#Home's tome and staff certainly help with the lie!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Ooooo thank you for explaining the cult 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

Would you be able to go in depth about how and why warlocks are hated or the general history or state of your world?

Hope you're having a good time zone 😊

🫶🏽

not really because i haven't really thought about it! and this isn't really my own worldbuilding, this is the general consensus from high fantasy media in general:

Warlocks in general have a reputation for being evil, practicing dark magic, and making pacts with "bad" forces - like demons! they're thought to be servants of evil & are not to be trusted. their magic is usually chaotic and wild, unlike wizardry and witchcraft with are more careful and controlled - and their magic is learned, whereas warlocks get their magic from a powerful entity via some form of payment (ex: their soul)

really, warlocks can be good or bad or somewhere in between like any magic user. but due to the nature/source of their powers, they're seen as evil. the rarity of them only adds to this, since many do indeed get corrupted by their patron - or they sought out their pact for less than savory reasons

[feralnoble]

Heinwald/Curran no. 26? Thank you for taking requests and for your time! ^__^

26. Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave

aaa you’re very welcome, I appreciate the ask

There was something painfully distinct in the way a large, empty home would settle into the mud, rife with creaks and groans, as if the wood itself was protesting its wrong existence from a shapeless maw, forced, contorted into a shape it was not born to be. A tree had no say in the way its body would be used, when and how the blade would cut and divide its flesh, but at night its ghost would whimper, a specter of an old life, just barely audible in the wispy protests of life lost.

The estate in which Heinwald lived was clean, free from the mar of cobwebs or dust, hardly allowed to even look lived in, but it was loud, was filled with these such spirits that clawed their crooked nails down the soft interior of his skull. Realistically, he knew it wasn’t loud at all, that these bangs and crashes were nothing more than the slight whisper of wood settling deeper into the foundation, but in his head they echoed, they bounced off the bone and amplified, and he was powerless to feel nothing but the pound of a headache, the thrum of ghosts trying to beat out of his forehead.

Heinwald was used to being alone with ghosts. Or, at least, he used to be.

He thinks that his partnership with Curran has began to make him soft, has carved out spaces around the cavity of his chest that left room for the chill of solitude to creep in. Curran has been at his side longer than anyone he could remember could stand to remain in his presence, and the familiarity had become a hindrance. It made the walls around him feel taller, the shadows from the sconces feel darker, and he wished not to be alone in this house.

There was something about it that felt wrong, that settled inside him like a thick sludge, bubbling with poison.

Heinwald was certain he could see something, just there, in the corners of his vision. In that little area where things began to get just a little bit fuzzy and unsure, he was certain there was movement, was presence. If he would look, he was sure he would see the shape of a dragon, with peeling black skin where there should be eyes, and a mouth full of riddles and lies.

When he did look, there was nothing but the cast of light across the floors, in their constant dance with the shadows.

A breath escaped his lips, thin and shallow, and briefly he wondered if there were wards he could set up to keep out a dragon.

Well, not a dragon, per-say. A being of unfathomable make, in the meager resemblance of one.

Ever since the Obscura, Heinwald felt this presence biting at his ankles, shifting amorphous in the shadows, just at the edges of his vision, always just out of his sight, and he wondered when it would finally strike. Would it remove the veins from his neck, or would he die slow, in a final payment in the pursuit of knowledge that led him here, that led him to the Library Obscura in the first place.

Whatever the cause, this presence had mixed itself in with the ghosts in his home, and Heinwald no longer felt the comfort of being alone, in a house too big, with noises too quiet, yet too loud all the same. He was uncertain how long this had been going on. A few days, or perhaps, maybe it was a few weeks. He dared not let his guard slip, for this creature lingered, waited for his negligence, for an opportunity.

Heinwald thought himself a fool, for surely there was nothing there, and he was alone, and all the rooms were empty, and the creaks were just the wood of the estate, settling in the dirt.

Certainly, that was all it was.

When the door to his study swung open, with a crash of wood against the door frame, however, Heinwald could not help the way he jumped from his chair, sending a collection of tomes and notes stained with ink crashing upon the floor. His hand had barely begun to reach weakly toward the hilt of his staff when he noted the low whistle, the familiar chuckle, and he felt the tension in his spine fall away so rapidly he was certain he could almost collapse.

Instead, he learned heavily against the edge of his desk, and tried to hide his paranoia, and the weakness in his knees.

“Making a mess, I see.”

“Curran.” Heinwald offered a weak smile, turning to face his familiar partner of the church, who stood in the doorway, clutching a handful of his own papers. “What brings you here?”

