Falcar mi ha dato una quest macabra: andare nel pozzo dietro all'edificio della Gilda Dei Maghi e aprire il pozzo per estrarre dal cadavere di Vulkan l'Anello del Fardello e farmi capire che l'ha ucciso lui.
It was hardly shabby and a beautiful place in its own right-- but there was a distinct air which Guilbert mistrusted.
He could not place his finger on where his lack of trust in the local chapter of the Mages’ Guild resided; as while Guilbert was a pious servant of the Nine he did not view most schools of magic as inherently evil.
chuckling because while in my interpretation Guilbert has generally neutral to negative opinions of magic overall (so far anyway), this singular time his mistrust is justified bc of falcar
(also for anyone curious, the school Guilbert mistrusts as evil is Conjuration, naturally.)
sending you 4 or 8 as you prefer for the prompts :) & i would say lavinia <3 if you’re looking for character suggestions but if you have someone specific in mind….
4: "Hey, it's fashion."
Falcar’s golden magelight makes the guildhall basement a little more inviting, but the smell of mouse droppings persists—so too the stale, still air. No wonder the Guild keeps wine down here, thinks Lavinia. A few feet above is a beautiful Nibenese spring day, humid and fragrant, and down here the cold is rattling her bones. He’d put a muffling charm on the room, Falcar, which had made her uneasy; then he’d made her cast one too and watched her technique, the old goat, which was comfortingly, irritatingly familiar.
All told, she’s confused.
“If you’re here to kill me, wizard,” says Lavinia flatly, “I want you to know it wasn’t me who filched your reagents.”
Falcar smiles. “Wasn’t aware I was missing any.”
“The root pulp and bog-caps, bog-lanterns. . . you’re drawing me out.”
“Bog beacons. I’m not trying to kill you, daft conjurer. I’d be cleverer about it than this.”
“Should hope so.”
“Could I please come out, now?” says an unknown voice, with no source. Before the first thought could put itself together in her head, Lavinia has warded herself and Falcar, and her fingers have sparked with leashed lightning, her hand drawn back to throw—
“Lavinia,” says Falcar in that paralyzing tone he reserves for guild disputes. As if hexed, her hand goes limp. To the empty spot beside him he snaps: “I told you to wait for my word.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” says the young man—he is, as far as she can tell, a young man—and drops his spell. The air wavers and he appears in full effect, a weird creature, lithe and pale, with hair the color of nightshade petals and wrapped in the most outlandishly rich robes imaginable. “I thought I was dealing with a mage, not a nervous dreugh.”
She chokes on her fury—considers throwing the spell anyway, thinks marginally better of it—instead she gasps, “Bite me you fucking peacock popinjay cunt.”
The young man freezes for an instant, open-mouthed, then bursts into laughter.
His laugh is supernaturally pleasant; rich and rebounding, like that of a nymph. “Pop—popinjay?” he says, placing a hand on the front of his robes, shaking with glee. “It’s fashion, thank you very much. Bespoke, even.”
Lavinia, at a loss, stands there and watches him.
“Let’s try this again,” says the young man, a little breathlessly. “P. Copperhart Darkworth of Wayrest at your service, but just Copperhart will do. I apologize for my outburst, and for appearing unannounced, and I thank you for not incinerating me.”
“Lavinia Marciana Caridenius,” she says tersely, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“A pleasure.”
Falcar seats himself in one of the damp basement chairs and motions for Lavinia and the interloper to do the same. “You know I met with the Council a few days ago, conjurer.”
“Yes,” says Lavinia.
“And you know that an official end has been called to the Simulacrum.”
“Yes, wizard.”
“Well. . .Jagar Tharn, during his reign, compromised the Battlespire. Left it open for the Daedra.”
Lavinia grits her teeth. “What do I want with the Battlespire? I’m a University mage, not a Legion suck-up.”
“Listen,” says Falcar, and follows it with nothing. He puts his head in his hands, the grey hair spills between his fingers. Then, sitting upright, he continues: “The Mages’ Council and the Elder Council deliberated together. It was decided that someone must go to the Battlespire and determine whether there are any surviving battlemages, and whether the facility can be retaken in Tharn’s absence. The guildmasters each put forward a handful of names. You, conjurer, and you, master Darkworth, are brilliant, resourceful casters. . .”
“But young and dispensable, if the worst comes to pass,” says Copperhart coolly.
