Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[Hopeflower]

Viho tensed the slightest bit before he turned, taking care to keep his shoulders level. While the similarities were close, they were revealed to be less exact than they appeared at first glance. He tilted his head, gray eyes narrowing a little as he sized up the strangers in front of him. "No," he replied. "If you're looking for him, you've missed him. He left the city several days ago."

[The Kingpin]

"Oh," responded the Scholar briefly. "My mistake then. Though I suppose that would make you...Viho? His father?" he guessed. The description did fit what he suspected Viho to look like. An older elf than Arsenic, and with an aura that indeed, was different, more powerful than his son's. And perhaps a bit more refined. And his son being a psychomancer suggested the older elf was likely the same.

[Hopeflower]

The inquiry got a short nod from the psychomancy instructor. "You suppose correctly." Viho faced his unexpected company fully, taking care to move slowly when he let his arms relax at his sides. "And you're a friend of his." It wasn't a question, and there was a definite wariness in the set of Viho's shoulders now. He didn't know how much or little this particular friend had been told about him, but it was a certainty that none of it had painted him in a particularly good light.

[C S]

"I'm just a mutual friend, really. I used to travel with a close friend of his before I met with Seppy, and he is friends with them all. We'd stopped by their village not too long ago, actually but... uh... let's just say we don't have the best luck running into them between trips." Syria quieted, becoming introspective for a tad, before saying with bright eyes, "We came close a little while ago in this city, though. But then something came up." She bit her lip. "Uh... just to make sure, Desrium hasn't gone off on any trips while we were gone, has he?"

[The Kingpin]

"He has a tendency to disappear on us. One of those friends we keep missing in our travels, for one reason or another," responded the Scholar simply. "Oh, of course. My manners. I am Septimus. Your son, and Desrium are both close friends of ours," he continued, noting a low, throaty sounding chirp behind him, as though Ceridwen was grumbling for some reason or other. "Beside me are Syria and Beshayir, and behind me is Ceridwen, whom you may have seen once or twice waiting at the school." The young pyromancer at the Scholar's side smiled, nodding in place of an actual greeting.

[Hopeflower]

A low hum and a short nod were most of the greeting Viho offered the rest of the group. The fingers of his left hand twitched when his gaze landed on the dragoness. Ceridwen. Yes, he recognized her.

"Of course," he said, and under different circumstances he would have spared a moment to be proud of the fact that his voice didn't slip into a disapproving growl. "Well met." Rather than let his own unease turn a chance meeting with someone who had likely already formed an opinion of him into a need to avoid bloodshed, or waste breath commenting on the fact that the place where he worked shared a name with Septimus, Viho cleared his throat and sought to address the concerns posed to him.

"Restlessness has always been in Arsenic's nature," he noted. "I know where he has gone. He will be safe for as long as he and his friends stay there. After that, I cannot say." He paused a moment, nudging away thoughts of the various possible gruesome fates Arsenic and his companions might meet. "As for Desrium," Viho added, arching a brow at the mage curiously, but otherwise maintaining polite neutrality, "as Evisa tells it, recently he left the city limits for a while and caused quite the disturbance. Other than that, to my knowledge he remains here."

[C S]

"Maybe our luck is turning around in that regard." The redhead lady bobbed on her staff, parsing Viho's words for a moment. "That may not be the case if they're going somewhere dangerous, however..."

It was their turn to worry over potentially ill-advised antics, it seemed.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar resisted the urge to squeeze the bridge of his nose at the news that Desrium had apparently been up to something that warranted being called a disturbance. "I suppose that is in line with what to expect of Desrium. The poor soul does have a knack for destructive happenings in his vicinity, intentional or otherwise. I will have to inquire about it further when I see him."

Despite the uncomfortable feeling Ceridwen had towards the psychomancer, she couldn't help but pipe up at the sound of a familiar name. "How is Evisa?" she asked, her head poking over the Scholar's shoulder.

