Trial of Fah'nadir (5/1)

[21:19:40] Fah'nadir's Shrine -- the worst one, at least for a Nephilim. All Rhystian places hold in their hearts a special distaste for cursed ones, but no place is worse than the very ideological source of the cancer. At least for those who were burdened by the Dragon directly, though most care little to make any distinction.

Still. They're in calm waters for now, safe harbour. A ship is setup for the party, no larger than a decent size sloop, outfitted with an array of magitech machinery. A mechanical ship, powered both by sail, and a manaforge. Despite the crude origins of the technology, it's setup quite well, the most luddite of the world able to operate and maintain it with ease. Little more than a specially attuned furnace, powering cranks which turn giant steam-powered wheels.

None in the party were there to truly witness the carnage and destruction wrought by the last vessel -- ostensibly, lessons were learned. A handful of sailors line the edges of the deck, awaiting the arrival of the noble and her entourage -- each and every single one, grizzled, wearing the visage of tired veterans and experienced sailors alike. Despite this, their decorum and uniforms were pristine, chests pinned with the Sigil of House Levante, though notably with an eye underlaying it.

It's a good time as any to go, but Sailor tradition dictates a ritual of good luck be undertaken -- from tossing a coin into the water, to prayers, each and every person, culture, state has their own variation of it. It's best not to tempt fate, especially not with the return of Melusine. Compassionate She may be, it was by Her hand that entire nations were swept under the Seas, and the Spirits within Her Domain have only grown bolder.

Accompanying this -- eyes pierce through the party. It's not from the sailors, or onlookers, but something far above, activating a latent, reptilian aspect of one's mind. Something powerful is watching.
[21:25:51]
Clad fully in their armor, Rynn stares at the expectant sailors with the indifferent visage of someone whose face is completely covered by a mask.

Being someone that had only been aboard ships a handful of times, Rynn was about as knowledgeable about ships as a dog was about steambikes- it was a tub of wood that went to one place and the other using the power of magic (wind and currents), and that was it.

Although their voice is lower, their helmet picks it up and amplifies it, distorting it in the process.

"You're gonna have to figure something out here. Last time I was on a ship it wrecked off the coast of Kal Azul."

And the other time it was to go to a war zone, so it wasn't really a good track record that Rynn was displaying. Given their luck, it was best that Dura handled off the procedures.

Or maybe Celius.
(Rynn Blackwood)
[21:32:13]
Though the voyage is a dangerous one, certain preparations have been made. And if the eye sigil was any indicator, not necessarily entirely by her own hand.

Regardless of whether she wears the crown or not - and she currently has opted to not don it today - she is still nobility all the same. She comports herself courteously with small nods to those of the crew. Muttered words of greeting, of gratitude, to those that would be manning the vessel.

From her pocket she takes a single coin and flips it, tail over head over tail, into the water with a soft 'plunk'.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. A lot of this isn't anything I haven't seen before." Dura had, in a time now long ago, fallen in with certain less savory seafaring elements. Heaven forbid it finally work in her favor.

The skin at the back of her neck prickles. The feeling, the sensation of being watched isn't foreign to her.

"It also looks like they know what they're doing here. We can find the Captain and see how we can best help to get us out of dock."
(Dura Levante)
[21:57:38]
Proceeds forth in his own armor, indifference greeting the ever-flowing tides and the onset of their voyage with the dull, contemplative focus that one had most certainly grown to expect and anticipate from the Seraphim. What idle preparations he might've been keen to make fall on deaf ears, for in the face of a task such as this -

They mean little.

Every little bit counted, though. It'd been a very, very long time since Celius dealt with elements of the sea. Their arrival on Sarea as a collective whole - the Seraphim, that is - had led to one such encounter, which he'd at this point grown to look back upon fondly. A stack of coins, withdrawn with a flick of the wrist, are gracefully skipped across the water's surface before sinking uselessly into the expanse.

The watchful gaze bares down upon him, grazing against that shell of relative disregard in perhaps acknowledgement of his keen focus and his steel-like resolve. The Seraphim's wings part lightly, rustling as he nods his head forward -

"The Sea hasn't been particularly kind to me, either." he retorts. "From Icebergs, to Coastlines...It always does find a way."
(Celius Vaelstrum)
[21:58:09] the war says, "( narrating "
[22:14:57] Chat command attempt: /who
[22:18:29] Coins are flicked into the ocean, one, many -- and the Sailors follow suite. It may be just that, a useless gesture, but the placebo of it is more than enough to soothe nerves of the superstitious, for it seems to be that those who shirk a toll find themselves in harm's way.

Planks are thrown forward, and boarding is underway. The ship is solid -- and though it still sways with the tide, it is resolute and smooth, bracing masterfully against the waves. Sailors move to and fro, setting sails, preparing for the journey ahead.

It's easy to find the Captain, too, for the woman in charge of the vessel is the only one wearing a proper bicorne, not to mention the aura of experience she wielded, oozing both confidence and unrestrained swagger, even in the eyes of the Duchess.

List of tasks are dispensed out to the three -- and it's all simple enough. Lookout, moving things around, maybe even bucketing rainwater out of the bottom deck, nothing that'd take much experience in anything to get done.

Besides one, of course. Dura's map is only legible to herself, and the two that accompany her. An easy enough task, especially with some semblance of sea legs.

That's for later, of course, for the now involves simply getting away from Sarea. The sailors make quick work of that, and the wind that /was/ blowing down against the ship, soon follows the ship, billowing out sails fully.

Once fully out to Sea -- that's where the troubles always begin, don't they?

