Fantasy Academy of Lyrithna

[Arrt Saunders]

​

The Isridil Forest
The Darkest Night
12.00 am

"How many will we need?"

"I am not sure."​

The young sorcerer crossed their arms, huffing loudly. They wanted nothing more than to leave - to turn and run to the safety of the castle. The Isridil Forest was dark and cold, and the moonlight slithering through the canopy did not dare pierce the shadows which clung to the earth like cursed spirits. Beastly sounds, guttural and blood-thirsty, echoed in the grave silence. No student was allowed enter the Isridil Forest, especially at night.

They were crazy to have ventured into its heart.

When the sorcerer look at their companion, they were on their knees, whispering in a forgotten language.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

There was no reply. The chanting intensified - the bone-grinding, stomach-churning, teeth- chattering power, intertwined into the harsh fricatives and crude syllables, reverberated through the ground.

"What the fuck..."

"Do you not hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"The screams?"

The young sorcerer's blood ran cold: "Screaming? What screaming?"

"The screams of tortured souls? The lost and the found? Begging to be released from their hellish chains."

"I don't hear anything."

Then - slowly at first, building into a sinister crescendo - the screaming began.

Horrid, terrible voices rose into the air, the agonising sounds of pain, misery and suffering singing an eldritch symphony.

The young sorcerer screamed, covering their ears and backing away in fear.

"Soon," the kneeling figure cooed, "soon, you shall see the light of day once more."​

​

​

 

[Arrt Saunders]

|| D'aran Dragomir ||
"Even dragons have their endings."
​

The Beginning - Academy of Lyrithna

The rain fell in chaotic cascades, the blustery gales casting each droplet against the glass of Alnus House in wild vortices. Sitting beside the arrow-slit window, D’aran Dragomir absentmindedly watched the watery congregation dance as he instructed: if he moved his hand to the right, the sheets of rain followed; and when he moved his hand to the left, the obedient streams reversed their flow.

He didn’t even think about the sorcery, which was strange. Usually, at the beginning of every academic year, it took a bit of time to get his magic back. He supposed that after four years of the same gesticulations, it had eventually become muscle memory.

D’aran sipped his whiskey, savouring the fiery warmth that momentarily scalded his throat before a familiar soothingness came to the foreground. His eyes shifted upward, looking around the bedroom which he called home. It was just as he remembered: large yet comfortable, intricate paintings of moments from Citadelian history strewn along the walls, his side already relatively messy, and his roommate’s side immaculately clean.

He began to feel at ease for the first time in months - far far away from his extravagant family and the peanut-crunching crowd of the Citadel.

It was good to be back.

In the bathroom connected to his room, D’aran could still hear the shower running. He was glad that his roommate - Gladius Dumort - always took near-hour long showers. It afforded him occasions of solitude.

A few moments later, Gladius stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of heavy steam following him. A towel was wrapped around his waist, his hair still dripping. D'aran fought with Gladius in their early years to dry and change before coming back into the room, but it was futile. Any debate was nothing more than a whisper amongst a sea of thoughts. D’aran found it easier to evaporate the water with magic than to argue.

“You still awake?” Gladius muttered, looking through his neatly organised wardrobe. “I thought you’d be out like a light, trying to avoid having a conversation with me.”

D’aran cleared his throat. “I won’t be up much longer. I just wanted to have a quick drink to help me sleep.”

Slipping a shirt on, Gladius cocked an eyebrow upwards. “And sweets?”

“You’re not having any.”

Andre rolled his eyes. “Well, pardon me for wanting to have partake in a welcome-back night with my roommate. I haven’t heard from you in months, dude. How’ve you been? Where were you?”

“Very busy.”

“Mhm - I’ve heard that before.”

D’aran watched Gladius out of the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on the window. Andre stepped across the room quietly and suspiciously checked D’aran’s bedside locker.

“You okay, Glad?”

His roommate froze still: “Me? Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

D’aran gulped down the last of his whiskey and placed the empty glass down on the windowsill. Throwing back the blanket, D’aran slipped under the covers, waving his wand to extinguish the candle in the far corner.

“I left some sweets under your pillow,” D’aran said.

There was no hiding the happiness in Gladius’ voice. “You fucking beauty! Thanks, dude - goodnight!”

D’aran grunted back, but smiled to himself.

