#// in their eyes she is the one successor who could preserve what they yearn to protect

[usagimen]

before I pass out from this scratchy throat, I've updated Sayuri's carrd to show in entirety her skillset, along with various information. You may access it, here!

[little-froggie-enclosure]

A Worthy Successor

Fandom: FFXIV

Characters: Deryk, Erenville

Word count: 944

I had a dream about Erenville being one of the Twelve and it took over my brain so now you get this. Enjoy :U

“We did the very same in the days of eld.” Deryk smiled. He let his legs hand over the edge of the cliff and the sea air kiss his fluttering fox brown locks. Green eyes on the Aldenard coast, he thought of a friend lost to time but captured in those brilliant blue eyes, that indomitable spirit and that incredible love for the star. He felt power stirring within him and wondered if the others had felt the same before they’d commended everything they’d been to a mortal.  If Venat had felt the same when seeing those inspiring blue eyes when passing Azem to his dearest friend. “You would die, then.” The viera’s brows furrowed, his expression confused. Erenville stood behind the old god and his hands formed fists. “Besides which- why me? I travel much to be certain, yet… The Warrior of Light, she would be a far more suitable candidate, yes?” Deryk laughed at the gleaner’s assertion. “She would, wouldn’t she?” He smiled. “And yet, she has already been bequeathed a great power of her own. I would not inundate her with more.” Erenville paused at those words. “...Another’s?” Deryk nodded. “Aye, another Traveler, much alike to the both of us. He was Shepard to the Stars, the voice of the people. And a beloved friend.” The viera relaxed his hands. “That still does not explain why you wish to make me Wanderer. Why? I…I am no fighter, no leader.” Deryk gathered  a handful of silken sand from beside him on the clifftop. He raised it hand and let the wind carry it away. “Because you have the heart of a Wanderer, my young friend. You love this star no less fiercely than Meteor or I. You value the natural world and wish for its preservation.” Deryk lowered his hand then turned to glance over his shoulder. Erenville was transfixed by those brilliant green eyes. “I was a fighter. But the next Wanderer need not be if he would not choose thusly.” Erenville stared down at his boots, anything to avoid being caught in that powerful, bottomless gaze. “...And will you vanish as your fellows did? Choose to die because your duty is finished?” Deryk frowned. “Is that what vexes you about this?” “How could a man choose his own death so casually not?” Erenville replied. “There is so much to see on this star that surely…” The viera trailed off.

“I never said that I planned to die, Erenville.” Deryk hummed. Erenville’s long ear twitched. He snapped his gaze up, his nose twitching curiously. Before he could open his mouth to inquire, the god answered. “You see…After our mutual friends placated the Twelve’s desire to deplete our energy in combat, I was encouraged to follow my own heart. To that end, I have chosen to walk this planet as a man rather than a god.” Deryk lifted his legs and pushed up with his arms to get to his feet. He turned around. His travel worn cape fluttered in the breeze. “Not to mention that even our great hero did not manage to spend everything we were given by Hydaelyn. And so we all have chosen promising candidates to take over our seats. To carry our wisdom and continue to guide the star through this time of transition.”

Erenville frowned. “I am no god, Oschon.” “Deryk now, if you please.” The man chuckled. “Neither was I. I was a but man once, one who loved this world like you do. It is not lightly that I offer this seat to you.” The gleaner stared out across the salt. Perhaps somewhere off in the distance, in Tural, his mother prattled on about another adventure. Travel was in his blood. His soul yearned for it. And when he thought of how much the Final Days had rattled him, things suddenly fell into place.

His expression relaxed. “Understand, then, that I do not…” He sighed deeply, shook his head in disbelief. “That I do not accept your offer lightly either.” Deryk smiled. A man with so youthful a face had no place with such a wise expression. He rested a hand on Erenville’s shoulder. The weight was comforting, grounding.

