Dj_McMuffin

In a separate point in space, in a separate point in time, in a separate mind, a younger woman reflected on her choices. A child princess, so new to the world, perhaps in as much need of guidance as she was now. In her older days, the aged woman reflected in a similar manner even still. It was not her place, that she had determined then. Even still, the rogue thread plucked at her heart. Was it the fear of ill intent? Or perhaps the risk of ridicule? And during such times, to make such bold claims, before the world was ready... how? Who was she? To decide such things; no one in specific was intended to. Perhaps, rather than perform a role, it was better to play the part.

Godspeed and good luck comrade. Deadmund #1; an Icon wherever the bony boy went. It has been an excellent run, with that energy I'm sure you'll de excellent in your job and studies.

In the young Mana Weaver's inner sanctum, she let drop a final paper with trembling hands. The collective of bloodstained pages were gently met with one more failure; or success, gently floating down into place. She refused to believe. Isabella had been given the same answer again, been offered reconciliation, but still she denied, even now. It was as if no outcome could truly satisfy. They were all ugly and imperfect. Corrupted and tainted by things beyond her power. There was never a final piece. Each gap filled created another. Every solution would create another problem. Such was the nature of things. Her mind swam for hours. Days. For years; always. What existed within the gale beyond howled with the demand to be expressed, to be understood, to become real. Alas, she lacked the strength or the understanding to have it wrought into existence. To attempt on ones own would to be consumed and destroyed. And so, no display was made. No brilliant outburst, no monumental declaration. Not a maelstrom, rather, a steady pace. One foot in front of the other. A trickle, torturously slow, nauseatingly moderate. Subdued yet unbroken. Such had been bound in ages past. So bound, even today.

Isabella breathed a deep sigh of relief, craning her head against the brick wall of her balcony. From where she sat on the floor, the warmth of the sun radiated against the baking black rooftops that nestled just under her own abode. They descended steeply down the mountainsides amongst winding streets, much like the cliffsides that dropped straight to the river below. She clutched the paper tightly, until finally she let it go, snatched away in but a moment by the wind and carried off beyond the railings, beyond the walls. I missed the time in my youth when the Fathers first came to me about the commission, she chuckled lightly to herself I hope there are still some that could believe what they saw in me. Perhaps someday, I'll repay their time tenfold. The Sickly Sorceress grunted slightly as she forced herself back onto her feat. Someday.

No respite from the Struggle A sickly, tiring woman sat sequestered in an attic. Often the space was ablaze with lantern light and brimming with letters of correspondence. This eve, it was dim. The papers so neatly stacked in their cabinets were left strewn on the floorboards; scattered in a nonsensical array and stitched back together at the seams. The Farfolk's face was enshrouded like the rest of the room, graced only by the flicker of a single flaming candle she had happened to forget up there amongst her chests of trinkets and memorabilia. Useless clutter, really, which served no purpose. Just the same as the blank pages full of words she sought to puzzle into a pleasing shape. Like ritual they were rearranged. Over and over and over. But always a piece was left out; unfit; inconsolable. Irreconcilable. Starkly pallid green eyes strained against the waning flame to see something, anything, in spite of the shadows that encroached closer. Once rich and deeply verdant, the pair responsible for vision failed to muster any color from the page. There was never enough time to make sense of it all. However much could be found was already being lost; any that was created was always being destroyed. Stolen, taken, lost, destroyed. Stolen, taken, lost, destroyed. Understanding became impossible. Where was it coming from? How could one possibly recapture all the time constantly slipping through their fingers. How could anyone find the full picture again. How do I get it back? Weakness Consumes. Strength Creates. Content fades to nothing. Ambition seizes all.Limits.Define.Infinite.Potential. Isabella's breath hitched as she was thrust back into the world like a fleck of the Heaven's spat out spit. Her limbs trembled; her body overcome with a cold sweat yet again. The candle had long since burned out. She struggled to her feet and traced her fingers against the wall, wading blindly through the trail she set for herself. Running her palm over the cabinets, Isabella guided her frail form out of the attic. Ultimately, she found her way back to the light of day, but not after receiving the same answer from a different question. The same question that begets every answer.

Isabella's smile was one of uncontained glee for the times ahead. So many exciting things. Alas, the farfolk was trapped in her chambers; her meditations came first.

Isabella's hands were keen to grasp at the long awaited letter. The Vizier of Wind's ear had already been poised to pick up on the slightest breeze from the doldrums of Lurin. A breath of fresh air at last. Edvard's capabilities reach far beyond that of a Sage of Hohkmat. I trust he will breath new life into his realm...

The Grand King of Urguan is wise in the ways of the world. It is only a shame I've not the time to seek him out sooner for a drink. Isabella Sanz cast a glance back to the growing stores of Focus Crystals amassed at by the nonmagical Sanfi laborers of Hohkmat At least until then he can appreciate a well crafted fireball on the battlefield...

Hohkmat's Vizier of Wind shuffled a series of missives together; all collected from the recent bout of chaos. She deftly filed them away so that she might realign the debacle in an similarly orderly and swift fashion.

