Walking back up the steps with a slight limp Abhorrash reached out for the fire, drew it in, and turned to watch his mentor’s slow advance across the paper scattered floor. The path of the energy sphere had cracked the marble and obsidian squares, leaving a frayed image of a former glory in its wake. Fortunately, the magister was an avid geomancer, able to rewrite history and physical matter with the wave of his hand; when we were finished, as with all our lessons, there would be nothing left of it but memories and experience. With no consequences to their actions, Abhorrash had longed wondered what was the point?

“No answer? Silence is only indomitable in the moment of death, but I must profess I am glad you have survived thus far.”

“Survived?” He interjected, snapping was not often his prerogative, but temper had its own way with a man’s word you could do little about. “I have only survived in the face of your fundamentalist views through a sheer determination to question such motives. Why, Jurran, what is the purpose of this? There is nothing I have learnt you do not already know, already presume; I ask you a question, why send me away in such troubled times, I am more pertinent and needed at my father’s side in the coming democratically veiled idiosyncrasies than you would be as presiding overlord.” A wry smile caught Abhorrash’s lips by surprise, his hand moved about the fiery sphere and pushed forwards with as much might as he could muster. With a pealing of air and a rush of brilliance it flew forwards, the red mage’s spine snapped upright and fingers poised elegantly to aim the spell at the old man. He watched and waited, the few seconds it took to collide with its target served an eternal sentence on his expectations.

[Allennia]

I failed you, my regret is bound sevenfold to this tome. I appease it's readers, to cast aside the notions within as the spent lies of a madmen, delluded into granduer by the Lie. There is no God, there is no Seven, only monsters in the dark in the clothing of kings...

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron


Something urged the spell on, urged the flames brighter, the power more magnificent. The old man’s staff leaned forwards and expected to simply swat the flames aside with a menial flick of the small finger, but found itself struggling to cope. With a grunt and a sudden cry, the Magister brought up his free hand and closed his eyes, expecting the worse.

The fireball erupted and the flanging flames tore and singed at Jurran’s robes, but left no lasting mark asides from a feedback blow to his cornea; a small trickle of blood ran down his face, cascading over his lip’s edge like a miniature waterfall. Somehow, someone, something had combined with the manna urged forwards, emotion carried its own volition through the air and triumphed over cold calculated logic. Abhorrash took stock of his surroundings and let fatigue take over, pushing itself into his lungs and wracking his throat with a rush of icy pain. He panted, and waited, and panted some more.

“Most…interesting. It would appear that your faith,” Jurran wiped his lip and brought the staff up once more “,in a strange way - has spurned your magical lore to a level I could not foresee. Anger and desire and rage and promises, all emotions and pledges strong with time can, in the most peculiar of ways affect a mage’s capacity for…spell craft.” The way in which my mentor spoke indicated he was done, finished, completed. I had shown him all he desired and that was all he required. With a wave of white energy, he appeared once more as he did before we began our exchange, and with a second drop of the staff, a shockwave cleaned the observatory of any damage.

“What now?” Abhorrash spoke quietly, still nervous and unsure of the situation. He clicked his knuckles by his sides, allowing the tension to creep into his bones to propel him into action should the unexpected occur.
“I believe you are ready to here the true extent of the situation, to discover the nature of Gryphon and why it must be you to leave the valley and be the herald of our salvation.”

“If you continue to speak in such theological riddles, old man, I will be forced to consider you deranged; speak plainly, it is too early and my mind too tired with pleasing you for such lofty conversation.” I did not consider the irony of my ombudsman dialect, of my sudden reversion to my council manners.

“I believe you to be one of the Seven.”

Thunderclap.

“Me?”

“The movement of the council chamber to beyond the mountains on which our house stands indicates a time of great change for this valley and its inhabitants. What that change may bring I cannot tell, but we must settle the issue once and for all before the civil war brings about an age of unrest and backstabbing we will be ill equipped to deal with. You are most equipped both to deal with this war, to oversee the defense of House Isould, as well as better suited to exploring the extent of Corone to find the cause of this disruption.”

“What about you?”

Jurran smiled and approached his pupil with an aura of solidarity reserved only for academic bonds and family ties. He rested his hand on Abhorrash’s shoulder and peered into his eyes, “I am your father’s puppet; he would not let me go beyond the border, for fear of losing his greatest strength and influence within the council’s field of view. As you are but his spokesman, and not the driving force behind his political ambition, you are best settled to serve as our advance guard. If you should return with news of a threat to the valley, I will command the council to unite and march out to defeat it – if you return with news that another House has corrupted the chamber, changed the Order of our tradition, then it shall be you alone that goes out to crush any unrest. It must be you, for you are Isould’s Heir.”

[Allennia]

In the beggining, there were seven beings, singful deities of damnation and ruin. When the children of the Thayne rebelled, and sundered the world, Leviathan and Behemoth sealed away the Seven in a great library, whose tomes and powerful verses wrapped them in chains.

Oh the horrors one could weave if the avatars of those dark things ever discovered their true nature, oh the horrors we would see 'pon this mortal coil...woe, for all is ended.

- Of Gods & Monsters, By Leopold Theron

“Pffft,” Abhorrash batted the hand aside and turned his back on the mage, walking up the steps to stare out of the bulbous windows at the sunny and homely scene beyond. The stream that trailed down the mountain sparkled in the mid-morning light as midday approached and the heat wave grew in strength. “I am to be the ‘chosen’ one without any mind or word of my own? What makes you sure I am this ‘Isould’s’ heir? If you were to speak of this to anyone else, you would be branded a heretic and slain; although it pains me to think of someone strong enough to do so.”

