Hom

Atticus Reinhold lets out a heavy sigh, and sits down to pen a letter. "To Mr. Volkov, Though I understand your concerns regarding the motivations behind this bill, I wished to clarify a factual error in your findings. You seem to be implying that this bill exists for the sole sake of the Stormont Viscounty, as we would have no other method of inheritance. This is untrue, as the validity of adoptive heirs for both married and unmarried peers- So long as they are adopted below the age of fourteen- Has been ratified in the Catherinian lawbook for over a decade. As my partner and myself have also already shared our title for fifteen years, the Reinhold Edict makes no functional difference to our validity or behaviors as a Viscounty, nor to our succession. It is named after us, purely, out of a very kind sentiment by Her Majesty. In truth, we will probably be affected the least by this edict. Many of the dignities it allows, we were already afforded by the nature of our peerage. The people this edict will affect the most are the commonfolk and gentry of Petra, who choose to enter a civil union, and will benefit from the state's recognition of their partnership in things such as legal inheritance of their partner's assets after death. This is what the "inheritance law" actually means, in the context of the Reinhold Edict. It does not speak well on your character, in my view, that you would seek to argue against these simple dignities being permitted- Dignities that have been approved by the High Pontiff, in an act of extreme kindness. Petra is a Canonist nation, and I will forever be a devoted Canonist myself. But those who choose to live differently than the majority are still our people. To our community, we have a duty to provide them with the basic rights, dignities, and recognition that all descendantkind is deserving of. I hope you discover the worth in undertaking that duty. I take no issue with your desire to duel in the Lord of Azor's place over this matter. I did not personally approve of the Knight-Captain's actions during the assembly. However, please take the time to familiarize yourself with the Catherinian code before making accusations against the motivations of our Queen. Sincerely, Atticus Reinhold."

After the assembly had concluded, after the adrenaline was gone- What Atticus was left with was a quiet, lingering shock as he sits at his kitchen table, clutching his copy of the bill and reading it over again, and again, and again. There’s no going back from this, after all. No slinking back into hiding, no more attempts to lie. There’s a terror, to that. He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t, at least in some part, hiding. Running and hiding may as well be the Lucien traditional pastime. He remembers how his father hid from them daily, in his workshop- He remembers how Angelina ran when she was young, though he holds no ire against her for it, no matter how the years apart had stung. He had run, too. He could not make himself a hypocrite, when he’d spent so many years of his life with his head low, and his feet quick. When he first came to Petra, it was with the nervous stumbling of someone grasping for a lifeline in the dark. He found that, eventually, where he least expected. He found it in who he least expected. What he still hesitates to admit, even now- Is that he almost ran then, too. It was terrifying, to allow love with risk. Even when his heart made clear what it wanted, he fought to stifle it. It was too much, too brave for him, the eternal coward. He would hesitate when their hands linked in the street, and quietly pull away. Compromising with his own fear, by only allowing himself words of love in the quietest of places. That hurt too, like a knife in his chest. It hurt far more than just himself. Atticus’ own fear had always been far more ruthless to him than any other person could be. The people, in reality, were kind. It took time, decades of time, for him to outgrow a terror of being known. For him to brave even simple affections, and to raise his voice above a whisper. To realize that, with the hesitance of someone miles from home, he was safe here. A circle of people gather around him, laughing and cheering at the sight of his engagement ring, and ask for invitations. An old woman with graying, orange hair and a wit of gold sits at his dining table, and tells him his love is pure. A young woman, with the same hair of fire, hands him a missive that will shake the world. She tells him that she was inspired- And he feels terror slowly replaced with an elated, creeping hope. They lose, of course. They were always going to lose. But in losing, people begin to talk. For every spat against the ground, he hears ten more that speak of his affliction as if it were something to honor. Deserving, in the minds of so many more than he thought, of decencies he’d never even considered for himself. Recognition, for one. Up until the last moment, he still doesn’t believe it possible- But he feels lighter. It’s impossible, to entirely banish a terror so deep-rooted in your soul you’ve never felt what it’s like to live without it. For so long, he had stepped around it by speaking a million comfortable lies. They can be padded, and changed, and made to suit whoever hears them. The truth is far more stark, and unchanging. He can only give one version of the truth, terrifying and brazen, and yet- He finds Wilford, in his study. They sit quietly for some time, just looking over the words. There was no returning to mistruth, after this. Not because of the edict alone- But because doing so would be to dash the efforts, of the young Queen who was willing to take on the world to allow them that simple dignity. It’s not about marriage. It’s about truth. Someday, he’ll feel he’s done enough to repay her- Maybe when he’s far older and grayer than he even is now. The little Queen, the war Queen, who lived a life of pains unknown, and would still risk herself infinitely for her people. If nothing else, he will dedicate the rest of his life to enforcing her legacy. A kingdom both stronger, and kinder, than any he has ever known. The only one that has ever wanted the truth from him. He would endure any terror, to show her she did not risk it all for nothing. Atticus takes Wilford’s hand in his own, as tears threaten to prick at his eyes. He can’t help but laugh, quietly, at the lightness in the chest- At the strange, and alien lack of fear. “We did it.”

