Hook

Upon the late evening of his return from a fellcharting expedition some may describe as somewhat ill-fated, W. B. Penrith was seen hopping around the capital - swapping favoured leg to better scratch his calves, each in turn - on his way to every alchemist, botanist and chemist's store that he knew in search of something for his rash. Each door he tried brought on only familiar defeat of their being barred against the hour, and many had passed since he'd started. "Awgh, soddin' goblin's ivy!", he snarled through his teeth, through the thicket of his great draping moustache. The few townfolk still abroad were drifting to or from the taverns. There was no moon but so many were the stars in that country that the strangers cast shadows on the cobbled stone that held them up. Their boots clacked, leathers creaked. A door slammed, elsewhere laughter. He'd heard most taprooms in the city were doing baths now, and a hot one would do some good for the rash. * * * He'd claimed the closest stool to the entrance and rapped his knuckles twice on the mucky cedarwood bartop. The room was thick with pipesmoke and largely dim, for the sole torch it held was behind the bar. A few patrons shifted as he looked over, then they resumed their business. Beside him, a large heap of leaflets advertising local shops and services stood slant. He scratched his calves. He rapped his knuckles again. He reached for the stack and would have cycled through them, were it not for the contents of the very first one. A RENEWED INTRODUCTION TO THE NORTHERN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY EST. 1762 His fingers tightened on the page as he read it. After several solitary years of mapping mountains and ridgelines by progress of boot and compass, the thought of getting to work alongside others in similar fields, especially in a chartered manner, had crossed his mind more than once. "Whaddya wanna drink," came the sudden and booming voice of the barkeep. "D'you have baths here?", "No bath. Just the taps. Whaddya want?," Penrith had loosed the rawhide binding on his journal, and was soon copying the contents of the notice line for line. "Mugga water'll do, then." "Mugga water..." The barkeep poured from a rough-hewn clay jug into a pewter mug, his eyes flicking between the patron's journal, the ad, and the growing stack it'd been taken from. The water was clonked before Penrith on the stained lightwood top. "Obliged. How m-" "Two minas for the water. And stop your scrawlin', just take that rottin' handbill with ye." "I reckon that I will," he said, folding it into his pocket with one hand and sliding two coins to the barman with the other.

Ripplewick was sipping a thick and mucky home-brewed ruby ale in his cramped study - or rather, the small loft filled with furniture composed almost entirely of stacked books in the vague impressions of a stool and a desk - watching the sun go down through a crack in his planked wall, the only sort of view that his measly space offered. He'd long since mastered the angle that let him slouch back on his seat and stare right through that crooked aperture at the slither of sunset. He'd lost track of how many days in a row he'd done this very thing, and how many Minas a month he offered up for it. The self-pity and guilt set in, and as one does upon remembering one's own idleness, the beggar's excuse for a mage decided it was high time to be productive, and get to work deciphering the valuable artefact he'd procured on his latest adventure*. *His latest adventure had of course only been a short trip to the town shoppe and back, and the artefact was no more than a discarded notice he'd found, wretched and scrumpled in a gutter some fourty feet from his front door, addressed to a wizard far better known than himself. Ripplewick's only real claim to fame was for authoring a book on eighty ways to cook a potato, some years ago. Ripplewick straightened his posture, and with a wave of his hand set a brass dustpan and brush about their business, becoming animate and lively with a deep emerald aura enveloping their shape, momentarily uncertain in their motions after such long dormancy - if they were sentient, you'd suppose they were considering how a dustpan and brush can dust themselves - before abandoning any such notions and skittering around, cleaning the old loft right up. He reached into his robe pocket, and then down through the gaping hole at the pocket's bottom, down into the depths between the inner and outer lining of his robe, fishing out the artefact - a still-soggy ball of paper, dragging up strange tendrils of lint and matter with it. Using his bare hands, he ironed it out with great decorum on his desk, reading the contents. 'A call to all mages!' The wizard read it and pondered. Ripplewick had spent years, years and more years in the hopes of finding a suitable teacher for Arcanism to no avail, often finding himself the butt of jokes he couldn't understand. He wondered if he'd actually be welcome to such a meeting, in spite of the apparent desperation for magic users. After all, the letter wasn't addressed to him, and why would it've been? He'd scarcely found kinship in a fellow magi, despite being quite the dab hand in the use of fire evocation and housemagery. Still, worth keeping, he supposed- something for the to-do list. Back into his pocket it went. The dustpan and brush halted in mid-air and clattered to the ground noisily, that emerald aura diminishing, diminishing until only the tarnish offered such verdant tones. A tenant in the room below thumped angrily on their ceiling.

