Other Hey there! I'll write a thing for you!

[SirPrompto15]

You can write crossovers? I do have more but I'll DM you for these.

 

[St. Clover]

You can write crossovers? I do have more but I'll DM you for these.

I can definitely give it a crack, depending on the idea! Feel free to shoot me whatever you've got in mind!

 

[St. Clover]

...from the fog they came; two in number and garbed in heavy robes of clerical-make, the guardian-prefects strode into the courtyard in complete silence. Their survey of the scene was quick and efficient; one moment the pair of slat-visored helmets were panning here and there, and the next they were on the move again, intent on subduing their quarry without delay.

None of the students attempted to flee; they knew the binding magic of the Silverdrake's personal guard would make any attempts futile.

And even on the off chance they managed to avoid the hazy motes of restraining force, it wouldn't be any issue for either of the pair to conjure up a wall of impassable haze. Within the grounds of the Institute, nothing was beyond the silver-scaled enforcers of the headmaster's will.

A random thing for St. Clover !

 

[St. Clover]

...a terrible thing when plans go awry like this. Zho leans against his ceremonial staff, observing the unfolding nightmare before him with a degree of detachment that's taken decades to build up.

The scholars on the other side of the warding barrier of pale light he's erected are falling prey to their latest creation; their study hall and all things within will need to be renovated by the time it's over. He notes that they seem to've conjured up a cosmic parasite of a sort, bound it to a foundation of wax and ignored the teachings of the headmaster when it comes to the properties of these forces intermingling.

What they expected, he figures, to be a curse-insulted servitor has turned out to be a writhing serpent of too-many legs and gnashing eyes.

A few try their hands at casting spells against the thing, but they fail to account for the wax's ability to dampen the meager arcane forces at their command. They're devoured or crushed right before the others who try to run for the windows or doorway. Those ignorant souls are met with sturdy, enchanted glass and Zho's barrier respectively. They bang on the surfaces with desperation as the thing from beyond the stars scours its way through chairs and tables without much in the way of direction. He feels bad for it, in a way; being conjured to a place of learning by the wretched and clumsy is surely a universal disdain-

Pain bites through the haze and offers a flash of clarity. Zho's fingers uncurl themselves from the meat of his palm, silver claws retreating into the morphic fabric of his glove. He takes a bit of time to steady his breathing, easing himself back into the moment.

Out of instinct his free hand slips beneath the collar of his slat-visored helmet; the scales have spread further along his body, he can feel them. He kicks himself for allowing this to happen, redoubling his mental defenses and refocusing on the situation at hand. Most of the scholars are dead by now; those who survive have taken to giving the failed conjuration one final game of cat and mouse before they too perish. Once the noise has died down, he'll drop the barrier and step in to resolve this... he forces himself to deem it a clinical failure, and not the alternative his master's imparted will would call it otherwise.

A useful lesson, he decides. None are above falling victim to the arcane and eldritch forces at work here in the Silverdrake Institute. Not even the silvery-scaled hands of the Silverdrake himself.

Here's one for Ashvaliaen !

 

[St. Clover]

...screams off the Demon King's sword and leaves a trail of voltaic power in its wake! Zenitsu flips and lands hard against a tree, cracking the bark beneath his feet with the force of his landing. The forest around them blazes with unholy fire conjured forth by the towering Gerudo king, bathing the night in malice-hued shades.

Ganon grunts and rounds to face the blonde speedster; his teeth are bare and his blade tightens in his grasp. The small knick left by the curved sword of his foe annoys him more than anything. He let his guard down and suffered a blemish to both his body and ego. There's little time to consider what retribution he might take before the youth leaps again. He's prepared: their swords collide and his superior strength sends his impudent foe sailing overhead, for all the good it ends up doing. The parry's success is short lived, Zenitsu taking advantage of the momentum to sail into, grab, and swing himself off a nearby branch and back at the slightly-infuriated man.

Lightning flares and is met with Malice-driven flames. This is going to be a tough fight, if anything thus far has been of any indication!

One for SirPrompto15 !

 

[St. Clover]

...three-eyed, flawless face set into the great bulk of a pearlescent slug. Draped in finery of gold and fabrics of otherworldly quality and color, the thing spoke with a voice that was crystal chimes and fracturing ice. Its thin lips scarcely moved and its only open eye--a maddening thing of cosmic swirls--remained fixated on the sky above.To all the world it was a nightmare-thing from the depths of the astral seas whose very presence was skin-crawling and nausea-inducing; to Nereus, it was the last remnant of a bygone era's hubris made real. It was an Archon.

