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LordYalet

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  1. I like that noteworthy consequences section. Adding it to the official guide!

    1. LordYalet

      LordYalet

      Oh, the official guide? :o where specifically?

    2. supernal

      supernal

      Where is the guide? here: https://www.valucre.com/lore.html/resources/general/canonization-guide/

      What section am I adding the info to? The requirements section

  2. [Quest] Crimson tears

    Quest summary Thanks to the authority of the Council of Five and moved by the rising concern on the matter, the second-in-command of archmage Oswal Castellus, the charming Libald dan Due, asks the help of several agents (played by Kelnor and Rachel) to investigate a series of recent happenings. Under the recommendation of Exanium Finch, a notorious problem solver working behind the scene of the major spheres of the Arcane East, the agents follow his lead on many cases of students falling ill, victims to a mysterious disease that leaves them on the brink of death. Libald advises them to start looking in the outskirts of the city, where a delegation of mages from Stormward is temporarily accommodated, working on a patronage between the two cities. Caught in a rapid unfolding of events, the agents witness a complicated machination that is supposed to bring the storm mages under the spotlight, aiming at addressing the outrage and fear of the common folks of Mageside against the foreigners. A play is the staged where a young boy seems to be on the run from the former wizards, while simultaneously exhibiting the unknown symptoms that lead him through spasms and pain to a pitiful stillness. Thanks to the help of the stormborn leader, Zoltan, and his second acolyte, Anya, Kelnor understands that the boy's blood is being sucked out by a sinister incantation of unknown origin. As soon as they start to unravel the truth, Libald makes his appearance flashing out of his disguise, to the utter disbelief of everyone involved. Manifesting forbidden blood powers, he threatens both parties putting Kelnor's life on the balance against the boy's. He blackmails them into submission, with the ultimate goal of carrying out his plan. A plan that, despite its wickedness, involves neither death nor harm, but whose purpose is to conceal his shady misdeeds. Conjuring a flame phoenix, Rachel heals the young man, thus letting Kelnor and the storm mages free to act. With a unified attempt, they apprehend Libald just minutes before archmage Castellus makes his appearance on the scene. Filled with the deepest regret for not being able to sense the malice in his most brilliant student, Castellus resigns from his position in the Council of Five. The former office issues a great reward to all agents that put their lives on the line: they helped in dismantling the hurried plot that Libald assembled on a very short notice after being severely wounded, a desperate attempt to restore his blood prowess and life-force through the curse he inflicted. Kelnor is named Honorary Chancellor of the academy, granting him unlimited access to the entire knowledge stored in the Library of Metaphysics, and the added benefit of being able to teach as a magister in the academy classes. Rachel discovers a hidden prophecy through the summoning of her Phoenix. Finally, Stormward and Mageside forge an alliance based on the mutual sharing of knowledge between the temple of Zare and the school of Lightning, as a mean to remediate to the despicable diplomating mess Libald caused. Libald is imprisoned and sentenced to forced labours, for the good of the community, for the rest of his life. A very long life, considering the amount of life-force he stole. Noteworthy consequences The Council of Five is now composed of just four members, since the resignation of archmage Castellus; Stormward and Mageside are now closely related and they advance the art of lightning magic; The council is more wary of blood magic and more suspicious about the domain of Umbra. Opportunities for further roleplay Candidate yourself for the place of fifth member of the council; Come and attend some of Kelnor's lessons about Yon; Attempt to free Libald and help him take revenge on the council and the twisted supremacy of the Blood Empire; Strengthen or disrupt the diplomatic bond between Stormward and Mageside.
  3. [Quest] Crimson tears