“And you will have the benefit of a mentor who still walks the lands, at least for another good fifty years or so. Perhaps more, if I am so fortunate.” Erenville fixed Deryk with a flat expression but that only served to make the god laugh again. “I am serious! This is no fleeting thing, what you choose. I have the utmost faith in you.” Deryk gently brushed dark waves from Erenville’s forehead and touched his fingers to its center. “Do not fear what you become- but do not underestimate it either. Remain yourself, Erenville,” The sound of Deryk’s voice became distant as aether from another age poured like a raging river into Erenville’s body. The viera could not speak, frozen in place as he felt the energies of a god sear through his veins to kill and revive him anew. “Because the man you are is worthy of being the Wanderer.” Erenville found he could not answer. His last sight before everything went dark was a baby opo-opo clambering up Deryk’s slender form and perching on his shoulder. The god smiled as his divinity ebbed and peace and relief overtook his features. Erenville surrendered to the shadow of unconsciousness, knowing that when he awoke, he would be the Wanderer. That Deryk would be free to live out his remaining years travelling the star secure in the knowledge of a worthy successor chosen. That Erenville would next open his eyes to Etheirys as a god. 

[ecrivant]

a castle and the devil within | reiner braun

(reiner braun x reader)

the night of the ambush on utgard castle; the air, pregnant with the impeding deaths of his comrades.  reiner, plagued by guilt, ruminates on the idea of loss and culpability, and with you shares a moment that will undoubtedly come to haunt him.

a.n. – canon divergent in assuming the warriors knew of zeke’s plan to attack the castle.  

word count: 3.5k

The group moved in the swathe of night like some serpentine unity towards an unknown.  The moon, incandescent and looming high above the earth, enfolded the terrain in a ghostly haze which of all it touched made apparitions. In the air, a disconcerting quietude, silent all but for Equus footfalls dampened by sogged pasture and sniveling muzzles and the cracks and pops of low-burning torches.  The topography, undulating, and from it emerged towering palisades of spruce which sectioned the land and curtailed the interminable and verdant hills.  Clouds, by lunar glow illuminated and resembling exhalations in cold air arrested, roved the sky and overhung land so primeval Nyx herself present for its creation. Nocturne was refuge from the diurnal beasts who within them harbored a taste for humanity, but the cerement of pitch did little to lessen the unrest among the riders—in this world, serenity, erroneous.  

At the horizonal marge of sky and land laid twin towers seemingly erected from the earth itself. Spires traced in moonlight.  As the group rode forward, exhausted and pace lagging, drawing with their path the outline of the sloping land and leaving a trail of muddled footmarks in their wake, the castle entire materialized. Surrounding the towers, a crumbling stone bulwark, at once a product of precise masonry now by worldly destruction ruined—the fortress’ impotent aegis.  This manmade edifice so alien in its surroundings, as if a misplaced afterthought meant for another milieu but forgotten and left for this bucolic landscape.

The group, looking strange and scarcely manlike, finally was before this decrepit palace—its courtyard, barricaded on three sides, was rife with debris, and vegetation grew over and between the laid stones which once formed the yard’s floor.  The horses staggered on the unevenness.  Each rider, form sore and tender, dismounted and tied their horses to what he or she could find and uncomfortably shifted between feet, readapting to bipedalism all but forgotten in the wake of such journeying.  In this momentary recuperation, his eyes drifted to you—in no worse shape than the rest of the group, situated towards the back of their shapeless unit.  Your back to him, slouched as if incurring an immense weight, and shoulders rolling beneath clothes.  

Within the castle, a campfire, amber alight.  Pitch dispelled as if a demon exorcised.  Deep shadows in visages’ creases, casted in the fiery glow.  The group here indistinguishable from fatigued miscreants of past and future.

He knew outside Zeke haunted the landscape, both specter and wraith, poised to strike.  He knew this verily, just as he knew you rested, a stride away, in wary repose.  His guilt, corrosive.  You may die tonight, and he, delirious and consumed by misguided pathos, could only wait for this terrible inevitability.  And perhaps one day he would make peace with his complicity in it and see your death as one of many needed to secure Eldian posterity, but he at this moment knew better. He knew your death would in fact eviscerate him, and he knew he would never be absolved, and for it he knew, upon his own final moments, he would be driven to perdition under the weight of his transgressions against you.

Your face, with delicacy, painted in light and complexion made orange by fire’s illumination.  Aura beguiling, no less so than the first encounter. If, in your voice, the proposition to forsake his life’s purpose was made to him, he would fain relinquish it.  And he would invariably sacrifice his life in exchange for yours, though perhaps not in the noble light the act was so habitually painted—it was not a gesture of loving sacrifice but rather the embodiment of an abject selfishness by which he was possessed.  He knew he would not be able to bear the burden of your death, regardless of whether or not by his hand delivered, and would rather himself meet this inevitable and fatal eternity than ever live to see your end.

