PrimnyaQuorum

"Awh, - a copycat. They even carried over the common translation." A Kindred Spirit muses to his ever silent - and increasing annoyed - Yisar. "Audo did it better, though, and fir- alright!" He exclaims, as the creature flicks its tail against his head, akin to a slap.

Source “…Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark nor ever eagle flew— And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.” Prayer. That Watcher never thought himself well-kept in Faith. He had once been - devout, enduring through GOD and Kingdom any machination of dread and disgust he sought. Protected, so naively assumed. Fire. Oh, had he done his best to tend to the heath entrusted to him. Restless was his Watch - no soul or thing escaped his attention. How it rotted and festered into his very soul, an idea of duty. An inexact idea that had cost him a life he once had, freeing him to that which he dreamed to have, bordered with the lunacy of freedom. Insensate. Sensationless prayer, to reminisce on what he had been. The false pinnacle he had in his grasp, until that lie turned his flesh to ice, and blood to sludge. Shoved once more into pitiful isolation, he felt naught but anger. Yet it was not anger that had tears weeping from his eyes, so aberrant as they were. Haus stared, mind excused from vacuous body, at the barrier before him - ‘hands’ clasped before him, some solitary mockery of that gesture of worship. Cerulean and Purpureus swarmed across its unfathomable presentation, clashes of Cloral and Saffron spiraled into Maroon and Carmine - The Veil. A hollow spot, rings of white bleeding from it, seemed to spring to life across its surface, spaced across illimitable gaps of ascertain time - before absence swallowed it whole in an instant, like it never truly existed. Even those colors seemed to shift in hue and presence - energy beyond use devoted to purpose so mundane, and yet - absolutely ineluctable. He drifted - movement without expenditure of will or energy, such beneath effortless - a distance from its surface. Like a suitor to a distant admiration, he found himself enthralled, a slip of his mind. Closer he dared glide forward, a ‘hand’ drifting out to brush across that barrier. For a moment - ‘he’ ceased to be. In that mind, stretched past endurance in need of perseverance, it saw no separation between what it saw, and what it considered ‘itself’. ‘He’ was the Voice of that thing - so beautiful and vitriol, so ancient and still Beyond Time. An extension of its need to survive to the existence of mortality, the very will that would see it triumph, or succumb. Mortal and Immortal lacked sufficiency - time did not exist, for it surpassed such boundaries of Material Things. Eternity, and no time at all - as old as existence, and always inexplicably contemporary. A God, a Maker, a End - no difference could be held between such concepts, for to it they simply were itself. So turned that gaze outward - to the absence presented. There was no light from such depths, no darkness - only a gnawing need to entrap more, sustain that nothing. Such hunger writhed with energy, an absurdity that granted itself arcane fuel. In an instant, ‘he’ felt it - He was unwhole, as something stole his senses from that Veil. It was not benevolent or vile - it bore no features, no words. It simply enwreathed him in hated revelations, like a Priest to his Congregation of sinners. Source The Basilica - for a time, the Holy See resided next door. Drenched in Holy Scenes and Fervent Faith, a apex of religion. He wandered forward, standing short of the raised Pulpit. A trio of Thrones sat atop it, and three figures sat on those thrones. He took them in - only to be brushed aside by an eerie figure, its long blonde hair swaying in an unseen breeze, pale skin akin to a mirror in the snow-reflected light that streamed through stained glass. Human, a male. The rest he knew. To the left, a throne stood of books and tomes - above it hung a crimson sun, radiant and scorchingly bright. In that light, Haus found he only felt a comforting warmth that bid him calm. His heart sang to it, but words could not follow - he was silent, unwillingly. The pale woman that sat atop lounged comfortably, a tender smile on her visage. To the right, the throne stood more resembling a stage. Instruments warped together in some peculiar recognition, while atop it all resided a moon, full and pale-white. The light washed over him - igniting his very soul ablaze in righteous rage, as if commanding him to unravel himself where he stood, and surrender to - no, wield - the very hellfire that raged through his veins. The woman who sat on that throne did so confidently, as if she had belonged there beyond any measure. Her eyes, deep monochromatic blues peered towards him with unending energy - the Fuel to his Fury, assurance and belief. In the middle was the most bewildering of them all - clockwork intermixed with flesh, so finely woven together that he could not tell where the machine ended, and life began or the inverse. Nothing hung above that throne of perfect imperfections - the woman who sat atop it did so with poise, golden eyes beaming identical light towards him. It confused him, but he felt no hate in that gaze - perplexingly, he felt like he was being mocked for trying to understand it, in the way a Soldier might mock a child