• Graded • Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

Zipper needs to report

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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

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"Keep it Brief"
Vhalar 115, arc 717
The Etzos Prime Sanitarium had a bevy of comfortable beds; recipients of multiple praises by those who'd suffered the varieties of injuries and illnesses that one could expect to require the necessity of such bedrest.

Concussions, sprained joints, broken ribs, over-stepped nerve strain and even simple lacerations of surface tissue were all qualified categories of injury and trauma. And all were listed on the chart currently assigned to Fiona Zippomaria O’Connor, more commonly known as "Zipper". But it was not the Prime Sanitarium where Zipper was to receive her bedrest and recuperation.

In the Hall of Rule and Reprimand, from where the Black Guard staged their teams and peace-keeping operations, they also kept a guard-only infirmary. One would find far more frugal and austere accommodations there. It would be more accurate to refer to the furnishings as "cots". It was not held as good training and conditioning maintenance to have injured guards enjoying luxurious convalescence in thick, comfortable beds.

It had long been judged better to keep them toughened up with the knowledge that bedrest was not going to be anything much better than what prisoners received in the levels below. Only a genuine injury would benefit from being laid up in these flat, hard mats. They would not be comfortable enough to encourage false claims.

Zipper's injuries were not faked; that much had been established. What had not been established was the manner in which they'd been afflicted, nor the perpetrator of the deed. Master Torvyn, of the "Domain Branch" of the Black Guard, already had a good idea who was responsible. And while he was truly not surprised to find her here under these circumstances, the warning had been given. And however antagonistic he knew her to be capable of being, he was not going to allow a subordinate to lash out this way.

He had tracked down the bureaucratic screw-up that had resulted in the wells assigned to this pair being misplaced. It had been his intent to deliver them personally to Zipper and Stark. He was still willing to offer her one of them, but he was not about to grant a well to a underling that had thrashed his superior to such a degree.

The young sorceress was scheduled to give a briefing on her progress in putting together a company of mercenaries in Foster's Landing. There was some sufficiently vague wording in the Foster's Landing charter that made for an opportunity to rescind the promised autonomy on a technicality, if they accepted this company as a recognized force. It was primarily the withholding of the fact of it being headed by an officially registered member of the Black Guard that would create the loophole.

Zipper had been assigned to see to it,however grudgingly, by Torvyn himself. This was as much to get her out of his hair as it was in any hope of success. And now she'd come back to Etzos to give a report, only to get herself beaten into a recovery bed in the Black Guard infirmary. Torvyn had no doubt who had done it. All he needed was confirmation.
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He glared down at her as she stirred, "So, I guess I'm supposed to be surprised that I find you here when you're supposed to be giving a progress report instead? Well, that can wait. It's just as well that this insubordination be finished with sooner than later."

He gave a long exasperated sigh, "I had a feeling my warnings were going to go unheeded by one of you. To be honest, I thought it would be the Stark fellow that I'd find here, and you I'd be dragging in here in chains to face discharge and incarceration. I guess I owe you some sort of verbal commendation for restraining yourself and embracing law over revenge."

He'd made a vaguely directional gesture over his shoulder to the doorway behind him as he named "the Stark fellow". It was as much a signal as it was a comment, and one of Master Torvyn's personal assistants appeared with a glowing chain in his hand, the slack hanging to something beyond the door. The chain was warded against the Defiance domain, and an additional tug prompted the prisoner at the far end to follow the underling into the room for Zipper to confirm the identity of her attacker.

It was Robin Stark, and he looked as angry as he was magically impotent...
 ! Message from: Matruism
I suppose you guys have gotten so used to your "shared" actions that you'll find it difficult to dispense with it. :roll: Very well, though I myself will be a self-righteous douche and hold myself to be "above such behavior"...
Or wait...that's right, I'm the mod, I get to do that anyway. :twisted:
I officially grant you permission to continue in that capacity.
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

He supposed it was a compliment. The hooded guards and the chain that glowed an angry red; he was a problem. Zipper or someone else, but probably Zipper, had labeled him a danger. A maniac. Anarchist, oath-breaker, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes because he could just imagine the smug little mousy haired brat pontificating on and on about rules and regulations and whys and ---

"I have to pee," he fumbled with the strings that tied his pants. The doom-or-die hooded idiot held onto his chain, shadow covering his face, but Robin couldn't decide if he was watching or not. "Feel free to complain or...," a steady stream of yellow splashed onto the iron or steel or whatever that made the chain glow like fire. Robin shrugged, moving his feet away from the piss stained metal.