    The archmage waited patiently for the agents to speak up and put their wishes forward, yet none came from the little girl, who was all absorbed in her world of thoughts and meditation. Raising a scanty eyebrow, Castellus spoke: "Well... it seems the young lady has more... urgent matters to discern. Surely the wondrous creature she conjured hides... a great deal of secrets. I assume their bond is a reward in itself." he then turned to face Kelnor, who eagerly awaited the chance to manifest his own desire. "Master Kelnor, what would you be interested in? Mageside is a... resourceful city, yes. We can compensate you with the most precious of... rewards. What is it that your heart desires?" Kelnor raised his chin in a proud poise, upright to withstand the highest and most honourable of Mageside's offices. "Sir, with the utmost respect, I am not interested in coin, for there is a much higher reward I claim. One that could benefit your city as well, I hope. Grant me unlimited access to all the branches and sections of the Library of Metaphysics and allow me to teach the brilliant students of the academy. My purpose is knowledge, and I feel I can give some, if but a fraction of the whole I'm going to take." Castellus smiled, rejoicing in the common cause both wizards shared. "Master Kelnor, I am humbled by your... noble proposal. As a member of the council of a city whose... dearest interest is the research and distribution of knowledge... I cannot but accept your offer... vigorously. Stand with us... as a peer, as a friend. I will beseech the... opinion of the council on the matter. However, I am... more than sure that your... enthusiastic proposal will be met... with equal ardour. We would name you... Honorary Chancellor of the academy. Yes... a position that has been vacant for decades." With these quivering words, the agreement between the archmages of Mageside and Kelnor was sealed. The days that followed were packed with notable events. With the wise counsel of Oswald Castellus, the council of Five took a swift course of action with regard to the delicate diplomatic equilibrium with Stormward. In a few days, a new law was ratified, sealing a treaty between Stormward and Mageside: in order to thank the storm mages for their role and collaboration in the uncovering of the illegal blood mage's activity, the temporary patronage between the two cities was made into a permanent alliance in the sacred name of magical research. The provisional buildings on the city outskirt were restored to their former uses, while the new centre of operations for the coalition was moved in a newly refurbished venue near the easternmost branch of the academy. As a symbol of reciprocal understanding, the school of Lightning created a new course of study which allowed students from Stormward to spend several months in Mageside, following their usual lectures, while an equal number of eager learners from the academy would migrate in the Southern Swell for a chance at peeking into the powerful secrets of the temple of Zare. Thanks to the masterly dialectic of Castellus, one of the most well-known and beloved members of the higher spheres, the people were informed of the real events... while refraining to mention a few inconspicuous details, like the association of the criminal wizard with blood magic. As tense the atmosphere was around the looming empire of Umbra, the archmages took a wise decision in avoiding to explain the exact nature of Libald's misdeeds. Pacified by those sweet words, the crowd was finally convinced into trusting the strangers from the deep south, or at least to be a tad less intimidated by their exotic traits. Useless to say, the rooted dread of common folks toward the shady endeavours of Saint Desolatus was not going to be erased easily, but it was a step in the right direction nonetheless. With the recovery of Tzesh, Kelnor had the occasion to participate in a private and exclusive party thrown by Kevinar Reyese himself, where all the people involved in the events were warmly invited. They discussed of the shady affairs Libalds perpetrated in the shadow of his own authority and exchange opinions on how to tamper the mishandling of blood magic by those unfamiliar with it. Once political talks were over, the atmosphere relaxed and, in an expected turn of events, transformed into what looked like a pleasant celebration. Bizarre as it may sound, despite all his demeanour and deference, as soon as Castellus got hold of more than two chalices of Lanshalin brandy, he became extraordinarily talkative, in the most twisted of ways. After all, he was human too. For this very reason, conscious of his own mistakes and the pressing misfits of old age, he officially declared the unwavering intent to resign. To utter disbelief of the whole city, the wisest and most loved of the archmages took his final resting period. Rumors say Zoltan offered him a place to spend his last days in the tranquil cold south; they were actually old friends after all? Kelnor and the others were asked to stay for several more days as the trial went on. It was a quick process nonetheless, if pitiful. Stripped of his powers, Libald also lost his self-esteem and gained a whopping twenty-years in one go, his features more rigid, his once golden curls now streaked with grey, his formerly pristine jaw now adorned in a rough beard. What stood in the centre of the council tribunal was but a shell of the brilliant apprentice he once was, enveloped by the darkest side of blood magic. Charged with more than twelve ascertained cases of attempted murder, with probably a hundred more to investigate, and with improper use of forbidden magic, he was sentenced to spend his whole life in the Palace of Redemption. The latter was a facility that hosted the most ruthless of convicts, forcing them to work endlessly for the welfare of the population. Considering the amount of blood he stole from his victims, it would be a very long life sentence. When the guards dragged him outside of the tribunal hall, Libald was a flappy rag of a man, wiping and sobbing in the most pitiful of ways; so much and with so deep of resentment that his tears eventually turned red. He cried crimson tears. [The end!]
  4. [Questing]The silk road