A tired Sorceress tutted to herself Perhaps none of us are truly so infallible. . . who among us can survive without a saving grace? She rubbed at her cheek as she reflected on all she had heard from behind closed doors and in front of public missive boards. The question was for no one, and she had already found her answer. Best to steal what little rest she could before she took action.

Isabella stared intently at the missive. Her eyes flicked over the words multiple times, considering deeply the implications I prefer to contend with only one omen at a time. . . though I doubt the Astronomers in Haense were lucky enough to be watching the same star as I. . . she loosed a sigh, sinking back into her seat atop Hohkmat's observatory Perhaps if those muses of Hohkmat who I built this for were still alive... they would have stood a better chance against these puzzles...

A view of Fort Drusco from atop the Coalition's Battlements at Notrebanc, East of Hohkmat; 1960 Isabella donned a regally colored and lavishly furred gambeson, old to her; a gift she had possessed for half of her life but rarely had the need for. She was by no means old in years, and one could question how much wisdom could be held in such a frail sickly farfolk who worked her body and mind to its limits. Nevertheless, she had found success, riding on the very fringe of what was possible. She strode along the stones that wrapped around the edge of the cliff face that made Hohkmat’s walls, watching intently as man and mage rushed back and forth between their banisters and battlements in the Coalition fort above her. Compared to the siege equipment that had been prepared by the Dwarves, the opposing side was almost pitiful. She could not help but smile as she cast her gaze down to the other side of the banks. From so high up The Vizier of Wind could see behind the walls of Drusco, small Veleztians and Orcs rushing with the same fervor to man what few cannons they could muster. They would never stop fighting for what they loved; it was only a shame that those good few who had proven to be deserving of it had found themselves trapped on the other side of the field as she was. The gaze of the Hakad wandered with her thoughts and her body as she went through the motions of the beginning of the siege. Alas, with so many loyal and loving comrades at her side, she had so few to talk to; it was best she simply perform her work now. Isabella Sanz could simply hope that amidst the conflict she had found unlikely allies. Hope that once the dust had settled The Grand Tapestry would be rethreaded into a favorable peace for as many as possible in spite of their seemingly irreconcilable differences. Time had passed in the battle during Isabella’s meditations. Now cannons and fireballs alike rocked the cliffside where she stood; buried deep within the fortress woven out of rock and stone by Dwarf and Earthmagi alike. The cannons in the room beside her were shattered by a direct hit, and her mind was keen enough to fully comprehend the truth and the severity of the bloodshed felt by her comrades. Sensing intimately the strength of those who demanded their retribution. She felt the primordial force of the ones whose unbending spirits had willed her to stand firm and cast aside her doubts. With the Sorceress’ focus now in the moment, she seized it for herself. Her gaze locked onto the retinue of mages who had chosen to follow her. Their common understanding required no words. With a nod they wasted no time to draw the ritual circle. The scintillating colors of all their mana was guided expertly by her own as their resident Firecaller Atticus shaped his spell. Like a whirlpool the tide of mana spun and condensed before surging forth in a tide of flames that streaked high over the river of the Notrebanc to set a blaze to one of the enemies’ opposing cannons. No sooner had she begun to reflect on their success than the Coalition had amassed their forces outside of the fort to make the charge across the waters. Like her ancestors of the sands before her she moved swiftly while her enemies were slow to be one of the first among the Coalition who crested the hill. Isabella struck ruthlessly in between the cracks of Veletz’s walls the same way the rest of the Coalition stood firm and pried apart their enemies with their very own doubts. The surging tides of water conjured forth by the Sorceress mirrored the tide of warriors at her back that swept the failed usurpers off of their feet and washed them out of their own fortifications in but an instant. Isabella had been dragged along through the dance of battle, lost in the ebb and flow that had really lasted for hours, though in her mind it felt like she had become exhausted after only a few minutes. The pace of the soldiers around her did not cease, and so she stepped off the floor to watch the waltz from the rooftops as they chased the fleeing combatants to the edges of the hills. There was no longer a need to reflect, only to rest and recover before joining the dance again another time, somewhere else, with another crowd. With the plains open for advance now, the slowly aging sorceress hoped desperately for another field battle of Cavalry, like the one at Hippo’s Gorge. One where the Magi would charge forth atop their Yisar mounts as a good omen for all the world to see.

It was the Druscans that had first demanded that the bridge to Hohkmat be destroyed. Alas, Isabella was a bridgebuilder, and it would soon return, whether the receivers of her gift liked it or not.

Isabella was hard at work within Hohkmat; enchanting something within those walls which perched atop the mountainside. The Petran roads wrapped around and down from the City of Sorcerers towards the Memory Tree where the foundations for their neighbors of the Abbey rested. Those local to Vallagne new the track record for arson within the Commonwealth, and the Vizier was keen to ensure it remained safe even in her absence.

The missive had been scattered to the Winds. It was only natural then that it's Vizier should find it first. The Purple clad Farfolk smiled with wicked glee The Druids are awake once more. Who will be strong enough to bind them to a common cause? Which of them will wield the wisdom necessary to secure their future? The stricken woman muttered a few Hakad proverbs in prayer for the Druids.