“Just dropping off the notes about our latest case.” Reason in place, Curran saw it fit to step into the room, moving by his side to place the neat stack of papers upon his now haphazard desk, uncharacteristically disorganized in his recent strife. Heinwald remembered when Curran was too uncomfortable with him to even be in his estate, let alone let himself inside, and make himself so comfortable in the deepest passages of his home, where his reclusive study sat. They were close now, he imagined. Something about that sat just a bit warm in his chest, near those places hollowed out and soft.

Curran moved back to look at him, and just for a moment, Heinwald felt unusually studied by that gaze, a rare crease in the brow of the inquisitor, a purse of his lips. Something in him told him to step away, but before he could he felt the telltale presence of hands upon his face, fingers crooked under his jaw, and thumbs pressed lightly against the skin just under his eyes, tracing a crescent against the dark and bruised skin.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Curran muttered his disapproval, continuing to rub aimless gentle circles over his skin, and Heinwald was uncertain why no words would escape his throat, past his thick and useless tongue, heavy in his mouth. “Try and get some rest, okay? So you’re ready to go tomorrow.”

Whatever curse gripped his throat loosened enough to gulp air, to weakly respond, “You’re one to talk. Why, you can oft hardly even talk. I’m surprised you haven’t already messed up a sentence.”

Removing his hands, Curran laughed, “Seems I’m getting better at that, hm? I’ll try a tongue twister tomorrow that will really knock your socks off.”

As Curran moved away, offered a reminder for him to sleep, and to bid farewell, Heinwald found himself gripped suddenly by the remembrance of the ghosts in his walls, the way they whimpered and moaned, and the not-dragon in the shadows, that sought to tear him apart, and his bones nearly shook with the desire to be close, to feel safe, to feel not alone.

Traitorous sinew bent his fingers, gripped tightly around the sleeve of Curran’s jacket, before his addled mind could catch up with his actions.

“Wait. Please,” Heinwald spoke, a desperate attempt made to keep his voice level, to allow no hint of the discomfort inside him tremble into his tone. He was sure he would not hear the end of it, if Curran were to know the depths of his unfounded fears, how he was an adult man, so afraid of the dark, and what lurked in the shadows where he could not see, just outside of his range of vision. “Stay with me tonight, Curran.”

Heinwald struggled to swallow around his own tongue, and his mind jumped to scrabble together excuses for his behavior, for his request. “It’s late,” he finally managed, “It is getting dark. You would be safer to stay here. And then, we can start early in the morning on our investigation.”

A slight tug of resistance in the arm he held, and Heinwald tightened his grip, just slightly, a tinge desperately. And he wondered, despite himself, despite it all, how he felt, the tired ache in his bones that he could not dispel, the inability to recall just how long for he had been awake, unable to drop his guard in the vast emptiness of his home– just why he was so determined to keep Curran at his side.

It was a simple question, with a complicated answer. Or, maybe the answer was simple all along, and it was only he who made it complicated, filled it with doubts and denials, rather than accepting what he saw for the truth.

Perhaps, fear was excellent at making people realize things.

“Hein-”

“Curran, I believe I am in love with you.”

For this moment, it felt as if all the specters had grown quiet, and the shadows in his vision stopped shifting amorphously where he could not see. There was nothing but silence, deafening, all encompassing, and Heinwald almost thought that was worse. It bared down upon him, stamped the air of of his lungs, and he had to struggle to speak, to shatter the silence that had thickened like glass around them.

“So, please stay.”

Curran moved his free hand to lay over-top his own, where it clutched at the fabric of his sleeve, and it was only then that Heinwald noticed the trembling in his fingers, a slight shake from deep in his bones. Slowly, his grip was eased off the fabric, urged to relax, and once free, was held between both hands of his partner. His skin felt cold, and Heinwald was not sure why, but surmised it was due to his own nervousness, and how in comparison his own skin must be hot with embarrassment.

He was uncertain what came over him, but knew he was desperate to not be alone in this dreadful place a moment longer, where the ghosts lie in wait to pick apart his flesh.

When Curran finally spoke, it was quiet, a rough timbre that Heinwald had become to accustomed to hearing, that rattled along the inside of his skull, but in a way he felt was a comforting reverb. “Sure, Hein. I’ll stay.”

Past his nervousness, past the tremble in his joints, Heinwald smiled, gripped the hand in his own tightly, and tried to lead his partner across the unforgiving wood floor of his home, which creaked and groaned, softly, yet loudly, the protest of spirits trapped beneath the floorboards. 