[Dura will get a +5 to the following roll, on account of experience and possessing a magical map.]

[Celius and Rynn both may gain/argue bonuses to their respective lookouts, based on roleplays, and any augments, skills, equipment they would reasonably have]

[Dura will be rolling to length/shorten an upcoming encounter, and Rynn and Celius will be rolling to lessen the severity of it]
[22:30:18]
Following up on Dura's example, Rynn also flicks a coin into the waters before boarding the ship, only to come up with the first trials and tribulations of the trip: manual labor.

The legionnaire is presented with  list of things to do and, being qualified in almost absolutely nothing aboard a ship leaves Rynn with very little to choose from if they wanted to be useful.

"Ooouuugh"

It would be pretty silly to be a lookout when Celius, being a Seraphim, could fly and warn the crew with advance than if the legionnaire simply posted up by the mainmast's nest. So it was the short straw for now.

Despite the sound of someone needing to me evacced to a medical hospital (tummy hurt), Rynn nevertheless heads below decks with a bucket in hand.

Damage control was very important, after all.
(Rynn Blackwood)
[22:31:55]
Though there is a part of her that considers it idle superstition, there is power in morale, and it's a power she knows all too well. All seems to be going well enough. The crew is set to task and her retinue remain focused despite misgivings of a voyage out to sea.

"I've always had better luck. I actually don't think I've ever been on a vessel that's crashed," she muses, offering some hope for her wary comrades. No, the voyages of hers that have usually gone awry have been more the variety of extraplanar and the Astral Sea.

Finding the Captain is the first order of business, and is an easy job, as is the conversation that follows. She spreads out the map where it's visible, but of course it's not as if it makes a lick of sense to those that aren't among her cadre.

"Right. If you two need anything - just shout. I'm going to try and make some sense of this. It's been a little while since I've had to sail by chart."

Dura searches about for a navigator's tools. Some spare paper, a sextant, anything she can get her mitts on to make the task easier. Maybe her studiousness will serve them well on this voyage.

A fortuitous tailwind blows and pulls the sails taught. But what of the rest of their preparations?...

(Dura Levante)
[22:32:03] Chat command attempt: /roll 20
[22:36:57]
Celius nods his head simply ; labor wasn't anything new to him. He was used to working, and he wasn't somebody with an inclination toward complaining regardless - so to him falls the duty of the Lookout. Ironic, perhaps, that one with a singular eye would be granted the task of such -

But he did have wings.

"Keep me up to date with the path. I'll get a higher view - keep an eye on things."

Rynn was faster than him, no doubt - they're left to deal with the majority of the more menial labor. Damage control was very important, after all, and it was unlikely that they'd blast a hole through the hull or anything. His singular eye sparks into life, bounding with countless flecks of mana - like stars in a backdrop of dim blue, darting along in perpetuity.

The Seraphim crouches, glances up, and then ascends. He takes off with a blur, gaining distance through the air above to do just as he'd said.
(Celius Vaelstrum)
[22:53:23] The most obvious thing first -- the presence that was watching, Celius can recognize is in fact, a Dragon. The same one that sent Dura on this pilgrimage.

The ship's crew and her passengers do an excellent job out at sea, of course. The keen eye of the Seraphim does well to spot brewing storms, way past any normal man's vision, and with a spot of forward thinking and adjustment, Dura is able to drift off course without losing much time, despite the detours.

Rynn is left with the menial labour -- and because of the excellent work of the two others, that's basically all it is. Some water splashes over, and every few hours she brings a bucket or two up to dump out. It's not really necessary, but there isn't a world where a Legionnaire like Rynn wasn't active at all times (besides the dinner table). The ship is in great condition, and honestly, it's a great time to catch up on her card skills with fellow crewmates.

Days pass, if not weeks, and it's as simple as before. Nothing is coming to kill them. Nothing is trying to destroy their ship. A boring affair, and before long, the Shrine was going to be in view -- but there was something strange. It was all water, for many many leagues. Even the map said as much, and it wasn't like Dura was following it wrong.

Worries are waylaid, as before long Celius manages to spot their destination. An ancient, slightly ruined, but very much impressive Shrine -- floating, above the calm seas. It would seem to be as simple as that, sail on over, clamber onto the Shrine, and do what needs to be done.

Naturally, the Seraphim /also/ knows it's not an adventure at sea without something deadly happening.

A great presence divebombs its way towards the ship, trailing a mighty storm behind it -- thunder echoing out across the silent seas, lightning dancing between the waves. Dutiful callouts mark both the approach of the beast, and revealing what the presence actually was.

It was a Wind Dragon, Njolifar, who was currently gathering a massive storm around the ship. Apart of some trial, assuredly.

Either way -- it was time to hunker down, buckle up, and steer this ship through the storm, or die trying.

[Dura has reduced the round count from 7 -> 5 with their roll.]

[Celius has reduced the 'damage' of the storm by (some) amount, with his advanced warning.]

[Rynn has kept the ship in tip-top shape, providing excellent 'cover' and 'shielding' (lifeleak) from the storm]

[Dura: Minor]
[Celius: Minor]

Keeping tune with their sailing, a storm is simply no match for a crew in tune with the elements, each other, it was honestly, as the kids say, a 'vibe'.

The Sailors do an exceptional job as well -- making sure the ship is steering straight, planks aren't getting ripped off, and everything is in order.

Dura, Celius and Rynn -- they're no slouches either, and though some wounds are picked up, it's nothing more than 'cool' scars that you can show off into a bar.

More importantly, the Shrine was close enough. A giant floating mausoleum, swarming with an absolute host and swarm of birds. Which is strange, because the place is way too far off shore to actually be a haunt for the average sea birds, but these ones seem to care very little about that.

