<nobr><<set $chapter to "chapter one">></nobr>
<center class="titolo">Chapter 1</center>
<center class="titolo2">[[The Apprentice, Chosen for the Last War|Prescelto][$they = "he", $them = "him", $their = "his", $theirs = "his", $themselves = "himself", $plur = false, $They = "He", $Them = "Him", $Their = "His", $Theirs = "His", $person = "man", $child, "son", $kid = "boy"]]</center>
<center>(set he/him pronouns)</center>
<center class="titolo2">[[The Apprentice, Chosen for the Last War|Prescelto][$they = "she", $them = "her", $their = "her", $theirs = "hers", $themselves = "herself", $plur = false, $They = "She", $Them = "Her", $Their = "Her", $Theirs = "Hers", $person = "woman", $child, "daughter", $kid = "girl"]]</center>
<center>(set she/her pronouns)</center>
<center class="titolo2">[[The Apprentice, Chosen for the Last War|Prescelto][$they = "they", $them = "them", $their = "their", $theirs = "theirs", $themselves = "themselves", $plur = true, $They = "They", $Them = "Them", $Their = "Their", $Theirs = "Theirs", $person = "person", $child, "child", $kid = "kid"]]</center>
<center>(set they/them pronouns)</center>L'Ultima Guerra - The Last Warby <span class="fontAuthor">Kal Down</span><span class = "fontTitle">The Chosen One</span><<if hasVisited("Prescelto")>>[[Bachra]]<br><</if>>\
<<if hasVisited("shower")>>[[The Chosen One|profile]]<br><</if>>\
<<if hasVisited("interlude1")>>[[The Healer]]<br><</if>>\<span class = "fontprofile"><center>//You have been summoned, <b>$name</b>.//</center></span>
<span class = "font2">Heritage:</span> <<if $parents is "N">>both of your parents are northern natives.<<elseif $parents is "W">>both of your parents are western natives.<<elseif $parents is "E">>both your parents are eastern natives.<<elseif $parents is "S">>both of your parents are southern natives.<</if>>
<span class = "font2">Appearance:</span> you are a $height <<if $trans>>trans<</if>> $person, with $skincolor skin, $eyes eyes and $hairlength $haircolor $hairtexture hair that you keep $hairstyle.
<span class = "font2">Magic:</span> your preferred school is <<if $magic is "illusion">><b class= "font4">Illusion</b>.<<elseif $magic is "water">><b class= "font4">Elemental Manipulation</b>.<<elseif $magic is "enchantment">><b class= "font4">Enchantment</b>.<</if>>
<span class = "font2">Rune:</span> the rune engraved on your neck bears the symbol of the <<if $rune is "West">><b class = "font4">West</b> and it pulses with a magnetic purple hue.<<elseif $rune is "East">><b class = "font4">East</b> and it shines a brilliant golden.<<elseif $rune is "North">><b class = "font4">North</b> and it shines a deep, icy blue.<<elseif $rune is "South">><b class = "font4">South</b> and it colors your skin blood red.<</if>> <<if $runevisibility is undefined>><<else>>During the Last Journey you chose to keep it, at least for now, <<if $runevisibility is "on">>visible.<<else>>hidden.<</if>><</if>>
<span class="font2">Token:</span> <<if $token is "N1">>a small sphere made of Amar'e roots intertwined with each other, snow-white and rhythmically pulsing with a blood-red glow that smells of life and death at the same time. It symbolizes respect for destiny, but also resilience.<<elseif $token is "N2">>the horn tip of a Gherà - a magical herbivorous animal with a decidedly aggressive temperament - woven into the wire to form a rudimentary pendant. It symbolizes power and intelligence.<<elseif $token is "N3">>three concentric rings of keraam - the white gold of the North - wrapped to form a bracelet that you wear just below the shoulder. It symbolizes tireless adaptability and hidden cunning.<<elseif $token is "W1">>a needle of black bone from Averàal, a mammoth magical deer sacred to the Great Goddess, piercing your earlobe. It symbolizes, like the animal itself, immortality and constant vigilance.<<elseif $token is "W2">>an armband that wraps around the wrist and goes up along the middle finger made of the hardened leaves of the Fas'tae plant, disproportionately strong and held in great value for its thaumaturgic or toxic properties. It symbolizes calculated intelligence and unalterable tenacity.<<elseif $token is "W3">>a shuul glass cruet, containing water from the sacred waterfalls of the West and glowing with a purple glow. It symbolizes unpredictability and relentless will.<<elseif $token is "S1">>a pendant you usually wear around your neck, consisting of a small crystal flask containing the blood of Sheèvr - a serpent sacred to the Great Goddess of keen intelligence - enchanted to be eternally liquid. It symbolizes calculated patience and brutal initiative.<<elseif $token is "S2">>a rudimentary flute a few centimeters long, made from the inlaid teeth of the sacred beast Banèl, a giant feline that dominates the southern deserts. It symbolizes unforeseen ferocity and possessiveness.<<elseif $token is "S3">>a letter opener made of gherda metal, tempered in the fire of the furnaces of Hart, the second largest city in the South. It possesses an incredible affinity for magic and symbolizes merciless determination and balance.<<elseif $token is "E1">>a small hourglass, empty as soon as you take it in your hand but enchanted to fill up with orange grains of the fickle sands of the East if you turn it upside down. It symbolizes respect for destiny but also hidden unpredictability.<<elseif $token is "E2">>Three rings that fit on the index, middle and ring fingers, connected to each other without taking away too much freedom of movement. The material is masha copper, extremely appreciated for its affinity to magic. It symbolizes perseverance and refined talent.<<elseif $token is "E3">>A leather collar decorated with scales of the Fernàn fish, a huge magical beast that dominates the waters of the gulf. You specifically designed it to cover your rune, you may need it in the future. It symbolizes possessiveness and cautious vigilance.<</if>>
<<nobr>><<if visited("leechen3") is 1>><span class="font2">Your //leechen//:</span> $leechenshe's a beautiful mount, with a $leechencolor mantle, a wavy silver maine and <<if $leechen is "female">>three pronounced dark horns on the snout.<<else>>patches of dark coloured scales.<</if>><</if>><</nobr>>
<span class = "fontprofile"><center>//There's no Apprentice without a Mentor.//</center></span>
<<if $trait1 gt $trait2>>Your Mentor considers you a particularly capable person, but not very approachable despite your rhetorical ability, which they believe you exploit to manipulate your interlocutor rather than trying to find a compromise.<<elseif $trait2 gt $trait1>>Your Mentor considers you a particularly capable person, but not very approachable given your abrasive and sometimes hostile nature.<<else>>Your Mentor considers you a particularly capable person, but not very approachable. While sometimes you make use of well-placed placating words, they are often false and as heartless as the cutting attitude you show some other times.<</if>>
<<if $emotions1 gt $emotions2>>You don't suppress your emotions, especially the negative ones, and it's not unusual for your magic to impulsively act on them.<<elseif $emotions2 gt $emotions1>>You can handle intense emotions pretty well, at least most of the time, and you have a fair amount of control over your impulsive magical reactions.<<else>>You keep a firm balance between letting your magic act on impulse, following your raw emotions, and controlling yourself when the situation asks for it.<</if>>
<<button "Return to story" $return>><</button>><span class = "font2">Common knowledge:</span>
Bachra is a vast nation devided into four regions: North, South, East and West, each with their own War Council and Cabal. The King rules above all, aided by the war generals and the Synod, composed of the four Archmages, each head of their own Cabal.
While Bachra's government lies its foundations on a strict hierarchy and the separation of powers, Kaeh's whole governing structure is an extention of their Gods' will.
These two opposing nations greatly differ even in their magic system and source. While Bachra's magic is intrinsic to its users, the Gods themselves lend it to kaehans.
<span class = "font2">The Prophecy:</span>
It was issued centuries ago by a fallen Monarch, the last of their kind before the Queen took control of Bachra. Only the King himself and the Synod know the exact words, not even the Chosen One $themselves has ever been made aware of them.
<<button "Return to story" $return>><</button>>You inhale, with your eyes closed, the cold air impregnated with the damp smell of snow. You hold it in your lungs for a long moment, then you placidly squint your eyelids and observe the condensation that forms as soon as your breath leaves your lips. You watch as the cold landscape fogs up with white, tinged with blue and the faintest shade of pink as the sun rises over the frozen landscape.
You move your fingers, covered by the thin fabric of your gloves, to fight the painful sensation that has now replaced the cold and that pierces through your skin like thin, hot needles.
You inhale, and as you exhale you let the magic flow through the frozen earth. Around you, the stillness of the gardens has a vague hint of death, the same one that accompanies winter every year and that regularly sheds most of the trees. All you can hear is the crunching of ice crystals and the indistinct cries of the few birds that have not migrated South, probably those that possess enough magic to survive in this climate. Soon the animals will migrate again, returning to inhabit the northern lands, however for now the silence is almost absolute.
The sun is already rising, but the faint rays that manage to reach you beyond the muffled blanket of clouds aren't really enough to warm you. You cloutch the heavy coat of the academic winter uniform you grabbed almost blindly from the closet a couple of hours ago.
Silence accompanies your every movement, cradling this rare moment of peace.
More time passes in your near immobility and your muscles begin to ache, half numb from the cold and half from the less than comfortable position that has you leaning against the wet trunk of a tree. Regardless, you ignore the sensation to savour that unusual atmosphere a little longer.
//No screams, no insistent bells to mark the rhythm of the day and above all no annoying voices to disturb the sound of your thoughts.//
You needed to be alone, at least for a while.
This place is starting to get to you, you suspect that your Mentor has started to notice it too. Despite your great destiny, all you've done so far is wait. What, you are unable to say precisely. You only know that your time is approaching fast and that the War will soon begin.
<span class="choices">[[The Prophecy weighs on your shoulders more than ever.|magic]]</span>War and death are what was promised you at birth, you accepted it long ago. Yet recently a restlessness not entirely yous grips your stomach to the point of making you more irritable and distant than usual.
To calm yourself, and distract your thoughts from the Prophecy, you move the gloved fingers of your right hand and your magic //explodes// with the force of a snowstorm in winter. You let it run through your arms without containing it, it only takes you a couple of moments to get used to its overwhelming presence.
The feeling is so intense and yet so //familiar//.
The spell you cast is a diagnostic of the second kind, advanced but effortlessly executed. It ignites the Academy grounds and the entire building of your glowing magic, pinpointing the object of your attention with extreme speed - not surprising, considering the amount of magic you've infused into the tree. You can clearly feel the pulsing energy of the Oa'hk and it reassures you like few other things can.
With just a flap of your concentration, as if you were looking at something out of the corner of your eye, you let the magic penetrate deeper into the halls - //oh, the third year is beginning lesson in illusory enchantments.//
As for you, you finished your general studies years ago. Usually after thatl it's recommended to choose a specialization school in order to optimize the use of one's magic, but you have always been a strange case. Your power is so intense and vast that you can easily use any school you want.
However, you have personal preferences, and so over the last few years you have come to rely more and more, at least in practical training, on
<div class="choice-item">[[illusion magic, which allows you to manipulate your perception of reality as well as any person’s within a certain range.|magic1][$magic = "illusion"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[elemental manipulation of water in all its forms. This specialization allows you, among other things, to control the weather and, to a more limited extent, blood.|magic1][$magic = "water"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[physical enchantments, which allow you to alter and enhance the properties of common weapons and objects.|magic1][$magic = "enchantment"]]</div><<if $magic is "illusion">>The school of illusion has always been a powerful one, though particularly difficult to fully exploit.
Predictably, it requires absolute and ironclad control of both one's magic and one's surroundings. A volatile domain to say the least, but one that has its own magnetic appeal. While it has attracted many magicians over the centuries, few have truly achieved an advanced level of mental manipulation. The names of those who have succeeded, however, are in the historical scrolls of Bachra.
The appeal lies particularly in the ability to alter physical and mental perceptions even at very subtle levels, ranging from control over the senses to emotional control. The range of influence within which you can operate is limited, but yours is definitely wider than that of any other illusionist.<<elseif $magic is "water">>The school of elemental water control is frankly underrated, a misconception you have never personally made. Some naively believe the uses are too limited compared to other material schools, however there’s nothing more untrue. Water is abundant in the environment and therefore excellent as a source of raw material, at the same time the atmosphere is full of it and with a power like yours it’s totally at your disposal.
Finally there's the blood domain. More than rare and practiced only by extremely capable magicians, you have always found it within arm's reach, if not particularly tiring and expensive in magical terms. You have used it very little, though. You recognize its danger and you intend to use it only when absolutely necessary.<<elseif $magic is "enchantment">>The enchantment school is one of the oldest existing, widely used even by individuals with less magical affinity, its applications are almost unlimited. It allows the enchantment of almost any type of object, with the exception of some magical materials, and once you have precisely defined the purpose of the magic you can effectively perform transmutations, animations for short periods of time or you can directly undo the matter.
With a power like yours almost every whim, every vague thought is within your grasp. You have the power to enchant buildings, you can change the shape of complex objects and their composition.
Last but not least, you personally find this school particularly versatile in weapon combat, allowing you to enchant your own and your opponent's, wich is by no means a small advantage.<</if>>
You wonder how often, during your Journey, you will need to rely on your magic. It's something you've always taken for granted, but you've never actually fought in earnest, at least not with the specific intent to hurting or kill, and yet what they expect from you is to be in the front ranks of an entire //nation//'s army-
You violently squash the thought before it can cause anything other than a few labored breaths. The cold air, though anything but pleasant, helps you clear your thoughts and regain control of them.
Then, like the violent snap of a tree's dry branch when the weight of the snow breaks it, you hear the barely muffled sound of someone rushing up. You sigh, vaguely annoyed, or perhaps just resigned to the Academy's absolute lack of privacy. Like everything, though, this seemingly eternal wait had to end.
With a fluid movement that you try to make as elegant as possible, you stand up, shaking off the cold and clapping your hands together to warm them. From your position, closer to the stone archway that gives entrance to the courtyard than to the eastern border of the Academy, you can see the petite figure of a student getting closer and closer.
You wait with modulated patience for his arrival, without hinting at going towards him.
The boy stops a few steps away from you, although it takes him a few moments before he can catch his breath enough to speak. You're not surprised that you can't remember his name, like most of the other students. It's an unnecessary piece of information, so you've always failed to keep it in mind.
It could be Kyne, but it could also be Oskar. Either way, it is not what currently has your attention.
He stares into your eyes for only a moment, then immediately looks away to look at the sterile ground at his feet. He exhales a puff of white smoke, then nervously crosses his fingers reddened by the cold and almost manages to stutter as he speaks.
"<b><<textbox "$name" "Verska">></b>, you are summoned by the Archmage."
Unlike the young student, you remain perfectly still while you assimilate the news. //Perhaps the moment you've been waiting for is closer than you imagined.//
You focus your gaze, which you had let wander, on the boy in front of you. You can feel his discomfort at your presence deepen for every moment that your eyes remain fixed on him.
At this point you're pretty sure he's not even breathing anymore.
<div class="choice-item">[[You thank him before you go.|height (thank)][$trait1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Without wasting any more time you start walking towards the pavilions.|height (go)][$trait2 += 1]]</div>//It's starting.// You think with a shiver.
You give a distracted nod to the boy and then, without waiting any longer, your body already quivering with anticipation, you continue in the direction of the courtyard. As you cross the gardens in quick strides you only partially register the cold and the noise your boots make on the fresh snow. At the moment what echoes in your ears above all other sounds is the frantic beating of your heart in your chest, a voracious excitement tensing all your muscles and making you gasp for breath. Your hands are shaking, you realize, letting your legs guide you down a path you now know by heart.
You are not afraid. This is the moment you've been waiting for since you were old enough to understand what you are. You don't know exactly what lies ahead, or if the War is even close enough to require your summoning, but your lips curve into a fierce smile as you walk.