    Urgent documents my ass! Sharak cursed silently within the lulling safety of his mind, a place so wild and twisted only that wretched man would have found reassuring. Next time I'm to snatch some fucking papers from a fucking merchant I'm gonna rip his arm apart with the gods-damned documents still in his hands, rather than masquerading as a beggar. This place stinks of piss from a mile away! How miserable must a city it be when an honest beggar cannot even plea for coin without needing to puke every other hour? The deplorable train of thoughts rapidly scurrying through his brain was but the last one in a long chain of events that lead him there. Too long, probably. Nevertheless, he was on a rather leisurely mission, which involved relieving a relevant businessman of the unneeded burden of half a dozen credit letters, worth about three thousand hawks in total. The quest he was pursuing was a self-imposed one, a scheme he devised on the spot when he met the man during a previous task; at the time, Sharak was playing the part of a peer man of affairs whose interests spanned in the refined tradework of Lenshalin brandy casks. Noteworthy as it is, that particular kind of liquor sold for over twelve merlins per ounce, making it one of the most expensive booze of the continent. Needless to say, it was all bullshit, conjured with expertise from the perverse mind of a consumed con artist. Regardless, the plan worked out smoothly and allowed him to swindle the poor bastard for quite a fortune; but money was worth to him only so much as the inebriating experience of obtaining it. Thus he hopped from his previous victim onto the current one like a voracious and insatiable predator would switch from the slain body of his former prey to a new more succulent target. In the light of such fascinating yet despicable events, Sharak found himself immersed in the flowing world of Union Capital, a city whose slender architecture was not fancier than the curious people who inhabited it. Lik'matten was one of such people, one of the many enriched merchants that were too busy with their affairs to beseech any degree of caution when rustling from one place to another. The plan was then extremely simple, for the victim, despite its riches, was a naive man when it came to matters of personal safety. Sharak would merely play the part of a beggar at the corner of this alley: as soon as Lik'matten passed by, he would bump into the man by feigning a teetering walk, then promptly snatch the poorly concealed documents from the inside pocket of the victim's coat with a remarkable work of legerdemain. After observing the merchant for a couple of weeks, Sharak was a hundred percent positive he would stroll right beside the alley, as it was the shortest route to the counting-house. Sharak was waiting idly at the border of the street, begging for money with the most convincing pitiful look one could put on. He was dressed in a brown jute tunic stained with days-old encrusted filth, which looked more alike a mistreated sack of potatoes stolen and debatably adapted to work as a robe of sorts. His hood was woven in the same unruly fashion and let out a few locks of curly grey threads that would be too inconspicuous to call hair. His face was scarred by a plethora of bruises, his eyes were pale to near blindness, and all his frame, from the pointy fingers to the hollow cheeks, made it obvious the beggar was way past malnutrition. As soon as Roman's group entered the alley, his ears perked up with curious attentiveness. The group was nothing short of alluring for a series of reasons: the bizarre meddling of people, the awful look of concern that exuded from one, the sidelong glances of suspicious that escaped another, the marvellous uncertainty blazingly stamped on the slender features of their leader. Thanks the fucking gods! If they existed at all! A nifty intermission from this bothersome wait... I might even get to enjoy myself today. I guess this pisshole of a city is not that fucked up in the end. Well, it is fucked up, but that's just my line of business. He lent over the corner in a sudden spasm of rheumatic coughing. ... I am chasing, aside that it is a ring of significant importance, more than any object I have ever encountered... Oh-oh, it really sounds like the treat for my teeth. While he was planning his next move, Lik'matten made his inglorious appearance from the rear end of the street. Already bothered by his former mission, yet not willing to give it up (it's still cold paying metal, y'know?), Sharak stood up among the shivers and trembling of presumed old age. He tottered over and bumped into the designated man, uttering a stream of lamentable excuses and paltry blessings to the gods of mercy, thus distracting the unsuspecting victim from a superior sleight of hand endeavour. After the misdeed was accomplished, the beggar fluttered to a corner and vanished, only to be replaced by the most average-looking, ordinarily dressed, lower scribe: the epitome of mediocrity. He had short brown air, unassuming dark eyes, an uneventful face topping a medium-built frame; his attire was just as unexceptional as his opaque gaze, with a consumed yet well-kept blue doublet and a pair of second-hand black breeches. The documents rested safely behind a hidden pocket near his right breast, but they would not reach the counting-house any soon. Sharak was going to tail the mysterious group into whatever deed they were up to; and once he could grab a hint of their scheme, he would tear it apart and burglarize the shit out of them. All from a safe vantage point, lest him not get too fired up with the adrenaline of battle... or not.
  5. Please help me by making my life miserable

