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* Albus Henrik Brian Amador * Professor of Demonology, Wizard of Blackwell Tower. 101 - 180 S.A The air was thick with soot, the sky held no stars, the background filled with Shades of the long-deceased; Shadows wandering aimlessly, only to occasionally cast a glimpse in the direction of the strangers, only to whisper: “You shall join our fate if you do not turn back.” “Turn around whence you came” “The Aenguls forsake us here… Leave” The Old Wizard knew such sights were to await them here: Aegis’ long-deceased and abandoned population, the aftermath of conflict between Aenguls & Demons, of Cataclysm & Catastrophe. Descendants’ Unresolved Tragedy. . . They had to come here. They could not turn back. Lest Aevos be subjected to the same fate. A strange stone construct stood in this desolate waste, veiled by the smog and soot with only a bright Sapphire fire raging in the centre; three corpses hung loosely upon wooden stakes, tied to the poles, decapitated and contorted. The latest prizes of an unholy hunt. An obscured figure knelt to the flames. Beside them rose two Paladins of Old. God-Forsaken. “Why do you come here?” Dark Times, Dark Days. Corruption of Deific beings & Demons Unleashed. “Sol Invicta - Daughter of Order, We come under dire circumstances and we seek counsel.” Weapon drawn, A grotesque item of Blackened Crystal: The Rotting Claw of the Lion. They had found whom they sought: The Lion of the Abyss. But no counsel was granted. “You seek advice from one that your Lord, damned to the ruins of Aegis, where the Isles of Sheerok have no connection. No truth.” The terrifying trio began to step forward, fanning out and flanking the doomed. Forsworn and forsaken fighters judging the gathering: their Order. On the hip of one, the head of a Herald. Another Trophy. “Order is that the weak kneel and the Strong protect those who cannot wield the sword. They understand their place and know when to be dealt with. . . I am bound here. . .Bury your blades in your necks, help the fight that renders here & I shall make you part of my legion. To stand against the tide of Mordring here in the Abyss.” What happened next was a chaotic scene. Some fought. Some fled. Most died. The Old Wizard had come, alongside his niece, abiding to one Mantra: It is better to save an innocent life than to take a guilty one. It is better for the soul. They had failed to save her, for she could not be saved. A thrall to the whims of Aenguls. So, they ran. Abyssal chain wrapped around the Old Wizard’s leg, tripping him up and landing him in the ash and soot; looking up to his kin, his student and the future hope of many, Albus shouted: “GO!” He turned about to his assailant, One of the Forsaken, Abyss-Walking Paladins of Yore. It was a Horrifying Spectre: Ethereal Chains held in a Gauntleted fist. “Vyr Battle Here is being fought on Aevos. Y’am an Old Man, Niet long for this world…” “That is True - You have had a long life. The others here are Young, they do not see your wizened brow and homely face. Die Well.” The ethereal chains began to whip up about his body, tightening about the neck of the Old Wizard, forcing him to gasp for air. Flashes of Azure mist flared from the chains, the Old Wizard attempted desperately to rid himself of those chains, but to no avail. With a secondary attempt, the flash fizzled and Albus lay in the soot once more, his gaze up to the sky. The Nausea set in first. The pain came next. Cut in twain at the waist. The Wizard of the Blackwell Tower looked up towards the Blackened Sky. He’d spent a lifetime defending against Demons, to be felled by a Demi-Aengul’s Death Knight. But, He would not join the Legion of the Lion of the Abyss. He suffered the Fate of the Shades. Within the Confines of the Old Wizard’s Tower, A large parchment with a series of sealed letters: Here in lies, set forth, the Last Will & Testament of Albus Henrik Brian of the House of Amador. Son of Radmir of the House of Amador. Professor of Demonology, Chronologist, Voidal Wizard & Custodian of the Blackwell Tower within the Duchy of Brabant. I name as the executor of my Will: Ser Sterling Percy of the House of Whitewood-Blaxton, Duke of Brabant and Lord of Lotusgrad. An Accounting of my Actions, to be published to those who wish to read it: Throughout my life, I have sought out the evil that stowed-away within the Amadorian Flagship from Asulon, from the Diary of Daniel Amador. The Demon that had killed my ancestors and