Finally. //Finally.//
You pass the imposing stone archway that separates the main courtyard from the gardens, noting with bland disinterest the presence of a couple of students even at this time of the morning. Although you feel their stares on you as you walk, a feeling you experience quite often but have not yet managed to get used to, you continue on your way, entering the north wing of the building and climbing the worn stone stairs. The corridors offer almost no shelter from the cold; instead, the classrooms, rooms and offices are individually heated by a magical system that has been integrated into the classical one. You rub your hot fingers together as you continue with a tense, brisk pace.
The closer you get to the Archmage's rooms, the more students and professors you find on your way. You do everything you can to ignore the indefinite feeling that like a twinge goes through you when, as you pass by, all discussion ceases and their eyes fix on you. You know that if you even stopped for a moment to return the attention, most of them would not even have the courage to hold your gaze, and you feed on that thought until you wash away all others.
You don't care about their opinion. You are $name, the Chosen One. You don't need anyone outside of your Mentor.
If possible, you straighten your posture even more, tightening your muscles. While you keep walking, you take a breath to calm yourself, directing your gaze to the south-facing windows. Your reflection, misted in places by condensation on the glass, stares back at you.
<div class="choice-item">[[Your silhouette reaches the upper lintel of the window, which can barely contain your entire figure. (1.80 - 2.00 m)|parents][$height = "tall"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Your silhouette fits comfortably within the width of the reflective surface. (1.65 - 1.80 m)|parents][$height = "average"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[The figure that reciprocates your gaze leaves a discreet gap on the glass. (1.45 - 1.65 m)|parents][$height = "short"]]</div>You curve your lips into a smile that you know is only half friendly "thanks for the heads up, ..."
Damn, you still don't remember their name.
"Oskar," lets out the boy, who has finally resumed breathing normally. Again, he only gives you a very brief glance before lowering his gaze again.
//Ha, you knew it.//
"Oskar," you repeat absentmindedly, your tone exuding an impatience you can't and don't care to restrain.
Without waiting any longer, your body already quivering with anticipation, you begin to walk in the direction of the courtyard. As you cross the gardens in quick strides you only partially register the cold and the noise your boots make on the fresh snow. At the moment what echoes in your ears above all other sounds is the frantic beating of your heart in your chest, a voracious excitement tensing all your muscles and making you gasp for breath. Your hands are shaking, you realize, letting your legs guide you down a path you now know by heart.
You are not afraid. This is the moment you've been waiting for since you were old enough to understand what you are. You don't know exactly what lies ahead, or if the War is even close enough to require your summoning, but your lips curve into a fierce smile as you walk.
Finally. //Finally.//
You pass the imposing stone archway that separates the main courtyard from the gardens, noting with bland disinterest the presence of a couple of students even at this time of the morning. Although you feel their stares on you as you walk, a feeling you experience quite often but have not yet managed to get used to, you continue on your way, entering the north wing of the building and climbing the worn stone stairs. The corridors offer almost no shelter from the cold; instead, the classrooms, rooms and offices are individually heated by a magical system that has been integrated into the classical one. You rub your hot fingers together as you continue with a tense, brisk pace.
The closer you get to the Archmage's rooms, the more students and professors you find on your way. You do everything you can to ignore the indefinite feeling that like a twinge goes through you when, as you pass by, all discussion ceases and their eyes fix on you. You know that if you even stopped for a moment to return the attention, most of them would not even have the courage to hold your gaze, and you feed on that thought until you wash away all others.
You don't care about their opinion. You are $name, the Chosen One. You don't need anyone outside of your Mentor.
If possible, you straighten your posture even more, tightening your muscles. While you keep walking, you take a breath to calm yourself, directing your gaze to the south-facing windows. Your reflection, misted in places by condensation on the glass, stares back at you.
<div class="choice-item">[[Your silhouette reaches the upper lintel of the window, which can barely contain your entire figure. (1.80 - 2.00 m)|parents][$height = "tall"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Your silhouette fits comfortably within the width of the reflective surface. (1.65 - 1.80 m)|parents][$height = "average"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[The figure that reciprocates your gaze leaves a discreet gap on the glass. (1.45 - 1.65 m)|parents][$height = "short"]]</div><<if $height is "tall">>In spite of the fact that the natives of the North possess a natural robust constitution accompanied by an often slender build, your appearance still manages to catch the eye here at the Academy, since you stand taller than many students from the cold regions even by a head.
Your height, however, is not surprising considering that
<b class = "font3">[this choice will affect the skin colors available]</b>
<div class="choice-item">[[both of your parents are northern natives.|the call][$parents = "N"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[both of your parents are native southerners who emigrated before you were born to colder regions.|the call][$parents = "S"]]</div><<elseif $height is "average">>Although your height is well within Bachra's average, many Northern-born Academy students have to lower their eyes to meet yours - not that many do so on purpose. In fact, inhabitants of colder regions possess a natural slender build that identifies them with relative ease as they make their way further south, to the tepid cities near the capital.
Your constitution is actually not surprising, considering that
<b class = "font3">[this choice will affect the skin colors available]</b>
<div class="choice-item">[[both of your parents are native southerners who emigrated before you were born to colder regions.|the call][$parents = "S"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[both of your parents settled in the North years ago, emigrating from the western regions.|the call][$parents = "W"]]</div><<elseif $height is "short">>Although most of the Academy's attendees look down on you, your height is not unusual in the rest of Bachra, especially in the South where the average height is around 5'4". If the northern natives are characterized by an upwardly slender build, the inhabitants of the other regions often do not exceed the shoulders of the former.
Your height is actually perfectly normal, considering that
<b class = "font3">[this choice will affect the skin colors available]</b>
<div class="choice-item">[[both your parents settled in the North many years ago now, emigrating from the rich eastern regions.|the call][$parents = "E"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[both of your parents settled in the North years ago, emigrating from the western regions.|the call][$parents = "W"]]</div><</if>>As soon as your thoughts dwell on your parents, your gaze wanders over the tarnished glass of the windows with an uncharacteristic uncertainty. You still remember the warmth of a home, the unconditional affection they both gave you as a child, but you haven't seen them in almost two years now. Sometimes, in the darkness of your room, when the bells ring and the lights go out, you can admit to yourself that you miss the grip of comforting arms around you or the sound of words whispered in your ear. If only for a moment, you'd like to forget who you are, what you are, and let for a few breaths the weight of expectations lift off your chest and let you breathe.
Yet, your parents' last visit was so brief that it left you almost doubtful that it had actually happened. When, quite unexpectedly, sometimes the memory of their scent knots your stomach in a vivid epiphany, you don't know whether to cling to the nostalgic feeling of home or tear apart your childish weakness by pretending it never existed.
So you do what you always do: you seal the growing feeling of //hunger// in the same place where the conflicting feelings you have for your parents are locked away. Perhaps things might have been different if they hadn't chosen to put you in the Academy's care only to then almost forgetting you altogether.
Refocusing on the half-empty hallway, you exhale a brief sigh without stopping walking. You could try to reconnect with them, if you had the intention, but you don't even know if you'll ever return to the North after your leave.
//"Follow the prophecy, $name. That's all that matters."//
Before you know it, you are standing in front of the closed door that gives access to the Archmage's office. It is built with Ahį'l's dark wood, one of the trees with the most affinity to Shera's magic, but there are subtle splits that draw the messy pattern of a spider web across it and the wall the door is set into. They glow blue, the brilliant but icy color of Northern magic. You feel its impetuous touch, violent and absolutely careless, as soon as you place your bare knuckles on the door to knock once.
As you straighten your back into a rigid posture of anticipation, you shudder hard without being able to hold back the electric tremor that runs through your entire spine. //How many wizards has the Archimage managed to fit in his office?//
And yet, despite the presence of likely several Cabal'a members in the office, the feeling that ran through you is still more intense than it should be. //Your magic sensitivity has grown again.// You'll have to do some experimentation later to ascertain this.
With a heavy click, much louder than it should be, the door is ajar with no one there to push it open, and from inside the room a quiet, familiar but not comforting voice muffledly reaches your ears, "ah, $name, come on in."
As soon as you enter the room the door closes behind you, plunging you into the pleasant warmth of the office. The room, inside, is spacious and lit by pale natural light, as well as three blue globes of magical light that float in the corners of the room, floating restlessly as if they were themselves waiting for something. They manage to give an almost sinister tinge to the vials and flasks that fill the shelves all along the right side of the room and accentuate the hard features of most of its occupants. If you weren't so tense, the corners of your mouth would threaten to turn up in a not-so-impressed smile.
//Oh, theatrical as always.//.
The entire Cabal is gathered in the room, arranged to stand in a rough semicircle with the Archmage himself at the center. His desk, also made of Ahį'l wood and in your opinion the most enviable object in the possession of the Academy's director, has been moved to the left wall that opens into a pair of windows on the courtyard outside, probably to free up space as much as possible. You absentmindedly wonder if the arrangement was intended by the Archmage or if the office decided to rearrange itself before today's distinguished guests arrived. Probably a mixture of both.
It is indeed the older wizard who stares into your eyes and beckons you closer.
You methodically slip the gloves from your hands, all the while letting your gaze slide to the members of the cabal. You know many of the teachers, if only by sight, but several senior wizards and alchemists are complete strangers to you. And then, to the direct left of the Archmage, stands impenetrable the figure of the Mentor.
<div class="choice-item">[[You greet them, as is customary.][$trait1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You head directly to the seat reserved for you, standing in front of the Cabal.][$trait2 += 1]]</div>You just lower your head in their direction, drawing a respect on your face that you feel much more attenuated than that "you called me."
You approach without hesitation, but with careful steps that you're grateful don't betray your agitation. The Archmage gives you a pleased look.
"Yes, $name. You were very quick."
"I came as soon as I could," you reply while, positioning yourself in your reserved spot, you remove your wool scarf, revealing the glowing rune that marks your neck. You immediately hear muffled whispers and see the lips of some members whisper in surprise to their companions. Not many among them have had occasion to see you - at least not recently.
The rune of your mark bears the symbol of one of the four regions, and represents your greatest affinity for its magic. In your case, it represents
<div class="choice-item">[[the East, and it shines a brilliant golden light.|rune][$rune = "East"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the West, and it pulses with a magnetic purple hue.|rune][$rune = "West"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the North, and it vibrates with a deep, icy blue.|rune][$rune = "North"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the South, and it colors your skin blood red.|rune][$rune = "South"]]</div>You don't want to waste any more time on pleasantries that would be useless. You don't know in detail the timing of the Prophecy, but if this is indeed the summons, it means that the countdown has already begun.
You advance until you position yourself in the fulcrum where the attention of all the magicians is focused. You hear muffled whispers and see the lips of some of the members whispering under their breath to their companions, especially the moment you take off your scarf, revealing the glowing rune that marks your neck. Not many among them have had a chance to see it.
The rune of your mark bears the symbol of one of the four regions, and represents your greatest affinity for its magic. In your case, it represents
<div class="choice-item">[[the East, and it shines a brilliant golden light.|rune][$rune = "East"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the West, and it pulses with a magnetic purple hue.|rune][$rune = "West"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the North, and it vibrates with a deep, icy blue.|rune][$rune = "North"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the South, and it colors your skin blood red.|rune][$rune = "South"]]</div><<if ($rune is "West" and $parents is "W") or ($rune is "South" and $parents is "S") or ($rune is "East" and $parents is "E")>>To say that most Northerners are not enthusiastic about it is a huge understatement. If in your early years you were too young to understand the meaning of that symbol branded on your skin, already from the official visits of distinguished wizards and alchemists from the North you sensed something wrong with the uneasy, tense looks that lingered on you. And when you finally understood, it was one of the most bitter moments of your short existence.
Many of the hurt looks you were given were united by the implicit accusation of responsibility, as if having chosen the wrong rune was certainly your fault. Your parents, on the other hand, were the only ones who only had proud smiles for you, as bright with satisfaction as your rune's shine. It was always a bittersweet feeling.
For years you never understood how something so out of your control could define you so viscerally. But what the disappointment in the eyes of the Northerners has taught you is that you are not to be a person but a //symbol//, the living simulacrum of the nation's great power.
And just as there is no room for tears in the North, there must be no room for vulnerability in the Chosen One.<<elseif $rune is "North" and $parents is "N">>To say most Northerners are enthusiastic about it is a huge understatement. If in your early years you were too young to understand the meaning of that symbol branded on your skin, already from the official visits of distinguished wizards and alchemists from the North you sensed something possessive in the looks that lingered on you more than they should.
And when a native of the cold lands notices what brands your throat, it's fierce, satisfied pride what you read in their eyes. As if you were the living embodiment of a victory, a proof of the stoic valor of the North. A trophy, an ostentatious display of superiority over every other region.
In fact, over time the admiration only generated less and less complacency and more and more nausea. If you wanted to be treated as a human banner of Nordic vainglory you would have asked for it long ago.
And no matter how much your parents and mentors may deny it, you cannot be a person, only the living symbol of you nation's power.<<elseif ($rune is "North" and $parents is "E") or ($rune is "North" and $parents is "W") or ($rune is "North" and $parents is "S")>>To say most Northerners are enthusiastic about it is a huge understatement. If in your early years you were too young to understand the meaning of that symbol branded on your skin, already from the official visits of distinguished wizards and alchemists from the North you sensed something possessive in the looks that lingered on you more than they should.
And when a native of the cold lands notices what brands your throat, it's fierce, satisfied pride what you read in their eyes.
Your parents, on the other hand, have always been quieter about it. Only once, when he thought you couldn't see them, did you steal a look of resigned disappointment they shared, and that was all you could think about for days. For years you needlessly agonized over it, unable to understand how something so beyond your control could define you so much. You found your answer when you realized that you would always disappoint someone, and that the most painless way to survive would be to just hide any hint of vulnerability you might feel. After all, you are not meant to be a person but a symbol of your region's greatness.<<else>>To say that your parents, along with most Northerners, are not enthusiastic about it is an immense understatement. If in your early years you were too young to understand the meaning of that symbol branded on your skin, already from the official visits of distinguished wizards and alchemists from the North you sensed something wrong with the uneasy, tense looks that lingered on you. And when you finally understood, it was one of the most bitter moments of your short existence.
Many of the hurt looks you were given were united by the implicit accusation of responsibility, as if having chosen the wrong rune was certainly your fault. Over time, however, the attitude of an entire region has only exacerbated the twinge that clutches the pit of your stomach when you look in the mirror and your rune doesn't have a blue shine.
What experience has taught you is that your mere sight will always disappoint someone, because what the kingdom demands is that you be the simulacrum of the nation's glorious power. You do not need to be a person, only a //symbol.//
And just as there is no room for tears in the North, there must be no room for vulnerability in the Chosen One.<</if>>
Oddly enough, contrary to your expectations, most of the members of the Coven show no particular reaction to the rune, so much as to its very presence on your skin. You realize the next moment that it is the most representative evidence that you can define yourself with unquestionable certainty as //the Chosen One//. The Archmage silences the cabal with a nod of his hand, his thin, gnarled fingers adorned with more magic rings than most potionists can even possess.
As much as the old wizard tries to convey a façade of quiet wisdom, all you've ever seen on him is just ostentatious vanity.
You turn your whole body in his direction, <<if $height is "tall">> and are strangely forced to tilt your neck up slightly, given the Northern Archmage's considerable stature. <<elseif $height is "average">>tilting your neck, since the Northern Archmage towers over you in height even more than the average Northern native.<<elseif $height is "short">>tilting your neck upwards to meet his gaze, since the Northern Archmage possesses a considerable stature even for the natives.<</if>> You fix your <<cycle "$eyes" autoselect>>
<<option "ivory">>
<<option "cerulean">>
<<option "indigo">>
<<option "blue">>
<<option "purple">>
<<option "green">>
<<option "crimson">>
<<option "golden">>
<<option "orange">>
<<option "hazel">>
<<option "brown">>
<<option "grey">>
<<option "black">>
<</cycle>> eyes into his and with instant clarity you know what he is about to say. Your heartbeat speeds up, pounding in your chest with such force that it almost covers any sound other than the Archmage's next words, the very words that are about to seal your entire fate.