One for Ashvaliaen !

 

[St. Clover]

...echoed down the hall in horrid tones from half-melted throats. Zho stiffened beneath his robes. Something about the air felt different; the usual presence he felt from the arcane horrors conjured up in this place wasn't there. Replacing it was a sense of dread that lingered in the back of his mind like a lead anchor; heavy and foreboding, poisonous to the mind. There were no other Archdrakes in the area, he knew. The closest would take nearly a minute to get within the transversals-range, too long to wait. He steeled himself and tightened his grip on the ceremonial staff.

One for St. Clover !

 

[St. Clover]

...sizzled and burbled at the addition of the emberspice. Atar marveled at the concoction he'd made; despite doing it hundreds of times before, he never lost the sense of wonder that came with the trade skills of his craft. Those same skills were what made him--and those of his guild--in such high demand.

He ran a gloved finger around the rim of the brass-ringed bowl, listening to the pleasant hum it gave. That was the sound of a properly prepared spell.

Someone behind him barked orders to their subordinates, but he paid little mind. His focus was entirely centered on making sure he didn't blow them all up with a mistake in the casting. These arcane formulae and methods were strict with their demands; a single wrong step would turn a bad situation worse in a heartbeat. It's why the art of weirding warfare is so tightly controlled, it's secrets so carefully guarded.

Satisfied that his work is done, the warmage lifted the rune-scribed ceramic bowl up and poured its contents into the copper-and-brass tube beside him. He'd already confirmed the calculations and adjusted for the ambient wyrd around them. The runestones forming his sorcerer's lodge burned bright as he made the final adjustments to the dials and wheels on his weapon of war.

A moment later he gave the mental command and the tube roared; a great ball of fire hurls itself into the sky and out towards its target. The mortar and pestle of a warmage, Atar noted, is wildly different from their more peaceful cousins. Theirs don't blow things up for a living!

Did something for St. Clover ! Been working on the idea for how warmages in this setting work; I'm happy that they're now battle cooks! Or alchemists? Idk

 

[St. Clover]

...sizzled and burbled at the addition of the emberspice. Atar marveled at the concoction he'd made; despite doing it hundreds of times before, he never lost the sense of wonder that came with the trade skills of his craft. Those same skills were what made him--and those of his guild--in such high demand.

He ran a gloved finger around the rim of the brass-ringed bowl, listening to the pleasant hum it gave. That was the sound of a properly prepared spell.

Someone behind him barked orders to their subordinates, but he paid little mind. His focus was entirely centered on making sure he didn't blow them all up with a mistake in the casting. These arcane formulae and methods were strict with their demands; a single wrong step would turn a bad situation worse in a heartbeat. It's why the art of weirding warfare is so tightly controlled, it's secrets so carefully guarded.

Satisfied that his work is done, the warmage lifted the rune-scribed ceramic bowl up and poured its contents into the copper-and-brass tube beside him. He'd already confirmed the calculations and adjusted for the ambient wyrd around them. The runestones forming his sorcerer's lodge burned bright as he made the final adjustments to the dials and wheels on his weapon of war.

A moment later he gave the mental command and the tube roared; a great ball of fire hurls itself into the sky and out towards its target. The mortar and pestle of a warmage, Atar noted, is wildly different from their more peaceful cousins. Theirs don't blow things up for a living!

Did something for St. Clover ! Been working on the idea for how warmages in this setting work; I'm happy that they're now battle cooks! Or alchemists? Idk

 

[St. Clover]

...rolled his shoulders and tested the fit of his belongings. Bright and early as always, the troupe was fixing to make a two hour-long zoomer ride south to their next destination. Something about the brigands there apparently warranted turning half the forest by the roadside and thereabouts into a charred hellscape.

He frowned at the looseness of his belt; there was no room for that, not when mobility was the key to surviving an encounter with the enemy. Warmages were immobile enough, he thought, they didn't need to be dealing with sagging pants. The heavy satchel of his spell components and runestones was thankfully more secure; besides his staff and grenadier kit, it was the most important part of his panoply.

Not even the half-dozen wands and foci lining his armored robe came close to its value.

