Lightning through Shattered Glass

[StingyParrot 1595]

Lɪɢʜᴛɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ Sʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ Gʟᴀꜱꜱ

 

Though it was impossible to tell, every attending member of the ball had their eye on the average-looking man seated at an arbitrary place on an equally unremarkable table. Though ‘unremarkable’ was perhaps a harsh evaluation of the thing; it was delicately carved from Chorustone, the translucent crystal fading from purple-black at the top to a dusky gold near the base. The only unremarkable thing about it was the fact that it was but one of thirty-two such tables, each featuring a different gradient. The ginger-haired man, too, was far more than average, if put in a crowd. He wore a sharp-cut garment halfway between a duster coat and mage’s robe, the angular collar open to display a pattern of blue Focus Crystal lattice. Again, what made him less than remarkable was the fact that the rest of his fellow attendees wore similar clothing - a mixture between classical outfits and ritual garb. Jewelry of the translucent-gold Arcaurum - likely enchanted - or intricate brooches crafted from purple Manite stone adorned each in sparkling motes, each ballgoer miniscule, faceted jewels in comparison to their surroundings.

 

They stood on a wide, glossy floor of green jade-like crystal, shardlike flecks of yellow fire breaking the verdant monotony. Above, encased in an array of floating Magegold rings, a cosmic splinter - a Voidal Tear - hovered, radiating its influence across the floor. Each and every attendee was Connected to the Void, their auras further augmenting their appearance; it was considered a novice mistake not to have one’s apparel made to fit their Connection. It was a thing to be exalted, flaunted, not hidden like an assassin’s dagger. Behind each of the mages stood figures of stoic poise; some wore the clean, unobtrusive-yet-sharp garb of stewards or master-servants and some were towering suits of animated armor, magic swirling between their joints.

 

The man who was called Verrhys, or Heir-Ruler by the public, sat quietly, occasionally speaking to those on his left or right, perfectly poised in the unconscious manner of true nobility, his black-haired steward positioned directly behind his chair, gaze forwards, arms behind her back and totally, perfectly still. Everything about Verrhys was a topic of interest - his posture, who he chose to speak to, his steward, his unobtrusive entrance. The nobility buzzed at the man’s first public appearance. Ostensibly, they were supposed to be seated randomly, with no regard to rank or House; yet money could accomplish much if shared, and favors were only to be expected.

 

“Both are Connected.” States Selan to the rest of his table. The way more than half of them leaned forwards at his words told of their role as sycophants; the four others - members of the Canton of War - were who he truly spoke to. “The woman is a Scion. Heir-Ruler Verrhys makes a statement by this; Seconds are to be distinguished warriors, not magi. Yet he does not shatter convention, he wouldn’t - to have one of the True Connected serve as a bodyguard?” Assentive, distaste-filled mutters echoed from Selan’s hangers-on. Some were his students, others those who happened to be in debt to his family’s lucrative Arcaurum-mining companies, and the gambling dens they ran behind several shell businesses. “He states that he is unafraid of tradition, unafraid of anything that could improve our society.” Some of the Canton of War ministers nodded slowly at this, their Atronach guards - all built exactly the same way with sleek black plates and white highlights - silent, stoic.

 

“And with the recent border disputes, a strong leader is necessary.” Selan finished, nodding to one of the Scholarium students - the novice mages worked as servants during these events - who had delivered his, and the rest of the table’s starters, the plates of fine porcelain drifting with only a hint of wobble to sit before each of the magi. Scallops, southern-sea oysters, prawns - given today’s ball was themed around the ocean, such a spread was only appropriate. 

 

The second-in-command of the Master of War leaned forwards some. “Perhaps. I am uncomfortable with his bodyguard’s history - hers is covered in black ink. Redacted. Do we really want a - “ The silver-haired elf cut off midsentence, then turned towards the Scholarium server. A purple-green sash on the boy’s wrist - denoting his nature as a Transfigurationist - had gotten him a place as one of the ball’s waiters. Unfortunately, the very last fluted glass of sea-green champagne had knocked against the minister’s arm, tipped over, and spilled onto the ‘aheral’s sleeve before the boy could right his error. He trembled now, but stayed where he was. Mistakes would simply earn him expulsion from the Scholarium, but failures that affected one of the True Connected opened him to direct action. Action that was taken as, with a faint gesture from its creator, the Telekinetic Atronach behind the Canton member blurred into motion, a blade of ethereal light - Arcanium - pulled from a sheath and swung in a vicious crescent, removing the student’s head quite neatly. 

 

“Ah. As I was saying - thank you, Vera - “ The ‘aheral had begun speaking even as the boy’s life ended, his colleague Fissioning away the spilt drink with a slight flare of her aura. He continued to speak even as the venue’s other servants, these ones not of the Scholarium, moved forwards to clean up the mess. 