It was good to be back.

​

 

[erzulie]

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“Remember Amahle, you hold the legacy of this family within your hands. I don’t feel as though I need to remind you that the slightest of mistakes or misdeeds can ruin this household. Don’t disappoint us.”


The cold words of her father lingered in her subconscious. To an outsider his tone was calm, casual even but she could hear the subtle threat in his voice. See it within eyes so much like her own, a deep, earthy brown - with likeness of earth after torrential rains. Though different in wording his speech carried the same message each time the start of the first semester approached. She thought back to the days when that speech filled her with passion, taking it to heart in a way that could be compared to a loyal devotee in the presence of their god. But that had changed slowly but surely.

His words wounded her pride, festering inside of her until she was doubtful of her own abilities. Had she not spent her life honoring her family name? Presenting to the world a picture perfect child of high society? She was praised for her brains, for her maturity and grace despite her age. Praised by the associates of her parents and her family members.

However, if there was one thing that Amahle could be proud of, it was her ability to adapt. So as the years passed her skin and heart hardened, her emotions held under a tight leash like an unruly thing. Her father’s words no longer wounded her, and everything was better.

The sound of her room door opening and closing pulled her from musings. Her roommate had left it seems, to where Amahle had no idea. The two of them weren’t particularly close after all. It was then that the young woman remembered the book in her hand, she had been on the same page for who knows how long. Perhaps it was time for her to rest. With the use of her magic she turned off the light and settled under her covers shortly after.

Location: Lyrithna Academy
Interactions: None
Tags: None
[/div][/div][/div][div class=credit]credits @RI.a[/div][div class=overlay]Amahle Nkoane[/div][div class=tags][/div]

 

[Israaa]

Nikolaus Eneko Laurentius

Location: Lyrithna Academy || Interacting with: N/A || Mentions: N/A

A pair of crystal eyes stared at the moon through the window of his room. He couldn’t remember the last time he was surrounded by this type of silence. The kind to put someone's soul to sleep. Above him, in the velvet black sky, he could see Ursa Major in all of its glory. The stars above him were broken, dashed and divided like diamond dust sprinkled across the sky. In some ways, he could find himself relating to the story behind the constellation. Like Jupiter, Nikolaus lusted too. He had wanderlust - see more than what life had already offered him and as a child, he would often wonder he and his birth mother were like Callisto and Arcas.

He sighed rubbing a hand over his face, thinking of what would happen in this new upcoming semester. It wasn’t that he hated the Academy of Lyrithna per se - quite the contrary actually. But he just had a switch within him. One which would tell him to rebel against whatever Magnus Laurentius had ordained for him. And this was one of them. He looked across the window sill after hearing a loud purr. On the other side sat a black cat who was stretching his arms and legs just to rotate into another sleeping position. A half-smile etched onto Nikolaus's face as he raised an eyebrow at the feline in front of him

"How are you still tired? You've been sleeping all day Bagheera" he sighed as he shook his head. He reached forward and scratched behind the cat’s ear, feeling a state of calm take over him as the cat fell more into a pillowy peacefulness than before. He then proceeded to look back towards the night sky. It seemed that the cat had been at the academy way longer than Nikolaus - it still amazed him how the thing was alive and well. He stumbled upon Bagheera whilst resting under a tree. The cat had no name, so he named him after a character from one of his favourite books written by a mortal author. Like the panther, he was carbon black all over, but with markings on his forehead and fur like the pattern of watered silk.

He snapped out of his thoughts when it occurred to him that if he didn't fall asleep now, there was no way he was going to wake up on time for tomorrow. He stretched his arms and his legs, laughing at the displeased expression on Bagheera's face after having his personal space invaded by Nikolaus's feet.
"Another year huh?" he whispered to himself, contemplating what his third year held for him. If he was lucky, he'd get by without a hitch. An ideal situation would be for him to achieve standard grades, no one to notice him and remain in the peaceful state of living like he is now.

code by Ri.a

 

[voracity]

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Her family did not belong with the elite of the Citadel, among the families who stood as pillars for the magical society, ensuring order, justice, and the welfare of all magic, and the people. Though it meant she never would be expected to serve those higher callings, it didn't mean it left her without duties, repsonsibilities, or obligations to her family, and those they contended with. Even if neither of her mothers have ever said anything to her of it, alluded to it, or even asked of her to do any such thing - Erin knows exactly who she is. She is their daughter, and she alone will have to carry the name Chypres. The only question that remained was when she would do so.

