• Graded • The Call

[Aegis]

Ashan 30th, 719

Throughout the world, in the middle of the trial, the Call rang out.

It started in Quacia, Yaralon, and Viden, emanating from underground beneath the cities. The majority of people never even noticed this. But for those who did, it came in waves, in pulses. At first, they were every twenty bits. Then every fifteen, then ten, five, until the pulses were once every bit. For those with Sparks, the pulse was soothing, alluring, and felt colorful and alive. And with it came the offer to travel to the source. And all it would take was just a bit of ether spent as a pulse came through.

For those without Sparks though, each pulse was painful. It would often feel as though each molecule of their body was attempting to break free, shooting away into nothingness. It was felt deep in the soul, a pain that was emotional, mental, and physical all at once, and more. As the pulses shortened to once per bit, the pain became white hot and blinding. And soon, everything turned black, and they were gone.

And all around the world, cities far and wide, people just vanished, all at the same time. They were gone for exactly one bit, before being returned exactly as they were, exactly where they were. People noticed that they were gone, but there was no memory, no explanation for why they left, or why they returned.

This story is what happened in that one bit of time they were missing.

!

Message from: Aegis

This is the introduction thread. Be very specific about the location your PC is in and what they are doing and such in that location when the Pulses occur. In 1 week, I will post up the next threads, dividing people up based on various factors. Rules 1. You get 1 Post per round. There is no posting order. There may be mod notes attached to your posts to give more information. You may occasionally be directed to another thread due to various actions. 2. BIG ONE - Consequences, information, anything relating to this thread does not apply to your PC until a date specified later, for reasons specified later. This is to prevent retconning and whatnot. Your PCs are still playable from Ashan 31st onward as if nothing happened. 3. There is a very real risk of being bounced from this event for various reasons, including PC death. If this happens, you will receive your review award immediately and information on follow up. 4. If you have any questions on anything pertaining to this, you can PM me on forums, or contact me on Discord.

[Abaddon]

Throughout the world, in the middle of the trial, the Call rang out.

That Trial was particular. Abaddon’s scarred legs had been healed from infirmity the Trial before, tingling and new yet not yet synced with his mind. Much of that morning was spent in rigorous exercise, the worshiper of a strange and enigmatic God pushing his body to erase the faults that remained in the healing. Two thin, white scars remained on his shins.

Then, that first pulse hit him as he slept upon a comforting, familiar wooden floor, dreaming lucid in the Veil. From within the Veil, Abaddon felt it all at once, and not only did it sing, but so did all of his Sparks. Attunement in particular cheerfully responded in the same tone, in a place at the back of his mind. The energy in that wave was so alive and succinct that he found himself drawn to it mentally for the next few Bits, just standing there in roiling dreams.

That was strange. Very strange. He continued with his duties, finding the Dreamscape of a victim that looked suitably weak. They were a young man dreaming about caring for small,l cute animals, but the sky blackened and the green grasses of rolling hills turned purple upon his roiling arrival into her consciousness. Abaddon approached him and gave the teen a scare, and so the chase began, Bit by Bit. Time was difficult to perceive here, dreams lasting as long as Trials or as quick as a few Bits, so the pulses that followed with that information surged through his body at an erratic rate, assuring him of more information.

“What is this presence?” Abaddon asked of the reverberations. It seemed to pull on his Ether, a cool tingling feeling tugging all around at his mind. It worried him, so at first he ignored it, cornering the man with a Nightmare. A worm coalesced from a black sludge, dropping from his palm and emanating a hot, red light just as a series of pulses began. Abaddon was about to Corrupt his latest victim when he felt himself subconsciously accepting the pulsating invitation, as if his own Sparks had betrayed his will.

Don’t you dare, Abaddon seethed as he found himself being pulled back into his own Dreamscape, before everything around him dissolved. His body in the real world disappeared, and he found his eyes opening somewhere ...else. This is concerning, was his first thought. He could distinctly remember being drawn away from the dream, or at least ousted from it. Am I still dreaming?