These terrible and penetrative thoughts of demise—a ghastly, mental seepage—were debilitating.  He, as a warrior, as a member of the Survey Corps, was so well-acquainted with death yet had never acclimated to it and knew the last death to which he would bear witness would be no less harrowing than the first.  And as he uncomfortably ruminated on these thoughts, he came to realize he, his presence, his mission, was the scent of death which hung over his comrades, the one which they so desperately tried to evade.  Perhaps it was some unarticulated curse which followed inheritors of the titans. As misfortune and pain had fallen on his predecessors—the same who now inhabited him as ghostly memories and feelings—these miseries now fell on him, as if he was not a blank slate but rather a prewritten history destined to recount and repeat itself.  Did he have any choice in what he had done or come to be?  Or was the first inheritor as culpable as he in the terrible fates he wrote for those around him?

Even with his stoic form, highly controlled and for years constructed, he could not assuage the tremor in his hands or the accumulating bile which at once burned his stomach and throat.

He thought at one point he had distanced himself from you—an act of self-preservation—but you, aura infectious and penetrative, always remained.  There in presence and in spirit, beside him always as if a phantasmal servant.  

Beside him you rose and waited for a moment then moved to ascend the stairs of the tower in which the group found shelter.  Someone called out for you, voice indistinguishable in the muted silence; a call less words articulated and more akin to a spectral exhalation of a once-present form.  Your voice in response, a quiet assurance of your safety—you simply needed a moment alone. Yet against your wishes, he erected himself and moved to accompany you, informing you of his presence rather than asking permission.  

“My knight in shining armor.”  

Voice coy.  A slight smile.  

Yet, over him, horror settled, and he, overcome by unspeakable sickness, fought against the bile which threatened to spill forth.  His knees trembled, and the stairs swayed and moved below him, and within him burgeoned a caustic remorse which eroded his conscience, creating from once plane morality a chasmic and unnavigable wasteland.  In this moment, he wished he had returned to Marley after Marcel’s death. For his titan, and his responsibility and mission and resolve, would have been inherited by another—his entire being reduced to pitiable memories in the mind of his successor.  And he would never have come to know you, or your strong resolve, or your aching concern, or your voice, velveteen, the sumptuous way you articulated his name.  Or your laugh which swept past him with airy carelessness and within him bred a distant and warm and melancholic feeling, like a far-removed recollection, a memory of déjà vu.  Or your quiet and unassuming history once marked by genial tranquility which was so violently uprooted by his own actions.  

He stumbled as his body anticipated a stair which was not there.  Your grip on his arm, strong, steadying.  His eyes met yours, and in your gaze, that stupidly sincere concern, and in his, unspoken gratitude.  At the top of the tower, contained in the interstice between the outside overlook and the end of the staircase, you seated yourself against the wall and he, beside you. He tried not to think of Annie or Bertolt or Zeke or Marley or his mother who within him placed her hope entire, and instead focused on the way you smelled of campfire and cold air, and the way, among the silence, the sound of your breathing stilled his heart. With a vacant mind, he simply sat and tried to match his breath to yours.

Still trembling, he inched his hand along the stone floor until he found your touch, and he twined his fingers with yours, and aside from a slight and barely-there hesitation, you did not react.  Your hand cold and his clammy, and in teenage and involuntary reaction, he felt embarrassed.

The last time he desired you so blatantly came in ambush.  He could not recall the situation, or even the moment before or after, but you were together, and in movement you had drifted past him, and as his eyes followed your hallowed form, the idea of kissing you abruptly and wholly engulfed him. He often yearned for you under the shroud of night or in the aurora of dawn, in response to a smile or a laugh, in the wake of a day spent together or a moment exchanged, but never after such inaction.  He had supposed it made sense: for a space, moment, to become consecrated, you merely had to occupy it, and perhaps the moments where he did not crave you, though few in number, did not truly exist and were instead simply obfuscated by your very presence.  

He rued each and every time previous he had not set aside his fear and held you.  This touch, for the first time, in such a chaste and quiet way, and perhaps on the eve of your demise, felt vile.  Your shared intimacy, perverse.  

But the constricting grip of your hand on his, tightened and loosened as a tide ebbs and flows in conjoined action, brought him back from his negative ruminations.  As if you sensed his need to be grounded.

