The Harbor [Post here first]

[Belugnir]

The 50th of Winter, 516 AV

''Uldr's cracked skull...'', the man cursed, coughing up a mouthful of saltwater and sand as he woke. His soiled face rose from the grainy mud of the beach to behold the barren shore he'd washed up on. Through a fog of headache and sickness, he recalled the images of the ship he was meant to safeguard from pirates, and equally so the images of pitch dark clouds and raging water from which he had just barely saved his own life. A desperate, powerless anger crawled over him as he came to realize the dunghole that fate had tossed him into. Shipwrecked gods know where on the eastern seas.

The first thing he did after staggering to his feet was to pull the soaked coat and shirt off of himself and toss them onto the sand in a fit of frustration, all while struggling not to fall back, arse first into the sand himself in the exausted, painful daze that he was in.

''Good gods, it's a bloody miracle I 'aven't lost an arm too.'', he kicked at the sand, still angrily lamenting his ill luck. He just had to accept the job from that ONE bloody bastard, on that ONE ship that was going en route for the FIRST time to the ONE gods damned island that nobody sane wants to visit.

''I'll make it worth ye while, lad...'', the man snorted, beginning to laugh at himself in desperation, repeating what the merchant who'd hired him to guard the now wrecked ship told him before he ever accepted the job. They were bound for Sahova, a small vessel of some rat-alley fool who got lucky enough to afford himself a ship and stupid enough to think that the mages who live there were as connable as the pettiest merchants that one can meet at the markets of Sunberth. It was none of his business, dealing with sorcerers and warlocks and whatever the hell else lived on that hell-hole of an island, nor did he care that they were transferring a cargo of over two dozen human corpses to sell them to the bloody freaks. He and the other mercenaries just had to see to it that none of the crew members did anything shady with the merchandise and that no backwater pirates tried to sack the ship. As easy as ploughing a back alley whore, just come in, stay on the ship for as long as it'd take for the bastard to sell off the bodies, and then get the hell away from there. He was never told the road will take twenty and some and not five days.

''If I ever get my hands on you, you lying whoreson, you'll wish you sold your own bloated corpse to them rotten warlocks!'', he yelled at the shattered hull of the ship that still stood visible, broken upon a great rock some half a mile away from the shore, not giving the slightest bit of care for the fact that there are now likely five and not two dozen human corpses soaking up with water under that very shipwreck. They got the easy way out. After crouching down, hands pulling at the messy strands of his hair and a long, quite expressing ''FFFUCK IT!'', the youth finally began collecting his wits, which further led to the collecting of whatever salvagable supplies he could find around the beach that might've washed up from the ship's wreckage. He was quite relieved when he discovered his own rucksack merely several feet away from where he woke up, and not so relieved when he realized that most of the food and supplies in there were soaked through and through. What truly pleasantly surprised him was that he was also able to find his personal weapon, a straight bladed polearm, among the trash that had washed ashore. It took about an hour of salvaging, but in the end he managed to collect a couple of means of preventing his face and teeth from going rotten, a decent amount of still halfway edible food, posibly to last him a week, a purse of coins, and a sweet, sweet little razor that he went and safely stuck into the end of his coat's sleeve in case he needs an additional means of killing whatever creature comes 'round observing him as a meal. Soon he was at least halfway dry, packed up, and ready to face the issue of where he hell to head on this gods forsaken island.

After a minute of pondering, he decided to move southwards... or well, judging by the sun, he could only guess it was southwards, after several minutes of walking, the beach shifted towards the supposed East, and after another brief time spent walking, Einar finally grasped the eerie frames of empty docks and buildings in the forest growth in the distance. Somewhat encouraged by this sight, he proceeded the walk hastily towards this distant port. Not too long afterwards, any feeling of relief he had felt was swiftly ruined when he sighted some unholy abomination in front of one of the buildings. It looked like the most bizzare suit of armor... which was alive. It was moving, and talking to some fellow who, even from the considerable distance, didn't seem human at all. Driven by instinct, Einar moved into the cover of flora that surrounded the harbor, hoping that none were yet aware of him. He'd spent some ten minutes concealed and at a distance, observing an odd marketplace, governed by moving metal constructs and browsed by some folk whose appearance steadily made his stomach turn. Soon he came to the realization, although a part of him knew from the moment he woke up on the deserted beach. What he was seeing were the sights of Port Silence, and he was shipwrecked, alone, and with barely a thing to his name, uponthe dreaded island of Sahova.

[Nara Utovosm]

PC revamp

[Prowl]

8th of Winter, 515 A.V.