[Hopeflower]

Viho took note of their reactions without comment, though he did find it interesting that they didn't know where Arsenic and his friends might have gone. Had they told no one what they were searching for? Interesting - and foolish. If that were the case, there would be no help coming should the kingdom seekers run into trouble.

In the end, he said, "She's as well and active as ever. Helping to keep the peace while serving as mother to her elementals, in between running off to see what new trouble Desrium has found." His control over his tone slipped a bit and by the end of his statement, a fond sort of dryness had bled in. Life had led him to find a strange friend in Evisa, that much was certain.

[C S]

"Good to know that he has someone looking out for him while we aren't here. I feel for her, though... a mother to elementals..." The mage's theory regarding those who had been gifted with aspects of the world resurfaced in her mind, a glimpse of magical study that fascinated and confused Viho. That same glimpse turned into something else just as quickly, images of the medallion hanging from Septimus' neck.

"We should get in touch with the others soon. Tell them about the whereabouts of their presents. Make sure they haven't gotten themselves into a bind."

One more glimpse for the psychomancer, of ancient cities taken by forests. Mesrafil and Yuraelia...

[The Kingpin]

"Oh. That's good. I think," responded Ceridwen thoughtfully, her mind suddenly taken by the most ludicrous images one could imagine for what Viho had said.

"It has been a pleasure, Viho. My thanks for the information. I will leave you to your ruminations, though I hope we next cross paths on less time-deprived circumstances. Until then, I bid you farewell," stated Septimus more decisively as he turned back towards his intended path, the looming shadow of the school reaching them even from its position down the road, so early in the day it was, and so massive a building was the academy.

"He didn't like me last time we spoke," chirped Ceridwen quietly once she was comfortable she could do so. "I hovered outside his classroom because a person smacked into the side of the school. I was checking in on her to make sure she was okay..."

The Scholar made a thoughtful sound at that. "Was he teaching a lesson when it happened?"

"Well... I think so? Maybe? There were people there, at their tables. I met Evisa there," responded the dragoness.

Septimus chuckled at that, a memory surfacing at the consideration. "Then you were probably interrupting a lesson. Teachers don't like it when they're stopped. Buruq had a tendency to make people float when they interrupted his lessons with me. They'd be there for quite some time on some occasions, bobbing through the air and bouncing off the walls and ceilings or getting wrapped up in the tapestries."

"Oh...Really?" asked the Thunderkin, taken aback. "He didn't seem the type. I thought he was friendly."

"He is friendly. It was all in good fun. It's just that it delayed some people's work, and they'd get told off by their superiors for being late. Eventually they stopped interrupting our lessons."

[C S]

Likewise, Syria nodded to Viho, only to tense abruptly. The jolt was easily missed, and was not one born of fright, but sudden realization. The old elf was only wearing one glove at this cold hour, and that glove was exuding a magical charge. It was easily missed, as the flow of mana circulated between it and Viho seamlessly, no different than the behavior of a mage's wand, or staff. However, the fact that it wasn't a wand, nor a staff, was what made Syria freeze to appreciate what she saw. Her excited mind offered even more visuals for Viho to ponder at the tranquil green: the place beneath the tower where the mages in white and black were located, and the myriad fixtures of metal and runes that frequented their tables and benches.

"That was a pretty speedy turnaround for a project stuck at a dead end..."

When she realized she was staring, Syria chuckled weakly and pulled back with a nervous smile, hovering after Septimus.

[Hopeflower]

Viho's stoic facade cracked into a faint grimace at the overload of excited information. He jammed his thumb against his eyebrow once their backs were turned, taking a deep breath and firmly shoving back the intruding thoughts. Some minds, he reflected, were far too loud for their owner's benefit. He took the abrupt end to the conversation for a blessing, in light of the discovery. After a moment's consideration, he wrapped his shielding tighter around himself and set off in the same direction, albeit at a slower pace to avoid further questioning. Much as they might assume he had nothing demanding his attention, he did have a class that would be starting soon.