Penned by the Office of TO THE SORCERERS OF HOHKMAT AND THE HUNGRY OF AEVOS, you are cordially invited to a contest unlike any other- Not a contest of magical MIGHT, but a contest of magical PRECISION. A competition that will separate the teacher from the learner, the master from the layman, the archmage from the aspirant. The truest magical contest ever beheld: A test of culinary power. Housemages, bards, sorcerers, and ambitious chefs of no magical origin are invited to test their skill in front of a panel of judges, consisting of Hohkmat’s Viziers and leaders. One may form a team of no more than four people, or compete solo. There are no limits on the dish one may craft to impress the judges, other than that it must be a savory creation suitable for lunch or dinner. Creativity is encouraged, and any advantage may be used. Dishes will be judged on the criteria of taste, appearance, and uniqueness. Though the competitors will be cooking for the judges, food and drink from Hohkmat’s own Vortex Tavern will be provided to spectators, ensuring no one will go hungry. The winning dish will be immortalized upon the Vortex Tavern’s menu forevermore, and the winning competitor or team will be awarded a unique magical artifact fit for a master chef. The contest will take place within a Saint’s Year, inside the Encanter’s Way II Event Hall in Hohkmat. Bring ambition, and an appetite.

The sheer scope of the spell had left Atticus reduced to a fevered state, in its wake- Though his mana pool was depleted to wisps, his temperature had skyrocketed after the last of the flame had been drained from his body. It's not an easy thing, not a simple thing, to control such a ritual. The slightest backfire, the disconnection of one mage, and it all folds back in on the caster. There was a single moment, at the apex of the spell, where he held something terrible. Enough flame to raze a city, boiling in his veins. He felt it under his skin, like he was burning alive, as the shifting colors of the fire around him rose in a terrible crescendo. There was more magic in him than he could contain, more energy in his head than any one man should wield. He didn't know if he could remove it from himself fast enough- He realized, in a terrible second, that the slightest falter of his focus would be the end. A single waver, and the power stored within his body would bubble his skin and incinerate his bones, dashing him like ash to the stone beneath for daring to try and direct it. One blink, one hesitation, would be all it would take. He was not wielding this power- He was terribly, and truly subjected to it. A single speck of breathing life in an inferno, daring to try and control it, to trap it. Under such crushing weight, he felt himself slipping. He had to cling to something to keep his focus intact, teeth grit and hands shaking as the fire continued to pour from him. He fixes upon the subject of his spell- He fixates upon the keep. He wonders if that was where they had all gone, when they were taken. Before the war even started, before Hohkmat had fought in any battle, before they had done anything to earn Veletz's ire. He wonders if that's where their people were marched, bound, harassed, beaten- Ears cut, hair sheared, threatened and executed. He wonders if it is there, where Wilford's life was almost taken once- Twice- So close to the cliff's edge of losing him, irrevocable, terrifying. He wonders if it was there, where his sister sat