ToodIes

"I don't believe it," is Faeryel's simple reply, as she folds the missive and places it in a pocket. Smiling, she rolls her eyes, remarking to herself-- "Old wizards never die. He'll turn up in a bar, somewhere. Give it a century." That evening, clutching a bottle of wine, she'd again mumble 'old wizards never die', adding: "...Right?" -+- Far from society, wild and wooden, Ithuriel hears nothing of her old friend's death. As she twists animal sinew from the day's hunt into string, she looks up at the stars, and unbidden, the image of a telescope flits across her mind. It wavers at the edge of memory, but she can't quite grasp it.

i’d kill for this plugin

“You don’t understand. “You can’t kill the god of a godless ideology. “You can kill a rotten bundle of souls in the Stream. You can kill an old man in the Abyss. “Will that make the Book’s point any less true? Will that erase the threat of any real deities- the Dictator Aeriel? “Maleficar. God-slaves. Waste your energy on the meaningless and die out.”

It had been fourteen years since Cerusil’s raid on Hohkmat. Fourteen years since she’d waited, frozen with terror, to hear if Sarah would leave Winburgh alive. Today, she had it razed. She had liquefied its foundations. Nothing would grow in this part of the Midlands. Her wife and her Chamber had seen to that. This is my revenge. Not a knife in the dark, but a city reduced to ash. Glorious, fiery, honest victory. A shame you’re not here to see it.

“I despise them,” says Faeryel. “I despise the thought that darkspawn should live peaceful, unbothered lives, except for those rare occasions when they do evil deeds.” “They should know no peace. They should be hunted to the last. The Ibleesian and the Xionist should live in constant fear of discovery. They and their sympathizers should know terror for their beliefs. There will be no relief. There will be no quarter. There will only be paranoia and worry for the servants of the Dark.” “This I vow for you, Tahariae. I wish you’d come back.”

"In keeping with Canon law, I presume that the armies of Haense, Petra, Aaun, Balian and Númendil will be sailing for Aeldin to wage war against Oyashima," a scholar notes. "The halflings had better be more dwarf than human, or they're next."

---- Faeryel had been privy to the conspiracy. ----

-gates things normal 1 slot fire evocationists currently have access to behind a 2nd slot like smokescreens or combustion or enwreathe -is less freeform and more combative due to the removal of conjure fire fire evo is honestly fine as it is. I rlly haven't seen any significant complaints about it- it's solid, balanced, accessible lore

"Oh." | "Being alive didn't come naturally to him." Faeryel gently folds the note and puts it away. Another friend gone. "I'm sorry that I couldn't do more, Pinebaron. Rest easy."

Faeryel opens the long-shut gates to Hohkmat with a faint smile.

“Their*,” says Faeryel. “He’s good at spells, but not at spelling, that Cerusil.”

"As I recall from the beginning of the war-- We Are Coming to Kill You," remarks Faeryel. "Not 'we are coming until you change your name'."

Hohkmat, as seen from the battlements of Fort Drusco; 1960 Faeryel frowned over the remains of a shattered mana obelisk, deep under the Chamber of Fire. She had put hours into its engineering and construction, and now it was so many rocks. A note stuck out from the scattered stone. LEAVE THE WAR. DONT [sic] SUPPORT WARMONGERS. GO BACK TO BEING PEACEFL [sic] AND THIS ALL STOPS. “They’re not good at spelling, huh?” asked one of her lieutenants, leaning against a wall, watching her with an easy smile. “It’s to be expected,” replied Faeryel, as the note burned to ash in her fist. “Violence is the only language these people understand; not Common.” “Add more doors. This won’t happen again.” Fort Drusco after the battle, seen from the valley-bridge; 1960 “Now, isn’t this damned convenient?” joked one of Faeryel’s officers as she inspected the crisp crystal-lines of the arcane circle she’d be leading. Around them, cannon-metal creaked and armor clinked as the Covenant prepared their artillery assault. “I was picking rocks out of my boots for weeks after Balian. This time, I walked out of my front door and found myself in a siege camp!” He fell silent when the order came down to prepare for the first salvo. Faeryel closed her eyes, and sought that familiar power within herself. Light spiderwebbed across the ritual-array at the feet of the Hohkmati battlemagi as they funneled mana into her, casting harsh shadows on the cavern walls. When the order came down from on high, alongside the screaming cannonballs of the mundane artillery was flame. Fireballs roared across the river valley, hissing, crackling, thrumming with arcane might, before detonating against the walls of Drusco. And detonate they did, flinging showers of sparks into the air, blasting and burning wood and stone. The fort smoldered. Faeryel assessed the damage, eyes narrowed, hunting for a weak spot; somewhere the wall had been picked away by flame. “There,” she barked, as churning earth manifested within the shining mage-array. “Let’s add a door there.” Long had Hohkmat been plagued by raiders and vandals. Time and time again had the Uruk and the Veletzer brought the might of nations to bear against the small city-state. But they can’t win where it counts, Faeryel thought to herself as her sorcerers charged a teleportation spell, to follow the soldiers scurrying up the mountainside towards Drusco. How infuriating that must be.

“Do they think we’ll tire of victory before they tire of defeat?” wonders Faeryel, as she inventories the takings from Drusco. “Will we tire of armor plundered, of revenge exacted, of repeated triumph on the battlefield, before they give up? What’s their strategy, here?”

“Whitespire, Breakwater, Brasca, Hippo’s Gorge, and Castle Aurelian.” Faeryel strolls home with another Chamber of Fire member in tow, laden with the spoils of victory. “Why labor in the mines when the good men and women of Veletz seem so willing to do it for us?” “You’ve got to give them some credit,” her companion chimes. “They’re very good at dying.”

"No, no, he's right. Azdromoth is the Archdrakaar, not the Archdragaar. To pretend him and his ilk aren't corrupt and Ibleesian is folly." Some elf nods approvingly. "That any of Azdromoth's fetid spawn could claim to be righteous or even neutral is very, very silly."