Prowl knew fear well. The smallest Zith in his colony, fear was a yoke that lashed itself on his shoulders near everyday. The fear that one of his brothers might decide on taking a beating a bit too far. Fear that an Elder would decide that tonight's hunt would be him instead of other game. Fear that he would sleep too deeply, and when he woke his entire colony would be gone. That he would be left behind by those he so wished would accept him. Alone in the wild, awaiting a slow death by whatever means that nature deemed appropriate.

Fear was not a stranger to Prowl. It kept him company, kept him alert, and kept him alive.

However, the unsettling silence which rolled over the slaver ship he was chained to was a different type of terror. It was foreign, quieter, almost whisper-like in it's attempts to unnerve him. He felt his his fur stand on end, and as was his instinct, he sunk inwards. Letting his wings close around him and block out the stray bands of light which snaked through the cracks of the roof of the cargo hold, Prowl searched for comfort in the darkness he made.

Comfort never came, but the silence broke as a brave Zith gave life to his voice.

"You ran. Ran from the fight. As your brothers and sisters fell, you ran."

Prowl knew the voice well. It was his twin, Lash, who had survived the ambush which landed his colony in chains. Prowl didn't have to lift his head to see the sneer which overtook his brother's face. His ears, sharp as ever, heard well the disgust which dripped from every word Lash spoke.

"How can I share blood with such a weakling like you?" Lash pressed onward. "You are nothing, you know that?! Nothing!"

Teeth drawing blood, Prowl bit down hard to keep his temper from flaring up. He knew his place among the colony, knew how strong his brother was, and he had no doubt how a fight between he and his sibling would play out. Lash was right, he was weak. He was nothing. And even now, chained to the ship same as he, the young Zith still felt fear for his brother. His scars itched with phantom pain, almost anticipating the usual assortment of blows which followed such insults.

The attack never came however, Lash's ranting cut short by the sudden stomping of feet. Prowl brought his head above his wings, curios as to what could stop his brother's insults. The door which led to the deck above swung open, and a burly sailor stepped down the wooden stairs towards Lash, Prowl, and the few other members of their colony which lay chained to the ships hold. The sailor was quickly followed by a smaller man, but one that frightened Prowl even more than his brother. Wrapped in dark plate-mail and exuding an atmosphere of control, down walked a member of the Ebonstryfe.

Prowl brought his head back down beneath the comfort of his wings. Flashes of the night he and what remained of his colony were captured blared through his mind, and if the Zith could make himself any smaller or more pitiable he would have. It took one squadron of Stryfe to destroy and enslave his colony. The man whose slow, steady steps filled the room with dread; he was their leader.

"We've arrived. Prepare yourself, the Nuit of Sahova will show you even less mercy than I have," the Ebonstryfe commander spoke in an even and cold tone. Prowl's ears twitched, but not at the man's voice, but at the sound of shifting chains. Again he poked his head above the safety of his wings.

It was his brother, Lash, rearing up to strike the commander from behind. Prowl's red eyes grew wide with surprise, did his brother not recognize the strength that this man wielded? Strength enough to command men powerful enough to tear through the Zith like they were nothing. Strength to be feared, not fought against.

Lash's claw sailed forward, attempting to slide in some gap of the Ebonstryfe's armor. The commander turned before the strike even landed, grabbing the Zith's claw and filling the near-silent hold with the sound of crushing bones. The commander pressed on like a storm, cracking bones like thunder and finishing the fight faster than a flash of light. Lash's lifeless body slumped to the floor, and the commander turned towards the now violent mob that was the colony.

"The request that the Nuits had was for bodies," he took a moment to look down at the discarded form of Lash. "It never specified that they be living." The commander paused, taking a step towards the panicked forms of the agitated Zith. As he approached, Prowl's colony collectively pressed themselves against the walls of the ship. The man smiled at the group like a cat might towards mice. "Welcome to Sahova."

Prowl might have known fear well, but no beating in the world, no fear of hunger or of death, terrified him more than that man's smile.

The boat shuddered to a stop, and the young Zith began the march towards the surface of the ship with the rest of the colony. Before he passed beyond the door and into the light of day, Prowl looked once more back to the crumpled body of his twin. He wondered if Lash made the right choice, attacking the commander despite knowing his strength. Perhaps death would be preferable to whatever pain this island silently promised him and his kind.

[Liriope]

1st of Summer, 517 AV


It was with a small smile on her face that the hypnotist stepped off of the boat that had brought her there. As she did walk she attempted to take light steps, so not to accidentally set off the blade and reveal the fact that her boots were actually bladed, rather than just normal.

Liriope didn't trust the island, so being armed was something she thought to be a good idea.

She had listened to the crew speak with the-, well Liriope had no idea what it was, but she supposed it was likely something made using magic, what type, she didn't know.

Zeltiva had bored her, that was the true reason she was on the island. She would tell people that it was because she wanted to learn more about hypnotism and magic in general, which was true, yet the woman easily found things tedious and acted childish at times, even if she didn't act that way.