    Already, so... let the games begin!
  6. [Quest] Crimson tears

    The archmage silhouetted tall and imposing despite his venerable age, a reassuring air of severe but just demeanour exuding from every inch of his figure. The golden-refined purple draping of his long robe suggested an impossibly high status in the society of Mageside, but also hinted at the fragile man that hid underneath, a meek survivor of the indomitable prowess of time and responsibility that wore him down to the fatigue of old days. Despite everything, a vivid sparkle glimmered in Castellus' eyes, blazing strong with the weary but steady determination of a man who struggled against greed and selfishness far too long. He was surrounded by a flock of very ill-tempered and brawl-inclined battle mages who seemed amusingly eager to find that their next victim would be Libald himself. How could they possibly be annoyed by a sincere and fair wizard like Libald dan Rue? "Libald... I am deeply disappointed... by myself. How could I not see? How could I not... feel? What was happening to you, my earnest and most enthusiast protegé. The burden of old age is... crushing my bones, steering my determination, squeezing the... attentive care I once used to grant all my students. I...", for a moment, Castellus trembled and had to seek the young strong arm of one of the guards to stand firmly upright. His resolve was utterly admirable, yet it moved Kelnor to pity for the docility of its ambrosial zeal. "I failed. I'm sorry." he nodded to Zoltan and Anya, then gestured a quivering hand towards Tzesh, and lastly pointed at Kelnor, Rachel and the others, "On the behalf of the whole Mageside... egregious priests of Zare, coming from the most honorable south, I humbly bow in acknowledgment of the vastly undeserved threats you received... Stay assured that the Council will find a way to compensate your kind for the troubles received..." The feeble speech of the archmage was suddenly interrupted by an eerie laugh coming from Libald, the laugh of a madman on the edge of the abyss. "You babbling old man! Can't you see? The council is corrupted. Reyese is corrupted! Everyone is! Since the Blood Emperor stepped into the city and forced our respectable regent to accept an indelible allegiance, things have changed. How valorous of him, our poor self-sacrificing Kevinar Reyse! Forced to accept eternal life and bend the knee! Puah!", he spat on the floor, "I have been trying to make things right. Acquiring the power of blood mages is the only way to defeat their own crookedness; that is the burden I took on my own shoulders. I made sacrifices! I had to walk away from the school of Light, I had to watch my own students suffer! It was immeasurably painful, but I endured. And beware! I never EVER killed anyone, have I? All the victims recovered with barely a scratch, and the storm mages would have been hurt solely in their honour; not in their physical body, and surely not in their wallets... which would be bursting with coin by now! I..." He halted suddenly after realizing he was screaming, oppressed by a plethora of gazing eyes, blaming eyes that condemned him with every stare. They pierced and slashed and hammered on his conscience until it melted into a rough damaged toy buried in the blackness of his mind. But he knew he was right... he had to be! How would it be worth the sacrifices otherwise? Castellus signalled his guards with a bitter wave of his hands, so they could apprehend the prisoner. The archmage was genuinely heartbroken, for he had to act against his most brilliant student, the one who would eventually become his successor. Sorrow stemmed from his eyes as he watched Libald struggling and yelling against the enforcers, biting and punching his way through in the most pitiful of ways. Deprived by his magic, Libald was nothing more than a fierce puppy in a herd of full-grown lions, powerless and desperate. "Oswald," Zoltan walked up to the archmage like a good friend would after a grave loss "I am sorry for what happened to Libald. I know he was your pupil but in the last years he became a miserable man. Blood magic corrupted him as it did your brethren. You cannot deny this is a disease that goes well beyond Libald. This kind of magic is not evil per se, yet people always tend to see the darkest of its sides, especially those who are not born within the blood ilk of Umbra. But tell me, how did all of this mess came to be? How did you know we were here and more importantly... where is Reginald, one of my acolytes?" With all the information that sprouted from Libald's mouth, Kelnor was now able to connect the dots and form a bigger picture of what happened. He stepped in, begging pardon of the two elders: "Archmage, high priest... If I may, I have a theory about the recent events. Blood magic can be used to increase one's lifespan at the expense of another, as it is often said in books and legends, and moreover confirmed by the actions of the Blood Emperor himself. When we first met, archmage Castellus told us how Libald was stabbed to death nearly two weeks ago. Now, I assume a common man would not be able to recover from such injury in as short of a period as Libald did, thus I am reasonably confident in stating that magic was involved. Blood magic, that is. He must have expended all the life force he accrued in the past, for who knows how much time he went on with his blood siphoning... In fact, his honor the archmage also confirmed that Libald has been at his service for a long time, yet he looks exceptionally young, a kind of youth one does not acquire if not by arcane means. Therefore, the attempted murder must have been the fuse that sparkled all the following events. On a blood-crazed spree to regain all the life force he had lost, Libald had to be more blunt, eventually drawing the attention of the council. He is a cold, calculating man, but the fear of death can best even the most courageous of warriors, a dread that led him into committing his first and last mistake. I suppose we would have never found out if not for that fortunate accident." "Yes, it strikes me as... an exceptional deduction. You are right, master Kelnor, very impressive. The young Yomnir, one of Tzesh's best friends, notified the academy chancellor as soon as he didn't see Tzesh return from this errand.", he then turned to Zoltan, "As far as Reginald is concerned... he has been found unconscious but essentially... unharmed in the proximity of a nearby river. Do not fear, Zoltan, he is a sturdy man... he will be back in shape in no time." "Now, to more logistic matters... Agents, your contract still holds, hence we cannot deny you a reward. Well-deserved if I may say. Speak up your needs and I shall see them granted."
  7. [Quest] Crimson tears

