Fantasy Anthroterra

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs watched Dylan fumble through the text with a kind of fond patience, like someone spotting a bird trying to land on a narrow ledge—nervous, a little messy, but sincere all the way down. When the message finally sent, he grinned.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Dylan lightly with an elbow. “That was good. More than good, honestly. You did what most folks wouldn’t. You started the conversation. And if she’s anything like you described, I think she’ll appreciate that more than you know.”

He gave a brief, affirming nod. “And yeah, keep me updated. No rush, no pressure. We’ll take this one step at a time.”

Then Briggs clapped his hands once, brisk and chipper again. “Alright! Speaking of steps—next stop is the Trading Room.” He turned on his heel and started walking, motioning for Dylan to follow. “C’mon, it’s just down this hallway. Looks fancier than it is.”

As they made their way down the corridor—walls buzzing faintly with arcane circuitry and soft, pulsing glyphs—Briggs continued in his usual fast-talking, animated tone, only now with a hint of ceremony.

“So, here’s the deal. When students first arrive at Lumenreach, they get a trading card. Yeah, yeah, I know—sounds like a game. And in a way, it kind of is. But it’s also an ancient archiving ritual. You’ll walk into the room, breathe into a magic capacitor, and from your breath it’ll detect arcane trails—like echoes in your soul. That means big life moments, emotional shifts, where your magic resonated strongest, that kind of thing.”

They turned a corner, passing a stained-glass window that shimmered with slowly shifting scenes—students from long ago, frozen in triumph or deep thought.

“Then—bam. A magic card with your picture, some stats, maybe a quote, definitely your rune alignment. That card goes into the Enclave Directory. So anyone at the academy can look you up, see what you’re about. We’ve got archives going back... well, forever. Thousands of cards, some older than the oldest magic towers.”

Briggs grinned over his shoulder. “Once you’ve done yours, I can also hand you the cards for your roommates/teammates. Little surprise bonding moment. Fun, right?”

He stopped in front of a tall, ornate door fitted with inlaid bronze coils and a faintly glowing seal.

“Ready to meet your card?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan followed a half-step behind, his lanky frame a little stiffer than before, ears twitching as Briggs’s words bounced around in the back of his mind—You did what most folks wouldn’t. It should have felt good. Reassuring. But his brain wouldn’t stop picking it apart.

What if he’d said too much?

What if Ephraim was hiding something—something important—and he’d just handed it to the academy without meaning to? What if she got mad?

What if she never replied at all because she hates Dylan and never wants to acknowledge him again? What if he was actually too awkward that whole time with her and she was just being nice simply to not hurt his feelings? Oh god, that's what happened, wasn't it. She already hates him and then if she learns that he spoke about that stuff? Oh godddssss he could already feel the panic. Stupid, Dylan.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to push it back down. Not now. Not while walking through spell-lit corridors, surrounded by ancient glowing sigils and stained glass depictions of students who probably didn’t have minor breakdowns between ritual checkpoints.

His head tilted slightly at Briggs’s next words. “Trading cards?” he echoed, uncertain, a brow arching. “Sounds… interesting.”

There was a small, sheepish laugh as he rubbed at the side of his neck. “Seems very… uh, invading.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Lumenreach really likes getting into people’s… brains and memories, I guess,” he added, half-joking, but the nerves were bleeding through again. “Having access to people’s… information.”

He stared at the door in front of them. His ears flicked once, and he hesitated.

Then—another breath. A longer one.

He nodded, though the motion was small. “Yeah... I—I think so,” he said, voice wobbling just slightly.

One more step forward.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs chuckled softly, giving Dylan a warm, reassuring smile as he moved around the softly glowing chamber. The walls were curved, almost nest-like, with magic runes pulsing gently along the edges in patterns that resembled breath—inhale, exhale, inhale. The trading room was quiet, but not sterile. It felt… lived in. Ancient, yes, but not unkind.

“I get it,” he said, lowering a smooth bronze arcane reader into place as Dylan took his seat. “It is invasive. You’re not wrong. Not everyone’s ready to offer those pieces of themselves up. And the truth is, they don’t have to. Attendance here is ultimately voluntary. But most choose to offer it and stay—because the knowledge… means something here.”

He tapped the side of the reader, which began to glow faintly in response to Dylan’s proximity. A soft whirring sound filled the air, more like a gentle exhale than a machine.

“You see, Lumenreach isn’t just an academy—it’s history’s memory. Outside, a lot of kin forget how magic used to work. How fragile it really is. But here?” He motioned around the room. “We remember. The founders wanted to preserve more than spell theory or combat styles. They wanted to preserve lives. The voices of people who shaped magic just by living it.”

Briggs knelt briefly to adjust a dial on the capacitor and then gestured for Dylan to breathe into the small, chalice-like basin embedded in the pedestal.

“But it’s not just for archiving. Some of the most important magical research we’ve done here came from these cards. From student echoes. Our long-term researchers discovered, for instance, that Dave—y’know, the God of Systems? The one we’ve lost contact with—he’s over ten thousand years old; they found this out by checking cards who mentioned Jellybop's existence. Been integrated into more magical structures than we even realized.”

He tilted his head as if remembering something, then added with a hint of pride, “And Yue—your vessel during the simulation? We were able to pull historical traces from her card memory. Turns out she came from a reality where belief alone could manifest magic. Literal faith-based physics. Her people called them Zealites. They believed so strongly in their gods, their stories breathed them into existence. That’s the kind of thing you can’t track without this kind of system.”

He looked back up at Dylan, his smile smaller now—more sincere.

“It won't tell it all. The spell will only take what resonates most. But even fragments—those echoes—they can become roadmaps for someone else one day.”

Briggs straightened up and gave a soft clap of his hands.

“Alright. When you’re ready, take a deep breath into the basin. Just like blowing into cold glass. The system will do the rest.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan sat quietly, watching the softly pulsing runes trace breath-like rhythms along the chamber walls. The glow reflected faintly in his eyes, though his gaze was distant—somewhere in the space between understanding and overwhelm.

“Zealites... huh?” he echoed softly, like he was trying the word on for size. He mulled it over, the syllables odd but grounding. “So their belief was the magic?” A small huff of disbelief left him—not mocking, just astonished. “Wild. You’d think if anything could break physics, it'd be math or explosions. Not... faith.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “Makes me wonder how many rules are just habits we've never questioned.”

His gaze drifted toward the basin as he added, quieter now, “Feels like everyone’s learning everything all over again. Not just at the academy either. I mean… it’s been what, three days since the blackout? And suddenly nothing in Brasshollow feels the same. Bibblecores, the power grid, even Dave just... gone.”

He looked up at Briggs briefly. “Like the whole city's been unplugged and no one’s sure how to turn the lights back on.”

Then he shuffled forward, eyeing the breathing chalice. His lanky frame made the setup awkward—he had to crouch slightly, tucking his knees in and bending far lower than he was built for.

He blinked at the basin.

“This is weird,” he murmured, a nervous breath leaving his nose. “I just… breathe into it?”

He hesitated a second longer, ears flicking, then nodded faintly to himself.

“Okay. Just breathe.”

And so he did.

One long, focused exhale—warm and slow—into the chalice, like blowing against glass on a cold windowpane. His reflection rippled and bent with the breath, the magic stirring softly as the room seemed to lean forward and listen.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

For Dylan...

Photo:


Full Name:
Nicknames / Aliases (if any):
Species / Kin Type:
Age:
Primary Rune:
Perceived Moral Alignment:

Quote from Your History:
A line the card pulls from your life—a phrase that captures your essence or past.

Biography: (Two short paragraphs about your background, personality, and journey so far)

Defining Childhood Memory:
What’s one moment from your early life that shaped who you are today?

First Experience with Magic:
Describe the first time you felt your magic awaken or respond to you.

Why Did You Join the Academy?
What brought you to Lumenreach? What are you hoping to find or become?

Biggest Fear Right Now:
Be honest—what’s weighing on you most in this moment of your life?

Assigned Mage Title:
The card assigns a ceremonial or symbolic title. What would yours be? (e.g. “The Velvet Thread,” “Warden of Questions,” “Whisper-Kind”)

Emotion Most Tied to Your Magic:
What feeling fuels or echoes through your rune use most strongly?

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Full Name:
Dylan Crowl
Nicknames / Aliases:
None commonly used (though family sometimes calls him “Dilly” in private)
Species / Kin Type:
Maned Wolf-kin
Age:
24
Primary Rune:
Paint
Perceived Moral Alignment:
Neutral Good
(Anxiously kind. Always wants to help. Tries very hard to do right, even when unsure how.)

Quote from Your History:
"I-it’s okay if I’m not the best. I just… wanna try. I wanna learn how to try better."

Biography:
Dylan Crowl is a soft-spoken, nervously endearing maned wolf with a lifelong love for learning and art. Socially anxious but profoundly sincere, Dylan has always found comfort in sketchbooks and textbooks more than conversations—but those close to him know the depth of his heart and the quiet brilliance behind his stammered words. He spent his early adult years bouncing between assignments, most recently working the snack cart on the Whistletrain while quietly dreaming of a life within the academy halls of Lumenreach.