And the look of your face in the barely-there starlight was enough for him to press his lips to yours, a loving movement made shy by hesitance.  The kiss, ephemeral and dissolving in the night as suddenly as it came to be.  He pulled away, face hot at your nonreaction, but you followed his mouth as if now linked and did not let him go.  Is this what it felt like to be wanted, needed?  In a second, you returned to your seated position and he to his, resting in silence as if previous exchange forgotten.  Or, perhaps, never having existed.  He suddenly saw your mutilated corpse before him and could no longer luxuriate in the aftermath of this intimacy exchanged, the grip on his hand and the closeness of your shoulder and his own breathlessness and palpitations now feeling like heresy.  

He felt in the air your hesitation, the quietude preceding the break of a storm, before you spoke, words uttered in tone eerie as if invoked then manifested from the night itself:

“Do you trust me, Reiner?”

In few moments was he struck as speechless as this.  His implicit answer was one of affirmation—he knew amply of how you so presently and continually heeded him—yet he, dazed and aphonic, spoke not.  Perhaps fearful of a forthcoming dialogue in which you would state your misplaced trust on him conferred.  He preemptively contemned you for saying such things, though it was scorn quickly and rightly turned on himself.  You trusted him under the same pretenses he did you, and no reassurances, no matter how constant, could convince him he did not for you experience true and attested concern.  It was not a matter of you falling for his acutely maintained artifice but rather one where he had, simply and unequivocally, fallen for you.  

Your gaze bore into him. Patiently waiting for his answer and seemingly unfazed by his hesitance.  He swallowed and shook his head yes and spoke to substantiate this claim:

“Of course I do.”

You nodded your head as if satisfied and looked up to the ceiling in musing and spoke again after a shared and pregnant pause:

“I trust you.  More than anything.”

You began another phrase, but it trailed off, lost in the night’s permeant sombre.  

And he did not hear it, instead intent on edifice around him crumbling, and conscience, crushing and destructive, under which he collapsed, and ire which burned him like flame, and dread which gored him and spilled forth his viscera, black and befouled from deceit.  Intent on his blood now bile, and complexion now rotted flesh.  And the eldritch bawl, suffused with ruefulness and agony and lamentation unmatched by even the most repentous sinners, which nigh spewed from his gut but instead caught in his throat in a choked sob.  And intent on the manner in which he violently ripped away from you, suddenly and acutely aware of the way his hand twined in yours was the quintessence of sinful hypocrisy—what one should be made to embrace the sadistic numen who in its hands held his or her ultimate fate?  And intent on the countless bodies of victims, past and future, coalescing in a single, fleshed mass of sanguine gore and tortured and malformed faces whose expressions more resembled demons than humans, each and all prostrate before him, supine in some perverted reverence like an agonous congregation in worship.  

“I feel you bear my burdens for me.”

Spoken with a quiet and slumberous quality, as if your first words after waking.  His mind prayed for your silence, a wish, unarticulated, as he could only hold his head in his hands and rock forward and back with mouth open in a wordless scream.  And the emotions with which he was suddenly inundated did not result in tears, and instead he sat beside you, breathing hard and in shock and doing nothing, as if struck dumb.  Your hand on his shoulder, a touch which in it held such comfort and concern, which he cowered under and tore away from as if beast threatened and made prey.  And upon this reaction, the space seemed too small and your presence, repugnant.  The crucifix proffered before the devil.  

He himself, cursed, and now he cursed you.

The trapdoor above, wood weathered and water-logged and laying heavy and flush against the stone ceiling, burst open with a tempest gale’s force, and one of the veterans plummeted from the tower’s crown towards the floor and paid no mind to your pair and instead rushed down the stairs and called for the rest of the group.  And just as suddenly as he had fallen under the yoke of his own fervor, he repressed all thought and set his jaw and ascended the final steps of the tower to emerge in the night.  You beside him.  

From above, the terrain a banished landscape.  The trees which once towered towards firmament’s ceiling now sat in small and sparse clusters littered over the land’s spanning hummocks.  And the moon, now at arc’s crest, bewashed the purgatory below in that same haze from before, the one which made all things wraithlike and seemingly ephemeral.  And within that courtyard on three sides barricaded by the crumbling bulwark and rife with lapidarius debris and vegetation made bluish by the night which encroached upon the yard’s stone foundation posed dozens of those unclad leviathans, climbing over architectural remains or coming forth from arboreal cells or clawing at the tower’s base with hands all but human and much more vehement. Monstrous and aberrant pilgrims converging on their infernal holy land.  