Magic is a part of the server and the lore, but not in as a mechanical / gameplay feature. You're not going to see fireballs whizzing about the screen, it's all done through RP emoting. How it works: Your character can learn a variety of different magics. Here's a link to the magic lore junction. Voidal is probably where you'll find familiar types of magic and so is a good place to begin, but do browse through because there's a lot of really good stuff in every category. Magic can be really difficult to learn/obtain, especially at the start when your character hasn't met anybody. It took me more than a real life year of constant searching to find my first teacher, this was for the most common evocation. Once you find a teacher, you apply on the forums for the staff to accept it. This confirms that the character can begin to learn the magic. It's not a case of just reading about it OOC, learning how it works, then doing it on your character. Even if you, the user, knows how it all works, your character must learn it through in-character roleplay, and through the application system. Here's a link to the most recently accepted apps - an [MA] is a magic app, if you're curious as to what these look like. Other: Some magics have downsides that need to be role played, but this is always detailed in the magic lore posts on the forums. For instance voidal magic, perhaps the most readily available type of magic, comes with voidal poisoning that makes a character physically weak as they progress their magic ability. Some magics may be seen as controversial (in RP). It can be overwhelming at the start, but you don't need to learn everything about every magic. Ultimately, don't expect finding a teacher to be a fast or easy process, but you'll get there with persistence, if it's what you really want to do. Feel free to pm me with any Qs!

Ripplewick skim reads the flyer. 'Boat race, rowing, very good... f-five hundred minas!?' *** An hour later and he's standing upon the edge of the Talon's Port docks, looking down upon his seaweedy old rowboat. It was cold, and his ears were aching. 'I've rowed to Elvenesse and back, in this thing,' he thunk to himself. 'Now it'll be my ticket to riches.' He leapt down into the rowboat, impacting with a 'K'bonk!'. Immediately, the vessel began to drift away, but far worse, it also started to sink. With the dock too far gone to save himself, Ripplewick stared at the huge hole he'd been too lazy to fix, helpless as he and the boat sank diagonally a few feet away from the dock, looking like a defiant castaway atop a melting iceberg. Once the soggy wizard had pulled himself onto land again, and finished his shivering and self pity, he thought that all in all things had gone as well as they usually do. He marks the date in his dripping pocketbook.

Ripplewick studies the flier twice over, and then once more to be sure. He'd experience some warm sense of belonging, but the feeling is novel to him and he'd dismiss it. The wizard had just supposed he was hungry. Fortunately, he'd been heading to Talon's Port regardless after hearing rumours and whispers of food stalls. On the back of a 'lucky scroll' that he'd been convinced into purchasing, (which contained only a recipe for a thin, bland stew in a language that Ripplewick could not discern), he scrawled the details and resumed his peregrination.

Ripplewick had spent a lot of time in Talon's Port as of late. He was elsewhere, though, when he discovered this flyer. It seemed too serendipitous to ignore, and he made a note that he should attend... Besides, Ripplewick would never miss an event with food stalls.

Ripplewick reads the rules and, excited, purchases a deck of Caravan cards to play with his dearest landlord, maybe even hoping to wager a double or nothing on this month's rent!? In his quarters, deciding it best to begin by practicing his shuffle, the clumsy wizard paper-cuts his fingers thrice and then hurls his deck into his wall. The stack of cards dissipates into many, all fluttering to an eventual rest against timber planks. Ripplewick blows on his poor wounded fingers, retrieves his cards, orders them, and begins to shuffle again... O+o+o+o+o+o+O (Hope I can find some cards out there for sale! I enjoyed reading this)

Belvitz was great, lots of easily accessible RP for anybody who wanted to get involved. It really felt open to everyone. Nice!