After multiple failed interview attempts—derailed mostly by anxiety—Dylan’s chance finally arrived thanks to a recommendation from Briggs, who saw the strength behind his softness. When magic surged through Brasshollow and a lemurkin attacker struck during the blackout, Dylan’s rune awakened in the chaos. He chose Paint. Not for battle, but because it was something that made sense. That felt safe. Now, with brushes of magic at his side and uncertainty at every turn, Dylan steps into Lumenreach—still nervous, still stammering, but finally stepping toward the dream he never stopped hoping for.

Defining Childhood Memory:
The first time Dylan won a school trivia contest. He nearly fainted from panic when asked to speak in front of the class—but when he saw his parents in the back, cheering louder than anyone else, he smiled through it and told everyone the fun fact about otterkin using rocks as tools. He still remembers how proud they were.

First Experience with Magic:
Dylan’s rune awakened when his apartment building was attacked during the blackout. Panicked and cornered by vines controlled by a hostile lemurkin, Dylan felt a surge of something like adrenaline—but messier. Unformed. He didn’t understand it, but color spilled from him like instinct. He shielded himself and others. Only after did he realize the shape of what had emerged. The Paint rune. And that it had chosen him, or maybe… that he had chosen it.

Why Did You Join the Academy?
Because it’s all he ever wanted. Because learning makes the world feel kinder. Because he spent years thinking he’d never be good enough to be here, and now that he is, he wants to make the most of it—not to prove them wrong, but to prove himself right. He wants to understand this new world of magic. And maybe, somewhere along the way, himself.

Biggest Fear Right Now:
That he’ll hurt someone—on accident. That trying to help will backfire. That opening up about what he knows might bring harm to someone he cares about. He wants to do what’s right… but doesn’t always trust himself to know what that is.

Assigned Mage Title:
The Quiet Bloom

Emotion Most Tied to Your Magic:
Protective Anxiety
(A trembling need to shield, to preserve, to hold something fragile safe—no matter how scared he is inside.)

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs let out a breathy laugh the moment the card slid from the pedestal’s slot with a satisfying click. He caught it mid-air, holding it up with both hands like it was something fragile and important—which, in a way, it was.

“Well, would you look at that,” he said, turning the card around so Dylan could see.

The title shimmered at the top:
Dylan Crowl, The Quiet Bloom

Beneath it, Dylan’s own face looked back—gentle, sheepish, but holding a kind of quiet strength. The artwork captured that signature nervous smile perfectly, down to the soft flick of his ears and the way his cardigan hugged his lanky frame. A small patch—a duck emblem, no less—sat on his chest like a secret mascot of kindness.

In the gold-framed box near the bottom, his quote pulsed softly:

“I-it’s okay if I’m not the best. I just… wanna try. I wanna learn how to try better.”

And finally, beneath that:
Painting Rune

Briggs handed the card over with a grin, the edges still faintly glowing from the enchantment that sealed it.

“There you go,” he said gently. “Official Lumenreach archive copy. Title, portrait, rune, and quote—all in place. Everything else? Still stored in the ether. Tap the card when you need to see your full readout. But this?” He nodded to the surface. “This is how the world sees you now. The Quiet Bloom.”

A pause, then something softer: “And honestly? That might be one of the most honest cards I’ve ever seen come out of this thing.”

He clapped a hand lightly on Dylan’s shoulder. “Welcome to the archive, kid. You're one of us now.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan took the card with both hands like it might crack if he held it too tightly. His eyes flicked over it, ears twitching as he caught sight of his own nervous smile captured in the artwork. The little duck patch on his chest made him huff a soft, stunned laugh.

“Th-that’s… wow,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “It actually… looks like me. Like, really me.”

He traced the edge of the card with one claw, hesitant at first—then with growing wonder. The title shimmered at him again. The Quiet Bloom. Just seeing it written there made something squeeze in his chest. Not in a bad way. More like—proof. That he was here. That he’d made it.

“I mean—kinda weird seeing my own face on a magic trading card,” he admitted, voice light but embarrassed, his ears flattening slightly. “But also… I dunno. It’s… nice?”

He held it a little closer, as if committing every piece of it to memory. “I really have a card,” he said softly, like he needed to say it out loud to believe it.

Then he looked back up at Briggs, a quiet, genuine smile starting to bloom. “Thanks, Briggs. Really. For getting me here. For everything.”

There was a pause, then a soft head tilt.

“Hey, uh… what rune did you get, by the way?” he asked, curiosity threading into his voice. “I—I never thought to ask.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs beamed at Dylan's reaction, tail giving a satisfied little wag. He loved this part—watching someone see themselves, really see themselves, reflected through magic and meaning and history. It never got old. And Dylan’s awe? That was the kind of thing that made all the sleepless research nights worth it.

But then Dylan tilted his head and dropped the question, all gentle curiosity:
“Hey, uh… what rune did you get, by the way?”

Briggs blinked.

Just once.

Then again, a bit slower.

“Oh—ah, yeah, haha,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck and suddenly very interested in the edge of the capacitor device. “That’s… y’know, ancient history. Super boring stuff. Just the kind of rune that, uh, really likes spreadsheets and capacitor schematics.” He flashed an exaggerated grin.

Before Dylan could press, Briggs spun on his heel with theatrical energy. “But! I do have these for you. Since you’re officially logged in, you get your nestmates’ cards now. Nestmate meaning both roommate and learning partners; bonded for your time throughout the academy. Same nest to hatch from."

He reached into his satchel, which gave a faint little twinkle-pop sound as he opened it—because of course it did—and pulled out a neat bundle of two thin, glowing cards.

“Boom,” he said, fanning them out like a card trick. “Your teammates’ profiles. Think of it as magical speed-friending. Each one has their name, rune, and quote—just enough to make things awkward in the best way.”

He handed them over carefully.

“I haven’t peeked, promise. That’d be unethical. Mostly. Probably.”

---

Full Name: Simon Tuskdew
Nicknames / Aliases (if any): None
Species / Kin Type: Caninekin, Labrador
Age: 22
Primary Rune: Summoning
Perceived Moral Alignment: Neutral Good

Quote from Your History:
"I'll slay anything evil, that's my deal!"

Biography:
Simon grew up in Trenchmouth Bay, an island north of Brasshollow known for its fishing culture and love of bizarre sea creatures. His parents, both seasoned fishers, raised him in a home full of laughter, salty air, and the occasional pet octopus. Trenchmouth Bay hosted frequent competitions to catch the rarest sea monsters, and Simon admired the thrill of it all—though he never could get past his intense fear of boats and trains.

Despite his fears, Simon is naturally cheerful, with a sunny disposition and an open mind. He's curious about every type of magic and creature, often chatting up even the most terrifying summoned beast like it's a house pet. His friendly nature and excitement for new discoveries make him a favorite among classmates—though he's been known to faint if an assignment involves crossing water.

Defining Childhood Memory: When Simon was seven, he was swallowed whole by a magical sea creature known as a Lightgobbler—a semi-ethereal fish that glows like a lantern and drifts near docks at dusk. He spent three days inside its warm, luminous belly, where time felt strange and voices echoed like dreams. He doesn’t remember being scared—just floating there in silence, talking to the other things it had swallowed, until it spat him back out. Since then, he's believed that strange creatures might not be evil—just misunderstood.

First Experience with Magic: Simon's first spark of magic came during a rainstorm, when he slipped on wet stone and instinctively cried out. To his shock, a small salamander made of steam and fire skated out of a puddle, leaving boiling footprints on the cobblestone path. It danced around him, hissing gleefully, and vanished just as quickly. Since then, Simon has felt a kinship with all summoned spirits—especially the weird ones.

Why Did You Join the Academy?: Simon enrolled at Lumenreach to master the Summoning Rune and discover just how far his talents can go. He dreams of one day calling forth creatures never-before-seen in the Archipelago. He’s determined to summon something so magnificent it redefines magic entirely—even if he has to take a ferry to get there.

Biggest Fear Right Now: Simon is deeply anxious that his classes and missions at the Academy will require extensive travel—especially over water or by train. He dreads being jostled, trapped, or helpless in a moving vehicle, and secretly hopes most of his magical training can be done on land or in dreams.

Assigned Mage Title: The Brightcaller of Trenchmouth

Emotion Most Tied to Your Magic: Wonder

---

Full Name: Dogman TreeHelm
Nicknames / Aliases (if any): Dog
Species / Kin Type: Velkin
Age: 22
Primary Rune: Poison
Perceived Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Quote from Your History: "I am not wearing a stupid robe!"

Biography: Dogman hails from Lilyholt, a swamp-choked island east of Brasshollow known for its dense marshes, toxic flora, and alchemical markets. Raised alongside six siblings in a crumbling treetop dwelling, Dogman's parents left when his eldest sister came of age—an honored tradition in Velkin culture that marks the beginning of the "Third Life" pilgrimage. Velkin are a sleek, wyvern-like kin with feline movements and jet-black feathers. Their powerful tails and sharp hooked beaks make them formidable even without magic.