Anchoring below, there's the question of how to actually get up to the thing...for Rynn, mostly. Those with wings could easily ascend to the structure, but for the mostly mundane medic, her best bet was climbing the mast and parkouring over --

That is, if she was above getting a lift. Who knows? Either way, the storm is clear, and they're at where they need to be.

The Dragon is nowhere in sight, though, after dragging a storm onto your heads.
[23:37:28]
With what she does know of wind dragons - which is not nothing, given her predicament and a fair bulk of scholarly research - this behavior feels about par for the course as Njorlfar swoops in, drops the storm upon their heads, and sails off to who-knows-where.

It's a blessing that they've their teamwork and have the gall to weather the storm. She's quick to squirrel away the map too, lest it blow away in the gale.

They all emerge from the dust and debris relatively unscathed. That doesn't stop her from doing a spot-check of herself, her comrades, and the surrounding crew. Dura might resign herself to being some brand of monster, but not a heartless one.

She massages her temple and tries to shake off the worst case of the spins she's had in recent memory.

"Right, it's. Up now. Rynn. I dragged you into this mess. You need a lift up?" Fair was fair.
(Dura Levante)
[23:37:29] the wind says, "( MINOR SPELLING MISTAKE"
[23:38:48]
Other than bumping her head against the hull at some point during the storm (would've been a Severe if Rynn hadn't been wearing a helmet) the legionnaire makes it out safe throughout the storm, doing her best to make sure that the water stays outside of the ship rather than inside.

Eventually, though, when it's all said and done, Rynn emerges from the underbelly of the the ship to get a view of the cool, floating shrine in the middle of the sea. Rynn goes all the way to the prow, watching the structure and the flock of birds flying around it.

"ooooauuugh."

Once again, the medic verbally (and unintelligibly) complains at seeing that the next step requires them to fly or climb. And that's the one thing they didn't pack for this trip: climbing pitons.

I mean, who would pack climbing gear to a voyage at sea? It's definitely a step too far.

They could, obviously, domesticate the birds but that would take too much time to earn their trust, so maybe if-

Oh right, Dura was here.

"Yes, please."

Rynn holds out a hand, somehow thinking that's just enough for Dura to carry them up. Wait, can Dura even fly while carrying the medic?
(Rynn Blackwood)
[23:46:18]
Celius couldn't claim this to be a good performance ; it was adequate, though. He does his part in upholding the integrity of the ship, deftly evading bolts and winds with a rapid, concerned step. His gaze flicks from Dura, to Rynn, to the rest of the crew as a whole with every bit of concern that you'd expect, seeping into his steeled expression -

But this was a trial. They were already in it ; there was no turning back, and there was no use for fearful thoughts.

Stasis spills across the area like a tidal wave of black and white. Augmentation grinds through his body with steady pulses, interweaving itself into his muscles to allow full mobility even despite the armor he wore. A stray wave crashes into him, though -

blblblblblblblblblblblb

I CANT HEAR YOU!!!

blhlhbllhblhlbhlblllb

He stands. He is soaked.

"hragh"

He lifts Dura overhead with one arm, and then lifts Rynn with the other.

"gragh"

HE GO UP
(Celius Vaelstrum)

[00:15:08]
The ascent is more or less a painless experience. Sure, Dura might be slightly lightheaded, but it could've been a whole lot worse. It's easier to stay concentrated and levelheaded when inside and on dry-ish ground.

Even if it was a floating platform. It was a lot more stable than the ship.

The figure that stands ahead -- its rough outline is different for each and every single member of the party, form swirling in between a localized (if not bright) vortex of wind.

To Celius, he sees within it, himself. If not slightly younger, and with an extra eye. There's a lack of scars marring his body, more akin to the Seraphim before he left for Rhyst. The start of his journey was significantly later than others, and thus the changes are less drastic -- but they're notable enough to be jarring, if not only because he's seeing a windy form of himself.

To Rynn, she sees a much younger form of herself -- from when she first stepped foot on the Island of Sarea. Not as Rynn Blackwood, but an ignorant Arlandrian child by the name of Pchel. Rough leather boots, a thick gambeson, metal gauntlets, and a heavy satchel. It's a far cry from the fully militarized getup she wore now, especially since the bright red scarf she once wore was nothing but a lingering memory.

But for Dura -- she sees herself. Exactly herself. There's no callbacks, there's no nostalgic memories of being a younger person. It's just her. A green Nephilim, with a resting scowl. She was much different in the past -- a Kal Azulan, foreign to Sarea. Slowly getting her bearings with everything there was to learn, from her friends, to a 'Senior' Kal Azulan, a male, whose name needs not be mentioned.

Her past wasn't erased -- it still very much existed, but for as long as she was a Nephilim, she had no past. She was always going to be seen as what she currently was.

A finger juts out towards Rynn, first.

"What changed, Pchel? Times used to be simpler, were they not? You held a shred of humanity still within you, did you not? And for what, did you gain discarding it? People used to know your face -- and they wished you well upon that Gaol, for you to return."

"I don't think you ever left that Gaol."

The vortex angles its head upwards, staring through a glass sunroof.

"You left that fake name behind, but you forgot to bring forward your humanity. In Gold clad, Midnight clad -- a visage of death upon your face, you aren't any better than the machines you stand beside."

...

"Was it worth it? How did you get here?"

As the first speech is given to Rynn, the other two hear their very own alongside it.