“Ha! True enough. The stars have aligned in such a way that I believe now is the time the Seven shall return. Be such a prophecy metaphorical or literal, I do not know, but it shall be you who unites the seven houses and ensures the secret of the Library is kept eternally guarded by all of us. Wherever or not you believe in the one god, or many, that fact is irrelevant in the grand scheme of-“

“Life? If it were so,” Abhorrash looked across his shoulder and crossed his arms. “Then I would have the choice, it would seem you have not given me anything of the sort.”

“What is choice, if but a way to say heresy in your father’s name?”

“I will…speak with him, when I return – if I find you have deceived me to further your own ends Jurran, I do not care how long it takes, or what methods I must mimic and acquire to do so, but I will make sure you pay for such treachery.”

“If it pleases you, you can do as you wish. I speak the truth and will do so eternally.”

“Then leave me be, I must tend to some personal…errands, before I am fit to leave. I will ride out at the weakening of the sun, darkness is the best method to leave the valley so I am not detected by our own kind or those outsiders who watch us keenly.”

Jurran nodded, bowed, and slid out of the study with a soundless grace that could be nothing other than magically enhanced. Alone once more, Abhorrash relaxed and let out a long sigh of relief, a yawn which could send others to sleep with a great degree of accuracy and effect. Alone in his own thoughts, he turned at once to the winds that still flickered around the tower; why had the magister conjured them, why had he not drawn upon them?

“Ignacio,” a small fire formed in his outstretched palm and it began to dance in the unseen draft almost instantly. The mesmerising movements calmed the knight and slowly it dawned on him. He knelt slightly and reached out with his mind to gather the elemental force which still lingered, up it came with the spirit and vibrancy of an air elemental and behind him it formed into a whirling maelstrom, unseen or unfelt by mortal means. The fire settled, and the stillness reigned supreme over the hour.

Abhorrash would at last have his chance to see the world he so sorely longed to see, but motions in the ether made him sick, made him doubt. Something was not right with the Magister’s methods or ways, but he would not be believed if he addressed them to his father without proof. He would go, and see, and tell the council of his findings. He would stay any uprising, any idolatry, any outspoken modicums within the ancient social hierarchy.
He pushed the wind forwards and let the fire touched the edge of the stream with the gentlest of movements. From his fingertips erupted a cone of fire that burnt with the same rage and self doubt that resided in Abhorrash’s heart.

He fell silent momentarily, then felt overcome by noble notions.

“If the gods are asunder, if faith is divided by selfish means, then I shall settle into the mantle of this ‘heir,’ I shall not stand by and watch the world fall apart after so long. By this blanching flame, by my valiant flower and steel bound trinkets and shields, I shall be the Red Clad Knight of my father’s hand, I shall be the fury with which the name of Isould is hammered onto the anvil…”

He drew his hand back once more, tugged at the winds and ran forwards, off the steps he leapt and commanded the wind to propel him like a bird.

“I shall be the eagle, the lion, the Gryphon!”

The tailwind carried its master through the air and he landed on the floor an inhuman distance away, fist digging into the tiles and a gale spiraling up about him. From afar, an old man smiled at the fulfillment of a prophecy. In the darkness of silence, in the realm between realms, seven ancient and malicious souls watched a pool of ether shimmering and mystical. Through their panoptic lens, they too smiled, wishfully awaiting their moment would come once again.



Spoils:

Red Mage Spell: Tailwind - conjuring an ether bound wind to carry him afar, Abhorrash can gift his movements with bird like grace. Twice per thread, or once per battle he can conjure such a spell to boost his running speed, a single leap of faith or to perform a feint or spin based maneuvur in combat. The sudden pause mid-air or extended pounce confouding his foe into confusion, the speed or resistance applied to the heavy swing of his mace unpredictable or chaotic. Spell begins with one 'pip.' Current physical alterations increase either movement or speed or distance leapt by (X1.2%.) Combat use is subjective, and more for show at present.

[Taskmienster]

Continuity 8.5

The opening post… brilliant and well written. I was immediately drawn into the story, the setting, the character, and the story that was going to be coming soon. As soon as I started, I couldn’t stop reading. I understood who your character was, as well as the others that showed up, and the culture that Abhorrash was part of.

Setting 7.5

Opening, beautiful, during the fight I got a little bit lost and completely forgot where you were and what it was like… the easiest solution to that would be to explain how the affects of the spells reacted with the background. That would have added a lot more little, personal stuff to the thread to bring out the setting.

Pacing 7

It was well paced, the end of one post led to the beginning of the next, but it felt like getting into the battle and finishing the battle was sudden.

Dialogue 7.5

Well done, realistic and well written. The characters kept to their vocabulary you had initially started with fluidly.

Action 7

It was a bit murky sometimes, like I didn’t quite understand why they were fighting… but I could make a base assumption about the nature of the little squabble. However, the flow of the fight was a little off, because of the verbosity of the writing itself. It was hard to follow at first, and at times it became clearer, but for the most part it was just a little difficult to follow.

Persona 9

Beautifully expressed through the dialogue, action, and the foundation with the continuity that you had set up to begin with.

Technique 8.5

Other than what I noted in action, the bit of clarity that needs to be worked on, the advanced technique was wonderfully done.

Mechanics 8

“On a clear day such as this one could see the entire length of the valley and the great plain which formed it’s heart.” [post 2] :: Comma error, minor error that is commonly made but this is a perfect example of why it is important. I read this sentence first as “such as this one could see”… instead of “such as this, one could see”

There are also a couple other points where you had something spelt wrong, like the wrong word in a certain place.

Clarity 6

A couple slips between first person and third, as well as between present and perfect tense third person docked the score. Also, the verbosity, as I said in Action, offset me as a reader but wasn’t terrible.

Wild Card 7

Score: 76


Rewards:

-800 exp | 250 gold
-Spoil approved

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.