Dogman is clever, sharp-tongued, and allergic to authority. He’s a fast learner, but easily bored. Most who meet him find him unpredictable and dryly funny. His sense of humor masks a general distrust in systems—government, religion, schools—and he prefers doing things his own way, even if it means failing harder. He doesn’t really believe in destiny, but if it did exist, he’d flip it off just to see what happens.

Defining Childhood Memory: At age 12, Dogman broke into one of Dhar’va’s alcohol processing facilities with two older cousins and a stolen key made of hardened wax. The goal was to snag a barrel of fermented moonblossom—rare, valuable, and illegal to sell outside of Lilyholt. The cousins bailed when the alarm glyphs went off, but Dogman stayed behind, trying to roll the barrel out by himself. He got caught, tossed into a holding cell for a week, and interrogated by one of Dhar’va’s masked enforcers. No charges were pressed—probably out of pity—but the experience burned into his memory. Not because of the fear, but because of the silence. No one came for him. His parents were long gone, his siblings assumed he’d figure it out, and he did.

First Experience with Magic: It happened during a shouting match with a friend-turned-rival. The argument started over stolen gear, but escalated into insults, posturing, and finally a physical shove. Dogman told them to back off—once, then twice. When they didn’t, something in his throat cracked open like a rotten fruit, and a wave of acrid purple vapor spewed out. The rival fled coughing, and a nearby sapling withered to black. Dogman stood frozen, tasting metal and adrenaline. Later, when the shock wore off, he realized how good it had felt to finally have something that made people listen.

Why Did You Join the Academy?: It wasn’t about ambition—it was about escape. Lilyholt was small, sour, and suffocating, and Dogman was tired of scraping by on grit alone. The Academy promised power, freedom, and distance from everything he didn’t want to deal with: his family, the island, and the swampy rut he was born into. He figured if he could harness his magic, he wouldn’t just survive anymore—he’d be someone worth paying attention to. He’s not here to be a hero. He’s here to never go back.

Biggest Fear Right Now: Losing autonomy

Assigned Mage Title: The Blackfang Unleashed

Emotion Most Tied to Your Magic: Resistance

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The door burst open like a firework, and Bazza came flying out, fists pumping the air.

“YEEEEEAH, BABY!!” he bellowed, tail thudding behind him as he landed in the sand with a spring. “Let’s go, let’s go—I’m BORED outta my skull!”

He shadowboxed his way down the slope of Snarlin’ Cove, sending little puffs of beach dust in every direction, sweat already shining on his biceps.

“Ashen buggered off again, the porch post’s dodgin’ my hits now, and I need a real punchin’ bag, mate!”

At the shore, a small sailboat was just pulling up, the sail flapping gently in the salty wind. A red-furred fox stood at the prow, one leg propped dramatically, eyes narrowed to the horizon.

Silvano.

He struck a gallant pose, gripping the sail rope like it was a banner and calling out in his velvety, theatrical tone.

“Did someone cry out… for ADVENTURE?!”

Then he beamed, twirled the end of his mustache, and hopped onto the sand with an elegant bow.

Bazza lit up.

“C’mon mate, spar me! Five rounds! Friendly match! I’ll even let you name it somethin’ dramatic!”

Silvano gave a long, thoughtful pause, then flourished a paw toward the air.

“I hereby dub this duel—The Legendary Sandsmack Spectacular: A Duel of Might and Mischief!”

And then, with a sly grin: “Accepted, of course. Huzzah~!”

From the porch of their weathered little house overlooking Snarlin’ Cove, Jenn leaned against the railing with a glass of iced tea, ears half-cocked to the sea breeze. Eryon sat beside her on a low wooden bench, one arm resting on his knee, the other lazily turning the page of a worn book he hadn’t looked at in ten minutes.

Jenn took a sip.

“There Bazza goes again,” she said, watching the kangaroo thunder out the front door like he’d been lit on fire.

Eryon glanced up.

“Mhmm.”

She squinted at the fox climbing out of his boat.

“This time with Silvano. That’ll be a mess.”

---

The late morning sun cast a golden glow over Snarlin’ Cove, waves lapping lazily along the shoreline as gulls circled in the distance. The beach stretched wide and open—a perfect natural arena, already marked by scuffs from Bazza’s earlier shadowboxing.

Bazza stood near one end, arms flexed, tail anchored in the sand like a third leg of balance. His sweat-darkened tank top clung to his broad chest, and his gloves were already on—taped and ready, one shoulder twitching with restless excitement.

He bounced on his thick kangaroo legs in short bursts, nostrils flaring.

“Alright, Silv’,” he called across the sand. “No backin’ out now, yeah? We go five, clean hits, no tail-pullin’ unless ya really deserve it.”

He flashed a wide, toothy grin. “Let’s make it a proper banger, mate.”

At the other end of the beach, Silvano stood dramatically posed atop a driftwood log, one foot forward like he was leading a charge into the heart of legend. His overalls had been freshly patched, the tulip emblem on his chest catching the light just enough to make it look enchanted (though it probably wasn’t).

With a glimmer in his eye and a gloved paw dramatically outstretched, he declared:

“Dear Bazza, I accept your challenge—with glee, with grandeur, and with absolutely no strategy whatsoever!”

He twirled off the log in a graceful flip, landing in the sand in an exaggerated martial arts stance... then immediately adjusted it to something sillier, wagging his tail with a cheeky flourish.

“Huzzah!” he shouted. “Let this clash of fists and foolishness commence!”

Bazza laughed, rolling his neck.

“Ya bloody loon,” he muttered fondly. “Let’s dance.”

And from the porch above, Jenn exhaled slowly and muttered, “Here we go.”

​

---

Round 1​

---

Bazza:
"Oi! Time to limber up, mate—no holdin’ back! Let’s see whatcha got!"

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Psychic Toxin Strike	A psychic attack laced with poison that weakens enemies mentally and physically, causing damage over time.

→ Bazza uses Psychic Toxin Strike
With a bounce and a roar, Bazza launched forward, fists shimmering with crackling violet haze. One clean uppercut shimmered with psychic weight, and the energy pulsed outward like a bell struck underwater—an impact that echoed straight through Silvano’s chest.

Silvano:
(spinning midair, limbs flailing comically, short sporadic movements)
"HUZZAH—! I see your punch packs the sting of ten betrayed operas!"


(lands in the sand with a dramatic sprawl, then pops up like nothing happened.)
"AHEM- Very well, my muscled marsupial friend... if it’s a duel of mystic trickery you want, then allow me to introduce my gooey ensemble!"

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Slimeshow	Summons bouncing, chaotic goo-creatures to cause comedic havoc.

→ Silvano uses Slimeshow
With a snap of his fingers and a mischievous grin, colorful slime-foxes bounced into reality—each with exaggerated cartoon tails and too-wide grins. One stuck to Bazza’s leg with a wet slap, another hopped onto his shoulder and refused to let go.

---

Commentary:


Bazza twisted mid-hop, trying to shake the sticky fox off. “Oi—get this jelly demon offa me!!”








Silvano laughed and posed. “They love attention! Especially from boxing kangaroos!”

---

Jenn:
"Slime foxes. That’s a new one."

Eryon:
"Sticky."

Jenn:
"If he starts juggling them, I’m going inside."

---

Round 2​

---

Bazza:
"Heh—those lil’ goo gremlins were cute, but now it’s my turn to bring the fire, mate!"

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Flamecurse Gauntlets	Hexes your own limbs with cursed fire, granting devastating melee attacks at the cost of self-burn.

→ Bazza uses Flamecurse Gauntlets
A deep growl rumbled from Bazza’s chest as he slammed his gloves together. Cursed fire erupted along his arms, trailing up to his fists in pulsing waves of ember-red light.
He charged—every punch burning through the air with trails of heat, his feet pounding the sand as he launched a hook so hot it sizzled where it passed.

---

Silvano:
(twirls dramatically to the side, the tip of his mustache slightly catches on fire with a steamy hiss)
"Ohhoho! A flaming barrage?! My dear fellow, I didn’t realize we were doing dinner and a light show!"

(spins midair and lands on one knee, posing heroically)
"Then I shall meet fire... with FOOLERY! Toons, CHAAAAAAAARGE!"

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Toon Army	The dragon creates a goofy army of cartoon creatures that wreak havoc with slapstick antics.

→ Silvano uses Toon Army
He raised one paw high—and from thin air, a stream of fox-shaped cartoon soldiers popped into reality. One wore a colander helmet, another carried a plunger like a lance, and the third juggled pies while riding a unicycle.

They swarmed Bazza in a wave of honking chaos.

---

Commentary:

“YAAAH—get off! Get off! One of ya’s on me back! Where’s me tail—OI!!”


Silvano, perched atop a summoned cannonball for no reason at all, just shouted:
“TOON TACTIC #47—SURROUND, SQUEAK, AND SCAMPER!”