for the pitiful attempt to mimic a drill - yet it was not a evil mockery, but a kindness. He ached to speak - to be Truthful, confess his misunderstandings and wants to those throned, to plead for forgiveness he need not owe and beg penance - but words could not follow. He tried to blink, and even that was stolen from him. Dreadfully, he came to understand his purpose was to observe. That too perfect figure stopped short of the steps, turning to face Haus. It seemed to warp before his very eyes - all features stolen, save a robe of no color that concealed its features, and eyes of swarming hues and colors. Like lightning, it struck him the very Veil he had been abducted from filled those sockets. It gave no reaction, no semblance of emotion. It bid a hand towards the throned, and he felt the very air saturated with energy. Sound filled his head, an awful thing he could not understand - it was no language of flesh, spoken by a speaker without a voice. It’s presence wrought nausea, almost, to his senses as the figures on those thrones succumbed in a blink. To the left, that pale woman’s hair swayed in an unseen wind - only for that screeching gale to erupt from her. Where that energy did not consume her form, winds tainted a blackened color clawed and torn her apart - flesh was ripped away and scattered across that crimson sun. To the right, the woman’s head seemed to tilt to the side, as her skin bubbled and trembled - abruptly, waves of water erupted outward, stained crimson with her blood as it replaced muscle and bone with turbulent waters, swirling and rushing where that same energy did not devour. The moon drowned in those waters in futile protest. In the middle, that golden-eyed woman seemed to simply vanish - a surge of blackened mists expelling from her form, seeping around the very throne she had sat atop. As those mists condensed into the seat, he could only watch in horror at how she had been fused into the Throne - still alive, as those golden eyes blinked and fingers, surging with the very same energy, twitched towards him. She had been utterly rended apart. The only figure left standing turned, flicking a hand towards Haus. He blinked, arms raising to shield himself in some defense and that holy place of worship warped. At once, it was ravaged by flames - metal melted, wood combusted into ash, and the air grew thick with smoke. The Watcher’s eyes opened, only to find his ability to feel had been denied of him. His very arms - his entire body - was warped into flames, avaricious and all-consuming. Smoke flowed where his veins had once been, and where his mouth had been spewed forth flames - ones that spiked and dulled in intensity with each breath of air that fanned the fire. Those ‘arms’ lowered as he looked across at the figure- He was that figure. It stared back at him, a reflection. As he saw his whole self utterly lost to those flames and absent energies, those eyes caught his attention; where the sockets had remained, they had been filled with deep black eyes, tiny and filling every crevice and space like an insect. Something akin to laughter echoed around his skull, as understanding was given - like gospel, like reverence. This was no fate, no past or future. This was him - it already was consuming him. He had already been lost, and in turn - so had all near him. So he screamed in grief, in rage and hatred, fervent - those flames that had become him erupting hotter and brighter as he marched forward, hell-bent on ripping that reflection of himself apart. With each step, however, that figure changed - it no longer resembled a man, and then it no longer resembled anything. The laughter stopped, everything stopped - and it lurched out at him, devoid of thought or feeling or sensation. Only Hunger. Haus awake with a start, gasping in a breath of cold air. A hand raised to shield his cosmic gaze from the rising sun as his mind slows, and his eyes water. His hands cover his eyes as he sobs - he cannot find the strength to absolve himself that it was simply a nightmare. It takes time - time to let each sense seep through his conscious mind: The feebleness of his enfeebled body, the cold air that he shakily breathes in and out, the gentle sound of wind brushing past trees. Reminders of his mortality - where he is, who he is. His purpose. A hand reached out to his bag, fetching a familiar aurum pin. He ran a finger over the four interwoven diamonds inlaid into the item, and watched as they shifted hues - cyans, blues, purples, and grays. A soft smile graced his exhausted visage as he watched faint, red constellations trace the outer edge of the magic pin, before he affixed it to his lapel, over his heart. Delusions and voices pried for his attention, inescapable forever - but for now, he had some measure of peace, enough to saddle up on his Yisar and continue his trek onward. After all, he had no choice - all he left for himself was forward, to endure. ‘He’ was It’s Voice, and It’s Will. And he was so very tired. He shook his head, as that colder air woke him up and dispelled that encroaching madness. He would make it through. For the first time in decades, he had a home and a future - friends by his side, and people in his Heart. For them, he knew, no goal was unobtainable, and to them he was simply Haus. That was enough for the Watcher, amidst Infinity. Enough to Live for.