For five years, the young woman had kept a frequent friend, 'tomorrow'. That complacency, nearly rendered her dull, and aimless, for every 'tomorrow' she had promised herself, she weakened both her resolve, her strength, her desires. Yet she never forgot who she was. When 'tomorrow' finally, loomed ahead of her, a fire had been lit. Deep within, searing away any remains of reluctance, of hesitance, it roused the sleeping beast within that demanded she make good on the vivid dream she held, that she act, and take the the pedestal for herself, surpassing legends, surpassing the woman she saw as an inspiration, her idol.

Her mothers, amused by her resolve had questioned her motives, but for her it was quite simple. If they could not bear to demand excellence from her, then it fell onto herself to do so, for they did not raise a daughter who was so incompetent, stupid, and cowardly to turn away from serving a purpose. And so what if she decided to claim a throne, a piece in history, rather than something mundane? Erin would not have respected any other decision she made for herself, and neither should her parents - she had pointed out to them.

Augustina Paraph was a legend among cursebreakers - rumored to be the only person in existence who had seen one of the names on The List, that Circus kept within its deep maw, among other extremely dangerous artefacts. No one knows what the list had been written for, or who exactly wrote it, only that it sure as hell wasn't Circus who owned it. The ancient thing, whoever originally written it, or whomever was guarding it, were strong, forbidden so - for they had left behind their right hand to safe guard those names even when they had passed, effectively leaving the paper in death's grasp, so to speak. Loaded with curse after curse, any who dared to approach, to peek and glimpse at its treasure were treated to curses thought lost to time. When its original encasement had began to tear and break down, it had sent many cursebreakers to the hospital, and Circus to raise security several levels until Paraph had accomplished three things that even today, none could hope to match in significance: She broke the initial cage it had been found in entirely. Caught one of the names. Then imprisoned it for another eternity. How could anyone not be inspired by the prowess the woman had, even if she hadn't seen any names, the woman had sparked another set off questions that young Erin sought to either remake, or remove: the ability to cast 'forever'.

She was snapped out of her stupor when the key she held down went sour, echoing horribly in the empty atrium. With a wince, she withdrew her fingers from the evidently unused piano. It would be something she'd look into tomorrow ... she paused at that, her earlier reminiscing catching up to her, stirring inside of her the sense of disappointment.

The doors were then eased open, whining loudly so as to warn her of another entering. Glancing up, she smiled when she recognized her room mate, Valerie, a long time friend, often exasperated with her inability to do ... many things.

"Prefect's looking for some of us to help out the First Years, called us by name so we can't claim denial plausibility this time," the girl informed her, with a long face.

Erin laughed, "it shouldn't take long, I recall its usually busiest during the afternoon, few are late when they're excited to finally arrive at Lyrithna," she reassured her friend as she left the piano, and joined her at the doors.

"Hey, do you really plan on fixing that yourself? I saw a glint in your eyes."

Erin let a smirk color over her features, "If not me, then who?"

 

[LetsGoGuy]

​

Heath yawned for what must have been the tenth time in the last five minutes. He sighed as he looked out the window next to his bed, the raindrops that gently popped on the window belaying the fierce nature of the growing storm. Why is it that rainy days always make me so sleepy he wondered to himself as he walked over and looked out the window. He gazed at the trees outside of Malum House blowing in the wind, their fruits hanging heavy with condensation. After tonight's storm, it would not be surprising if some of the first years were sent out to gather the rare fruits, receiving a lesson in turn from one of their seniors. Heath found the idea entertaining, mainly because he would be neither teacher or learner, as he had better things to occupy his time.

He turned his head and looked back at his bed, half a dozen ponderous scrolls and tomes littering the foot of his bunk. He picked up the tome he had just been reading, The Rejuvenation of Sterile Wonders, and marked his page with a scrap of paper before closing the book. He had been reading it for the last half hour, but the author had failed to prove himself as more than an unsubstantiated theorist. Lots of ideas and hypothesis, little testing. Exactly the kind of time wasting fluff Heath had been trying to weed out. He put it aside on his dresser, and the rest of the texts followed suit. Now was the time for rest. Tomorrow would be a busy day, what with new students, and the start of classes. Even though he was in his fourth year, it had hardly lost its magic, and the first day still filled him with a bit of excitement.

