Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 15, 2020 13:21:35 GMT -6
Chapter 1 - The Paths We Tread
Night had fallen once more upon the dimly-lit streets of Bern's capitol, and a silence filled the frigid evening air. Between a homely eatery and a townhouse, a stirring could be heard - ever-so-softly signalling that not all was as it seemed. The occasional passerby seemed to give the dark alleyway a wide berth... though some few glanced shiftily toward the old walls of stone. The most obvious reason for this was the blanket of quiet that lay over the place, almost as if it were... waiting.
A middle-aged gentleman, swathed in a dusty traveler's cloak, strode idly down the cobblestone corridor - apparently unconcerned with the alley that engendered such unease. The man had hair of a dusky brown, bringing to mind the scent of earth and pine that mingled in the southern forests, his beard and temples streaked with just enough grizzled grey to lend him a certain sense of authority. As if to put the lie to his somewhat intimidating appearance, his eyes were kind - more those of a father than those of a bandit or brigand. Yet, he moved with the subtle certainty of those who keep meticulous track of both themselves and their surroundings.
After several steps, the man slowed. He cast a glance toward the main thoroughfare before placing a hand against a worn block of stone. His palm was bigger now, his fingers longer and more slender. No more did they resemble the impression of a young man's hand that had been burned into the rock what seemed to be so long ago. After a heartbeat of reflection, the man continued on his way. He strode determinedly down the alley, keeping an eye on the door-frames for the whittled or carven sigils that would indicate a meeting place for the Resistance. It wasn't that he didn't trust the Ilians and Sacaens had withdrawn... it was simply that he had too much experience with their efforts to consolidate power over Bern.
Perhaps a handful of minutes later, a carving caught his eye. A ryndith glyph, a sign of welcome and safety that had been popularized by the common folk of Lucerne long before the Bernese resistance had co-opted it for their own use. And, there next to it, kaphith - a circle bisected with an elongated line-and-tail, a sign of magic and study. Before Bern Keep had been reclaimed, it had signified a place of plans and meetings. Now, it was more likely to simply indicate a place welcoming of mages than it was a place of resistance. After all, what was left to resist? After a moment's contemplation, the man knocked firmly on the doorframe to signal his presence before stepping inside.
Taking each step slowly, deliberately, he took stock of the small crowd that frequented the bar in which he now found himself. He cast his wandering gaze over the rough, splintering barrels that held the latest batch of ales from the hilltop breweries near Larguz. His eyes flickered over over the stone hearth - blackened by the heat of a long-dead fire - and brightened as the scent of lamb and rosemary reached him. He nodded to the man rubbing a cloth of white linen along the grain of the bar, and moved to occupy one of the barstools at the far end of the room.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 16, 2020 10:27:21 GMT -6
"Evening, messer." The innkeeper - a well-built man of perhaps sixty years of age - bustled into view from the back room, wiping his palms on a bit of cloth. "You look like a man who could use a bit of ease." A broad grin split the proprietor's face as he slung the hand towel over one shoulder, leaning toward his new customer - resting an elbow upon the bar. Despite the man's somewhat intimidating visage - there must be something of a story behind that scar - the innkeeper adopted his usual blithe manner. After all, he outweighed the newcomer by at least twenty stone. What was there to fear, unless the man was a mage? And, even if he was, there were students from the Academy drinking here this evening - they would hardly permit a hedge mage to ruin their night.
Despite the inn's location, it was - in reality - a rather respectable establishment. The owner liked to market the location to Academy newcomers who wanted to feel as though they were "rubbing shoulders with the Resistance" without any of the risk or danger. Once, several years ago, that is just what they would have been doing. The taproom would have been filled with talk of philosophy and politics, talk of driving out the Ilian invaders and reclaiming the glory of Bern. With the advent of the Senate and downfall of William Smith, business had slowed somewhat - but that didn't prevent the innkeeper from trading on the honor of days gone by.
The newcomer looked up and offered a smile, the gentleness in his eyes serving to somewhat mitigate the effect of his scarred features. "Good evening, Randolf." Now that gave the owner pause. No-one had called him Randolf since... "Ascher, you old dog!" The innkeeper's grin threatened to split his face in two as he circled the edge of the bar - arms spread wide to welcome his friend. "Get over here before I pull you over the bar!" The newest entrant to the establishment took to his feet and met the man halfway, quickly finding himself swept into a bear-hug tight enough to make his ribs crack. "It's good to see you too, old friend."
After exchanging pleasantries - and a ribald insinuation or two, on Randolf's part - the pair got down to business. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, my friend, but what brings you back to Bern? Last I heard, you headed back to Lucerne after Sacae." Ascher grimaced, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. "It's..." The man sighed. "Yes. Yes, I did." The innkeeper perked an eyebrow, recognizing that the subject clearly discomfitted his old comrade. "...and then Ilia decided it would be a good idea to occupy the country. I had a bit of a... philosophical disagreement with their decision." He eyed the burly innkeep meaningfully. "You know the kind, I'm sure."
Randolf nodded sagely. "Oh, aye - we had lots of them, in those days. Philosophical disagreements. Just about every other night, in fact." Ascher snorted lightly, taking advantage of his fellow's lighthearted nature to better compose himself. "I spent a few years pleading my case, as it were, with a handful of like-minded individuals down Lucerne way... and, well, I couldn't very well go back to being a carpenter. So, I decided to come back up to Bern after things cooled off." The innkeeper swept the cloth from over his shoulder and began polishing the bar one-handed, producing a wooden coaster from below the bar with the other.