"...Tempting fate, aren't they?" The Lord-Magister, Haus, asks towards his Yisar as the report reaches him. He holds the paper out and down from his spot on the creature's saddle, as if so it may read it. It merely huffs, indifference present as Haus continues. "Oh, well. Don't be led by those who can't. Don't kneel to someone who can't make you." The Yisar, as if fed up by the Watcher's ramblings, bucks him off to the ground. He re-saddles in silence, the point taken.

The formerly-Haeseni Watcher, Haus, skims over the writings as he sits idle at his own camp. For a moment, he seems content to toss it into his kindling - before thought strikes him. He gathers his own writing supplies, brow knitting as he thinks and thinks. The silence is deafening, for that cosmic-eyed man. "Be Silent - not you, Asseran." He mumbles under his breath, tapping towards his temple "Awfully crowed today." The Yisar merely offers a flick of it's head, returning to lounging about as Haus writes. "Ordained Friar, I would be remiss to ignore the reference to the Epistle of the Magi, and the irony of me writing, anyway - while your point is clear, articulate, and well-founded, I think you've missed a part of what likely is the same issue. I believe it is not simply just that the Church is powerless by virtue of the politics arranged and battles fought over land and materialistic things by the Canonist lands - it has, in turn, actively discouraged anything but the most pious and perfect for lending aid. Far too often, I have noted across many lands and people, those of the Faith are quick to - as you so perfectly stated - attempted to burn the shadow away when none exists. The Illuminating Light, the teachings, are so few and far that many I have seen and heard see the church as nothing more then vessels of human sin, marching under His Banner. I have witnessed the awful powers that lie in such shadows raze catastrophe across the lands of Canonism - powerless to only observe as entire cities flooded or turned to ice in the span of a handful of minutes. I have watched as bodies were removed from the carnage by the cartful, given impromptu rites, and forgotten. I have watched as myself and others have tirelessly worked to extend our hand to burn away this shadow, to only be turned away at best. How, I ask, is anyone suppose to know the Illumination of Teachings if they are either ignored or scorched away needlessly? How, indeed, when at the mention of a single Vampyre I have watched man turn on man, and cast the finger of blame - and yet when that Beyond his Light strikes us, there are no hands to help fight back because the foe does not come in flesh and blood that so easily slain as our fellow man. I suppose the point is that it is not enough, to simply say that the Faithful have been pacified and turned to the table of politics and the solution lies in raising its own Banners to strengthen itself. In truth, to many and myself, I can no longer see the Light coming from the Church itself. I see it in the Pious Few - those who truly absolve themselves from these mundane affairs and devote themselves to the Faith - but when the idea of Church comes to mind, I do not see Teaching and a devotion to the same principles. You must forgive my lacking reading of the Scrolls, but is it not that the Sword should be raised only in need - not in wrath or sin, or simply because a man bearing flesh and blood has screeched 'GOD Wills It!' louder then the voice of reason? It cannot be ignored, however - beyond all woes and grievances, the first step to progress is acknowledging the need for such. I admire your resolve, to ponder such problems from the frontlines. Change is difficult enough to find, and it often lacks the driving force of a soul with Will in it's step and deed. I bid you good health in the many fights to come. Kindly, Haus"