in fear, taken as a civilian who'd never touched the battlefield. Atticus had been ordered to burn the keep of Winburgh. But he wanted to do it, too. He wants to warp the glass that watched his husband beaten. He wants to melt the stone Faeran bled upon. He wants to incinerate whatever cell they may have kept Angelina in- He wants to turn ashen any floor where Orion was forced to kneel, where Wren was made to beg, where his friends and neighbors were made to fear. Hohkmat never started this war. Not when it came to them, alone. The first attack upon Hohkmat fell long before the drums of war sung. Now, they answered it in earnest. Now, they closed the book on their own terms. It is that thought which steels his mind and carries the spell to completion, a sense of determination and control that briefly forges into iron, and rips the arcane power out of his chest and into the air. A paradoxically cold anger, steady, purposeful. His mind is gone, one with the flow of energy through his body, single-minded on guiding it away from a soul it could harm. And then, when it's all over- It returns just as quickly, like air returning to his lungs. In the blink of an eye, the Winburgh keep is rendered to glass. A home, to some. A symbol of terror for far, far more. In some part of his chest, still, he wishes it hadn't come to this. He wishes those who had seen it as a home, nothing more, could have been the ones to rule it. More than that, though- He knows there is no changing the past. And that finally, knowing there will never again be a place for his family to be tormented- He can sleep.

This would be a reasonable argument if it were physically possible- People cannot just ignore homophobia RP, as IRP laws influenced by it effect large portions of their characters lives. Even if I'm uncomfortable with it, I have to RP it, as doing otherwise would be ignoring IRP laws and significant RP events that it would make no RP sense to ignore or pretend don't exist.

Really suits artificery and there aren’t a ton of us so I don’t think it would get overused, +1

Atticus Reinhold takes the missive from Artel with a shaking hand- Being handed the draft is one thing, but seeing it completed is another. At the comment he chuckles, but it’s slightly damp with tears he’s fending off once more. “I’m sorry- It looks like you’re going to go under.”

Weylin von Theonus had rarely seen his father cry- It was only at a late hour, after the body had been collected, that the young man discovered why he had caught a glimpse of tears that day. He walks through the halls of Marignan, pausing by a portrait as he looks up at the younger face of his grandfather. Though they had spoken rarely, there was still a little boy in his heart that idolized the man who had made Theonus a legend. Softly, a crooked smile crosses his face as he tilts his head upward. "Danke, Opa." He gives the painting a salute, before making off to search for his mother.

Atticus Reinhold is visibly impressed as he finishes the final paragraphs of the analysis, a slight shake to his hand as he thumbs through the pages. The entire thing was a slight rollercoaster of emotion, if he had to be honest, yet- By the end, for one reason or another, he felt a sense of quiet elation. A tentative, but glimmering hope. He takes a steadying breath as he places the paper down, willing his excitement not to get the better of him. Instead he picks up a pen, looking to show his gratitude.