"Sounds familiar. After we reached Lucerne, I made my way back up to Bern - as you know. Inherited this place from my uncle not long after - I mean, the man was nearing eighty winters - what can you do?" The long-haired man nodded, watching the innkeeper as he set about his business - mentally remarking on how... mundane it all seemed. "Then Ilia decided that what was ours, was theirs... and I - along with a few like-minded folk - decided to help make them more at-home." The innkeeper tapped his nose, and winked. "Figured they'd be reminded of Ilia with winter rations and straw beds, rather than all our Bernese comforts. Couldn't let the men go soft, you know. They might've gotten comfortable and decided they wanted to stay."
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 17, 2020 8:50:28 GMT -6
The long-haired mage offered a nod of understanding, his gaze straying longingly to the door that stood behind the bar - tantalizing whiffs of lamb and rosemary wafting into the taproom whenever the bargirl went in or out. Clearly, Randolf had found himself a cook. If the man was wise, he'd even married them - female or otherwise, someone who could tempt customers with food they hadn't even seen was clearly worth keeping around. The innkeeper eyed his friend with a knowing smile. "I'd offer you a bite of dinner, you know... but I seem to recall you had something against..." He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression.
Ascher rolled his eyes with a long-suffering expression and reached out to lightly backhand the innkeeper's arm. "Come now, man - you know I haven't eaten the like since I've been here! And you would've been the first to tell me so, were I any other customer. Go on, you!" Randolf let out a garrulous, barrel-chested laugh and began to make his way into the kitchen. "Fair enough, I suppose. I'll let you off this one. Once, mind!" The long-haired mage couldn't help but shake his head in good-natured consternation. In truth, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pay the full worth of the meal - perhaps he would be able to talk Randolf into the friend's rate?
After a few minutes' nursing a mug of watered ale, the scarred man heard a series of footsteps approaching from behind. They were sharp, if a bit uneven in cadence. The boots of a soldier or noble, then - possibly of one who had enjoyed a bit too much to drink? A palm landed heavily on Ascher's shoulder. As he turned, the middle-aged mage couldn't help but wince as the acrid scent of alcohol washed over him. Before him stood a soldier - a fellow mage, in fact. One attired in the crimson-and-grey of the Bernese military. Ascher lifted his mug of ale in a small salute. "Well met, messer...?"
The soldier swayed slightly where he stood, a handful of small stains on his uniform suggesting that he'd eaten precious little recently - and that he wasn't particularly inclined toward hygiene. Usually, that was the hallmark of a low mage - someone who had been accepted to the Academy from the common folk and either failed or refused to adopt their habits and customs to their new station. Ascher himself had been called a 'low mage' in the past. To a certain extent, it could even be considered true - derogative term though it may have been.
"HAH!" The exclamation was far too loud for the casual conversational distance at which the two stood. The soldier - a young man in his early twenties - tossed his head back toward the table where a handful of his comrades sat, out of the firelight. "Get a-load o' this, lads! The bastard thinks I'm a knight!" Ascher frowned, eying the table - hoping to catch sight of a sergeant or officer, someone with enough authority to pull rank if the boy got belligerent and the power to make an end to things quickly. No such luck.
The soldier-mage half-fell onto the bar, propping himself against it with both forearms - leaning conspiratorially toward the scarred man, speaking in a mock-whisper that carried throughout the room. "What's this phileso... phil... phila..." The boy shook his head, as if to clear it. "What's this shite you were sayin' 'bout when the Whites rolled in?" For his part, Ascher looked somewhat nonplussed. Watching the young man carefully, he took a sip of his ale. "The Whites...?" "The Ilians, man! The ILIANS!" The soldier began gesticulating wildly. "You know - with the swords, and the pegasi, and the white banners, and the... you know! ILIANS! Mercenary bastards, decided to take over the country?"
Ascher mentally sighed. This... wasn't going to end well. "Aye, lad. I know about the Ilians." The soldier sat back, and sniffed. "Right, well... what was it you did again, when they came rolling in?" The long-haired mage opened his mouth to speak, but the soldier just started to speak over him - swaying against the bar, even as he leaned against it. "I'll tell you what I think... I think you talked." Ascher's expression darkened. "I think you talked a lot, when me and the boys were out there." Ascher pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment as he mouthed a silent prayer to Ashera that she grant the boy the tact and good sense which he had heretofor been lacking. "I think you ducked and hid when the mercs came, old man."
The soldier leaned close, dropping the facade of a whisper - his words clearly audible throughout the taproom.
"I think you were sellin' your shite to the Whites - and makin' a pretty penny - while we did the dyin' fer you."
The inn fell silent.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 18, 2020 9:10:19 GMT -6
Ascher sighed, as he slowly eased himself off the barstool. Sometimes, a more direct approach proved successful where peaceable silence failed. "I'm not looking for a fight, friend." The words were frank, if a touch curt. They were not tainted overmuch by fear or anger, nor had fury dipped her icy claws into their depths. The boy was clearly drunk, and clearly he had overheard the conversation between himself and Randolf - and, apparently, entirely missed the greater implications of what was being said. Despite the high likelihood of that being so, however, the scarred mage had no intention of announcing to all and sundry that he had been a resistance fighter during the Ilian occupation.
The drunken soldier frowned at him. "You're no friend of mine, stranger. A friend would..." His voice rose with every word, seemingly heedless of the inn's patrons, until Randolf's meaty paw landed heavily on his shoulder. "That's enough of that," the burly innkeeper rumbled, his stormy-green eyes glaring down at the unfortunate young man from beneath thundercloud eyebrows. "If it's a fight you're looking for, you'll not be finding one here - you understand?" Ascher spread his hands as the drunken fool glared daggers at him, evenly meeting the man's gaze. "A friend... would call for a round, perhaps?" The words were relatively quiet, evenly cadenced - not unlike how one might speak to an injured animal, seeking to convey meaning more through tone than through the words themselves.