"$name, the King has contacted the Synod for your summons."
The Synod, composed of the four Archmages representing their respective region, is what answers directly to the King and is the body that intercedes between the military and magical apparatuses of the land. In reality, in a land that has known nothing but war for centuries and has modeled its entire structure around it, the two are hardly distinguishable.
Despite the fact that you were already prepared for the news, you feel your breath, almost nauseating in the warm air of the room, escaping into your lungs. Your field of vision narrows, for a long moment all you can see is the icy blue of the Archmage's irises.
//The call has been made.//
//The Chosen One has been summoned.//
"As it is written in the Prophecy, you will be escorted by Mentor Aanthem to the capital."
You let your gaze slide to the left until you meet the utterly familiar figure of the Mentor. Though even appearance betrays their temperament as dissimilar to that of the older mage, the Mentor's attire is no less rich nor less exotic. While the traditional colors of the Northern Archmage are white and blue, with the occasional appearance of silver, the Mentor manages to infuse each extravagant color with the same mysterious aura they wears. Their face, moreover, is almost entirely covered by a colorful scarf that leaves only their eyes uncovered, further contributing to the overall effect of mysticism.
They give you a brief nod and you feel your magic sizzle under your skin - it's starting to get too hot - while, modulating your expression so as to mitigate at least some of the disruptive restlessness you feel, you reply "very well."
But as the assembled members begin in a soft whisper to murmur phrases to each other that you can't hear fully, a muffled whistle presses into your ears ever more intensely. The magic vibrates and pulses sharply around the coven, making the air stifling and almost unbreathable.
Beyond the magical haze that clouds your vision, trying to contain any sign of agitation, you glance once again at the wizards lined up in front of you, watching you with an expectation in their eyes that is much more apprehensive than you had imagined.
//Something's wrong.//
//... they're hiding something from you.//
You open yourself bare to the magic, letting it caress your ribs, enter your breath, guide your pupils to... the Archmage. A visceral feeling of anger consumes you, sudden and almost burning. You contain it, for the moment.
You dispel the residual magic with a sharp flick of your wrist, so that you can focus on the Cabal again. The noise in the room suddenly ceases, many gazes are fixed on you, you are sure that even the less sensitive have felt the change in energy, but you have only one goal.
<div class="choice-item">[["What do I need to know, Archmage?" you ask in an almost mellifluous tone, shaping a smile on your lips as sharp as your mood. You have yet to begin, and there are already covered cards on the table.|Archimage (emotions)][$trait1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[["What do I need to know, Archmage?" you ask with as much frost in your voice as you're sure the honorable elder deserves. How do they think you can fulfill the Prophecy if even before your departure they keep you in the dark?|Archimage (emotions)][$trait2 += 1]]</div>In response you receive a very long look, suddenly serious and tinged with false surprise. The blue globes of magic light pulse restlessly.
"What are you talking about, $name?"
You wave vaguely with your hand, gesturing in his direction and in full to the Cabal. They're probably involved, if not in detail, they will surely have been made aware of the directives by the Synod. Indeed, the wizarding Covens of the North retain a traditional blind obedience to their Archmage. It's an attachment that is frankly almost morbid, and that emerges very well when, in official meetings and convocations, all the members of the cabal move as a single body and speak with the atypical inflection of those who preserve in their voice also that of their companions.
As if to agree with you many stiffen, avoiding your gaze "is there anything you would like to share with me?"
After another long pause, the Archmage sighs and runs his ring-covered fingers through his long silver hair "it's nothing you need to worry about. You already have much to think about."
A surge of annoyance runs through you so hard that your lips tremble "nothing I - //nothing I need to worry about?"// Honestly, I wouldn't care about the private affairs you entertain yourself with, but you can't let go of my leash only to blindly release me in search of something I can't even see."
A wizard to your right twitches his fingers on the metal wand he holds laced around his waist, an enchantress to your left sizzles magic in her palms. The Mentor thins his gaze in a sentiment somewhere between questioning and displeased, and as another potionist, the oldest of the coven, sends you a harsh look, the Archmage arches his eyebrows, "$name, please calm down."
Your pupils dilate, swallowing almost completely the $eyes of your irises, and you are about to hurl a curse of revelation at them all - //let's see who will be the first to part their lips and give in// - when the Archmage allows himself a sigh and resumes speaking "in recent weeks there have been reports of more and more sightings of //shuraahl// inland and subsequent attacks on small villages and traveling nomads."
You take a few moments to assimilate the news, meanwhile your annoyance decreases in favor of sincere confusion "why would you keep something like this from me?"
"As peculiar as the situation may be, you must not let it distract you from your main objective. I know you'd have the power to make a difference, but the royal guards will take care of that shortly."
"That won't be a problem," you reply without inflection in your voice. It is true that the Chosen One's magic should have no equal in the realm of Bachra or elsewhere, but yours is the responsibility and yours is the final word as to its use. Perhaps the Archmage thinks he has control over you, or perhaps he thinks he has too little. Either way, he is as aware as you are that once you are out of the Academy, nothing will stop you from doing with your power what you see fit.
You can read in the ice of the Archmage's eyes all his reticence. //Good.// He has been feeding you half-truths for years in the hopes of somehow influencing the course of the prophesied journey.
<span class="fontdiversodue">But you are no one's pawn.</span>
<div class="choice-item">[[You do not hide the vehemence in your voice as you ask, "May I go now, Archmage?" You will soon show him with facts your opinion on the matter.|paragraph5 A][$emotions1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You have had enough. Yet despite the indolence you condense into one last hard, razor-sharp glance, you know there will be more battles to be fought, "with permission, I have a trip to plan."|paragraph5 B]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[There is no benefit in prolonging the discussion any further. You close the topic with a conciliatory nod of your hand, but that doesn't mask the hissing sigh of annoyance that accompanies it "may I begin preparations for the journey?"|paragraph5 C][$emotions2 += 1]]</div>The elderly wizard makes a visible effort to hide his disappointment, but then a tired smile flickers across his face, "of course."
You offer him one last sarcastic greeting - you're almost tempted to mimic it by standing to attention - before turning away, casting a brief glance at your Mentor with a promise to see you again later, and heading for the door.
The globes of magical light throb more bright than ever, moving as if to follow you and accompanying you to the edge of the room. You give them a quizzical look, but without a few moments to focus they can't give you an answer, and at this point all you want is to leave the oppressive heat of the office and above all shake off the eyes of the Cabal members. You have spent so much of your life being observed that you can almost physically feel them. Despite being accustomed to the sensation by now, the phantom contact on the skin of your back is different than usual and only generates nausea and a visceral desire to //get out//.
You swallow your panic and tighten your fingers on the brass door knob.
As you push, the wood of Ahį'l makes contact with your skin and floods you with arcane magic, vaguely unsatisfied to mirror the feelings of its master, flowing through you like stale blood in clogged arteries. Only when you cross the office threshold does the pain cease and you can breathe again.
"//Unbelievable//" you reserve for the now closed door a hostile hiss - with what decency did you allow yourself such a thing - and release the remaining restlessness in a sigh. Leaving the Archmage's office is like re-emerging from an astral plane to fall harshly back to the earthly one. The air, inside dense with magic and humid to the limit of the bearable, immediately becomes lighter as it runs icy down your throat, drying your mouth. You already feel the beginnings of a headache, not sure if it's because of what just happened or the sudden cold in the hallway. Or maybe it's all at once, after all, you've always been particularly susceptible, a... //collateral effect// of having so much magical energy all at once.
You bring your fingers to press gently against your forehead, hoping with the pressure to slow the growing discomfort. You pull your gloves out of your coat pockets and before anything else, still standing in front of the closed office door, you hurry to put them on. Then, with another sigh, you start walking in the direction of the housing pavilion. You can hear the muffled sound of voices in the nearby hallways, and you are forced to walk past several offices, but fortunately it is morning and most of the teachers are in the drill rooms or deployed in the field in the outdoor courtyards.
Like everything in this country, magical instruction is organized with military precision. Four brass bells mark the rhythms of the day and every delay, every hour lost is considered a precious waste of collective energy. Actually you have read books about it and you are rather certain that this kind of rigor applies only to the Northern Academy. The one in the South is run in a very //liberitarian// way by a very young Archmage, the eastern one is as much a display of opulence as it is of intellectual wealth, and the western one... it's perhaps a miracle that a wall of it still stands.
<div class="choice-item">[[As for you, you find the rigidity of your Academy almost comforting. Of course, you have never sworn blind obedience to anyone - it's not in your nature - but there is a purity to order that manages to be very satisfying.|bivio][$attitude += 2, $Aattitude = "inflexible"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You're not particularly fond of the Archmage's way of handling things, but it's what you're most familiar with and what you've made do with over the years, out of habit or sloth. For now, at least.|bivio][$attitude += 1, $Aattitude = "evaluating"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You can't wait to savor the moment when you'll be free from the bonds of control of this place. You've always felt scratching at your stomach the greedy desire to experience something other than the icy northern walls.|bivio][$Aattitude = "restless"]]</div>You don't wait for an answer before turning your back on the cabal, but as you do you can make out the doubtful concern that fills the elder wizard's face with wrinkles. The Mentor is just in time to address you with a nod, promising that you will see each other soon, and from behind you hear the Archmage's final greeting, "See you soon, $name."
The globes of magical light throb more bright than ever, moving as if to follow you and accompanying you to the edge of the room. You give them a quizzical look, but without a few moments to focus they can't give you an answer, and at this point all you want is to leave the oppressive heat of the office and above all shake off the eyes of the Cabal members. You have spent so much of your life being observed that you can almost physically feel them. Despite being accustomed to the sensation by now, the phantom contact on the skin of your back is different than usual and only generates nausea and a visceral desire to //get out//.
You swallow your panic and tighten your fingers on the brass door knob.
As you push, the wood of Ahį'l makes contact with your skin and floods you with arcane magic, vaguely unsatisfied to mirror the feelings of its master, flowing through you like stale blood in clogged arteries. Only when you cross the office threshold does the pain cease and you can breathe again.
"//Unbelievable//" you reserve for the now closed door a hostile hiss - with what decency did you allow yourself such a thing - and release the remaining restlessness in a sigh. Leaving the Archmage's office is like re-emerging from an astral plane to fall harshly back to the earthly one. The air, inside dense with magic and humid to the limit of the bearable, immediately becomes lighter as it runs icy down your throat, drying your mouth. You already feel the beginnings of a headache, not sure if it's because of what just happened or the sudden cold in the hallway. Or maybe it's all at once, after all, you've always been particularly susceptible, a... //collateral effect// of having so much magical energy all at once.
You bring your fingers to press gently against your forehead, hoping with the pressure to slow the growing discomfort. You pull your gloves out of your coat pockets and before anything else, still standing in front of the closed office door, you hurry to put them on. Then, with another sigh, you start walking in the direction of the housing pavilion. You can hear the muffled sound of voices in the nearby hallways, and you are forced to walk past several offices, but fortunately it is morning and most of the teachers are in the drill rooms or deployed in the field in the outdoor courtyards.
Like everything in this country, magical instruction is organized with military precision. Four brass bells mark the rhythms of the day and every delay, every hour lost is considered a precious waste of collective energy. Actually you have read books about it and you are rather certain that this kind of rigor applies only to the Northern Academy. The one in the South is run in a very //liberitarian// way by a very young Archmage, the eastern one is as much a display of opulence as it is of intellectual wealth, and the western one... it's perhaps a miracle that a wall of it still stands.
<div class="choice-item">[[As for you, you find the rigidity of your Academy almost comforting. Of course, you have never sworn blind obedience to anyone - it's not in your nature - but there is a purity to order that manages to be very satisfying.|bivio][$attitude += 2, $Aattitude = "inflexible"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You're not particularly fond of the Archmage's way of handling things, but it's what you're most familiar with and what you've made do with over the years, out of habit or sloth. For now, at least.|bivio][$attitude += 1, $Aattitude = "evaluating"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You can't wait to savor the moment when you'll be free from the bonds of control of this place. You've always felt scratching at your stomach the greedy desire to experience something other than the icy northern walls.|bivio][$Aattitude = "restless"]]</div>"Oh, of course."
The Archmage directs one last hypocritical smile at you before pointing to the door with a nod. While your back is turned to the Cabal you meet the Mentor's eyes with the implicit promise that you will see each other later, then you force yourself to block out the murmurs that fill the room behind you and head for the exit.
The globes of magical light throb more bright than ever, moving as if to follow you and accompanying you to the edge of the room. You give them a quizzical look, but without a few moments to focus they can't give you an answer, and at this point all you want is to leave the oppressive heat of the office and above all shake off the eyes of the Cabal members. You have spent so much of your life being observed that you can almost physically feel them. Despite being accustomed to the sensation by now, the phantom contact on the skin of your back is different than usual and only generates nausea and a visceral desire to //get out//.
You swallow your panic and tighten your fingers on the brass door knob.
As you push, the wood of Ahį'l makes contact with your skin and floods you with arcane magic, vaguely unsatisfied to mirror the feelings of its master, flowing through you like stale blood in clogged arteries. Only when you cross the office threshold does the pain cease and you can breathe again.
"//Unbelievable//" you reserve for the now closed door a hostile hiss - with what decency did you allow yourself such a thing - and release the remaining restlessness in a sigh. Leaving the Archmage's office is like re-emerging from an astral plane to fall harshly back to the earthly one. The air, inside dense with magic and humid to the limit of the bearable, immediately becomes lighter as it runs icy down your throat, drying your mouth. You already feel the beginnings of a headache, not sure if it's because of what just happened or the sudden cold in the hallway. Or maybe it's all at once, after all, you've always been particularly susceptible, a... //collateral effect// of having so much magical energy all at once.
You bring your fingers to press gently against your forehead, hoping with the pressure to slow the growing discomfort. You pull your gloves out of your coat pockets and before anything else, still standing in front of the closed office door, you hurry to put them on. Then, with another sigh, you start walking in the direction of the housing pavilion. You can hear the muffled sound of voices in the nearby hallways, and you are forced to walk past several offices, but fortunately it is morning and most of the teachers are in the drill rooms or deployed in the field in the outdoor courtyards.
Like everything in this country, magical instruction is organized with military precision. Four brass bells mark the rhythms of the day and every delay, every hour lost is considered a precious waste of collective energy. Actually you have read books about it and you are rather certain that this kind of rigor applies only to the Northern Academy. The one in the South is run in a very //liberitarian// way by a very young Archmage, the eastern one is as much a display of opulence as it is of intellectual wealth, and the western one... it's perhaps a miracle that a wall of it still stands.
<div class="choice-item">[[As for you, you find the rigidity of your Academy almost comforting. Of course, you have never sworn blind obedience to anyone - it's not in your nature - but there is a purity to order that manages to be very satisfying.|bivio][$attitude += 2, $Aattitude = "inflexible"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You're not particularly fond of the Archmage's way of handling things, but it's what you're most familiar with and what you've made do with over the years, out of habit or sloth. For now, at least.|bivio][$attitude += 1, $Aattitude = "evaluating"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You can't wait to savor the moment when you'll be free from the bonds of control of this place. You've always felt scratching at your stomach the greedy desire to experience something other than the icy northern walls.|bivio][$Aattitude = "restless"]]</div><<if $Aattitude is "restless">> And indeed your chance will come soon enough, now that the War is closer than ever and the journey south is about to begin.<<elseif $Aattitude is "evaluating">>You imagine there will be time during the journey to test the strength of habit and evaluate your actual preferences.<<elseif $Aattitude is "inflexible">>This doesn't mean you're ill-disposed to the idea of leaving. After all, you still don't know what the trip may hold in store for you.<</if>>
For now, all that's left for you to do is to pack your things and organize the itinerary of the journey with the Mentor. It certainly won't be too difficult, you've been planning for this moment for months in advance, knowing full well that sooner or later it would arrive, but there are still several things you need to take care of before nightfall. And most of them reside in your room, so that's where you're heading.