To Celius:

"You were supposed to be a Leader of your People. Lord-Commander. Seraphim, chosen of Zahhak. But for what? Your fields lay barren, your brother dead, your people scattered. You were entrusted with a future -- of a better Rhyst, but you stand here. A husk of your former self. You have no people. You have no goals. You have no enterprise, no dignity -- you wallow in idleness. Your soul was marked for greatness, as one of those worthy --"

"...and yet you've done nothing but be a great waste. Your enemy still yet stands, and you lay within the bed of one."

...

"...how did you stoop so low, what drove you to this change? How did you get here?"

Last, but not least, to Dura.

"...but it doesn't matter what you were, does it? You know what you are. A mistake. You're an outsider -- no matter where you go. In Providence, you may rule, but you do not belong. Home. Kal Azul. You know you would be vilified by its people, and for good reason..."

"...Hubris. Greed. Fear? You were entrusted with the Duchy of Providence -- and those who surrounded you, preferred to betray you or drive themselves to their graves."

A beat.

"You wear the name of someone, from your past. But would they be proud if they saw you today?"

...

"What happened, Dura? How did you get here?"
(Shifting Winds)
[00:36:07] Celius Vaelstrum says, "(brb)"
[00:41:09] Celius Vaelstrum says, "(flexes)"
[00:41:10] Celius Vaelstrum says, "(hrooagh)"
[00:42:31]
Great, Dura doesn't have to lift Rynn up, so the task is instead left to Celius, who somehow manages to lift not only the legionnaire, but also the Duchess. It's all those years of the Grind paying off, and now the Seraphim is finally getting to the 'Shine' stage.

"ooouuugh"

Rynn steels themselves for what's to come. As far as cryptic, middle-of-the-sea structures went, the legionnaire probably expected some eldritch structure filled with half-squid people who would make them lose their mind and a go insane.

However, when the medic's armored boots hit the ground, they're faced with possibly the worst thing, a creature under whose shadow nothing Good nor Godly would ever grow: the young version of themselves.

Just like smells and sounds sometimes bring back memories, seeing their own reflection as though they were staring at a mirror just brought those first few years rushing in. Simpler times indeed, when all they had to worry about was getting a handful of coins to afford a house.

With their helmet on, it's hard to guess what sort of expression Rynn is carrying inside, but a gloved, armored hand slowly raises up, touching at the legionnaire's own armored chest. They take a deep breath.

"I died on the Moon." Spoken with clear, machine-like assurance thanks to the medic's helmet. "It's the cycle, death and rebirth. There is one Me from before, and one Me from after it, and there's about five of those moments in my life so far."

Rynn falls silent again, looking to one side, then the other, as though unsure. Then, finally, they look back at the younger version of themselves, and nod.

"I would do it over again. In my nearly twenty years on Sarea, I feel like I've been overpaid for what I've done. There will never enough money to stamp the coins, or enough gold in the treasury to keep me from doing what I did.

I've seen my friends die, I've seen people who don't hold a candle to them come an try to take up their mantle, I've grown bitter. But..."

Grown bitter, admittedly a whole less empathetic than they'd been before. Before, Rynn would've been the one to at least want to hear what the other side had to say- now, it wasn't nearly like that, because they've seen the kind of people who preach that sort of rhetoric. It wasn't worth it.

"I'm proud of what I did. The girl died, became the adult she is."

The legionnaire then looks over to the side, at the duchess, and gestures to their front.

"Dura, who is this person, anyway?"

It was worth asking after they basically poured their heart out.
(Rynn Blackwood)
[00:45:43]
A Trial did not come across as such a simple thing. What gazed upon them was nothing short of the utmost scrutiny, born of every single aspect of life they had lived thus bar - born of the duty they all held, and the burden of their each and every waking moments into the lives they'd chosen - born of the accusation, perhaps rightfully placed, that flung itself toward him now.

Facts, perhaps. Cold. Ruthless. The sting of salt water in his eye and lungs is an afterthought by comparison to the sting of those words, but he remains adamant even despite. The purpose of the machine might yet have shifted, but the nature of it did not. He is steadfast. His gaze is indifferent - calculative. A perfect shell, unwilling to show the vulnerabilities it held within -

He had chosen this, though. He lived each waking moment with reaffirmation of this fact. The paths he'd taken, and the words he whispered to himself were not born of fearful falsehoods, or indignance - they were not the stuff and things of denial, in fact of overwhelming truth - it was simple fact. Solace's fields, barren. Ezrean, dead. His people, scattered across Sarea and beyond - and the future with which he'd been entrusted seemed so, so far out of reach -

But that was all so grand.

"The future I envision need not be wrought with tools of murder, or blades of light." he chimes, softly. "The path I have chosen as an individual is in acknowledgement of that fact. I will fight, as I always have, when necessary; but upon Sarea.." he trails -

"My true foes are just as scattered, many without purpose, understanding, or joy. The chains that shackle their souls dig deeper and deeper, while I soar. I find peace and joy in the smallest of things - in each step and breath I take, and each moment I might better the nature of those around me."

He pauses.

"I am burdened with the failures of one man, and one life - that is all that I am. I will gladly carry that into the next. Grandiose thoughts such as an absolute victory carried through the strength of one is the stuff of those I have beaten time and time again, uncaring of the things which they might yet change - I will not be so foolish."

His head tilts upward, slightly, to gaze upon the platform. "My foes have often told me that the ends will justify whatever means they take to get to them - and the lives they waste to achieve them."

"If I can not live for the people around me, and for those simpler things that they have neglected, then I would be no different; and I will be better. That is my Duty."
(Celius Vaelstrum)
[00:53:46]
Vertigo grabs hold of her and hangs on tight, but they ascend all the same. Celius hefts them up to the peak of the shrine like so much luggage. It's as if the tides hadn't rattled him at all.