"They keep arguing and arguing, don't they?" Haus asks towards that familiar Yisar, holding up the paper so the creature can 'read' it. "If they could only decide if they wanted peace, or bloodshed. This back and forth - the common man only suffers more for it, da?" The creature stares blankly at him, before taking a bite out of the paper.

"Do you think they write these with irony in mind?" The Blonde Watcher inquires towards his Yisar, wrapped in furs as he traverses some frozen lands. The publication is stowed in his bag as he continues on rambling towards the poor creature. "Really - I know I couldn't make this up if I tried. You think it'll be a problem?" The creature, but only a humble Yisar, offers nothing but the equivalent of a ambivalent shrug towards Haus. He sighs, watching his breath condense and near-freeze on the chilled wind as he treks onwards.

Haus considers operation's name, and the darkened skies that hang over Hohkmat. He wonders, as his gaze wanders to the southeast to where the sun rises from the distant coast. "Coincidences are often not", He dares ponder behind that cosmic gaze, "But how?"

The Lord-Magister of Paradox, for once in his ill-fortuned life, ponders if his silent pleas for a more shady day to grant those star-drowned eyes of his a rest have been heard. As he beckons his Yisar to a stop, a interlude before he continues his ever-failing search, he can only stare upward, in awe and concern. "Ask no one to save you-" Haus bids to the creature, in a grief-laden voice "They wont; Save yourselves." The Yisar pays him no mind. Onwards he rides, to another corner of the world - his search is not complete, and so he cannot return.

"Haus, may you find rest in the void, that which you bury yourself in. You were a kind enough man, but a foolish one in the end. " "How...grand of him to say, after - years, has it been?" Haus asks towards the familiar Yisar he rides atop of. The creature regards him for a moment - some equivalent of an apathic shrug that watcher might give himself - before it returns to its simple task of walking. More words follow, as he skims over the brief letter in his hand. He's far from canonist land, in search of something else. He doesn't know what fate occurred to his once-nephew, so distanced from the world as haus is. In the days that follow, dreams plague his sleep. An oddity.

Haus reads over the missive with a raised brow from atop his Yisar, before quill is put to paper and he writes. He feels oddly qualified for one of the jobs.

thud. Thud Lord-Magister. Watcher of the Veil. Truth-Seeker. Thud. thud. Witness to unspoken truths - of unseen, wonderful cosmic re-birth and decay. Thud. Thunk. Haus ambles along a quiet road, well away from settlement or village. The Yisar he rides atop of would draw as much attention as he usually does - it's scales a devoid black, speckled with tiny flecks of intense star-bright white. The pair of horns on it's head and scattered scales along it's grand, lizard-like body float of it's body, tethered by some unseen force. Thunk. Thud. It does nothing to quell the noise that clatters against his ears from inside his very skull. Like a Wheel rolling along besides him, and not at all - he knows when he looks, he will still be alone. It doesn't stop him from doing it, anyway. It still leaves him bitter, and stewing in his own Fury. His mind wanders, a plea from his psyche to quell what will not stop lurking in his mind. He thinks of a Princess he knew - one who wore pink, and smiled wide, in spite of everything that had happened. He remembers re-meeting her not so long ago, of a happy reunion - of sharing highs and lows, failures and Truth. He recalls hearing of her becoming injured, shortly after, in a way he knows no matter how hard he tries or searches - cannot be mended. That it has been equally as long since he's spoken with her, how tormented she was to simply exist when he last saw Briar. For a moment, he hopes - he ought write a letter, see if he can stop by and have a chat about, anything really. Cruelly, he finds it is silent in his head, leaving him with his own proposition. Believe and truth and delusion woven so tightly together, he considers it would be easier to lie for a moment - that he could find a way to give her some hope, too. Remind a kindred soul that they do not, can not, succumb to the Weight of the World - they burn against it, unrelenting and spiteful. The Yisar comes to a stop - a fork in the road. He is withdrawn from his thoughts as he guides it down the path. He doesn't dare return to it - wonder what he could do, might do, should do. Thunk. Thud. That noise returns to echo around his skull a bit louder - mocking him in his own isolation, almost. Word does reach him, eventually, of a Adunian with white hair tending to the dead of a far-flung battle. He considers offering a prayer for the unknown her - a worthless gesture from someone like him, but, as he thinks - not as if the dead are praying for her. That dreadful hope returns to bounce through his mind. If not him, who will, anyway?