    Slowly but steadily, Kelnor felt that the zinc-woven spell regenerating Tzesh blood was being pushed back by his own body, as the lack of vital fluid was compensated by the natural flowing of its own real counterpart. He furtively spied the amazing portent of the mythical creature weaving its legendary healing spell, while resisting the indomitable force pushing against his chest through the wicked power of blood magic. The more the phoenix wept, the more its flame burnt high and scorching, the more he could feel his mortal metal-bound powers to be unneeded and irrelevant to the now stabilizing health of the boy. Struck by the realization that he was no longer bound to the dreary choice between his own life and the boy's, he extinguished his zinc and focused all of his might against the unlikely golden-haired foe on the opposite side of the room. Libald gawked in awe at the sight of the astonishing fiery bird, conjured by the most exotic of fire magic; he stood still, almost dazzled by the sparkling brilliance of the beast's blazing plumage. It was already too late when he realized this instant of distraction would cost him dearly. The archmage right-hand cursed in his mind, blaming himself and the utter stupidity of that trivial mistake, but he couldn't help but to marvel before that stunning living miracle; for the first time in what seemed like centuries, the mage was reminded that despite the depth and conviction of his cowardly wickedness, he was - or had once been - a wizard of the school of Light, an arcane mastery bound to serve and heal. And what greater feat of nobility is there beyond the miraculous tears of a phoenix? In that very moment, he looked behind and, for tiny fraction of a second, deep down in the most recondite hidden nook of his consciousness, he really acknowledged, almost for the first time, the misery of all those sordid choices that brought him to be the wretched, paltry, self-centered skinflint he was now. A breath, and that moment was gone, vanished in the suffocating desire for power that corrupted his heart. Libald dan Rue once again had a clear purpose, and those measly wizards were standing in his way. Obliteration was necessary. As if piercing through the clouds of self-doubt that tarnished Libald's will, Kelnor understood he had to exploit that minuscule opening to get the better hand. He flared sodium, its magnifying power shimmering alive behind his eyes and scars. Then, he added a scorching blaze of gold in his impulsive spell-weaving, with the intent of abruptly crushing Libald's sorcery for good. The neutralizing power of a massive gold-woven aura fell on the blood mage, shattering his mangy bewitchment like a glass bridge under a rain of stone boulders. Suddenly, what looked like a formidable foe a few seconds earlier was now deprived of all the power that made him so redoubtable. However, no matter how sturdy the effect, it wouldn't last forever, as Kelnor expended an enormous amounts of his metal reserves to render the hex as impetuous and powerful as possible, thus leaving out the necessity of making it durable all the same. Kelnor plunged ruinously on the floor as the scarlet pushing force that was holding him in place against the wall ceased precipitously. He burned steel as he fell to shove out pain and fatigue, bracing himself and springing back onto his feet in the blink of an eye. "Zoltan, Anya, quick! I suppressed his magic but not for long, we need to apprehend him!" The two storm mages leapt back in action as soon as they understood the situation. Working together, swiftly and efficiently with the utmost caring precision that only masters of storm magic can yield, they conjured a lightning prison that tightly shrouded Libald, confining him into a corner. Oddly enough, as dangerous and harmful the sparkly cage looked, it wouldn't ignite any of the wooden props in the room; at the same time, the golden-haired wizard was constantly trying to keep his limbs warily out of the way, lest them get burnt by the same innocuous lightning. A double-faced spell, harmless on the outside, yet pernicious on the inside... conjured in just a few seconds. Those storm mages are really something. "Fools! You cannot keep me prisoner!", Libald screamed, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. "As a matter of fact, we can. I just need a decent supply of gold." answered Kelnor, clam, yet still suspicious. His voice was touched by the strangling experience of several minutes before. "How would you explain it to the council, eh? Or to the crowd out there? You have no witnesses. Soldiers work for me, as well as Tzesh. It's you, a bunch of mercenaries and dubious outsiders, against the good people and wise archmages of Mageside. Who would take your word into consideration? Eh? You shoddy flock of dimwits! Let me out now!" "I wouldn't draw such conclusions so... hastily, my dear Libald." A foreign voice spoke, breaking the furious stillness of the blood mage's ludicrous threats. As everyone turned to see where the voice came from, a general murmur of surprise diffused around the room when the elderly archmage Castellus himself stepped through the wooden door. He was accompanied by a group of armed battle-mages and by a young man roughly the same age as Tzesh. The latter peeked from behind the shoulder of a stocky guard, fixating his concerned gaze upon the motionless body lying on the bed.
  8. Please help me by making my life miserable