[C S]

Before she could join Viho on the topmost floor of the tower, the dwarven woman had to check in at the bottommost with those same mages who were her teammates. Underneath Septimus Place where other projects of applied magics pressed ever onwards, Solaurn left her winter coat over her designated seat. It had shortened legs just for her, and was in front of a desk with proportionally shortened legs, and arranged atop its surface was whole compliment of tools that would conventionally be reserved for jewelers, as well as loaned alchemy equipment, such as the multi-lens setup for appraising the quality of crystals and other such materials. They were not needed immediately, however, Solaurn did leave her mana gauging rings on a tray for further tweaking later in the day.

The cellar-lab was abuzz with one of the new projects they were sent from the heads behind the bounty division. There was a problem they felt needed fixing, and they had the people willing to undertake the missions, but the administrators themselves felt that the matter was of a sort that needed new provisions in place before they started sending upstarts out into overbearing peril. Solaurn drifted about the lab, overhearing snippets of conversations. She spun the band of her protective goggles about her wrist as she went, going unnoticed for the most part. The other workstations hid her more than adequately when her small size was not enough for her to be overlooked.

After hearing enough about the topic that she felt she could join the discussion without being completely lost, Solaurn spoke up, "Has something happened to Freyr-Lunge as of late?"

Her fellow researchers paused and looked to each other. To their credit, it only took a few seconds for the majority of the bunch to look down, acclimated to their short coworker. The stragglers only straggled because the workstations were too tall or too wide to look over, so they had to physically relocate to spot the blonde dwarf.

One researcher replied, "Not exactly as of late. The happening has been known since the city fell all those months ago. It started as a rumor at first. Unconfirmed sightings of undocumented creatures. But then people started turning up in small villages, barely surviving being savaged by spawns of corrupt magic."

"Oh dear," said Solaurn with growing unease. "Corrupted magic spawn have been running wild for so long?"

Affirming murmurs and nodded heads were her answer. Another explained, "When more information started trickling in from various sources, the first inclination for many was another upheaval event. The rise of the undead under the Dark God's siege is still fresh in the minds of many, especially the soldiers who were present at the last battle."

"Many of those same war heroes led the charge against the spawn in the forests around Freyr-Lunge," the next speaker pointed out. "It was because of them that the spawn -- chaos spawn, as they're known -- haven't become a full scale crisis that regularly impacts Brodudika. They keep the danger zone cordoned off and repel the monsters that wander too close to frequented stretches of road and a few small outposts in the area."

"Those brave people," Solaurn responded solemnly. "Those creatures must be truly formidable, if such proven warriors can only repel them."

"They are. The will of magic in nature is a sublime force that we may one day grow to understand, but will never be able to replicate by our own means. To attempt to match the ley lines so is the foundation for the existence of chaos spawn."

That left only one worthwhile question for Solaurn to ask. "Well... what are we going to do about it?"

Looks were exchanged around one of the work stations, then men and women in white and black dispersed. One fetched a chair, set it down at one end of the table and then beckoned Solaurn to climb it. Begrudgingly, Solaurn did so. She stepped up to the seat, using the back of the chair to pull herself the rest of the way up. Standing tall, her head was able to clear the table and she laid her eyes on the preliminary charcoal sketches that were strewn across several sheets of parchment.

They were crude to the point of being unrecognizable as any defined object. Solaurn's sole clues as to the intent of what she was shown were the scribblings of objectives the new design would have to meet. If she had to hazard a guess, she was looking at a new kind of staff... one with a squeezable handle for a purpose she was not yet clear on.

"We're making a new kind of staff for battle-mages?" Solaurn asked, looking about the assembly of researchers.

"It's a possibility," one of them said, gazing down at the roughs. "What we truly want to make is something that can be used by anyone willing to go into that heart of darkness, regardless of magical aptitude."