Once that bit of nonsense was corrected, the urd made a few more minor adjustments to touch up the minor loose ends. He was thankful that his particular group favored hardened auroch-hide leather for their cow-plate armor; anything heavier that wasn't mithsteel would've just weighed him down too much. And he was keen to let others know what he thought of having to heft things, too! He wasn't even a mar, so having to hoof it without hooves was a pain in his behind.

Now where did he put the mortar?

We're on a roll with one for St. Clover yet again! They really need to slow down with these requests

 

[St. Clover]

...they have made these things any smaller? Atat frowns and turns the page of the guild-provided grimoire with care. The pages are old and brittle; the result of decades of use and refusal to spend the sterlings needed to replace them. As far as he's concerned, the entire book is overdue for refurbishing.

Trim the excess and keep the bare minimum necessary to work the spells with clarity; that's what he'd make, if he could! But he can't, so he's stuck with this glorified tome of trauma-inducing knowledge.

Part of him wonders why the prose for this sort of weirding is so elaborate and showy. Compared to the typical journals, scrolls and whatnot of other magicians, theologians and those weird hybrids found in the Great Gulf, his guild has seen fit to style their knowledge in something of a series of battle poems and epics. There are no clear notes anywhere within the musty covers of any of their materials; the influence of the prisotan method of conveying these sorts of things is on full display.

He finds it odd, then, that the guild would use their traditions over more urdish-derived ones. They're a stickler for tradition; it's the cornerstone of most urd cultures. Stick with what works, make it pretty and functional. But this... there's something weird about it. Almost like there's a long-lost ancestor between the two families; the thought fascinates him to no end.

Could there be some deeper connection between the nomadic draconoids and his people?

Pls St. Clover let me rest, I beg of you! Here's another one with this off the cuff character!

 

[St. Clover]

...watched with patience as the great doors of the keep swung open with the loud grinding of gears. Malial always marveled at his brother's prowess with these engines; the ability to work such wonders with the mundane always eluded him. He glanced around the way and noted the gargoyles had turned during his wait; they were facing him, rather than down the approach as they once had. Another thing to keep track of, he noted.

The sound of his brother's voice took his attention from the stone creatures; he turned, finding the familiar form of his sibling approaching from the shadowy veil of the doorway. A shroud, he surmised. He couldn't see further than a few yards; everything else was too blurry and distorted.

Much like himself, Farial was dressed in the layered robes of a practitioner of the arcane. His wisened elven features were accentuated by the silvery ornamentation on his sage and maroon-hued garb. They were, as always, a stark contrast to the brighter shades and golden accents that Malial himself favored. Gold and silver; night and day. Always.

Steeling himself for the inevitable, Malial returned the greeting in the tongue of their parents. It was terse; the words were bitter and laced with venom. This made his sibling smile. He knew what was about to happen. They both knew.

This was a feud a century-and-a-half in the making; the culmination of decades of turmoil and grief funneling into the final moments at the end of a journey that'd taken the two of them around the world twice-over. And it was Farial, as always, who was the first to draw blood. His hand formed the sign before his lips finished the verse--shards of stone tore themselves from the floor and shot at the keep's guest at lethal velocity. Malial just avoided being pincushioned by the enchanted rock; his staff pulled him aside and spared him the worst of the damage, save for a few cuts and torn robes. He returned the favor with a simpler word of power: invoking the name of the family spirit to bring a thick cloud of choking pollen around Farial's face. It bought him a scant few seconds needed to cast another spell, one that would give him the room he needed to-

The gargoyle slammed into him with the force of a speeding carriage. In the commotion of their initial bout, it'd managed to close the distance in coming to its master's aid without being detected; now it bowled the elven mage over once again, breaking bone and hope for victory in the process. The last thing Malial registered--aside from the pain--before the world went dark was the sound of his brother's laugh. That, and the sight of the construct's fist coming in for a knock-out punch the likes of which he'd sorely regret later.

One for EtherealShadows !

 

[St. Clover]

...wretched things encrusted in centuries of brine-soaked distance between the then and now. It'd only been for a second; a fault in the wards ensorceled on the porcelain-smooth armor beneath the giant's fur cloak, but he'd seen it. The glimpse into the inner mind of the Old Man of the Sea, whose origins and nature were as mysterious as his identity. But now the diviner knew. He knew that this man--this thing--was from the time before; and he knew the true purpose he had once served.

Fragments of dozens of scenes raced through his mind. Many of them were blurry and half-remembered; whether by choice or the intent of the enchanters responsible for the Old Man's condition, he couldn't tell.

