Chrysanthemum
Blackberries & Sage
Somehow a five year old post I just keep editing instead of making a new one. My preferences haven't changed a ton but I do keep it up to date 
Welcome! You can call me Meg, Megan, Chrys, etc.! I've been RP-ing for 15+ years, and have a style of writing I like to refer to as YA-novel-esque. I'm on the hunt for a very specific type of person - so if you think we'd be a match, shoot me a message with a hello, a writing sample, and what kind of RP you're looking for right now
Jumping right into it - I'm not fond of listing off themes or pairings... Plot-wise I will say that I generally look for:
Now - a little bit about the type of writer I'm looking for.
I'm open to anything fantasy based right now. BUILD A PLOT WITH ME.
See below a sample intro and post from a RP with the illustrious
Erato
2020 Halloween contest submission! A bit old now, but it's a stand alone piece, which is nice!
Click for -> Sample 3
Welcome! You can call me Meg, Megan, Chrys, etc.! I've been RP-ing for 15+ years, and have a style of writing I like to refer to as YA-novel-esque. I'm on the hunt for a very specific type of person - so if you think we'd be a match, shoot me a message with a hello, a writing sample, and what kind of RP you're looking for right now
Jumping right into it - I'm not fond of listing off themes or pairings... Plot-wise I will say that I generally look for:
- Not fandoms. Sorry
I have a passion for creating new characters in new worlds. - Fantasy based anything. I started off 10 years ago with the generic gifted-school RP plot (lol) and the fantasy/magical elements have always stuck with me.
- Science fiction fantasy too! YES, PLEASE.
- A drizzle of romance. I'm a romantic, I don't watch TV, I need to make my own drama, yada yada. I enjoy smooshing faces together (but not inevitably - I don't like shoving square pegs into round holes).
- 2x2 (unless you can persuade me otherwise). Like I said, I'm a romantic - but I know there are so many other people who RP who are as well. Let me live vicariously through my female while you live through yours, LOL. Not to mention - having more characters adds depth and interest to a plot and allows for multiple/different types of relationships and interactions. I value these platonic relationships as much as any potential romance and think they're equally important to good storytelling.
* Disclaimer * : Because so many people seem to think this - 2x2, or doubling, does not mean everyone is in every scene. If I have pair A + B and you have C + D - sometimes A/C/D, A/C, B/C, A/B/D are going to have their own interactions! If B went to bed and A/C go to have a conversation - let B sleep!
Now - a little bit about the type of writer I'm looking for.
- I'm looking for a literate/descriptive/veteran roleplayer. I've been doing this for 15 years or something and I appreciate care, attention to detail and description
- I'd appreciate someone closer to my age - 20's. Just because I get into more mature themes, character flaws, violence, etc.
- I don't expect/need you to post every day! But if you're gone for a week or two, or your posting is slower, please let know. Faster is fun but I'm patient as long as communication is kept up. That also goes for interest in the RP. If something has occurred that has damage your interest - please, no slow fade. Just be honest with me - because I will certainly be honest with you.
- I prefer longer posts... a handful of paragraphs. Having thought put into them. 500-1000+ words is my MO lately.
- If you see this, please tell me your favorite color when you PM me!
- We can be FRIENDS!
I'm open to anything fantasy based right now. BUILD A PLOT WITH ME.
See below a sample intro and post from a RP with the illustrious
Erato
āVilder.ā
The trees in the courtyard were beginning to mottle with the colors of fall. It was early for that. Would their proximity to condensed magical fields speed that process along?
āVilder.ā
There werenāt many trees in the city. It was better, here on the fringe, but the ones that did line the cobbled walks looked sad and strangled. The varieties theyād chosen to plant werenāt conducive to such limited area for root growth, and the tall buildings limited the sunlight. Maybe with -
A book descended from the air in front of Ephram Vilder, startling him out of his thoughts with a resounding slam as it met the desk. Eph, as he preferred, wildly flicked the wand rolling between his idle fingers into the floor. With a put-upon grimace he began searching for it, ignoring the looming shadow in front of him to mutter curses and rifle under his affronted neighborsā desk. Dropping his hand on it, Eph plucked the wand from beneath and jammed the slick, carven spear of antler into its hip sheath.
Only once his wand had been secured did Eph look up, smiling tensely at Professor Bellamy, a tall, blonde man with blue eyes as flat as a pond in winter. That frigidity extended across his features, stern expectation now giving Eph the sense that he may have missed something important.
āā¦Yes? Sir?ā he ventured, blinking in the face of the Professorās derisive snort and the murmuring laughs of the student body.