Heath looked over at the other half of the room, a messy remembrance of his roommate, Thomas DeBray. Thomas was rarely around, which was not too bad since it allowed Heath some quite time to study before bed. Heath was hopeful that his roommate would be gone long enough for him to brew a cup of evening tea, when the door crashed open, dashing those hopes. Thomas shuffled in, still chuckling over some parting thought, before he noticed Heath.

"Heath, you'll never guess where I've been!" He exclaimed with a smirk.

Heath sighed. "Probably off snogging some looker from one of the other houses underneath the 'spooky' Malmalia trees right?" Heath replied.

"I- well yes! How did you kn-"

"Thomas, we've been roommates for the last two years. Please don't pretend I'm not aware of your sanguine excursions. Now, if you'd be so kind, mind putting the kettle on?"

Thomas chuckled as he took the kettle and set it over a small one piece burner. He clicked it on and let it go.

"Heath, it's not quite like yourself to stay inside on the day before. You sure you're feeling alright?" Thomas teased.

"Yes, Thomas, I'm fine. I'm just reserving my excitement for tomorrow. Unlike yourself, I prefer to find the beauties of the day, not the temptresses of the night." Heath said, a coy smile playing across his face as he got up.

Tea and then bed. And then the real excitement begins.

 

[Arrt Saunders]

|| Orpheus Arcleaves ||
"Wisdom and wit."​

The Beginning - Academy of Lyrithna

Orpheus had only just returned to the Academy, the glasspoint connecting Lyrithna to the Fort Islands still shimmering like disturbed water, and already his bed, his desk, and every other available space was covered with heavy, leather-bound tomes and vanilla-scented manuscripts. His cases were immediately forgotten, and he eagerly focused his attention on reestablishing his study - delighted that the old, congenial armchair that he’d nicked from the library hadn’t been ‘re-stolen.’


The Prefect Suite was located in the tallest tower of Lillium House, overlooking the expansive Lake of Lament. The clouds that had gathered since dawn, raven-black and unyielding, were reflected mournfully in the lake, which was growing choppier as the gale force winds swept across the water. Orpheus, however, was oblivious to the storm brewing outside - he was whistling merrily and relishing the coziness of his room, warmed by the crackling of his open fire.

As a Prefect, he had the luxury of a private space. He joked with his old roommates about how it was beneficial to everyone at Lillium that he was segregated in the tower; his first roommate - a thin, wiry sorcerer named Leonard Simons from beyond the Mirror - was aggressively not keen on Orpheus’ characteristic sprawl, so separating his organised mess was probably for the good of sorcerous kind. And although, his door was always open to any sorcerer during the day, he enjoyed the quietness of the evening where he could talk to himself and discuss new spells, new conjurations and new ideas that had bubbled to the forefront of his mind without interruption.

The Academy was a safe-haven for Orpheus, a secret sanctuary that he could escape to for the majority of the year. He could never fully escape every form of browbeating, but he generally wasn’t harassed as much at the Academy as he was at Fortuitous.

Smiling to himself, Orpheus was glad to be back, glad to be seeing his friends once again after a long and adventurous summer, and glad to be back in his educational element.

He had a feeling the year was going to be good one.

​

 

[nios]