Her head steadies as she mutters soft thanks to their courier and finds terra-not-so-firma beneath her light feet once more. She just barely gets her bearings when she spies the shifting form in the swirling winds.

She came into the temple with the expectation of a trial. What form that was going to take was not something she could divine or truly prepare for. To say the least, she sees the last thing she expects.

Herself.

A mirror not to her past or her future, but her present reflected back on her in stark relief. The culmination of all her triumphs. And the failures that overwrote them all. While she can catch parts of the chorus that are meant for her comrades, the words meant for her are most clear.

"I have made mistakes. That does not make me a mistake."

There is an undercurrent of inadvisable defiance that comes to the fore. "...Providence was never meant for me. I carried it because I felt like I had to. Because of a man's Dying Breath and what would happen if I didn't.

Many of the people of Providence have betrayed me. But I didn't come here for them. I'm not here for them. If they had their way, I'd be doing something far, far worse." Her mind flicks over a few possibilities. Projects, things profane, that could have been. She shakes them loose from her head.

"I am here for me, and my people. Whatever shape they take. If the younger me saw what I'd become...

No. No, they wouldn't be proud. They'd be afraid. They were always afraid." She takes a breath and squares her shoulders.

"I made my share of mistakes. Now I'm here to start fixing them. I am here because I refuse to stay down. Because I want to rise instead of dragging the ones I care for down with me if I fall."

After the declaration she blinks a few times, glancing to Celius and Rynn on either side.

"...You don't see me up there?"



(Dura Levante)
[01:19:55] Dura Levante has dropped 1 Spooky C's Pizza from their inventory.
[01:46:31]
Various sequences of idle animations are all played to each member of the party, as the presence listens to all of their recounting. The figment to Rynn and Celius both -- it ages, in Rynn's case, literally. It takes them to an age where they still wore gold accents, not too long after the medic battled the Necromancer Nova within the tunnels of Providence.

Celius, again, never really aged all that much -- or changed as much as others, and the only difference is in the armour, now the regal, golden-clad encasement forged with the power of the Fire Apherion. He still had his eye, if only for now.

Dura's presence, is not of the past, or the present. It's of the near future -- if only moments ahead, hours, days, perhaps mere weeks. The gauge on these things, it's hard to tell. Horns dull, ground down to half the size, and wings start to shrivel. It's not a comfortable process, one could imagine.

It started to speak again, to all of them -- individually, but as a chorus.

"Through the Trials and Tribulations of yesterday -- it isn't the scant memory of what was that drives one forward -- it is the difference within, that pushes one to new heights. To dwell upon the past is to deal in stagnancy."

"People will continue to die. You too, shall die -- your past, your present, and future. Crushed beneath wings of change."

It paused, for a moment.

"Change. Immutable. To reject it, is to invite self-destruction upon the self. No pillar can stand forever."

For Rynn,

"You were once Pchel, and now you are Rynn. Perhaps, in another life, you could've kept it simple. To live a life, free of corruption -- that is enough, to live for your friends, and family. Not all have to be Warriors of Rhyst, members of a Crusade that which will never end."

A beat.

"But you rejected that life. It's a thankless life, and one that won't earn you any merits -- but it's not about the glory, is it? To seek change, for a better Rhyst, and a better self, isn't out of vainglory, or greed -- but out of duty."

For Celius,

"Change, has always been disruptive and destructive. To some, this is of violence, deconstructing institutes, killing those who would seek a wayward path. Change, however, is equal parts possible within the Hearts of Man -- and though you may never convince a Demon of the Void the wickedness inherent in its existence, you may yet do so for those who yet stand."

A beat.

"Change -- and securing the future of Rhyst, isn't always about making sure your enemies are dead. The downtrodden of Rhyst, those who fall to the Void, are oft unable to exist without fear of starvation, hypothermia, and hundreds of other maladies. The great hammer, to shape the future upon which you dream of, is ensuring you, and the ones around you, can live a content life."

"You may be a chosen of the Dragons, an upper Echelon of Seraphim, but that does not make you a tool, nor a machine. You are human, and that is what makes you strong. Not a facade, not a visage of unerring strength."

For Dura,

"The recognition of one's mistakes, are the most important part of change. To understand failings, to grow upon them. To recognize reality for what it is -- and that though you may find yourself in one steed, that matters little. The present, and that which you find yourself in, matters little for the future. The past may be ashamed of you, afraid. But it matters little -- for they simply do not exist. It is a coal for the fire."

A beat.

"Defiance -- not born of bullheadedness, but of Rage. Against those who would do you wrong, who would use you for their own goals. Defiance, to refuse to break in spite of the crashing of reality. To climb, for a better self, and a better future, rather than taking the easy route."

"You may have failed yourself -- and let yourself become trapped as an accursed one, but to fix ones self isn't a duty, a task of mere self. To fix one's self, is not to merely help the self, but rather, the community as a whole. To overcome great adversity, personal failure, and challenge -- is greater than to never have had been over such humps."

It pauses, and then speaks once more. This time, again, as individuals in a chorus, to all of them.

"Were this a Trial of Zahhak, of Flame and Fire, perhaps I would test you with flames and battle. Though the Winds are fickle, representing balance and change in equal parts, not all needs to be addressed with violence. Trials, of character hold equal weight to those of war."

It paused, again.

"The past. The present. They are accounted for. However, it brings into question -- the future. An ill wind blows, and our Fathers and Mothers of Rhyst have disappeared again, but this time, of their own accord."