---

Jenn:
"There’s a fox riding a unicycle with pies. Should I be concerned?"



Eryon:
"Not unless he juggles knives."

Jenn:
"Might improve the aim."

---

Round 3​

---

Bazza:
"Whew—alright, alright, I’ll admit, that was bloody clever. But I ain’t done yet!"



(he flexes one shoulder and rolls his neck, snorting steam)
Let’s patch up and press on!

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Stoneflesh Mend	Heals wounds with stone-infused energy—cauterizes from the inside, creating durable scars and a brief armor bonus.

→ Bazza uses Stoneflesh Mend
With a grunt, Bazza drove both fists into the sand—stone-veined energy cracked outward, then surged up into his chest.
His arms and torso shimmered as the bruises from earlier mended, sealed over by hardened, armor-like stone that left behind streaks of gritty scars. He exhaled slow, eyes sharp again.

---

Silvano:
(watching from atop a coconut palm tree, leaning over the branches with a charming grin before he jumps down)
"Ahh~ the art of healing theatrically. Respectable, my fine marsupial—but let me respond with a masterpiece of my own!"



(he pulls out a scroll, flourishes a quill from nowhere, and begins to doodle wildly)
“By ink and inspiration—I summon thee!”

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Toonconjuring	Conjures animated allies from doodles and spells combined.

→ Silvano uses Toonconjuring
The sketch peeled off the scroll midair, folding in on itself and forming an animated, pencil-shaded fox knight—complete with a heart-shaped crest and spoon-saber.

It charged at Bazza on its wobbly cartoon legs... and tripped.
Then it got up, tripped again, spun in place, and finally bonked Bazza lightly on the leg with the flat of the spoon.

---

Commentary:

Bazza blinked. “...That’s it?”
The knight saluted, gave a heroic “wah-ha!”, and exploded into glitter.


Silvano wiped a tear. “Gone too soon. We barely knew him.”

---

Jenn:
He drew a knight, it exploded in glitter, and that’s somehow normal now.

Eryon:
Was noble.

Jenn:
He had a spoon, Eryon.

Eryon:
A brave spoon.

---

Round 4​

---

Bazza:
(he stomps once, causing a small puff of sand)
"Alright then—no more messin’ around. Let’s see ya handle THIS, ya slippery little showboat!"

(he cracks his neck and lowers his stance like a tank preparing to roll forward) "Time to toughen up proper."

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Muckplate	Forms thick, rock-hard goo armor over the caster’s body, enhancing durability at the cost of speed.

→ Bazza uses Muckplate
With a guttural HAH!, thick, viscous sludge erupted from the sand beneath him—solidifying into a gleaming, stone-grey armor of hardened goo. It wrapped around his arms and chest like a second skin, bulky and uneven, but tough as rock.

He moved slower now—but every motion had weight behind it. You could hear the ground grind under his feet.

---

Silvano:
(his ears flick forward with interest)
"Ohoho! My dear Bazza has become... a walking sand fortress! Magnificent!"


(he twirls in place, sparks fizzling around his fingers)

"But allow me to raise the stakes and lower the maturity!"

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Static Spirits	Summons ghost clowns who generate chaotic static storms.

→ Silvano uses Static Spirits
With a snap, a trio of floating, ghostly jesters with fox masks spun into existence—each juggling rubber chickens and sparking with cartoon lightning. One zapped the air with a honk, another laughed in three pitches at once.

They circled Bazza like chaotic lightning bugs—until one gleefully zapped him on the rump.

---

Commentary:


Bazza yelped and whipped around.

“YEEEOW! THAT’S ME REAR, YA ROTTEN GHOST!”

One of the ghost jesters gave a big thumbs up before vanishing into static with a kazoo noise.


Silvano bowed, flourishing a hat he never wore. “The spirits are moody today.”

---

Jenn:
"Electric clown ghosts."

Eryon:
"Mm. New standard."

Jenn:
"If one of them honks again, I’m getting the broom."

---

Round 5 – Final Round​

---

Bazza:
(panting, but grinning wide)
"Alright, fox… last round. Let’s give ‘em somethin’ to remember!"


(he winds up both fists, legs coiled, his voice lowering)
"You’ve been a right toony menace, mate. But now I’m diggin’ deep."

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Drakefist	Channels ancient thunder-dragon strength into a devastating charged melee strike that leaves scorched earth behind.

→ Bazza uses Drakefist
He slammed his fists together—and a violent crack of thunder rippled from the impact. Lightning arced up his arms, spiraling in serpent-like tendrils that coiled around his shoulders like dragon spirits.
His gloves lit with golden fury as he launched forward in a devastating leap, every step leaving scorch marks in the sand.

“RAAAAAH—DRAGON STRIKE!!”

---

Silvano:
(gasps theatrically, holding a hand to his heart)
"Oh dear stars and stories, he’s ascended into legend!"

(grins)
"Then so shall I~!"

Spell Level:	Spell Name	Spell Description
1	Cartoon Toxins	Exaggerated poison clouds burst forth, causing enemies to act in cartoonish, distracted ways while they suffer from the toxins.

→ Silvano uses Cartoon Toxins
With a dramatic flourish, Silvano produced a gigantic comedy mallet, swung it once in the air—and out blasted a shimmering green puff of toxin shaped like laughing skulls and cartoon hearts. The cloud sparkled, jiggled, and pulsed with color.

As it hit Bazza, he didn’t stop charging—but his arms suddenly jerked sideways.

He pirouetted once.

Then jazz hands.

Then one fist threw a thumbs-up on its own.

---

Commentary:


“WHA—what the hell’s goin’ on with me arms?!” Bazza shouted, spinning to a stop and wobbling in place.



Silvano, now leaning against a conjured streetlamp like he’d just finished a Broadway number, grinned slyly.

“Side effects may include interpretive dance, my good sir.”

---

Jenn:
"And now he’s waltzing again."

Eryon:
"Could sell tickets."

Jenn:
"Could write a whole review column. “Kangaroo, electrocuted by laughter, pirouettes on sand.” Four stars.

---

FIGHT END​

Bazza:
(panting, laughing, sweat and smoke rising off his shoulders)

"Alright… alright. Callin’ it here. 'Reckon don't wanna turn ya too much into a fox punchin' bag."


Silvano:
(twirling a finger, still striking a heroic stance)

"A draw! A duel of destiny, ended in mutual respect and marginal dizziness!"




Bazza:
(grinning as they bump fists)

"You’re a damn problem, y’know that?"



Silvano:
(Dramatic Silvano bow)
"Ah yes, but a problem that we all love!"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan blinked, just once—then a second time slower, his brow furrowing ever so slightly at Briggs’s sudden pivot from rune talk to “ancient history.” There was a moment, just a twitch in his ear and the faintest sideways glance, that betrayed the thought:

Huh. That was weird.

But Briggs was already shifting focus, and Dylan’s attention—blessedly distractible—was gently swept up in the next reveal.

He took the cards carefully, the glow warming his fingertips like sun off a stovetop kettle. His breath caught slightly as he looked over Simon’s first—bright colors, a cheerful smile, that loud quote. “I’ll slay anything evil, that’s my deal!” Dylan’s shoulders lifted a little in a quiet breath of amusement. Simon looked… really sweet. Loud maybe. But kind.

Then Dogman’s card.

Oh.

Dylan’s eyes widened just a little, reading the quote once, twice: "I am not wearing a stupid robe!" followed by Poison Rune, arms crossed, that scowl… He visibly shrank half an inch. His tail tucked closer behind one leg instinctively.

But there was something cool about it too. Powerful. Sharp.

He held both cards in his long hands, looking down at them for a beat, then gave a nervous, sheepish laugh.

“I-I uh… I hope they like me,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. His smile was genuine, if wobbly. “They seem… really cool.”

He glanced up at Briggs, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his robe.

“Y-you’re sure they’re stuck with me now, right? Like, legally?” Another laugh—awkward, hopeful. “No backsies?”

---

Lucian stayed the night.

He didn’t request a guest room, didn’t comment on the soft-worn furniture or the sea-weathered scent of the house. He simply remained—poised, quiet, and unbothered. He and Ephraim shared a few final exchanges over the last of the blackberry wine, nothing dramatic, nothing implied—just conversation that filled the spaces silence usually occupied. For once, Lucian didn’t try to command the evening. He just let it happen.

Morning came early. By the time the sun began to brush over the waves, Lucian was already dressed, polished back into form: Chairman of the Whistletrain, sleeves sharp, voice smoother than sleep. He listed his obligations with precision—appointments in Brasshollow, damage reports, reputation maintenance, and the usual flow of power that needed to be steered.

Still, he didn’t leave abruptly. He allowed for one more quiet hour in the house—no speeches, no pretense. Just presence. Enough to offer company before the silence returned, before Ephraim was alone again in the spaces she’d once shared with someone else.

At the door, he told her not to hesitate. That if she needed anything—anything at all—she knew how to find him. She was always welcome to reach out.