Having slept naked save for a leather fauld, he was utterly unarmed and ill-equipped for such a strange situation.

[Luther]

Luther was in the middle of meal when he felt the first call. The soothing tingle of life energy gliding from his victim and into himself, cut short by blinding pain ripping throughout his body. His very soul seemed to shake with agony, and as his vision returned he could see that his food had taken the opportunity to run. A part of him, the human part, was grateful that they were gone. The ghost, however, was still hungry and the day was still young. Luther figured he could he find another meal wandering off in the streets of Rharne before the trial's end.

Yet it seemed he would have no luck this day. As he haunted the elegant military dress coat which clung to his shoulders, so too did this pain seem to haunt him. As he he hunted the lowest, most vile of the city's inhabitants in an endless attempt to end his hunger, the pain chased his every movement. Blistering agony seared his skin and wrathful daggers tore into his heart. Luther had tasted the ash of death and somehow this call, this shattering echo which spawned from nothing, was worse.

Is this punishment? My penance for feasting on the living?

Luther tried to grab an alley wall to steady himself, but he couldn't keep his hand solid enough to grip the surface. He slid down to his knees, entire form bleeding smoke as the pain seeped past the physical and deep into the emotional. The taste of ash was thick on his tongue and the spectral embers which swirled around him began to singe the cobblestone he lay on.

In a flash of screaming smoke, Luther was gone. Only a scant few cinders remained to mark that he was ever even there.

[Sephira]

“Special Assistant, there’s a letter that was just delivered from Faldrass that’s addressed to you.” Samantha Reid stated flatly with an all too serious glance toward the dark haired mage standing at the desk filling out a report. Sephira bit her lip as she jotted down a final detail in the ever growing Element Cult casefile. Earth Mask was dead, killed by Maxine’s hand, although the Special Assistant had left out that particular detail in her earlier report.

Francis’s death was left as a footnote in the file and was attributed to the Order of the Mantis in Rynmere, rather than pegged to Max. Sephira had been careful to make that distinction when she was debriefed on her time in Andaris. The woman had no intention of endangering Max any more than was required.

Sephira glanced up at the redheaded secretary who manned the front desk of Redwood Redoubt with a frown. “A letter?” she asked with a tightly drawn brow.

The mage looked tired, there was a weariness to her that had only grown since her return from Rynmere. Her nights had been restless and filled with nightmares of the horrors she had witnessed there. Watching the forced removal of Rey’na’s Spark had continued to haunt the woman long after her friend had said her goodbyes. No matter how safe Sephira felt in her bed, in her dreams she was endlessly plagued with the paranoia of being a once hunted mage.

“Aye, it’s in the spare office upstairs.” Samantha looked at the Rupturer with a gleam of pity in her eyes. “I thought you might want some privacy.”

The onyx eyed woman nodded appreciatively. She and Miss. Reid had a good working relationship, but the woman had a knack for knowing with Sephira needed some space away from the rest of the Elements. Most everyone in the military seemed like they knew who Special Assistant Blackwood was; a brooding saber wielding mage who cared little for others. In reality it was quite the opposite. Strangely it was Max who probably understood her the best.

Sephira was not actually apathetic in nature; she cared...more than she probably should about others. To the point that she would place herself in perilous situations to protect those she cared for.


Heading upstairs she made her way into the aforementioned office, bringing a sputtering oil lantern with her. The light was flickering and dim at best, so before long the soldier held out her exposed wrist where her Celarion Mark rested in order to provide a bit more light in the darkened room. On the empty desk sat a thick ivory envelope stamped with the wax seal of Baron Smooglenuff. The old man had been kind enough to allow Sephira’s mother to stay with him for as long as she needed, along with Elias, Sephira’s old mage mentor.

She had expected the Baron’s crooked handwriting upon opening the letter with a spare knife from her belt but instead the woman was met with the neat tightly packed handwriting of her mother.

‘Sephira, it’s been seasons since you last visited. I wanted to talk to you...about you and about your father.' A few ink drops stained the page as if the writer had paused for a moment after writing those words.