The Professor closed his eyes, raising his fingers to pinch at the frustrated wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. āVilder, youād think that as a student here on scholarship, youād be working harder to deserve the money the Academy is spending on your education,ā he drawled, attempting gravitas and only succeeding in grating against Ephās raw nerves. Something hot and smoking took new life in his gut, reminiscent of ash and ember.
āI was asking a question on the spell most predominantly used for candle lighting, but as you donāt seem to require the lecture, perhaps you can demonstrate for us?ā Professor Bellamy gestured to the front of the room where a candelabra sat, bearing three thick, waxy candles, their wicks already burnt from previous attempts.
Eph blinked once more, this time putting effort into the expression of disbelieving appraisal. āIām sure there is someone else here who could benefit more from the practice, sir,ā he tried, not liking the frustrated boil of magic under his skin. Eph only made fire when he was willing to accept the losing odds in a gamble. Fire was too variable. Even if it listened when you cast it sometimes it could change its mind and do something else ā something less, or something worse. He didnāt think anyone would understand him though.
Professor Bellamy said nothing at first, taking a seat behind his desk and gesturing again to the candelabra. āDonāt make me ask again, boy. Light it.ā With a creak of his chair, the Professor leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach as if heād won a bet.
Eph stayed seated. āNo thank you, sir,ā he said neatly, hearing the bell toll for classes end and beginning to pack his belongings. Around him, no one moved. Away went the quill, heralding the sound of Professor Bellamyās chair shrieking backwards, away his notebook, punctuated by four long, angry steps. Eph shouldered his worn leather bag and stood, unsurprised to find himself suddenly nose to nose with the Professor. The words ālight itā were forming in the manās mouth, and Eph sighed, halting him and invoking the most humorous look of incredulity on the Professorās face heād ever seen.
āDraft a letter to Professor Sumner, if Iāve challenged your ego enough. I wonāt do it, you cannot make me,ā Eph spoke with soft finality, āThank you for your illuminating lecture, Professor. Have a good day.ā Eph bowed stiffly, aware of his elbows and if he let them flare too far how much the patches in his coat would stand out. He left the bewildered Professor spluttering behind him, more self-conscious of the whispers and quiet jeering of his peers as he took the stairs out of the lecture hall two at a time.
Outside of the lecture hall, Eph stood and wrung his hands into the old bag sagging over his shoulder. He thought, quickly, of all the other things he could have done. Like walk up and light them with a match. Or summon a quick rain, instead. Anything other than flee, his pants hiked around his ankles, untailored and patchy. He couldnāt afford the uniform, and he couldnāt ask Professor Sumner for anything else. Sheād already given him so much ā his books, studying supplies, an alchemistās toolkit. Understanding, too. She understood. Bellamy would most certainly write to her now, though Eph was sure she would understand his reasoning. It would not have been a good look unleash a blaze on the Academyās largest lecture hall.
Eph felt displaced here. Full silver bells hung silent in the windows, polished and gleaming on their cords of white silk. A single cord of bells would change the lives of any small village. In the capital city of Astryn, in the Royal Academy, silver was not a rare commodity. Homes didnāt bother with saltfences, and the silk curtains they draped from the windows were ornately embroidered. They decorated what others bled for out of necessity.
It was still surreal, months after his arrival, years after having left home, drifting for a purpose. He didnāt fit with the students here, pampered men and women who were learning to light candles in their second year. Eph had been doing that since his magic had manifested, at age five ā wordlessly. Wandlessly. It wasnāt that hard to reach out to the elements and just ask, but the gentry hadnāt had much of a reason to try until challenged to do so within the safe realm of academia. It wasnāt his fault years of necessary, practical application looked prodigal to these soft bodies.
With a flicker of petty fury, Eph succumbed to his whims and tugged on the moisture in the air, pulling out his wand and scrawling several runes in the air. Eph had often found the best results came with releasing magic without thoroughly defining it, giving natures wild energy a path for which to flow but not dictating its end. Who was he to tell the rain where to fall?
And if the rain decided to fall very particularly of Professor Bellamyās head, who was he to disagree?
A wild shout of affront echoed from inside the lecture hall, and Eph snorted in amusement, sheathing his wand again and turning left. Theodosia stood in the doorway of the sitting room, as she had been since the start of last week. Eph was surprised to see her, bemused by her intentions as always.
However, today was not the day for indulging his private shock. Muttering some quick pleasantry, Eph scurried into the room, ushering her in before him and shutting the door behind them.
