• Graded • The Call

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Llyr Llywelyn
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Re: The Call

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“Well, go on then
and tell me, Alistair,” said Zarik. He pivoted in a full turn. “How do I look?”

In the privacy of their bedroom at Ashvane Estate – a stately house on the Riovara in the Gleam of Quacia – the youthful biqaj presented himself to his husband. Zarik stood on top of a small box, dressed from head to toe in the first set of armor he’d ever owned.

Zarik awaited Alistair’s scrutiny. He did his best not to fidget. While it wasn’t his first time wearing the armor set, the only other time had been when he’d had it fitted during purchase. He outstretched his arms. The lining of his dark leathers brushed against the chainmail mesh underneath.

The svelte ice-blond shuffled his boots, in another full turn, so Alistair could get a complete view. Though it was the middle of the trial, their shared morning had been weighty and the couple had only returned from Ne’haer the evening before. Yet it was not all stress and conflict since their return, for close to dawn, Zarik had accomplished a climb at one of the highest vantage points in the Gleam. Though even on top of the Fortress battlements, far above the shopping district, Alistair had found him and ruptured them away with ease.

He tried to not dwell on what had happened, though neither did he want to forget: the argument between him and Alistair, the overwhelm of emotions when his frigid defense had melted away, and his noble husband's unexpected apology in return; and then the rune that Alistair had drawn on his cheek, immediately followed by a disastrous meeting with that savage Lothar - the one Alistair persisted to include in their household despite the intimate whispers shared between the newlyweds when they were alone. How could anyone be included in such intense closeness, though? How could they understand the things that Zarik confessed to Alistair? They couldn't.

Zarik felt bewildered about it, but the time he’d spent alone with his husband in the aftermath of the stressful introduction had soothed him. Though he needed to contemplate what had happened, he refused to leave Alistair’s side. He didn’t want the nobleman to disappear. He didn't want to have to wait around until Alistair returned with the musky barbarian scent of that Lothar on him again. Zarik had barely managed to clean the stench off Alistair with the pool water in the courtyard and the addition of a few surprise spritzes of cologne when he’d been getting dressed in his armor.

Alistair felt along the new armor and examined it with touch, sharing his approval of the outfit. Zarik accepted the compliments without shyness or dismissal. He smiled, happy that the other man – who wore a much grander set of armor than his own – found his choices suitable. Zarik assumed they might spend the afternoon on sparring, though he didn’t know how he could possibly make a dent on the battlemage. Though he supposed Alistair could teach him to properly spar with the thralls, like had been promised the last time they’d talked about such things.

It was, after all, increasingly important for him to learn how to defend not only himself, but his newly realized son, Asher, as well. It'd only been a few trials since his lineage had been confirmed; offspring from both Zarik's and Alistair's bloodlines. After what Alistair had told him on the battlements – about their son being at risk from all the people who wanted to assassinate or ruin his husband, who wanted to hurt Alistair and everyone loved in the nobleman’s life – Zarik felt an even stronger sense of ambition to become more powerful.

Alistair whispered to him, then, and Zarik stopped moving about in presentation of his new attire. "I’m glad you’re not mad at me," said the magister, "You’ve always been like that, though. Forgiving of my flaws."

“My love, your flaws make you wh-” Zarik had placed a hand on the nobleman’s cheek. He had leaned in. Yet he stopped mid-sentence when he felt a pulse resonate through his body. It felt… warm, almost, in a comforting way. He lowered his hand and relaxed his stance. The irises of his eyes transitioned from their ocean blues to the familiar mixed colors toward his husband: rose-pink and daffodil-yellow.

He stepped down from the box, and though he felt what could only be described as a call to somewhere else, his attention focused solely on Alistair instead. In the privacy of their home, behind locked doors, he kissed the man. A chaste, tender kiss but as the pulsing sensation faded, he felt invigorated. His enthusiasm channeled into their kisses.