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[div class=tag]interacts[/div] none
[div class=tag]mentions[/div] none
[div class=tag]tags[/div] #anewbeginning [/div] [/div] [/div] [div class=right] [div class=scroll] She dreamed of him again last night. The same hair as moppy and wild that resembled her own. He still had the richest eyes that she had ever laid her own upon, as thick and dark as the mud she would tumble in. She pictured a smile as wide and full of something even she couldn't decipher. If anything, it made her feel warm inside.
Halori Wilmeron laid hidden behind the Alnus House Dormitories with her body sprawled on top of a bed of mud. She dug her fingers into the thick substance, and she wiggled her dirty toes. Pellets of water fell down upon her, and they trickled along her freckled skin. She breathed in the damp air and her ears perked as thunder rolled from the distance. The hairs on her skin stood from the unforgiving chill of the wind that blew through the earth. The female released the breath she held and white puffs of fog billowed into the cool air. She hoped to return into the same dream state, but she was left basking in the chaos that many would shelter themselves from. She recollected a conversation she had with her mentor as lightning struck the earth in a crackling blaze. "You were born during a storm... and your cries lasted for as long as the sky roared."
Earlier that day, the Gwenovice Manor was teeming with women. Some were carrying bundles of paper scrolls or rolling trolleys stacked with clean, white bedsheets. Others were polishing the silverware in the kitchen or whacking at the heavy curtains until clouds of dust swam in the air. Among this hustle and bustle was a woman around her late fifties weaving her way around the manor. She wore a stern look that matched the tight, twisted bun on top of her head. She was checking door to door as if looking for someone, and every door she checked was slammed louder than the last. "Has anyone seen Halori," the old woman asked as she finished checking a room. The ones around her stopped in their place and shook their heads before returning to their tasks. "No, Miss Myrona," the ladies chorused.
The woman, whose name is revealed as Myrona, clicked her tongue. "Every year, Halori," she muttered with frustration. For the past two years on the thirty-first of August, Halori Wilmeron would go missing, and her mentor Myrona would always have to find her. Myrona had already checked all of the tea sets this morning since Halori had once managed to shrink herself into one a few years back. Then every carpet in the manor had been flipped, shaken, and rolled due to Halori managing to disguise herself as one the previous year. "Where could you be this time," she wondered, and in response, a faint snicker could be heard closely from behind.
Myrona twisted herself around and was met with an empty corridor. The snicker came once again, and Myrona's patience was quickly wearing thin. "You complete monkey," she thought. Myrona looked around for the dark-haired sorcerer, but was left spinning in a circle. "When I get my hands on her I-- "
Myrona's thought was interrupted by a peculiar sight caught from out of the corner of her eyes. The old woman's lips coiled in comprehension and released a "Hmph!".
"I suppose I will never find her," she hummed.
To many sorcerers, Myrona was known for being cunning, and in the days of her youth, almost nothing was able to get away from her sight. She had the sharpest eyes and was incredibly observant. As Myrona walked away, she slipped out her wand from her sleeve. The thin wooden rod buzzed with the power that surged from the old sorcerer. Myrona spun as fast as a bullwhip and pointed her wand at her shadow. "Pétrifier," she spoke.
Her shadow laid still on the carpeted floor, and Myrona made a swift slash with her wand between them. A sound similar to fabric being cut resonated and only then was Myrona able to separate herself from the shadow stuck on the floor. She shook her head and sighed. "For a young woman your age, you act like a twelve-year-old." Myrona may have sounded as if she were annoyed, but one may miss the faint amusement laced within her tone. She clicked her tongue, knowing her paralysis spell did not allow their victim to breathe. She pointed her wand at the shadow once more, and she slowly twisted her wrist counterclockwise. She recited the spells, "Lasciare...," and in a clockwise motion, "Dévoiler..."
The shadow morphed into none other than Halori Wilmeron, who was gasping at the air like a fish out of water. She laughed once she regained her breath. The young woman was dressed in all black clothing as if she were an assassin. Halori remained sprawled on the floor. Her eyes, as blue as the deep sea, crinkled with glee. "You know, Myrona," she began, which brought the old sorcerer's attention, "for an old woman, you're still light on your feet!"
"Pétrifier!" [/div] [/div] [/div] [/div]

coded by shady.

 

[Arrt Saunders]

​

The Isridil Forest

The Fullest Moon
12.00 am

The brilliant light of the full moon spot-illuminated the blackened litterfall of Isridil Forest, casting an eerie yet captivating shimmer across the dirt. On such a night, Lyrithna looked magnificent -- but the pretty facade was a deceptive illusion. Rot and ruin inhabited Isridil forest, and very few were aware of its presence.

“Fifteen… that’s the price to be paid?”

“No more. No less.”

"And when exactly are we going to pay the screaming voices? If it'll shut them up, I'll do the deed now."

"All in good time - our plan is coming to fruition."

The young sorcerer huffed, tilting her head back towards the night sky. They had learned to ignore the screaming, to block the callous images of blood and barbarity that perpetually attempted to invade and ravish the mind. The sorcerer had visited Isridil enough since their first outing for a tolerance to build. “It's been three weeks of nothingness. You know as well as I do that Paraph will fucking kill us if we're discovered? The Circus will do worse. We need to act.”