Penned by the Office of Magical combat, for power, sport or legal restitution, is one of the most integral elements of Hakad culture. It is by the trial of force, against powers from both outside and within, that the people of Hohkmat are shaped. It is only fitting that the city should be outfitted with an arena to match its culture and history of arcane prowess. Dug deep into the mountainside and overtaken by the unique biome of Hohkmat’s voidally-touched caves, the Ixmaten Proving Grounds seek to provide a place for all willing to prove their mettle among Aevos’ greatest sorcerers under the watchful gaze of the Magi of Hohkmat. The bonds of student and teacher are often formed in the proving grounds, as unknown Magi gain prominence for their ability. The proving grounds proudly feature a wide array of services that cater to both contestants and spectators. An on-site bar and honorary seating with finely upholstered benches are just some of those offered to distinguished guests. Those fighting in the proving ground will quickly notice the Void-touched flora and deadly pit of spikes on the sandy floor, replicating the Hakad’s desert origins, once they take to the field. It is with great honor that, to both commemorate the Ixmaten Proving Grounds and display Hohkmat’s culture of strength, we invite all those of magical prowess to participate in a three-bracket magical combat tournament that will span several years. The brackets have been arranged to allow those of any level of magical proficiency to participate and compete, earning a chance at glory and immortalization in Hohkmat’s halls. This tournament is not barred to mages of only the Void, but to all who can proudly say they wield untainted magical ability. There will be THREE brackets in this contest - One for each level of magical prowess. One may sort themselves into the bracket they wish to compete, though may be approached about moving brackets if the Chamber believes they should be placed in a higher level of the tournament. Competing in a bracket below one's talent is a shame upon one's capabilities. Bracket One: Journeyman [T2-T3] ❖ This bracket is recommended for those still closer to the beginning of their magical journey, who wish to prove their worth to potential teachers and their storied peers. Voidal magi in this bracket may still retain some of their physical strength, and are encouraged to use it alongside what spells they’ve learned. Bracket Two: Adept [T3-T4] ❖ This bracket is recommended for those who have gained confidence in their magical ability and believe they can go toe-to-toe with some of the world’s most ambitious new magi, making a name for themselves with their prowess. It is recommended for this bracket one wields multiple magics, but not required. Bracket Three: Master [T4-T5] ❖ This bracket is recommended for those who have mastered their choice of magical arts, or are pushing the bounds of mastery. The highest tier of the competition, those competing in the master bracket are expected to come face-to-face with other arcane powerhouses, pushing the limits of their refined abilities All contests will follow certain RULES as stated below. 1. All duels within the tournament will be NON-LETHAL. Duels are fought until the other party YIELDS, is rendered UNCONSCIOUS, or is otherwise incapacitated. 2. The intentional and permanent DISMEMBERMENT, DEAFENING, or BLINDING of any competitors is considered unacceptable lethality, and will result in instant disqualification of the offending party. 3. ONLY those who have been set to duel may participate in their respective fight- There is NO TAGGING IN or calling for assistance from spectators. 4. The harming of SPECTATORS outside the duel will result in instant disqualification of the offending party. 5. ANY and ALL damage wrought by the competitors MUST be confined to the lower part of the arena, where their duel takes place. 6. Continuing to attack a competitor who has YIELDED will result in instant disqualification of the offending party. Special invitations are sent to request national competitors of foreign Magi not native to Hohkmat; To the Magi of the Salvin Syndic of the Most Serene State of Lurin; To the Magi of the Silver Empire of Haelun’or; To the Magi of Celia’nor Unaffiliated Magi in territories of no formal magical institutions TO SIGN UP: The Firefly, Arakawa Sadao Steward of the Chamber of Earth and Assistant to the River Court of the Commonwealth The Honorable, Sir Atticus Abraham Reinhold Representative for the Sorcerous State of Hohkmat, Viscount of Stormont, Baron of Raonòir, Seat of Nortrebanc, Court Mage of the River Court of the Commonwealth, and Deputy Speaker of the Garmont Assembly of the Petra

Atticus reads over the study with wide eyes and pleasant surprise, impressed by the level of detail “Oh, wow, look at this-“ He thumbs through the portion about Nortrebanc with an approving nod, before flipping back a page and tipping his chair back slightly, holding the study up to show the man behind him. “Look, there’s a whole little section about how many people are in our house!” He chuckles. “I must thank Sir Konstantin for the mention- It really is sweet.” @mothsthetic

Atticus lets out a sigh of relief as he looks over the missive, before slipping a small pair of reading spectacles from his nose and folding them, with a soft smile. "Sir Aimo and Lord Adrian are both good, reasonable men- I have no doubt they'll be able to solve their disagreement swiftly. If I thought otherwise, I would not hold such loyalty to them both." He folds the letter neatly, before tucking it away in a safer drawer at his desk.