Then he left.

The whistletrain pulled out of Snarlin’ Cove with a cry that echoed down the shore, steam coiling like silver thread behind it. Lucian stood aboard without fanfare, coat settled, eyes forward.

He didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.

---

Mordecai sat atop a modest rise, overlooking a field of low grass and scattered wildflowers swaying gently in the afternoon wind. The air was cool, peaceful—but not empty. There was a weight in the stillness now. Not foreboding. Just heavy. Like breath held too long.

Cer, Ber, and Rus were with him—his wolves, his shadows, the ones who hadn’t left. The skeletal-headed hounds moved through the field, their ink-black fur stirring with each breeze. They panted softly, tails slicing the grass, circling near him without crowding. They always seemed to know what he needed before he did.

He slouched forward, resting against his staff—a long, knotted length of wood worn smooth at the grip. His left leg was stretched out, the other bent, and the staff helped him balance naturally against the slight list his body had learned since losing the vision in his left eye. That side of his face, still marred and discolored from the explosion, caught the wind like something hollowed out. Cold, numb in places. He didn’t always feel it anymore.

They hadn’t spoken to each other since that night. Not in words, at least. The wolves rarely needed them.

But his thoughts had been louder than ever.

He’d seen it once—what could have happened. The memory not his, not exactly. A vision drawn from his own breaking point. A version of himself who had killed Avarice, screaming and blood-wrung, while Ephraim cried out for him to stop. That version lived in him still. And maybe always had.

Then came the hallucination. The other Mordecai. Unity Haven. Cold. Ruthless. Unapologetic. The part of himself that saw silence not as peace, but as survival.

It hadn’t left him.

Not even now.

Cer nudged his hoof gently. Mordecai looked down just as the wolf pressed his bone-skull muzzle against his leg and slumped with a long, rattling breath. Ber circled around to his blind side and leaned against him. Rus crawled in next, inching forward with a quiet whine, until his shoulder pressed flush to Mordecai’s ribs.

“I miss them too,” Mordecai muttered.

He didn’t clarify who. Wrath. Ephraim. Himself.

He wasn’t sure it mattered.

There was no great wisdom. Just weight. Just presence. Just these quiet things, choosing him.

His voice rasped low again. “You know who you are.”

He didn’t say it to any of them in particular. Maybe he was jealous of that. How they never questioned it. How their identities weren’t built on memory or consequence or versions. They simply were.

“I can’t say the same.”

His eye drifted shut for a moment, head bowed forward. Then, with effort, he forced himself up—pushing to a stand, gripping the staff as a steadying anchor. His weight leaned naturally into the left side now, the scarred half, the half that didn’t see but still felt.
He thought of the river. Of that one day, when he’d knelt at the bank and washed himself in the early light. He remembered catching his reflection—twisted slightly in the water’s surface—and seeing something else.

A glow.

Just along his spine, just behind the heart. Low and pulsing like an ember wrapped in veins. A dark violet light, like a bruise pressing through fur. Webbing. Not natural. Like something had planted itself in him and now stretched outward in slow, deliberate threads.

It was still there. He could feel it now. A faint warmth. A phantom pulse.
He said nothing about it to the wolves. He never did. But their eyes sometimes lingered at his back when they thought he didn’t notice.

“You don’t need speeches,” he murmured to them. “You just… stay.”

They blinked up at him. Cer’s ears twitched. Rus whined again, thumping his tail once in the grass. Ber stared without movement.

“Go on,” Mordecai said, nodding toward the open field. “Run. You deserve it.”

And they did.

The three of them exploded forward, weightless and wild, shadows unchained. They weaved between each other, bounding, nipping, lunging in mock battle, their howls echoing faintly over the breeze.

And in their wake—something changed.

Flowers bloomed.

Not just a few. Hundreds. Swaths of them, bright and surreal. Pinks, whites, yellows, indigos. As if someone had spilled paint across the canvas of the hillside. They erupted in bursts behind the wolves’ paws, chasing their motion like light following laughter.

Mordecai didn’t move.

It wasn’t his doing. It wasn’t his magic.

His good eye narrowed. Slowly, he turned his head.

And saw it.

The Witherstalker.

Half-sunken in the fog at the forest’s edge. Its skin dry and split like cracked stone, ridged in thorns and old roots. Its face, as always, formless. Watching.

It had no eyes. Yet it saw.

Mordecai didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He didn’t feel fear—not anymore. The creature had become something else. Familiar. Maybe even… honest.

The Witherstalker turned—not to leave, but to look.

At the wolves. At the flowers. Then back at him.

He swallowed, something hollow catching in his throat.

It had been here a while. Maybe since before the wolves ran. Maybe since the fugue. Maybe longer.

He didn’t know what it wanted.

But it listened.

He closed his eye.

The curse was still inside him. The fractured memories. The bitterness of the version he’d left behind. But the island hadn’t abandoned him.

The wolves hadn’t.

The Witherstalker hadn’t.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe not.

But for now, he stood. A shadow of himself. A man between truths. And the field bloomed anyway.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs let out a loud laugh at that—sharp, surprised, genuine.

“Oh yeah,” he said with a grin, clapping a hand lightly on Dylan’s shoulder. “Absolutely stuck. Bonded for life. Soul-tethered by bureaucratic enchantment and a truly hellish roommate assignment algorithm.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice like he was letting Dylan in on some ancient institutional secret.

“You could embarrass yourself so hard you physically disintegrate? Still your team. You could call them by the wrong name for an entire semester? Still your team. You could throw up during spellcasting and ruin their favorite coat? Still. Your. Team.”

He pulled back with a mock-solemn nod. “Only way out now is, like... death. And even then, depending on your ghost resonance? Still probably obligated to meet for group study in the afterlife.”

With a playful gesture, he pointed at the cards in Dylan’s hands. “Simon’s a golden retriever with an optimism complex, most of the time anyway. Dogman—yeah, he’s intense, but he's warm once you build up a relationship."

A pause.

“Besides, you’re the one with the Paint rune. You get to color in the edges none of the rest of us can even see.”

He turned again, gesturing forward with the same energy as before. “Alright, Bloom Boy, onward. We'll get you settled in, let you do brief introductions, and then dinner-- just you and me."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stared at Briggs for a moment as he described the afterlife study group clause, ears slowly lifting in an incredulous tilt.

“I—I mean, I guess that’s… comforting?” he offered, voice unsure and clinging to the edges of a laugh. “That uh… really raises the stakes on like… spilling tea on someone’s bed, huh?”

His fingers fidgeted slightly on the edge of one of the cards, his expression shifting between baffled and amused as Briggs detailed Simon’s golden retriever optimism (okay, yeah, he got that vibe) and Dogman’s… well, intensity.

He gave a small nod, though—more to himself than anyone else. “Yeah. Okay. I’m ready.” He squared his shoulders, breath catching slightly, but he moved forward with it. “Can’t stop now, right?”

Then Briggs called him Bloom Boy, and Dylan made a face like someone who just got hit with a compliment so sincere it tripped every anxiety wire in his brain. His ears flicked back shyly, but he smiled—real, wide, and crooked.

“Dinner sounds… nice,” he said, quieter now, with a little nod. “I-I mean, with you. Not like—uh. Not with you like that. I mean just… yeah, no, I’m definitely looking forward to it.”

His stomach gave the faintest grumble.

“Heh… yeah. Pretty sure after today?” Dylan chuckled sheepishly. “I’ll probably be hungry enough to eat a whole mana crystal by accident and just not even notice.”

---

The wolves were playing near the edge of camp, tangled in slow motion beneath a willow tree that hadn’t been there yesterday. Mordecai sat slouched in the center clearing, hunched near a cold firepit, his coat draped over his shoulders but not worn properly. His eyes were hollow, darker than usual, and there was no telling if he had slept. His cheekbones jutted sharp. His ribs showed through the clothes. The rot of unspoken things had begun to reach the physical.

He hadn’t eaten in days.

“You’re not eating again.”

The voice wasn’t the one he expected. It wasn’t grating, guttural, or mocking. It was soft. Thoughtful. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

Mordecai didn’t turn. It wasn't Unity Haven Mordecai's voice.

“…That’s not your voice.”

A beat passed. Then, slowly, footsteps—measured, quiet—approached. When he finally turned his head, Mordecai saw him.

Himself.

The robes were simple—dusted crimson and worn from travel, the fabric of a Hearth-Keeper who hadn’t seen ceremony in months. His posture was easy, not rigid. There was kindness in his gaze, but not weakness. A serenity that didn’t judge.

“No,” the hallucination said calmly. “I suppose it isn’t.”

Mordecai’s jaw tightened. His mouth drew into a bitter line.

“No. Not now.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Ramura Mordecai replied. He glanced around the island’s clearing, eyes resting briefly on the firepit, the trees, the wolves. “Still. You brought me here. Or… something in you did.”

“No.”

His voice cracked. He turned his face away again.