“Elias says you won’t come until you are ready. But it’s been ages since I last saw you. I know things didn’t end well when we last spoke at the cottage. I wasn’t ready to talk about what you are...what Drakeson made you into. But I am now.

Please, just think about it.

Love,

Mum’

A thin rasp of a sigh escaped Sephira’s lips as she walked softly to the threshold of the office before closing the door, wrapping her in the dimly lit interior of the dark room. She needed to be alone right in this moment. Slowly the Rupturer slid down with her back pressed against the door before she came to rest on the floor. Between her gloved fingers she looked at the contents of the letter before painfully glancing away, allowing her night-black eyes to settle on the darkest corner of the room.

She and her mother had a complicated relationship. Ever since she had told her of her identity as a mage, things had gotten rocky. True ,she had saved her mother and helped save the island of Faldrass back in Ymiden but that had not undone the damage that was already there. For arcs Sephira had hidden the part of herself that was tied to her Sparks from her mother. She had kept it a secret before finally telling Amelia Blackwood the truth last arc. They hadn’t spoken on the topic since and beyond that they had barely spoken at all.

The dark eyed mage was not sure she was quite ready to have that conversation again.

For now all she was wanted the peace and quiet afforded to her by the locked door at her back.

That was when it began; The Call.

It came from someplace old and deep and it carried with it peace and serenity that Sephira had never felt before. It came in the form of a pulse that echoed within her Sparks like a distant melody cast over water. Some part of her latched onto it like a life raft, begging it to take her away from here. Sephira had always embraced magic when the rest of the world failed her...so she simply did so once again.

The bright silvery song of ether filled her veins in that moment, washing over the mage like cool silken wave on the beach.

She let that wave take her away to wherever the source of the Call was coming from.

Within the now empty office, the letter from Sephira’s mother drifted softly to the floor.

Dialogue|Thoughts

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Common sign"

extra line here
The baby was sleeping and Hart sang to her in a low, soft voice. Ru was small, very small, and he craddled her in her blankets against his chest, looking down into her sleeping face. One tiny hand was curled into a fist against her cheek, and he rocked her gently and cooed to her as he walked the small room. He was at Kirei's.

Outside he could hear children playing. In the other room he heard soft sounds. The baby had eaten not long ago, and Hart had held her and patted her back, careful to support her head. She was so fragile, and yet her fragility did nothing to detract from her perfection. He had been told by the women at Luna's that babies couldn't smile until a certain age, but Ru seemed to smile. She seemed happy.

Just being with her, thinking about her, made Hart happy too.

He loved her, he knew; loved her because of who she was, without even knowing who she would be. He didn't know how to put it into words, even to himself, but his heart felt more meaningful because of Ru. He sang to her, songs he made up or songs his mother or Jovy had sung. Though the baby seemed very deeply asleep he continued to hold her and rock her gently.

That, then, was when the pain struck.

Hart was fine and then he wasn't; he let out a gasp of a breath and, after a moment of disorientation, made sure Ruari was alright. The pain was such that it winded him, and for a time he couldn't talk. It felt, suddenly, as if he was going to fall apart. The baby in his arms burbled in her sleep and breathlessly, Hart gathered his voice to sing to her, lowly, lowly.

He was okay, he told himself. He was fine.

Then the pain struck again, and it was all he could do not to scream.

When he was able, Hart very carefully put Ru down. Then he staggered to the nearest wall. There he stood, hunched over, and tried to breathe.

He was okay again. He was okay.

And then he wasn't.

It wasn't as if he was going to fall apart, he thought in the midst of the attack. It was as if he was going to fly apart, all at once. He took a step and stumbled hard into the wall, then carefully went down to a knee. He started to say something, anything to make it stop, and then the pain was there and he screamed.

The baby in her blankets began to fuss. She started crying.

Hart wanted to go to her but he couldn't. He stayed with one hand on the wall, doubled over, unable to get up. Unable to do anything. He wasn't okay, he wasn't, and then he couldn't even scream it hurt so much. He couldn't breathe. His head went white with the pain. He was being flung apart. He felt his hand slip against the wall and he didn't know if he fell.