Knowledge of Zeke’s intentions made the sight no less grim.  

In the moments before the veterans descended upon the beasts below in instinctual response, they were struck still, shock and fear in their eyes clear.  And for some reason wholly unknown to him, the reaction, so involuntary and raw and basally human, impressed upon his mind and burrowed deep within him. His body shuddering.  The nightmarish air, pregnant with the threat of impending carnage, and in it, unspoken fear.  

Under blade the brutes fell silently and with their impacts shook the earth.  Even with the dexterous hands with which the veterans fought, the tower’s entrance—a large and wooden and rotting door—was breached.  Authoritative calls, tinged with desperation and fear and sounding more like cries, ordered the group’s remainder to secure the edifice.  To fight to their final breath.  

He could not bring himself to look at you, yet he still felt your presence, the air around you leaden and viscous and suffused with dread.  

As he ran down the stairs, leading the charge to secure the entrance breached, he pondered his intentions. Atypical of his carefully crafted persona, and perhaps his true self, to waver in the face of danger and at the chance to protect his friends, or rather those who he had acutely deceived and convinced of his friendship, he resolved that his actions were integral to the role of Reiner—the protective and stoic hero who, out of fraternal love, laid down his life for those around him.  A role with which he had no qualms assuming.  Even if it was one through Paradisian Eldian’s eyes seen—he cared more about the perception than those who perceived him.  But as he heard your voice with unprecedented fear call out, his name from your mouth a desperate invocation, all notions preconceived wiped away.  He did not fight for the longevity of his own ego, nor even for Marley, or Bertolt or Annie or his mother, home in Liberio.  In this moment, he fought for you.

Upon reaching the staircase’s base, and beyond the open door, he found himself before a titan with stretched grin and ravenous gaze, all humanity absent.  In torchlight, the beast’s grimace, devilish.  And he slammed the door and threw against it his weight entire and called out an indecipherable—perhaps an order, perhaps a cry for help—to the ones descending the stairs behind him.  A sudden plosion of splintering wood beside his head, and through the hole created shot a fleshy and steaming appendage, furiously and blindly reaching for him.  He felt shame as he realized he had already consigned to dying, and in the seconds before this infernal arm enveloped him, he thought of Marcel.  And of Marcel’s scream—his final and desperate expression of abject fear—halted at its climax and then punctuated by the ferric and sour smell of fresh blood and the sound of bone crushed and brains liquified.  

No, he was not to die here.

His movements, automated—his body, propelled away from the door and brushing against the arm which all but had him; Bertolt beside him and pushing a spear into the goliath; his form responding to a warning call, diving out of the path of the unloaded canon which flew down the stairs and as a bludgeon crushed the titan.  

His consciousness divorced from corporeal form, only united again as the agony of teeth sinking into his arm suffused him with an unknowable pain.  He was made sick thinking this was the feeling which marked Marcel’s final moments.

—

Trembling hands struggling with makeshift gauze.  Punctuating, shaky breaths.  Though you tried to hide it, eyes focused on dressing his wounds in silence, he could see you were thoroughly harrowed by the moments prior.  While he was plagued by thoughts of your death, were you by his? As much as it would cause you great suffering, he would still rather die before you—in his selfishness, he would rather have you alive and obliterated by grief than he.  He was reluctant to believe true love was this selfish. Though, when one says they would die for their lover, is it a product of selflessness or self-preservation in the face of grief?  Perhaps in a world different from this one, selflessness possible.  

You finished your work on his arm and sat back.  He looked at you for the first time since you last spoke and found he could barely hold your gaze.

“I promise that if I die, I will be with you. Always. Just look for me.”

Were these his words or yours?  There was no distinction in this place, voices and bodies and human and beast all made one primeval unity in this cold dark.

He wished for you to hold him.  

And when this wish remained unanswered, and the group was called to the towers peak again, and he quickly and silently ascended the stairs next to you, he became aware of a painful and agonous truth: he would never know your touch again, nor he did not deserve it, for the hours and days that followed held admittance of his duplicity; a look in your eyes which so clearly reflected how he violated you; between you, an establishment of mistrust and enmity.  And he would perhaps know your touch again, but it was touch imbued with lethal intent, hateful, your vitriol unspoken but not absent, as you, with all your resolve, tried to wholly annihilate him.  