From the corner of his eye, where things just began to get a bit fuzzy, Heinwald was certain that he saw shifting in the inky shadows, a shape of something his mind could just not fathom, twisting and writhing at his side.

When he looked, he saw Curran, who smiled, showed his teeth.

And Heinwald was certain, for just a moment, in a way that made the blood in his veins feel as ice, that he saw peeling black skin where there should be eyes, and a mouth full of riddles.

[patheticnugbaby]

Fugitive IV

Finally managed to get this done, I’ve been struggling with it for awhile.

I hope you like it.

“Nanin! Claricia!” Their heads snapped up at the sound of the keeper’s voice carrying down the train of aravels.

The two of them shared a nervous glance before scuttling up to the aravel she sat on, staff resting across her knees. The keeper smiled scooting to the edge of her seat and leaning down to speak.

“How go the lessons?” She asked.

Claricia gave Nanin a quick look, then glanced up at the keeper, “Me?”

“Both of you, though if you’d like to go first you may,” Keeper Ellas gave her a conspiratorial grin, large eyes glittering with a kind of playfulness that made her look much younger.

“Nanin has been a good teacher,” Claricia inclined her head a little before raising her bruised arm, “If a little more hands on than I expected.”

The keeper laughed loud enough to startle the halla, the animals tossed their heads nervously before the keeper managed to quiet her laughter, “How do you find your student, Nanin?”

“She learns quickly, Keeper, with time I’m sure she’ll be exceptional,” He smiled a little, tapping his staff on the ground, “will we have Lahalaan craft her a staff?”

“Do you think she needs one so soon, da’len?” The keeper’s ears pricked forward, head cocking a little, like a cat.

“I think that by the time he is finished crafting it for her she will be ready for it, Keeper,” Claricia blinked, narrowing her eyes at him, he sounded confident, though his ears twitched.

“I see,” The keeper nodded, leaning back up against the aravel, “I will consider your suggestion, Nanin, ma serannas.”

“Would it be rude of me to ask what ‘ma serannas’ means?” Claricia asked before she could stop herself, she cleared her throat a little to hide her embarrassment.

“Essentially it means ‘thank you’,” The keeper replied, only a hint of amusement on her face, “much of our language has been lost, but you are elf-blooded, would you like to learn it?”

“Oh! I’d be honored- I mean, if it’s not too much trouble,” Clarcia managed, flexing her fingers nervously.

“It’s no trouble, da’len, we can start when we stop,” The keeper gave her a reassuring smile, “that being said, we won’t stop until tomorrow evening. We plan on traveling through the night. You two should get something to eat and rest.”

“Are you sure, Keeper? I can-”

“Peace, Nanin. We are journeying to Dirthavaren and you will need your strength when we arrive,” The keeper paused, pursing her lips, “As will you, Claricia.”

“Why? What’s Dirthavaren?” She frowned, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

“Humans call it the Exalted Plains, and it has been a place of war and death for centuries, such-”

“Such places attract demons and thin the veil,” Claricia didn’t mean to interrupt, she cleared her throat a little, a blush creeping on her cheeks, “Er, how do I apologize in elven?”

“That would be ‘Ir abelas’ if it was needed, but you don’t need to apologize, da’len. It is good that you know these things,” The keeper replied with a wider smile, still gentle at the edges, “You may be in the most danger, da’len, spirits of the fade always flock to new mages and they will get worse as we near Dirthavaren. Be wary and be in control, both of you.”

She nodded solemnly, trying to ignore the slow seeping of fear in the core of her belly. She couldn’t help but suddenly remember the harsh illustrations in dusty tomes, detailing the hunts of valiant Templars of ages past, triumphant over demons and abominations alike. Now she vividly recalled how they looked, bodies twisted and morphed around the shape of the demon. The many eyes and winding horns of Pride, the heavy, gelatinous fire of Rage, the sharp, piercing legs of Fear corrupting a mage’s body, flesh rent and remade into a grotesque medley of man and spirit. She swallowed hard, nodding again, more firmly this time.

“Now, enough of that,” The keeper’s voice cut through her reverie, Claricia looked up at her, “Go to Filduine, she’ll give you something to eat, Claricia, see Athras for something for your feet. If they don’t hurt now they certainly will later. Nanin, tomorrow I’d like you to continue teaching her, is that acceptable?”

“Yes, Keeper,” Nanin bowed his head, “how long before we reach Dirthavaren?”

“Not tomorrow, though by the evening you should notice a change in the veil, and in your dreams that night, we should enter the Dirth by the day afterward.”