Then he was gone, just gone, from the little room where the baby cried.

And suddenly, he was somewhere else completely.

[Max]

Another trial, another tavern.

The unsavory establishment was filled with light and laughter. Drinks poured freely, the bard played a familiar shanty, and the weightlessness of inhibitions lost permeated the place. A rare happiness colored the smiling faces of the patrons. Not a single fist had been thrown, which was saying something considering which raven-haired hothead was present. It was still early though. This was still the point in the trial before moods soured and egos soared. Voices raised in slurred song rang out over calls for more rounds of alcohol. In the corner, a heated game of dice had been well underway.

"Fucking Immortals!" a pot-bellied opponent grouched with a shake of his fist. He pointed an accusing finger at the dice player across from him, face reddening with anger. "No one is that lucky! No one!"
"Right you are," Maxine feigned a sympathetic nod. The few in the crowd watching who were familiar with her antics began to chuckle. Her false sympathy turned into a smug grin. "It's not luck. It's skill." Her palms reached forward to begin scooping her earning into her possession. "That, or you're just shit at this." The losing party shot up out of his seat at that comment. A couple patrons nearby seemed to stiffen at the sudden animosity, fearing the worst. Maxine paused in her collection to lean back in her seat. The man's chest heaved as he stared down at her. She plucked a dagger from her belt and gave it a playful twirl in her palm as she considered him.

Fat. Slow. Stupid. I'm already bored.

"I'll tell you what," Max suggested as the dagger came to a sudden halt as her fingers closed firmly upon its handle. "We let Lady Luck herself decide, yeah?" The overweight brute furrowed his brow as he watched her shove the coins back into the center of the table. She gestured toward the pile and picked up the dice again. "I roll a twelve and you buy this whole bar another round."
"And when you don't?" her opponent demanded with a pompous chuckle.
"You get everything on the table."
"You're on, idiot."

Maxine shrugged and shoved the dagger back into her belt. She cupped her hands together and gave the dice a shake. She made a whole ordeal out of it, closing her eyes and dropping a hand over them for effect. Then she let them roll from her hand onto the table, willing a Favorable Outcome. Every eye glued to the tumbling squares as they knocked around the ale-soaked surface. Then they settled.

"Impossible!" the furious loser howled, slamming his fists upon the table. Max dropped her had from her face and smirked, the cheers of fellow bar patrons growing deafening. She leaned forward and scooped her nel back into her pocket. The rest she left for the barmaid to collect to ensure her victim kept his word. The bartenders hustled to fill the mass influx of orders. Suddenly, the chair Maxine sat in was airborne. A small group of drunk, grateful drinkers paraded her around in her seat before unceremoniously plopping her onto a couch. Despite herself, she laughed, tapping her glass of rum against the peers who regarded her their hero of the break.

For the briefest moment in time she was genuinely happy and purely in this simple moment. There was no Rynmere. No Brett, Rebekah, or Francis. She'd forgotten the unforgivable things she'd done to be where she was now. She'd forgotten the unforgivable things done unto her. Right then she was just another woman at a bar. She was free. A shot of rum went down her throat like water when a cheers in her honor roared through the tavern. And then The Call came.

The first pulse surprised her like a punch to the gut. In a trill it had passed, and Maxine brushed the pain off to continue this rare enjoyment. It came again. And again. And again with more frequency than the one that came before. Had someone spiked her drink? Was she poisoned? Whatever it was, it made the breath catch in her throat. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor to the alarm of those sitting beside her. Every nerve in her body was on fire. In a blind desperation, Max somehow made it through the concerned crowd, out the tavern doors, and into the street as though air would be her remedy. Pain had been her constant companion. She knew pain better than most, but never like this. It was tearing her apart.

Max dropped to her knees in the alleyway, gasping. There was no getting air into her lungs. Her eyes shut tight and her hands clamped over her exploding head, fingers curling to drive her own nails into her scalp. There was no fighting it. She'd been fighting everything and everyone her whole life, but finally she found one fight she could not win. Had she the ability to speak, she would've been begging someone to put an end to her to escape the all-consuming torment. Agonized shrieks echoed from the space behind the tavern. And Maxine was gone.