A beat.

"Beyond these trials -- of Zahhak, of Melusine, of Fah'nadir. Change is coming, for Sarea, for Rhyst, for all of Reality. Truths revealed, and Futures changed, much like upon the Gaol. Some would demand greatness, and acts that would put fear into the very Eidolons."

"I ask you -- of what you think lies within your future. Not in a weeks time, not in a months time, not even a year. Five years. Ten years. Where do you see yourselves, in this timeline? How will you continue to change yourselves, and Rhyst, for the better?"

It paused.

"...and when do you think you shall rest, to live your days out as your own? When do you think you deserve to set down the sword?"
(Shifting Winds)
[01:46:40] Shifting Winds says, "( oough"
[01:46:43] Shifting Winds says, "( sorry for taking so long"
[01:46:50] Shifting Winds says, "( theres only so much i can anticipate and prewrite"
[01:50:00] Dura Levante says, "(all good, worth the wait my guy"
[02:10:13]
Putting down the gun, settling down, sitting by a warm fireplace and just telling stories. Finally getting a chance to live the life they've been bleeding away year after year.

"There's still a chance for one in this life, but I don't think it's one I'd choose." Even if they wanted, they couldn't, however. "I made a promise. I can't."

It had been at the very end of the Moon, and for a promise like that and to the beings it had been spoken to it wasn't something one just forgot.

"We're anonymous heroes in a war that doesn't end. Triumph over Death is our promised glory. I don't need to imagine what the future holds, because I've asked for it, and it's been provided by the buckets to me."

Rynn brings their hands up, clenching them into fists and bringing them close to their breastplate, as though they're clutching at something.

"All that's left, the things others don't ask and don't want: Uncertainty and Doubt, Torment and Battle. Now and forever, because I won't always have the strength to ask again.

That's what I see in the future, and through that self-giving, we renew the World. That's the fundamental truth of it, because it's the same truth in the Cycle."
(Rynn Blackwood)
[02:10:22] Rynn Blackwood says, "(low effort post from me, it's 6AM"
[02:10:26] Shifting Winds says, "( np brother"
[02:18:34]
To the Seraphim, talk of death was as gentle as a breath. It was carried unto him in dissimilar fashion as to his peers, for he was a byproduct of the plans so far removed from their simplistic existences that he might never truly grasp it. It was not an understanding dealt unto him through the deaths he had endured, nor were it a thing of suffering which he'd earned -

It was something intrinsic and plainly understood. Something natural. And so, to him, who knew this - who knew the fleeting nature of man, the statement of inevitability and the following query of which they would do with their future regardless elicits the faintest of grins. He'd said it before, after all -

The future scared him.

That was a long time ago, though.

"I see struggle, and I see the beauty in it. I see the simpler things, and I see the fight I will yet give to preserve them. I see no difference than what I see now, and perhaps in that sight I find the truth that might bring sadness to others -"

He pauses.

"That day might not come. That idealistic peace of mind that will see me to the end of my days and beyond, into the life next. To relinquish the blade is deserved by any who might desire such a thing - but it is not a thing of which I question whether or not I deserve it, because I find no pain in the path by which I live - and those that walk it with me."

"That is my own choice."

"What change I find in myself is not something I can speak. It is fickle, no? I will continue to travel this path alongside those who'd accompany me, and I will assure that those who walk it after understand the beauty in simplicity - in the lives we've all been blessed to receive."
(Celius Vaelstrum)
[02:20:33]
There it is. Hope had never truly left her, but it flickers all that much brighter, the flame fanned by vision. There is no thought to the pain that might have to be endured to have one's wings stripped and horns shaved down to nubs.

The only thought is to what it represents.

And where was the lie? Though with some of her mistakes there was still the weight of shame, they didn't matter. They were now experiences. More importantly, they were fuel. A fan to feed a flame.

It becomes all the more important, though, on which flame to feed and how. The presence of the Curse makes that an onerous ordeal to contend with. Small wonder that Nevanerro's 'Gifts' hitched a ride on Fah'nadir's Scorn; the call to defiance and rage to become so twisted and usurped.

It's not an observation she sees fit to make out loud in this moment. Instead a question occurs to her. For all her faults, curiosity is still one of them.

"Do you know why they have left? What change is coming?" Naturally, it has more questions of its own. A good one too. One that takes no small amount of consideration.

"My future doesn't involve a crown. It doesn't involve any nobility. Not any that the Empire's going to give me. I will take what they don't deserve and give it to those who do."

"I'll be free. My family will be free, any of my children will be too, and I can teach all my people to be free. As for rest...I will find it eventually."
(Dura Levante)
[03:00:39]
Thoughts, ruminations -- all are heard, all are listened to. As before, as now. The visage shifts, slightly for Celius and Rynn, but drastically for the Nephilim.

For Rynn, it is much the same as she is now. Armour, in midnight clad. Adorned with a helmet, that blocks any semblance of outwards Humanity -- a mechanical device, to do what Celius might with the flesh and skin upon his bones, an imposed stoicism, though shaped by metal. Armour battered and smashed, blood leaking through plates, though standing unfettered, defiant of the pain and death others would seek to impose on the Medic. Standing, in spite of it all, a testament to overflowing Elan, the will of a mere Woman to face it all despite the odds being stacked against them.

For Celius, again, the differences are minute -- but for one who knows the self, it is easy to pick out. Dove-like wings outstretched, clad in the armaments of the Righteous, axe implanted unto the ground, hand resting upon the pommel. Defiant, standing against the storm to come, ready to push one's self across the path, no matter what it might take. Just like his other half, and his opposite, Dura. A shimmering halo, an emblem of serenity and empathy -- a reminder of that which he takes form from, an angel, bearing a duty akin to his sister-in-arms, Rynn. Not merely a life taker, but one who gives hope to those around him.