“And who the hell are you, anyway?” Lavinia presses him. “You’re not even Mages’ Guild. Why are you involved?”
He lowers his glasses, peculiar little spectacles with red lenses and jeweled rims, and peers at her over them. “My family is in town, so to speak, for the celebrations. The Darkworths are known to His Imperial Majesty and the Elder Council, so the matter reached my ears by and by. I was asked to step in.”
Both brilliant casters?—it dawns on her. Arkay’s eyes. “You want us to go to the Battlespire together.”
Falcar looks miserable. “So the two Councils have decided.”
“Lavinia Marciana Caridenius,” says Copperhart slowly, as if reciting a poem. “That is a mouthful. What do your friends call you? Liv? Nia? Vinnie?”
She stiffens with outrage when she hears ‘Vinnie’: a mistake. Copperhart perks up like a wolf smelling blood.
“Vinnie!” he declares.
Lavinia catches Falcar’s eye. He knows her. He’s always tut-tutting about her temper, he knows she’ll throttle this purple bastard if he carries on like this, assignment or no assignment, But all she manages is to groan, “Falcar.”
“Take a little time to think. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow,” says Falcar, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Master Darkworth will accompany you into the Imperial City at the end of the week. Until then, not a word about this to anyone, please.”
He rises from his chair in his usual way, pushing himself up from the armrests to spare his knees. Copperhart follows suit and excuses himself from the room with a bow. Lavinia goes to the stairs.
“Conjurer,” comes Falcar’s voice.
She turns around, fuming and a little giddy.
Falcar folds his arms and glances aside.
“What?”
“I. . .I was against this whole undertaking,” he says quietly.
Lavinia closes her eyes. All she wants now is to nap in the afternoon sun. To take the carriage to Gold Leaf, maybe. . . “I should see my family.” She holds Falcar’s gaze. He seems exhausted; he has dark circles. There is a tremor in his hands. “This is a lot to ask, wizard.”
“I know.” Falcar sighs. “Take very good care of yourself.”
“I thought I was dispensable,” she says, petulantly.
He glares at her, the Guildmaster’s glare that stops unruly apprentices in their tracks and withers wizards of lesser authority. “Think again.”
first sentences tag game from @ghostwise thank you :) !
the rules: post the first sentence of your last ten fics; if you haven't written ten fics, share as many first sentences as you have/would like
passing the tag on to @vakarians-babe @consulaaris @isayashai @werecanidae @jiubilant @nulfaga @gethenians @selvaso @mxssrelay @favoriteblogonthecitadel @nuwanders if you would like to share anything from your wips :) !
well its mostly dragoned age on this blog..i tried to pick some top personal hits
"I'm roasting," Sigrun informs him, after two minutes lounging on the battlements.
There wasn't much cleaning to be done for a corner of Darktown, but Tomwise spent the afternoon rearranging junk anyway.
In the hills of Redcliffe the edge of the Fade is crowded with disoriented travelers, tugging at his sleeves if they’ve met before, most passing through.
On a rare rainless afternoon Leliana rouses herself from endless reports and walks the low, dingy old chantry hall, relighting candles.
I didn’t think much of Crestwood, on account of the hordes of corpses and ghosts and the awful beating my da took in the old fort, but once it stopped bucketing rain it wasn’t half bad.
non da
“You know we’ve got a new one from up north, and Falcar already wants his head on a stick?” said Trayvond.
The wretched thing refused your neck- slipped hotly from your hand- winked at you in the grey shallows lapping around the emperor’s island.
On the third day, Hal-Liurz met the countess.
Mirabelle and the Staff of Magnus are brooding in the courtyard together, with the leg she pulled in Labyrinthian propped in front, and the Staff propped behind.
not posted anywhere
"That’s the end of it," Avitus said, before he shut off the omnitool and hid it beneath his arm.
I am quite concerned that Traven knew he needed an unusually large soul gem to trap himself, suggesting he somehow discovered his own soul was unusually large. Me thinks he experimented with souls in the past and came to resent said past, which is why he hates necromancy. Just a theory.
traven didn't create the soul gem, the worm cultists did? and somehow he'd just got wind of what they intended to do with it. so it's not him who knew the size of his soul, it's mannimarco's necromancers who had somehow measured it. and they likely knew what they were doing
i also have a weird image now of falcar coming to the arcane university and just trying to inconspicuously work out what size soul traven has. just staring at him, maybe holding up his hands to judge height