āCountess,ā he bowed again, this time with the proper reverence. Standing, Eph worked at gathering his faculties, dragging a hand through his mussed brown hair, finding that heād forgotten to comb it again. Scowling at himself, Eph glanced warily at the door as Professor Bellamyās shouting began echoing down the hall. The sound of rain patterned after him, and Eph failed to keep the sly smirk from his features. No one would suspect him sitting for tea with the Countess Steele, meaning he was safe for the handful of minutes she required his attention. He was unsure as to why she required it so consistently, but there was no denying her perfect timing today.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Laungrad Keep had been a beautiful place, once upon a time. It sat perched against the hillside like the lofted wing of a dove, all shades of soft, featherweight greys. When it was built they had mined into the mountainside, carving out blocks of hearty granite to make way for hallways, larders, barracks. It was an old keep. There were no records of its inception, no name to give the brave architect who had designed the sturdy, innovative interlocking of the stone, who had conceptualized the sweeping, angled roof that prevented the heavy snow from pillowing. Once, during the war, it had hosted armies.
After the war, Laungrad's name had been lost to the annuls of time, deserted by the victors and left to stare hollow and barren over the well-sized town of Gradenstowne. Astar had resurrected Laungrad's name, discovering it in a crumbling geographic text wedged in a far corner of the city hallās library. It sat in her bag now and would be instrumental in navigating the Northlands once she moved on. The maps contained in the tomb more detailed than more recent renditions. The Academy didn't waste time funding surveying missions when there were more magical pursuits available.
The townsfolk claimed that Laungrad had been abandoned for decades, turning the keep into ghost stories to scare their children with. Theyād explained to Astar that Gradenstowne had been in Laungradās shadow for time immemorial, and that it was as natural as living with the chance of rain. The adults took turns keeping watch, maintaining an unbroken salt line around the perimeter, tucking it into a shielded groove in the carefully constructed saltfence.
Scraps of silk clung to the fence too, and the odd bell or two, but Astar was certain that whatever was living within the confines of the keep paid little heed to the towns attempts at maintaining a firm boundary.
It started with livestock, they said. Wolves werenāt uncommon in these parts, but the towns hunters swore they hadnāt seen a pack in months. No tracks. Pets next. A dog here, a cat there.
Astar had arrived at Gradenstowne to the raucous terror of a child gone missing. A day of preparation later and she was standing in the cold and the damp, burrowed beneath her fur lined cloak to hide from the early snow that was common this far north. One hand lingered on the heavy weight of the double-barreled shotgun holstered against her side. Dressed like a man in heavy boots and pants, she had cut a bewildering figure upon her arrival. There were no curls in her white-blonde hair, fashionable ringlets sacrificed for a functional braid that pinned ironclad against her scalp. She had arrived on horseback, intending to only stay for a night on her way back to Astryn.
The whispers of fear kept her. Pushed her to the hillside, where she now lingered, staring vacantly at the shredded, sodden silk that framed the crumbling hole in the stonework of the saltfence. Clear on the opposite side from the town, she wondered how many of them had been shirking their duties for this to have gone so unnoticed. She wondered if any of them would have took note of the lack of birdsong, or the way the wind seemed to still. How the shadows on this side of the keep seemed to heave, twisting in the slivered, lancet windows that faced the treeline.
Astar would be going into the keep then.
The innkeeper had thought it odd when sheād handed him a letter this morning with instruction to send it only if she did not return before nightfall, but it was a necessary precaution. The practice had saved her life once or twice before, a fail safe to summon academy mages if she failed in her duty.
She would not fail. She would go inside, say, āFuck the Allmotherā, and shoot whatever demon she found in the face with two hollow-point silver slugs, filled with silver-thistle moonsalt. Then she would find the dead child and mourn, then cover his eyes with silver pieces and wrap him in the silk shroud she carried in her bag.
Then she would carry him home.
Then, after a night of hard drinking, she would draft another letter to her family that she would actually mail, telling them of her success. And unlike her unsent plea for help, that one would go ignored.
Astar scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, exhaling soft and slow, taking a moment to cobble together her ferocity, her anger, every inch of strength that she derived from her spiteful desire to thrive and conquer in the face of circumstance. Astar didn't need the Allmother, or her magic. She would face demons, and survive, on her own merit.
Dropping her bag against the outside of the wall, Astarte Sumner took a step over the boundary wall and entered Laungrad, wreathed in all its breathing shadows.
The trees in the courtyard were beginning to mottle with the colors of fall. It was early for that. Would their proximity to condensed magical fields speed that process along?
āVilder.ā
There werenāt many trees in the city. It was better, here on the fringe, but the ones that did line the cobbled walks looked sad and strangled. The varieties theyād chosen to plant werenāt conducive to such limited area for root growth, and the tall buildings limited the sunlight. Maybe with -
A book descended from the air in front of Ephram Vilder, startling him out of his thoughts with a resounding slam as it met the desk. Eph, as he preferred, wildly flicked the wand rolling between his idle fingers into the floor. With a put-upon grimace he began searching for it, ignoring the looming shadow in front of him to mutter curses and rifle under his affronted neighborsā desk. Dropping his hand on it, Eph plucked the wand from beneath and jammed the slick, carven spear of antler into its hip sheath.