Dura's changes are most noticeable -- her horns are gone, and the wings have disappeared. A head, adorned not with the shackles of a Kingdom, a Duchy, but with the vibrant growth of a flower. Crystaline and flesh hand pressed firmly together, not in defiance, not in rage -- but in acceptance, content with the life that she has earned and walked, a trait overflowing from her other half, and her opposite, Celius. The Symbol of House Levante, present, but not as the adornment of a noble, royality, or an oppressor -- a symbol of freedom, kinship, brother and sisterhood, sharing the same energies as Rynn's Elan.

But they all start to fade, into nothingness. Futures presented, but never guaranteed to be the futures experienced. The entity, too, starts to dissipate, and it is replaced with the Dragon, Njorlifar....
(Shifting Winds)
[03:01:04]
Ah, yes. That's a Dragon -- specifically, the one who threw a storm at your head. His words are not regal, nor noble, nor formal. He does not speak like he did, at the Academy.

"There is no need for rest, if one simply does not need it."


Njorlifar paused, looking down to Rynn.

"I know of your speech towards Paludrex, the Earth Dragon. I am not so ignorant as to forget. Life is a struggle, and the only constant within it is Change. Progress. Set-backs. All the same."


He huffs, letting out a gust of air.

"Some futures are already told -- they need not elaboration. Those with the Will, and the Strength, to carry on the Torch and the Will of Rhyst will simply choose to do so. They say there is no rest for the wicked -- and perhaps it is the same for the righteous, but duty, blood, strife, and what is good is all the relieve some need."


"Some, like you."


He then peered over towards Celius.

"And much the same with you, Seraphim. No weary legs gather, for those who travel upon well-treaded grounds. Some things simply are not complex -- infinitely difficult. Some things are simple. The Betrayer wishes to lay a plan of a thousand webs, and much the same with the other Eidolons, but it is not those of a thousand thoughts, and minds who undo these plots. It is those with their eyes said forward, and with one foot after the other."


Last, but definitely not least, Dura.

"I have spent much time studying, and traversing Rhyst -- and still yet I am denied this answer. Why have they left this Plane? I do not doubt Their judgement, but it is a burning mystery, regardless."


Njorlifar chewed upon his thoughts, his words, and what Dura had given.

"Freedom. From a curse. From the shackles of others. From the onslaught of the Undead. This is a most noble goal. It will be a struggle, it will be a long path, but it is one I will observe, and one I will assist upon. Despite out aloofness, we seek the betterment of Rhyst, and her people."


A claw extends outwards, pointing towards the group.

"You."


A beat, before he continues.

"I have made my decision. I do not want those who follow, I do not want those who simply heed and obey -- those who execute the destiny of another, without believing in it myself. One may be of Paludrex, and another of Zahhak, and you, Dura -- may represent Nevanerro at this junction, but you all carry forth the wishes and ideals of the Wind. For that, I can grant upon you the first blessing to alleviate your curse."


"The Blessing of Wind, and its completion. Whenever you are ready -- it will be painful. It will be agonizing. You may start to break the chains alone, or with assistance, but know those who assist may not be spared from harm. Evocation, is of Rhyst, but an overabundance of anything will still hurt much."

(Njorlifar)
[03:07:52] the wind says, "( oh i should clarify "
[03:08:02] the wind says, "( this blessing is "Approval" and not a literal, blessing, "
[03:08:03] the wind says, "( ahem "
[03:08:20] the wind says, "( one of the steps required to gain the power of fahnadir* "
[03:09:19]
Promises of pain, yet more struggle down this path. Nothing worth doing had ever been easy, so it's no surprise, but the terms are nonetheless laid out in well-understood language, just in the off-chance that Rynn had any second thoughts. Within a second, the legionnaire reached their decision, and their armored form steps forth.

"A long time ago, I met another Nephilim who also wanted to liberate himself from Fah'Nadir's curse. He is now one of the Lieutenants in Deliverance, a consummate coward, who only leaves that island with a large enough group."

Rynn's helmeted head swings over towards Dura.

"You're not like that. Along my life, I've destroyed many things, but I actually helped build very few. It takes a few seconds to destroy, but years and a lifetime to build- and those things I've built is what I remember most." Rynn's gloved hand reaches under the side of their breastplate, touching a medal hidden underneath the armor. "This is something I believe is worth doing. "

There's a small pause, before the legionnaire erpeats teh same words they've said a long time ago, right before going up to the Moon.

"Until the End."
(Rynn Blackwood)
[03:09:43] Njorlifar says, "( erpeats teh? "
[03:09:57] Rynn Blackwood says, "(MINOR SPELLING MISTAKE"
[03:24:05]
The promise of something dangerous. The allure of an end to this all - to the fulfillment of a promise he'd made a long, long time ago, is more than capable of spurring the Seraphim into action, were the additional factors not plenty enough as far as that went. The Solar is quick to step forth, nodding his head gently -

"You will never be like that." he adds, bouncing off of Rynn's words. "Destruction and Creation go hand in hand. It is by these two simple concepts that all we know have come to be, and by these things that all we do shall find meaning." he states with resolve.

"This is something I know is worth doing."

After all that he'd said - all that he'd preached - all that he'd done, one thing was certain.