The young man's face twisted with loathing as he spat on the floor between himself and the scarred mage. "Don't want your money... stained with Bernese blood, it is." Ascher grew still. Randolf's eyes narrowed as the dull scratch of wood-on-wood echoed through the taproom. The soldier's comrades rose to their feet, hands coming to rest upon the hilts of their blades or sliding into satchels to grip the spines of their tomes. Ascher lifted a hand in their direction, fingers slightly crooked - a hand sign long-used by the Bernese military, generally used to signal a 'halt' to forward movement by a team or squad. The soldiers paused, glancing around the room uncomfortably - looking for whoever their fellow's victim had been signaling. The drunkard, oblivious to his current circumstances, began inching his hand toward a leather casing that hung from his belt. Randolf eyed his scarred friend with a sigh, acknowledging the unspoken communication with a slight nod before glancing toward the other patrons... then back toward the older mage.
With the exception of Ascher and the drunkard's comrades, they had mostly cleared out for the evening. A handful of shirtless day laborers, drinking away their pay... a pair of swordsmen, both attired in the colours of some minor noble... and the long-haired girl Randolf had hired - or possibly sired, knowing the tendencies of his youth - to serve the drinks. Surprisingly, it was one of the bladesmen that arose. There was a certain gravitas about the man, a sense of deliberate purpose and authority that engendered respect. It was something that most nobles lacked, these days, regardless of their homeland or heritage. If one didn't know better, one might even think that the bladesman was noble himself.
No sooner had the thought crossed Ascher's mind, than did the glow of magic begin to permeate the room - emanating from the small book that the drunken soldier had produced from his pouch. A breeze began to build as the manuscript flipped open in the hands of the soldier-mage, motes of green light beginning to coalesce into a diagram that had once been painstakingly inscribed onto the newly-revealed page. Now, the page was dog-eared and clearly faring as poorly as its owner. With two quick steps, the bladesman who had risen strode to Randolf and the soldier-mage - reaching out with one hand and ripping the man's spellbook from his grasp.
A ring glinted on the man's little finger as he slammed the book closed, abruptly cutting off the glow and associated magical pressure. "Enough." The expression of the noble's man was thunderous, his eyes narrow - displeasure etched across his every feature. "If you want a fight, then do it the right way." The bladesman gripped the scruff of the drunkard's longcoat, shifting his gaze to the innkeeper's hand just long enough for Randolf to remove it before quick-marching the man to the door. In short order, the noble's man had unfortunate soldier had been evicted.
The bladesman then turned toward the drunkard's comrades. "Baronet... baronet..." The soldiers all ducked their heads, each tugging a forelock or knuckling their foreheads in greeting. "...didn't see you there, sir..." Randolf grew pale, the effect somewhat hidden by the bushy darkness of his beard and eyebrows. His eyes darted toward Ascher, then around his taproom. The innkeeper's position was becoming progressively more and more untenable as the situation escalated. The probability of the soldiers' comrades wrecking his inn was increasing with every moment. The scarred mage gave an ever-so-slight shake of the head toward his burly friend, before realizing that the bladesman had just been referred to as a baronet - a Bernese knight who had been entrusted with a barony, a noble personage.
"It's books and blades, now, you realize?" The baronet remarked quietly, turning his gaze toward Ascher as the drunkard's fellows filed out into the street. The other noble's man - the baronet's man, it seemed - quickly followed them outside. The scarred mage nodded slowly. "A duel, then?" The noble inclined his head in a silent affirmation. "I see. The dueling green on the Academy grounds is likely closest. Do you intend to stand witness, sir?" The baronet eyed the man speculatively, shifting his gaze momentarily toward Randolf - who shrugged. "You never wanted to fight the lad, did you?" He asked, finally. Ascher mutely shook his head. The noble sighed, then nodded. "Aye. I'll stand witness."
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 19, 2020 10:56:50 GMT -6
They made quite a sight.
Five or six soldiers wore what veterans called the "bloody grey" - the grey-and-crimson uniforms of the Bernese Army. To a man, they wore their cloaks clasped up on one shoulder. This was the style of a fighting mage, concealing the hand nearest the tome-cases on the hip, while leaving the other arm largely unhindered for spellcasting. They muttered among themselves, casting dark glances as those who came behind. The squad was split evenly between men and women, all smelling of alcohol and clearly dissatisfied with two of their number. The pair in question were rather disgruntled, snapping at one another with barely a cursory attempt at concealing their ill humor.
A pair of noble armsmen strode along scarcely a heartbeat thereafter. They wore the colors of their patron well - the brown-and-white of a well-off knight, perhaps, or even a baronet. Both men wore blades at their hips, well-worn lengths of leather-wrapped steel that glinted coldly in the moonlight. One - a younger man, with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes - wore maille beneath his tabard, clinking softly as he walked. The other, an older gentleman with a grizzled beard and hawkish eyes, bore no such protection - instead adopting a simple tunic and trousers, with a crest emblazoned over the left breast. A blade of Sacaen stock hung at his hip - the sign of one who had devoted their life to mastery of the sword. The baronet himself, it would seem - as they learned during the tumult at the the inn.
Last came Ascher, himself. Randolf - having a business to run and a reputation to salvage - had elected to stay behind and tend to the inn that had become his life in the years following the Ilian occupation. Ascher was not a particularly striking figure. In stark contrast to the distinctly military attire of the others, the scarred mage wore the traveler's garb to which he had become accustomed. His dark hair hung long, bound in a most cursory fashion by a pair of small leather bands woven together near the base of the skull. A battered, leather tome-case rested on his hip - unconcealed by the cloak that he'd thrown over one shoulder, despite being clasped at the shoulder like the soldiers' garments.