But even the faint imprints spoke volumes of the world he once lived in: a great work of art masquerading as an empire that stretched the span of the Orbits and beyond, lorded over by the pearlescent slugs whose humanoid faces were flawless, and whose voices were crystal chimes and creaking ice. And in their shadows were their wyrm-eaters; their finest work and the final memory of their untainted ambitions before they fell into decadence, as the once-great city of Asocra did.

The wyrm-eaters--the Nosfertati--and their work held the great play together for years. Theirs was a deathless existence, flawed immortality to serve the masters of the modern age. What lofty heights they reached... and what spoils they denied their vassals in their hubris.

Gripping his head from the influx of near-maddening experiences assailing him, the diviner was barely aware of the heavy footfalls of the Old Man approaching him. By the time he looked up, he was met with the impression of the corpse-visage he knew dwelled behind the regal faceplate of the giant's helmet. He reeled, but was kept in place by a single command from the immortal. Remain where he was, the giant said; they had much to discuss, and there was plenty of time before their ship reached port. They had things to discuss, and the matter of secrecy for the mistakes of ages past was, for the diviner, a matter of life and death.

Random one for St. Clover !

 

[St. Clover]

...nearly retched at the way it pulled at her when she moved, stretching and tugging at everything. It felt like being encased from snout to toe in a thin film of ectoplasma; slimy and damp in a way that made her scales crawl. But it wasn't ectoplasma, as much as she wished it was. It was--if she remembered correctly--a membrane of stitched-together phantasms; slug-like creatures that dwelled in the astral realm and favored areas where the wyrd was most concentrated.

Revolted by the prospect of spending the next few days in this thing, Veseth attempted to adjust the suit with little success.

Their trip down into the arcology would potentially bring them into contact with hazardous anomalies, her boss had said. The kind that even seasoned delvers were wont to avoid; so he'd taken the liberty of securing a few of these hideous creations to keep the crew safe for the whole trip. Apparently these were old-weirding; stuff from the time before.

The security detail--the Old Man of the Sea, Nereus, of all people--had vouched for their effectiveness: short of direct harm from a very determined attacker, the astral slugs would ward away any potential threat. Just how he knew this raised a few questions, but she wasn't about to ask. He was infamously stoic keeping quiet regarding his past.

Pushing the thought from her mind, the prisota set back to packing her things. They only had a few more hours before they took the long hike down to the long-abandoned superstructure beneath the bustling town of the Bulwark. She only hoped Harper had to deal with this bullshit as well; it'd serve him right for convincing her to tag along with this stupid expedition.

One for Ashvaliaen !

 

[St. Clover]

...rotten bones crunched and broke with a sickening frequency as it trailed its way across the plain. The cohort of the dead that followed its hoofsteps had grown since the last time civilization had seen them. Nearly a dozen new souls--a ragtag assortment of men and women of fine dress and pedigree--had joined the hateful march after the fatal meeting with a stranded train some weeks ago.

A gurtled, staggered bleat escaped the ropey throat of the thing as it felt the pinpricks of modernity pluck at its clouded mind once again. There was a town--a big town--not far off. This offended the creature. Towns weren't meant to get that big; they were for small, tightknit communities that knew their place in the world.

Growth brought the newfangled engines of artifice with it. That brought death to the old ways; it'd brought death to plenty of people who were supposed to trust their safety to these inventions. Miners especially. That elevator had proved that notion the day it closed a second too late to keep that Dust Devil from eating the poor soul trapped inside it. Things were better when they were kept simple; it was just a fact. And if the Malossien had to rust and rot everything from Vanhoven to Southgate to make that happen, it would.

One for St. Clover !

 

[St. Clover]

...flanked by a mob of the dead that regard you with the same hateful look as their progenitor. The ground beneath them withers and blackens at their presence; grass wilting and the iron tracks rusting before your very eyes. Rising above the thong of undead is something that might've once been a deer--though its spine is far too long, its limbs twisted and ending in either hooves or clawed hands and its head home to a carcass-skewered rack of horns nearly three meters broad and same again as high. What little meat and matted pelt remains on the thing leaks a sickly fluid that reeks of stagnant bogwater.

The Malossien--in all its terrible glory--bellows out a deathrattle that sends its children rushing towards you. Roll Initiative!

Another for St. Clover ! This bastard was the plot device for my old wild west campaign that kept the frontier at a near-perpetual state of the, well, wild west.

