Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[C S]

A newly formed chain lashed onto the broken beam, and in short order, Morrelie slowed the brick to a stop before she swung around the golem. Her unassuming gambit was taken in tow by her telekinetic pull, and when Morrelie was behind the giant, she sent it true into its back. There, it lodged amidst the rest of the burning rubble that comprised the monster's body, but was separate from the rest of that bulk in that it refused the fires. Once in position, the etchings Morrelie laid into it began to cast their light. Runes that invoked imagery of shells.

[The Kingpin]

A low groan came from the behemoth as it hunched its back, several chains shooting out in all directions, latching onto trees, rubble and boulders alike before retracting, a bellowing roar escaping the monstrosity as it twisted around, the rubble whirling with it in a maelstrom of destruction threatening to obliterate the mage and everything else in its vicinity.

[C S]

Morrelie rode the spin by her magical chain like the rest of the crude flails radiating from the golem. Another summoned chain pulled her over to a boulder and she planted her feet on it, along with summoned ties that kept her stable on its side. The mage drew her hallmark spiral shell in the rock with her wand, then shot off to the next when she was finished with her enchantment. The mage drowned out the blurry, vertigo inducing mess the rest of the world had become as she darted about the gauntlet around the golem. Its burning mass was her stable point of reference as she moved, preparing her charms.

[The Kingpin]

It was not clear how the golem knew, but in that instant, the stones were drawn towards it in an attempt to finish off the Mage with the sudden change in direction, the boulders and rubble slamming into its hide and crumbling, before being expelled in all directions, the explosive blast that accompanied it immolating everything in the goliath's vicinity.

[C S]

Morrelie did not have much warning or time to react, so she did what came naturally: casting a magical shield around herself in anticipation of harmful projectiles and otherwise fatal impacts. She was tossed away from the blast, flipping end over end until she sent a series of lines out into the canopy of the woods, forming a simple web to catch herself and stand on.

"That's just petty, now," Morrelie growled in between haggard breaths, visible in the cold some distance from the burning golem. "Bringing about a detriment on yourself, for just the chance of making me sprain an ankle or something."

A barely defined boundary of blue and gold faded in and out of sight around the golem, the released power of the charm serving to contain the restless spirits bound to its being. Things going out of Morrelie's control meant the trap was only mostly sprung. There was yet one more piece that needed to fall into play, and it was stuck in the golem's back.

Chance would have it that the golem wouldn't be able to do much for the next few minutes, bound as it was. Morrelie leaned back into her chains and placed her other hand around her wand. She made sure her aim was true as she channeled her energies, an orb of light forming around the tip of the bone instrument, the tiny spiraling ridges crackling with the amassed power at her disposal.

Finally, Morrelie unleashed her attack, that which she attempted to do from the start, a concentrated column of light laced by interwoven bolts of fire. It forced the mage back against her lattice of chains, and its scorching might eradicated the trees in its path, leaving imprints of their shadows on the ground.

The beam went straight through the burning golem, and was more than enough to release the power of the first and last charm. The two powers acting in tandem decisively dismantled the magic that shackled the dead to the construct.

[The Kingpin]

That final motion, the fall of the golem, was punctuated by a hellish cry, one formed of a dozen tortured souls denied, once more, their chance at retribution. A shockwave engulfed the behemoth as the magic dissipated violently, blowing the flesh, wood, iron and stone that made up its form in every direction with such force that it erased the ruins of the village from existence entirely, the closest trees to the clearing that formed it blown outwards and against their siblings deeper into the treeline. By the end, nothing remained of what was once a quaint, peaceful village but a scorch mark, and at its centre, a tethered husk of iron and bleached bone, even the stone reduced to dust in the blast.

And in the distance, on a nearby mountain, a pair of sleek, metallic figures watched, their feline forms glinting dully in the afternoon light. A metallic rattle came from one, glowing red vents that served as eyes in the overlapping plating that formed its head blazing with arcane energy as it leapt off the mountainside to resume its pursuit of another target, while its twin stood guard, watching the Interceptor from a distance; Arashi's vigilant Sentinel.