    That's just brilliant!
  9. Please help me by making my life miserable

    I am not concerned about it being long-term, but is it supposed to be one long thread or be split in many incidental encounters along a plethora of different occasions?
  10. Please help me by making my life miserable

    Hi, I just created a character that could answer this vocation. He's called Sharak and you may find the character sheet on my signature. See if you find him despicable enough.
  11. Cult of the Damned - Genesaris version!

    I was in the first one... what is going on?
  12. "Likewise, it is a very mutual pleasure. This has been an interesting encounter, boy, and I hope the future will hold something new for both of us. But, for the time being, I must bid you farewell." He bowed slightly to Jin, then turned back and strode off with confident pace. In a matter of moments, the crowd swallowed him like a voracious animal. The sage embarked on a new journey, one of self-imposed research in the most gracious of magical arts. Kelnor hoped with all his strengths that the uncanny idea his mind birthed would lead to an actual breakthrough. As any quest, research bore more failures than success, yet with every defeat he would only get stronger and more determined to achieve his goal. He decided that upon meeting Jin again, he would have a new metal in his arsenal, and a new book bearing his name in the official Yon library of Elendel. It was about time. Inspiration comes in the weirdest of ways. [The end! It has been a pleasure. PM me for info on our next meeting.]
  13. [Quest] Crimson tears