He idly thought about all the ways he could kill Zipper and everyone else in this elements' forsaken city. Wildfire or flood. He wondered if he could stir up a hurricane or if an earthquake would be enough to collapse their pathetic buildings.

He imagined her fat stupid face smudged with ash and wet with tears of pain and --

"What the fuck," Robin cried out, grabbing the chain around his neck as someone pulled. It clenched around him, humming dull rhythms, peaked buzzing, anything to drown out the song of the four. He pushed it up his neck, against his jaw, desperate to pull it off; an empty gesture because he'd tried to yank it off him when he'd been woken up. He still wasn't sure how'd the caught both him and the earth unawares, but he swore to whatever bloody fuck was listening he'd strangle the answer out of one of these idiots.

And then he saw Zipper. Bruised and bloodied. The ripe purple skin that colored her neck and arms. His eyes landed on Torvyn next. The man had a hateful gaze and a broken nose and Robin hated how he made him feel something like fear.

"Two things," he started, breathing through his brimming anger. He realized either Zipper or Torvyn could be the reason he was chained, and he needed to be sure who he needed to kill. "What that fuck happened to you, you worm-infested shit-stain," he paused, catching himself. There was more to call Zipper, that was sure, but he had more pressing questions to ask. Insults, he decided, could wait. "And why the fuck am I the only one wearing a necklace? Trying to make me feel special?" Robin asked as nicely as he could manage.
Last edited by Robin Stark on Fri Mar 02, 2018 9:28 pm, edited 2 times in total. word count: 443
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

If there was anything resembling regret when it came to magic for Zipper, it was the mutations that emerged as the arcane spark matured. As a particularly reckless mage in a youth, one with the sense to keep to secrecy but most certaintly not restraint, Zipper had accumulated quite a few more than the average mage of caution.

There was her inability to meaningfully use any tool with her hands without rendering it useless within bits, a fact she only seemed to ever bring up when trying to worm her way out of the occasional Black Guard basic weapons training refresher sessions - successfully wormed away, one might add, though she had to pay for the small arsenal of spike-hilted, dull edged swords she had inflicted to prove her point.

There was the fact that she hadn't eaten any real food in 8 arcs, and hadn't drunk anything in 3. Her spark, no doubt frustrated by her lack of progress in Palette collection, had forced her to go after Qualities for nourishment.

And then there was her firstborn: the witchbrand.

Her child of rape: loved yet hated, prided upon yet despised, Serving as both her unique signature as an etherist and an obstacle to discrete spellcasting. She stared into its big, baby eyes and saw enough of herself to love, and enough of someone else, something foreign that had been inside her, to utterly repulse.... and fascinate.

Her witchbrand, to put it in 3 simple words, made her glitch.

To start.

It got much weirder when the ball started rolling.

Once upon a time, she believed that the witchbrand would go away, that if the conditions for its triggering was based on how much ether she expended, all she had to do was raise her ether capacity through diligent progression.

How naive she had been.

The Spark changed the rules as she grew - it spread out from the edge of Overstepping where it initially manifested to day-to-day standard spellcasting. It infected her spells, scoured them with jittery, unstable wrongness from time to time. It took her an entire week of isolation and ether purging to cleanse every last piece of the glitch from her being after the season's events at Foster's.

After getting the shit kicked out of her by some divine drunk, some kind of etheric wound borne of her recent overstepping must have opened up; along with her more mundane injuries, she had been glitching four days non-stop.

...

Faced with her boss and her immediate subordinate/arch-enemy, Zipper was uncharacteristically quiet. Her usual, unblinking stillness was often unnerving enough - but the eerieness was always sabotaged by the fact that she just couldn't shut the fuck up. Without her horrible mouth working its magic, she looked... forlorn. Beautiful in a way that jagged ice was beautiful. If placed in a white dress rather the Sanitarium gown, she would have looked like a serene wraith of Rhakrosian myth trills before it ripped into the air with a ghostly wail and bit down on some unlucky sod.

She moved to sit up from her... well, it would be a disservice to beds to call it as such, greeting the sudden influx of some of the most hated people in her life.