Haus spits out his tea as those star-drowned eyes of his scan over the publication. His gaze turns to the Yisar he rides atop of, in search of other problems plaguing the lands. " 'You think they grasp the wastefulness of such a naivety, or have simply turned to the nearest poet?" He inquires towards the abstract creature. It merely blinks back at him, and he shrugs - the paper stowed safely in a bag as he rides onward.

Purpose Over time across the Voidal Magics, inconsistencies have popped up in the form of redlines that make little sense, contradict their own lore, or otherwise are wrong (looking at you, 5 emote spell that takes 4 emotes). This round is aimed specifically at standardizing emote counts, as well as fixing out these inconsistencies. Nothing new is being added to any magic, this is simply a go-through of the magics to make reading them more straightforward and sensible. Gust Old: New: Redirect Old: New: Air Sweep Old: New: Air Shield Old: New: Air Blast Old: New: Launch Old: New: Sound Blast Old: Windstorm Old: New: Compression Old: New: Whirlwind Old: New: Credits PrimnyaQuorum - Writer lord_of_losers - Feedback

Purpose Over time across the Voidal Magics, inconsistencies have popped up in the form of redlines that make little sense, contradict their own lore, or otherwise are wrong (looking at you, 5 emote spell that takes 4 emotes). This round is aimed specifically at standardizing emote counts, as well as fixing out these inconsistencies. Nothing new is being added to any magic, this is simply a go-through of the magics to make reading them more straightforward and sensible. Water Blast Old: New: Water Shield Old: New: Water Whip Old: New: Ice Projectile Old: New: Water Wave Old: New: Ice Spikes Old: New: Ice Shield Old: New: Ice Dome Old: New: Credits PrimnyaQuorum - Writer lord_of_losers - Feedback

Purpose Over time across the Voidal Magics, inconsistencies have popped up in the form of redlines that make little sense, contradict their own lore, or otherwise are wrong (looking at you, 5 emote spell that takes 4 emotes). This round is aimed specifically at standardizing emote counts, as well as fixing out these inconsistencies. Nothing new is being added to any magic, this is simply a go-through of the magics to make reading them more straightforward and sensible. Cauterize Old: New: Flame Projectile Old: New: Flame Trail Old: New: Flame Blast Old: New: Smokescreen Old: New: Flamethrower Old: New: Credits PrimnyaQuorum - Writer lord_of_losers - Feedback