our Great Founder, before the emaciated survivors of my House landed on Anthos, bringing along that Demon of Misfortune and Misery. I swore, on the relics of my ancestors gathered by Nataliya Amador, that I would defend my House and all Descendent-Kind from the evils of Demons. Through my exploits, after a lifetime of study and research, I was ultimately able to defend the Duchy of Brabant from an Armoured Infernal Hellhound. In that great battle, when I lost my dearest Papej, I had summoned a great tornado and felt at the peak of my powers. However, if you are reading this now, then I have been felled during a desperate expedition to the Abyss to save Aevos from the Darkness that is Here. I have borne witness to the Aengul Xan, who was uncharacteristically enraged at his followers & who will descend upon Aevos, bringing about a new conflict between the Aenguls and the Demons. Azdromoth, Arch-Drakaar and Leader of the Azdrazi, Wars with the Order of the Golden Lion to the detriment of all Descendent-Kind. His Holiness, Pontiff Caius Primus, makes Crusade against Hexicanum & Gashadokuro. Darkspawn plague the Northern Kingdom of Ravenmire where King Bo I Rostova, disowned of Amador, fights to defend his people. Ser Sterling Whitewood-Blaxton leads the Silver Crusade against the tides of Moz Strimoza's Hellspawn. Descendent-Kind must Unite. Unite, or surely, you will fall and Aevos shall suffer the fate of Aegis before it. I leave but one hope to Descendent-Kind, the girl who was denounced by the Sons of Horen & whomst has borne great pain for Redemption, fighting still for all. Professor Albus Henrik Brian Amador, on the 9th day of The First Seed in the 180th Year of the Second Age. A Series of Letters that I would wish delivered to their respective parties: To Ailure of the Order of the Golden Lion: To His Holiness, Pontiff Caius Primus: To His Royal Highness, King Ivan VIII of Haense: To His Royal Highness, Bo I Rostova, King of Ravenmire: To His Grace, Ser Sterling Whitewood-Blaxton, Duke of Brabant: To The Right Honourable Henrik Amador, Vikomit of Zveslund: To Faeryel & Sarah Artenin, The Grand Magister of Hohkmat & Vizier of Fire: To Lord Karl of Falkner & Mirasul of Val'taelu: To Katherina Sophia: To Vindyr Di Ixolar: OOC:

What does Magic of any kind, or its many (usually morally dubious) power sources smell like? Of course, from what I understand substances like liquid Mana/Lifeforce allow for them to be made physical and tangible, does this mean that they have a taste and or smell? What about the taint of the void? Does ice conjured by a Voidal Mage smell any different by the one wielded and imbued by the magic of a Frost Witch? What about flames? Whether it be of Malflame or Dragonfire, or the Holy Light of Paladins and or Templars. Would a flower be any different to the sense after a Druid has tampered with it? Yes, I woke up like an hour ago. Yes, I am aware of the risk I place upon myself of the consequences of such a controversial post. But nontheless, another will one day ask the same question irp and we will all look like fools when we are without answer, the truth must be revealed! On a more serious note, while an emphasis is put on 'smelling', the rest of the senses are equally interesting. Answering that for example a Demi-Djiinn's magic brings about a certain taste akin to that of the mashed potatoes that your grandparent used to make when you were young...Certainly would change one's view on the magic itself. It's also really good for writing if we are being honest, having your character's own organs be roasted by dragonfire, would be a somewhat visceral experience and I do think discussing what the other senses would pick up other than merely the pain caused by it would always be really freaking interesting. And small show of hands, this entire post is inspired by 'In Stars and Time' which I came around all the way back on December and has probably become one of my favorite stories in recent years. Within It's story whenever a certain magic took effect, a heavy smell of Burnt Sugar was noticed by the protagonist, growing all and more denser, potent and terrible as the story progressed, which I personally found really interesting and unique! Certainly made it feel more personal and memorable of an experience for me personally.. (Good game, go play it, but only after you respond to the post!!)

Hi, if you're a T5 wizard and you're looking for a student contact me on discord. My name on discord is GeneralPumpkinCZ#1005.