Only once his wand had been secured did Eph look up, smiling tensely at Professor Bellamy, a tall, blonde man with blue eyes as flat as a pond in winter. That frigidity extended across his features, stern expectation now giving Eph the sense that he may have missed something important.
āā¦Yes? Sir?ā he ventured, blinking in the face of the Professorās derisive snort and the murmuring laughs of the student body.
The Professor closed his eyes, raising his fingers to pinch at the frustrated wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. āVilder, youād think that as a student here on scholarship, youād be working harder to deserve the money the Academy is spending on your education,ā he drawled, attempting gravitas and only succeeding in grating against Ephās raw nerves. Something hot and smoking took new life in his gut, reminiscent of ash and ember.
āI was asking a question on the spell most predominantly used for candle lighting, but as you donāt seem to require the lecture, perhaps you can demonstrate for us?ā Professor Bellamy gestured to the front of the room where a candelabra sat, bearing three thick, waxy candles, their wicks already burnt from previous attempts.
Eph blinked once more, this time putting effort into the expression of disbelieving appraisal. āIām sure there is someone else here who could benefit more from the practice, sir,ā he tried, not liking the frustrated boil of magic under his skin. Eph only made fire when he was willing to accept the losing odds in a gamble. Fire was too variable. Even if it listened when you cast it sometimes it could change its mind and do something else ā something less, or something worse. He didnāt think anyone would understand him though.
Professor Bellamy said nothing at first, taking a seat behind his desk and gesturing again to the candelabra. āDonāt make me ask again, boy. Light it.ā With a creak of his chair, the Professor leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach as if heād won a bet.
Eph stayed seated. āNo thank you, sir,ā he said neatly, hearing the bell toll for classes end and beginning to pack his belongings. Around him, no one moved. Away went the quill, heralding the sound of Professor Bellamyās chair shrieking backwards, away his notebook, punctuated by four long, angry steps. Eph shouldered his worn leather bag and stood, unsurprised to find himself suddenly nose to nose with the Professor. The words ālight itā were forming in the manās mouth, and Eph sighed, halting him and invoking the most humorous look of incredulity on the Professorās face heād ever seen.
āDraft a letter to Professor Sumner, if Iāve challenged your ego enough. I wonāt do it, you cannot make me,ā Eph spoke with soft finality, āThank you for your illuminating lecture, Professor. Have a good day.ā Eph bowed stiffly, aware of his elbows and if he let them flare too far how much the patches in his coat would stand out. He left the bewildered Professor spluttering behind him, more self-conscious of the whispers and quiet jeering of his peers as he took the stairs out of the lecture hall two at a time.
Outside of the lecture hall, Eph stood and wrung his hands into the old bag sagging over his shoulder. He thought, quickly, of all the other things he could have done. Like walk up and light them with a match. Or summon a quick rain, instead. Anything other than flee, his pants hiked around his ankles, untailored and patchy. He couldnāt afford the uniform, and he couldnāt ask Professor Sumner for anything else. Sheād already given him so much ā his books, studying supplies, an alchemistās toolkit. Understanding, too. She understood. Bellamy would most certainly write to her now, though Eph was sure she would understand his reasoning. It would not have been a good look unleash a blaze on the Academyās largest lecture hall.
Eph felt displaced here. Full silver bells hung silent in the windows, polished and gleaming on their cords of white silk. A single cord of bells would change the lives of any small village. In the capital city of Astryn, in the Royal Academy, silver was not a rare commodity. Homes didnāt bother with saltfences, and the silk curtains they draped from the windows were ornately embroidered. They decorated what others bled for out of necessity.
It was still surreal, months after his arrival, years after having left home, drifting for a purpose. He didnāt fit with the students here, pampered men and women who were learning to light candles in their second year. Eph had been doing that since his magic had manifested, at age five ā wordlessly. Wandlessly. It wasnāt that hard to reach out to the elements and just ask, but the gentry hadnāt had much of a reason to try until challenged to do so within the safe realm of academia. It wasnāt his fault years of necessary, practical application looked prodigal to these soft bodies.
With a flicker of petty fury, Eph succumbed to his whims and tugged on the moisture in the air, pulling out his wand and scrawling several runes in the air. Eph had often found the best results came with releasing magic without thoroughly defining it, giving natures wild energy a path for which to flow but not dictating its end. Who was he to tell the rain where to fall?
And if the rain decided to fall very particularly of Professor Bellamyās head, who was he to disagree?