And yet, in an ironic turn where you, in your hands, suddenly held his fate in a way not dissimilar to the way he did yours, he still wished for his own death to come first, for he would not and could not resolve to live a life devoid of you.

—

ah hi there!  was this one week’s worth of work?  perhaps no.  but i hope everyone enjoyed it regardless!  thank you so much for reading and thank you to the anon who sent in a request for this fic!  i loved your idea, and i hope you enjoyed the piece!  

all the recent support means the world, and feedback and all that is always so appreciated.  have many requests on the way, so look forward to more stuff coming soon!  

request: ok so there's this scenario that's been itching my brain in the wrong place 😭😭 reiner and reader in the castle ruins? before the armored titan reveal? possibly the reader "confesses" to reiner by saying that out of everyone in the corps they trust him the most. and later on he just... does that. spare me some angst please

masterlist

taglist: @flam3bird, @sakusas-whore

[rawcatlawnchair]

Chapter 1 - Trixi

Sprawling would be an understatement for the Chalice.  The great city of the mages had been founded centuries ago, when the gods were young and the people even younger.  A group of magical prodigies had scoured the world for a suitable location for their new academy, one to teach people from all races the gifts of magic. Where others saw an old port by the lake, the mages saw a great city, with four great towers for the four schools of magic, strong and independent of the newly founded kingdoms.  And so they had toiled, building and growing, turning the port into a small city at the center of their continent, Sagure.

As the years passed, the prodigies had long become old men and women, and realised that they would never live to see their dreams come to fruition. So they named their successors, tasked them with completing the construction and expansion of the city, and passed into the afterlife. It would take nearly four hundred years from the day the prodigies arrived to the completion of the city, its walls proud and tall, its towers painted in the four great colours of magic: Blue for energy, Grey for the elements, Green for nature and White for essence.

These successors came to be known as the Masters, dedicated to preserving and protecting the city. While the rest of the world pursued wealth or power, they would pursue knowledge. And there was no better place to store the found knowledge than in a book.

So it was of no surprise when Trixi awoke in the halls of the Great Library, slumped over a tome he had been reading late into the night. After all, he had spent the better part of six years here, poring over every book he could find, on his unquenchable thirst for knowledge.  At the tender age of fifteen, his journey as an acolyte was nearly over, with only his graduation quest to complete before he gained his geomancer’s bracelet.

At this hour, the halls were still empty, with most of his fellow students still soundly asleep in the cool summer morning. The lack of a single soul in sight made the library seem arcane and ancient, yet as the sun rose, it would be filled with the pitter-patter of feet and the flipping of pages, the hushed whisperings of curious students, filling their young minds with the knowledge of the world.

As he stirred, the young gnome rubbed his eyes and hopped off his stool, rising to his full height. He was tall for a gnome, well over a meter in height. He brushed frizzy brown hair from his forehead as he got to work, cleaning up his books and sorting out his notes. He had a strange fondness towards his books full of writings, with scrawlings in the margins and doodles for contraptions all over. As much as he was a mage, he was also a scholar and engineer. Back home, in the gnomish stronghold of Yarulan, the workshops were overclocked, pumping out the latest rune-powered gadget or magic device. The Grey Tower was a shrine to the material magics, but Yarulan would always be home, and he yearned for it.

His nostalgia trip was interrupted by a young dwarven girl, coughing to get his attention.

“Acolyte Trixi? You have been summoned to the Prismatic Hall.”

“Acolyte Darin, it is good to see you. But you must be mistaken, the Prismatic Hall is reserved for the Masters exclusively,” Trixi gave Darin a quizzical look.

Darin shrugged and responded, “Archgeomancer Kris herself asked for you, something about a quest. She wants you there before the council convenes at ten bells.”

Trixi’s eyes lit up at the name of the greatest living geomancer. Even amongst gnomes and dwarves alike the human was revered, with her greatest discovery being the formula for brightpowder, a highly flammable and explosive material. And a quest? He had barely begun his seventh year in his studies, yet few were called for their quest until the end of their seventh year.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Trixi promised, scrambling to gather his notebooks into his satchel.

He bade his goodbyes and scampered off into the castle of the Chalice. High above him, the Prismatic Hall awaited him.