The hallucination stepped forward slowly. “No?” He tilted his head. “You hear Unity Haven Mordecai's voice like a firecracker and don’t blink. But me? You flinch.”

“You’re not real.”

“Neither is time, apparently.” He smiled faintly, kneeling across from Mordecai with a slow, deliberate grace. “But we’re both still here.”

Mordecai closed his eyes. His breath rattled in his chest.

“…You’re the one I don’t look at,” he whispered. “You know that.”

“I know. I’ve watched you look away every time. That used to sting.”

He folded his hands in his lap, calm and steady. “But I get it now. Of all of us… I’m the one you tried hardest to become. The one you tried hardest to forget.”

“You were a lie.”

“No,” Ramura Mordecai said softly. “I was hopeful.” He let that settle. “You weren’t ready for that back then.”

Mordecai looked at him now—truly looked. Tired. Sunken. His voice, brittle:

“You think I’m ready now?”

“No,” the hallucination said, not unkindly. “I think you’re breaking. Slowly. Quietly. But not all of that is bad.”

He looked toward the wolves, then the trees, then sky.

“This place... it’s not just wilderness. It listens. It mirrors. You feel that, don’t you?”

Mordecai didn’t answer.

Ramura Mordecai smiled slightly. “Because you are being watched. Not by gods. Not by ghosts. By something old. Something spiritual. Maybe even sacred.”

His voice dropped.

“This island responds to what’s in you—not what you say. It’s not survival magic. It’s reflection.”

“So what. I’m shaping this place?”

“No. You’re revealing it.” He met Mordecai’s eyes. “You’ve always felt the shape of things deeper than most. Spirits. Creatures. That’s why you never feared Wrath—not even when others saw him as a monster.”

His tone softened, more personal.

“It’s why your wolves follow you. You don’t just command them. You understand them.”

A hush passed through the clearing. The wind shifted. One of the wolves lifted its head.

“You always did feel closer to creatures than kin,” Ramura Mordecai said. “Even before all this. You felt the pull of spirits. The rhythm beneath things.”

He gestured gently to the island, to the shadows in the trees.

“That’s what the Witherstalker is. Not a hunter. Not a judge. Just… a mirror. It’s been watching. And it’s been shaping this island through you. Through your silence. Through your reflection.”

His gaze lingered, then softened again.

“You’re not meant to be one thing, Mordecai. You never were. And I think… that’s what scares you most.”

“You keep asking yourself which version is real. But they all are.”

A long silence followed.

“You promised you’d always find her,” Ramura Mordecai said softly. “And you did. Every time. You still do.”

He let the words hang.

“She loved me, yes. She loved Ramura. But she loves you too—even the parts you think she shouldn’t.”

His voice, warm now, almost reverent.

“That life was real. That love was real. And it didn’t end because the world reset. She’s always known you—even when you didn’t know yourself.”

“You still don’t have to talk. You don’t even have to remember. But you do have to feel.”

He stood, brushing off the dust of the island, and stepped back into the silence.

“Just... don’t be so quick to burn every version of yourself that knew love.”

Mordecai didn’t answer. He didn’t argue.

He simply sat there, as the wind moved around him and the wolves returned to his side. One pressed against his shoulder. His hand, slow but certain, reached up and rested on its neck.

Ramura Mordecai didn’t vanish in a flash or dissolve like fog.

He just turned, walking calmly into the jungle’s hush. Becoming stillness again.

Mordecai didn’t watch him go.

But he didn’t look away either.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs let out a sharp laugh as Dylan stumbled over his dinner comment, tail flicking behind him like a metronome of delight.

He gave Dylan a cheeky wink before motioning for him to follow. “Alright, let’s walk and digest a little of this wild day, yeah?”

They moved together beneath the shaded overhang of the Wing of Meditation, the stone cool beneath their feet as glyph-light traced around the seams of the floor. The air was calmer here, quieter—the kind of place that felt like it encouraged breathing deeper. As they passed the large arch labeled Tailquarters, Briggs gestured with a small nod.

“That’s where faculty offices are,” he said conversationally. “You’ll probably be spending some time in there—apprenticeship meetings, rune reviews, a few too many check-ins for my taste. Nothing painful, just... lots of magical paperwork.”

Past the arch, they turned into the Wing of Studies, and the atmosphere shifted immediately. Classrooms lined the hallways, magical energy faintly buzzing from doors cracked open just wide enough to catch snippets of voice and chalk-on-glyphboard.

From one room, Dylan could hear:
“...and the primary advantage of the Whistletrain’s lined rail system is—yes, Yara?”
Another room down:
“Now, shrimp witches. Extremely territorial, faintly citrus-scented, and absolutely hostile to flattery. Who can tell me why?”

Briggs leaned toward Dylan with a grin. “That one’s Professor Rayle. If you ever hear shrieking and wet thuds, just know she’s doing an ‘interactive’ lesson.”

They exited through the western arch of the Studies Wing, stepping into the crisp outdoor air. A long gravel path curled ahead of them, neatly flanked by whispering rows of trees and mana-fed wildflowers nodding in the breeze.

Briggs paused at the edge of a large fenced plot labeled Lucian’s Farm.

“Ah, yeah. So—fun fact.” He pointed toward the tidy fields and distant figures tending crops with slow, enchanted tools. “That farm? It gets renamed every time a new Whistletrain chairman takes over. Kinda a tradition-slash-donor-ego thing. Right now it’s ‘Lucian’s Farm,’ ‘cause he wrote a very generous check to the Academy."

He lowered his voice and added dryly, “Let’s just say his money shows up more often than he does.”

Past the fields, the gravel path wound them into a clustered pocket of dull, uniform housing—row after row of squat, muted townhouses, all in browns and greys like the school ran out of color halfway through construction.

Briggs gestured broadly. “And welcome to The Hatchery. Home sweet home for first and second-years. You’ll be here for a bit—don’t let the color fool you. The walls are sad, but the neighbors are usually weird and likable.”

He grinned over at Dylan. “Your nestmates are already logged and moved in. You’ll be in Unit 3B."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan trailed alongside Briggs, wide-eyed and quietly absorbing everything—the glyphwork beneath their feet, the shifting classroom voices, even the weirdly soothing sound of magical chalk. He gave a short, awkward laugh at the mention of shrimp witches, but mostly stayed quiet, letting the day’s weight settle somewhere in his shoulders.

But when Briggs gestured toward Lucian’s Farm, Dylan paused.

His breath caught, just for a second, a tension curling in the center of his chest. The name Lucian hadn’t meant much to him outside of Lucian always being the chairman until a few days ago. Until Ephraim said it—said it in that strange, serious yet unserious way. Another world, she’d mentioned. Like her. They both came from another world. Stuff that Briggs probably really needed to know...

Dylan’s ears twitched.

He bit the inside of his cheek, debating it—Should I tell Briggs now? Should I say it?—but the words sat heavy in his throat. He hesitated… and then gently set the thought back down.

Instead, he gave a small, careful nod. “Y-yeah,” he murmured. “I used to work the whistletrain... cart service mostly. Lucian was, uh—he was always involved in something. Really busy. But he does seem like he… really cares. About Brasshollow, I mean. A-and I guess helping out here too, even if it’s just financial.” Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. “He could be... kind of intimidating. Hard to read, sometimes. But he was a nice boss. Always made sure things ran smoothly. Never yelled.” He blinked. “Well. Not at me, anyway. But everyone seemed to like him.”

He let that hang with a sheepish chuckle, then looked at the little neighborhood ahead.

“Guess I should, uh, get settled then, huh?” He chuckled softly, nervous but trying. “I’ll see you for dinner later?”

After a small wave, Dylan peeled off from Briggs, walking down the gravel path until he found Unit 3B. It wasn’t special-looking—muted siding, plain door, no enchantment bells or fancy glyph-engraving. But it was real.

His new home.

He stood in front of the door for a moment, exhaling slowly, nerves tightening in his chest again. A deep breath in.

Then he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The townhouse welcomed Dylan with a hush.

Muted golden light filtered in through tall windows framed by aged brass and softened glass, casting warm streaks across the floorboards. Everything inside bore the charming weight of overuse—an old rug slightly faded at the edges, wooden beams that creaked with memory, and shelves cluttered with the odd chaos of half-finished unpacking. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, parchment, and a lingering trace of ozone—probably a leftover ward or someone’s shampoo.

The space unfolded vertically more than wide: a three-level layout that curled upward like a storybook tower. The living room—on the first floor—was cozy and crooked, with a reddish-brown couch tucked under the staircase, a well-worn quilt folded neatly over the back. A lamp on a side table flickered lazily, not from lack of power, but as though it had been enchanted by someone with a very casual relationship to stability.

The kitchen wrapped around the base of the stairs, all narrow counters and clever shelfwork. Copper kettles and half-empty jars of spices stood like forgotten participants in an unfinished recipe. Someone had left a bowl on the island with exactly one apple in it. A note beside it read, in friendly, looping handwriting:

“This one is for anyone who wants it. I just needed to draw something round."