Although the sun is now high in the sky and the blanket of frozen steam has left the outer areas of the courtyard, the hallways are still freezing. Like this morning, you can see the puff of your breath as it leaves your nostrils as you walk.
<<if $parents is "S" or "E" or "O" or "SO" or "SE">>You shiver, clutching your coat with frozen fingers, and you can only vaguely find some relief in the warmth of the processed wool. Despite being born and raised in the North, your constitution is not suited to withstand the cold temperatures of these regions. You don't think you'll ever get used to it, and in this regard you're at least happy to soon experience a different climate other than nightly frosts or weeks-long snowstorms.<<elseif $parents is "NO" or "NE">>The temperature is barely warmer than it normally is on the last winter days before spring. You tighten up your coat, finding comfortable relief in the warmth of the processed wool. Although you are now accustomed to the harsh climate of the North, part of your heritage is evident in the desire, which you feel ridiculously often, to experience warmer temperatures and less merciless winters, possibly without frosts or weeks-long snowstorms.<<elseif $parent is "N">> The temperature is just a little warmer than it normally is on the last winter days before spring. You tighten your fingers on your coat, but you still don't feel cold enough to really need it. In addition to being born and raised in the North, your constitution - inherited from both sides of the family - is also perfectly suited to endure this kind of weather. In fact, you have mixed feelings about leaving the unforgiving but familiar coldness of your homeland.<</if>>
As you walk down the stairs and proceed through the semi-deserted corridors, you notice that, unlike most offices, the door to the one in Master Sheera's name is not locked but half-open for at least a span into the room. You cast only a brief glance at it, but you have no intention of stopping; you would probably interrupt a student's reception or a meeting with another faculty member.
As you get closer, however, the sound of two distinct voices, one decidedly sharper and younger than the other, becomes more and more distinct and while one is calm and as reassuring as possible, the second is... broken, barely intelligible. Definitely a student.
"There's no rush to make a final decision."
"I don't...I can't continue..."
"Take some time, Esben."
"What if-what if it doesn't get better?"
<div class="choice-item">[[You pause a few feet from the door with the intention of staying a few more moments, just long enough to satiate your curiosity.|Esben]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[The discussion does not concern you, and you do not intend to invade anyone's privacy. You shrug your shoulders and move on.|Meljke]]</div>"How long have you been experiencing this issue?"
"...a few months, I guess."
"I want you to think about it a few more days. I'll excuse you from class personally but in the meantime think about what I said."
"Alright, thanks, //myr// Sheera."
When the door opens and reddened eyes stare into yours, you take a stiff step back. At the same time, the younger student's expression betrays first confusion and then agitated surprise "$name."
You bring your hands together behind your back and let your gaze wander behind him, "forgive the disturbance, I didn't mean to intrude."
"Ah," Esben exhales, bringing a hand up to wipe away the traces of tears "it's okay."
Without adding more, you decide to walk away. You've just passed him when his voice stops you in your tracks.
"May I..." you turn around and see him clutching his uniform's pin nervously "...ask you a question?"
You mask with a terse nod your surprise, "of course."
"If you had the certainty that you wouldn't be able to finish what you started," Esben looks away from your "that you weren't capable enough, what would you do? Would you keep trying or not?"
Reflect on his words for a few moments "are you worried about your magic?"
Esben nods silently.
<div class="choice-item">[[Slipping off a glove, you present him the open palm of your hand "I want to show you something."|Esbenencuraged][$Esben = "encuraged"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[["Changing course sometimes may be the only thing to do."|Esbendiscuraged][$Esben = "discuraged"]]</div>The Academy is built on four adjoining pavilions, but they're only accessible via a short stretch outside, so to get to your accommodations you have to go through the east exit of the official pavilion, and then continue for a few meters into the snowy pathway. You feel the change in temperature as soon as you walk out the door. The sun is high in the sky but still not enough to make your uniform's coat unnecessary.
You wouldn't even bother to look around for the short stretch outside, but your magic hisses in your right ear until you turn to see three students outside the courtyards complete the end of a class three spell aimed in your direction. There is no alarm in your movements as you only slightly raise your right arm, lazily rotating your wrist to create a magical barrier that absorbs the fireball entirely.
The student who cast the spell, one of the only people whose name you know only because of the trouble she's given you in the past, comes striding up to you before the remnants of her magic even fade into the air. She's light-skinned and has a fierce smile that oozes satisfaction as soon as she's on you, without the reticence of her companions.
"Well? How was it?"
On the technical side, you'd have little to criticize. Despite the fact that the actual execution of the spell was near perfect, however, there is one question pressing on the tip of your tongue, "why did you cast a class three spell outside of the practice yard?"
"Oh please, like you don't do the same."
The boys at her side inhale sharply and their pupils dilate in an instinctive fear that only increases at the sight of the brilliant ring coloring your irises with magic. You hold back your anger only because you would end up playing her game.
"Younger students aren't capable of casting a counterspell of this magnitude, Meljke," you remind her harshly, because her recklessness is //inexcusable// "do you have any idea of what would have happened if your spell had hit someone other than me?"
It is only at that point that Meljke lowers her gaze "I would have stopped it in time."
"You don't know that," you retort, almost hissing. The chill in your voice is starting to spread through the rest of your body, you don't know if it's annoyance or the restlessness of your magic at the call. Either way, you have no intention of staying here any longer.
<div class="choice-item">[["Make sure there won't be a next time," you intimate to her before leaving.|Oa'hk]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[["It was a good spell," you concede without looking back, "but you'll get it wrong someday, too."|Oa'hk]]</div>His expression is one of instant hesitation, but it only takes a few seconds of firm waiting for his doubts to give way to curiosity. As soon as he rests the palm of his hand on your wrist you instinctively clasp his forearm, crossed by the unfiltered force of his magic.
You mutter an illusory spell of detection to show even his eyes how the pulsing core of his magic glows a vivid orange.
"Oh."
"See?"
It takes Esben a few seconds to sober up from the thrill of the vision, then you see him get stuck in a certain helpless realization, "I'm not able to use it anyway."
"That's not true at all. You will manage in the same way I have."
Your arms move as if to grab his shoulders, but at the last moment you stiffen and retract your hands to your sides "and if anyone tells you otherwise, don't listen to them."
You've seen other students over the years go through such crises.
[[It would be a waste to see someone else collapse and drop out of the Academy.|Oa'hk]]At his expression of doubtful curiosity you continue, keeping your gaze fixed on his to make sure he understands what you are talking about.
"In my eyes your magic shines no less than that of many other students," with a sharp nod of your hand Esben can admire for a moment how accurate your words are "but ask yourself what you really want. There's no point in dragging yourself like a carcass in a direction you know is a dead end."
Esben lowers his gaze, his voice suddenly vulnerable "the Academy is the only thing I know."
//You too.//
Be careful not to show the spasm that contracts your lips into a brief grimace "magic isn't everything. Don't be blinded by the splendor of this place."
You make to turn away, but at the last you turn and extend an arm in his direction. You stiffen, stopping the movement before touching him, but at his questioning expression you only slightly tighten the gloved fingers of your hand on his slender shoulder.
"If your parents are pressuring you, don't listen to them. Your life is yours, do what you want with it."
[[At least he has a choice. You hope he will make good use of it.|Oa'hk]]If the meeting made you realize anything it is your particular lack of connections at the Academy, they all know you but no one deeper than a few words spoken in class. You have no one to say goodbye to before you leave, you made sure no one could miss you when the time came.
//Actually...// you realize slowing your pace //...you have someone to say goodbye to//. You've probably unintentionally neglected him in recent times but he's the one connection you'll be truly sorry to leave behind. Because if there's one thing you truly care about in the entire Academy, it's your Oa'hk. You've nurtured him with your own magic for years, turning the fragile sprout he was into a wonderful adult tree.
To be honest, your Mentor gave you the idea when you were thirteen and all you felt was painful disorientation after being separated from your parents and coming here to stay. You hardened the most fragile part of yourself pretty quickly after the first unstable years, but in the hard times, looking after something with such an affinity to your magic was calming - especially since unlike everything else it didn't cause you merciless headaches or almost unbearable nausea.
You could touch it without the gloves, which had become practically ever-present at that point, and it was so //liberating//. The Oa'hk grew as fast as your magic did, he was the only one you felt could understand your uncontrolled changes, your explosive emotions and fixations. He never judged you or looked at you the same way everyone else did.
You could go see him now - for the last time before you leave - at the sole sacrifice of having to walk past the classes of students in the outer courtyards engaged in drills and endure their stares on you for a few feet.
//Feasible, but only if you hurry before lunch break.//
You stride briskly toward the southern boundary of the Academy, where you planted the sprout of your tree years ago, which at that point was half frozen from his travel. You chose it because, unlike any other magical plant, Oa'hk are essentially a //tabula rasa//, not bound to the magic of a region but absorbing and assimilating that of the soil - or person - that nurtures them. Caring for a specimen is extremely expensive, and usually an expenditure of energy must be devoted that is almost unsustainable in the long run for a single person.
For you, however, this was never the case. The feeling you have had, instead, has been that of someone squeezing your arm and then pulling, without ever asking for more than you could give. Since reaching maturity his touch is more delicate than ever. Not like the intrusive one of any person possessing a bit of magic, which cumulated becomes practically suffocating. Fortunately, you're outdoors now, and can maintain enough distance to not cause you any trouble.
You walk on the pavement, following a path that takes you past the dedicated classroom spaces and feeling the confused attention of the students as soon as you enter their field of vision. You barely quicken your stride.
You keep your gaze fixed forward as you walk away from the halls on the sidewalks that separate the practice spaces, most of which are surrounded by magical security barriers. You try to pay as little attention as possible, but out of the corner of your eye you can still make out the excitement that pervades the students at your sight and you can hear their voices overlapping each other.
"Hey, it's $name..."
"What <<if $plur is "false">>is<<else>>are<</if>> $they doing here?"
"$They <<if $plur is "false">>is<<else>>are<</if>> not with master Aanthem."
"I thought $they couldn't practice without supervision."
Just the sound of those words fills your mouth with acrid disgust. //As if you don't have the freedom to roam the Academy and use your magic as you please.//
As if you weren't literally the //Chosen One// and others should decide for you.
It seems like a common theme, actually, between the Archmage's false sweetness, the Cabal's reticence, and the common belief that you were made to //obey//. Maybe you haven't made things clear enough. Maybe you really have gotten too soft, enough for even fifth-year students to think - and say - things like this.
<div class="choice-item">[[You ignore them, clenching an inelegant comment between your teeth.|Oa'hk1][$emotions1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Without turning around you hiss a spell and the ground beneath their feet begins to shake. Their surprised and vaguely frightened exclamations do not cause you joy, but only sterile satisfaction.|Oa'hk1][$emotions2 += 1]]</div>You keep walking, you don't want to attract more attention and you don't want to waste time with kids you won't see again. You pass the courtyard and approach the trees that face the southern gate.
Your Oa'hk is entirely healthy, the gray bark free of dark spots - it only happened once due, in all honesty, to an oversight on your part. You panicked when the first healing spell didn't work and you almost went so far as to beg the Mentor to help you - and the shiny, thick blue leaves on the branches weave and entwine with each other. You have to tilt your neck up to see the tree in its entirety.
"Hello, old friend."
The leaves rustle softly in the wind as you approach, a comforting noise that accompanies the calm of this place. Removing your gloves, you reach out and rest your palm on the pale bark. The movement itself isn't that intense, but the lively hum of its magic is like a gentle caress - something you're so unaccustomed to it hurts.
"I'm going to miss you."
You inhale the cold air imbued with its smell of wood and wet leaves. Some days, when every sensation is too intense and you almost struggle to think, you just want to ignore everything else and exist in this limbo, cradled by the familiar touch of a magical creature that grew up with you.
Then you think that, in fact, today you could do exactly that. It's going to be an abnormal day anyway, you don't have classes to attend, practice meetings, or meditations with the Mentor. //You decide that at least this last greeting is due to you.//
And so you indulge in the selfish pleasure of your Oa'hk's company for the following two hours, ignoring the lunch break altogether. You watch with cold detachment as the younger students cast furtive glances at you as they walk out of the courtyard and back into pavillion 5. They are far enough away that they are hardly distinguishable from each other, but you feel, once again, their eyes linger on you for brief moments before they leave. When the courtyard clears you let out a long breath.
"So it's just you and me, hmm?"
Your oldest friend doesn't answer but you never care. In your seated position, you lean your head back on his bark and decide to wait another half hour, when all the classes are over and the crowd of students is minimized. You don't feel like making your way through unfamiliar bodies and intrusive voices.
On a pure whim of boredom, you flick your wrist and a magical translucent barrier forms around your tree, blocking the cool breeze that, though mitigated by the warmer sun than this morning, was beginning to bother you.
<div class="choice-item">[[This is not something you do often, you tend to have a lot of self-control and, despite being on your fingertips ready at your command, you only use your magic impulsively when your emotions become too intense to handle.|Oa'hk2][$magiccontrol = "YES", $emotions2 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Why would you ever hold back? Magic is yours for a reason, it's with you with every breath and you don't intend to keep it tied up for the benefit of someone who will never really understand how it makes you feel.|Oa'hk2][$emotions1 += 1, $magiccontrol = "NO"]]</div><<if $magiccontrol is "YES">>But today, as you said, is not a normal day. Today you don't have masters to answer to, not even, for once, your own unattainable standards.<<elseif $magiccontrol is "NO">>You already have so many leashes that demand, if not to contain you, at least to control the direction in which you must proceed. //Oh, if they want you, they'll have you, but on your terms.//<</if>>
You unbutton the collar of your coat and stand for a few more minutes like this, enjoying, as you did this morning before it all began, a calm that will actually be even harder to find from now on. //Oh well, not that you expected anything else.//
When all of the morning's classes are over and the students are all in the cafeteria or in their quarters, you decide to get up and head back to your room. You'll skip lunch but honestly, the knot of tension in your stomach has taken the edge off your hunger anyway.
“Maybe one day we will see eachother again,” //unlikely// “but for now I have to say my goodbyes.”
You look at him one more time with an unpracticed soft gaze, “take care, love.”
[[And with that you're ready to leave.|alloggi]]While you walk, you notice the silhouettes of several people the extremes of your field of vision, but you have neither the time nor the inclination for further interaction or, worse, unnecessary distraction. You continue on without stopping, hoping that the frost in your gaze and your fast pace will be enough to deter anyone with the peculiar idea of approaching you. And in fact, they are.
You exhale a long sigh when you finally reach the familiar door to your room, branded with a metal plaque engraved with your name. The wood is barely darker than that of the rest of the quarters, making yours even more recognizable, in case the empty rooms next to and in front of yours weren't enough.
It wasn't a whim of yours, but much of the Academy, which as one of the most important buildings in the region shows off its wealth with a vanity comparable only to that of its Archmage, chose as its primary wood for interiors and exteriors that of Sha're, a fine magical tree but rather easy to find here in the North. Its magic is not as powerful or intense as that of the Ahį'l, but it would still be enough to give you an insistent headache accompanied by nausea and chills if you were to be in its vicinity for too long. Such a bed or door was not feasible, asproved by your first hellish weeks here at the Academy.
And so, since at least in your room you like to be able to take off your gloves and think straight without the constant dull throbbing of magic against your temples, all the wood in your quarters, and those nearby, is oak.
"Uh, $name?"
You turn around sharply, finding yourself dangerously close to a student in... sixth year? You've seen them before, probably in class, but it's just a volatile awareness at the edge of consciousness while everything else is a mixture of icy, alarmed disbelief. //You didn't feel them coming.//
<div class="choice-item">[["Yes?" you struggle to hide the annoyance you feel behind a tone of false moine, molding your lips into a smile that only feels foreign on your face.|alloggi1][$trait1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[["Yes?" your voice is harsher than it should be, sharpened by the restless discomfort at being caught so off guard.|alloggi1][$trait2 += 1]]</div>You didn't think the summons would shake you up so much. It was irresponsible of you to let yourself be unsettled like that... you'll be sure not to repeat the experience in the future. You almost let out a hiss between your teeth, //you can't get distracted now.//
The boy manages not to flinch, but his gaze drowns in uncertainty for a moment before he catches his breath, "we heard about the summons and..." he bites his cheek, turning his attention away from you to focus on the darker wood that colors the door behind you.