Dialogue|Thoughts

[Cervantez]

☠ Cervantez Xeleno ☠
☠ Mood: Calm, intrigued, Curious
☠ Company: Himself and his Thralls
☠ Current Thought: What a wonderful feeling
☠ Current Theme: Bury Me Low
☠ Attire: Masterwork Armor

"Common Speech"

"Xantheon Speech"

☠ The warmth of Ashan was well recieved by the necromancer. This morning Cervantez was out in the wilds, Cervantez putting his necromantic powers to use. This trial he had his marrow and one of the first bodies he had found an arc ago, the Lothar one.

Together with his thralls he tested their viability in combat, checking reaction time, coordination, and attack patterns. He knew very well that a fight would weigh on which party could deal the killing blow before the other, and he wanted to be sure his thralls were the ones ending fights.

And so he began his experiment, testing the capabilities of basic non-welled thralls. He was fighting both thralls at once and was doing very well at dodging their swipes or fending them off with his own greatsword, as well as his fists and kicks. It was a fun experience and he knew that this would only make him better as a mage, to understand his thralls and learn what each was made of.

He took a break, calling them off and putting them on guard duty as he jotted his findings down in a makeshift notebook he had. One could call it a grimoire but that was far from the truth of it. No this was just research. It was how he began in the art of necromancy so why change that aspect now? Once all his finding were done, he set his journal aside and pulled out the one belonging to Du'umurat.

He was finding the thought process of this mage astounding. To think there was someone that crazy, that foolish to further jeopardize the place of mages in the world. From what he gathered Yaralon seemed to be a haven for mages alike or at least could become one, as they were not the judgey sort when it came to the arcane. The landscape was warped by magic and fractures naturally so who were they to judge if you had a spark or not?

Among his reading he found one passage rather interesting, it was about a group of mage like scholars from what he gathers in the text of the journal as there was no real clear answer written in the pages before him.

"I wonder who they are?"

he said as if to question the validity of what was written there.


"In all my travels I was not expecting to find a group of mages with like-minded ideals. They seem to be on the right path, but I fear their vision may be narrowed a bit. They will have to be watched for sure, can't have them ruining my plans after all."



Those few words stood out to him the most, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. And like that he was ready to return home, or at least he thought he was. As he stood, he felt it, a sensation he could only describe as a pulse. It was...pleasant and he found his flaming ether orbs closing sighing happily from the feeling.

It was like a warm embrace from Alora, or a tender hug from his mother, and where ever the source of it was, he wanted to go to it, he wanted to be as close as he could to the source of such a wonderful feeling. It stirred something in his soul and he couldnt deny or fight it.

He melted in it, allowing it to wrap around his very being, allowing what hold it had on him to take full control until he was no longer there. All that remained were the marrow and lothar thralls, collapsing to the ground as their puppeteer's connection had been severed. Cervantez had somehow left the wilds. ☠

[Tio Silver]

When the call came out there were many people in the world who were in the midst of deep, profound activities; training for combat, researching magic, studying science or making any other sort of effort to bettering themselves.

Tio was trying to build a catapult out of mackerel.

Trying being the operative word in that sentence. The materials present in fish were not ideally suited to ballistic devices, yet Tio was giving it a valiant attempt anyway. He held no fantasies of it actually working, but since he was trapped out in the middle of the ocean with nothing else to do he had to do something to alleviate his boredom! He'd been at sea for almost a whole season now as the ship he was hitching a ride on ploughed its way onwards to Yaralon, and there was only so much to do for entertainment once all the sea shanties ran out. He tried fishing at first, but when that got boring he found himself with a bucket of mackerel that nobody really wanted and no means of preserving them. He needed to do something with them, and that something was create siege weaponry. It was the only sensible course of action.