Though they drew quite a number of stares as they made their way through the streets of Bern, angling toward the gates of the Imperial Academy, it was not until they reached the Academy grounds proper that they began to draw more than distant interest. Even at the late hour, a handful of mages and pupils could be seen flitting between buildings - parcels and sheaves of parchment tucked under their arms, or clutched to their chests. As the group made their way toward the dueling green, the trail of hangers-on began to lengthen - the denizens of the Academy joining singly, or in pairs. Some few wore the gold-trimmed robes of Academy graduates, but most were clearly pupils - students, taking advantage of the opportunities to be had at the institution. For the first time since they had left the inn, the occasional bout of laughter could be heard amidst whispered imprecations and innuendos as to the reason why so many military mages could be present.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 20, 2020 10:10:41 GMT -6
Eventually, the gathering found themselves at the Academy's torch-lit dueling ring - the site where innumerable petty slights and grievances among instructors and pupils alike had been redressed through blood, sweat, and tears. The soldiers clustered around one side, holding a somewhat animated conversation among themselves - one in which the duelist apparently held sway. The baronet and his man took up a position halfway between Ascher and the gathering of soldiers. The scarred mage, for his part, had claimed the side of the circle opposite that of his opponent - as was traditional, in such settings. Without much ado, the man doffed his cloak - folding it neatly before placing it upon the grass - and began removing extraneous weight. Before long, the ex-rebel simply stood in his shirt and trousers - the latter neatly tucked into well worn, knee-high boots. His tome in-hand, the scarred mage waited at the circle's edge.
For their part, the denizens of the Academy swarmed around the circle like bees to a flowering field - some single individuals flitting between groups of two or three, carrying gossip as though it were pollen. Already, there were speculations that the scarred mage had "liaised" with the daughter of the baronet, that the soldiers were defending the honor of Bern against an Ilian mercenary, and even that the impending duel was a devious Senatorial plot! All of which born from the fruitful imaginations of Academy students with open mouths and too much to drink. Ah, to be young again. After a moment, the drunken soldier stepped forward - shooting a dark look at his comrades and sniffing imperiously. He had doffed none of his gear, having instead chosen to engage in the full regalia of a Bernese war mage. Despite this, the man seemed awfully young. Tight as a drawn bowstring, that one.
In contrast, Ascher seemed somewhat more at ease. The man waited in silence as the baronet stepped forward and exchange the usual courtesies that preceded a formal duel. Yes, the soldier had insulted him. No, the soldier was not willing to recant. No, Ascher was not willing to forfeit. With a resigned look, the baronet gestured the pair forward - commanding both Ascher and the soldier to stand back-to-back in the sandy center of the dueling ring. Fifteen paces were counted out... and the duelists faced away from one another, thirty paces between them. Silence reigned.
Ascher felt his breath quicken as the crowd quieted, each beat of the heart echoed in his ears - pounding a drummer's tattoo against his temples. The tension in his muscles grew as he waited for the word from the baronet that would send him back to the dueling green for the first time in several years. It wasn't that he hadn't fought during the rebellion - quite the opposite, in fact - but it had been more of a series of 'hit-and-run' affairs than a 'stand-and-fight' situation like a battle or duel. Killing men in an ambuscade was hardly the same as knowingly placing yourself in a situation where they were forewarned, forearmed, and usually aggravated at having to put their life on the line - unless, of course, they were in it solely for the pleasure of watching your lifeblood sink into the dirt.
Which wasn't exactly an improvement.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 21, 2020 11:40:45 GMT -6
The scarred mage's instincts screamed at him to whirl around as soon as the baronet gave the order to commence, to strike at the threat - it was dangerous to think of his opponent in more human terms - that stood across the sandy embankment. Ascher grit his teeth against the surge of adrenaline that blew through him as the noble whistled sharply, and executed a half-turn in a controlled manner. The mage began to circle, plucking the well-worn binding of his journal from its hip-case as he took stock of the situation.
This one was clearly inexperienced. The soldier-mage had spun around at the roar of the crowd that had nearly drowned out the baronet's whistle, fumbling for his tome with a muttered curse - half-ducking a spell that he had expected, but which had never materialized. He, too, began to circle - attempting to match the movements of his scarred opponent. In contrast to the soldier's frantic page-flipping, Ascher simply allowed his journal to fall open. The first page, weighted with bits of iron at the corners, revealed a well-inked diagram attuned for basic wind magic. He had taken notes, further in, on the fundamentals of working with fire and lightning... but such had never been more than a theoretical interest. It was the winds of war that had driven him in the forests of Lucerne, and it would be the winds of war that would see him through to the morning's light.
As the soldier-mage's flipping came to an end, Ascher's free hand came to hover over his journal - the diagram almost seeming to shine as the spirits of the wind began to gather. The young man made a pulling motion with his hand over his tome, baring his teeth at the scarred mage as he almost seemed to yank the spirits from within its pages. A faint shimmer coated his crooked fingers, rippling as though they were but a reflection upon the waters of existence. Ascher's eyes narrowed. A fellow wind mage, then. Though he had long lamented the loss of his military-issued tome, there was a single notable advantage the diagrams of the Trinity held over the elements' more in-depth workings - and it lay not in utility nor lethality, neither brute force nor finesse.
It was speed.
