1st Cylus 718
She dreamed about Necromancers that freezing cylus night.
She dreamt about Gavrel, the master necromancer who employed his power on the petty, vindictive pursuits of revenge when he could have spent the full measure of his considerable power on other less half-witted pursuits. Even shackled service to the Ministry of Advisors or even the rumored Coven branch in Etzos itself would have been preferable to the way he squandered life, time, effort and ether.
A mage without greater ambition, without that drive for magical self-actualization, without the intended application of their abilities for either discovery, industry, or some cause beyond the base satisfaction of simply having magic was no mage at all. Heal the world, destroy a city, find a cure for all the world’s rashes, start a cult, rule from the shadows, delve into the depths of magic so obscure, so deep nobody else has dared - fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.
But self-satisfied arcane masturbation masquerading as supernatural thuggery without actual profit or tangible gain? To scrounge up every last fiber of potential only to waste it on goals both mismatched to stature and not even beneficial to the mage?
Fuckin’ dumb. Gavrel’s own Necromancy master must have employed Sap on him a little too many times during his own tutelage.
Even if she knew when to call and when to fold. Sunken costs were just that: sunken and gone. At the bottom of the sea where you wouldn’t get them back.
Even Padfoot sought a plague beyond the limitations of his paws and teeth, a deformed, monstrous legacy that would leave a dark crest upon the annals of Etzori history - Gavrel had eyes only for short-sighted payback.
He was beneath even a Becomer who poisoned the poor.
For… whatever reason he did what he did. One theory asserted by a colleague in the Domain branch claimed that, in a crazed state, he dipped his blood into the food for the poor to annex everyone as totems. Another claimed he craved his own flesh and found a way to forge an abundance on it. Yet one more claimed the Hero Doran, secretly a vile and venal Faldrun worshipper, had sought to flood the market with Becoming reagents for… who knew. Small talk and idle chatter didn’t seem to hinge much on sense.
The dumbest one she heard claimed he had simply wanted to feed the poor.
Though… she was rather biased, she supposed. She had heard too many whispered, resentful, sometimes fearful mutterings about the Necromancer from their mutual ‘friend’ to ever have a proper, clear opinion on him. She had never even met the man.
The giant, writhing mass of flesh called a Stitchborn he had loosed on her last trial during the ambush, she mused, was the closest she had ever gotten. It had left quite an impression in more than one sense of the word. It probably even had more of a personality than him.
She wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice for his absence in the ambush; it simply made sense to hunt from the comfort of your Home when given the option.... But he undoubtedly was. Why else would he aim so low if not the fear of failure, of overreaching himself?
Or worse: he was content with where he was.
Though Finn disagreed, the ugliest thing you could say to a child was: good job
Don’t try harder.
Don’t be better.
Don’t improve.
Don’t get stronger.
Don’t excel, be content with the above average-
Don’t transcend your limitations.
Don’t-
Don’t-
He was a mage now too. Finn was a mage now too.
She gave him guidance, instruction, even affection, and he still let fell apart over one dead girl he barely knew. The fault didn’t lie with her, no, no, it was the sabotage wrought by-
She was dream-digressing again.
She dreamed about Necromancers that freezing cylus night.
She dreamt about Gavrel, the master necromancer who employed his power on the petty, vindictive pursuits of revenge when he could have spent the full measure of his considerable power on other less half-witted pursuits. Even shackled service to the Ministry of Advisors or even the rumored Coven branch in Etzos itself would have been preferable to the way he squandered life, time, effort and ether.
A mage without greater ambition, without that drive for magical self-actualization, without the intended application of their abilities for either discovery, industry, or some cause beyond the base satisfaction of simply having magic was no mage at all. Heal the world, destroy a city, find a cure for all the world’s rashes, start a cult, rule from the shadows, delve into the depths of magic so obscure, so deep nobody else has dared - fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.
But self-satisfied arcane masturbation masquerading as supernatural thuggery without actual profit or tangible gain? To scrounge up every last fiber of potential only to waste it on goals both mismatched to stature and not even beneficial to the mage?
Fuckin’ dumb. Gavrel’s own Necromancy master must have employed Sap on him a little too many times during his own tutelage.
Even if she knew when to call and when to fold. Sunken costs were just that: sunken and gone. At the bottom of the sea where you wouldn’t get them back.
Even Padfoot sought a plague beyond the limitations of his paws and teeth, a deformed, monstrous legacy that would leave a dark crest upon the annals of Etzori history - Gavrel had eyes only for short-sighted payback.
He was beneath even a Becomer who poisoned the poor.
For… whatever reason he did what he did. One theory asserted by a colleague in the Domain branch claimed that, in a crazed state, he dipped his blood into the food for the poor to annex everyone as totems. Another claimed he craved his own flesh and found a way to forge an abundance on it. Yet one more claimed the Hero Doran, secretly a vile and venal Faldrun worshipper, had sought to flood the market with Becoming reagents for… who knew. Small talk and idle chatter didn’t seem to hinge much on sense.
The dumbest one she heard claimed he had simply wanted to feed the poor.
Though… she was rather biased, she supposed. She had heard too many whispered, resentful, sometimes fearful mutterings about the Necromancer from their mutual ‘friend’ to ever have a proper, clear opinion on him. She had never even met the man.
The giant, writhing mass of flesh called a Stitchborn he had loosed on her last trial during the ambush, she mused, was the closest she had ever gotten. It had left quite an impression in more than one sense of the word. It probably even had more of a personality than him.
She wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice for his absence in the ambush; it simply made sense to hunt from the comfort of your Home when given the option.... But he undoubtedly was. Why else would he aim so low if not the fear of failure, of overreaching himself?
Or worse: he was content with where he was.
Though Finn disagreed, the ugliest thing you could say to a child was: good job
Don’t try harder.
Don’t be better.
Don’t improve.
Don’t get stronger.
Don’t excel, be content with the above average-
Don’t transcend your limitations.
Don’t-
Don’t-
He was a mage now too. Finn was a mage now too.
She gave him guidance, instruction, even affection, and he still let fell apart over one dead girl he barely knew. The fault didn’t lie with her, no, no, it was the sabotage wrought by-
She was dream-digressing again.