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fds_2qH9sBQ Under a moonless night, parchment and papers are delivered to every home and district within the Free City of Hohkmat. They all bear the same seal - that of the outline of a sitting fox - and when opened, smell softly of embers and wood smoke. Two copies, more carefully embroidered, are sent to the Seat of the Grand Magister of Hohkmat and the Queen of The Petra. Fair Greetings, It has been decreed by Her Majesty, Catherine I that: The Bridge to Veletz Must Go! Her Majesty has passed this most urgent matter to the Grand Magister, who in turn has passed it to Me. As such, under my guidance and supervision shall planning be conducted, and this bridge be reduced to naught but rubble and brick, cinders and ash. In this, however, I find it more than just my responsibility to see this bridge destroyed, but that all those who call Hohkmat their home are extended a hand to join me in this endeavor - it is, after all, a perfect time for the magi within our walls to combine their magical prowess into a truly grand display of sanctioned arcanic destruction. Thus, I hereby declare: All those within our walls who wish to partake are invited to join me. To those who merely wish to lend their strength in magic, you need not but be present on the day of the dismantling, and the meeting that shall preface it two months before. To those, however, who seek to apply their minds to this task - I invite you to stand in my court, and present your ideas to me. I shall pick the brightest among that which is presented to lead this process with me. There are no bad ideas - only arrogant minds, and silent tongues. Both are unwelcome in my court. Lord-Magister of Paradox

The Lord-Magister of Paradox, Haus, struggles to make sense of the closing statement as he recovers from the cognitive dissonance of seeing a artist's rendition of Lanre, who does not look like a old elf as he had imagined. He resolves to inquiring further on it another time, jolting down the concept hastily on parchment before he returns to his never-ending work.

A Watcher wakes from a plagued sleep, rubbing at his forehead as dim, stellar light recedes from his gaze. He ponders the arcane shifts in the Veil that infests his slumbering senses, and the truths they reveal to him, as Haus mutters... "What is a recording?"

A Watcher awakens in a cold sweat. Hands hold at his blonde head, as cosmically tainted light recedes from the endless depths of his eyes. He looks around, his own breathes ragged and rapid as he thinks: 'Something is missing.' He makes his way to his desk, grabbing parchment and ink - and he writes. Any hopes of rest are well and truly dashed. He wonders who will listen, this time.

"FINALLY, A worthy use of my mana!" The Hausmage gleefully observes. He frantically begins to pack a chef's bag. "Our bake-off shall be the subject of culinary legend!

"So we lie now, o'Pharaoh?" The Watcher hums, perched atop a tree in a densely wooded forest. He holds a copy of the missive in hand. Alone as can be, and yet he speaks aloud. "Meaningless words, enunciated from voices far too weak. Crying to your Gods, because your own tongue is too weak to afflict change." A quill and paper is produced, and Haus scribbles away. His own words, meaningless and daft. As he writes, he finds he cant sift apart between his own emotions, and the chattering in his skull.

An aforementioned Watcher finds himself, if nothing else, bemused by the text he reads. Paradoxical contradictions catch that star-speckled gaze of his as he acquires a few extra copies of the publication, and begins the long and arduous process of writing notes. After a long moment, however, he changes him mind and steps off into his kitchen. Sometime after the chaos has subsided, a basket of homemade baked goods is left on the porch of the house of Cresence and Theveus. A simple note, bearing the image of the outline of a fox, is left atop the basket of treats for the poor Okarir'sil. @hemomancy @MailC3p

Shifting Spells under Translocation (Notably Brisk Step and Minor TP) allow the user to dodge incoming attacks and projectiles reactively if its on the cast emote. Air Evo has redirect, which is mechanically the same as Amped Reflexes (knocking away incoming projectiles at arrow speed or slower) with no real range limit besides how far the mage can see. I think Amped Reflexes is fine since the mage would need to already be in position to knock away a incoming projectile, or spend further emotes casting Lightning Step or just running to maneuver into place.

Love the addition of more non-combative flavor - definitely agree that void magics should provide more to a character then just CRP things. +1

"A...truthful summary. How strange, to not have to fight those I shield." That Watcher, Haus, muses at the edge of the lands of Amathine. He holds a copy of the missive in a hand, cosmic gaze sweeping across the text. "But they have heard me. Seen and listen. Let it not be too late."