The tips of Atticus' fingers buzz with unseen energy as he places his hands flat to the arcane circle, specks of his own golden aura flickering in his eyes. Heat surges through the ritual chalk as they prepare for the next volley- And the next, and the next, until the combustive flames have carved a door large enough for an army. When the call for "CEASE FIRE" rings through the lower levels of the encampment, he takes a moment to gather himself. Sweat sticks to his brow, from both the small, overheated caverns and the exertion of his energy. And still, there was work to be done. As the portal appears over the ritual circle, he unsheathes his blade and stands. "I'm going to regroup with the Laurel." He gives Faeryel a Petran salute, fist over the heart, a bow of his head- Counting himself lucky such a mage stood on their side. "Drusco took issue with the presence of Hohkmat- Perhaps, in the end, they should have taken that as a warning."

Atticus Reinhold blinks at the scribe that had knocked upon his door with a rather disgruntled expression, braids slightly askew from what had been a very nice post-battle nap. Then he sighs, and runs a hand down his face. “Well- You can tell the Grand-Magister that if the Coalition had time to thank and acknowledge every single vassal that contributed to its numbers individually, we would be looking at a very long list of names. If Petra was acknowledged, we were acknowledged, because we are a vassal of Petra.” He half-turns to re-enter the home, then turns back around and adds- “And- tell him he has a severely inflated idea of the numbers we’re bringing. If he wants individual recognition, he should be working with the Chamber of Fire to recruit more so he can receive it. I can assuredly inform him that we did not muster a rally larger than any one entire nation. Claiming you are being slighted for that isn’t just egotistical, it’s downright rude to our allies.” Then he presses his lips together. “And- Er- If you could tell him all that in politer terms than I said it, it would be greatly appreciated.” He gives the scribe an apologetic little smile. “Sorry you had to come all this way." He ducks back into Manor Raonòir, and closes the door.

A Petran Mage-Knight hums as he crouches over a pile of looted swords, waving his hand over each in turn with a golden glow. "That one's alright- That one's very alright- That one won't last a day," He reports, picking and choosing only the best to take back. He lifts one blade aloft to the sun, letting the light glint off it with a slight, wry smile, only slightly dampened by his bloodied nose. "A full armory is a very kind way for them to apologize- If only it were enough."

KNOW THE ARCANE ✧ PENNED BY ✧ ✧ ON ATSTANA DE REGNE PETRÈRE 102 ✧ For many years, the Hohkmat Enclave has been a central part of Vallagne’s city bustle. Before the Sorcerous State came to fruition, it functioned as the sole base of operations for all Hakad magi as they worked tirelessly to create a place for themselves. Now it finds new purpose, renewing itself to once again serve as a diplomatic embassy - This time, as a waypoint between the city of Vallagne and the Free City of Hohkmat. .︵○︵. .︵○︵. As well as serving as a diplomatic touchstone, the new Petran Enclave strives to be a place of learning. With open arms we welcome aspirants, magi, alchemists, craftsmen, and even those with no interest in wielding magic- But who wish to expand their knowledge of it, either for the purpose of combat or scholarly pursuits. We seek those who wish to engage with the sorcerous path, who want to learn more about Hohkmat’s goals and ideals, and those who are simply interested in academic conversation of this world’s more esoteric subjects. .︵○︵. .︵○︵. The Petran Enclave now also hosts several new public facilities, which were previously closed off from general use. Through the main lobby, any in need will find access to a greenhouse, a small training area, and a public alchemy lab. All of these locations are open to both citizenry and visitors of Vallagne, regardless of magical inclination. .︵○︵. In light of this re-opening, the River Court wishes to invite all curious scholars to an informal, open-house lesson on basic magical principles. Several Hakad scholars will be invited to share their individual theories and experiences, and answer any question one might be able to present on the nature of magic. We encourage any interested to come armed with a curious mind and creative questions, experiments and theories. No previous knowledge of the arcane arts is needed, as this is meant to be a complete introduction on the subject of magic. We welcome you, one and all who wish to know the arcane better- To not fear it, but to understand it. And perhaps, one day, to control it DATE: HIS LORDSHIP, Sir Atticus Abraham Reinhold Baron of Raonòir, Seat of Nortrebanc, Court Mage of the River Court of the Commonwealth, Deputy Speaker of Vallagne, Representative for the Sorcerous State of Hohkmat HER EXCELLENCY, Marisol Paloma Solís Grand Chamberlaine, Mistress of the Robes, Curator of Jewels of the River Court of the Commonwealth, Assistant Head Physician of the Vallagne Medical Society, Founder of Rosa Dorada, and Protector of the Sun HER EXCELLENCY, Isabella Fa’alua Sanz Vizier of the Chamber of Wind, The Voice of Hohkmat, Steward of the Three Mysteries