"... do you need anything?"
//Ah, the word has already spread. You should have seen it coming.//
A feeling of nausea begins to set in, growing and pressing around your eye sockets. You slide your gaze to the boy's shoulders - //Shean?// as already mentioned, you've never found it necessary to keep their names in mind - where in the icy hallway with rustling coats and dull thuds of padded boots at least four or five other students are gathering.
"Should I?"
Your tone is not meant to be offensive, but it comes out without inflection and still manages to make him wince. Before he can open his mouth to explain further or withdraw, you move your wrist in a conciliatory gesture.
<div class="choice-item">[["Ah, I didn't mean to offend you," you explain, flashing a smile "I misspoke. However, believe me, I appreciate the offer but I don't need anything."|alloggi2][$trait +=1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[["I don't think I need anything at the moment," you rephrase, without much additional warmth in your voice "thank you for the offer, though."|alloggi2][$trait2 += 1]]</div>The boy, to your relief, nods, but doesn't add anything else, and you stand a few more moments in front of him - //too close// - without the slightest idea of what to do or say to end the conversation. You clear your throat and stare at the increasing number of students who are crowding the hallway. Your nausea increases. //You don't have the energy for this.//
"If there's nothing else, I'd need to get ready."
The student finally steps back, with a quick glance at the felt symbol sewn on his coat you can confirm that he is in fact a sixth year, and he gives you an impish smile "oh, sure, sorry."
You step back in turn, approaching your room's door. //Salvation is so close, almost within reach-//
"When are you leaving?"
You don't even bother to turn around, but you clench your fingers on the smooth wood of the doorknob and already have your whole body in your room as you conclude "tomorrow."
The cold, which is biting in the hallway, as soon as you close the door behind you melts like the surface of frozen lakes in spring. You close your eyes for a long moment, almost biting your tongue to hold back an annoyed sigh before they can hear it. You don't like interacting with your classmates - truth be told, most of the time you can't even stand being forced to deal with the teachers - they have nothing to offer and are so loud, intrusive, and can't even pretend not to stare at you. At least for that, you're glad you'll soon be able to get away from the oppressive environment that has surrounded you for years.
You condense the remaining impatience into a voiceless spell, flicking the fingers of your left hand, and with a <<if $rune is "West">>purple<<elseif $rune is "East">>golden<<elseif $rune is "North">>bluish<<elseif $rune is "South">>reddish<</if>> glint the magical door lock activates, providing you with a much desired peace.
//Why is everything always so difficult?//
You let your gaze wander over your room, absentmindedly noting its familiar details. Bathed in mid-afternoon light, the wood of the bed and all the furniture takes on a warm brown hue, pleasantly illuminating the room and making the space even cleaner and larger than it already is.
You've been given one of the largest rooms in the entire dormitory, complete with its own bathroom as standard and a rather large space that you've chosen to fill with a small bookcase and a solid oak desk. Otherwise you decided to keep the decor impersonal, a few personal items decorating the shelves, mainly magic books. Everything else, including all of your clothing - "your" is an understatement, it's essentially the three uniforms provided by the Academy to all its students - is kept organized with meticulous precision in the closet.
<div class="choice-item">[[Despite the fact that you've had the room for almost eight years, you've always made sure to personalize it as little as possible. You couldn't get attached to this space, you knew it wouldn't be worth it and would only make your inevitable departure more painful. It was so hard, but most of the time you're convinced you made the right choice.|token][$Baffection = 0]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Despite promising yourself you wouldn't do it, over the years you have allowed yourself to keep some items on your shelves and desk that are completely unnecessary but you haven't had the courage to get rid of. You're convinced it's more of a weakness than anything else, but you at least have the luxury of keeping them by taking them with you when it's time to go.|token][$Baffection = 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Eight years have passed, summers and winters have followed one another, both frosty, within the contained walls of the Academy. You shouldn't have let it happen, and yet all this time later, you haven't been able to contain the hunger, the same one that makes you morbidly attached to anything you can even consider your own because you know it won't last. It won't last.|token][$Baffection = 2]]</div>The realization that what you'll be spending here will be your last night at the Academy tightens your throat for a moment, but you do your best to ignore it, at least for now.
//You have a lot to do before tomorrow, you better get to work.//
Contrary to your expectations, it doesn't even take you an hour to sort out your belongings in your saddlebags and travel bags. A fact that alone should be depressing, but at least it simplifies your preparations.
What did you expect, after all? You've spent years barely tolerating your classmates, defying the teachers, and silently studying in the isolation offered by these very walls. It would have been surprising if suddenly the half-empty closets revealed the vestiges of a life you've spent in painstaking anticipation until now.
//You still struggle to believe it's truly over.//
Little of what fills the bags really has any sentimental value to you, the only exception being a small token you normally keep next to your bed, with such a calming effect on you it's honestly almost ridiculous. You pick it up and gently turn it over between your fingers, exploring its shape as if you don't know it exactly by heart.
The Mentor, whom you had known for only a few days at the time, was the one to recommend it to you, noticing how you struggled to adapt to the academic environment. You had been there just under a year and were disoriented and had no idea what your next steps would be. In addition, you also felt the growing pressure of the rune and of your magic that was growing day by day, almost suffocating every other feeling in a dull and vaguely painful background noise.
You were hesitant at first, but it didn't take long for you to give in to the idea.
Upon your Mentor's advice you chose the material in line with the rune's region, so that you would become familiar with it and your magic would be in tune with the token. <<if $rune is "North">>Fortunately, you found everything you needed here in the North and didn't have to wait for the traveling caravans of merchants. <<elseif $rune is "Suth" or "East" or "West">>You had to wait for the traveling caravans of merchants to get the raw material, wood or stone from the North would not have been compatible.<</if>> It took you months to reach something you were satisfied with, but you remember well the proud happiness you felt when you held the finished product in your hands.
<<if $rune is "North">>
<div class="choice-item">[[It is a small sphere composed of Amar'e roots intertwined with each other, white as snow rhythmically pulsing with a blood red glow that smells of life and death at the same time. It symbolizes respect for destiny, but also resilience.|skincolor][$token = "N1"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[This is the tip of the horn of a Gherà - a magical herbivorous animal with a decidedly aggressive temperament - woven into the wire to form a rudimentary pendant. It symbolizes power and intelligence.|skincolor][$token = "N2"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[It consists of three concentric rings of keraam - the white gold of the North - wrapped to form a bracelet that you wear just below the shoulder. It symbolizes tireless adaptability and hidden cunning.|skincolor][$token = "N3"]]</div>
<<elseif $rune is "West">>
<div class="choice-item">[[This is a needle of black bone from Averàal, a mammoth magical deer sacred to the Great Goddess, that pierces your earlobe. It symbolizes, like the animal itself, immortality and constant vigilance.|skincolor][$token = "W1"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[It is an armband that wraps around the wrist and goes up along the middle finger made of hardened leaves of the Fas'tae plant, disproportionately strong and held in great value for its thaumaturgical or toxic properties. It symbolizes calculated intelligence and unalterable tenacity.|skincolor][$token = "W2"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[The shape is that of a shuul glass cruet, containing water from the sacred waterfalls of the West and glowing with a purplish glow. It symbolizes unpredictability and relentless will.|skincolor][$token = "W3"]]</div>
<<elseif $rune is "South">>
<div class="choice-item">[[It is a pendant that you usually wear around your neck, consisting of a small crystal bottle containing the blood of Sheèvr - a snake sacred to the Great Goddess with an acute intelligence - enchanted to be eternally liquid. It symbolizes calculated patience and brutal initiative.|skincolor][$token = "S1"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[This is a rudimentary flute a few inches long, constructed from inlaid teeth of the sacred beast Banèl, a giant feline that dominates the southern deserts. It symbolizes unexpected ferocity and possessiveness.|skincolor][$token = "S2"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[It is shaped like a gherd metal letter opener, tempered in the fire of the furnaces of Hart, the second largest city in the South. It possesses an incredible affinity for magic and symbolizes ruthless determination and balance.|skincolor][$token = "S3"]]</div>
<<elseif $rune is "East">>
<div class="choice-item">[[It is a small hourglass, empty as soon as you take it in hand but enchanted to fill up with orange grains of the fickle sands of the East if it is overturned. It symbolizes respect for destiny but also hidden unpredictability.|skincolor][$token = "E1"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[It consists of three rings that fit on the index, middle and ring finger, connected together without taking away too much freedom of movement. The material is masha copper, highly valued for its affinity to magic. It symbolizes perseverance and honed talent.|skincolor][$token = "E2"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[This is a leather collar decorated with scales of the Fernàn fish, a huge magical beast that dominates the waters of the gulf. You specifically designed it to cover your rune, you may need it in the future. It symbolizes possessiveness and cautious vigilance.|skincolor][$token = "E3"]]</div><</if>>As you stow your summer uniform in one of the leather bags you've accumulated by the foot of the bed, your gaze falls, not for the first time, on the image that fills the large mirror set up right next to the closet. You pause to observe the light reflected in the $eyes shade of your eyes, so //familiar// against your
<<if $parents is "N">>
<div class="choice-item">[[pale diaphanous skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "pale"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[light grey skin.|hairlength][$skincolor= "light grey"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark grey skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "dark grey"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark ebony skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "ebony"]]</div>
<<elseif $parents is "W">>
<div class="choice-item">[[pale diaphanous skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "pale"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[lavender skin.|hairlength][$skincolor= "lavender"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark lavender skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "dark purple"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark ebony skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "ebony"]]</div>
<<elseif $parents is "E">>
<div class="choice-item">[[pale diaphanous skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "pale"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[light green skin.|hairlength][$skincolor= "light green"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark green skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "dark green"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark ebony skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "ebony"]]</div>
<<elseif $parents is "S">>
<div class="choice-item">[[pale diaphanous skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "pale"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[orange skin.|hairlength][$skincolor= "orange"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[burgundy skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "burgundy"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[dark ebony skin.|hairlength][$skincolor = "ebony"]]</div><</if>><<if $parents is "N">>This is a rather common shade of color in the North, wich has always given you approving glances, but which in other regions would surely earn you some curious looks.<<elseif $parents is "SE" or "SO" or "NE" or "NO" >>This is a rather atypical shade of color, caused by the crossing of different skin types, and which in the North can unfortunately make you stand out, especially when you find yourself surrounded by natives. <<elseif $parents is "S" or "E" or "O">>This is a fairly common shade of color <<if $parents is "S">>in the South<<elseif $parents is "E">>in the East<<elseif $parents is "O">>in the West<</if>>, but one that in the North unfortunately manages to make you stand out, especially when you find yourself surrounded by natives.<</if>>
In fact, since the Academy is a polyethnic place, you have seen little of the extreme segregationism that dominates the rest of the region. The North is a land of traditions, it treats what is foreign with suspicion and not too veiled superiority.
Still, in a completely selfish impulse, you cast a short spell in the ancient language and watch a thin, brilliant <<if $rune is "West">>purple<<elseif $rune is "East">>gold<<elseif $rune is "North">>blue<<elseif $rune is "South">>red<</if>> ring surround the irises of your reflection. It fades out within a few seconds, but it's quite noticeable and hard to disguise. You've never been able to decide if it's something that pleases you or annoys you.
Technically, it's yet another mark of the region that's been engraved on your neck. Basically, it's an unnecessary reminder of your identity in case you decide to keep it hidden along the journey, as well as obviously being yet another reason for disappointment with the regions you didn't choose.
You sigh for the umpteenth time - that's all you're seemingly able to do today - and you place your left hand on the surface of the mirror, pressing your palm down until you feel the cold, smooth material under your skin. It manages to give you just a modicum of relief from the heat that pervades after an hour of uninterrupted movement. The fabric of the uniform is also already starting to cling to you, giving you a nagging feeling of warm wetness that you can't wait to remove.
You then bring the same hand upward, running your fingers
<div class="choice-item">[[on your bare scalp, feeling under your fingertips the very short hair growing back.|haircolor][$hairlength = "shaved"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[through your short hair, barely reaching your ears.|haircolor][$hairlength = "short"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[through your shoulder length hair.|haircolor][$hairlength = "medium length"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[through your long hair, reaching past mid-back.|haircolor][$hairlength = "long"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[through your decidedly long hair, now reaching your hips.|haircolor][$hairlength = "very long"]]</div><<if $hairlength is "shaved">>A couple of years ago one of your parents' last visits took place in the courtyard of pavillion five. You remember it because they were both strangely tactile, they hugged you for a long time before they left, and your mother, without stopping holding you, took a lock of your hair between her fingers, murmuring in your ear "it's so long, so //beautiful//."
It was the last thing you had left from that encounter. You used to wear your hair very long, you loved the feeling it gave you going down your back, you loved combing and braiding it, so much so that you spent several hours a day taking care of it.
You went back to your room and in an act of rancorous rebellion you decided to cut them off altogether. You still remember with a mixture of satisfaction and sour frustration the sight of the floor covered with cut locks.
You've kept them shaved ever since. Much of your disappointment passed after a few months, but by then you had started to find them comfortable and you have to admit you like the look.
If they were longer, however, you'd notice<<elseif $hairlength is "short">>They're not only extremely practical in the field - you still remember with a mixture of disgust and horror the acrid smell of burnt hair after a student's elemental spell, still too inexperienced for the third kind, had backfired - but also quite comfortable since they require little... //maintenance//. Certainly from the perspective of the Last Journey and the days spent on the road, this is no small matter.
You don't even need someone to take care of your hair for you, you can't stand unnecessary physical contact and even less the idea of relying on a janitor or a professor for that. //You get sick to your stomach just thinking about it//. So, more or less six years ago you started cutting them out yourself and have yet to regret the choice.
It's not that you care too much what perfect strangers think of your appearance, but you still retain a modicum of vanity that allows you to appreciate<<elseif $hairlength is "medium length">>They're not particularly practical, but they're not that unmanageable either - the length is perfect to allow you to arrange them in a way that doesn't bother you, but also gives you room to experiment.
You don't even need someone to take care of your hair for you, you can't stand unnecessary physical contact and even less the idea of relying on a janitor or professor for it. //You get sick to your stomach just thinking about it//. So, more or less six years ago you started cutting them out yourself and have yet to regret the choice.
Not that you care too much what perfect strangers think of your appearance, but you still retain a modicum of vanity that allows you to appreciate<<elseif $hairlength is "long">>You haven't cut them in years, except for the occasional trim to keep them healthy, a decision you made when you realized during a visit from your parents to the Academy that it would be one of the last. It was a painful but necessary epiphany, and the length of your hair serves, among other things, to remind you of the distance they chose to maintain from you.
By now they've reached a length that requires even a whole hour of care each day, but you love combing them with your fingers in a now soothing ritual. You refuse to give this up to save a frankly insignificant amount of time or for a little extra comfort on the road. You like the feel of them sliding down your back and don't intend to give them up, at the expense of what the Master may think of them. You already have little control over your own destiny, at least on this you claim to have full decision-making power.
And you like it, //you like yourself//. What right do they have to deny you this slightest claim, treating it like a child's whim?
Finally, do you still retain enough vanity to appreciate<<elseif $hairlength is "very long">>You haven't cut it in years, except for the occasional trim to keep it healthy, a decision you made when you realized during a visit from your parents to the Academy that it would be one of the last. It was a painful but necessary epiphany, and the length of your hair serves, among other things, to remind you of the distance they chose to maintain from you.
By now they've reached a length that requires even whole hours of care each day, but you love combing them with your fingers in a now soothing ritual. You refuse to give this up to save a frankly insignificant amount of time or for a little extra comfort on the road. You like the feel of them sliding down your back and don't intend to give them up, at the expense of what the Master may think of them. You already have little control over your own destiny, at least on this you claim to have full decision-making power.