    Libald clapped his hands with a slow, eerie flow, a menacing aura stemming from him like fluid darkness. The man standing over the corner, enveloped by the azure mantle of storm mages, was wildly different from the person they met at the Doubtful Jaguar. He had the same looks, sure, the same curly golden hair, the same deep green eyes, the blocky face, the angelic appearance of youth exuding from his cleanly shaved chin. Yet, his presence felt ominous, displeasing, threatening... as if he was the source of a mysterious dread whose origin went beyond mortality. The atmosphere ebbed with tension, stuffed with the thick uncertainty and fear of every wary spectator. Kelnor's eyes darted swiftly to meet Zoltan's; the priest was staring back with a glimmer of terrifying intuition, as if both wizards understood the danger of that power. Blood magic, gotta be. "Now I will tell you what is going to happen. Our precious agents will step out of this building accompanied by my beloved soldiers. Together they will pacify the crowd, assuring the people that everything has been taken care of. The eminent second priest of Zare, here, will take the blame from what happened to poor Tzesh and all the other students. Storm mages will be exiled from Mageside as a punishment, which does not sound so bad an option as an alternative to death. You", he pointed a stocky finger in the direction of Kelnor, nodding at the other agents as a group, "you will, unfortunately, receive your detestably earned rewards despite your incompetence. Families of the afflicted children will rejoice in having them back and safe, while the culprit receives the just castigation. The populace will be placated and my dear friends the storm mages will receive a proper compensation for their outstanding acting performance interpreting the villains in this amenable farce. Everyone is going to be happy. Got it?" Muted by the oppressing presence of blood magic exuding from Libald and stunned in bewilderment by this unwelcome surprise, everyone listened silently. No one dared to move, as if the tiniest gesture would suddenly break the precarious stillness that seemed to represent the only shell of safety in that dire moment. This is unreal. Kelnor's mind was slowly starting to function properly after the dazzling strike of Libald's flamboyant appearance. As he stepped forward, the ephemeral staleness of the room broke, like a shattered mirror in the middle of a peaceful summer night. Shocked back to reality, everyone came to their senses and started wondering what was going on. "What the hell is happening, Libald? Would you mind to educate us?", Kelnor roared back in response, a sense of unconquerable confusion fighting with blazes of fury made his eyes sparkle in the most unfriendly fashion. "You do not need to know, mage. Lest suffice that I am sparing your life, and even compensating you for your inadequacy. Now sit back and do as I say." Libald's answer was filled with a grotesque tranquillity that screamed hatred with its every word. The sage gazed back at Rachel and the others, then turned again towards the golden-haired man "What if..." He could not even begin his sentence, that a bold of shimmering red exploded from Libad's right hand, hitting him in his solar plexus and kicking all the air out of his lungs. Kelnor darted back as if pushed by an immeasurable force, slamming hard against the wooden plated wall. He did not fall limply to the ground only because the massive scarlet wind kept pushing, blocking him in place: every movement, no matter how little, was suppressed with might, so that the sage body kept hanging almost senseless like a crucified burglar on the edges of the Sacred Pathway of Umbra. Zoltan and Anya stood up in unison and ran towards Kelnor, trying to find a way to get him down and breathing once more. Unfortunately, their efforts were futile and the only outcome they managed to achieve was entertaining Libald in the most sadistic of ways. "What is the meaning of this? Libald, you are a madman! I cannot fathom how Castellus managed to trust a whimpering buffoon like yourself!" Zoltan yelled in anger, but his words were only as hurtful as the mildest of poisons on a veteran alchemist. Libald flared another burst of scarlet power that hit the priest on his head violently, smashing the old bald man senseless against a hanging glass shelf. "It's useless to resist, mage. The same magic that is keeping your dear Tzesh alive is also giving me power. You probably understood what is happening already. I mean, in terms of magic... since you are totally oblivious of the big picture. And you shall remain so, do not fear. However, you know that the more blood you regenerate in this poor boy, the more I can steal. Now, choose: either you die, or he dies. Or... you could simply follow my orders and no one will get hurt." Kelnor tried to turn his head towards Rachel but his muscles would not obey, oppressed by the continuous push of scarlet power radiating from Libald. He could burn his other metals but if he did so, in that state, he would not be able to maintain control over his zinc, working to heal Tzesh. I cannot afford to let him die... I need help, now! His eyes pierced the other agents fiercely, almost like yelling If you have a way out of this now is the time to fucking use it!
  14. Sharak, the Unseen