Claricia nodded before she followed Nanin back along the aravels. Her feet had started to ache, especially after the keeper mentioned that they would be.

“It frightens you,” He said simply, not meeting her eyes.

“What?” She frowned a little, hoping to hide the fact that she knew exactly what he meant.

“The idea that from now on, every day of your life, demons will come after you and seek to take your body away. That there are some places which are more dangerous for you simply because of who you are, some paths which normal people may walk with ease will be like walking along a mere thread,” His tone was cool, matter-of-fact, somehow that made it worse.

“Of course it does!” She snapped, baring her teeth, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Not anymore,” His voice was steady, she felt herself believing him, “I know myself and I know the Beyond. I know that I won’t succumb to a demon’s wishes.”

Claricia scoffed, the fear in her stomach souring into something like anger, “Well you have the advantage of years of training. I don’t.”

“Something Clan Nathari is generously trying to fix,” He spat, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes, or maybe it was the moonlight, “The more afraid you are the easier prey you make. Do what you must but you cannot fear them, that is a weakness and if you’re going to live anything like a long life you cannot be weak.”

“Then teach me to be strong. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” She snarled, feeling the easy hum in her veins, roughly, she yanked it back into her control.

“Tell me, did you earn the strength of your body inside of a few days? Did you learn to swing a sword or use a shield after one lesson? I cannot teach you to be strong enough on your own inside of a few days!” He’d started waving his hands in wide arcs again, lips pulled back in a feline snarl.

“Then what should I do? Lie down and wait?” She rounded on him, blocking his path, ignoring the attention she was drawing from the elves, “To the Void with that! I’ll never give into a demon.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, something devious flashing in his copper eyes, “Good.”

Claricia balked, shock temporarily cooling her rage before it flared anew, “You bastard,” she hissed and shoved him, he stepped back a little, still grinning, “Fuck you.”

She stormed off, magic crackled off of her in prickly heat that shimmered. With a little effort, she reigned it in, boarding the aravel she woke up in without stopping to grab something to eat. Once inside she paced, hands balled into fists, jaw clenched as she ground her teeth. He manipulated her and it was easy. She snarled, throwing a punch into the empty air. She desperately wanted to feel something give under the strength of her fist. Nanin’s stupid smirk preferably.

She shook her hands out, willing some of the stiffness from them. It didn’t work. She wanted to clench them again, to hit something and feel the satisfying sound of delicate bones cracking under her fist, more than making up for the pain in her hand. Claricia shook her head, forcing herself to stop pacing, forcing her hands open at her sides. She closed her eyes, taking a long, slow breath through her nose. She still trembled under her skin, she held that breath before slowly letting it out.

“O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me,” The words sounded bitter, angry in her mouth; she took another breath to steady herself, fingers twitching, “Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat.”

Claricia allowed herself to breathe again, feeling the hard edges of her anger fade a little, replaced with the soft warmth of faith that warmed and pained her heart.

“My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride,” The verses sounded smoother now, spoken with the proper reverence, she cast her eyes to her bedroll which suddenly looked all too inviting, “My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

She paused in her recitations to undress, putting on the large, baggy shirt to cover herself before she crawled into the bedroll, closing her eyes.

“O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor,” She more mouthed the words than spoke them but they still soothed her, the angry tangle in her chest loosened, it wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t so sharp as it was before, “For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.”

It didn’t take her long to drift off, tired as she was. She barely remembered even falling asleep...

She felt... Awake, aware. Claricia cast her eyes about, finding herself in the chantry, the vague shapes of sisters and Templars moving just out of the corner of her eyes. She touched her chest, finding it covered with gleaming armor, the armor of the Templars. She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.

She made it.

Ser Ardouin approached her, a smile on his worn face, “Claricia, how do you fare?”

“Well, Ser Knight,” She gave him an eager grin, “Ready.”

Something in the back of her mind asked her what exactly she was ready for but she dismissed it. It didn’t matter. She was home and they would not betray her.

“That’s a shame,” Something curled his lips, the grin of a snake before it eats, “because you are not worthy.”

She felt like something pierced her chest. She looked down, finding that her armor had suddenly lost all its shine, dull and cracked, faint light leaking from it. She passed her hand over the breastplate.

“No...” She blinked the tears from her eyes before she drew herself up, “I am more than worthy. I will be a Templar.”