Time passed. Their passion didn’t. Instead, Zarik remained close to Alistair. The young Transmuter mage caressed the magister’s fine armor in admiration of the Malorite material. Another pulse occurred, but upon the second sensation of alluring energy, he assumed it had to do with his lover - even as it invited him elsewhere.

Several bits later, a third pulse occurred and spread warmth, vitality even, through him. Zarik brightly smiled. He quietly laughed against Alistair’s whispers as the magister queried whether the biqaj could also feel the pulses. He nodded, happy to acknowledge such a shared thing.

“Is it not…” he met Alistair’s vortex gaze. “You do not know what it is?”

Something Alistair didn’t know, yet they both could feel. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t frightening. It was enjoyable. But that Alistair didn’t know what it was, and that it came through so clear for the both of them, and in a few more bits - another one occurred… Zarik’s smile faded. He thought of Emea briefly, of his initiation into their shared domain, and how the dreamscape had felt so pleasant while it tried to keep him from existing anymore. He entwined his fingers with his mentor’s fingers, snugly holding hands.

A few different thoughts bothered him, as to what it could be, though the likelihood he would figure it out was slim. He thought of Asher, then Damien, and said, “Mm, maybe we should go? Let's inform the others though, in case we are gone for more than a trial, for Asher, and… your thralls?”

Zarik let go of the other man’s hand. He checked his armor, assured his outfit was secure along with his daggers. Another pulse reverberated through his body. It felt stronger than the others, or perhaps since it was so soon after the last. He gathered his hand into a fist, if only because he felt so enthusiastic, ready to follow the call, and thrilled to do so and- he looked at Alistair for guidance.

Alistair didn’t know what it was, and yet, he felt the same draw - the same compulsion to follow the call to wherever it wanted them to go. The magister assured him that it had to be their respective sparks and as such, they were to listen to it - to respect it - and Zarik nodded with easy acceptance of the concept. He trusted the other man's decision, but it was also his own. Zarik wanted to kiss again, but he let Alistair focus on the command of the household to assure the thralls wouldn't cause problems while they were away.

Another pulse came within trills. Zarik watched, momentarily, as Alistair vanished. He closed his eyes, eager to follow. The biqaj willingly offered his own ether to wherever the call resonated from, and with a rush of excitement, also disappeared from the bedroom in Ashvane Estate.

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            Please — consider me a dream.
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            Alistair
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            Re: The Call

            "You look beautiful,” he smiled. “As always.”

            His hands ran over the material, both animal and metallic. Black leather lining with one similar ebony pauldron, running partway down his arm. A flexible fabric that followed into the elbows where it separated beyond the joint into a blue band, silver-white gauntlets and claw-like armored gloves. Straps at the chest, a leather white addition to his torso armor that emerged from his back and acted as a vest, an ivory colored vest… a silver-white holster for his daggers, the same as before. Leg armor that culminated similarly to the arms, but, formed - obviously - for his legs.

            Blue and teal cloths in occasional places, most notably his blue scarf and a shade of teal that draped from his waist. A black mask. Zarik’s armor was truly exquisite and fit him, perfectly, his colors and his look and even the way that he moved. It was custom crafted and for anyone who knew Zarik, it was clear. Though this was Alistair’s assumption only, and after a time he’d started to feel that he was the only one who truly knew Zarik. Moreso than anyone else ever could.

            “It’s well-fitted and reinforced in the right places. The colors are great and it will allow your joints ample flexibility, as well as mobility. I could not have recommended a better fit.”

            Alistair was equipped with his own armor, a full set of Malorite with Shadowsong - his beloved and eternal Terrendyte spear - at his back. He wore a leather satchel at his waist, infused with the Quality of Terrendytic Durability, though rather than wearing his domain bag he brought only medical supplies. They were to have something akin to their first venture outwards, or so he intended to surprise Zarik with, though it was only a mockery of what dangers reality truly wielded. A simple game that he would play to fetch the admiration of his beloved.