------------------------------------------------------------

The Chalice might be beautiful, and its castle even more brilliant, but the Prismatic Hall was the crown jewel of them all. Located at the exact center between the four towers, the four quadrants, and the four gates, perfection was an understatement. It was adorned in brilliant greens, in radiant reds, in shining whites and striking greys.  In any other castle, grey would have been boring and dull. Yet here grey stood, strong and solemn, like the very mages the colour represented.

As the ten bells struck, Trixi sprinted into the room, struck by awe by its beauty. In the center sat a hexagonal table, and at one seat sat a gray-robed woman. Trixi knelt and announced his arrival.

“Acolyte Trixi, at your service, Archgeomancer.”

The woman chuckled at the title and removed her hood. Her robe may have been gray, but she was anything but it. A head of auburn hair tumbled out and she gave the young geomancer a warm smile. Kris was young enough to remember the first time she had stepped into the Prismatic Hall, after having been named the personal aide to the Archgeomancer at the tender age of twenty four. She took on the mantle not half a decade later, becoming the youngest Master in the history of the Chalice.

“Rise, Acolyte. The grand Prismatic Hall cannot be appreciated while on one’s knees, especially for one as tall as you,” She joked as she gestured for Trixi to take a seat behind her.

“I have brought you here today under extraordinary circumstances. Normally, your professor would hand you a graduation quest at the end of your seventh year, but time will not permit us to wait that long.”

“Whatever could be so urgent? Has a natural disaster struck?”

Kris sighed and shook her head. “This threat comes from within our own walls. The Arcane Vault was broken into last night. The city gates have been sealed already, but our suspect has shown great talent in disregarding all sorts of security measures. I fear it will not be long before they disappear without a trace.”

“But why an acolyte? Surely if this thief is so elusive, a proper geomancer should be tasked with finding him.” Trixi was stumped by this odd decision.

“You assume too much, young one. Firstly, the thief is a young girl, a former student of the White Tower.”

Right on cue, the other masters began to enter the hall. First came Loremaster Mervyn, the historian that tracked the historical activities of the Chalice as a whole, but mostly focused on the deeds of the Masters that resided within the Prismatic Hall. Behind him strode a short, yet imposing goblin in blue robes, with fiery red eyes and a devious grin. The Archmage was joined by his fellow masters, Archmonk Celice in white and the Archdruid Yujin in green.

At the side of the Archdruid, walked a young elven girl, whispering into his ear, dressed in similar green garbs, a plain staff bound to her back. He heard a sharp whisper from the Archdruid, far too loud for secrecy.

“...no more of this nonsense! I will hear none of it.”

For a moment, the young elf slumped her shoulders, but quickly recovered her formal posture. She walked with the grace of a lady and exuded wisdom far beyond her years. He swore he saw a faint green glow from her light brown skin, but the glow faded as fast as it had come. She glanced over at her fellow acolyte, and quickly shied away, taking a seat behind the Archdruid.

“And secondly, you won’t be alone. Say hello to your new teammate, Acolyte Jirei of the Green Tower.”

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The last to enter was First Guardian Korixa, the troll who led the city guards in defense of the city in times of crisis. The Masters took their seats and the meeting began in proper.

Kris was the first to speak. “Archmage Roko, where is the third acolyte you mentioned? We requested her presence at this meeting.”

Roko snorted, “My star pupil goes where she pleases, when she pleases. Dragonlings are a notoriously hardheaded bunch, and that blue skin of hers makes it even worse.” He shared a short laugh with himself and continued. “A stubborn streak exceeded only by her raw talent. That’s Ruzuli for you.”

The First Guardian rose to his feet and interrupted the conversation. “We have an agenda and a thief loose in our city. Let’s get to the point.” The Masters nodded as one as the troll continued the briefing. “This morning we found a missing artifact from the vaults. We suspect the thief used some form of spirit spell to daze the guards into ignoring her presence, and then disarmed the traps using some sort of energy tendril. She stole a rare divining needle, and although its powers are unknown, she should be approached with caution.”

“As for why we are employing acolytes to hunt her down, the fact remains simple. As acolytes, you are able to effectively move around the city without drawing attention to yourself. A guard fully armed will draw every pair of eyes towards him. A student racing around in a coloured robe will be ignored, allowing you to be invisible in the eyes of the public.”