Solaurn nodded. Her uneasiness had not settled. Internal affairs of Brodudika was a bizarre and volatile mix of emotions and motivations, and yet resources were still directed outwards, to start a fight or support another.

Could she expect anything else from a city of friends and heroes?

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar eventually reached the imposing doors of his namesake academy, looking up to the towering building and its many windows, where glows of magical light would soon cast their radiance upon the surrounding buildings. The black stone of the walls would tempt some of Aster's denizens to call it the hellish taint of unnatural powers.

It was funny how the minds of the unenlightened worked.

So isolated, so content in their ignorance, that they would condemn an aspect of the world and its stoutest protectors as the work of the demonic. In that sense, Septimus Place was even more a reflection of the Stalwart than the Scholar himself was.

An angel mistaken for a devil. A protector labelled a destroyer.

How very backwards some people could be.

His mind heavy with reflection born of his unease, he pushed open the double doors and crossed the threshold of the academy's reception. Beshayir followed in silence, taken by imaginings of what things she could learn to do now that she was back, and eager to tell her teacher about what she had learned while she was away.




"I have done as you asked," growled Lazarus lowly, the shadow-scaled drake rigid as he stood before the statue, and the lithe, sultry figure that paced around it.

"You sound unhappy... Is something the matter, Lazarus?" asked a silky voice, glowing eyes looking up as the humanoid but alien figure stepped towards the Hueilin.

"You promised me you would help me find Mayara. I don't understand why we have to go through all these loops," growled the obsidian drake, emerald eyes giving the strange being a hard look.

"I have already told you... I can find you Mayara... But I can't do that in my current state. It has been many thousands of years since anyone has visited me. In the old days, others would worship at this statue... They would offer blood sacrifices as payment; a life force that I would spend to draw the knowledge from the threads of the world. To find something as powerful and distant as a dragon is more complicated than a mortal in one village or another... And I am starved of my old powers. I must first regain my strength. The goblet's contents will remind the people of those villages of me. The book will teach them the old rites. In so doing, they will give me the strength to help you, and others like you," stated the figure as she -- for it was undoubtedly a she -- traced a three fingered palm against the dragon's cheek, brushing through the thick, silky black mane of the Hueilin. "I promise, Lazarus... You will have what you need soon."

"I worry about her, Tulia...Every second she's out there alone is another second she may be in danger."

The eyeless, smooth-faced figure smiled, the lipless mouth and nose that made the entirety of her facial features twisting into a smile that was simultaneously warm and disturbing. "We will find her soon, Lazarus. Don't you trust me?"

The Hueilin's features hardened as he turned his muzzle away, out of her soft caress. "I'd rather not say."

"I know I don't seem particularly... friendly looking. But I am a friend. You can trust me... I promise."

[C S]

As an instructor for smaller academic establishments, namely assorted arcane village guilds along the eastern holds, Orthelia Ryndhert had come to expect a dichotomy with her student body. There were the students that started off bright and eager, with special emphasis on bright given the topic of study, before their passion and dedication waned and they stopped attending sessions. Then there were the students that never showed up for practice until the very end of the course, upon which some would beseech her grant for more advanced learning in contrast to their lack of understanding of basic pyromancy. There were some notable individuals in this group, who showed exceptional talent and skill despite their lack of instruction, and so deserved their promotion regardless of attendance in accordance to her reasoning.

Orthelia could not say she had a pupil that was as staccato as this young elf, to be placed in her class weeks after the term had begun, and to reappear as the winter semester was winding down. Her more consistent students were behind her in their ballroom gymnasium, blooms of fire casting her into shadow as she stood tall in front of Beshayir. For as ominous a sight it may have appeared to the young girl, the energy in Orthelia's demeanor was nothing but inviting. Beshayir had the talent, and applied herself thoroughly to learn her skills. She had a long way to go, but Orthelia saw in her a promising start. If she was willing to deal with re-registration, and the descent down the rabbit hole of documents held by the receptionist downstairs, then Orthelia was willing to teach what she can with the time allotted to her.