            “I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” he whispered. “You’ve always been like that, though. Forgiving of my flaws.”

            He felt the first alleviating breath of his spark. A long, soothing gasp that rung throughout his body and as it moved, it coaxed his other sparks into their own sense of tranquility. For him, more so than Zarik perhaps due to his quantity of sparks, Alistair was… riveted. He was stimulated and relieved in unity, and freed from all manner of tensity, anxiety and doubt.

            The mage wondered what it was, and for a trill grew fearful of the pulsating sensation before it cleared him even of that.

            “Zarik?” he asked. For a moment, the mage thought the origin of the feeling might have been his spouse, considering his bright-colored eyes and the way his focus set upon the older mage. But that was no ability of Transmutation, and so he shook his head as the pulse dispersed, leaving him feeling momentarily wistful.

            The biqaj kissed him. Alistair replied back with a kiss of his own, and continued to ramp up his passions as if inspired by that wistful feeling; even if to replace one sensation with another. Time passed and more such pulses were felt. A second. He could feel it calling to him. A third.

            “Zarik,” he whispered, low in tone yet wholly calm. “Are you feeling that?” Alistair asked. “My spark wants me to follow it. It's… more clear than even amidst my meditation. But I... don't..."

            He was met with a look of confusion, as the biqaj eerily questioned his ignorance; perhaps depending on Alistair's confidence in the arcane. But he did not know all things - the spark worked in mysterious ways.

            “I do not,” he could only confess. So then, it was not Zarik either and it couldn't have been. He was no Empath, and Transmutation did not impart sensations into others of that sort. Physical ones, yes, but not… that. It was a sort of welling of energy within the soul. It was invigorating and tiring.

            He worried what might be happening.

            “Is it…” he started. “No - never mind. I… truly don't know, Zarik.” He thought of the suggestion. In tandem with his lover's recommendation, the pulse came and… he was compelled by it. He needed to listen.

            “We should go. If it were any other calling - one of the mind or body - I would say not to. But when the spark speaks… we listen. Just as it listens to us. It is a symbiosis,” he explained. “Don't worry for Asher - Damien is with him, I believe. And my thralls… I'll send them to their cells. They have a protocol to lock themselves inside and throw the keys across the room. I won't lose control of them, and if I do, they won't be able to harm our child. Let's leave,” Alistair implored him again.

            He issued the mental command, and then the pulse came once more. It was electric, jolting as much as it was sedating. For once in a long time, he followed the mysterious allure of whatever magic this was utterly, without reservation. Alistair channeled a small tinge of ether into the pulse as it bloomed within, and then he vanished.

            As a Shirvain, he always had a perfect sense of the time, and yet from the moment he vanished… it would begin to feel strange.
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                      Varthakh
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                      The Call

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                      To the courtyard, they ordered their totem without words. Step after step, the faded Llewnos made her way from the bathhouse, with the drained Lothar draped over her back. The halls of the Woodstock hall were quite narrow, built thick with solid stone. Watching the walls as they moved, it almost felt as though they were ready to close in and collapse on them. Everything about the indoors felt like a trap to the Protean, the outdoors was was the only relief for them. The world spun around them, but the flowing warmth from their nose had come to a halt, their nosebleed had stopped. Every one of the guardian's steps spanned an eternity, as though the green grass was breaks from where they were now.

                      Then, the warmth of the sun bathed their pale skin in its rejuvenating comfort and the fresh air filled their lungs. They had made it outside. The courtyard of the Woodstock Hall was still mostly stone, but it was one of the only places within the walls of Quacia with any amount of lush green plant life. It was a place that Fridgar felt at peace, where they could look up and see the sky. If they stared long enough, they could almost forget that they were surrounded by high walls. Now wasn't the time to admire the sky though, they needed to ease the pressure in their head and stay their shaking hands.