[C S]

Morrelie landed lightly on damp soil. The atmosphere over the area was downright tropical, with the ambient heat left over from the spell. It made the disrepair of the mage's combat uniform more bearable. When Morrelie rose, flaps of fabric hung loosely around her midsection, and dangled from her arms and legs. Only then, after her target was vanquished, did the drain of battle set in, and she became aware of her injuries. Cuts over burn and frostbite scars. Back pain. Was it apt to say that she was too old for this?

At least the air was warm, for the time being. The aroma of burnt wood in the trees was a pleasant one, despite the horrid desolation immediately past them.

"Ah, Arashi. I give you oh so little credit. The ******* fled with his legs intact. In my quest for justice in this mad world, am I cursed to be unable to kill those that deserve it the most?" lamented the thousand year woman tiredly. It was obvious now that Kristov had taken her words to heart, and extended his time with his legs by running away while she was unable to chase due to circumstance and her general condition.

"All this tracking... meditation... I could use a damn rest. And some clothes to transmogrify."

"Time to find an inn to crash. Then it's back to the grind, to find my mythical worms with the help of a demon's meat-prison."

Morrelie looked over her shoulder at the husk that marked the deeds done on this day, and muttered to herself,

"These hills definitely won't be silent anymore."

[The Kingpin]

The cracking of ice punctuated the start of that morning. Sapphire eyes stared out from beneath the frozen lake as the Scholar split the glassy surface with his horns. It wasn't often he could say it, but at this moment in time, he was bored. They had been here a couple of days or so, now. Was it a couple of days? No it wasn't. Not quite. Almost. Technically. Exactly one day and thirteen hours. He would have counted the minutes and seconds too, but they weren't as important in the larger scheme of things which was that he was bored. He had managed to exhaust every book he had of information, all the way down to the author, city, year and suggested supplementary material where it existed. He'd managed to assemble a shopping list of tomes, most of which were likely to be found in Valenhad thanks to their prolific publishing houses. He even knew which shops.

He'd managed to take stock of all the food he currently had, how much was left and how long it would last, accounting for three different rates of consumption, and to top it all off, he even had a mental map drawn regarding the best places to hunt for food along the eastern coast.

All this, because he was bored. Snow, ice and the twittering of birds and an Unguul-kin could only do so much to alleviate that boredom. But he knew that there was a good reason they had done this. Ceridwen had needed time to recover. All the comforting words in the world couldn't have washed away the soul-gripping terror that she experienced when brought into contact with something so massive and so mighty as a Kraken.

He had tried, of course. It's how he knew. For the first day or two she was almost catatonic. Afterwards, she started to talk, but her voice was filled with nothing but fear and unrest, paranoia sinking in as the endless list of what-ifs bombarded her mind relentlessly; what if there were other things like that, roaming the skies? The land? What if such a thing were to decide to prey on her and other Hueilin? What if it was a malicious creature that actively wished destruction on others? Things like the 'Sylvari' Septimus and Beshayir both had mentioned in the past? Or like those hunters that had captured and caged her?

She had only recently calmed down enough that she could be reasoned with. And that was when she started to sing. Prompted by the few winter birds that still called this place home, the dragoness had begun to twitter. Short bursts of chirps at first, but then longer and more intricate songs. It was a curious thing, witnessing first-hand how singing could heal one's soul. Beshayir and Syria both had been all but entranced by the songs by the time Ceridwen had gotten over the most of her fear.

The Scholar was cursed never to truly enjoy that same trance. He had heard songs not unlike them in Drakhunmiir for most of his life. The only difference was that he had the temporary pleasure of being able to observe how the song changed with Ceridwen's rising spirits.

Once that was over, he had returned to his lull. His boredom. He didn't know if the others had caught on, but considering how their life usually was, with the exception of their stay in Brodudika, it would have been easy to tell that staying still and waking to the same scenery, doing the same things, eating the same food and practising the same techniques would be getting old.

Still, it had only been one day and thirteen hours. One would think something that was technically immortal would have a bit more patience. But for one who enjoyed intellectual stimulation, patience wore thin when the books ran out. He couldn't burden Syria with deep conversations about the workings of the world and the cosmos all the time. She needed a break just as much as Ceridwen did. She just didn't make it as obvious.