And you like it, //you like yourself aesthetically//.What right do they have to deny you this slightest claim, treating it like a child's whim?
Finally, still retain enough vanity to appreciate<</if>>
<div class="choice-item">[[the opaque alabaster|hairtexture][$haircolor = "alabaster"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the slate gray|hairtexture][$haircolor = "gray"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the cobalt blue|hairtexture][$haircolor = "blue"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the midnight blue|hairtexture][$haircolor = "dark blue"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the inky black|hairtexture][$haircolor = "black"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the metallic platinum|hairtexture][$haircolor = "platinum"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the ash blonde|hairtexture][$haircolor = "blonde"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the antique pink|hairtexture][$haircolor = "pink"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the dark lilac|hairtexture][$haircolor = "lilac"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the orange|hairtexture][$haircolor = "orange"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the deep bronze|hairtexture][$haircolor = "bronze"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the coppery mahogany|hairtexture][$haircolor = "mahogany"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the wine red|hairtexture][$haircolor = "dark red"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[the dark brown|hairtexture][$haircolor = "dark brown"]]</div>that dyes your
<div class="choice-item">[[straight hair.|hairstyle][$hairtexture = "straight"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[wavy hair.|hairstyle][$hairtexture = "wavy"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[curly hair.|hairstyle][$hairtexture = "curly"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[coily hair.|hairstyle][$hairtexture = "coily"]]</div><<if $hairlength is "very long" or "long" or "medium length">><div class="choice-item">[[Most of the time you tend to keep your hair loose.|body][$hairstyle = "loose"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[For your convenience, you prefer to gather your hair into a tail.|body][$hairstyle = "in a tail"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You usually keep your hair styled into one or more braids.|body][$hairstyle = "braided"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You keep your hair in dreadlocks.|body][$hairstyle = "locked"]]</div><<elseif $hairlength is "short">><div class="choice-item">[[Most of the time you tend to keep your hair loose.|body][$hairstyle = "loose"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Your hair is shaved on one side and longer at the top.|body][$hairstyle = "in an undercut"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You keep your hair in dreadlocks.|body][$hairstyle = "locked"]]</div>
<<else>>[[You don't have to worry about how to style your hair, you just need to maintain its length.|body]]<</if>>The day has been long, not endless like some you've unfortunately been subjected to over the years but you're still tired and fed up with everything - it was probably the summons that exhausted most of your energy.
You decide you are entitled to a long bath.
You cast a glance out the large window and indeed the sun is slowly approaching sunset. //Once you've checked and double-checked your bags, there's nothing else left to do before tomorrow.//
You make your way to the bathroom, stepping over the wooden door that separates it from the rest of the room. It's a decidedly large space, lit by natural light and almost entirely constructed of smooth stone in a light shade of gray. The effect is elegant and uncluttered, the warm light of the late afternoon effectively dampening the collected rigor that the minimalist decor conveys.
You've kept it, like the rest of your quarters, almost entirely bare of personal items. Apart from the most essential ones, the only thing that can differentiate it is the presence, leaning against the wall and partially adhering to it, of a climbing plant with a lively but relaxing pink coloration of the leaves.
You hope that the next owner of this room will take care of it after you leave. Now that you think about it, perhaps it would be best to alert the Mentor or the management to make sure of that, you wouldn't want it to be left to dry out after years of care on your part. It's been pleasant company.
You caress her with your gaze as, after closing the door behind you, you begin to remove your uniform. You undress completely and what you see in the orange light filtering through the opaque windows is
<div class="choice-item">[[a smooth body, not marked by scars nor scarred by disease or poverty, unlike many of the inhabitants of Bachra. [cisgender]|shower][$trans = false]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[a body you finally feel comfortable in and wich reflects what should have been yours from birth. [transgender]|shower][$trans = true]]</div><<if $trans>>Bachra is not a welcoming place for those who, like you, choose to define themselves outside of their gender of birth. What you usually get is indifference, at best complacency in the face of what is perceived to be a //whim.// You had to fight months demanding to be addressed with the proper pronouns, and even then it was granted to you with relative ease just because of who you are. The Academy has at least always been lenient in this regard, however you have no idea what the situation is like in the rest of the North.<<else>>Bachra is not a welcoming place for those who choose to define themselves outside of their gender of birth. What is usually given is indifference, at best complacency in the face of what is perceived as a //whim.// It's not your case but you know that the Academy has at least always been lenient in this regard, however you have no idea what the situation is like in the rest of the North.<</if>>
Turning your attention back to the present, you head for the walk-in shower, fitted with a large in-ground tub - a luxury afforded to a few accommodations including your own. The whole thing has a drainage system carved out of the stone that drains into the pavilion's pipes.
You stand within reach of the water jet, only when you turn the knob leaning against the wall all you get is the sharp croak of metal. No hint of water, not even a single, solitary drop. You sharpen your gaze, aiming it at the knob as if by the sheer force of your disappointment you could force it to move. To your annoyance, it doesn't seem to be working, and indeed the pipes make yet another agonizing squeal.
//Naturally, you can't get a single moment of peace even to wash up.//
"I hope you're kidding," you hiss.
You rest the palm of your hand on the smooth stone of the wall, close your eyes, and //breathe.// You let the magic wash through you with the impetuous force of something that, free at last, overflows the banks of its prison. It takes you less than an instant to take control of it.
You go deeper into the ground, following the roots and forcefully slipping into crevices and brains. //Nothing, still nothing.//
You keep looking, pushing past the housing pavilion toward the courtyards, and then you find it.
Ah, there it is. The //damage//, the unstable trace of magic still clearly visible to those able to observe.
Sometimes, when sixth and seventh year students try their hand at material spells of the second kind, damage can be done to the integrity of the halls or the magic system that runs the Academy. Then again, these are complex spells that require advanced formulas, a firm will, and absolute control over the element being manipulated - regardless of creative or destructive intent.
You care little, to be honest, but if they've approached the roots of your Oa'hk again....
//"$name..."
"What. Have. You. Done."
You hold between fingers that almost shake the now dark, rotten, or badly dislodged roots from the ground. You can't believe what you're seeing. Even an explosion would have done less damage.
You snap towards the terrified students.
"Who did this."
You've almost never felt such destructive fury as you did in that moment. You'd like to say you contained yourself, but you didn't.//
You shudder.
More than likely, though, you would have felt it if its magic had faded. You exhale slowly, trying to compose yourself. //He's fine, they didn't touch him.//
As the panic passes, the reality of the situation becomes pressing again. From what you've been able to sense, the plumbing has probably been affected, maybe some pipes have burst and the water has frozen. Not that uncommon here in the North.
The pipes, however, have not been repaired. It's unlikely that all the janitors are busy, it's more plausible that no reports have been made to the teachers yet.
You exhale, bringing your fingers to your face in a feeble attempt to hold back your exasperation.
//All you wanted was a bath.//
"Ah, damn."
You'll do it yourself, clearly the day hasn't run out of pains to inflict on you yet.
You step back, careful not to slip on the smooth stone of the bath, and let your magic penetrate deep again. With a fluid motion of your wrist you take control of the partially frozen water in the pipes and direct enough of it in your direction to fill the large tub of your bath. It comes out of the faucet cold, but liquid, and with minimal effort fills the large hollow in the floor almost to the brim.
Without pausing to admire your handiwork - it required only an insignificant fraction of the almost limitless magic coursing through your veins - and without turning your attention away from the pipes, you place your fingers on the metal of the faucet and inhale. It doesn't take you long to spot the cracked pipes. You mutter a formula in an arcane tongue and the water melts away completely, leaving you to reinforce the metal. You release control of the water only when you are certain that the system is back in working order, even do at least a couple of tests to make sure, and follow it as it rushes through the pipes, liquid again.
As a matter of academic duty, with no small amount of regret and a sharp sigh you slip on your purple silk robe and, without bothering to fasten your belt, leaving it to cover very little of your figure, you leave the bathroom again in favor of your large desk.
You unceremoniously grab a vacant piece of paper and hastily write a report on the incident, addressing the letter to the janitors' office in pavilion four. They will know how to intervene in case there is some external collateral damage that you overlooked, or at least it will be their responsibility to alert management. As for you, you've had enough of the Archmage for a whole week.
[[And you're also tired and eager for a well-deserved bath.|prophecyattitude]]You've endured too many forced interactions in a single day, and if you're allowed an opinion on the matter, it's only wary exhaustion what you've gotten out of it. Moreover, on the road you will rarely have the luxury of indulging in any approach to personal hygiene other than the cold water of a river or a basin at some dubious inn, at least for weeks on horseback.
Just thinking about it makes the sweat on your skin harder to ignore, leaving the fabric of your robe uncomfortably clinging to your back and shoulders. <<if $hairlength is "long" or "very long" or "medium length" or "short">>You sigh, running your fingers through your hair and clicking your tongue when you find it dirtier than it was this morning.<</if>>
You let the full weight of your body go backwards, abandoning yourself heavily on the backrest and almost unbalancing the chair. The entire front of your body is exposed, but you don't care in the slightest at the moment. With one hand still your hair and your other arm limply let go toward the ground, you let your tired stare wonder out of the window.
You hope that whatever god is having fun tormenting you today is satisfied with the spectacle and decides to leave you alone.
And as you go back into the bathroom and finally let yourself slip into the hot water - it only took a snap of your fingers for it to reach a temperature you considered acceptable, therefore almost boiling - you squint into the steam that envelops you and realize with a growing pang in your stomach that your last day at this Academy is coming to an end. Paradoxically, while immersing yourself in the preparations, you have tried to dwell as little as possible on thoughts about the convocation.
Obviously you have no say in the matter, you've always known that and you've had years to prepare for this moment, but now that it's here how do you really feel?
<div class="choice-item">[[There's a sense of discomfort in your chest that hasn't left you since this morning and threatens to turn into furious irritation.|shower1][$prophecyattitude = "negative"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You've been avoiding thinking about it and that's what you'll continue to do.|shower1][$prophecyattitude = "evasive"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[In all honesty, it's just resignation you feel now.|shower1][$prophecyattitude = "resigned"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[Despite everything you feel a sense of quivering excitement at the prospect of the trip.|shower1][$prophecyattitude = "excited"]]</div><<if $prophecyattitude is "negative">>You have not been asked even //once// about what you might think or wish for yourself when faced with the prospect of following a centuries old prophecy and fighting for a king you don't know while defending ideals that don't belong to you.
//It's not fair.//
You're not going to be drawn into the journey with the passivity so many expect. If you do this, it'll be on your terms. You are left with a sour taste in your throat every time your cooperation is taken for granted and your reluctance frowned upon.<<elseif $prophecyattitude is "evasive">>You know that thoughts on the subject would only bring with them an unpleasant feeling in the pit of your stomach and a weight on your chest that you would not be able to shake off. It's been like this for some time now, and now you can't do anything but continue with your initial approach, ignoring every thought about the Prophecy when it starts to get pressing.
You know it's only sustainable in the short term, but you feel you have neither the answers nor the strength to deal with everything involved in the summons now. You'll probably regret it, but that's a thought for tomorrow.<<elseif $prophecyattitude is "resigned">>The rune has indelibly branded your future, there's little you can do about it. Running away, or turning your back on the entire North, has never been an option.
//Follow the Prophecy. $name,// Follow the Prophecy.
It's what your parents and teachers have been repeting to you since you began articulating your first disconnected words. As much as you may wish for it - as much as you may curse or welcome your destiny without resistance - you have never had a choice, much less will have a choice in the future.<<elseif $prophecyattitude is "excited">>Your entire existence has been in preparation for this moment. You've never had a choice, but that doesn't mean you can't grasp the task you've been given and make it your own.
You will follow the Prophecy, as you have been told since you began to take your first steps and articulate your first disconnected words.
You are the Chosen One and this is your task. You will not back down because //you are not afraid. //
By choosing to welcome the War with open arms you will have at least a modicum of control.<</if>>
For now, however, there's nothing left for you to do but end the day and try to get some rest in preparation for your departure.
You fall asleep for the last time in your bed, sinking into a sleep that lasts uninterrupted until the next morning, but leaves you just a little more tired than expected. You wake up at dawn with no recollection of the disjointed dreams that accompanied you throughout the night.
[[It's probably for the best.|dream]]<span class="fontdiverso">Do not feil donotfail dONOTFAIL
Don't trust the <del>MENTORhewc eicjeoinf</del>– donottrustthem don'ttrustthem
Giveup you're going to fail nonetheless
Youarenoone NOONE</span>
<span class="fontdiverso">SURRENDERsurrender
DO NOT FAIL</span><span class="fontdiversodue">DONOTFAIL</span>
<del><span class="fontdiverso">yOU HAVE TO SURVIVE-</span></del>
<span class="fontdiversodue"><del>They will leave you alone-ALONE</del>
ALONEALONEalonelike you've always been</span>
<span class="fontdiversodue">You will get what you deserve, Chosen One.
[[... only what you deserve.|runevisibility]]</span>The next morning brings with it not only a tense anxiety that closes in your stomach but also a sense of loss that you can't shake even as you get dressed and make sure you leave the room as bare as you were assigned eight years ago. At least it's your habit to wake up early in the morning, otherwise your annoyance would be even greater. You check, again, at least for a few more times the bags and the few possessions you've decided to leave here, mainly books of magical insight, a few collections of poetry, and your plants. You sent a letter to the management this morning, with any chance they'll find someone to take care of them from now on.
It's barely dawn when, without bothering to turn on the light, you put on your heavy academic uniform, gloves and coat. You take one last look in the mirror and consider whether or not to cover the rune.
On the Mentor's advice, you always make sure it's visible to high-ranking mages or members of the cabal, but it's your choice how you present yourself in front of the rest of Bachra. Obviously there are advantages and disadvantages to accompanying either option, as well as having to take into account the possible consequences on the road.
<div class="choice-item">[[You grab the scarf from the uniform and wear it with precision, making sure to cover the mark.|partenza][$runevisibility = "off"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You stow the scarf in your bag and leave the collar of your coat open, making the rune clearly visible on the skin of your neck.|partenza][$runevisibility = "on"]]</div><<if $runevisibility is "off">>While you're not ashamed of your rune, you prefer to keep it hidden, if only to avoid unnecessary controversy. In the Academy the problem has never arisen, everyone knows who you are and what your mark symbolizes, few have dared to even mention it in front of you, but in the rest of the country things will be very different. Seeing one's region branded on the Chosen One is a great honor, however for the remaining three quarters of Bachra it is only a burning disappointment.
<<if $rune is "South" or "East" or "West">>And considering the region that marks you, you've already sustained enough contrite looks and bitter glances from the inhabitants of the North, you have no intention of repeating the experience for any other inhabitant of a place whose symbol has not been imprinted on your skin.<<elseif $rune is "North">>Although your mark represents the North, you still intend to show it as little as possible. So far, negative reactions have been few, but you can expect plenty once you leave the region, and that's not a frankly appealing prospect.<</if>><<elseif $runevisibility is "on">>You have no intention of letting them intimidate you into hiding who you are with shame. Yours isn't a political or ideological statement, but you want to be able to move without having to constantly worry about the visibility of your neck. Let them look, you'll give them something to entertain themselves with.
You know that while seeing your region branded on the Chosen One is a great honor, for the remaining three quarters of Bachra it's just a burning disappointment. <<if $rune is "South" or "East" or "West">>But no matter what symbol you wear, you'll always leave someone unhappy, it's something you've already come to terms with and which, despite the fact that it has often left you exhausted and frustrated beyond any reasonable threshold, you've decided to submit to, at least voluntarily. <<elseif $rune is "North">> But no matter what symbol you wear you'll always leave someone disgruntled, it's something you'll have to come to terms with very quickly as soon as you leave North. You know it won't be easy but at least it's something you've decided to voluntarily submit to.<</if>><</if>>
With one last glance at your room, bathed in the golden twilight of dawn, you grab your bags and walk away from your quarters. You exit the pavilion three fort the fifth, the Mentor is waiting for you to review the itinerary for the trip one last time and you don't intend to be late.