A wild shout of affront echoed from inside the lecture hall, and Eph snorted in amusement, sheathing his wand again and turning left. Theodosia stood in the doorway of the sitting room, as she had been since the start of last week. Eph was surprised to see her, bemused by her intentions as always.
However, today was not the day for indulging his private shock. Muttering some quick pleasantry, Eph scurried into the room, ushering her in before him and shutting the door behind them.
āCountess,ā he bowed again, this time with the proper reverence. Standing, Eph worked at gathering his faculties, dragging a hand through his mussed brown hair, finding that heād forgotten to comb it again. Scowling at himself, Eph glanced warily at the door as Professor Bellamyās shouting began echoing down the hall. The sound of rain patterned after him, and Eph failed to keep the sly smirk from his features. No one would suspect him sitting for tea with the Countess Steele, meaning he was safe for the handful of minutes she required his attention. He was unsure as to why she required it so consistently, but there was no denying her perfect timing today.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Laungrad Keep had been a beautiful place, once upon a time. It sat perched against the hillside like the lofted wing of a dove, all shades of soft, featherweight greys. When it was built they had mined into the mountainside, carving out blocks of hearty granite to make way for hallways, larders, barracks. It was an old keep. There were no records of its inception, no name to give the brave architect who had designed the sturdy, innovative interlocking of the stone, who had conceptualized the sweeping, angled roof that prevented the heavy snow from pillowing. Once, during the war, it had hosted armies.
After the war, Laungrad's name had been lost to the annuls of time, deserted by the victors and left to stare hollow and barren over the well-sized town of Gradenstowne. Astar had resurrected Laungrad's name, discovering it in a crumbling geographic text wedged in a far corner of the city hallās library. It sat in her bag now and would be instrumental in navigating the Northlands once she moved on. The maps contained in the tomb more detailed than more recent renditions. The Academy didn't waste time funding surveying missions when there were more magical pursuits available.
The townsfolk claimed that Laungrad had been abandoned for decades, turning the keep into ghost stories to scare their children with. Theyād explained to Astar that Gradenstowne had been in Laungradās shadow for time immemorial, and that it was as natural as living with the chance of rain. The adults took turns keeping watch, maintaining an unbroken salt line around the perimeter, tucking it into a shielded groove in the carefully constructed saltfence.
Scraps of silk clung to the fence too, and the odd bell or two, but Astar was certain that whatever was living within the confines of the keep paid little heed to the towns attempts at maintaining a firm boundary.
It started with livestock, they said. Wolves werenāt uncommon in these parts, but the towns hunters swore they hadnāt seen a pack in months. No tracks. Pets next. A dog here, a cat there.
Astar had arrived at Gradenstowne to the raucous terror of a child gone missing. A day of preparation later and she was standing in the cold and the damp, burrowed beneath her fur lined cloak to hide from the early snow that was common this far north. One hand lingered on the heavy weight of the double-barreled shotgun holstered against her side. Dressed like a man in heavy boots and pants, she had cut a bewildering figure upon her arrival. There were no curls in her white-blonde hair, fashionable ringlets sacrificed for a functional braid that pinned ironclad against her scalp. She had arrived on horseback, intending to only stay for a night on her way back to Astryn.
The whispers of fear kept her. Pushed her to the hillside, where she now lingered, staring vacantly at the shredded, sodden silk that framed the crumbling hole in the stonework of the saltfence. Clear on the opposite side from the town, she wondered how many of them had been shirking their duties for this to have gone so unnoticed. She wondered if any of them would have took note of the lack of birdsong, or the way the wind seemed to still. How the shadows on this side of the keep seemed to heave, twisting in the slivered, lancet windows that faced the treeline.
Astar would be going into the keep then.
The innkeeper had thought it odd when sheād handed him a letter this morning with instruction to send it only if she did not return before nightfall, but it was a necessary precaution. The practice had saved her life once or twice before, a fail safe to summon academy mages if she failed in her duty.
She would not fail. She would go inside, say, āFuck the Allmotherā, and shoot whatever demon she found in the face with two hollow-point silver slugs, filled with silver-thistle moonsalt. Then she would find the dead child and mourn, then cover his eyes with silver pieces and wrap him in the silk shroud she carried in her bag.
Then she would carry him home.
Then, after a night of hard drinking, she would draft another letter to her family that she would actually mail, telling them of her success. And unlike her unsent plea for help, that one would go ignored.
Astar scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, exhaling soft and slow, taking a moment to cobble together her ferocity, her anger, every inch of strength that she derived from her spiteful desire to thrive and conquer in the face of circumstance. Astar didn't need the Allmother, or her magic. She would face demons, and survive, on her own merit.