                      Zarik, Alistair's idiot boy husband, had been bold enough to challenge Fridgar's dominance. As a result of staying their wrath, they were struck with an intense migraine and tremors from the blue. They knew the source, it was their spark actively rebelling against them for refusing to beat Zarik into his place. Once they were at the pool that made up the center of the courtyard, the Guardian lowered and Fridgar slid from her back. They landed on their knees, then quickly turned over to sit on their behind. Protect us, they commanded their totem guardian, and she did. She stood by and watched their surroundings while Fridgar stayed quiet and cleared their mind. They slowed their breaths to a crawl and drew air through their bloodied nose, then exhaled slowly through their mouth. They were trying to meditate, an effort to calm their outraged spark. Progress was slow until something strange happened.

                      There was a pulse, only one, which soothed and comforted them at their very core. It was so pleasant, like a wave of warm water that rolled over and enveloped them, and helped them in their meditation. They tried not to linger on the thought of what that had been, for it would break their light trance. Slowly, but surely, their spark became calmer and calmer and the migraine eased, their hands stilled. Then another pulse washed over them.. there had been perhaps three in the past break. Fridgar opened their eyes and looked about their environment with a clear head. What was that feeling? Where was it coming from? With a glance of their eyes, the Llewnos Guardian walked toward them.

                      They needed to find Alistair, figure out what was going on. So, they collected their domain bag and dismissed the Llewnos. It fell apart and collapsed into a small panther-like figurine, made from fur, bone, and blood. The only problem with finding Alistair was that he was likely with Zarik. With a sigh, they closed their eyes and peered through Alistair's. He was in the Ashvane Estate, his bedroom, looking upon Zarik who was wearing some... Fancy armor. Fridgar's eyes fluttered and they broke away from the gift of their initiation bond. Fridgar sighed, then looked to the Llewnos totem before collecting it with their hand. They reached into their extraordinarily deep bag and collected their other totems. Fridgar had yet to recollect their loincloth from the bathhouse, so they were stark naked. They would have to be in one of their other forms while searching for the source of this thing, until they found a new animal to skin, at least.

                      They laid all their totems across the floor, the Llewnos figurine, the Sohr Khal claw, the Redbear figurine, the Solghannon, Trachadon, and Stekir totems, as well as his Lurker bone axe. Among those were their great white shark and Kleine totems, which they rarely found the opportunity to use, but made for good company. They also had their Fridgar totem, which was virtually useless in the face of adversity, but might come in handy for whatever tasks laid ahead. Once every member of their family was assembled, Fridgar invited the Llewnos to assume their form and assimilated each and every totem. Each piece of bone, skin, and blood melded with their form and became one with them as their shape changed into something else.

                      Once they had become the Llewnos, they bound off toward the front door and weaved through the Woodstock hall before bursting onto the street. A number of passersby looked upon them with surprise, even a twinge of fear before they greeted them with an echo. "Good morning," their deep Lotharren voice echoed from no discernable place on their body before they turned and ran along the cobbled streets. They were headed to the Ashvane Estate to reunite with Alistair and his newest toy. The pulse seemed to call to them, invite them to the source of whatever was sending those waves. By the time they made it to the front door of the estate, the pulse was ringing every bit, and they knew what they had to do. They would have to spend a marginal amount of ether in tandem with the pulse, then be carried off to somewhere else.

                      But what if Alistair wasn't experiencing the same thing? What of their son? A moment of reflecting was all it took to realize that Alistair didn't need them, and Bellator was in good hands. Even if they were separated again and Fridgar couldn't find him for whatever reason, it ultimately didn't matter. They had nine other lives to lead in the bodies of their totems. So, with the next pulse, Fridgar fed it some of his ether and vanished from the front door of the Ashvane estate.