That was what had led her to travel to Sahova. She hoped to find something to entertain her there.

The golem had left before she had finished searching for and finding her bag, and with a slight look of annoyance she said farewell to the ship's crew, off to find her way to the Citadel.

[Thomas Cosa]

1st of Summer, 517

The letter read:

The island is alive again. Your lab awaits.
- C & L

The letter was crumpled in his left fist. Thomas sighed; the island was coming into view. Dry as always, and dead as ever, he was surprised to find himself relieved. Smiling, even. The Citadel had been his home for years. He had dreamed for so long, once upon a time, to return to the mainland. A mistake, that dream.

Sahova made more sense than anything out there. Wizards lied for a purpose. They offered their time and skills for a purpose. Their every moment, their every word is planned. Everything and everyone was always suspect. Trust blindly and you die.

Out on the mainland, Thomas had found things were shockingly different. Yes, people lied. They cheated. They murdered. Sometimes for a reason, for a purpose, but some simply did so because they could. People were also generous without expectation. They healed out of duty. They were selfless.

Thomas, to them, was selfish and paranoid. They couldn't, nor did he expect them to, understand him. They hadn't braved magic. They hadn't survived the Citadel.

"Welcome to Sahova," the communicator said, "identify yourselves and state the purpose of your visit. If you are carrying cargo, provide a full description and unload a sample for evaluation. Any passengers wishing to be escorted to the Citadel must approach me and apply for permission."
And here he was, ready to do it all over again.

Thomas stepped down onto the pier first. He remembered when he'd first arrived -- he had been so afraid.

"Wizard Thomas Cosa. I've come to return to my land."

He was still afraid. He was just smarter this time.

[Alun]

Alun set down his bag. Before him was where he would be spending the next few years of his life, desperately trying to make his mark on the world and trying to escape the expectations and responsibilities of his eypharian heritage.

He had heard stories of the nature of life on the island, the harsh realities of living where so many ancient wizards walked the halls, the dangers of wild magic, torture, or worse, the dangerous life forms that inhabited the wilderness around the citadel, and all the other dangers inherent to life on the island.

But it was someplace he could get a fair shake, freed from the accidents of birth in Ahnatep, a place where only your talent and abilities mattered. Of course, as a pulser, he had a disadvantage compared to some people, and of course, there was always bad luck in mentors, rivals, or enemies to watch out for, but Alun trusted in his abilities.

This was going to be where he made his mark.

[Misaele Lulmir Hoarfrost]

37th of Summer, 517

"Aye aye! I see land! I see Sahova!" cried one of the mariners.
A mixture of excitement and anxiousness started building up in Misaele as soon as he turned aroud and looked at the direction pointed by the hunched man.
There it was. Sahova. It looked like a simple rock surrounded by the thick morning fog. Not that dangerous, that magical, that... dead. Or rather, unliving. The scenery Misaele was looking at was peaceful, quiet, disturbed only by the crashing of the waves on the ship. Completely opposite to what was happening inside the boy's mind.
One main thought repeatedly hunted him: 'The travel was now ending and the true journey beginning'.
Breathe. I've never been this worried. Gosh. I wish my grandfather was here. He would've loved the view. He would've started talking non stop about how sublime are Sahova landscapes, about how amazing are the labs and so on. He talked so much. Misaele thought, wearing a melancholic smile.

A few hours later

"G-bye boy! I hope I'll see you alive someday!"
"Aren't you coming too?" Misaele asked quite confused.
The mariner spit on the floor. "For fuck's sake no! We are not crazy like you and your old man! - May he rest in peace. - We came only because we owed him, that's it."
"Uhm... Well, thank you."
"Thank him! He must've hated you, that old fellow!" The mariner said laughing. He then turned to shout something to the others about getting ready for departure and then he continued "We don't want to stay here a minute longer. G-bye!"
"Yeah... bye"

The ship was now outside of Port Silence, trying to leave as fast as it could.
Misaele sobbed and turned around to look at the majestic doors of the Citadel. He was now completely alone in the harbour. Completely alone.
Alone? Shouldn't there be a golem or something? The entrance of the greatest magical research facility of Mizahar left unguarded... The wizards here must be terribly confident! I mustn't let my guard down.
He now understood perfectly why it was called Port Silence. The stillness there was unnatural, only the sea seemed to be alive somehow, giving life signals with his waves, which actually seemed not to love crashing on Sahova's shore. Even the sea seemed scared, just like the mariners.
Excitement returned and it suffocated discouragment. That place embodied magic. Pure magic, that is why it looked so unnatural. Djed was so strong it even bent reality!
Misaele felt certain that this was the beginning of his magical career and his search for true power.
Let's begin