“No, you won’t,” Ardouin’s smile curled into a syrupy mockery of comfort, metal-clothed hand resting on her shoulder, “The Maker has cursed you, denied you the honor of joining the Order, you are a mage and an elf-blooded mongrel that your parents left on our doorstep,” his voice hissed, each traitorous word planting a deep-seated cold in her heart that hurt, “Try, try, and try, Claricia, you cannot ever be good enough to outlive the fact that your parents hated you enough to dump you in a tiny chantry on this frozen mountain, that on the day of your Vigil, the day you finally knew you were worth something, you’re suddenly a mage, an apostate, a traitor.”

Ser Ardouin circled her, his voice a vicious mockery of comfort.

“The Templars don’t want you, the Maker has cursed you, your parents didn’t want you. Did they know? When you were born did your mother look into your stupid, wailing face and know that something was wrong with you? Did they drop you at a chantry in the vain hope that the faithful could fix your wrongness?”

Claricia trembled, razor needles piercing her chest, her lungs. Every hole they left seemed to grow in her, leaving nothing but cold emptiness. She sobbed and sank to her knees, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like if she squeezed hard enough she could put herself back together.

“No,” She whispered, more a plea than a rebuke.

“No?” Ser Ardouin tilted his head, raising his eyebrows, “Do you not think that the day you were born the Maker spat on you, a mewling babe, never worthy of love?” He crouched down to her level, face compassionate yet twisted, “If not the Maker’s doing, then why are you so alone? Why have you never been loved? Not by your peers, your mentors, not even by your parents. If it’s not the Maker, then it must just be you, Claricia,” a hand firmly gripped her chin, tilting her head to look him in the eye, “You are what’s wrong.”

She woke with a gasp, shivering. Her skin almost ached with how cold she felt. She threw the blankets away, frantically rubbing her arms as she hurried to dress. Her eyes ached, her head pounded. She felt a crust at the corners of her eyes and she wiped it away with a grimace. Dimly, she was aware of her stomach rumbled, yet she didn’t want to eat. Claricia sighed, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she shuffled out of the aravel, hopping out and closing the door quickly. Pain shot through her legs as her feet hit the ground and she hissed, hobbling back along the aravels to see if she could find Athras.

The sun had scarcely begun to light the sky, not even streaks of gray on the eastern horizon yet, just the slightest lighting at the edge of the sky. She frowned, scratching irritably at an itch on the back of her head. She spotted his wispy white hair and shuffled around the aravel, gritting her teeth against the deep hurt that made the bones of her feet feel like thick, cracking ice.

“Ser Halen?” She asked her voice heavy with sleep.

He turned to face her, a smile deepening the wrinkles on his face, “Da’len, you’re awake early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Not used to the aravels yet,” She tried not to grumble but didn’t succeed, she yawned, the ache behind her eyes intensified, “Keeper Ellas said I should come to you if my feet troubled me.”

“Ah, yes,” He nodded a little, mostly to himself before he clambered up onto the aravel seat more nimbly than she thought he could move; he gestured for her to climb up, patting the seat next to him, “come up, da’len.”

Claricia grimaced before she managed to haul herself up on the aravel, her shoulders ached, like she slept on them wrong. She grumbled under her breath as she took a seat next to him.

“May I see your feet?” He asked, large, knobbly hands outstretched.

She nodded and swung one of her legs up for examination. He tugged the wraps away from her foot, baring angry blisters. He clicked his tongue softly and opened the clay jar, the air suddenly filled with a sharp, medicinal scent that made her wrinkle her nose. Carefully, he dabbed a little bit of the paste on the bottom of her foot. When his fingers touched a blister she hissed but held still. He finished quickly and bandaged her foot tightly, but not too tightly with thick strips of cloth. He did the same with her other foot, letting her tug the leggings back down over her heels.

“Ma serannas,” She didn’t quite mumble, blushing softly at the twitch of surprise on his face, “how often do I need to change the bandages?”

“Take them off before bed, da’len, fresh ones in the morning. Just see me when you wake, I do not sleep much, I’ll be awake,” He smiled, then gestured towards the front of the aravel, “Hahren Belavhan retired but Thalia should have something for you to eat. You went to sleep without food last night, are you alright?”

Claricia gave him a sharp nod, “Was just tired.”

He didn’t look convinced but he didn’t push, turning to put away the salve. She hopped off the aravel, pleased to find that the ache in her feet was nearly gone, only lingering in the joints of her toes. She jogged a little further up the aravel, ignoring the open glares from some of the elves that she passed. Her temples throbbed with a dull pain that seemed to leak from her eyes. Thalia turned to greet her as she approached, slinging her bag off her shoulder and pulling out a few strips of dried, smoked meat and a small hunk of cheese.