                      Last edited by Varthakh on Sat Mar 23, 2019 2:27 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1049
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                                Whenever one finds oneself inclined to bitterness, it is a sign of emotional failure.
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                                Vega Dweeb
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                                Re: The Call

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                                Yaralon. Bastard's Grove. Our Camp

                                "Are you sure you've not poisoned us?" Vega asked, looking at Arlo accusingly. In between the spasms of pain, she could make a joke, but during them? During them the young mortalborn of Faldrun grit her teeth and did her best not to cry. Not least, because she didn't want him to worry. But she was hot, felt grotty like she had a temperature and now something was causing her entire body to rebel against every other bit of her body. So, Vega sat on the wooden crate, her arms wrapped around herself slightly. "Arlo, it's well weird, an' I don't like it."

                                As another pulse hit, the hot-headed young woman clamped her jaw shut but, this time, it didn't work. "By all the Immortals. Are you a'right?" She reached out to take his hand, well aware that the same pain was ripping through him and, at that, Vega frowned. "Arlo? Jus' 'ang on a bit. How comes it happens at the exact same time for us both, ev'ry time?" That was not the fault of a badly cooked rabbit, she said. Not, of course, that she'd ever doubted him really she added with a pale imitation of a smile.

                                "If this is somethin' targeted at us, we'd better get ready." Vega said. Since the episodes of screaming pain seemed to be getting closer together, she moved quickly to get them. For her, that was her sword - the mirror of his - and her fiddle and bow. As the pains grew closer and closer together, Vega sat with Arlo, her hand in his. She had endured a lot of pain over the course of a number of very unfortunate events, but these were a doozy. "Jus' in case we're dyin'," Vega said, glancing at him as she held on to his hand. "I'm righ' glad I married you. You're a dweeb, but yer my dweeb." Declarations of love had never been more heartfelt.

                                "Vhalar's perky nips, Arlo. Ow.." And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
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                                          Vega's skin has a reflective metallic sheen with a red glow. Her eyes still swirl biqaj colours, but one colour is always bright red which glows like fire. She has a bright red glow in her chest, situated directly under the mark of a heart (Daia mark) in the middle of a glowing silver dragon on her chest (Xiur). She's unnaturally warm to the touch
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                                          Kisaik
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                                          Re: The Call

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                                          Little metal bits scraped and creaked against each other as the Tunawa slept and snored while dressed in his armor. He heard, and perhaps it was true, that the best knights were as comfortable in armor as they were in a feather mattress. So he had taken to wearing his masterwork, Cobalt suit along with it’s silk underpadding even in sleep.

                                          The fact that Slate had taken to hiding hoarding stray bits of his armor when he took it off, further compounded the decision to wear it at all times. Besides which, Tunawa didn’t exactly have the same hygienic concerns as humans when it came to the wearing of armor. He really only took it off when he had to care for the armor, to prevent corrosion or rusting, or to see to damage it had incurred.

                                          The Treeknight was sleeping soundly in his little burrow in the middle of what had been the Mud burho in Yaralon. His beard of hairy lichen blew upwards with every snore and breath, and for a time it appeared nothing would interrupt his sleep. While he slept, Slate could be heard caterwauling outside the burrow. It came in waves, the caterwauling, until it stuck its head directly into the entrance to Kisiak’s hut, and caterwauled right directly at him!

                                          The Treeknight started as he woke, his beard falling to his stomach as he rose from sleep. ”Wuh wha?” He said in tree-talk, which really sounded like melodic chirping of a bird. ”What is it Slate? Has evil finally come to be vanquished?" He picked up his embersteel lance which stood at his side, and held it like a spear for a moment, bracing it against the entrance through which the cat stuck its head.

                                          Then he felt it. It came in pulses and starts, and by Ymiden it hurt! ”Augh! Foul evil!? What hast visited upon mine burho?! Quick Slate, we must to the Tree to defend it!”

                                          The Treeknight didn’t have time to take his lance on the way to the center of the Burho, so he simply picked up and mounted Slate, riding him toward his destination. At some point, the pulses of evil pain became so overbearing, that he was nearly blinded by the unfamiliar pain. Dour spirits seemed to gather around him as if attracted to his pain.