Dropping her bag against the outside of the wall, Astarte Sumner took a step over the boundary wall and entered Laungrad, wreathed in all its breathing shadows.
Against her better judgement, Astar was beginning to like Lawrence Wynn. She wasnāt sure why. Perhaps it was the āunfortunateā air that surrounded him, how she still managed to coax out a pleased smile or two regardless. He had a quick, dry wit, and hadnāt been afraid to tell her no.
Dinner with him had been pleasant. Sheād started to forget about her dark task, anticipating the next course. She might not have liked to visit the Sumner compound, but at least they fed their guests well.
Then mages began perking like ground hogs. First was Vilder, making a production out of it as he scribbled into the expensive cherry wood. Others followed, even Mr. Wynn beside her, and Astar finally allowed dread to pool in her gut.
Hadnāt Jaranil left like he was told to do? Was he fixated on revenge? Would he identify her as his liberator?
It was worse.
Her mouth went dry at the cascading arrival, something she had to twist in her chair to see. A wall of magic plugged the doorway for an instant, but then something worse arrived, rending it apart with a great swipe of power.
Astar stood, finding herself alone, having missed Lawrenceās instructions. Not that she would have followed them regardless. Still, there was something a bit sad and sour left in her stomach at her abandonment.
Though she probably deserved it. What had she done?
Next time she saw Driko Jaranil, Astar would make him bleed.
She hadnāt intended for the party goers to face harm. Sheād only meant to free the possessed man as the Master had willed. Had his hound done this? Astar lurched forward, stuck in the middle table of the banquet hall, faced with a wall of bodies as they crushed towards the exit. A demon, ahead of the pack, stampeded down the length of the first banquet table. Before Astar could school herself, restrain her instincts, she picked up a candelabra and beat it backwards, a mage catching up and popping it with a snap of electricity.
The sight of fizzling shadow tugged her towards reality, the screaming din turning real and overwhelming. She could not leave. She could not do nothing.
Astar hoisted her skirts higher and pulled a silver knife from a sheath on her hip. It was slim and feminine, not unusual for a woman to carry concealed. Now she used it to great effect, adopting a strict, soldiersā stance rather than her typical. She was Astarte King, daughter to the Kings Guard. Some fighting prowess would be expected. She would give them some.
Astar remained on the second line, on the forming border between the fleeing and the fighting. She stood between them, dispatching the demonic runners who lept from the ceiling or the tables and into the civilian crowd. One demon dropped from the chandelier onto a mother and child and Astar rushed forward to stab her knife beside one of its three spines, carving downwards before it had a chance to swipe.
āGo!ā she shouted at the pair, following behind them to the wall of bodies. There were too few exits, too many demons.
She looped left, shouldering people out of the way to reach the western wall. There were two doors, packed full and shuffling, but eight windows. Without thinking about it terribly hard, Astar stuck her knife between her teeth, picked up a chair, and flung it through the window. āHelp me!ā she shouted at the dumb crowd; the sound muffled around silver. She retrieved her blade to begin cutting the curtains down, tossing them over the broken glass.
At her lead, more windows were broken, the new exits padded with the heavy fabric. It helped the flow tremendously, and Astar turned back to the fight, finding the line of mages strengthening, her father at the front.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The crumpling of his rune knocked Eph in a backwards stumble, momentarily plopping into his chair. It felt like someone had taken a bite out of his magic, a gaping hole in his resources that left him momentarily dizzy, standing again with one hand to his head.
Daphnaea was shouting instructions, a group of Sumnerās peeling away from the table and leaving the hall instead of helping. Perhaps sheād sent them to stem the source. The demons had to come from somewhere. He held himself up on the table, wishing heād thought to bring a wand. The conduit was steadying, kept his magic from going wild. Still. He had to try.
Eph tore his mask from his face and launched over the table, magic on his tongue hot and frenetic. Not quite fire. He condensed the energy in the air, turned it inward on the demons that neared him with hard bursts of electricity. Most of them were lesser demons; like the Keep in Gradenstowne. It didnāt take much energy to disperse them and many were easy to catch out. Their movements were thoughtless, wild, angry.
This would have been easy if it werenāt an onslaught.
Theodosia screaming his name cut through his focus like a knife. Eph straightened, turning towards the sound. She was caught in the crush of the crowd, calling his name instead of flowing with it.
He couldnāt let her down again. Eph didnāt know why she held him in such high esteem but felt it imperative that he meet her expectations this time.
They careened into one another, Eph raising one arm to hold her to him, the other casting on another demon that crawled along the ceiling. āOnly one,ā he replied, taking the silver pin from her and wielding it, wand like, his stance shifting much like in Gradenstowne when heād led her backwards, away from the possessed boy.