And her witchbrand moved when she moved, a thing of both illumination and umbra that gave and stole light, colour, and motion between the trills. She flickered once, twice, as she pushed herself up, using the cot railings for support with an invisible hand, plunged the entire room into the dead shades of black and white for an instant as she took some effort to stand up straight, before suddenly appearing two feet ahead of where she was.

She immediately knew what this was; she had been on Robin's end on this -chain excluded and for far lesser breaches against far less important people- too many times to not instantly comprehend.

A part of her wanted to drag Robin down for a good laugh, but for the first time in their brief partnership, he was the lesser evil.

How dare you
, she not-said, looking straight at Robin. Her voice was the distant clank of hollow metal, put through a clusterfuck of discordant sounds that could have been the dead songs of metal songbirds, rising to the highest pitch and falling to the lowest drone at random with each word - and sometimes simultaneously. Her voice echoed from everywhere but her mouth. How fuckin' dare you- did someone pee? Something reeks here. She frowned. I told you to stay back at the landing and you still fucked up, Bra fuckin' vo, you endless parade of listening comprehension failures. ̡You're special, all right. Special like a bent spoon.

If nothing else, her spirit was intact.

And how dare you, sir,
she said, turning to the Master.
Dare insinuate that this failed caliber of mage and manchild is capable of doing anything resembling damage to me. He is the culprit of only his own stupidity and incompetence.

She coughed a hacking cough, trying to find the tatters of her normal voice amidst the jarring metal.

It was a Mortalborn, s̮͚̘͕ir̗. I was attacked by a Mortalborn. But I'm assuming a divine spawn tearing through our proud city is nothing next to my report. I'll get on it right away. In the last season, we have established-
Last edited by Zip on Sun Dec 31, 2017 5:14 pm, edited 3 times in total. word count: 907
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

Master Torvyn's increasingly furrowed brow was the only indication of his unfamiliarity with his subordinate's latest awakenings that he let slip. Disturbed realization gave way to restrained fury as the odor of Mister Stark's belligerent creativity hit his nostrils. His eyes closed slowly, as he turned his head with intimidating deliberation; opening them only as his face squared up with that of the chained man. They opened with equal, taxed patience, allowing the daggers in his gaze to dull slightly before succumbing altogether to his disciplined effort.

"Well, well...shit-stain...and pissed pants...Profanity and vulgarity, blended to an eloquence worthy of a diseased, drunken man-whore...The verbal crutch of the intellectual lackwit...It is rare that I find Miss O'Connor's behavior and vocabulary to be a role-model to those obliged by LAW and ORDER to be answerable to her." His voice raised on the two words, a strong indication of the tenuousness of his restraint.

He took a deep breath. "Do you take some perverse satisfaction, Mister Stark, in successfully bringing me to the brink of losing my temper?" He took a soft, intimidating step closer, his eyes boring into those of his chained subject. One end of his mouth crooked slightly as he bent to remove his slipper, now soiled with the man's urine. He nodded to the other officer to confirm his request that he release his hold on the chain around Stark's neck. "Are you trying to replace Miss O'Connor in this capacity, sir? For if so, I must congratulate you on a brilliantly conceived effort."

He extended the damp slipper to the captive, "Now..." he began, his voice brimming with veiled eagerness, "You will wipe off your filth where you feel it is most appropriately deposited...And we will decide where we go from there." He used none of his Abrogative magic to prevent the Defier from smearing his "water" wherever he chose, even stepping back to allow access to Zipper on her cot, and folding his arms behind his back to make his own robes vulnerable to any rebellious gesture.

But the smoldering fire in his eyes would serve to inform the young mage where he'd be best advised to wipe it, and with whose robe he was expected to wipe up the puddle on the floor.
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

The earth cracked under him; dirt and soil and brittle stone collected there, a gentle mush of earth, sopping up the stain of sour yellow like bread in soup. Robin glared at Torvyn, his eyes sharp like bitter chocolate. He obeyed, but defiantly. His hands curled into fists and his chin lifted so that he was always looking down.

A child at twenty-six.

"I wouldn't think anyone could replace Miss O'Connor in any capacity, sir," he answered, mumbling. Chain or no chain, he was muzzled, the threat of Torvyn's magic enough to push him towards some level of respectability.

There wasn't anything he could do, and they were in a room of earth. The chain was metal and there was iron and stone surrounding, whispering rebellion and suggestion. Robin wasn't sure exactly how the master's magic worked, or if his was quicker, or if he could count on Zipper to back him if he decided to go for the old man's throat.