 

[St. Clover]

...a sight to behold on the otherwise plainly-staffed shuttle. He took up little space in the nook he'd occupied since departure; rusty-hued eyes scanning the area with a look that betrayed his experience with random outbreaks of violence. The two holsters at his waist--barely visible beneath the worn, orange leather of his coat--and the baldolier of explosives around his chest backed up his proficiency in dealing with that particular type of situation.

But he wasn't all about violence; his preferred method of harm was the verbal abuse he slung at unruly patients. Threats of poking an eye out were a particular favorite. Insinuating he'd bio-glue their mouths shut was a close runner-up, though.

Regardless of whatever purpose the small bloody-hued man had for boarding the outbound flight from Absalom, one thing was clear: he was either expecting trouble... or looking to get away from it.

One for Anon!

 

[St. Clover]

...verdant plant growth and time-worn stone mingle to create a sight scarcely matched anywhere else in the world. The lush canopy hangs high over the ropey vines and gator-infested bogs below; a stark contrast to the majesty of the structure that soars even higher, as if to reach the very heavens themselves.

The inhabitants--lean and powerful Yuan-Ti of several varieties--seem to think so, too, by the way they hold themselves.

Manning every stall and access point from the temple to the few roads that enter the glade, they hold themselves with dignity and a keen eye for any would-be troublemakers. Most are dealing with merchants and travelers; some stand guard to ensure the peace is kept. All carry an air of aloofness for their guests and seemingly each other, at a glance.

Most of the temple itself remains in decent condition; many faces of the ancient structure show clear signs of being well-loved, the various plant growths both on and around it carefully trimmed to mantain a regal, functional appearance. These mix well with the occasional green-cloth banners bearing the mark of a serpent coiled around a glass vial, feeding its venom into a bubbling tincture within.

Glimpses into its depths through the occasional passage reveal hints of further botanical growth and care deeper inside. Certainly, there has to be a use for all these colorful and often esotetic-looking flora, yes?

One for anon!

 

[St. Clover]

...the scene just in time to see the horror of the creature withdraw into itself. Towering to the heights of the tallest urd, the Pale Creep's head had just seconds ago been a writhing mass of fluorescent cilia and waving slug-like things of pale-blue hues. Now a cold, vaguely statuesque face regards the you with an indifferent look as he slides his trilby into place atop his wrinkled, bald scalp. There's a body beside him; some poor bastard that's been mangled like he'd spent a day on the trolley tracks. And he's been sucked dry of something-he looks more like a mummy than a person.

This just won't do, not at all.

With a roll of his shoulders, the Creep starts walking his way towards you; his boots are mighty loud in the alley, and you don't waste no time in hightailing it out of there. There's plenty stories on what he does to folks he catches; you know how to hold your own in a barfight, and your uncle taught you the basics of that Dan-Enu Mystic technique that you turned into a form of shock-boxing. But you ain't about to take your chances fighting someone more than twice your size.

You're thankful for the sidewalk being dry as you scramble away, toe-claws clicking like mad in retreat. And you're thankful for being in good condition, too.

The Pale Creep's a lot faster than he looks; one look back and you just know he'd be no more than a couple yards away. So you don't. You just keep running until you get to the end of the street, turn the corner, and keep going till you get to Saintsward. The footsteps follow you right up until you get there.

Here's a thing for Ashvaliaen !

 

[St. Clover]

...the attendants make the necessary balances to the golem's humors; racks of fluid-filled jars and urns clinking as their contents were retrieved and used in the process. Zho wasn't quite sure of the mechanism behind the pale-thing's intelligence, though he knew its nature: a few dozen or so cosmic parasites lashed together with centuries-old arcane binding rituals, their hungry minds filled with layered engrams and slaved to a central locus of thought. It was the closest the Academy had ever gotten to producing a true arcane intelligence, and it'd cost them a decade's worth of irreplaceable resources.

He shifted against his ceremonial staff--which he often used as an idle support--and mused on the difficulty of the task the department head and her staff faced. They were the best the school had to offer, but even they weren't entirely sure what they were doing. Not entirely.

The golem's maker had died some ten semesters ago; crushed and devoured by his magnum opus during a test before the Academy's board. It'd been Silverdrake himself that gave the command, telling the creature to extract an apology from the fool after he'd made a joke comparing the dean to his creation. Years later and it was everything the enchanters could do to keep the cretin functioning, let alone make any real repairs or anything else. He felt a degree of disgust for it, himself.