The sound of glass shattering turned the tide of the battle. Civilians began to escape more readily and it made aiming easier. Eurie King had found his way to the front lines and was keeping the four-legged demon at bay, a spell flowing from his circled index and thumb where they rest against his lips, fire billowing forth with his breath.
Nearby was Lawrence Wynn ā Eph spotted him ice first. There were so many mages, the tide slowly but inevitably turning in their favor.
Even still.
The four-legged demon was uncontainable. It shifted at will, a flowing, writhing shadow that bolted for the civilian crowd. Eph released Theodosia for a moment, stepping towards the middlemost banquet table whilst shouting a spell. A spell for growing. A spell for green. A spell he used when he visited Greening, to right his wrongs.
Eph set his hands on the banquet table and dead wood came alive. With a clatter of plates and glasses, silverware and forgotten food, the table sprouted high and fast until a thick, wooden wall cut the dining hall in half, trapping the four-legged demon with the mages.
The four-legged demon redirected fluidly, meeting Eph instead. One impossibly large, clawed hand slammed him backwards into his creation. The demon had grown half the size of the room, absorbing spells with little flinches and a jagged, tear of a smile that peeled across an amorphous, shifting skull. Daphnaea was yelling at the mages to stop, knelt over a table and working on an intricate rune with blood that she squeezed from a prick on her finger.
The four-legged demon took a long, scenting breath, his head taking shape, elongating into something wolf like, jaw splitting apart into two separate maws. Youāve got a coal inside you, young witch. It said, voice like a wet howl of wind. I think Iāll eat it.
The four-legged demon reared back; jaws opening in time to receive a hard wall of greenery from where Eph summoned it from around him, pinned as he was, his mouth covered by the demonās black grasp. The leaves had begun to smoke though, going yellow, gray, black, flames blooming on the ends of the branches like deadly flowers. The hound pressed forward, dual jaws gnashing into the burning foliage, swallowing it all.
Daphnaea was screaming, a chant of āno, no, noā as she scribbled faster. She was not fast enough.
Eph set the branches aflame with a choked shout, lightning morphing into heat, into smoke, into fire that wreathed the four-legged demon inside and out.
It choked and it burned, shadows collapsing with rough cackles like a cayote as Eph grew hotter.
Daphnaea groaned in defeat, slamming her fists on the table before her as the four-legged demon bled away into nothing, disappearing like a lunar eclipse. Sheād known her student was powerful enough to kill it; hadnāt feared his failure. What she had feared was the hounds escape, his freedom disguised as a demise.
Dinner with him had been pleasant. Sheād started to forget about her dark task, anticipating the next course. She might not have liked to visit the Sumner compound, but at least they fed their guests well.
Then mages began perking like ground hogs. First was Vilder, making a production out of it as he scribbled into the expensive cherry wood. Others followed, even Mr. Wynn beside her, and Astar finally allowed dread to pool in her gut.
Hadnāt Jaranil left like he was told to do? Was he fixated on revenge? Would he identify her as his liberator?
It was worse.
Her mouth went dry at the cascading arrival, something she had to twist in her chair to see. A wall of magic plugged the doorway for an instant, but then something worse arrived, rending it apart with a great swipe of power.
Astar stood, finding herself alone, having missed Lawrenceās instructions. Not that she would have followed them regardless. Still, there was something a bit sad and sour left in her stomach at her abandonment.
Though she probably deserved it. What had she done?
Next time she saw Driko Jaranil, Astar would make him bleed.
She hadnāt intended for the party goers to face harm. Sheād only meant to free the possessed man as the Master had willed. Had his hound done this? Astar lurched forward, stuck in the middle table of the banquet hall, faced with a wall of bodies as they crushed towards the exit. A demon, ahead of the pack, stampeded down the length of the first banquet table. Before Astar could school herself, restrain her instincts, she picked up a candelabra and beat it backwards, a mage catching up and popping it with a snap of electricity.
The sight of fizzling shadow tugged her towards reality, the screaming din turning real and overwhelming. She could not leave. She could not do nothing.
Astar hoisted her skirts higher and pulled a silver knife from a sheath on her hip. It was slim and feminine, not unusual for a woman to carry concealed. Now she used it to great effect, adopting a strict, soldiersā stance rather than her typical. She was Astarte King, daughter to the Kings Guard. Some fighting prowess would be expected. She would give them some.
Astar remained on the second line, on the forming border between the fleeing and the fighting. She stood between them, dispatching the demonic runners who lept from the ceiling or the tables and into the civilian crowd. One demon dropped from the chandelier onto a mother and child and Astar rushed forward to stab her knife beside one of its three spines, carving downwards before it had a chance to swipe.
āGo!ā she shouted at the pair, following behind them to the wall of bodies. There were too few exits, too many demons.