The glow from Ascher's journal suddenly dimmed as the scarred mage whipped his casting hand toward the ground between him and the impending threat of the soldier's spell - sending the simple bludgeon of wind not into his opponent, but into the wealth of gritty sand that served as the basis for the dueling ring. The fine substance coated the air, kept within the ring by the sigils of protection that shone along the boundary stones - those same stones that would protect onlookers from stray wind-blades or fire blasts sent aloft by unwary duelists. No sooner was his spell cast, than did Ascher throw himself onto his belly - his eyes widening as he heard a wind-blade whistle past, overhead. His opponent had clearly eschewed nonlethal means of assault - a wind-blade would rend him from throat to navel.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 22, 2020 11:51:13 GMT -6
Ascher gritted his teeth against the pull of the wind above, slamming his journal closed to prevent the backdraft from ripping the parchment to shreds. Compared to a raid or an ambush, a duel was a different beast entirely. It wasn't quite so easy to take down your target when they had ample knowledge and forewarning of your intentions. The man blinked in a futile effort to dislodge some of the grit from his eyes, before rolling swiftly to his left. Hopefully, the soldier would assume he was on his feet - lurking around the ring, perhaps, in an attempt to take him by surprise. In truth, the scarred mage would be perfectly satisfied with ensuring that he had a moment's respite to come up with something vaguely resembling a plan. It occurred to him that allowing matters to escalate this far had been a mistake.
The scarred mage reached for where his cloak would normally have been pinned - cursing softly when he realized that it had been doffed before the duel's start - and settled for pulling the neck of his tunic up over his lower face. It looked ridiculous, admittedly, but it was better than breathing in the fine grains of sand that drifted about. The man pushed himself up, assuming a low crouch perhaps six feet to the left of his initial starting position - his form roughly at knee-height to the average person. It was painful, for someone his age... but better he be achy in the morning than dead. The mage flipped open his journal once more as the whistling of another wind-blade reached his ears. He grimaced. Clearly, the young soldier-mage hadn't bothered to involve himself with the more utilitarian applications of wind magic - such as clearing smoke or other aerial debris. Which, while a blessing, also likely meant that the boy had focused almost exclusively on more lethal constructs - like the wind-blade he so clearly favored.
Rather than swatting at the gritty sand covering the surface of his journal diagram, Ascher leaned forward and blew lightly - sending the finely-granulated material swirling out to join the rest of the mass. The dust, hanging in the air, had slowly begun to settle. While this allowed one to make out the barest of silhouettes... it was not something that the scarred mage could abide. One wrong move and Ascher would find his lifeblood slipping through his fingers.
With silent concentration, the man held his hand over the diagram once more before sending a well-charged bludgeon of air into the sand once again. This time, however, the mage ran - half-bent - to the left as soon as his spell discharged. As expected, death whistled through the air near where the spell had been thrown. The soldier wasn't nearly as hopeless as he first thought, it seemed - he was trying to pinpoint Ascher's position based on the direction of the sand blasts! Heart beating madly - his lungs beginning to burn with the effort of breathing through the coarse linen wrapped about his lower face - Ascher focused on keeping moving. It wasn't a solid plan insomuch as it was a delaying tactic. Eventually, he would have to face the soldier directly. Ideally, the other mage would have fatigued himself somewhat - magically and mentally - before that inevitable confrontation. At least, that was what Ascher hoped...
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 23, 2020 10:39:41 GMT -6
Plan... plan... he needed a plan. Eventually, the soldier-mage would get lucky or Ascher would make a fatal misstep. The scarred mage narrowed his eyes, trying in vain to blink away some of the grit that had begun to encrust their edges. The healers would have their hands full with any wounds that came out of this ring, filthy as they would be with grime and sand. It would be a blessing from Ashera if the pair of them were able to recover without some manner of infection taking hold.
Distracted. He was getting distracted. The man focused on his breathing, attempting to regulate the cadence in an effort to avoid hyperventilating. Plan. Right, he needed a plan. The scarred mage took a knee, his gaze scanning the nearly-opaque curtain of sand that covered the air within the dueling ring. Eventually, the dust and sand would begin to settle. The silhouettes of the duelists would become visible. At which point, it would become a stand-up match between the basic Trinity diagrams and one of the Army's wind tomes. The result was a foregone conclusion.
His greatest advantage was the speed with which the basic diagrams could call upon the spirits. In theory, there was nothing preventing the soldier from using those self-same diagrams - Ascher knew from personal experience that the military's tomes included them, though they were more for reference purposes than battlefield use - but practically, the young man would likely stick to the flashier and more lethal variations of wind magic.
As he mused over his options, the scarred mage failed to notice the disturbance in the drifting sand. A vertical wave of compressed air shimmered as it whistled toward him, causing the man's eyes to widen as he desperately threw himself to the side. Whether by luck or chance, the lower edge of the wind-blade ripped along the mage's leg - tearing a long gash in the flesh of his calf and thigh. Ascher grit his teeth, clamping his mouth shut against the scream that threatened to burst forth from his throat. The wound burned like it had been struck with a glowing brand, rather than a comparatively simple conjuring of wind. He pushed himself to his feet as his trouser leg grew a dull, bloody crimson.
Grimacing in pain, the man pushed himself to his feet. The pain that shone in his eyes was pushed down, replaced by a grim sense of purpose. The scarred mage tested the wounded leg, despite its screaming protests - discovering that it could hold a modicum of weight, enough for him to limp around until the blood loss caught up with him. With a pained grunt, Ascher bent his good knee to lean over and pick up his tome from where it had fallen - brushing off the sand with a determined expression. He flipped to the diagram which had proved his saving grace thus far, hesitated, then closed the journal and returned it to its hip-case. The mage couldn't afford to have one hand tied down, keeping hold of it.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 24, 2020 10:34:58 GMT -6
Flicking his wrist upward, Ascher sent a tentative flicker of light up to hang above his head. In a swift, easy motion the man snapped that same hand down at a diagonal, then across. A trio of glimmering embers hung in the air before him, the basis upon which soldier-mages were expected to manifest their own diagrams. Journals and tomes were more reliable - rumor had it that some sages had experimented with engraving sigils on tiles or etching them into stone - but one wouldn't always have immediate access to pre-made diagrams. Thus, soldier-mages were expected by their commanders to familiarize themselves with those diagrams which they used most often - Ascher's included.