    Sharak "I will gladly carve your heart out today and sell it back to you tomorrow." Title: the Unseen Visual age: Unknown Actual age: Unknown Alignment: Chaotic neutral, bordering on chaotic evil Physical appearance Sharak's actual looks, as well as his true identity, are a mystery. His paramount ability in the refined art of disguise is unmatched. One time he may appear like a short, stocky middle-aged drunkard, wandering with unsure foot among the crowded alleys of the lowliest slums; disheveled beyond reason, without an ounce of self-esteem, hair crusted with days-old filth, brandishing an half-empty bottle of shoddy booze while cursing men and gods alike. Another time around, you would instead meet a tall, slender, radiant high borne noble with deep emerald eyes, pristine black velvet doublets adorned with golden finery; shimmering blonde hair held back by the most expensive perfumed lotions, amiably conversing with beautiful ladies in the most proper, suave and elegant accent ever heard. Enforcers and soldiers all over Valucre tried to uncover Sharak's whereabouts, going to great lengths to unveil even the tiniest detail on his true nature; yet all of them failed. To this day, no other living person knows what lies behind the mask. Equipment Sharak's equipment varies greatly depending on his current job. First and foremost, his attire changes according to the character he has to impersonate. When masquerading as a enriched merchant, he will wear the finest silk robes, a quantity of rings that goes well above what a man can withstand for good taste and the most modern optics money can buy. On the other hand, if he is on a mission pretending to be a mercenary, his wardrobe will be more spartan, poor but efficient, with sturdy leather and light solid chainmail; topping it with the required display of rigorously edged sword and daggers. Whatever the occasion, there are certain "toys" he loves with unyielding affection: small blades, caltrops, strangling laces, poisons and a dozen more hidden props that always come in good use when working in the less-reputable world of thievery. Sharak's philosophy can be summarized with the elegantly yet eerie catchphrase: "the more subtle, the better". Personality Despite his unparalleled expertise in the art of disguise, which includes an unruly craftiness in imitating any personality to the tiniest detail, there are traits of his own persona that cannot be denied. Openness: He is wildly unpredictable and constantly looking for intense, euphoric experiences. He thrives in the adrenaline rush of danger and always comes up with the most creative ways to evade or challenge any given situation. Extraversion: He is calm, cold, silent, private, calculating, aloof, never growing attached to anyone: any emotional bound is only a wasteful danger as well as a bothering limitation. He only finds excitement and energy in pursuing his own goals and taking wild risks for no apparent reason. Agreeableness: He trusts no one but himself. This is the pure and simple truth. If he appeared to be helping someone, it would be to his exclusive personal benefit. Although there is no hint of competitiveness or open challenging instincts in him, nothing of what people could say or do in his regard would make him any less wary or suspicious. Neuroticism: Few things about Sharak are compromises, and his unwavering faith in himself is no exception. Self-confidence is the only key to survival in the darkest corners of the world and there is no room for vulnerability or hesitation but after death. Motivation: There is only one goal in Sharak's life, and that is Sharak himself. Pure unaltered freedom is what drives him: the unrelenting will of a ruthless assassin at the whimsical command of a mind that only finds pleasure in the most unrestrained and grotesque ways. Nothing is off-limits: what Sharak wants, Sharak gets, end of the story. Any obstacle in between will be obliterated without remorse, no matter the effort. Occupation: Assassin, thief, mercenary. Abilities Master of disguise: Sharak is a master of disguise in ways that transcend common human means, as the signature ability of altering his looks is nothing short of supernatural. He has an incredible photographic memory, so amazing in fact that he only needs to see a person once to be able to perfectly replicate his outer appearance. This, however, is just the beginning. One meeting with that person may be enough to fool inattentive observers, but his inhumanly obsessive attention to details does not stop there. Once he has a target, he will follow him for days, weeks, even months, absorbing whatever information about them that can be apprehended: accents, food preferences, love interests, political opinions, taste for fashion, way of walking, habits, routines, acquaintances... in short, everything that makes that person authentic. And then, he will steal every last ounce of their very essence and use it for his own goals. Ephemeral: Despite his craft, Sharak is no stranger to magic. He is constantly surrounded by a shroud of elusiveness, giving him the permanent ability to easily escape everyone's attention. While ephemeral, people cannot focus on him because their mind is tricked into believing he does not exist. Despite his physical body being there, occupying space like everyone else, reflecting light like any object in this world, the brain simply cannot acknowledge him as a "thing". The most zealous of soldiers would have deep troubles trying to stop him while walking across a guarded post, for the poor soul would keep losing focus at every second, consciousness of the intruder sliding out of his mind like a slippery eel in the hands of an amateur fisherman. Ominous presence: Another useful magic charm in the assassin's toolbox. Sharak can manifest an aura of pure dread around him, expanding in a radius of several dozen yards. He can instill the deepest fear, the most overwhelming terror, the most ominous sense of dread in the victims' brains. The longer the exposure, the worse and more powerful the effect. Alchemy: Sharak is well versed in the darkest and most dangerous of alchemical ways. He can prepare any kind of poison, from simple powder that induces sleep within seconds, to deadly concoctions that can stop an heart in the blink of an eye. There is no limit to the despicable substances he will uses to dispose of his victims, nor is there piety or remorse for the terrible deaths they will cause. But oils and potions are just a part of the whole picture: Sharak can also brew alchemical bombs, unguents of all sorts, explosive marbles that release deadly vapors and fumes, and much more. The deep expertise he developed in this shady branch of alchemy, coupled with his outstanding memory, also lets him recognize all types of reagents that occur in nature, such as plants, seeds, soil, trees and substances found in the air as well as in the human body. Undying: What really makes Sharak terrifying, apart from his uncanny unpredictability and outrageously twisted morals, is that... he cannot be killed. He ages like any human and will eventually die. He can get sick, he suffers pain and injuries as most mortals do. He could even commit suicide, if just he wasn't so fond of himself. However, he cannot die by hand of another being, human or not. As long as there is intention behind the act of hurting him, as tiny as it may be, he will simply... come back. Probably extremely pissed. And you do not really want to meet him like that. People speculate that he was cursed by a god that doomed him to a life of suffering and vengeance without respite. Whatever that god was thinking, Sharak seemed to be enjoying it so far. Hand of the night: Sharak is the exemplary assassin. He possesses an unrivaled skill with all types of light blades (daggers, stilettos, throwing knives, even arrows), as well as an extraordinary dexterity and flexibility. His way of fighting is fast-paced and unforgiving, aiming to exploit the tiniest opening in the blink of an eye, without regret or guilt, however low that action may be. Quirks Likes: Shinies, and everything that is forbidden. Hates: Boredom. And soup. Did I mention he really hates soup? A lot, really.
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