Jirei spoke for the first time, her high voice piercing the tense air in the hall. “So, what does this spellthief look like? And how strong is she? I don’t fancy bleeding out in an alleyway because I underestimated her.”

Archmonk Celice spoke in a solemn voice, “This girl goes by Octavia. Fair skinned, athletic build. Dirty blond hair and medium height.  Excellent in hand to hand combat as well as her essence powers.

“Then she shall make a worthy challenge for me.”

Eight heads turned to the main door as a dragonling strode into the hall, skin matching her mage’s robes.  While many of her dragonflight would have shied away from their unique features, her gills proudly displayed to the world and a dark blue spiky crest upon her head. Ruzuli stood proud and powerful as she respectfully bowed to the masters gathered. A sword hung by her side, a rare choice of weaponry for a mage like herself.

“The prodigal daughter returns!” Roko exclaimed, as he let out a shrill laugh. “Come, Ruzuli, introduce yourself.”

Ruzuli nodded, speaking to the room. “I am Ruzuli Sherazan of the Fang Plateau, daughter of the blue dragonflight.” She paused for dramatic effect, and then unsheathed her sword slowly, drawing the attention of all as it crackled menacingly with electricity. The crackle died down to a soft hum as sparks danced about on the black metal. Roko stared with mock awe as Ruzuli finished, “Lightning mage of the Blue Tower.”

“Impressive,” said Jirei, rising to her feet. “I am a humble druid of the Green Tower.” She drew her staff and planted it firmly on the ground, as the green jewel at its head began to glow, and vines twisted and curled up the staff. “I serve the Wild God Rath, and he gives me power to protect the natural order of the world.”

“No second name?”

“The elves believe one name is plenty. That tradition died with elven royalty.”

“Of course, Koe Cherrystone, the queen without a tomb.”

Loremaster Mervyn cleared his throat loudly, motioning to the young gnome opposite him.

“And you are?”

Trixi stood up on his chair so all the room could see him. Ruzuli let out a short snicker, before Kris glared daggers into her, cutting the laughter short.

“And I am Trixi of the Grey Tower, geomancer and scholar. I hail from the great Valley of Gears, from the city of Yarulan. My magic is yours, and I pray we make an excellent team.”

First Guardian Korixa let out a grunt, pulling out a map of the city and rolling it out upon the table. “Then let’s get to the plan.”

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The plan was outstandingly simple for the high-value elusive target they looked for. Her last known location was in the White Quadrant, where a girl matching her features had been turned away from the city gates. They assumed she was hiding in a tavern or inn somewhere, waiting for a merchant to leave the city. She’d slip into his entourage when the gates opened, and would disappear into the vast continent beyond.

“I cannot reiterate this enough. Her capture, alive, is of utmost importance. We begin the mission at the sunset bell.” Korixa wrapped up the briefing, rolling up the map and placing it back into his bag. “This meeting is adjourned.”

As the masters went their separate ways, the three acolytes stood outside the ornate door, sizing each other up.

Ruzuli was the first to break the silence. “I’ve seen the two of you around the towers before, haven’t I?”

Trixi looked up at the dragonling that towered over him. Her face seemed to be stuck in a perpetual smirk, brimming with confidence and energy unlike anyone he had ever met. Reckless. Aggressive. Probably brave beyond a fault too. All bundled up into a mage that was likely more sword than sorcery, more think never than think later. “As have I,” he responded after a brief moment. “As have I.”

The elf, just half a head taller than Ruzuli, spoke. “I trust the masters have chosen well, mixing our schools of magic to form a team. Our talents should mix excellently.”

Ruzuli snorted. Another quirk to the already bizarre girl. She seemed to enjoy snorting more than she enjoyed breathing. “Team? Not quite yet.” Her hand never left the hilt of her blade, either perpetually ready for a fight or perpetually looking forward to one. “Team implies teamwork, and while I look forward to working with you, I doubt we’ve got synergy of any kind.” She shrugged, keeping an aloof face. “Whatever the case, this should be fun. After all, I’ve never fought alongside a midget.”

Gnomes hated being insulted, but the worst ones were the ones that were personal. “Nor I an oaf, but there is a first for everything.” A weak comeback, but it would have to do.

Jirei snickered as the two traded insults back and forth, the group slowly walking down the hall together. Some team they would have to become.

Next Chapter｜Start from the beginning