Ripplewick scribbles down the details. Finally, a chance to put an end to his streak of twelve last-place pub quiz placings. @Tidgemo

Ripplewick jolts awake from a daytime slumber. Something, somewhere, has changed. Within a few seconds, he's asleep again. Dreams of biscuits.

Ripplewick would purchase a copy of the paper, his new favourite medium of keeping up with politics and foreign events without needing to eavesdrop on the wealthy, to flick through at the nearest bench. Afterwards, he'd pass his copy on to @Tidgemo

Ripplewick reaches to sign the petition, but his writing hand halts midway towards parchment with a near audible creak. Spotting 'Title II Chapter One', knowing not which magic the pious may consider to be dark, or if the mere act in itself was enough, he was left uneasy. Himself ignorant of how to query this without self-incrimination, he decided instead it'd be best if he made himself scarce. He trudges elsewhere. He picks his nose and flicks something onto the sod beneath his feet. He supposed it mattered not whether he, whether who, or how many would go on to sign the petition. Whether each nation may run concomitant with strife as one problem replaces another for the rest of time, whether each may cease.

Beneath smouldering timber ribs that had once been a cottage, but now closely resembled the long-beached carcass of some infant Cetacea, lay nestled a tiny hewn rock cellar... Ripplewick was perched on a stool in this cellar with his cheek in his hand, mouth ajar. He watched a single plain potato roast slowly on a spit over a hushed fire with no wood or fuel beneath it. He stood and paced, five steps from one char-blackened wall to the next, keeping his sorry little spud in eyeshot all the while. In one corner of this room lived a wobbly alder table, itself domicile to an assortment of tomes and papers and several stumpy wax candles. The wizard ceased his pacing to visit this corner and at once, the cooking fire withdrew, its absence submerging the cellar in pitch blackness. There was the smell of smoke and then nothing. Atop each candle on the table, tiny sparks crept into existence. A moment later, each candle fully incandesced with jam-coloured flame, basking the disorder of documents in a flickering purple-red glow. Ripplewick moved aside his first-edition copy of 'Sprites: Friend or Foe? (& Other Advice for Lonely Men)'. Beneath it, for safekeeping, he had placed his copy of the notice from The Enchantry, which he'd nabbed from a noticeboard earlier in the day. Taking this, and munching his crispy spud, Ripplewick left his cellar for Lorena's Wharf IV, his tip of his hat bobbing along at each step.

OOC ((MC Name: Hook )) ((Discord: Hook#1257 )) ((Timezone: GMT+0 )) IN-CHARACTER What is your name? Artwinkle P. Ripplewick Why seek membership to the Mages Guild? I look not only to further my own understanding of the world of the Arcane and place therein, but as well wish to contribute towards it in whatever way I am able - tutoring, assisting, or otherwise. I also wish to adhere to the philosophies of the Arcanicum, and follow the ethical boundaries it presents. Outside of dedicating myself to the Guild, I would like to be in the presence of other mages and listen to their lovely, enchanted anecdotes - perhaps over a meal of plain bread and watery soup...? I make a sometimes-very-acceptable watery soup. What arts, if any, do you currently practice? Fire Evocation (T5) What position do you desire to attain upon acceptance? Adeptus Minor (ideally). Though technically a qualified teacher, I am not experienced in tutoring - however I would like to contribute (in the way of tutoring/otherwise) as soon as I am capable or required to do so. When should you be contacted for an interview? Any time, at the moment - ideally between 13:00 and 00:00 GMT. Other notes *In the corner of the application is a sketch of a wizard, with the physique of a snapped branch. "RIPPLEWICK" is scrawled just below, "(SO Y'KNOW WHO TO LOOK FOR)" .*

Fable anyone? Ere's a theme for Ripplewick. A roaming peasant wizard