The scarred mage fell to one knee as death whistled overhead - a horizontal wind-blade, this time - presumably attracted by the flares of light that constituted the diagram's foundation, interrupting the casting. The man rolled to his left, stopping only when he felt his back strike the cold stone of the ring's boundary. With an effort, he struggled to his feet - a pained grimace passing briefly over his features. Ascher glanced toward the crowd that had gathered outside the ring, noting the gilded trim of a sage among the mages' cloaks and the dark robes of the students.
The pupils were shocked into silence at his sudden appearance, but the lone sage offered him a solemn nod. He didn't recognize the man - but then, given how many sages there were at the Academy, that was hardly surprising. Ascher inclined his head in return, before walking stiffly back into the haze of sand. The scarred mage grit his teeth against the jagged agony that pulsed through his leg with each step, refusing to give the onlookers the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. As the sand continued to settle, the mage caught the barest hint of a silhouette some handful of yards ahead.
Ascher grew still, watching the shadow carefully for any sign of movement - seeking, at the same time, to restrict his own. The soldier-mage he faced would undoubtedly be doing the same. After several heartbeats, the form began to become more distinct in the haze. The scarred mage could make out the dimmest outline of that which he saw. Within himself, Ascher resolved to take the risk. If the sand settled any further, he would be holding his entrails in.
The man whipped his hand upward, then down at an angle, and across - swiftly establishing the foundation to manifest a diagram. Moving both hands counterclockwise, he guided the motes of energy into a circular pattern - establishing the focal points for the necessary sigils even as his mind willed them into reality. The more complicated diagrams were beyond him, particularly given how long it had been since he had the opportunity to study the military's tomes or the Academy's collection of essays on the wind, but Ascher would always be able to rely upon the basics. As the geometric formation shimmered in completion, the scarred mage snapped his hand toward the silhouette's lower half - praying to Ashera that his suspicions were proven correct. He was rewarded by a strangled cry as the shadowy form staggered.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 25, 2020 9:19:42 GMT -6
Ascher advanced, slowly and deliberately - watchful for the underhanded tactics he knew could accompany such a performance. One-handed, the scarred mage flicked his fingers and established the foundation for a much smaller variant of the self-same formation that he had just manifested. He sent the bludgeon of compressed air toward the legs of the figure, hoping to keep them occupied and thereby prevent them from manifesting their own formation. With a second, strained cry... the figure collapsed. Spellcasting become much more difficult when one was injured - a consequence of the effects pain had upon one's mental acuity. Ascher himself could already feel his consciousness fighting in his grip, seeking to slip away and send him into the oblivion of sleep. The soldier-mage would be no different, were their situations reversed.
Two heartbeats... three... four... and the scarred mage stood over the prone form of his opponent - gazing down at the young man with cold, hard eyes. Glowing sigils circled his outstretched hand, the spell barely held back by the lack of a trigger rune. A rune which Ascher would will into existence the moment that the soldier-mage attempted to reach for his tome or establish a foundation. "Forfeit." The word was harsh, coarse from sand and thirst. As the sand settled further, the shapes of the crowd slowly became visible beyond the ring of boundary stones. The young man, his expression filled with hate, spat at the scarred mage. His eyes swore no retreat.
As the sand settled more fully - leaving behind only a dusty reminder of its presence - the baronet gazed at the pair from the sidelines, eyes narrowed. Ascher cleared his throat, a ragged attempt that barely managed to wet his vocal cords. "Forfeit, son. A ceremonial death beats the real thing." The words came louder, this time - pitched after the fashion of a sergeant, to carry without necessitating a strict increase in volume. The soldier-mage growled, then spat again. Ascher briefly shook his head, then turned and toed the lad's tome further beyond his reach. He began the slow, painful trek back to where the baronet stood - recognizing that the drunkard had lost, regardless of his acceptance.
Roughly halfway to the edge of the ring, the scarred mage heard a gasp and the shuffling of cloth from where he had left his opponent. Turning, he saw the fool boy struggling to his feet - teeth bared in a predatory smile. A small knife was gripped in one hand, stained the same shade of crimson as the blood which rolled down his left arm. Glaring daggers at Ascher, the soldier-mage wiped a finger along the flat of his blade - collecting the blood - before swiftly tracing something out on his palm.
The scarred mage grit his teeth and turned, fighting the darkness. Blood loss was starting to get to him. The man's hand flicked up, summoning a mote of light - the first of the three foundational points for manifesting a spell formation. If the soldier-mage finished that formation, the blood-drawing would persist far long than Ascher's manifestation. While the scarred mage would need to re-manifest his diagram every time, his opponent could simply reuse his formation.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 26, 2020 11:17:32 GMT -6
As the soldier-mage thrust his bloody palm outward, the scent of charred flesh and burning hair filled Ascher's mind. His breath quickened, the specters of Sacaen tents replacing the crowd beyond the boundary runes. It was not a soldier-mage of Bern that he saw struggle to his feet, but a sage whose robes bore the geometric trim of a Sacaen clan. Blood streamed down the man's angular face, his eyes hard and expression one of grim resolve. As the sage raised his hand, the brown of his robes shimmered - shifting between the color of dried blood and the proud crimson of Bern. A surge of adrenaline seared through Ascher's veins as he threw himself to the side, a wind-blade tearing through the space he had just occupied. The construct ripped past, the pressure of its passage enough to sever long strands of the mage's hair.
The scarred mage grimaced, breath hissing through gritted teeth - his eyes wide with the elation and terror that accompanied true battle. No sooner had he ripped the clasp free than did another wind-blade whistle toward him, slamming him onto his back. The man whipped his hand in a triangular formation, heedless of the burning wetness that grew along his chest - sending a trio of motes into being within the span of a moment. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breaths light and quick as he hyperventilated. He thrust the fingers of his casting hand forward and smoothly clockwise, as if turning one of Ilia's fancy combination locks, then snapped it forward - sending a bludgeon of compressed air toward the sage's head.