“What happened with Nanin yesterday?” Claricia glowered, pointedly taking a bite of the tough meat, “Nanin has only said that he provoked you and that he will attempt not to do so again.”

She snorted, “He did. He needed a result from me and had to poke me to get it. I don’t like it but I’m more angry at me than him now.”

“Why?”

“Because I let him manipulate me and it was easy for him,” Claricia grumbled rolling a shoulder to work some of the stiffness out, “I’ve always had a bit of a short temper, I’m sorry for disturbing the clan.”

To her surprise, Thalia laughed, loud enough to make the halla flinch. Claricia clicked her tongue on the back of her teeth with a little frown.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are, da’len,” Thalia chuckled, clapping her on the back, “such things happen, especially when you’re young. The only one who was ‘disturbed’ was Manhen because he bet me a lovely pair of gloves that you’d punch Nanin,” Thalia showed her the gloves, dark, supple leather, lined with what looked like fennec fur.

Claricia felt a little smile tugging at her lips through a headache, “He can be difficult but I understand. I don’t learn well enough, fast enough I will die, or worse. I could hurt people.”

“That can be said of anyone learning to swing a sword, or shoot a bow,” Thalia waved a hand dismissively, “if you never had the gift you would still be in that danger every day. The only thing which changes is where that danger comes from.”

“Maybe,” Claricia shrugged noncommittally, stifling a yawn, “is the Keeper awake?”

“She is. Shortly after you retired for the evening she and Isenama had a fight, not sure what about,” Thalia shrugged, “Isenama’s taken most of the hunters to replenish our supplies, they’ll catch up with us by the evening.”

“Ma serranas,” Claricia bowed her head a little and shuffled ahead, catching up to the keeper’s aravel, “Good morning, Keeper Ellas.”

The keeper gave her a tired smile and patted the wooden seat of the aravel, “Good morning, da’len, how were your dreams?”

Claricia grimaced, tearing off a chunk of the cheese, “Not good. Don’t remember much.”

“Be careful, da’len,” The keeper warned with a tight frown, “until you are stronger trust nothing in the Beyond. Assume anything you see is a trick or a lure.”

Claricia nodded tightly, “Thank you, Keeper.”

A warm arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into a gentle hug that made her chest ache, “I know it’s hard, da’len, you’re doing very well, especially considering what you’ve been through. I cannot promise that it’ll get any easier for you but I am here, even if you just need to talk.”

Claricia swallowed the tightness in her throat, blinking rapidly as she disentangled herself from the keeper, clearing her throat like it’d relieve the hollow pain nestled in the center of her chest. She wanted desperately to let the keeper comfort her, just for a little while.

You are not worthy... You are what’s wrong.

She took a deep breath and shoved those thoughts away, straightening her back and flexing her jaw, “Thank you, Keeper Ellas, but I’m alright.”

The keeper’s eyes creased, with worry or disbelief she wasn’t sure, “Ma nuvenin, da’len. Today I’d like you and Nanin to continue your lessons, don’t be afraid to bite back if he provokes you, that’s the only way he’ll learn, just expect the same treatment in turn.”

“I’ll keep my temper, Keeper,” Claricia smiled a little, finishing the last couple of bites of dried meat, “what should I do until he wakes?”

“Sit with me, enjoy the sunrise, ask me whatever you wish, da’len. You’ve woken early enough to enjoy a brief respite,” The keeper smiled a warmer smile, leaning her back against the aravel.

“I don’t think I have any questions at the moment, Keeper. Could I just share your company?” Claricia flexed her fingers nervously, tongue tapping on the back of her teeth.

“Of course, da’len, at least until Nanin finds you.”

Claricia giggled a little, leaning back against the aravel, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the light of the rising sun that peeked through the trees. The sun gleamed a brilliant orange, gold and pink staining the sky before it faded to dapples of clear blue, what little she could see through the heavy boughs of the fir trees. Her head still ached and the light made her eyes feel like they were burning but it was beautiful anyways.

[talesntabletops]

Without further ado, I present Kastor’s backstory (with neatly typed up scroll images for fun--my Photoshop skills are seriously-rusty though)

---

Kastor Dru Vennerick spent most of his youth in ignorant privilege and relative bliss compared to many Ravnicans. He had a loving mother who always made sure to provide a sense of place for Kas (who otherwise would have been considered an outsider among most people), and although his family was small, Kas held it dearly...

Nowadays, the jaded young adult has fading hopes of forging a new, chosen family. He only knows he can’t allow himself such peace without first uncovering the truth behind his mother’s death.