The stairs creaked slightly as the air adjusted to the new presence. Upstairs, two more levels held the rest of the nest: three student bedrooms total—one per floor—and a shared bathroom tucked on the middle level behind a patchwork privacy curtain. The lowest door and door past the bathroom were already marked with a tiny brass plaque, etched with a number and rune glyph, suggesting the rooms had already been claimed. That left the room highest up.

A faint breeze from an open window stirred the pages of a book left on the coffee table. It was titled:
“Emotion: A Field Guide."

The house exhaled again—settling.

Waiting. Listening.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stepped just past the threshold and paused, blinking once.

Then twice.

“…Woah,” he murmured under his breath, eyes tracing the layout from the old staircase to the cozy curve of the kitchen counter. He hadn’t expected it to be so—tall. His eyes lifted, following the curling spine of stairs climbing up through the townhouse’s warm wooden ribs like some kind of quiet storybook tower.

“This is… a lot nicer than I thought,” he mumbled, ears twitching faintly as the soft creaks of the beams seemed to greet him. He stepped farther in, paw pads silent on the floorboards. The golden light from the window caught on the old rug, dancing across scuffed corners like memory etched in sunlight.

Then he spotted the bowl on the kitchen island.

He read the note beside it aloud with a gentle tilt of his head. “They just needed to draw something round…”

There was a beat of pause, Dylan’s muzzle scrunching slightly.

“Huh.”

He didn’t not understand that.

Turning, his eyes caught the book on the table. Emotion: A Field Guide. A quiet breath left him in a single note of amusement.

“Heh… maybe I need to read that book sometimes.” His own voice made him smile, just a little. Self-aware, sheepish.

He glanced at the doors—two of them already marked, rune glyphs shining faintly like claimed stars. “One must be Simon’s room… and the other Dogman’s,” he muttered, still trying to process it all. “They’re already here, maybe…?”

Then, as he glanced back around the space, his expression softened. Something in his chest felt full—nervous, sure, but also… grounded.

He could already imagine what his dad would say.

In a too-cheerful voice, Dylan did a soft impression: “Dylan! You’ve got stairs! Ohh, buddy, this is stately! Is that—are those spice jars? What are you, a wizard or something?!” He laughed once under his breath, embarrassed but comforted by the thought. He already missed his parents.

Still chuckling quietly to himself, Dylan hoisted his small pack over his shoulder and made for the highest floor. He glanced briefly toward the doors of his new nestmates, wondering if either of them were inside.

But for now—he needed to settle in.

He reached the top of the stairs, placed his paw on the handle of the unmarked door, and opened it slowly… stepping into his new space.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Simon was already halfway through stacking a little folded note on the pillow when the door creaked open behind him.

He startled—just a little hop and a tail-wag twitch—then turned around quickly with a wide, apologetic grin already blooming across his face.

“Ah! Hi! Sorry—don’t worry, I’m not breaking in or anything, promise!”

The Labrador kin raised both paws in mock surrender, his cloak slightly lopsided and his sweater sleeves pushed up unevenly.

“I was just, uh… dropping off a welcome note! And also—I folded your blanket. It was folded weird before. Not bad weird, just like… sad weird."

He laughed softly and scratched behind one ear, tail thudding gently against the frame of the bed.

“I figured since no one was in the room yet, I could sneak in and leave a little something. Y’know—'Welcome to 3B!'

He gestured to the note on the pillow, now neatly sitting beside a small, cartoonish doodle of what looked like a confused jellyfish with a graduation cap.

“I’m Simon, by the way."

Simon offered a bright, open grin and took a half-step towards Dylan and to the door.

“Anyway, I’ll get out of your fur. I just wanted you to have something nice waiting when you got here. First day stuff can be overwhelming, and it’s easier when someone says hi first, right?”

“Oh—and don’t worry, I didn’t snoop. I mean, not that you have anything in here yet. Except I did admire your window view for a second. It’s incredible. You got the best one.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan froze in the doorway for a second, ears twitching and posture stiff—half-convinced he’d walked into the wrong room. But as Simon launched into his cheery, rapid explanation, Dylan blinked a few times, registering the welcome note, the jellyfish doodle, the neatly folded blanket.

His shoulders dropped with a quiet breath. “O-oh! No, no, you’re good—it’s, um… totally good!” he said, voice soft and skipping a bit with a nervous chuckle. “I really appreciate it, actually.”

He gazed around the room, eyes catching on the golden light through the window, the warmth of the space, the softness of the blanket. Without meaning to, his fingers brushed the edge of the bedpost—and for a brief moment, the faded paint grain near his hand deepened, the color warming just a touch, like it had remembered the comfort in his voice and decided to echo it.

But Dylan didn’t notice.

He was too busy shifting awkwardly in place, drawing his long limbs inward, instinctively curling his shoulders. Simon was shorter—though to be fair, nearly everyone was. But Dylan still tried to make himself a little smaller, less towering. His ears flicked back, and he curved his spine ever so slightly, as if subconsciously trying to step closer to someone else's height.

“I’m, uh… guessing you’re one of the nestmates then?” Dylan said, voice shy but warm. “That’s… that’s really nice of you, with the note and everything. I really appreciate it. I—I mean, it’s kind of wild being here, right? The whole place feels like it’s out of a book or something.” He gave a short, nervous chuckle, his fingers fidgeting gently at the hem of his sleeve. “Excited, definitely. Nervous too. But yeah… mostly excited.”

His hands flailed mid-gesture and then dropped again, unsure what to do with themselves. He paused, blinked.

“Oh! Uh—my name. I forgot—uh, I mean, I didn’t forget it, I just—didn’t say it.” A sheepish laugh followed, one hand reaching up to rub behind his neck, ears tilting in embarrassment.

“I’m Dylan. Dylan. Hi.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Simon’s tail was already wagging again before Dylan even finished speaking. His whole body seemed to light up the way a kettle whistles—excited, barely-contained energy rolling off him in warm waves.

“Dylan!” he repeated with absolute joy, like it was the most exciting name he’d heard all week. “Oh man, that’s such a good name. Classic! Strong! Like someone who’s got a quiet secret and a cool destiny. You know what I mean? You totally sound like someone who has a main POV and is a leading protagonist!"

Then, without skipping a beat:

“And yes! I’m one of your nestmates! I'm in the middle room going up the stairs. I chose it so that way it's about equal distance for me to check on you or Dogman." He laughed, "I was the first to choose."

He hovered near the doorway for a second longer, eyes flicking up at Dylan with cheerful awe. “Also—can I just say—you’re a maned wolf?! That’s so cool! You guys are so leggy! I mean that in the best possible way. It’s like you were designed by someone trying to describe elegance while also panicking. Like—bam! Height! Bam! Legs! But also like… softness?” he paused. then got louder. "AND THEN BAM, MORE LEG! LEG! LEG!"

He waved both hands as if trying to sculpt the concept in air. “... Anyway—not like a weird thing, I just, like, really admire the whole vibe. There’s this music artist I follow, you probably haven’t heard of him—goes by Rookwell, sometimes collabs with TVhead? Yeah, well, he’s a maned wolf and his outfits are insane. Like, one time? He wore a shirt that just said Squid Noodle in giant letters. And everyone was like, ‘what does it mean?’ and he just said, ‘It means what it doesn’t.’ Is that CRAZY? Or poetic? Or both?”

Simon paused just long enough to inhale before barreling on.

“Oh! I haven’t seen your trading card yet, either—so I’m just guessing here, but like... you look like someone who might have a Fire Rune? Maybe Air? You’ve got that kind of energy. Like, flickery but also grounded, y’know? Wait, no, maybe Mind? You’ve definitely got the ‘thoughtful eyes’ thing going on—like you think about stuff real hard before doing it.”

He gave Dylan a look like he was on the verge of guessing someone's birthday with pure willpower.

“…What rune did you get?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan blinked a little under the verbal avalanche, ears slightly tilted back—not in discomfort, but more like someone caught in a whirlwind of golden retriever energy and trying to keep his footing. Simon’s joy was infectious in the most endearing way, and despite the nervous flutter in his chest, Dylan found himself laughing. Not forced or polite—just genuinely amused.

He scratched lightly at the side of his neck, his usual sheepish grin forming. “Wow, uh… thanks. I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about… my legs?” he chuckled, glancing down at his long frame. “Usually people just call me a fox someone pulled too hard. Or a confused wolf. And then when I say I’m neither it just—makes it more confusing.” He gave a shrug and a wobbly laugh. “But yeah, I guess we’re kind of a walking height riddle.”

Then Simon started guessing his rune and Dylan perked, ears twitching as if something clicked in his brain.

“Oh! Oh yeah—uh, actually, wait. Hold on.”

He fumbled a bit as he dug through his satchel, long fingers pulling out a slightly-worn sketchbook and a well-loved pen. He flipped a few pages, already smiling to himself, and then—after a moment of scribbling—a quick sketch came together: a cheerful headshot of his dad, Martin, with that unmistakable theatrical wink and an overly jubilant pose that practically radiated charisma.