The kneeling figure clicked his tongue: “Patience, my dear. Patience. No one will know of our misadventures."

“And you’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

The companion grinned mischievously, rising like a frightful phoenix. Turning on their heels, he walked slowly back through the forest and towards Lyrithna. “Soon, she shall be free.”

“She?”

A clear, cruel laugh cut through the silence. “All in due time. I can’t quite trust you yet.”

“So, it’ll be a fucking cake-walk then, I'm assuming? No complications, just choose fifteen sorcerers and we're done?”

“Fifteen sorcerers and we are done. And, I foresee little that stands in our way.”

​

 

[erzulie]

Amahle & D’aran

Amahle stirred the ingredients that she had added to her cauldron. Her movements were graceful, with the confidence of someone who knew what they were doing. Nimble fingers turned the stirrer in a clockwise motion and stopped once the liquid inside went from a murky brown to a soothing blue. Amahle snapped out of her small daze one she finished her decoction. There was something incredibly soothing about the whole process, from carefully preparing the ingredients to inserting them and stirring them until the potion changed in color or smell. Seeing as she was finished with her work, Amahle presented her finished potion to Professor Contin. She used the rest of her time to organize her station. Right as she cleared everything it was finally time to leave.

Her first appointment of the day would arrive in the study room shortly after herself, that was if they hadn’t cancelled without telling her. Though she doubted that it would happen, those who came to her group for help knew that cancellation without a prior warning or rescheduling was difficult to do because of the number of students requesting their services. Upon reaching the room Amahle was greeted by and greeted her fellow Pallas members.

Their study room was often described as luxurious. Upon entering the room one would be greeted by an indoor library, with a set of couches and chairs for breaks or individual reading or studying. The spiral staircase lead to more bookcases with rooms between them, said rooms were the offices of each of the members.

Amahle made her way to her room, which happened to be the largest. The office was passed down from leader to leader with each of them customizing it to suit their taste. She sat behind her desk and waited for her first client to walk through the door.

Hours later Amahle was finally at her last appointment of the day. In order to took at the time the young woman cast the tempus spell. When the time appeared before her in large, bold numbers she took a moment to look at it before canceling the spell. Amahle looked at her planner, all of her previous appointments had been striked through once they left. Now the only remaining person was one D’aran Dragomir.

Amahle quirked a brow as she read his name. While she couldn’t say that she knew Dragomir personally, she did know of him and his family. With both their fathers members of the Grandstand, it was only natural that they would run into one another. The typical social events and political gatherings were common places where they would see one another. Amahle was curious about his visit and just what he needed help with.


Dragons were dangerous creatures. There was no escaping the great threat they posed to the safety of their Riders. Countless sorcerers — reportedly too many to report — had perished in the Citadelian Races. It was a very fickle relationship, between a dragon and a sorcerer.

D’aran, despite his depth of experience and his connection to D’iaglo, knew he was risking his life every time he partook in the Academy tournaments; he had the battle-scars, the jagged, saw-tooth marks and fireburn, to prove that the adrenaline-fuelled, aerobatic feats were real.

D’iaglo didn’t make matters any better for D’aran. Since she was a hatchling, she was fierce and fiery - the smallest of the group perpetually picking fights as though she was the biggest. There was no placating her bloodthirst if agitated. She was a line, mean, Fort Island huntress.

It was the ferocity of the competition that led D’aran to approach the pretentious Palas Study Group. More superfluously gilded than the ostentatious prefects for a mere tutoring aid, the last thing he wanted was to bark at their door, but he didn’t have a choice. His ameliorative magic was rusty after the summer break and he needed ameliorative tricks, quick-and-easy spells to get him out of a sticky situation in the next race. He had lost one too many races because of simple injuries.

And so, much to his displeasure, there was only one person he could seek guidance.

Amahle Nkoane.

“Evening,” D’aran said as he entered what looked to be Amahle’s office, looking back at the winding opulence of Pallas House. The Study Group was bigger than he had ever anticipated - it was one glorified dragon compared to the subtle hatching in his mind's eye.

Good, he had arrived on time. Amahle looked up from her desk. She had been going over her schedule for the day once again. The group secretary had informed her that one of her appointments had canceled on her. She had just finished rearranging her schedule when her next client walked in.