In Athera, on the outskirts of The Reformed Kingdom of Oren, a settlement was formed, mostly human, on a fishing wharf. It was out of the way from major roads, and it's population wasn't high, so it's not hard to believe that the economy was so stagnant that the majority of the population lived in little more than mud huts along the small fisheries and make-shift dock. There was one exception: a powerful wizard, likely of dark magic, held a tower that loomed over the little village. His name was Deinalt Mephistaurus, and he enjoyed the power he held over the peasants and fish-mongers. He relished in it and exercised it as a tyrant. The villagers had little choice but to comply with his demands. The years drew, however, and they saw no way out, his demands becoming harsher and harsher as he pushed their limits. Sometimes, they were even summoned into the tower itself, either to never be seen again, or as a dry, pale corpse. Secretly, they sent messages out, begging for help from Oren, but Oren had been caught up with politics and, most importantly, wars, and their resources were stretched thin. The request went unheeded. When war erupted in 1483, the villagers knew they would not receive help soon, if at all, and sought instead to hire mercenaries who would take the job for the meagre coin they could scrounge up. They eventually found some who agreed, and the group stole in at the dead of night to ambush the wizard as he rested, for they knew frontal attack upon his tower would avail little except their own deaths. They did not kill him as he slept, as the wizard did wake, but he was still caught flat-footed and with his magical components outside of his reach. He cast what he could, but blind-sided as he was, the fight was intense but short. Deinalt Mephistaurus fell backwards upon the bed he had woken from, but not before cursing the traitorous villagers with his dying breath, promising pain and destruction to them as long as they lived. In the end, the village rejoiced in the victory of their saviours. After much celebration, the heroes parted and Rahult enjoyed their new freedom. They found some measure of prosperity now that they were no longer bogged down with the unrelenting and unfair demands of the wizard. Ten years later, on the anniversary of the wizard's murder, the Plague hit the town, and much of the population died over night. It was no coincidence, the villagers moaned as they mourned. Deinalt's grip still strangles them today. His curse continues! Some of the villagers suggested seeking clerical help, but this idea was shot down for its massive cost. Besides, the Plague hit them hard; if this were truly the will of the mage, would it not be satiated? Another ten years passed, and upon the anniversary, the village was torn with a localized earthquake. Many died in the fallen rubble. Many more lost their homes. Calls for holy intervention increased, but so did the flight from the village. Nothing could be done to circumvent the next tragedy but to wait. When the 30th anniversary came, the villagers waited with baited breath, waiting for a swoop that would likely kill them off for good this time. But the night passed with no unholy intervention, and they all breathed a collective sigh... until the next morning. Several people (men, women, children) were found dead in their beds, throats slit. A couple people were confirmed missing shortly after, but it was unknown if they were still alive, or if they were, whether they were fleeing justice for the acts or fleeing the curse before it could hit them. The villagers would have loved to follow up these events with a witch hunt, but their seeking was cut short; the Flood had overtaken Athera and their wharf was one of the first to drown below the constant rains. Those who were left had no choice but to leave their homes to be swallowed by the waters and go to Vailor. Some of those villagers may still yet live, as could the Heroes of Rahult... as could the unknown murderer. And though the village is gone, no one knows for sure if the wizard's curse is done. Known Former Villagers: Sahar Tha'un Known Heroes of Rahult: Timeline: 1468 - Athera was settled 1469 - Rahult was successfully settled, building watched over by Deinalt Mephistaurus 1475 - Mephistaurus's demands become strange. Citizens begin to disappear 1483 - The Kingdom of Oren becomes Galahar. Rahult citizens look elsewhere for aid. 1483, Sun's Smile - Mercenaries are hired to kill Deinalt Mephistaurus, a contract is drawn 1483, The Amber Cold - Deinalt Mephistaurus is killed in his tower. 1493, The Amber Cold - Plague hits the town overnight. Many citizens die. 1503, The Amber Cold - A localized Earthquake hits the village 1513, The Amber Cold - Many citizens are found murdered in their beds End of 1513 - Rahult is abandoned to the Flood