"Good to have you back!" the flame-dyed woman greeted Beshayir after setting her class on their independent exercises. "It came as some surprise when you dropped the class. It's not any less of a surprise -- a pleasant one, though -- to see you again." Orthelia scratched the side of her head while she pondered the best way to approach reintegrating Beshayir to the program. Catching her up with the others was a tall order... but maybe a more personalized lesson plan could be arranged?




Climbing up the steps from the cellar lab to her classroom was not yet routine for Solaurn, however, it was not a hassle for her either. A life spent in rocky complexes that tended to descend absurd amounts of levels and sprawl in equally absurd dimensions, without counting the tunnels that formed veins in the stone, was a life that conditioned endurance. That endurance did not leave the dwarf now that she was out of the mountain, trading the magma-glow of Koganusan for sunlight, when she wasn't otherwise sheltered by constructs of wood and bricks. The most difficult stage of adapting to the surface world for Solaurn was acclimating to the cycle of night and day and being careful to protect her then-pale skin from sunburn by being under a cloak for most of her travels. Solaurn's body was more than capable of handling the physical demands of her day; she had carried her small self up much larger steps before.

Granted, in those days, she did not have to wear tall winter boots that were not all that tall by the standards of those of greater height. She also did not have her distinct researcher coat and headband, and did not carry her enriched slab tucked under one arm as she went up the stairs, the pouch on her back dedicated to carrying a book for notes and the quills and ink to write them. Whatever obstacles these factors presented were trivial in comparison to a heavy mind. Fresh from learning about the team's latest goal, and the ongoing problem not too far from the city's walls, Solaurn's mind was a passive buzz of contemplation. What could she do to make the design guidelines a practical reality? The formulations that she churned in her head did not get away from her in the way that Syria's rapid tangents did. There was no jargon or matter theory to intrude on the thoughts of the psychomantic perceptive, but a baseline static that served as an effective mental barrier.

Now if only the dwarf were of the mind to appreciate her inadvertent mastery of the skill. Alas, for the time being, it was but a headwind that occluded the upcoming psychomancy lesson, and had her taking the steps up to it with slow deliberation. That soon changed when she heard a scampering sound behind her.

Solaurn stopped mid-step and turned to look at the approaching figure in the small patterned dress, the tip of the enormous feather flitting to and fro as the vaun skipped up the steps. "Good morning, Gwen," she greeted her friend. This earned her a chatter followed by a throaty trilling as Gwenviere came up to her side.

This struck Solaurn as odd, as she hadn't heard this combination of sounds from Gwenviere before in the context of a morning pleasantry. She noticed Gwenviere's eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and her arms were tucked into her chest in a pensive stance. "Hm. Is it not a good morning for you?" Solaurn asked. Gwenviere nodded.

"Did something happen at the clinic?" Solaurn proceeded to ask with the Stalker's frenzied melee fresh in her memory, and the preliminary regret setting in that she hadn't walked with Gwenviere that morning.

Gwenviere shook her head and sent her blonde mane wild, settling Solaurn's worry just as quickly as it emerged within her. Still, what was it that was bothering the vaun, Solaurn wondered. At that moment, both she and Gwenviere wished they were farther along in their training to exchange thoughts at will. If they could do this, then Solaurn would know how to ease her friend's worries.

If they could do this, Gwenviere would be able to convey in terms Solaurn could understand, her epic journey from the Evershade to the peak of the mountain that stood high over the canopy-holds, where she met the bird that gifted her the sizable feather, before it sent her to find the earth-dweller in the forest near Agnaroth. Gwenviere wouldn't have to elaborate further to explain her discomfort, although there was much more to this tale.

The pressing issue was that the same malice she felt in the forest long ago was now in the city, moving freely among them, unopposed by a veritable army of hero-warriors. There was little doubt in her mind it was related to the incident that darkened the sky two days ago, and the rumors of an ashen giant inside Brodudika. What Gwenviere had dismissed as the latest tall tales proved themselves true in the worst way: she'd gotten close enough to sense that foreboding entity. Keeping with what the Sliyuk had done previously, Gwenviere made great haste away from it, before she could lay eyes on what it was that twisted her sensibilities so.