Raised amongst the middle-class of Precinct Four’s Bulwark neighborhood, and provided for by his mother’s guild, Kas wanted for little more than friendship, which was admittedly hard to come by for the child. Even if his faintly Elven heritage wasn’t obvious enough to indicate his status (with slightly pointed ears and coppery skin tone), Kas was the product of an illicit affair—the child of a married human Skyknight Captain of Boros and a Half-Devkarin Borrower-turned-Priestess of the Orzhov Syndicate—and so his birth was obviously a point of contention among any who knew of it.

His father Victor returned to his first family to salvage what he could of his marriage when Kas was just a baby, and he had almost no contact with the man until the tragedy that forced them together later in life. But it wasn’t just Kas who received the brunt of the gossip; his mother Drusilia was also subject to ridicule as a single mother and “renowned harlot” of the church, even if her influence among the Orzhov allowed her to silence any who spread dissent about her family.

But among these difficulties Kas came to make one good friend among another guild Borrower, equally considered “other” by most of the Syndicate: A Loxodon named Throom. The two of them were educated and trained together directly under Kas’ mother. However, when it was determined that Kas didn’t bear the talents for clerical magic, he was thrust into the world of the Orzhov Enforcers, still remaining close friends with Throom. During these early years of training, he took little heed of his tasks for the Orzhov (theft, intimidation, assassination), believing fully in the dogma of the church that his targets were grievous sinners.  But that all changed when he was 15 and found his entire life uprooted.

While he was out on one his first solo missions as an Enforcer, he heard a massive explosion coming from the direction of Precinct Six. Thinking it to be another accident in the Smelting Quarter, Kas continued on. It wasn’t until sometime later, when he noticed a wave of Boros and Azorious soldiers swarming in the direction of Precinct Six that he became worried (his mother’s basilica was located in Precinct Six, just south of Kamen Fortress, near Tin Street). Picking up into a sprint, Kas found his worst fears had come to pass. The basilica was engulfed in flames and surrounded by servants of several guilds as they attempted to put it out. But the fire appeared to be magical in nature, and it wasn’t until the great dragon of Izzet descended upon the disaster that the flames could be doused.

What followed was a whirlwind of events that left Kas without a guild or a family. His mother was found dead, along with the entirety of her staff of syndics and ministrants. Conspiracy theories abound regarding who was responsible for the explosion. The Boros and Azorious launched an investigation that implicated a number of guilds (including Orzhov itself), and leading to the arrests of a couple Rakdos members. However, Kas was never satisfied with the results of their investigation and believed the Syndicate to be covering for something more sinister.

Kastor grew disillusioned with the guild and became increasingly rebellious to the point of straining many relationships among Orzhov (including with Throom). After nearly a year of individual investigation, the young Enforcer discovered a letter left to him by Drusilia—deliberately hidden by the new Priest of her reconstructed basilica. The letter detailed her wishes for her remaining possessions to be sold off so that Kas would be forgiven of the Torvek family debts. The letter also urged him to pursue his real passions if they lie outside the guild. Most of his mother’s possessions were burned with the fire, but she had managed to squirrel away enough to repay their family’s debts.

That proved to be the final straw for the angry teenager, and he renounced his guild the next day, no doubt creating lifelong enemies in the process. Though he keeps in touch with Throom, their relationship is mutually secretive and naturally distrusting. Kas eventually found himself in the home of his father and step-mother, as well as his three half siblings. Further ostracized by as the “bastard son,” Kas never made many bonds outside of his younger siblings, Dahlya and Uzric. His father continuously tried to recruit Kas to the Horizon Military Academy, as if joining the Boros Legion was some repentance for his “sins” in the past. He certainly possessed the skills for a Swiftblade, but Kas had ulterior motives for moving in with his family and getting close to the Boros; he sought to uncover the results of their investigation into Drusilia’s death. And he made sure to rebuff his father’s constant recruitment-attempts at every turn… Their relationship is understandably complicated and distant.

After several more years, his search only led to more questions that seemed could be answered only by the creature that was able to stop the magical fire: Niv-Mizzet himself. Again, almost overnight and just before his eighteenth birthday, Kas ran away from his step-family and concocted a plan to find his way into the Izzet Guild. He hoped to start from the bottom and steadily work his way up, beginning as an attendant and then getting promoted through the ranks—Kas was willing to do whatever it took to reach an audience with the Dragon Niv-Mizzet. He rushed off to the Izzet League, eager to apply… And was rejected immediately. The Izzet League had no use for attendants with lacking in magical talents and his skulking persona made recruiters suspicious of his motives to join.