And then came the first pulse. It tickled his sparks in just the right ways, and made Tio shoot up from his chair in surprise. At first he dismissed it as a random, freak occurrence, but then it happened again and again, getting quicker in tempo. The feeling of contentment from his sparks was pleasant, but the fact that he didn't know what was causing it was pretty frightening: enough so that he put up his guard and began to search around for any enemies. Something foreign was influencing his sparks, but what? And what did it want?

Then the answer came from within. His sparks spoke to him: not with words, but with feelings and intentions. Just feed them a drop of ether, they seemed to say, and he would become a part of something incredible. Something magical.

Now who could possibly pass up an offer like that?

Tio focused inside of himself and connected to his sparks, sending all three a little drop of ether. And so, for a split second, he vanished.

[Wald Lowca]

Wald woke up, like any other day, in his tent surrounded by his two animals. Getting up he walked out to take a look at his surroundings outside his small tent. The snow was thinning through out this season as the tundra readied itself for new life to come. The forest in the distance was turning into green slowly a few more trees here and there. Looking over to the other side of his vision he looked over the city of Viden, it's walls looking as cold and unwelcoming as they always did to him.

Moving around his camp Wald did many of the normal chores he was use too. Except he prepared a second place to sit near the fire. He expected someone to come over this day, his friend Sybil who he had meet in Viden not last season. They were to discuss something about herbs in the forest or something Wald could not remember at the moment. In any case he couldn't let them go into the wilds alone since the student wasn't able to survive in the tundra on their own.

While Wald was getting something ready for breakfast he felt something deep in his core. His eyes widened as he looked to the city something was happening. The pain he felt quickly shot his fear up of the city itself. Was this his imagination or was this the city trying to take him like his dreams he had. He quickly grabbed his bow and took a stance towards the city. When he thought of his friend inside he was ready to run in and find them. But his primal fear boiled inside him he could feel his hairs stand on end. Before his mind could think his body ran for the treeline as fast as he could. Hiding behind the tree he closed his eyes and relaxed this relaxation helped him calm down and accept what was happening. The tree behind him disappeared in his meditation.

[Sybil Malach]

Sibyl was burning with a fever.

Under strict guidelines to not leave the home, Sibyl was effectively cordoned off into the Carnelian district. The Academy's orders were clear, and the student was to not leave the premises, or be held responsible for any outbreak. In all honesty, Sibyl had submitted the report of the disease, rather than trying to hide it, for this very reason. To get some rest.

The feverish student was bound to the bed by illness. What illness it was, remained to be seen. Herbs flowed between the door and the student, the apothecary on the other side keeping a distance, but offering the succor of treatment, with written instructions. It was maddening for Sibyl to withstand. Utter, and complete silence. The only voices that filtered through came from that door alone. The ravenous, deafening ringing was enough to make Sibyl unable to sleep. Staring up at the stone ceiling, as the hearth flickered. The isolation was slowly beginning to erode at the student. Sibyl was to meet someone-- Wald, and find an herb that'd help break the fever that plagued the student. But truly, today wouldn't be that day. Wald would be left alone, as Sibyl lay bed bound, and utterly without stimulation.

A pulse.

Pain searing through Sibyl. It was a sharp, stabbing sensation. Rifling through the core of the student. It was enough to make Sibyl stir in the bed, groaning out in increasing pain. Sibyl had no Sparks. No Marks. And it was to remain this way, as long as the student had a say in that matter. But it would be impossible for the now writhing student to even make the rationale that the two were connected. Sibyl had been bed bound, and hadn't even considered the possibility of speaking to a mage on a regular basis.

A pulse.

Writhing in bed, Sibyl was being wracked with a tearing, searing pain. It was increasing by the second. Ragged breath against the sheets. Letting out a low, pained groan, the student could hardly muster enough energy to yell.

A pulse.

It hurt. It was something utterly searing, like a white hot branding iron against the skull.

A pulse.
A pulse.
A pulse.

That was all it took, before Sibyl slipped through the cracks. Barely even able to think, barely even able to continue on, an imprint of the student lay in that bed the only thing, in that moment, proof of the student's very existence.