Atticus ends up with an armful of stray documents as they're passed around from one magi to another, and eventually to him- He lets out a pleased chuckle as he takes in the frenzy of diplomats, lifting one of the profiles to eye-level. "She worked hard to bring this to fruition- It was worth the effort."

+1 especially for enwreathing allies- makes it a cool support spell

A Petrine Knight inspects himself in the mirror- His bloodied cheek had healed up fine. Wouldn't even scar, they said. His ears had stopped ringing by now, too. Took a couple weeks, but they did. And it was fine. The bags under his eyes hadn't faded, but he suspected that wouldn't come for some time. That, too, was fine. And of course, he was never built for this. Knighted as a bureaucrat, and not a combatant. They knew him well enough for that. Atticus Reinhold doesn't hold many great feats, and the ones he does don't exist on the battlefield. But he'll go out there again. And then again, and then again, and then again. That's the only way he can push this to be over. He brushes a braid from his face, wipes at his jaw, tilts his head up- Then down again. Sighs, softly. He doesn't see a soldier, and he never quite will. "... All for you, Adelyn."

Atticus Reinhold lets out a sigh of relief- For the friends in Celia’nor he knows will no longer be swept up in this conflict. “I must commend the wisdom of their leaders, for prioritizing their people over all else.”

Atticus Reinhold looks proudly over his sister's contribution to the piece, folding the newspaper carefully to highlight the retrospective as he tucks it into his desk. "I must admit, she's always been a far better wordsmith than I. Think I'll stick to writing bills," He chuckles- "While she excels at poetry."

"Ah-" Atticus Reinhold winces as he plucks the paper up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it gingerly like it was about to combust into flame- Or like it was a particularly nasty piece of garbage. "Not quite, my dear- This isn't the sort of thing you'd like to get involved with. Or... Talk about getting involved with, for that matter," He adds as he squints at the page. "The Deadmen are mercenaries now? Nothing good is going to come of this."

"Be they sponsored by Petra, harbored by Haense, concealed in Veletz, hidden in Adria..." Atticus Reinhold murmurs the words under his breath as he reads, before letting out a weary sigh. "It seems like our author is on the edge of a realization- Magi are everywhere. They will always be everywhere. There's really no getting rid of them, no matter how many you harass, or strike down, and- Well- Isn't it far better for him and his that we are within our walls, self-governing, our disputes contained, and frankly not bothering anyone?" He folds the missive neatly, before filing it away in his personal library. "He can accept that our corner of the world will continue to exist- Let us have our peace, and he has his. Or he can fight a never-ending battle on every front, for the rest of his life, trying to squash out a practice that has become engrained into almost every nation on this continent. I would choose the peace. But not all men are clever ones."

Atticus Reinhold takes the missive directly from one of the Prince's attendants, in his home where he had just finished a meal with his Highness. He practically beams at the contents, smoothing the paper out in his hands like it was made of gold. "Oh, this is such wonderful news- It brings hope, to see such moments of joy in the midst of war. I hope Princess Melina is doing well," He adds, with a lingering smile.