Life as mortals knew it was derived from the soul; it was a fundamental fact. Nothing--no matter how well designed--could, or should, mimic that. Fascimilies and servitor-shades to fill menial or unskilled roles were fine. But trying to shape the shapeless intelligence of the Wyrd into a similar form was a fool's gambit. The Archons of the Yellow Imperium had once tried, and before them, Silverdrake's own people. None had succeeded in granting the clarity needed to make the nebulous arcane forces of the wider world fit the definition they so desperately sought.

Zho snorted beneath his slatted-visor helm. There were places that sorcerers weren't meant to venture, as much as Silverdrake was wont to admit. How long, then, would it be before the lesson came back to bite them once more?

One for St. Clover !

 

[St. Clover]

...flashed from beneath the robe, steel glinting in the sunlight. He saw it seconds before it happened; the bad feeling translated into a preternatural focus on the moment, giving him a glimpse into the soon-to-be. It's what let him move the blade aside with a clever step and swing of his robe's weighted sleeve. The lead-silk carried just enough weight to jerk the attacker's arm up, giving him just enough time to strike out at his would-be assassin's armpit. His blow connected with an unseen pulse of directed thaumic force; the smallest bit of his aura focused and directed into the organic leylines that sufficed everyone and everything that had ever lived. It was a bit funny how the assailant's entire arm went numb from the exchange, the way the limb suddenly fell to his side and his fingers spasmed was proof of the technique's success.

Frid took a cautious step back from the man and observed the scene for a moment: one failed assassination attempt by who he surmised to be a two-bit hatchetman hired by... who? The list of candidates was as long as his mentor's habit of holding a grudge. Probably someone allied against his current client, if he had to guess.

The people around them had scattered from the exchange; someone was already calling for the guards that were no doubt already on their way. Most watched from only a handful of yards away, bystanders possibly still within harm's way. Were they? Beneath his hood, the Dan-Enu Mystic watched the man's swaying, confused movements as he scrambled to try and recover his fallen weapon: a knife--maybe seven spans long--with a narrow, cheap blade. He focused on the combination of half-steps and shuddering gasps the man took; mixed with the way he fumbled with the knife, his limited divination told him that this was a face-value threat. Nothing but an everyday occurance for people like himself.

Curiosity satisfied, the mar wasted no time in rendering the man harmless with a swift kick to the sternum. The hoof he used sent the poor fool's system into shock, knocking him thoroughly unconscious before he even realized what'd happened. It was, in Frid's opinion, one of the better ways to deal with someone making the mistake of trying to get close to one of the House's fabled warlocks. Everyone knew they could kill with a touch, so it stood to reason their kicks were just as bad!

One for one of my players!

 

[St. Clover]

...soothed as she found the right tonal pitch, easing herself into the rhythm she'd need for the task. The guardsman winced at the slight discomfort he felt at first, but soon fell at ease when the pain began to subside. He'd gotten into a solo scuffle with a pair of trash-wryms, earning himself a nasty prize across the back for his troubles. Turns out a fabric uniform--even one made with cut-resistant cloth--wasn't much of a match for the razor-sharp claws of the little bastards. That's what he'd said, anyways; Lesica wasn't so sure. This looked more like the work of a stupid stunt gone wrong, in her eyes.

She kept her gloved hands steady as she worked her minor miracle on the man's shredded shoulder. In her quarter-plate and heavy shawl, she was surely a sight for anyone unfamiliar with their community's norms. It wasn't everyday, she was told, that an armored gallant could be called on to help heal the sick and wounded. Not that she was a good substitute for an apothecary; the limits of her order's hymns were fairly set in stone, even if they were a great thing to have in a pinch.

She reckoned the best she could do was convince his body to staunch the bloodflow and kill the pain until the real healers arrived. If she had more talent with the healing verse, maybe she could do more, but that was neither here nor there.

Got another for the same player! These last two feature the two state-approved 'magic' groups in a place called the Great House, the Dan Enu Mystics and Temple Justicars!