Their office is slightly less opulent but also more exotic and colorful than that of the Archmage. The door is plain oak, a rather thoughtful choice on their part, as are the table and chairs inside. At the moment you are standing in front of Bachra's map, stretched out to show the four regions in full, but sheets, books and bottles filled with suspiciously colored liquid fill the remaining surface. On your contrary, the Mentor does not possess the gift of order.
"North, East, and finally South."
"The West?" you ask, tilting your torso downward to stare sharply at the most problematic region. This is not the first time the subject has come up, but you want to know if the Mentor is certain of their decision. The prophecy is... //interpretable.// It mentions the Last Journey but in many places the details are vague. Some magicians speculate that even the attitude of the Chosen One and their Mentor, will and have been taken into consideration, but as mentioned there is little that is certain on the subject. Prophecies are a particularly delicate thing, yours more than any other.
//Because of course things must be complicated.//
"I'm pretty sure it's not essential, the important thing is to answer the King's call."
Not that it personally changes anything for you. <<if $hairlength is "long" or "very long" or "medium length" or "short">> You bring a hand up to your face to remove a few $haircolor locks from your line of sight.<<elseif $hairlength is "shaved">>You bring a hand to your head to brush just barely against your bare scalp.<</if>> You take one last look at the map before lifting your gaze to the Master "whatever, works for me."
They only nod, rolling up the parchment and withdrawing it into their travel bag. He takes a step away from the table, and as you raise an eyebrow, with a spell and a fluid gesture of their wrist the rest of their luggage shifts at their feet.
They haven't impressed you at all. Staring into their eyes you make a vague gesture of your hand "are you going to leave it in this state?"
Despite their covered face, the Master has the decency to look at least vaguely embarrassed.
"... yes."
The fingers of your hand barely twitch as you hold back the unconcious movement of bringing them to your forehead in a gesture of pure exasperation. You sigh "you know what? I don't care, I'll meet you in the courtyard."
You leave the office without wasting any more time - you can't believe that even on the morning of your departure the Mentor has decided to torture you with their terrifying lack of order. You advance with determined strides along the cold corridors of the hall, trying to crush the irritation, you must admit rather irrational, that your movements betray. //And yet you know perfectly well that today should have been all in the plans, exactly as you had arranged-//
You exhale and your breath creates a white cloud that dissipates into the air.
To distract yourself, you list in your mind every item you brought in your luggage everything you left behind instead, even using the opportunity for one last check. The more you proceed without error - everything is where it should be, you haven't forgotten anything - the more the tension eases and you can allow yourself to relax the muscles in your shoulders and arms. Your self-assigned task also gives you a chance to focus on something other than the sharp but, for now, ignorable pain in your eyes.
The Academy is infused with magic, and today more than usual it pulses with nonchalant stubbornness as if insistently begging to be recognized. Frankly, the attitude is too similar to that of the Archmage's magic for you to believe it's a coincidence. You hold back a hiss between your teeth and continue counting.
[[You don't feel like arriving early and waiting for your Mentor, so you decide to take the longer route.|partenza1]]By the time your mental list ends and your emotions are under control again, you are now very close to the main courtyard. Even meters away you can notice the presence of the Master and some other teachers, for now the students are not too many but many more will gather at the south gate within a couple of hours.
Predictably, the entire Academy will be watching your departure. It may not seem like it now, but for many professors and especially students today will be the historic day that marks the beginning of the Chosen One's Last Journey. You avoid the thought like a disgusting intruder, for if you were to dwell on its implications for more than a few seconds you might risk an inappropriate onslaught of panic and unresolved doubts.
You've learned to shut them up forcefully, and you will do the same now.
[[As soon as you step into the courtyard the talking almost ceases.|partenza2]]The Mentor intercepts your gaze and before he directs it elsewhere you see in their eyes a flash of //pity// that in a single instant destroys every ounce of fleeble expectation you managed to mantain along the way. You harden your gaze and stare at the empty space behind them.
//Oh, of course.//
Obviously, your parents are not here. You knew no one was coming, you //knew// that, yet the emptiness behind the Mentor only hurts more.
What you nurtured, letting it grow and feed itself throughout the early hours of the morning, was an irrational hope that you should have crushed between your fingers. You should have known by now that there is no room in your family for unnecessary contact, that your parents are convinced that they have already said goodbye to you once when you left for the Academy, and the unusually bitter looks from then were probably already experiencing the grief of this moment.
You can easily guess why, they wanted to spare themselves the pain of a second parting, but you can't forgive them for that, nor justify their absence. For the Prophecy does not extend beyond the War, and the chances that these are your last days in the North are much greater than that of ever returning.
Still, you gave yourself the luxury of //hoping.//.
This is the last time. //The last time.//
You can't quite hold back a hiss as you snap your gaze elsewhere. And if no one dares cross your now reddened eyes again, all the better for you.
"Where are the //leechen//?" you ask in a voice just a little sharper than usual to the Mentor.
"In the barn."
As he leads you across the courtyard to the east pavilion, you can feel the weight of their gaze on you, which you ignore as you proceed with your back stiff and your eyes fixed in front of you. You only absentmindedly register the silhouettes of buildings replacing one another, half extremely familiar yet suddenly foreign. The awareness that you're about to leave everything behind and that this is probably the last time you'll see these same walls presses insistently on your retina until everything becomes less sharp and at the same time too vivid. You struggle to breathe for a couple of seconds but you continue without stopping and after a while the feeling recedes becoming much more bearable.
//[["Follow the Prophecy. That's all that matters."|leechensex]]//The stables take up almost half the space of a pavilion, decorated as soberly as the rest of the Academy and just as tidy. The air inside is especially warm and saturated with the smell of animals, hay, and tanned leather. It is... oddly comforting, in contrast to the blank discomfort that is marking your departure.
The janitor, a middle-aged native woman with a muscular build and almost imposing stature, is lifting some heavy harness from a crate on the ground. As soon as her gaze meets yours, she addresses first to the Mentor and then to you a respectful but concise nod "welcome, your //leechen// have been saddled and shod and are ready for the journey. You will find them in the first few boxes here on the right."
You follow his directions, and the Mentor points you to the box assigned to your //leechen//, all the while giving you a cautious look. But you've already sobered up from the disappointment, you can't afford more than a few minutes to let everything pressing on your throat flow out of you, otherwise you wouldn't even be //functioning//, considering how easily emotions usually flow through you. This time it was entirely your fault for raising your expectations so high that the fall was painful.
It's a lesson for the future.
"I'll be waiting in front of the south gate when you have everything ready."
"See you later," you reply, without looking at them. You unlatch the opening of the box, made of light wood, with gloved fingers and step inside, stepping on the straw that covers the floor almost entirely. You slip off your gloves and take a moment to observe your assigned mount.
The //leechen// are six-legged beasts that exceed five feet at the withers, with a physiognomy similar to that of horses but equipped with three small horns in the center of the muzzle, above the eyes, and covered in various areas of the body by scales quite similar to those of reptiles. They are also recognizable by their most conspicuous pair of long, spirally fluted horns, slender upward and positioned very close to the ear junction.
Like their distant cousins, they have individual differences in constitution that are not so much attributable to breed as to place of birth, however, as they are magical animals. The //leechen// of the North, who are the only ones here and who inhabit the stables along with many more horses, are particularly slender and hardy, with a silvery mane and a coat that varies from an alabaster hue to a midnight blue almost as dark as ink. There is then a fair amount of sexual dimorphism which, provided the knowledge the species, makes the sexes quite recognizable from each other.
<div class="choice-item">[[You notice from the three much more pronounced horns on the snout, at least an entire palm long, that this is definitely a female specimen.|leechencolor][$leechen = "female", $leechenshe = "she"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[The abundance of scales, which are also larger and have a more pronounced glow, along with smaller horns on the snout identifies the specimen as male.|leechencolor][$leechen = "male", $leechenshe = "he"]]</div>You inhale deeply, then slowly let the air out of your nostrils, letting the your magic flow along with it, mixing and intersecting with the residue in the box. You infuse as much calm and quietness as you can, in order to convey your intentions to the //leechen// in advance. <<if $leechensex is "male">>You know he can hear you, and in fact he flares his nostrils and paws his hooves a couple of times at the hay, but it's more of a curious movement than an alarmed one. You advance toward him and reach forward with one hand, brushing your fingers over his neck area, which is covered in scales almost entirely.<<elseif $leechensex is "female">>You know she can hear you, and in fact she flares her nostrils and paws her hooves a couple of times at the hay, but it's more of a curious movement than an alarmed one. You advance toward her and reach forward with one hand, brushing your fingers over her neck area, which is almost entirely covered in scales.<</if>>
At that point its arcane magic invades you, a river overflowing from the banks, flowing without precise direction and without care for what it runs over in its path - in this case, you. It's not as disruptive as contact with a wizard, but definitely more intense than contact with an individual devoid of magic. You stiffen for a moment, clenching your teeth against the foreign sensation and chasing the nausea back into your throat, but it takes little to regain control, and you run your fingers over the scales in a stiff caress.
The mantle of the //leechen//, turning its neck to press its muzzle against your shoulder in greeting, is an iridescent
<div class="choice-item">[[alabaster.|leechen3][$leechencolor="alabaster"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[ash.|leechen3][$leechencolor="ash"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[slate.|leechen3][$leechencolor="slate"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[ice blue.|leechen3][$leechencolor="ice blue"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[turquoise.|leechen3][$leechencolor="turquoise"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[cyan.|leechen3][$leechencolor="cyan"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[cobalt.|leechen3][$leechencolor="cobalt"]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[midnight blue.|leechen3][$leechencolor="midnight blue"]]</div>It compliments perfectly the silver of their mane, wavy and clearly kept groomed by the grooms. <<if $leechen is "male">>The male<<else>>The female<</if>> gives you another flick of the muzzle, vaguely more insistent than the previous one, and you let your gaze wander over the walls of the stall, the crate leaning against the wall, and the blankets piled up on the floor to form a coarse nest - the //leechen// are demanding creatures and can become capricious if they are not given what they want.
//If you're not mistaken, there should be...//ah.
You turn away from the animal to head towards a leather ride hanging towards the inside of the box entrance. As you imagined, you need only a very brief search to find your //leechen//'s object of interest. You pull your hand out of the bag and hardly have time to turn around that they are upon you.
<<if $leechen is "male">>You offer him the open palm of your hand and with a grateful snort he greedily chews the lumps, tickling your skin and sending you another couple of magic jolts, this time much more pleasant. You have to admit that his manners are excellent, given the matriarchal hierarchy of the species the males usually have a more placid attitude and he is no exception. You stroke him with your other hand, curving your lips into a smile, "who's a good //leechen//, hmm?"
He answers with a small hit of his muzzle, conveying such a smug satisfaction that you almost choke whil trying to hold back a laugh "oh, you?"<<else>>You offer her the open palm of your hand and with a satisfied snort she pounces on the lumps, devouring them within seconds and throwing you backwards in eagerness. She is a bit lacking in manners, but the hierarchy of the species is matriarchal and, unlike male specimens, female specimens are generally more impetuous and fickle. She is no exception.
You shake your head, a barely-there smile on your lips "all these demands and we haven't even left."
She answers with a small hit of her muzzle, conveying such a proud satisfaction that you almost choke on trying to hold back a laugh "oh, really?" <</if>>
If you thought you could calm <<if $leechen is "male">>him<<else>>her<</if>> down with sugar, the //leechen//'s enthusiastic neighing proves otherwise, yet <<if $leechen is "male">>him<<else>>her<</if>> follows you without hesitation, letting you adjust the saddle and reins without particular agitation. It's amazing how much their loyalty can be bought with a handful of their absolute favorite thing: //pure sugar//.
It's not even a natural habit, it would almost be funny if it weren't for the fact that by now all specimens kept in captivity - by their own choice, usually - are addicted to it. The diet of the Northern //leechen// is composed almost entirely of roots, which they tear out of the ground with their teeth and devour along with soil and any small rocks. Not that they refuse the occasional taste of meat, especially small animals or the remains of fresh corpses. In the last few centuries their domestication, even if partial, has become quite widespread and as a consequence they have taken on a peculiar and decidedly unhealthy obsession with refined sugar.
You put back on your gloves, "I hope you're ready."
You grab another handful of lumps, stuffing them into your coat pocket in case you need them later, and open the latch on the door. The muffled sound of hooves on hay accompanies you all the way out of the stall, along with the warm smell of animal hair and aged wood.
The keeper watches you as you lead the //leechen// through the hallway, and before you can leave the stall, she lookas at you in the eyes with something you struggle to decipher. She approaches you with a couple of long strides and after a moment, to give you the time to back off if you felt like it, she pulls you into a brief but tight embrace "have a good trip."
The gesture is so unexpected that it leaves you inert for a long moment, unable to reciprocate or stiffen. Before you can do either, the janitor retreats and without further ado walks away toward the pits on the left.
You stare at the spot where she disappeared from your view for a few long seconds, your muscles still frozen and your pupils dilated. You decide, in a fit of overwhelming emotion that you would normally stifle, to interpret it as the hug your mother should have given you today.
You almost gasp when the //leechen// pushes your muzzle against your arm. You swallow hard through the knot that clutches painfully your throat and you tighten your fingers on the leather of the reins until your knuckles whiten. Your voice comes out broken as you speak, caught between bitterness and fierceness, and you're thankful there's no one but the animals to hear it.
[[“Let's go.”|partenza3]]By the time you reach the Mentor, the surroundings of the south gate are crowded to the point of being almost suffocating. The sun has now risen and the icy snow in the night crunches as you walk. As if the stares of hundreds of people on you aren't enough, the presence of so many wizards all at once presses on your temples with growing insistence with each step.
//You hope to leave soon, your endurance is quickly wearing thin.//.
You let out a ragged breath and the Mentor directs a look in your direction that you interpret as understanding. You're masking the nervous tension you've been feeling since yesterday and which is now stronger than ever behind a rigid posture and even colder looks than normal. The Mentor most likely sees through your irritation by sensing your icy mood. Instead, all others see is you, the //Chosen One//, in all their unapproachable glory.
"What are we waiting for?" you ask with a harsher tone than intended.
"The Coven, $name."
//Ah, they can't even be bothered to show up on time.//
You exhale a sigh, lifting your eyes to the clear sky for a long moment. You release control over the magic altogether and feel it flowing into the earth, between the cobblestones and the Academy gates. The feeling of alarm you sensed moments ago is still there, a soft murmur of cautious warning.
"I'll entertain myself in the meantime, then," you inform the Mentor. You mount the //leechen// and make your way through the crowd of students that is starting to get stuffy to approach the gates. You ignore the sound of garbled voices and continue on without fixing your gaze on any of them. You don't cross the Academy's borders but you make the //leechen// turn and walk along the iron gate for a few dozen yards. The air is cold and imbued with the smell of frozen earth and grass, lashing at the few areas of exposed skin on your face and occasionally your neck, where it crosses the protection of the thick fabric of your coat.
When you are far enough away from the yard you can hear the thud of hooves on the hardened ground, only partially covered by a thin layer of now frozen snow. It is a sound that accompanies that of your magic as it quivers pulsing through your veins, whispering murmurs in your ear that you cannot interpret. The only thing you catch is the distant warning of danger - or at least of something //hostile//.
You don't like to ignore magical warnings or leave things unsaid, yet you don't think it's worth alarming the Archmage. For now, yours is just a feeling, and more importantly, it is discreetly far off in time. After a few moments of consideration, you decide that a selective barrier is the most practical and prudent solution.
<div class="choice-item">[[You'll give your avid viewers something to look at.|barrier1][$emotions1 += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[No need to put on a show, at least not for this.|barrier2][$emotions2 += 1]]</div>You allow a fierce smile to sharpen your lips, you focus your gaze to the main courtyard, which from this distance is filled only with indistinct shapes, then you slowly turn your neck and as you hear the snap of your joints your magic expands. A thin <<if $rune is "West">>purple<<elseif $rune is "East">>gold<<elseif $rune is "North">>blue<<elseif $rune is "South">>red<</if>> ring tinges your irises, you snap the reins of the leechen and $leechenshe spurs you into a gallop towards the courtyard.