“Good evening, Dragomir. Why don’t you take a seat and we can discuss the subject of your appointment. ” Amahle gestured to the three seats in front of her mahogany desk. She took a moment to look him over. He had come empty-handed, there was no folder or bag containing notes, references, or the like. Amahle ruled out any sort of essay or project as his reason for making an appointment but then again there have been students who have come to her with nothing in the past.

D’aran raised an eyebrow at Amahle’s tone: “I came to relearn a few dirty ameliorations for the Races. I didn't realise we had to stand on Grandstand formalities, though.”

Pulling one of the heavy, leather chairs towards him, D’aran inelegantly situated himself across from Amahle and waited for her to begin.

“The secretary failed to inform me about the reason for your appointment. Seeing as many students don’t always give us the reasons for scheduling their appointments. I’ll speak to her about it as soon as I can.” Amahle crossed one long leg over the other. His comment about her formalities caused her to raise an eyebrow herself. “Such formalities are hard to let go of when one has been rigorously trained in the ways of social etiquette. Also I believe that there should be some level of camaraderie before dropping said formalities.”

“Now, as for these spells. There are a variety of spells that can help you during your race. For example, the Sigillum would be an excellent spell for closing large gashes while Emantur Ligna can heal minor injuries like split lips or broken noses. These are quick and fairly undetectable if done right. Though I would assume that you prefer non-verbals, if that is the case then we should start immediately.” Amahle pushed her chair away from her desk. “These particular spells are….knock offs of proper healing spells. They don’t take as much careful hand work and because of this they are less effective, but they will get the job done in your case.”

Amahle sat in the remaining chair in front of her desk. “I would say that a more hands on approach would be better. You will be injured but it won’t be anything that can’t be healed. I realize that this will require a level of trust between the both of us. Are you fine with this?”

D’aran’s eyebrow didn’t falter from its inquisitive position as Amahle spoke, but his eyes absently wandered around the room. The Nkoanes were a fastidious group of ambitious sorcerers, and the youngest of the bunch shared the granite-like sentiments of her bloodline — her judicial smalltalk was grating.

Amahle, like her father, knew how to talk and talk. D’aran’s attention quickly started to drift as the conversation continued, chitter of secretaries for university students and chatter of spells barely registering. But, he was willing to learn. He needed to learn. The Races were drawing near and he couldn’t afford to be ignorant. One ‘fuck up’ and Calypso Xiloscient would destroy him on the track.

As Amahle finished her rhetoric, D’aran nodded slowly. “Yeah, let’s get it over with.”

He raised his hand, extended his fingers and moved them in a gentle arch. In his periphery, he saw the letter-opener on Amahle’s desk dance, sweeping through the air and piercing the skin on his left forearm.

Clenching his fist, the letter-opener ceased to move, a ruby-red colour decorating the silvery edge.

“How do you fix it?”

Amahle felt as if D’aran hadn’t been paying much attention to what she was saying. She knew that once she began discussing her craft, she could become rather intense or meticulous. The young sorceress shifted in her seat slightly. She merely blinked as her letter opener soared through the air for a moment and pierced Dragomir’s skin. “Yes, let’s begin.”

Amahle reached for his injured forearm and hand, mindful of the blood. “There are two ways. Firstly, you can imagine your wound pausing or rather the blood flow. You will still be injured but you won’t have to worry about bleeding out while racing.” Amahle hands were swift as she traced the length of the wound. Like she said, the bleeding stopped but the wound remained. “Or you can heal the wound completely with a quick Sigillum, of course done in a rush your wound has the chance of not closing properly.” Amahle performed the spell in a flash, the wound closed but only partially. However, thanks to the spell she used before there was no bleeding. After her demonstration, Amahle cleaned the wound probably and sealed it after removing the letter opener, her moments showcasing her skill and confidence in what she was doing.

D’aran watched with intent as the dribble of blood ceased and the skin stitched itself together, without any sign or semblance of scarring. Following the intricacies of Amahle’s magic was challenging, but he was somewhat impressed by the precision. He had scars on his body from racing that the trackside ameliorators had failed to cover up; perhaps, she would be on the sideline at the Tournament to lighten the injurious loads.

“Do it again,” D’aran grunted, as the blade brought piercing pain once more. “Slower.”