 

[St. Clover]

...with the force of a sledgehammer, hard enough to launch the busted fragments of the golfball sailing far past their intended target. Lesica swore and Frid silently cheered for his companion's overconfidence. The Justicar--with now-bent club in hand--stepped aside to give the traitorous warlock a shot at hitting their shared goal. On the rooftop, their aim of hitting the dumpster a street over and three floors down was something of an impossible shot for most. Both distance and windy conditions were working against them; it was the perfect fodder to try and ply their respective group's tricks for an advantage. She'd hoped to use the hymns of smiting to power through the winds and get a clean hole-in-one... not really factoring in the survivability of their secondhand sports equipment in that equation, and now paying dearly for it. She watched as the robed mystic rolled his ivory counters and consulted the honks of the autorickshaws below for guidance, amused by his need to try and predict anything and everything. It was a mark of pride, in her mind, that her people never relied on such tricks. They lived in the moment and dealt with their problems as they arose, rather than trying to foresee every pebble that might try and trip them.

Third one and probably the final of the night! Unless someone wants me to write something else; I'm always open!

 

[St. Clover]

...few rungs above a parlor trick, though no one outside the order knows it. Frid turns the next card over and studies the familiar image of the major arcana that's revealed itself; the appearance of the Fool tells him this is probably not going to go the way his client wants. Glancing back at the small row of ivory dice strung together--the first step in this whole process, rolling a number of Reipan's Bones--he notes the surprising number of even results. Between what the numbers on the ivory tell him, and the haunting visage of the court clown glaring up at him from the tarot, he definitely feels this is going to end badly.

Another card turned reveals the Regent, just what he was hoping wouldn't show up. Another tally for the doomsayer he's soon to become. He turns the card to the side and flips the last in the line: this time it's the Saint, a good sign for once.

He hears his client, a middling Guilder of subpar renown and holdings, ask him for the fifth time what the fates have deemed this trade deal's outcome to be. He reminds the man with a stern quip that there is no fate involved with this; if he wanted a soothsayer he should've hired anyone but a Dan-Enu Mystic. His art, he says for the third time, is something of a far more majestic nature; the cosmos itself speaks through the sacred mathematics and formulae employed by his people.

There's a reason they alone are allowed to ply their trade among the nobility, after all!

This soothes the Guilder's worries for the time being, though Frid doubts it'll last for too long. Not that he needs it-he's had enough time to muse over the details of the question and parties involved. Filtered through the preternatural focusing ritual the divination disguises, his assessment of all the variables tells him this thing is a bust. Everything points to someone aiming to make his dear client take the fall for something; what it is, he couldn't say. The bigger picture would require an actual diviner--or perhaps multiple warlocks from his order working in cohesion with a wider pool of information--to put into perspective. And he's just one mar.

In keeping with his mission to make things as mystical as possible, he lets out a gasp of unparalleled surprise. This makes the Guilder squeal in response; it's not two seconds before he demands to know what his future will be. Treachery, as Frid puts it with a ghastly tone, by someone close to him! Lurking in the shadows is a dagger waiting to cut his purse and maybe even this throat! The Guilder's horrified look is as expected as his followup question: how can this be prevented?

That will depend on how much he's willing to pay. Frid remarks on the services his order provides, adding that protection of a client's assets falls within their purview. But he was only paid for a reading of narrow scope; anything else will require additional funds. And from what he saw, he says with no small amount of sass, he doubts the poor bastard can afford much of anything in the very near future.

One for Ashvaliaen !

 

[St. Clover]

...hooves crunched in the snow to the sound of nothingness in the still winter night. The Homeworld loomed large in the moon-filled sky, its storms raging in silence as it floated adrift in the cold void. Some of the moonlight glinted off the frost-touched helmets the mar wore; the mithsteel paid compliments to the white vestments they wore, silvered hems and all. Even the swept back racks of great antlers, adorned in silk and trinkets of bone, fit their otherworldly silhouettes.

They moved in the count of three to a group, four of such gatherings flocking out through the clearing in unison. For all the world they resembled their forebearers, though they lacked the cruelty and malice that stained the name of the Winter Riders. But the semantics meant little to them; they were neither the Riders, nor did they intend to follow in their hoofsteps.

All they shared in common, as far as they were concerned, was their shared gift. The gift that enabled them to do the task set before them now, the gift that threw up the wind and gave the air a distinct crispness as an eerie chill flowed from and between them. That gift that had once been used to hunt and pillage was now being used for something far closer to their maker's original intent. And as the spirits they sought came into view--prompted by the unspoken challenge from the new arrivals--that fact was renewed in their minds. They were the descendants of the Wild Hunt; and tonight they would claim glory or die trying.

Here's a thing foooooor Ashvaliaen