"Come along," Solaurn said reassuringly after the moment of melancholy had run its course. She reached out and coaxed one of Gwenviere's hands away from her chest, taking it in hers. "Mister Viho will help us get to the bottom of this."

Gwenviere responded with a rolling rumble, but did not resist Solaurn as she continued the rest of the way to the seventh floor and opened the classroom door, decorated by the vaun's art.




Responsibilities of a varied sort brought the morning songs at the church to an end at about the same time. The bulwark of men and women in furred hide had to go about their day, and so they retrieved their small arsenal of broad-bladed battleaxes that they stood up near the coat hanger in single file. One by one, with a single exception, they hefted their weapons, each one taller than the hanger itself and sporting a head that tapered down into a spike towards the bottom. The northern islanders carried them with a similar conditioned ease as they made their way outside the curved hall; it was only honorable for their setting to part ways with their weapons. What manner of scoundrel would bring war to a place of peace?

Evisa's axe was technically on her helmet, but she was also technically unarmed at the same time. Once again, she was the exception of her people in the city, and the half-elemental did not follow the others out of the church. Not immediately. Evisa paused in the passageway, one hand holding onto the frame as though it were the only tether keeping her in place. She looked over her shoulder, and through the dark eyes of her helmet she saw Natalie looking back from behind the altar pillar.

Their gazes met for a fleeting instant. Evisa pulled her fingers into a fist as a firm symbol of strength, an encouragement for resolve. It was not the clearest message to send, yet Evisa was sure that when the moment was right, Natalie would understand her intention. And when that moment was right, she would be willing to face her troubles head-on. With that, the Lady of Light went on her way. She had the youth to look after before her next bout as a deterrent against evil.

Natalie sighed quietly. It was nice having a figurative, and somewhat literal, big sister looking out for her. It was more than nice. It was uplifting. The same kind of surging boon that the heroes of past and present imparted on those who looked up to them. It was for this same reason that Natalie felt increasingly sour within her heart of hearts. Evisa, and all of those with that same admirable spirit, went out of their way to protect those without protection.

Natalie wanted to be grateful, and to honor them as any other person would, but Melok made it clear that she wasn't like any other person. She had been an enemy to the likes of Evisa, even though she could not remember. Ignorance of her misdeeds did not grant her innocence, and neither did Desrium's pardon; innocence in the purview of the law did not mean a lack of guilt in the self. And though the rags of Snicker were locked away with the mask and knife in exchange for the cloth of the Church, Natalie still bore the scars of that fateful night, and remained hated by the girl who was almost her victim.

The verger clasped her fingers together and pulled in a shaky breath. She couldn't go downstairs again or else the others would become suspicious of her, so she had to deal with the feeling of being unworthy of the protection and friendship Evisa offered her where she was. That awful hollowness was not something she could take. For all she knew, it was this same hollowness that Snicker emerged from, and that added a terrifying layer to her sadness.

"I should have just told her what was wrong when I had the chance," Natalie scolded herself, because this was surely the point where she was not feeling fine. She could not seek Evisa out now, contrary to the viking's openness to her. Evisa had other things to do, and it would be unfair to her other charges to take up her time like that.

Later in the day, she would visit Evisa and cure herself of the poison in her heart, Natalie decided. Until then, she just had to invoke the example of the armored being. Lost in time and place. Go on regardless, he had said to her. Be a hero, just for one day.

She did not understand Evisa's message to her, yet she reached the same result nevertheless. Be strong. You're no damsel in distress; if you can turn your life around, you can protect yourself too.

[The Kingpin]

"It is part of living with a family that travels frequently. I go where they go," explained Beshayir with a small smile as she watched the flares of flame behind the pyromancy instructor. "I haven't been lazy, though. I learned some new techniques."