The man flinched back, the proud victory in his eyes overshadowed by sudden fear as the bludgeon slammed into his shoulder. The heel of his boot caught the edge of his cloak as he sought to catch himself, even as his back struck the hard-packed ground of the campsite. Ascher could vaguely hear distant shouts, as he struggled up and limped forward at a half-run. One hand whipped through the motions to establish another diagram foundation, the third mote fizzling out of existence as the pounding in his head began to overcome all else. In desperation, the scarred mage fell upon his foe - grabbing his opponent's cloak and throwing it over the man's head. He slammed a fist into the sage's gut should've been, then another in the general direction of his head - cursing as his knuckles slammed into the ground instead.
The scarred mage felt something grab his shoulder and he reached up to scrabble weakly at the rough hand that caught him. He was dragged bodily backward, then felt his back strike something softer than the hard-packed earth of the campsite. Almost... sand? Shivers wracked his body as he heard a ripping sound, feeling the breast of his tunic flap open against his sides. The world seemed out of focus, as though everything were viewed through the ripples that preceded a wind spell. He could hear voices as shadows came over the sky above, barely able to make out individual heads and shoulders. Someone pinned his wrists to his sides, even as Ascher fought to free himself.
As if from a great distance, he thought he could hear Randolf's voice. "Stop... the girl, Ascher. You'll... out, man! Damn fool of a... from hip to shoulder!" The scarred mage wet his cracked lips, struggling to order his thoughts that he might give voice to them. "The Sac... Sa... Sacaen..." One of the shadows leaned close, and Ascher could feel a slight pressure against his side - the guard of a sword, sheathed at the shadow's belt. The silhouette grew still, head bowed for a moment, before drawing back. "No Sacaens here, friend." The words were low and even, if a bit rough. They almost sounded familiar... "Baronet..." Randolf. He was more certain, this time. Ascher's eyes narrowed as he sought to make sense of things, lending his world a hint of clarity. He could make out what he thought might be Randolf's bushy beard and splashes of color that might be a tabard or surcoat. A third silhouette stood at his feet, hands extended.
"...outcome..." Randolf, again. What Baronet? There weren't any nobles in the unit - just mudrakers and groundpounders, with not a knight or swordmaster to be seen. "...the duel." Ascher's breath caught in his throat as the shattered pieces of his world began to come together. Duel. He had been dueling. The inn! The drunken soldier... "Ashera's balls..." he muttered exhaustedly, heedless of those around him. "...Bern. I'm in..." He struggled to lift himself to his elbows, even as a hand gently pressed him back down. A low rumble echoed from the bearded silhouette. Randolf, chuckling. "Take it easy, friend." The low, calming voice again. The Baronet? "Aye, Bern. The Imperial Academy." As pain and blood loss finally began to darken his vision, the scarred mage fought a losing battle to remain conscious. "Soldier... the soldier..." The baronet's silhouette paused, glancing toward the third figure, then spoke. "Bruised shoulder and a broken rib," he said quietly. "No casualties, just shattered pride. You out-thought the lad, then spared him when you had him dead-to-rights." Ascher's eyes slipped closed, as he finally surrendered to oblivion.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 29, 2020 16:52:45 GMT -6
Chapter 2 - A Place To Lay My HeadAscher awoke to an uncomfortable warmth... on his face? There was a part of him that recalled the burning pain of previous injuries - that which earned him his scarred visage, in particular. And yet, the agony that had previously accompanied it was nowhere to be found. In fact, the mage felt... languid. Replete with exhaustion. He cracked his eyes open, and immediately wished that he hadn't. Ascher blinked rapidly, willing tears away as he was nearly blinded by the sudden light. As he squinted, shading his eyes with one hand, the room slowly came into view.
He lay on a straw-fillet pallet, covered with what appeared to be sheets of linen. Not the baronet's, then - not that he would've expected a noble to look after his care. On the other hand... not something one would expect to find in a prison cell, either. It could always be worse. An important thing to remember, that - it could always be worse. And, more often than he cared to recall, it had been. The room in which he lay was well appointed with sturdy, rustic furnishings - that peculiar cross between townhouse and farmstead which characterized the burgeoning middle-class.
A sweet, heady scent drifted from small bundles that hung overhead. The scarred mage was not so arrogant as to consider himself a competent healer, but he had certainly found himself in enough sickbeds to recognize the signs of an herbalist's workplace or residence. The room was cleaner than one would expect of a commoner's abode, well-furnished without overstepping the line into the nobility's opulence. The windows held panes of real glass, imperfect though they were, within a wooden lattice. It was thence from which the warmth had come, sunlight streaming into the room through by way of the crystalline squares. There'd been a mage he'd met back before his term of service, a specialist in the finer points of flame manipulation, who had sought to find a way to manufacture glass through studious application of fire and earth diagrams. Some part of him wondered if the young man's plans had ever come to fruition.
The door creaked as it swung open, revealing a straw-haired girl of perhaps fourteen years. She bustled in, humming - paying the mage no mind as she absentmindedly climbed atop a chair and began messing about with the herb bundles. Something about her manner suggested familiarity with the task. An apprentice, perhaps? A daughter? Ascher opened his mouth to speak, only to find his lips and throat to dry to do more than rasp. He swallowed with a grimace, carefully wetting his lips with his tongue before seeking to give voice to his thoughts more properly. "Begging your pardon, lass." The scarred mage was well-aware that his appearance and sudden speech might startle the girl... but remaining silent would likely have done more to put her on edge. There were some things that warranted forewarning. Births... deaths... marriages... divorces... and patients in a sickbed regaining consciousness while one was in their vicinity.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 30, 2020 8:32:02 GMT -6
The girl started - making a rather undignified sound that sounded like an 'eep' - before hurriedly stepping off the chair. Her eyes were round and wide as she gazed at the scarred mage, torn between curiosity and timidity. The latter eventually won out, much to Ascher's dismay. The straw-haired girl half-turned toward the door, calling over her shoulder. "...Hanna!" She drew out the name, as one does when seeking to get someone's attention. A vaguely female voice called something unintelligible back, closely followed by a series of thumps.