Beshayir sat, bundled up in her wirshah and blankets, in front of the fire as she sipped from a cup of tea. Unlike the Scholar, hers had been an eventful couple of days. Where he had spent his time reading through every tome in his possession, she had been practising her magic. It was, in part thanks to that, that she was able to enjoy her tea at that moment. Not that she couldn't have without it. Septimus had a talent for making good tea. But as was to be expected of a dragon, temperature was sometimes an issue. Often, the tea would be too hot, others, too cold, in the cases where he had been told it was too hot.

This time, she didn't have that problem. And it was easy to see why. Looking at her palms, anyone would have seen the orange glow in her skin, as though they were made of heated iron. But rather than simply heating, she had learned to regulate heat. Without her wand. The result was tea exactly as she wanted it. It was also how she was neither too hot nor too cold under the wirshah and blanket. That, was an adaptation to Syria's attempt to wake her up through overheating her. The girl smiled into the rim of her cup at that. Your move, Syria she thought with a measure of satisfaction as she took another sip.

[C S]

The woman in question was oblivious to the unspoken challenge, finding joy in Beshayir's good mood and elevated spirits. It had been an incremental acclimation towards pyromancy for the Daavenian mage, and Beshayir's progress in -- along with her enjoyment of -- the art was sufficient enough for her to rescind her trepidation. She likened that to an application of a certain mantra she heard from Septimus.

Syria sat cross-legged opposite Beshayir, her journal in her lap and a quill in her hand. The point scrawled dutifully across the page, laying down the mage's thoughts of hidden doors. The curiosity came to her on reflection of Zuppoland. A small tangent about secret hideaways she had then evolved into a contemplation on all the ways one could use magic to keep things out of everyday sight. There was the Hueilin veil, for one extreme example. The stitch in space and time that Liorick and Aderalia created was another example, for a lesser degree of extremity. In what other ways have things been hidden, and for what reason?

Syria wrote of vine-tangled step pyramids, jungle catacombs and deep pits in the ground that were actually several levels of shrines stacked atop one another. Her time in the southern reaches stoked the coals of her imagination. Timeless artifacts and treasures concealed by the overwhelming density of foliage, temperatures and magical wards. All speculation, but speculation that invited thought, both clinical and extravagant in nature.

[The Kingpin]

The sharp snap-snapping drew the Scholar's under-stimulated attention towards the edge of the riverbank. There, standing amidst the snowdrifts and what grass still stood on the frozen banks, was a bird with black and white plumage, a long, slender red bill, shaped like an ice pick, holding its head close to the ice and snapping its beak noisily in a way that seemed disproportionate for its size. The Scholar noticed that the bird had a facial disk not unlike an owl's, with the areas around the ears flushing a rich orange-yellow in tune with the snapping of its bill. A second later, it started stabbing at the ice as it dug itself a small hole. At first, this caught Septimus off-guard and took him by surprise. Why was it digging away at the ice over there, when there was exposed water over here? A couple of types of waterfowl had already moved in here, and yet that tall bird, roughly the height of a grown person, insisted on chiselling away at solid ice.

He found out why a few moments later. Pulling roughly at something in the ice, the bird emerged with a bulbous brown object that, after a few vigorous shakes, was soon revealed to be an enormous, limp orange toad. No doubt, it had been hibernating under the ice. The bird then, in a feat of gluttony that boggled even his mind, swallowed the entire thing whole. He had thought unhinging jaws were a characteristic of reptiles, but it seemed this bird had proven otherwise. It then began to walk along the bank, snapping its beak periodically, presumably in search of other hibernating toads.

Ceridwen's trilling was muted and controlled for the most part as she sat, huddled up in her wings and buried in her own dense plumage by the riverbank, coaxing songs from the few breeds of waterfowl that had been drawn in by the Scholar's acts of ice-breaking. These birds had beaks like hatchets, flat and narrow at the tip, growing wide further back. Their heads were armoured with bony plates, as were their necks and the leading edge of their wings. Long, thin, saurian tails covered in plumage terminated in arrow-fletching tips, and the Scholar was, with a bit of thought, able to piece together what they were. Vanguardian ice-breakers. Their scarlet eyes and black wings were distinctive, but the fact that this species of bird-wyvern, as opposed to other ice-breaker breeds being this far south was a telling sign. It was undoubtedly an exceptionally cold winter. For once, they must've been driven south to where the ice was thinner. He pondered how that boded for the people of Vanguard themselves. It was also interesting how they differed from other sorts of bird-wyvern he had encountered, most notably the jungle variety he had encountered on that very day he met Thurduunax. The day his life was torn free of the stagnation that had cursed him since his birth.