And then—subtly at first—the sketch moved.

The little inked Martin wiggled his brows and gave a perfect, exaggerated wink, followed by a silent but delighted laugh, all motion exaggerated like a stage performer caught mid-monologue. It held just long enough to make it feel real before gently sliding back into its frozen, still-frame doodle self again.

Dylan turned the sketchbook around, holding it out with both hands like he was offering something fragile and kind.

“Paint rune,” he said softly, a hint of bashful pride warming his voice. His smile was small—but steady.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Simon gasped. Not a quiet little oh neat kind of gasp—no, a full-bodied, arms-flung-slightly-up, jaw-dropped GASP that carried the emotional weight of discovering a treasure chest full of cake.

“PAINT?!” he exclaimed, tail swishing dangerously close to knocking over the nearby coat hook. “You have a painting rune?! That’s so cool! That’s like—that’s art magic! That’s like the most mystical and mysterious and impossibly awesome kind of magic ever!”

He leaned forward, eyes wide and shining. “That sketch just moved, Dylan. It moved. You made a drawing wink. That’s like... that’s like if you baked a muffin and it said ‘thank you.’ Do you understand how powerful that is?!”

Simon clapped his paws together like he was about to witness a sacred ritual.

“Okay. Show me the rest.”

He said it with zero hesitation, full excitement, zero understanding of artistic boundaries.

“Your sketchbook—I need to see it. Like, need. What else have you drawn? Do you do a lot of kin? Are there creatures? Do you have tragic doodles? Do you draw yourself?! Can you draw me?! Oh my gosh, do you ever just paint dreams? I read about someone who did that once and they accidentally made a portal to a childhood memory and their entire house got emotionally soggy. I would risk that. I would 100% risk that.”

Simon’s paws were already hovering just inches away, clearly prepared to receive the sketchbook like it was a sacred tome filled with secrets of the universe.

“C’mon, Dylan,” he beamed, pure-hearted and oblivious. “I bet it’s amazing. I wanna see the whole thing!”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan blinked at Simon’s reaction, ears giving a twitch as the barrage of joyful energy hit him like a warm wave he hadn’t quite braced for. His hands instinctively closed the sketchbook just slightly—gently, not out of rejection, but from that familiar blend of shyness and soft gratitude that crept up his throat like steam from a kettle.

“Oh! Uh—wow, th-thank you, really…” he stammered, a small nervous laugh catching in his throat. “I don’t—I mean, I didn’t think it was, like… mystical muffin levels of magic, b-but that’s… that’s very kind.”

He glanced down at the sketchbook, thumbing the edge before rubbing the back of his neck. “I-I actually just started this one. New sketchbook, new start, y’know? Figured since the academy’s kind of a big deal, it felt… right to start fresh.” He offered a sheepish smile.

“I, um, usually like drawing creatures and things I’ve seen. When I worked on the Whistletrain I’d see a bunch from the windows. Like—like there were these clovenheifers grazing off the ridge of Snarlin’ Cove? Their backs had little shamrock patterns, I’m not kidding.” He laughed a little, still nervous but warming. “I think they chew in slow motion. Or maybe it just feels that way.”

He flicked his eyes up again, voice quieter but more at ease. “Sometimes I just sketch quick stuff, y’know? Like the corner of a café table, or someone reading across the room. Just shapes, light. Little things I don’t wanna forget.” He hesitated, fingers tapping lightly against the sketchbook’s spine.

He cleared his throat gently and perked his ears a bit, shifting the attention with a soft smile.

“W-what about you?” he asked. “What’s your rune?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

“MY RUNE?! Oh buddy, you’re not ready for this—okay, okay, just imagine this—like really picture it: you’re standing in the middle of a field, enemies everywhere, chaos brewing, and then bam!—a trio of elementally attuned beasts leap from a spiral of light, each one with their own personality, their own style—one’s launching flame bursts, the other’s throwing up whirlwinds, and the third? Oh, it just tackles people with pure rock rage while coordinating in sync with my heartbeat. And that’s just one spell!

Then there’s this familiar—you can summon it and it’s not just cute, it’s connected to you. You take a hit? It takes half. You heal? Boom, it heals too, double effectiveness. It follows you around like your magical emotional support creature, but battle-ready! Then there’s the ghost-strike beast—yes, you heard me! You punch? It punches! You swing? It swings! It’s like shadow-boxing with a monster twin who’s always a second behind but perfectly in rhythm!

You can link a summoned creature to an ally so that when one heals, the other heals, like some cozy magical blood pact—but without the paperwork. Want to juice your summons with muscle? There’s a surge spell that makes them faster, stronger, healthier—you basically cast magical protein powder! And oh, oh, oh! You can bond with your summon so that you share attack boosts and whenever one of you hits someone, the other gets a free follow-up strike! I’m not even halfway done!

You want ancestral spirits? Done. You want a thousand of them, charging across the battlefield like history decided to punch modern problems in the face? You got it. I can open portals and let chaotic little witch-familiars loose—just scuttling around, messing up gravity and turning sound into weird. Need goo? I’ve got goo. I can summon sludgy shapeshifting things that multiply when hit, or massive goo monsters that trample enemies flat like sentient jello with a grudge. Or ghost armies! Literal surging walls of ghosts! No legs, no mercy—just war cries and regret!

And you like art? I can paint whole armies. Yes. Paint them. And they move. And they bite. One time I painted a bear with wings and it started yelling poetry. And speaking of poetry, I’ve summoned healers from the afterlife. Their hands glow. They float. They hug wounds shut with LIGHT. Or witches that do healing AND hexing, because apparently duality is chic now.

Sticky regenerative goo? Got it. Ghosts that give off rejuvenating energy like walking hot tea? Absolutely. I can summon storm ancestors that strike like thunder. Witches made of lightning. Goo that shoots bolts like angry pudding. Ghosts that turn into electric shockwaves. And I can paint creatures that buzz around like living, zappy, chaos-glowsticks!

Need sound magic? We have sirens that scream in harmonies that unravel thoughts. Goo that screams. Ghosts that hum confusion into the enemy’s bones. And if that’s not enough? I can literally paint sonic glyph guardians—one time I made one shaped like a toad and it beatboxed so hard a mimic ran away.

Ice? Boom. Ancestors with frost axes. Witches riding snow swarms. Freezing goo that hugs your ankles and never lets go. Spirit shards with ice claws. Blizzard beasts pulled straight from a painting of winter’s bad mood.

Poison? HECK YES. Spirits that corrode armor, witches who ride disease clouds, goo monsters that trail venom, phantoms that poison your dreams. I once painted a skull-faced snake and it melted a golem.

Plants? OH YES. Animated thickets, haunted vines, goo roots that grab ankles and scream in Latin. Ghostly vine spirits that tangle people in their own regrets. And the art ones? I can paint flowers that bite.

Dragons? SIMON HAS DRAGONS. I’ve summoned dragon ghosts, dragon slime, dragon chaos. I painted a dragon once and it dove from the sky like it had a grudge against clouds.

Ancestral overload? Yup. An entire host that STOPS TIME WITH HISTORY. Witch-crafted memories turned real. Goo-shaped grandpas who FIGHT. Ghosts of elders who throw furniture. I PAINTED A FAMILY TREE THAT WENT TO WAR.

I’ve summoned whole covens, ghost witches, goo witches, chaos witches—a realm of witches that rewrote the rules mid-fight. I once summoned an ooze witch who invented three new verbs just to hex someone harder.

Titanic ooze monarchs? Got those. Ghost slime spirits? Easy. I can paint rivers of goo-beasts who sing when they sprint. I can paint haunted landscapes that become real. I can paint an entire battalion of creatures who move like they’re alive—because they are.

So yeah.

...Summoning Rune.”

He paused. Blinked.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stood frozen for what had to be a full ten seconds—ears slightly tilted, one hand loosely gripping the edge of his sketchbook, mouth just barely open like a cartoon character processing a tornado.

Inside his head:
Wow... and I thought I talked a lot.

Not unkindly. He found it... oddly comforting. Mutual chaos.

“Wow…” Dylan finally breathed, blinking slowly like he was rebooting.

He gave a breathy, sheepish laugh, one hand awkwardly drifting up behind his neck to scratch. “Man, I’d hate to run into you on a battlefield.” He smiled—genuinely—though there was a little sideways glance, like he was half picturing it now. “I think I’d just… lay down. Maybe fake a cramp. Let the poetry bear do its thing.”

He let out another soft chuckle, then looked down at his sketchbook again.

“I mean, I dunno if mine’s really cut out for... all that,” he said, quieter. “Paint’s more like... quiet magic. Makes things feel different. Brings stuff to life a little, I guess. But... the idea of throwing colors at, like, monsters?” He let out a huff of nervous laughter. “Yeah, I’d probably be the guy in the back of the fight scribbling really hard and whispering, ‘please work, please work, please work.’”

He glanced back up, still smiling. “But hey. If your goo army ever needs someone to paint its banners, I’m your guy.”