You don't need to say the spell, but you do it anyway. You reach the courtyard again just in time for a <<if $rune is "West">>purple<<elseif $rune is "East">>golden<<elseif $rune is "North">>bluish<<elseif $rune is "South">>reddish<</if>> glow to rise from the ground surrounding the Academy to form a wide sphere encircling the entirety of the space inside the gates. The barrier shimmers for a few seconds before dissolving, indicating the success of the spell.
You stop your //leechen// next to the Mentor's. Their face is covered, but you can make out some disappointment in the look they give you. You tighten your grip on the reins, turning your attention away to finally fix it on the Archmage, surrounded by the near entirety of his cabal. His expression is less open, but surely his approval is as low as the Mentor's.
<div class="choice-item">[[You give them an open-mouthed smile, uncovering your teeth "I'm ready."|partenza4][$trait += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You raise an eyebrow, your expression unperturbed "what's the matter? Can we leave now?"|partenza4]]</div>Stopping the //leechen//, you take a moment to thoroughly examine the structure of the gates from this perspective. You could also enchant them, but you wouldn't have complete protection. Instead, you utter the spell and a subtle <<if $rune is "West">>purple<<elseif $rune is "East">>golden<<elseif $rune is "North">>blue<<elseif $rune is "South">>red<</if>> ring colors your irises. A glow of the same color rises from the ground surrounding the Academy to form a large translucent sphere surrounding the entirety of the space inside the gates. The barrier shimmers for a few seconds before dissolving, indicating the success of the spell.
You check it with a quick detection spell to make sure it's working and stable, once you're satisfied, you snap the //leechen//'s reins and spur <<if $leechen is "male">>him<<else>>her<</if>> at a slow trot towards the courtyard.
//They made you wait, it's only fair you do the same.//
Once back in the courtyard, you make your //leechen// stop next to the Mentor's. Their face is covered but you can make out an implied question in the look they give you. You tighten your grip on the reins, diverting your attention to finally fix it on the Archmage, surrounded by the near entirety of his cabal. His expression is more open, clearly questioning.
<div class="choice-item">[[You give them an open-mouthed smile, uncovering your teeth "I'm ready."|partenza4][$trait += 1]]</div>
<div class="choice-item">[[You raise an eyebrow, your expression unperturbed "what's the matter? Can we leave now?"|partenza4]]</div>The cabal gives their ritual greetings, sincere but distant. Under the eyes of teachers who once taught you as well and students you've coexisted with for years, you direct the //leechen// toward the gates.
While they're being opened, you let your gaze wander beyond the Academy's borders, brushing your fingers over the animal's neck in a quick caress. The Mentor turns in your direction.
"<<if $leechen is "male">>Did you give him a name?<<else>>Did you give her a name?<</if>>"
You don't divert your attention from the icy steppes that greet you "they don't need one."
The look he gives you in response is half puzzled and half disappointed, you try to ignore the unpleasant twinge that runs through your gut as you shake it off. You will not take possession of the //leechen// by giving it a name, it can be nothing more than a means of transportation for the Last Journey. //Nothing more.//
You let out a sigh that sounds like a hiss as it blows out of your lips. //You won't get attached to your leechen like you haven't gotten attached to anyone in eleven years at the Academy. It's not worth it.//
"We can leave," you decide without hesitation in your voice. Procrastination won't do you any good, nor will it make the departure any easier. The Mentor nods, the Archmage gives you a final nod, followed by his cabal, and every eye in the entire Academy is fixed on you as you turn your back on the crowd of students and cross the southern gate.
There's a weight on your chest that you can't lift, and with every meter it only increases, brutally crushing your rib cage. //It's really happening.// After years of waiting and preparing, your destiny has finally tightened its grip on you, pulling you in the only possible direction.
//You'll never come back here, you'll probably never see your parents again.// In all honesty, you'd be lucky to survive more than a few years from the call. And yet, you have no choice. All you can do is leave the Academy behind and follow the path that Prophecy has set out for you.
<span class = "font1">[[Because you are the Chosen One and this is your Last Journey.|Interlude I]]</span><span class = "fontprofile">The Chosen One</span> is a fantasy Interactive Fiction that focuses on the chosen one's trope, on loneliness, on religious topics and on companionship.
The Main Character has a semi-set personality, though you'll be able to customize their gender, appearance, sexuality and certain character traits. There is a single Love Interest (Rascia) which is gender customizable and which will be influenced by the Main Character's actions and choices.
Since the story was written in italian and then translated, it is possible that you will come across some weird structured sentences or some other mistake. If you have time, I would be grateful if you could report them on my tumblr blog.
Specific trigger warnings will be provided before each chapter.
<center><<button [[Start the story|Capitolo 1]]>><</button>></center><span class = "font2">Appearance:</span> Rascia is a tall (1.79 m/5'11") $Rperson, with wavy waist length sapphire hair, a coral complexion and bright sea blue eyes. $RTheir lean body is almost totally covered by religious silver tattoos, now rendered useless by $Rtheir condition. As a result of $Rtheir loss of faith, Rascia is completely colorblind.
<span class = "font2">Beliefs:</span> for now, Rascia is neither <b class = "font4">resentful</b> nor <b class = "font4">forgiving</b> towards Kaeh. $RThey <<if $Rplur>>are<<else>>is<</if>> neither <b class = "font4">cold</b> nor <b class = "font4">open</b> towards Bachra.
<span class = "font2">Relationship:</span> you haven't met them yet.
<span class = "font2">Current location:</span> Rascia's hut, kaehan border.
<<button "Return to story" $return>><</button>><nobr><<set $chapter to "interlude one">></nobr>
<center class="titolo">Interlude I</center>
<center class="titolo2">[[The kaehan Healer|interlude1][$Rthey = "he", $Rthem = "him", $Rtheir = "his", $Rtheirs = "his", $Rplur = false, $RThey = "He", $RThem = "Him", $RTheir = "His", $RTheirs = "His", $Rperson = "man", $Rchild, "son", $Rkid = "boy", $Rthemselves = "himself"]]</center>
<center>(set he/him pronouns for the LI)</center>
<center class="titolo2">[[The kaehan Healer|interlude1][$Rthey = "she", $Rthem = "her", $Rtheir = "her", $Rtheirs = "hers", $Rplur = false, $RThey = "She", $RThem = "Her", $RTheir = "Her", $RTheirs = "Hers", $Rperson = "woman", $Rchild, "daughter", $Rkid = "girl", $Rthemselves = "herself"]]</center>
<center>(set she/her pronouns for the LI)</center>
<center class="titolo2">[[The kaehan Healer|interlude1][$Rthey = "they", $Rthem = "them", $Rtheir = "their", $Rtheirs = "theirs", $Rplur = true, $RThey = "They", $RThem = "Them", $RTheir = "Their", $RTheirs = "Theirs", $Rperson = "person", $Rchild, "child", $Rkid = "kid", $Rthemselves = "themselves"]]</center>
<center>(set they/them pronouns for the LI)</center> <style>
.passage {
text-align: center;
transition:3s;
}
</style>
When the Gods want you punished, it's not a quick affair. Your penance is meant to truly let you grieve what you've lost. The pain is equally meant to stretch out, so much so that a sharp stab becomes dull, but not more bearable.
They will make you //see// what you've lost by stripping you of your dignity until you beg for forgiveness. A forgiveness they won't concede.
For, you see, a child without Gods is meant to suffer.
//You don't turn your back to the loving hands that nursed you into this heartless world, do you?//
<center>[[Continue|interlude2]]</center> <style>
.passage {
text-align: center;
transition:3s;
}
</style>
Isn't it cruel? An existence without Faith is like an existence without colour. Dull. Painful. //Miserable.//
Isn't it the reason why the kingdom of Bachra is so bloodthirsty? Living without Their light must be painful - if not //unbearable.//
They are blind, lost. Their King is a puppet of his own greed, their champion, the Chosen One, nothing but a formidable weapon guided by a blinded, crippled man.
They will lose the Last War, because the Gods are not with them.
<center>[[Continue|interlude3]]</center><b>Somewhere near the kaehan border.
The day of your Call.</b>
The silence is disconcerting, scratching at $Rtheir ears as it oppressively expands, interrupted only by the occasional crackling of dry wood.
Rascia exhales and $Rthey can only follow the feeling of air as it flows into $Rtheir throat and nose to avoid giving in to the maddening realization of being alone. Utterly //alone.//
It isn’t just the loneliness, although painful enough by itself, that drives $Rthem crazy, but the uncontrolled, disturbing lack of physical contact. It has been //months.//
At this point, Rascia is so desperate $Rthey would //beg//. But such is the crux $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>have<<else>>has<</if>> been condemned to carry; there is no amount of insincere pleading $Rthey can shout at the black sky that will change things.
$RThey will remain broken, disowned, //unwanted-//
Rascia forces $Rthemselves to expel the air out of $Rtheir lungs.
Breathe, //breathe.//
$RThey <<if $Rplur>>breathe<<else>>breathes<</if>>, and then $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>fail<<else>>fails<</if>> to contain the tears. $RThey <<if $Rplur>>spend<<else>>spends<</if>> the night by the fire, curled up on $Rthemselves, and when $Rtheir eyes become dry $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>settle<<else>>settles<</if>> on watching the dying flames, as grey and colourless as the rest of the world.
[[Because such is the punishment for losing Faith.|interlude4]]<<set $trait1 to 0>>
<<set $trait2 to 0>>
<<set $emotions1 to 0>>
<<set $emotions2 to 0>>The day after that, the loneliness is a fraction more bearable. Mornings always bring with them some sort of calm, of peace of mind, of hope that that day will be at least a little less painful than the previous one. Oftentimes it’s a feeling that diminishes as the hours go by and Rascia’s brain gets flooded by thoughts $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>know<<else>>knows<</if>> are unhealthy and bitter, but $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>cradle<<else>>cradles<</if>> and <<if $Rplur>>nurture<<else>>nurtures<</if>> nonetheless.
Rascia prepares $Rthemselves a cup of //nahaa’k// tea, which $Rthey greatly <<if $Rplur>>appreciate<<else>>appreciates<</if>> for its soothing properties, and as $Rthey slowly <<if $Rplur>>sip<<else>>sips<</if>> on it $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>try<<else>>tries<</if>> to get some reading done. After $Rtheir exile, $Rthey took with $Rthem the most important textbooks $Rthey had in $Rtheir possession, even the most advanced ones so that $Rthey could continue to study certain conditions through the available literature. It’s not the same as practicing on patients but it will do, especially given that Rascia doesn’t have any kind of divine help anymore.
Just the thought of the Gods generates an intense feeling of discomfort in the pit of $Rtheir stomach, so $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>ignore<<else>>ignores<</if>> it and <<if $Rplur>>try<<else>>tries<</if>> to distract $Rthemselves. It doesn’t work and soon even the tea is of no help against the wave of nauseating distress.
//Everything// reminds $Rthem of Kaeh. Of what $Rthey lost – of what has been taken away from $Rthem.
$RTheir home. $RTheir family. $RTheir future. The //colours.//
Amongst those, the latter may be the most inconsequential, and yet it’s what $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>have<<else>>has<</if>> come to mourn the most.
//It’s not fair. Nothing of what happened was fair.//
Rascia feels bile rise up $Rtheir throat. $RThey <<if $Rplur>>swallow<<else>>swallows<</if>> it back and with some deep breaths $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>wait<<else>>waits<</if>> for the nausea to recede too.
$RThey <<if $Rplur>>wish<<else>>wishes<</if>> $Rtheir feelings were not this overwhelming still, after more than two years, but they are and in a way they are even getting worse. When $Rtheir brain malfunctions and gets stuck, $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>are<<else>>is<</if>> often without means to stop it from falling down in a pit of familiar, invasive darkness that clings to $Rthem and drags $Rthem deeper down.
<<if $Rthey is "they">>[[All they are left with is to wait, watching the grey horizon in the hopes that someone will come.|interlude5]]<<elseif $Rthey is "he">>[[All he is left with is to wait, watching the grey horizon in the hopes that someone will come.|interlude5]]<<else>>[[All she is left with is to wait, watching the grey horizon in the hopes that someone will come.|interlude5]]<</if>>It’s a somehow cruel desire. After all, here at the border $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>are<<else>>is<</if>> the very last hope of those who ask for $Rtheir help, and even then they keep a certain distance, as if the fate that befell $Rthem was somehow contagious. Rascia takes all $Rthey can get, though, finding a solace in those interactions that revives $Rthem like fresh water would a wanderer in the desert.
Some of the patients need a longer time to heal than others, staying with Rascia even for days. Though some rare ones end up not making it, those occurrences are what keeps the Healer sane. $RThey can pretend everything is normal, $Rthey can stand alert by $Rtheir coat and devote every last bit of energy to $Rtheir patient’s wellbeing, forgetting everything else. It makes $Rthem feel useful, whole and capable once again.
Furthermore, saving a life is always incredibly rewarding.
It’s even more heart-warming when $Rtheir now healing patients or the ones who brought them here express their gratitude in the form of small gifts. The //nahaa’k// tea is actually one of those presents, and if Rascia lets $Rtheir gaze wander in the interior of their hut, $Rthey can spot at least another couple of gifts.
The Healer muses $Rthey should probably tidy up a bit. Despite being quite out of energy today, $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>force<<else>>forces<</if>> $Rthemselves to get up and get all $Rtheir books and cooking utensils into place. The task doesn’t keep $Rthem busy for long and soon $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>are<<else>>is<</if>> back in $Rtheir previous spot on a sturdy chair just out of the hut.
Protected against the sun by a long awning, Rascia peers at the horizon, with nothing to do other than wait.
<<if $Rthey is "they">>[[It seems today their hopes have been fulfilled because at last someone comes.|interlude6]]<<elseif $Rthey is "he">>[[It seems today his hopes have been fulfilled because at last someone comes.|interlude6]]<<else>>[[It seems today her hopes have been fulfilled because at last someone comes.|interlude6]]<</if>>Before $Rtheir loss of Faith, Rascia used to love the colour red. It was the colour of the autumn leaves $Rthey used to gather gently in $Rtheir hands, a welcomed sign of the changing season. It was the colour of the second moon that shines bright in the sky at sunrise and at dawn – the same one that now paints them with a greyish, feeble light.
//It was the colour of blood.// The same blood that stains Rascia’s hands and the sleeves of $Rtheir worn-out tunic as $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>sew<<else>>sews<</if>> together the edges of a wound so deep it should have left its owner dead within the day. Instead, they lay mostly unconscious on a thin cloth in Rascia’s little hut, half delirious after the palliative drugs that $Rthey gave him but alive.
As always, only the most desperate ones will bring themselves to Rascia’s doorsteps and the Healer for the most part will gather $Rtheir strength and play with death’s dark threads to bring them back even when faced with horrific, festering wounds.
The copper taste does not leave $Rtheir mouth for days after a patient leaves. Nor does the deep-bone exhaustion that $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>are<<else>>is<</if>> left in, yet $Rthey still <<if $Rplur>>have<<else>>has<</if>> to wash grey stains of blood away from cloths and bandages.
Sometimes $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>go<<else>>goes<</if>> to sleep with the thought of just giving up altogether.
But at the start of every new day $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>get<<else>>gets<</if>> up and <<if $Rplur>>keep<<else>>keeps<</if>> going. $RThey abandoned some time ago the desire to see colours again, but $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>refuse<<else>>refuses<</if>> to give up the hope of one day being watched and really //seen//. $RThey won’t, because that’s all $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>have<<else>>has<</if>> left and if $Rthey <<if $Rplur>>lose<<else>>loses<</if>> this… $Rthey won’t.
//$RThey won’t.//
<span class = "font1">And so as the Chosen One departs from the north, the Forgotten One lies in wait, hoping to someday be found.</span>
<span class="font3">End of current DEMO</span>