This year was a year of firsts for many. The first time in hundreds of years that Crestvale's trade district was unsheltered from the elements. The first time the snow had crushed the shades. The first time the Crestvale treasury was losing more than it was earning in an effort to repair the damage. The first time the entire Crestvale fleet was out on patrol. The first time the gallows were holding daily executions, reaped from the vast numbers of pirates that thought they could prey on Crestvale's vulnerable sea trade and falling victim to the vigilant patrols.

It was also the first time in history that a leader of Tyrbenetus set foot on Aster.

The Tyrbenetan brig Equinox was anchored in port, markedly less extravagantly decorated than its peers in the harbour. The crew, however, were simultaneously out-of-place and inconspicuous. Creatures resembling wolves and lions if not for their two legged stance carried cargo off, some of it their own, others goods intended to be offered to the Valenhadian authorities in exchange for their ability to stay. At the trailing end of this group were two figures.

One, taller than most, clad in some leather and scale armour that seemed distinctly oriental, dark red and overlapped with pale steel plates. The armour was layered and seemed to be topped on its exterior by a coat that extended almost to the ground, made of relatively light leather. Under his armour, a black shirt with a standing collar split at the throat, revealing a triangle of white fabric beneath. For a traveller, he was armed to the teeth, two yataghans at his sides and a double-ended sword of a form unfamiliar in Aster, located on his back. Black blades engraved with some form of dragon pattern that could not be made out in the shadow of the harbour extended from either end of the long grip, curving in different directions. On his head, a wide brimmed hat that cast his head in shadows just enough to obscure his features to the unattentive, and designed to shelter him from a harsh, unforgiving, apocalyptic sun.

The other was shorter, but more stockily built, clad in dark grey armour that seemed more fitting for a man going to war than one travelling. The plating, despite the dark hue, still managed to shimmer as if polished, and the borders of the plates themselves shimmered with a shade of gold that was faded, but unmistakeable. On his chest was imagery of a divinity that had been lost for over a year. His head was hidden under a hood that left nothing but his glowing eyes visible; a trait that the two shared. On his back was a massive heater shield, likely too heavy for any human to carry, and a relatively plain steel longsword engraved in runes of a sort that had never been seen in Aster save for once, and at his sides, two shortswords, more elegantly refined than the frightening weapon that was no doubt his preferred method of killing. Not that he needed weapons to be lethal. Gauntlets on his formidable hands looked like they could shatter a carriage with a backhand, and on a man this visibly powerful, walking comfortably in that much armour, nobody dared question the likelihood of that being the case.

These two figures were strangers here, but in their homeland, they were the leaders of a resistance that had fought against an unstoppable force for aeons. Each was unfathomably older than anyone in this city, and between them, may likely have fought more battles than the rest of Aster's living human and elven soldiers had combined.

[C S]

The songs and vague tapping eventually whittled down Syria's attention to her writing. It was not long after her mind had wandered away from recording itself that Syria relocated to the water's edge, leaving her journal in her bag. Syria's footsteps were deliberately quiet on the way over, not wanting to disturb Ceridwen at all. She squatted down a few feet off to the dragoness' side, firmly within Ceridwen's fluffy blindspot, where she watched the birds on the water around the dragon underneath. It did not take long for Syria to realize the birds were about as truthful to their appearance as Ceridwen was, and were cousins of dragonkind. The only true bird to be seen on the lake was the burrowbeak, which continued to live up to the "burrow" portion of its namesake.

"Those poor things. At least they go quick..."

[The Kingpin]

Syria was soon accompanied by the elvish mage apprentice, Beshayir taking a seat beside her. "Is there something on your mind?" she asked slowly as she crossed her legs, her cup in hand, held close to her face to let the heat radiating from it fend off the cold. It was a delicate balance. Too close and the steamy air of the cup didn't allow her to breathe. Too far away and the steam stuck to her face and turned to frost a moment later. It was one of those moments when she regretted not learning some hydromancy while she was in Brodudika. Something to ask Septimus or Ceridwen about, perhaps.