So instead he sulked.
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

If you think Zipper was gloating, you would be wrong.

Stark's stunt with the urine, as repulsively disgusting as it proved to be, was an unnecessary distraction. Tovryn's discipline, his well-observed need to correct a dog in the moment it made the mistake lest the teaching moment was past, too, was a distraction. In the precious trills that were taken away from her so that the two most grating, difficult men in her professional life could get into a dick fight -literally in Robin's case- all Zipper could do to fill in the gaps of silence in the background between their traded barbs was this:

Mortalborn, mortalborn, mortalborn, mortalborn. It was a mortalborn, sir. Hello? Heeeello. Yeah know, I think my voice is actually a borrowed commodity while I'm like this. I'm going to run out soon, sir. Mortalborn, mortalborn, mortalborn, mortaHiUzjfjsh cAn yOU hEAer mE - Kidding. I'm messing. I'm fine. Just fine. Really. .... not that either of you seem to be listening. Missed a spot by the way, Mister Stark. They look surprisingly human for being the spawn of emean abominations. They could be living among us, demons in the guise of men. They could be anyone anywhere. The High Marshal? The Chief Advisor? Our fair lady Terriel? The Captain himself? The Hero Doran? Progress report summary: things are going great, but you blow too much to hear it. Respectfully, sir.


She disappeared and reappeared back into her cot, sitting down snugly on the edge of the barely-a-bed, her slipper'ed feet dangling over the edge. She turned towards the attendant holding the chain, impassive and aloof, giving him what she assumed was supposed to be an apologetic look.

Hey Jonathan. Don't worry, daddy still loves us something fierce. He's just busy with the special needs kid at the moment.


Zipper's mental stability was always in question by both colleagues and superiors alike. But the witchbrand combined with the sheer boredom of having nothing to do in recovery had left her a little bit... friendlier than usual, albeit in a wonky way.

Distractions, male egos, punishments - time that could have been spent bearing down on the stray demigod of Audrae that had appeared just as Naer vice queens so happened to visit the city.
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

The old Master was listening to Miss O'Connor's steely babble, but he was watching the Stark fellow much more carefully. He could see how close the lad was to lashing out. The youngster had grown stronger in his discipline and Torvyn knew he would...

'Mortalborn?' he stiffened silently, making an effort to attribute it to Stark's behavior. The woman on the cot repeated the word several times, but Torvyn made no more sound in response than he did the first time. Her voice sounded as if her vocal chords were steel cables, strummed by an iron plectrum. The novelty of this faded fairly quickly, as he considered her chosen domain. If anyone was to be beset by such a condition, it would most likely be a transmutor.

Her mention of "The Hero, Doran" caught his attention as well. Though he doubted this was who she meant had attacked her, he had come to suspect such a heritage from this celebrity himself. On the initial subject, he was inclined to suppositions toward one 'Oberan', who had been marked present at a variety of odd incidents. They were mostly harmless, in and of themselves, and of short duration for the most part. But they had a strange tendency to create opportunities for further mischief of more substantial results.

There was also the fact of a highly-placed missive instructing leniency and lack of documentation regarding this fellow. He did not know, but he was beginning to suspect the man was an agent of some sort. It all seemed to correspond with the recent Naerikk diplomats' visit. Torvyn could envision a number of scenarios that could explain this. Some being of the Etzori operative type; some of the enemy-agent-being-fed-misinformation type; some of the innocent-bait-for-bigger-fish type. In any event, it was not his assignment. All he knew was there was supposed to be little or no obvious focus on this Oberan.

Now to fortify this to Zipper and Stark, without alerting them to his intent.

"Forget about the mortalborn, Miss O'Connor. He is not the target in those situations where he bumbles about so visibly. But all the same, those matters would better served NOT to also have you bumbling about in them. Just avoid the fellow, if you please." Now, to change the subject before they could ask any questions...

He had signalled his assistant remove the chain altogether, freeing up young Stark to access his magic to whatever end he hoped to achieve. Torvyn eyed him levelly, "Well done, young man. Discipline is not so difficult a thing, with practice." He turned and started to ramble into a pacing lecture, while maintaining an acute awareness of anything that might hint at an attempt on the young man's part to commit to some hostile action. "Now I am willing to go on the basis that you wet yourself in hopes that it would give me an opportunity to help you exercise your growth in Discipline."