After a few moments, the door creaked open once again - revealing an elderly woman in an earth-toned housewife's dress. A small apron was tied about her waist, well-loved despite its evident use. "What is it, child?" The healer wiped her hands on a small towel before throwing it over her shoulder in a fashion one would normally associate with waiters or bar staff. She squinted at the bundles hanging from the ceiling, as though trying to see what it was that had her ward in such a tizzy. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, the woman lifted an eyebrow and turned her gaze first toward the chair... and then toward the floor... before finally shifting her attention toward the straw-haired girl.
The fourteen-year-old smoothed the front of her dress - the garment reminiscent of that worn by the elderly woman, despite its more youthful white-and-blue color scheme - before pointing wordlessly toward the bed. Ascher offered a faint smile and tired half-wave, conscious that his presence in the house might not necessarily have been a matter of choice for the elderly woman and her youthful associate. The spinster scowled, unconsciously lifting a hand to check her bun. "Just like a man," she muttered with an exasperated huff. "Asleep when you need him, awake when there's work to be done..." The woman strode confidently forward, pausing before the edge of Ascher's sickbed.
In a deft, purposeful manner that drove any doubt from her patient's mind as to her qualifications as a healer, the spinster took his wrist and squinted - her expression thoughtful. "Well, he doesn't appear to have awakened in distress," she remarked to the girl after a moment, dropping his arm without so much as a by-your-leave. Ascher's brow furrowed slightly. "Tell me, Anna - what does a healer do when a patient wakes before his time?" The fourteen-year-old blinked, eyes wide. Her manner couldn't help but remind him of nothing more than the sugar glider he'd seen at a curiosity show as a youth. A bundle of cuteness that seemed to be concentrated in her wide, brown eyes.
The girl considered the question, biting her lip in a fashion that would undoubtedly have turned her beet-red if she'd known she was doing it. "Erm... I... suppose I would start by saying hello?" Her voice trailed up at the end, turning the statement into a question. "No placeholders, dear," the matron said tolerantly. "Are you asking a question or stating your opinion?" The straw-haired girl swallowed. "Stating my opinion," she murmured softly, looking down - hiding behind the golden strands that fell in front of her face. The spinster motioned encouragingly. "Go on," she said with a smile. The girl sighed, then sniffed and brushed her hair behind her ears - straightening. "I... would start by saying hello." Her words were more confident this time, even if Ascher struggled not to crack a smile at the 'professional' demeanor which she had affected. In all fairness, it was quite good for a fourteen-year-old. The spinster perked an eyebrow.
The girl paled.
|
|
Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
|
Post by Ascher on Jul 31, 2020 19:56:05 GMT -6
Anna stepped forward and nervously essayed a curtsy toward the bed-ridden mage. "Hello, messer. I am called Anna."
The girl glanced toward his arm, biting her lip before moving forward and taking it gingerly in her hands - much as the herbalist had done merely moments before. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she moved her thumb around the inside of his wrist, seeming to search for something, before settling it perhaps an inch from the network of veins that lay below the palm. "Hello, Anna. You may call me Ascher." The scarred man kept his tone gentle and attempted what was meant as an encouraging smile. Judging by how the girl's hand shook whilst holding his wrist, the end result likely fell somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. A side-effect of an as-yet unknown dueling injury, perhaps? Or, more reasonably, his visage was simply rougher than she of the straw-colored hair and mild shyness could countenance.
"Do you know where you are?" The young woman - an apprentice, he supposed, based on her interactions with the herbalist thus far - pulled back the coverlet that lay atop Ascher's person, revealing swaths of boiled linen wrapped about his torso. "I'll need to check your bandages. No funny business, mind..." She released his wrist, giving no indication of whether whatever was gleaned from the practice had proven good or bad. The mage's brow furrowed as he glanced down the length of the bed, the corners of his mouth turning downward as his injuries came into view.
"I... ah..." The man blinked, then shook his head. "Bern," he said firmly, after a taking a moment to compose himself. "I expect I am in Bern. Both the city and the country." Then, lower. "I hope." The elderly woman nodded to herself, briefly, before catching the mage's eye in a circumspect fashion. The herbalist inclined her head in silent affirmation as her straw-haired apprentice worked at unwrapping whatever sordid injury had affected the man's chest and abdomen. "Someone got you from hip to shoulder, you know," the girl remarked absently, peering at a particularly soaked portion of the bandage that appeared to have been adhered to the wound in some fashion. Dried blood, perhaps - it was not beyond the pale, given the extent to which he seemed to be wounded.
"It's lucky that someone thought to bring you to Mother Hanna - else, I don't see how you would've survived the night." The herbalist frowned at the comment, but gave no indication of intervening. The scarred mage winced slightly. "Aye," he murmured softly. "I've had better nights." The girl snorted lightly, seeming to grow more comfortable as she threw herself more fully into her task - now in the process of dabbing a wet cloth along the edges of the stubborn bandage, seeking to loosen its grip on the skin. "Well... I haven't seen the like of this before, I'll tell you that for free." The more the girl spoke, the more streetwise her vocabulary became. She had come to sound more akin to an urchin or the camp followers from his campaigns than the townswoman Ascher had originally taken her for. "Whatever they cut you with, that is. If the smiths down on Blacksteel Row could hammer it into iron, we'd be living high for ages."
|
|