                                          In a few mere moments after riding Slate, he succumbed to this call, whatever it was, and disappeared from the face of the Burho.

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                                                    Arlo Creede
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                                                    Re: The Call

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                                                    If he hadn't been doubled over in pain with his arms clenched tight around his midsection, Arlo would have had a pithy, and scathing comeback to the very suggestion that something in their meal was responsible. It was a matter of pride. He'd never poisoned anyone with his cooking. Yet. As for himself, thanks to Cassion's many blessings, the Immortal's son could eat a handful of dirt if he chose to, and not suffer any ill effects. Not that he'd ever wanted to.

                                                    All he could do however was grunt in response and shake his head violently enough to risk toppling Lyova, his little Emea sourced diri, right off the brim of his hat. Ordinarily found in the shape of an oversized blue raindrop, she'd sprouted arms, all the better to stay seated. Not liking it, was putting it mildly. Every inch of him hurt. And just when it began to let up and give him a bit or a trill's reprieve, along came another wave. He'd already voided what he'd had of his supper, for all the good that it did.

                                                    "Do I look alright?" he muttered incredulously when Vega took his hand. Under other circumstances, he might have said the same thing but with a teasing tone. He'd tried, and failed. But she was right, and the waves of pain, hers and his, were perfectly timed and coordinated one with the others. "What's that the old folks say?" he grunted as he climbed to his feet and began gathering up all that they'd need, if indeed this was a sign of something to come. "If they've got to go they'd rather go together? No one I'd rather go with than you. But a bit too soon for my taste."

                                                    He grabbed his sword that matched hers. His short-bow and pistol crossbow, and his leather sack full of just about anything else he'd need or could think of...considering that he'd no idea what was in store for them. And just when he straightened, another body crunching wave overtook him and he doubled over and shouted though clenched teeth, "Son of a.....!" And wherever Vega went, presumably, Arlo did too with Lyova clinging wild eyed to the brim of his hat.
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                                                              Velaine Krome
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                                                              Re: The Call

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                                                              Recently, Velaine had discovered a newfound hobby. Something to spice up her trial, to quench some boredom, and simply something to practice her gifts on.

                                                              The tavern was a rowdy one. Every laugh and every cheer demanded her attention, but her cool eyes had already settled on a pair of lovers. A new one at that, by how they gazed upon one another, how their finger’s sought each other’s every moment possible. Perhaps they had simply found each other tonight, judging

                                                              When their eyes met, Velaine sent him a coy smile and a knowing gaze. It took the man quite the effort to look away, but it was already too late. Her ether had already latched unto him, unraveling the threads that made up his emotions for her to toy with. Unsurprisingly, the colors that glowed the brightest were those of passion and lust, growing with each trill.

                                                              The empath took her sweet time snipping away the man’s lust for the woman in his arms. They kept regrowing – as it should considering the two was still interacting, but with every severing she did, it became slower and slower. She took the strands, twisting them so his interest was turned to her. Since he had already been somewhat attracted to her, feeding it to his emotions wasn’t at all difficult. The lust kept building up and the man could not stop stealing glances at her.

                                                              While Velaine continued her embroidery of emotions, she noticed the gentle pulsing that came out of nowhere. Then came another, and another. Each of them washing her over with a sense of calm and serenity. As a manipulator herself, the young woman tensed at the foreign sensations. It was difficult to trust feelings given to her by some invisible, outside forces. She put no mind to it for the moment, wanting to focus on the task at hand instead.

                                                              When all her planted emotions became unbearable, the man pulled himself away from the woman’s embrace and started walking to her – much to his partner’s confusion. Velaine turned to another man, one who had been rebuffed by another woman and simmering in anger. He had been watching her and she didn’t need magic to know that he planned on approaching her. He immediately noticed the blonde man’s direct line towards her.