[C S]

While Beshayir navigated the nuances of steam in the winter, Syria more or less seamlessly recovered from her jolt. In her way, she'd gotten herself too engrossed in nature's stage, and she hadn't been expecting to hear Beshayir's voice then. If only she had Ceridwen's sense of hearing, or smell! She didn't seem too fazed by changes she couldn't explicitly see, and Syria likened that to her draconic perceptiveness. As it was, Syria maintained her countenance while her heart was beating at a rate just above its normal clip.

"Something on my mind?" Syria let herself fall back onto her bottom, and she hugged her knees as her eyes met Beshayir's. "I suppose you could say that," she continued nonchalantly, as if the young elf didn't see a shudder run down her spine. "I mean, ideally you always want something on your mind, to keep your thoughts from going idle and getting all fidgety..."

[The Kingpin]

"But there's a difference," commented the younger mage as she looked over at Syria's face searchingly. "Some things keep your mind busy, others keep it restless." She was thankful she remembered that particular piece of wisdom from her mother. She decided not to include the analogy that came with it, that the former was a gust and the latter a sandstorm. It didn't look like Syria's mind was quite that tumultuous.

[C S]

The redhead hummed a steady, ruminative tone. "A restless mind does usually lead to a fidgeting body...", she thought. Beshayir had her there. Resigning to the elf's insightfulness with a small smile, Syria said, "Very true." She looked to the lake again. The bird had exhausted its treasure of lethargic toads and was striding on its long, slim legs to another patch of ice to put its burrowing beak to work. "It's not often that we get to witness the natural order unfold like this. There's no restless thought going through that bird's head, just busy ones. And right now, it happens to be hungry, and it doesn't take to fern leaves as Frondfoots do."

[The Kingpin]

It was Beshayir's turn to make a thoughtful hum. Looking towards the bird and observing its actions for a while, she remembered an incident from home. "One time, when I was very young, my parents took me outside the walls for some time away from the city. And while we were out there, I saw a small furry animal. It looked like something that was neither a fox nor a cat, but something in between, and it had very big ears and long back legs. And I told my father I wanted it. He refused. He told me to keep watching it," she explained. Her eyes were still fixated on the bird as it walked, keeping its head low to the ground and snapping its beak periodically, its facial disk flushed with colour. It was listening.

"A few minutes passed and it was running around, making little clicking sounds and chirping, like a playful cat. And then a scorpion came out from under a rock. My father said the sounds the yurbu was making sounded a lot like some of the lizards that were around there. They were poisonous, so the yurbu didn't eat them. Scorpions could eat them, so the yurbu hunted scorpions instead."

[C S]

"It's the way of life, but I can't help feeling sorry for the creatures whose lives led up to a fatal trickery, or in this case, an ill-chosen resting place for the winter," Syria replied. "It just happens so quickly, just a blink, and then it's over. Which is a good thing, better than most examples of feeding in the wild, but still very humbling." After a moment's consideration, she added, "It's best to stay out of the affairs of wild animals, though. They don't make good pets."

[The Kingpin]

"I know...It would still have been nice if it was possible," responded Beshayir with a sigh. "If you could see it, you'd know why. Yurbus are really sweet little things. They're clever and curious and cute in ways that even cats can't match," she reflected as she took a sip of her tea. "I remember hearing stories as a child that mages always needed a familiar...If that was true I would have liked to have a yurbu as a familiar."

[C S]

"It may yet be so," said Syria with an air of optimism. She then went on to say, "I'd say to keep your mind open, though. It could be meant to be that your spirit takes to mana as a yurbu," Syria had a stumble with the specific pronunciation, "or you may be pleasantly surprised. I certainly didn't think I'd have a familiar in the form of a legend, for instance." Not that she ever expected to have one at all.

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir nodded thoughtfully. It was admittedly a bit early to be thinking about that. She was still learning the more intricate details of manipulating magic more precisely. It would be some time yet before she could truly call herself an established mage. With that, she returned her attention to her drink, sipping the steaming hot tea.

"I don't understand," commented Ceridwen as she concluded one of her songs, the echoing calls fading into the distance. "Why do humans and elves have such a compulsion to subjugate other creatures? Dogs, cats, birds, wyverns...bird wyverns, animals born free and then forced into servitude...Why?" asked the dragoness. Surprisingly, her voice lacked the outrage that had come to be expected of her where such matters were concerned.