Several floors below, the Scholar stood by Syria as they tended to Beshayir's re-registration. It was mostly the same documentation he had seen last time, with a few differences. Predictably, however, it meant that the same complication he had encountered last time had resurfaced.

It needed a signature.

Dragons weren't all that savvy to signing things. When one had an infallible memory, documents and signatures became unnecessary, and for much of his life outside of Drakhunmiir, his interactions with other races revolved primarily around the exchange of goods and coin.

This, however, was an exception. And this was the second time it had arisen.

Pulling a face that seemed part contemplative and part frustrated, he stepped aside for Syria, saying simply, "I think you'd better handle this."

[C S]

"New techniques, now?" Orthelia inquired. This development certainly had the potential to be a lot more interesting than what she'd become used to. Complacent to, even. A little spice in variety might have been just what she needed, with the times being what they were. "Alright, then. I think a demonstration is in order, little miss. Are you up for it?"


Syria lifted her eyes from the bundle of sheets she was looking at. "Hmm?" she wondered, then her gaze fell on the dragon-in-disguise's hurdle. "Oh." Syria shuffled through the papers, skimming the lines of methodically reproduced text -- handwritten -- to confirm what she had suspected up until then. "I was wondering where all the dotted lines were," she said.

"Experience has taught me that prospective students have a general inclination as to the academic policy, and are only interested in the signing so that they may start their education as soon as possible. To be honest, I am surprised that you have read as much as you have. The packet is the same as the first you've signed. The subsection regarding reenrollment is the only technicality," the receptionist responded.

Syria looked to the suited man behind his desk and then back to the pages in her hand. With mild chagrin, she said, "I've written concordance myself, so it seemed wise to be current on any formal reading to come my way."

The woman's peculiarity was puzzling, but the man kept a straight face and said nothing, in the same way he said nothing of Septimus' abstaining from signing in both circumstances. He accepted the papers Syria handed back to him and watched patiently as she took the provided quill from the inkwell and went to finalize the document. It should have been a fairly simple affair, handled just as quickly as before barring the time already elapsed.

Instead, after the mage placed her name in script -- Syria Letant-Khulruudi -- she proceeded to add another text next to it, a style of writing that used characters the receptionist hadn't encountered before. Was this part of the woman's new name?

Syria glanced up to him and smiled, sensing his confusion, on top of her previous blunder. "It is Septimus' name, in the old language of Daaven. Well... an approximation." The mage looked proudly at her calligraphy. The old lettering incorporated fluid lines, as per elvish script, with more defined, blocky lines, serifs and diacritics. "Read literally, it means Seventh Son." Turning to Septimus himself, Syria said, "Do you have a rune to add, to act as a surname?"

[The Kingpin]

"I think I could make due with my clan rune for now... Until I come up with something more personal as an identity," responded the Son of Storms. As if on cue, the quill slipped from Syria's grasp, dipping itself briefly in the ink, before swirling into a pattern at the end of the dotted line, forming a stylised version of his clan rune, a bit more elegant than the version that made up the clasps of his satchel. At the centre of the rune, a drop of ink began to snake outwards, seemingly sinking into the paper, but doing so in a way that made a very small, very distinct pattern; a tree-like shape with a pattern reminiscent of his name-rune. "No quill could duplicate an image that small. I think it'll serve for authenticity for the time being," he offered as he looked at the receptionist.

[C S]

"It helps that I was here to witness it," the man replied, "though I believe it goes without saying that I would be present regardless, as the notary on duty. I doubt even the most disingenuous magic user with a reason to attempt a forgery of a dragon's identity would have the means to replicate a crest as unique as this. They would have better luck swiping the signet ring of a noble."

"Oh dear. That is a lot of effort to go through to breach a simple signature," Syria commented.

"Which means yours is on par with royalty, just about," said the man in the suit, before he gathered up the papers and secured them all together with a clip.