"It is my duty."
(Celius Vaelstrum)
[03:28:29]
The glimpse is fleeting, it is fickle, but it is striking in its beauty. Stripped of the curse, of the chains of nobility, and arraigned in the precious aster blossom she holds as her greatest treasure and the sigil of her House. Defiant, yet peaceful.

Even when it's gone, she keeps the memory with her and holds it close.

It's spirited away, replaced with - ah, yes. This Guy. He appears in the flesh. Answering some questions, leaving others still to puzzle over.

"It's worth doing." She echoes the Legionnaires sentiment unintentionally. That, at the end of the day, is something she can say with firm resolve and no mincing of words.

The first is done. That left two more, and the road just begun. She looks back to the other two. They offer their hats - helmets, halos? - into the proverbial ring.

"One of the 'good ones'. Right?" It's said with a faint, wry smile. A silent moment is taken to appreciate the company she is in before she faces towards Njorlifar.

"Then the only way is forward. We continue on. Two more to go."
(Dura Levante)
[03:36:48]
"Very well."


Njorlifar clenches one of his big meaty lobster claws shut, and a massive burst of Evocative and Wind magicks start to gather, filling the room with a bright light. The party is enveloped within it, but the process does not begin.

Yet. Words are to be said.

"Destruction, for the sake of Rhyst, is but the first step of Creation. Lord Helios represents this well, for even Forests need to burn, to grow anew -- and it is by Our Wind that we see this done."


A low huff at the words 'one of the good ones'. It was humorous, at least to the racist Dragon. He only partook in smiting a good few a while back.

"Steel thyselves."


And with that, the Evocative and Wind-fused magicks started to wrap around the party, and pierce their very being...

(Njorlifar)
[03:36:51] Njorlifar says, "( alright"
[03:36:57] Njorlifar says, "( because of rynns relic magic "
[03:37:06] Njorlifar says, "( you'll all get +2 to this, DC is 10, d20 "
[03:37:25] Rynn Blackwood says, "(neat"
[03:37:32] Njorlifar says, "( lol "
[03:38:12] Celius Vaelstrum says, "(uh oh!!!)"
[03:38:22] Chat command attempt: /roll 20
[03:38:27] Njorlifar says, " bro"
[03:38:39] Dura Levante says, "yeah?"
[03:38:40] Njorlifar says, "( quick narrate "
[03:44:18] yipe!! ever1 pased :D

It feels as though the Wind itself is attempting to rip the skin off each and every single member of the party. It's only through the shared struggle, and suffering that they manage to push through without wounds.

Shared experiences, goals, hopes, dreams, and duties -- empowered by the Medic's Elan, all lifting together to withstand the powers.

What feels like minutes, hours of searing pains -- is really only a few seconds.

They're thrown back to the ground -- a bit bruised up, a bit chipped, but fine. Dura has her horns filed down, as per the vision, and wings that are withered, ready to peel off and fall away.

But not just yet. It's a start, but more is needed.
[03:51:00]
When a Dragon suggests you 'steel yourself', usually it's a pretty good idea to heed the advice. She grits her teeth against the gale that cuts through their little troupe.

A shared determination keeps them intact.

It is, without a doubt, agony, but all good things come with a price. This one just happens to be paid in suffering. While small doses of Rhystian mana did little more than make her wary, the full dosage was another order entirely.

Dura goes skittering back on the cobbles. Her head double spins and feels even lighter than it already was. Same for the weight at her back. A pair of filed down horns and desiccated, leathery wings.

It's a start.
(Dura Levante)
[03:56:46]
It wasn't too different from the trip here, to be frank. The Dragon could dial it back, of course, but it was unlikely that it'd ever truly understand or relate to the limitation of the Human body on an empathetic level. This was a Trial, after all, and by the Four did this motherfucker test them.

Seconds stretch on into minutes - hours, perhaps, in the mind. A body adjusted to pain on a frequent basis stood resolute, but wholly incapable of fully competing with a feeling such as this. Perhaps it is in part due to his physiology that he could owe a swift recovery, the processed RHYSTIAN MIGHT refusing to hold him down for too long as he reaches out.

He could live with a few bruises, of course. His arms snag at the Nephilim, catching at them as they all go rolling.

"oof"

"ough"

"aough"

X_X
(Celius Vaelstrum)
[03:59:38]
As the wind picks up around them, feeling like blades slicing at Rynn's skin even with the armor and clothes, the legionnaire steels themselves.

They've endured before, they can endure now. The trick was to not give up, you have to keep fighting until you're through. Teeth grit under the helmet, and that same drive to not give up manifests into a more physical counterpart.

Motes of purple-red light begin to form, lazily floating about amidst the gale, stalwart as rocks on an ocean. Rynn closes their eyes as the sensation builds up. Then, just as quickly as it started, or maybe an eternity later, it's over.

Rynn's on their back, and they slowly begin to pick themselves up.

"Everybody alright?"

A moment, before Rynn exhales, looking around.

"Alright."
(Rynn Blackwood)
[03:59:58] the wind says, "( quick narrate and ill set you guys free "
[04:04:03] Dura Levante has picked up 1 The Defiance of Wind into their inventory.
[04:05:11] Rynn Blackwood says, "yo where is my T1"
[04:05:24] With the blessing (not a Blessing) imparted, and the winds clearing, the Dragon is gone as swiftly as he came. In his place, a small medallion is left -- that which carries the power of the Wind.

Symbolic -- but an important part to play, in the coming days. Ostensibly, the Nephilim only needs two more, and their triforce is formed.

...

Besides that -- the room is now empty. The ship is still below. There's nothing else here for you. Time to set sail back home, or onto the next trial...

...but the question is. Of Fire, or of Water?