With nowhere to turn, Kas became guild-less and homeless once more, only this time without his step-family’s support. He worked for some time as a barkeeper, changing his name to Othniel Vict Lannodov (to avoid both his father and the Orzhov). Managing to scrape together enough coins to survive, he continued his independent investigation as best he could. Although without a clue or heading, he made almost no progress at all. It wasn’t until an Orzhov Syndic approached him months later at the bar that his fate took a turn.

Kas recognized the man immediately as an Orzhov enforcer, and he appeared to be on a quest specifically to bring Kas back to the guild. What started as a defiant conversation in which the man attempted to persuade Kas into returning, quickly turned into threats of Orzhov debtors’-prison. Despite the fact that Kastor’s family debts were paid several years prior as part of his mother’s last will, the man insisted he had grounds to arrest him on the spot if he didn’t return to the Syndicate. Instead, they struck a deal: They’d play a game of chance. If the enforcer won, he would return with him to the guild; if Kas won, he’d be free of his debt for good. And of course, it wouldn’t be a real game without upping the ante—Kas proposed wagering a small amount of gold as well, knowing the enforcer would prefer leverage to pull him back into debt.

But of course, he had no plans to return to Orzhov, regardless of the outcome. He had just rigged the game to make sure it came out in his favor. With a bit of sleight of hand, he had managed to swap several cards on key hands, eventually winning out over the enforcer and sending him packing. Managing a small surplus of gold was only a bonus. But his victory over the Enforcer didn’t go unnoticed. Another patron in the bar watched closely, unnoticed by either. And after the Orzhov agent had left defeated, the Veiled Whisper approached Kas with an offer to join House Dimir. The shapechanger only revealed enough details to pique his interest, but promised Kas greater access to the information he sought than he could have ever imagined. It took little more than a guarantee of access to the Izzet to persuade him to join, and Kas spent the next couple years learning the way of House Dimir (all while maintaining his false persona at the bar). The Veiled Whisper even procured a tome of magic for Kas so that he could blend in among the League, which he used to summon an owl familiar named Xanthia

Although Kas never possessed much of a talent for divine magic, being a naturally precocious child and eager learner, he found the arcane magic within the book easy to understand and decode, and it took him only a week to master the casting of such a ritual. He became fascinated by the power that simple incantations and runic inscriptions held, and as Kas sought to learn more spells he had the thought that perhaps the Izzet could become his real home (assuming the dragon wasn’t the one responsible). He could learn so much, and with such arcane power at his fingertips, finding out the truth should be easy (and not just for the mystery surrounding his mother’s death).

Eventually Kas ran into a young member of the Izzet League at a bar one night and, utilizing his new skills, he struck up a conversation. Ruba Tandris was a beautiful but gruff young woman and research Chemister in Izzet’s blistercoils. She was intrigued by the smallest thing, cursed like a sailor, and spoke her mind. Although their relationship was almost entirely physical, Ruba had a big heart, and not only was she interested to help her partner get to the bottom of his life’s mystery, but Ruba also saw talent behind his novice spellcasting. And after vouching for him, Kas was permitted entry to the guild as an attendant, living out his original plan to work his way up.

He performed random and dangerous tasks for the researchers and mages of the League: Acting as a test subject for Chemisters and Blastseekers by testing new magical inventions; laying sewage lines or electric coils underneath new infrastructure developments; and hunting down artifacts for various laboratories to aid in their research. One day, after several more months of infiltration into the League, Kas managed to catch the eye of his future Instructor: Algar, the Vedalken director of the Laboratory of Storms and Electricity.

At first their relationship was distant and entirely professional: Algar would hire Kas for his unique talents to procure artifacts discreetly, until eventually his face became more known as a runner for various mages and laboratories throughout the Tenth District. When the time came for Algar to take on new staff for his research at the lab, he offered a position to Kas, and began offering personal lessons to the young mage, despite his lack of magical acumen. As Algar puts it, the more skilled Kas becomes in the arcane arts, the better he can complete his secretive assignments and protect Algar’s mage.

Kas cares deeply for Algar, and still thinks fondly of the connections he’s made in life, but he’s reluctant to hold any permanent bonds until he finds the answers he seeks. That’s ultimately why he pulled away from Throom and his step-family. It’s why his and Ruba’s sexual relationship eventually soured. And while he is forever grateful to the Vedalken for taking a chance on his paltry skills, he keeps the wizard at arms’ length until he can finally get an audience with Niv-Mizzet.