Amahle was grateful for his lack of whining or flinching. She would admit that his pain tolerance or poker face impressed her. There weren’t too many individuals willing to stab themselves for the sake of learning these types of spells. “Of course.” Again she demonstrated the spells, this time slowing her moments to ensure that he caught every detail.

“Now would you rather continue on with spells designed for open wounds or would you rather move on to another subject, like broken bones? We move at your pace.” Amahle grasped his arm in her dainty hand, healing it once again. “Would you say that you have a great memory? Perhaps it would be beneficial to write this down as we go…”

“You want me to break my bones?” D’aran asked, shaking his head. “I’ll practice cuts and lacerations, but I’d rather my bones stayed intact. We’ll just have to do those injuries, theoretically.”

Holding his arm out straight, D’aran willed the blade to cut his skin again. He huffed loudly, and tried to mimic the skillful gestures Amahle had made. He needed to practice them himself when she was nearby; he didn’t want something to go wrong later that he couldn’t necessarily fix by himself. His magic was more stormgale than sunshine.

His several attempts certainly lacked finesse but they succeed to quash the blood and the pain. His magic left pale, jagged marks on his clammy skin, which Amahle had to resolve between her discussions of more advanced practices.

His breathing became heavier with every trial, and so did his confidence. In a pinch, his efforts would keep him alive until the race was finished.

Eventually though, he had to concede.

“I need to stop. I've done this long enough.”

“Yes that would be best. I have to admit that your determination and passion are worth admiring.” Amahle cleaned off her letter opener one last time then placed it back on her desk. Amahle raised up from her chair gracefully. Behind them were shelves containing books and potions, upon reaching the shelf containing potions she grabbed two of them before heading back to sit beside Dragomir. “Take these, this red one will replace the blood you’ve lost. The second one will get rid of any weakness or fatigue that you’re feeling. It’ll also bring back some color to your skin.” Amahle removed the cork from the vials and handed them over.

“You do what you can to win. I know you appreciate that as a Nkoane.”

D’aran took the coloured vials and quickly drank the sickeningly sweet decoctions. He trusted Amahle enough to not question the tinctures. The red one, bright as blood, was fresh and medicinal; the green one was utterly repulsive.

“Fucking tastes like dragon piss,” D’aran spat, flinching at the vile taste that coated his tongue. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. As he lowered it again, he saw life-colour return to the skin, a more normal appearance that disguised the last hour’s labour.

He needed a goddamn silver-scotch.

Amahle could feel her lip twitched ever so slightly. To think that he’d endured so much pain only hours ago and yet a foul tasting potion was enough to make him flinch. “Noted, when more pleasant flavors are created, I’ll let you know immediately.” Whether she was joking or not was difficult to distinguish yet her eyes shone with mirth.

Amahle looked her fellow student over carefully. “Dragomir, I have a request for you…” Amahle shifted in her seat and crossed one leg over the other. “Lately I have been wanting to brush up on my martial magic. I’m impressed by what I’ve seen today and in the past. I’m willing to pay for your help in that area.”

“You? A martialist?” D’aran quipped, itching at the sound of his family name. No one ever called him that at Lyrithna - he didn’t like the connotations. “What would you want to learn martial magic for?”

“Yes? Do you find that odd.” Amahle quirked an arched brow. She was only slightly offended by his comment. “For multiple reasons, to defend myself, to excel in the class, take your pick.” She figured that it was best to brush up on her skills, despite the fact that she had been studying during her time away from the academy. In her opinion, there was no such thing as too much knowledge.

D’aran pushed himself out of the chair. He’d got what he wanted out of his time at Pallas House and things were starting to drift. He didn’t deal with small talk well. His social battery was running dry, and he really needed to get the taste out of his mouth.

He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out some sour sweets, putting one in his mouth and the others on Amahle’s desk.

“Anything to win, right?” He asked, as he curtly walked away. “I’ll help with your martial magic as a thank you. And without charge, if you call me D’aran.”

“Anything.” She spoke firmly and without hesitation. She was expecting some sort of great sum of money or perhaps owing him a favor in exchange for his services. Amahle was taken back however, when he simply instructed her to call him by his first name. She watched him until he left the room, still trying to make sense of his price.

What an odd individual...

Location: Pallas Study a Room; Amahle’s Office
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