He turned back, genuinely relieved that the fellow had not tried anything, "To word it differently, I will let this go without further reprimand. Now that I hear that it was NOT you that attacked Miss O'Connor, I can see that you would be angry. I trust that you can understand, given the past history of your relationship with our young Miss here, that I would naturally snap to the conclusion I did. I will not apologize for it, but I will admit I was wrong."

He fumbled about in his pocket for a moment, removing two small objects, "In light of this error, I will go ahead with my original mission in calling you back to the garrison. I have a potent well to provide to each of you. In consideration of the recent pirate troubles, as well as the ever-present threat from the south, as well as rumors of Lotharan upheavals, mages are being granted these by our High Marshall as an added precaution, to bolster your capabilities."

"....Well, don't thank me all at once..." he snapped with a scowl as he handed them over.
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

Technically, he thought, he hadn't wet himself.

He'd peed on the chain. And yes, he'd splattered some on his boots. And maybe on his pants. He almost sighed, but he didn't want to breathe in any more of the sour yellow smell.

"Thank you, sir," Robin reached out his well. In the dark, it glowed. It was a shriveled thing, translucent. It pulsed with green energy; Robin felt everything in the room with a sudden awareness. He could feel the weight of the chain against the stone. He could feel Torvyn's every breath, vibrating from his lungs to his body into the floor. "Do they run out?" He wondered if the well's light ever dimmed. Did he have to feed it? Was it like an element, dead unless he fueled it with his own spell power?

He wondered, silently, with a straight face, if this is all he needed to kill Torvyn.

He knew, because he wasn't an idiot, if the government were giving these out, there were more somewhere.

He wondered how many he could use at once.

"Everyday is a chance to grow better at discipline, sir." And he offered a quick salute. He'd seen some of the other guard practice the same etiquette, and figure he could do the same. He wondered about the dangers that supposedly lurked in Foster's; the pirates, the southern raids, or the Lothar. He supposed if they were giving them more power, than the threats were all too real.

"Is that everything?"
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

Forget about the mortalborn? FORGET about the mortalborn?
The hollow steel in her voice rose to the rumble of, say, a giant metal worm tunneling through the earth to claim its prey.
He’s a divine blight upon the institution of this great city, a godspawn accident waiting to happen, and I will track him, hunt him down like the emean-blighted hog that he is, and end him the very trill my spark finds itself.


Or at least that’s what she could have said.

At least that was what she might have said to Torvyn’s face on a bad day - and paid the immediate consequences for it.

But she was feeling… wrong today. Cleansed of the kind of raw spite that would have driven her to pursue this vendetta to the very end if it suited her. The spark was quiet, the world was a little weirder than it was, and she found she just didn’t have it in her pursue it as much as she wanted to pretend to. Besides, she knew the Ministry of Advisors’ unspoken policies on the Mortalborn, these unique animals with powers that deviated from the standardization of Domain magic.

Maybe he’ll get his on the way there.

So she shrugged, glitched past Robin in a rise of blinding, ever-shifting color as he retrieved his well, and took hers out of Torvyn’s hand.
Many thanks
, she said. She flinched a little as she touched the well.

Unlike Robin, this wasn’t her first of these ‘specially-gifted’ wells. As an etherist and an attuner, though the latter discipline was in recovery from an ill-fated mission in the Rhakros wilds, Zipper found herself yet another initially unwanted responsibility as a glorified well gatherer… Attunement granted her the means of locating these fractures and Transmutation gave her a much easier time of navigating them than even other seasoned mages. Truly, it was yet another tedious task… until she started hiding some fracture sites for herself.

She knew wells.

And these ones always felt weird.

The moment her Identity touched these things… they pushed back. They pushed back hard and she always had to wear gloves with them, and she suspected she knew why… but she never really had the chance to delve too deep into them.

The man you tasked me to approach, Mister Gangui, has proven to be an able warrior, a charismatic commander, and, well, ‘patriot’ as he would call it. He’s got a few rough edges to sort out, that’s a certainty. The militia is steadily growing, the people respect him, and the man himself is searching land to begin their base of operations. His zeal could cause problems down the line, but hey, I didn’t pick him.
She shrugged again and looked straight at him, remembering the brief tale of Gangui facing off against the Becomer that had, if the damning rumours served true, wormed his way out of the secret prison site because Segrille himself challenged him to an honorable duel.