She looped left, shouldering people out of the way to reach the western wall. There were two doors, packed full and shuffling, but eight windows. Without thinking about it terribly hard, Astar stuck her knife between her teeth, picked up a chair, and flung it through the window. āHelp me!ā she shouted at the dumb crowd; the sound muffled around silver. She retrieved her blade to begin cutting the curtains down, tossing them over the broken glass.
At her lead, more windows were broken, the new exits padded with the heavy fabric. It helped the flow tremendously, and Astar turned back to the fight, finding the line of mages strengthening, her father at the front.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The crumpling of his rune knocked Eph in a backwards stumble, momentarily plopping into his chair. It felt like someone had taken a bite out of his magic, a gaping hole in his resources that left him momentarily dizzy, standing again with one hand to his head.
Daphnaea was shouting instructions, a group of Sumnerās peeling away from the table and leaving the hall instead of helping. Perhaps sheād sent them to stem the source. The demons had to come from somewhere. He held himself up on the table, wishing heād thought to bring a wand. The conduit was steadying, kept his magic from going wild. Still. He had to try.
Eph tore his mask from his face and launched over the table, magic on his tongue hot and frenetic. Not quite fire. He condensed the energy in the air, turned it inward on the demons that neared him with hard bursts of electricity. Most of them were lesser demons; like the Keep in Gradenstowne. It didnāt take much energy to disperse them and many were easy to catch out. Their movements were thoughtless, wild, angry.
This would have been easy if it werenāt an onslaught.
Theodosia screaming his name cut through his focus like a knife. Eph straightened, turning towards the sound. She was caught in the crush of the crowd, calling his name instead of flowing with it.
He couldnāt let her down again. Eph didnāt know why she held him in such high esteem but felt it imperative that he meet her expectations this time.
They careened into one another, Eph raising one arm to hold her to him, the other casting on another demon that crawled along the ceiling. āOnly one,ā he replied, taking the silver pin from her and wielding it, wand like, his stance shifting much like in Gradenstowne when heād led her backwards, away from the possessed boy.
The sound of glass shattering turned the tide of the battle. Civilians began to escape more readily and it made aiming easier. Eurie King had found his way to the front lines and was keeping the four-legged demon at bay, a spell flowing from his circled index and thumb where they rest against his lips, fire billowing forth with his breath.
Nearby was Lawrence Wynn ā Eph spotted him ice first. There were so many mages, the tide slowly but inevitably turning in their favor.
Even still.
The four-legged demon was uncontainable. It shifted at will, a flowing, writhing shadow that bolted for the civilian crowd. Eph released Theodosia for a moment, stepping towards the middlemost banquet table whilst shouting a spell. A spell for growing. A spell for green. A spell he used when he visited Greening, to right his wrongs.
Eph set his hands on the banquet table and dead wood came alive. With a clatter of plates and glasses, silverware and forgotten food, the table sprouted high and fast until a thick, wooden wall cut the dining hall in half, trapping the four-legged demon with the mages.
The four-legged demon redirected fluidly, meeting Eph instead. One impossibly large, clawed hand slammed him backwards into his creation. The demon had grown half the size of the room, absorbing spells with little flinches and a jagged, tear of a smile that peeled across an amorphous, shifting skull. Daphnaea was yelling at the mages to stop, knelt over a table and working on an intricate rune with blood that she squeezed from a prick on her finger.
The four-legged demon took a long, scenting breath, his head taking shape, elongating into something wolf like, jaw splitting apart into two separate maws. Youāve got a coal inside you, young witch. It said, voice like a wet howl of wind. I think Iāll eat it.
The four-legged demon reared back; jaws opening in time to receive a hard wall of greenery from where Eph summoned it from around him, pinned as he was, his mouth covered by the demonās black grasp. The leaves had begun to smoke though, going yellow, gray, black, flames blooming on the ends of the branches like deadly flowers. The hound pressed forward, dual jaws gnashing into the burning foliage, swallowing it all.
Daphnaea was screaming, a chant of āno, no, noā as she scribbled faster. She was not fast enough.
Eph set the branches aflame with a choked shout, lightning morphing into heat, into smoke, into fire that wreathed the four-legged demon inside and out.
It choked and it burned, shadows collapsing with rough cackles like a cayote as Eph grew hotter.
Daphnaea groaned in defeat, slamming her fists on the table before her as the four-legged demon bled away into nothing, disappearing like a lunar eclipse. Sheād known her student was powerful enough to kill it; hadnāt feared his failure. What she had feared was the hounds escape, his freedom disguised as a demise.
2020 Halloween contest submission! A bit old now, but it's a stand alone piece, which is nice!
Click for -> Sample 3
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