 

Verrhys looked away from the scene, not out of disgust. Selan was doing his job well, gathering support for his master, and already two more of the Scholarium servants had lost alternately their life or their scholarship since the ball had begun. Two tables over, a dwarf robed in a more classically magelike robe had stood, his Atronach steward moving ahead of him as he found an empty area between tables, the Kha he’d challenged - and her guard - taking up position across from him. Verrhys looked away again as the four did battle, the screech of blades on armor and the crackle of brewing sorcery a mere counterpoint to the gentle chatter and sweeping music of the event. Soon, the dwarf keeled over, aflame - his Atronach had been neatly dismantled by the Kha’s own steward, a mali’ker with twin maces. No one took notice as the two returned to their table.

 

Society amused the Heir-Ruler, at least the one present now. Blood and wine; those two words exemplified the qualities of this city. Assassination was the typical modus operandi outside of events like these for removing one’s competitors. It was custom for the heirs of each House, upon their ascension, to be found dead come morning - the unsuccessful ones, at least. If one couldn’t fend off knives in the dark, then why make yourself a burden on your House? Within these events, though, the tables turned. Assassinations were practically impossible - each venue possessed security rivaling even the rulers of the city. So instead, duels prevailed, and every mage brought a bodyguard - one trained equally in etiquette as in combat - to the event. And then, of course, they accessorised.

 

“Has our ruler offered a reason for your appearance now, Verrhys?” Those seated at the Heir-Ruler’s table were primarily patriarchs or matriarchs of their House, though one was - known only to Verrhys - head of the Canton of Secrets. The ginger-haired Heir-Ruler turned to face a ‘fenn matriarch. “Ah - no, he has not. Between us, he had mostly forgotten about my existence until I asked him if I could attend this event.” The Master of Secrets cut into her swordfish steak, apparently not listening. “Sounds like him. He is occupied, so I hear, with state affairs.” Verrhys smiled. “Yes. State affairs. Though I have the feeling that his project is complete now.” The ‘fenn absorbed this with a nod, turning to speak to the man on her right. In direct contradiction to her apparent dismissal, her steward - her brother, who would have taken her place had she not bested him in a duel for succession - lunged, unsheathing and stabbing a long, thin blade slipped out of his sleeve and aimed towards the Heir-Ruler’s heart.

 

CLANG.

 

The blade shattered as it struck Verrhys’ chest. “Rude.” Spoke the Heir-Ruler. “No formality, Ysren? I thought you had more class.” Verrhys’ appearance rippled, and then faded, sucked into his bodyguard’s raised palm. In his seat sat a suit of fine, gilded armor, animated by ripples of green light. Ysren turned, blinked, stared. “You - “ She cut off, vanishing in a flare of white light just as a spike of ice split the back of her chair in half. The true Heir-Ruler laughed softly, palm coated in magical frost, beckoning her bodyguard to stand - the Atronach did, marching towards where Ysren had reappeared, unable to cast due to her sudden teleportation.

 

The 'fenn matriarch was soon dispatched as one of the stewards standing behind a chair near her abruptly turned, ramming a spear through her chest. Selan raised a hand discreetly towards Verrhys, then beckoned his guard back to his seat. The Heir-Ruler stood, and slammed the base of a fork into the Chorustone table. It rang out across the room, amplified by the crystal’s natural and magical qualities. Now everyone took note. Heads turned, conversations ceased, and Verrhys strode to the centre of the room. She kept everyone’s attention long enough for them to be unprepared as the tall glass windows at the edges of the ballroom shattered, the storm outside booming sharply, a stroke of lightning illuminating leaping, gyrating robed figures that seemed to drop in out of the tempest, blades out and slicing, elemental magic brewing alongside each cut as the Heir-Ruler nodded her respect to the Master of Secrets, who smiled just slightly as she reclined in his seat to watch her agents do their work. It would appear a massacre, and yet only those who opposed Verrhys’ ascension - and several expendables who didn’t - would be put to rest that night.

 

The Heir-Ruler stood and watched as her plan came into action, unconsciously taking up the stance she had when posing as her own bodyguard; hands neatly behind her back. Appropriate, perhaps: She would guard this beautiful, blood-soaked city unfailingly, keep it safe and healthy like the trees in her father’s orchard.

 

Even if doing so required a little pruning.

Spoiler

Hi! Stingy here. I wrote this after going to a very fancy wedding reception. This bit of creative writing is linked to a culture post I might write - A culture for mages focused on nobility, with a very healthy dose of violence. I’m mainly putting this out here to gauge interest; after all, we do have an entire area in this map catered towards Voidal Magic. Why not capitalise on it with some flair? DM me if you're interested in brainstorming!

 

This isn't related as much, but - to the best of my abilities - all of the spells cast and actions taken during the short story would have worked in LOTC - mostly due to the casting-time reduction of a Voidal Tear. See if you can guess what spells are being used.