Facing off with the Chief Advisor himself by his side.

And when your superior’s superior made up his mind, when he saw what was undoubtedly bravery and loyalty and the will to fight against insane odds, she instead experienced the other half of the coin when it came to those qualities: foolhardiness, fanaticism, the inability to back down on twisted principles.

Is that everything?
she said at the same time as Robin. They shared a brief look, indescribably vague but not hostile, and returned their gaze to Torvyn.

They both knew she could have outed him. They both knew she could have let him take the fall if she had decided she wanted to remove an immediate thorn from her side rather than go for a drunk demigod she was planning to watch quite carefully.

But she didn't.
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Keep it Brief [Zip, Rob]

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Come and get your Loot!

(There's plenty more where that came from)


ROBIN STARK:
XP Rewards: +15

These points can NOT be used for magic. (sorry, you were warded)

Knowledges:

  • Defiance: Wards Interrupt Communication With the Four
  • Discipline: Torvyn's Assistant Stays Cool Until Ordered
  • Etiquette: Saying the Obedient Words Torvyn Wants to Hear
  • Intelligence: It is to be Assumed that Torvyn has Wells Also
  • Intelligence: Some Mortalborn Beat up Zipper
  • Intimidation: Torvyn Dares You to Act
  • Intimidation: Torvyn's Glare is Unsettling
  • Master Torvyn: Assumed it Was You Who Had Thrashed Zipper
  • Politics: Torvyn Does not Apologize, but he DOES Give You the Conduit
  • Politics: Torvyn Wants the Mortalborn Episode Hushed Up
  • Psychology: A Sense of Debt to Zipper For Not Outing You to Torvyn?
  • Psychology: Taking Warded Punishment as a Compliment
  • Psychology: Torvyn Compares Your Behavior to Zipper's to Berate You
  • Tactics: Listen, But Don't Show it
  • Zipper: Treats it as an Insult to Suggest You Beat Her Up

Loot:

One conduit powered by an Abberyte well.
Capable of regular Competent, Occasional Expert, and a single Master cast per trial.
Or it can Store 5, 3 and 1 spell, respectively


Loss, injuries:

Nothing but some pride


Fame/Renown: +10

You were seen being pulled in chains through the Hall

___________________________________________________________

ZIPPER:
XP Rewards: +15

These points can NOT be used for magic. (Sorry, overstepped)

Knowledges:

  • Discipline: Speaking Through Your Glitch to Report
  • Etiquette: The Glitch Helps in that it Shuts You Up
  • Intelligence: It is to be Assumed that Torvyn has Wells Also
  • Intimidation: Master Torvyn Isn't Bothered by Your Glitching
  • Robin: Pissed on his Ward Chain to Show his Contempt
  • Politics: Torvyn Delivers a Conduit, per Policy
  • Politics: Torvyn Wants the Mortalborn Episode Hushed Up
  • Psychology: Keeping Up Your Spirits in the Worst Situations
  • Sociology: Not Throwing Robin Under Torvyn' Bus
  • Tactics: Listen, But Don't Show it
  • Transmutation: Overstepping: Backlash Ruins Tools And Weapons You Use
  • Transmutation: Overstepping: The Glitch
  • Transmutation: Overstepping: The Metal Grating Voice
  • Transmutation: Overstepping: They Get Worse if You Try to Cast
  • Transmutation: Sustenance now Gained from Qualities, not Food
  • Transmutation: Witchbrands do Not "Go Away" After a While

Loot:

One conduit powered by an Abberyte well.
Capable of regular Competent, Occasional Expert, and a single Master cast per trial.
Or it can Store 5, 3 and 1 spell, respectively


Loss, injuries:

You have been bedridden with numerous injuries and overstepping.
You stay for a couple more days, and are sore and dizzy for a good week or two after.


Fame/Renown: +10

You were seen being helped into the Hall's infirmary. Rumors abound.


Comments:

Okay, Not a real skill-heavy thread, what with Zip bedridden and Rob in warded chains.
Also, the write-up for wells made from Flaying has been redone.
I did not feel like going in and forcing a bunch of edits regarding their appearance.
So consider the weird, shrivelled organ, veiny appearance to be concealed beneath a conduit housing of some kind.
You are free to describe the conduit's appearance however you want, but you will find odd peripheral effects to occur when you use it.
Scroll down to the "Abberyte" description in the Fracture and Well primer for details.
word count: 538
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