                                                              She strummed his anger and jealousy, building it up and burying all other emotions surrounding it. So that all he could see was the red of fury. The only thing he would be able to feel in that moment. Within trills, the man had intercepted the other man’s path. What came next was definitely not surprising. To her, at least.

                                                              A fist flew through the air, followed by the thump of a body falling onto the ground.

                                                              Just like that, angry red strands of anger and fury bloomed in front of her eyes. It was an easy picking. Her ether snipped and plucked at the tangled webs, tucking it in safely on the edges of her own meshwork of emotions. It was always nice to have a bit of anger in her backpocket to be used when they time came.

                                                              It was when she started looking around for another subject that she felt the pulses became faster and stronger. Somehow it tempted her, promising some sort of reward should she just reach for it. Unable to deny her curiosity, Velaine answered the call. The invisible fingers of her ether reached out, wary but fascinated.

                                                              And with that, the young woman was gone.
                                                              word count: 595
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                                                                        Rabu
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                                                                        Posts: 144
                                                                        Joined: Mon Oct 08, 2018 4:04 pm
                                                                        Race: Mortal Born
                                                                        Profession: Alchemist
                                                                        Renown: 100
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                                                                        Re: The Call

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                                                                        “How feeling now?” Rabu asked the bed ridden boy from atop the a stool the boys mother was kind enough to offer him.

                                                                        “Bettar..” The boy groaned, his skin was still visibly clammy and a subtle shade of green that human’s shouldn’t be.

                                                                        “You not eat deh bad berry found in deh woods now?” Rabu frowned and shook a chastising finger at the boy like a mother might do to their disobedient child. The boy shook his head slowly and pouted his lip ever so much.

                                                                        “Let me check deh fee-va.” Rabu leapt onto the bed and placed his hand on the boys forehead. He could still feel some warmth on his tiny hand but it gone down noticeably from just yesterday. “Much better.” Rabu said with a smile before hopping off the bed and onto the ground.

                                                                        “I see tomorrow for more of deh medicine.” Rabu said to the Yari mother as he walked out of the room and into the kitchen area.

                                                                        “Yer eh Gord lil’ twiggy” The mother smiled her toothless grin at the tunawa. “Shourd of let em die next time, Thart will teach dat lil' piss stain.” She added before thrusting a knife deep into an animal carcass she had on the table.

                                                                        “Umm..well..I go.” Rabu smiled nervously not sure what he’d heard of if he wanted to know. He scurried out the shack door and out into the open air where his donkey was outside tied to a post.

                                                                        “Lets go find Kisaik.” Rabu said as he approached the donkey and began untying it. He walked back to his cart but as he was about to hoist himself up an overwhelming pain took over his body. He’d never experience such agony and he fell to the ground paralyzed from the crippling pain. It came in pulsing waves that got worse and worse until suddenly, he was gone. At least he was pretty sure he had disappeared, he couldn’t remember where he had gone but he knew he was not where he was moments ago. “Fairies?” Rabu muttered to himself.
                                                                        [/quote]
                                                                        word count: 354
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                                                                                  One of Rabu's Mortal Born abilities involves emean creatures called Dooglewogs doing pranks and causing misfortune for the Rabu. I roll a dice every time Rabu uses his other powers and whatever it lands on will happen in the thread he's in.
                                                                                  If a Grader or Mod wishes to add a misfortune as a reward that would be wonderful but please be sure that it's only temporary and isn't too disruptive or disturbing (I'm mostly going with light and silly) look on my character sheet for examples.
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                                                                                  Praetorum
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                                                                                  Joined: Sun Jan 20, 2019 11:08 am
                                                                                  Race: Ithecal
                                                                                  Profession: Mercenary
                                                                                  Renown: 1020
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                                                                                  Re: The Call





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                                                                                  30th of Ashan, Arc 719

                                                                                  Swing, slice, slash, block; and again. Sidestep, stab, pivot, shieldslam. Tailsweep to knock an enemy off balance, then bring the butt of the scythe down against their head. 


                                                                                  Again and again, Praetorum went through his drills, trying to adjust to fighting in his leather armor. He hadn't realized how much he'd relied on the weight of his armor to keep his balance until he'd started drilling without it, but he'd fallen on his ass enough times by now that it was becoming obvious he was going to have to relearn quite a few things. 


                                                                                  With a final sweep, Praetorum paused, then, lowered his weapon, breathing heavily. Straightening up, he picked his way across the training area towards the benches along the side, intending to take a quick rest and then get back to training. Swiping a mug of water, he guzzled down half of it, and splashed the rest across his face, trying to cool off a little. 


                                                                                  That was when he felt the first pulse.

                                                                                  Praetorum blinked, looking down at the dirt beneath his feet. He'd thought.... but looking around, no one else seemed to have felt anything. So he put it from his mind, until it happened again. And then again, and again. 


                                                                                  It wasn't an unpleasant sensation by any means, a strange, comforting beckon. But no one else seemed to be feeling it, even when he asked. And stranger still, he could feel something inside of him trying to reach out for it, the spark of Hone yearning for... something. Something he could give it. 


                                                                                  Praetorum had not been with his spark for very long, and he was not yet adept at telling it no. 


                                                                                  So he relented. Holding tight to his tower shield and scythe, he stood, and walked out of the training area. 


                                                                                  And then he was gone from Yaralon; following wherever the call led.


                                                                                  word count: 321
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                                                                                            Let's play 'What's Weird About Prae'
                                                                                            • A fiery rune shines under his right eye
                                                                                            • A firey glow in the back of his mouth
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                                                                                            Ricky
                                                                                            Posts: 306
                                                                                            Joined: Wed Jul 26, 2017 4:20 am
                                                                                            Race: Mixed Race
                                                                                            Profession: Fisherman
                                                                                            Renown: 70
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                                                                                            Re: The Call

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                                                                                            Nobody. Not a single soul could understand the depth of anger he felt towards everything, the entirety of the world felt against him at this point in time. Probably because he had lost everything to the sea, his only means of exploring the world somewhere at the bottom of the Orm'del. Enrick harbored little to no appreciation to the group that rescued him, for they were nothing but a band of roving pirates in his eyes. The worst part being that he owed them... because they found him adrift at sea, he owed them a debt he wasn't sure they'd ever see as paid. So that likely meant he'd be kept a slave to them, always working under them with little hope of ever getting away.

                                                                                            So much has happened since his time in Desnind though...

                                                                                            And it was because of that Enrick had become such a broody man, who was now on deck staring out at sea while the crew remained below. Laughter and conversation flowed loudly from within as they were eating dinner, Enrick however hadn't really felt hungry as his mind remained far too troubled. Everything he had was lost now, he literally had nothing at this point and that probably bothered him the most. He watched as the waves below lapped alongside the ship, his blue eyes sullen as he sighed over his dilemma. He still had an Ose-bori to find out there, and yet here he was trapped on a vessel he couldn't command.

                                                                                            He hadn't been sure as to what else he'd felt either, unless the troubled heartache had literally created the pained sensations. But the fact they weren't getting as subtle as before, rather more prominent actually, made him realize that something had to be literally wrong at this point. Was he feeling sick? Had he ate something bad? From within his core all throughout his body he felt the wavering pulses roll out, hurting him enough to where he gripped the side railing hard. The sheer intensity grew almost to unfathomable pain, his body so pained to where it felt like literal fire seared his flesh. Enrick closed his eyes as he felt as though he were about to faint, the pain far too intense to overcome for his own sanity.

                                                                                            He turned to rest his back against the railing and slowly slid down to rest, but never made it to the deck of the ship as he vanished in that instance.
                                                                                            word count: 420
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                                                                                                      "Every side attacks ya, when y' don't take sides."


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