Closed [Judgement] Sealed Fate

[Languish]

"There are worse fates than death."

20th of Fall, 516 AV

“Next.”

The single word filled the great, circular room with a tangible boredom. The few young runners shifted nervously, and the small audience around the edges of the room flickered their eyes about in search of a distraction.

Azhak had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as the previous character scurried away from the center of the room excitedly. He had not deserved to be promoted to Apprentice, in Azhak’s eyes, but the negative vote had been outnumbered. And so, the Citadel now had one more Pulser, running amok and pretending to study. Wonderful.

“He will do great things, once he learns to focus his attention.” Amaryllis had said. "We have plenty who can teach him that."

"Or he will learn it in unlife- eternity tends to teach one patience." Filch grinned crookedly at his own statement.

While neither Cryptly nor Azhak had really believed in the Apprentice, Thelma and Filch were more relaxed in their judgements. They nodded in agreement while Cryptly snorted disdainfully.

“Are we nearly done?” Azhak asked.

The nearest runner, a young human boy with dark features and wide eyes answered quickly, eager to make himself noticed. “Not quite, Mr. Taldat. You’ve got one left.”

“Well, go on and get them, then.”

“Yessir.”

As the boy page scrambled away, the panel collectively resettled themselves- leaning back, scooting forward, or reshuffling papers. By the time the runner had returned with their next mage, the panel was silent and ready to begin. They waited patiently for the mage to center himself in the room so that they might examine him. Cold eyes washed over the mage unabashedly. Expressions were absent, and no hints were given to the Nuit’s mood, excepting Azhak’s impatient tapping of his fingers. After a few ticks, there was the quiet scratching of ink of paper, and soft creaking of old bones shifting. Filch leaned over and whispered something undetectable to Amaryllis, who smiled and nodded, holding back laughter with fanned fingers.

Finally, Thelma cleared her throat and glanced at each of the others in turn. Once they nodded in confirmation, she tossed over her shoulder a bundle of curls, and began. “First, your name and your field of expertise, please. Then you may begin.”

[Drake Kasparov]

”Alright, then. Guess it’s your turn, huh?” Again and again the boy had entered the chamber, leading the Apprentice-Hopefuls away one by one. The room had been filled with a nervous energy toward the start of the day, with various Mages, alive and otherwise, pacing and muttering to themselves as they went over their notes. Drake typically was a lively soul when placed in the epicenter of a group, but on this particular day, not a single word had passed between his lips since he had awoken. Upon entering the waiting room, he had discarded all the sideways glances from the other applicants, and taken a seat, and closed his eyes. And there he had remained. No thinking. No talking. The silence had created a welcome buffer zone between Drake and the knot that wanted so desperately to form in his gut. Slowly Drake’s eyes opened and he looked up at the runner blankly, the color in his irises gently fluctuating between shades of blue and red. ”Just hurry up. Not wise to keep Mr. Taldat waiting. Or any of the Wizards, for that matter.” Giving a curt nod, and bracing himself against his staff for support he rose to his feet, leaning over to brush dust off his robes before following the lad out of the waiting area and past the doors of the giant, circular lecture hall. The boy stepped aside and motioned for Drake to continue, and so he did. Deliberately exaggerating each step gave him a few more precious moments to observe the room. The panel caught the corner of his eyes first. The stares being piled upon him had a palpable weight, and as he arrived at the center of the room, they formed an icy pit in the center of his stomach. Tap, tap, tap, tap… The overwhelming silence of the chamber was only broken by a lone member of the panel, drumming his fingers against the table he was seated at. The noise echoed softly against the circular walls of the hall. Drake made eye contact with him a moment, before, at last, the oppressive quiet of the room was broken. ”First, your name and your field of expertise, please. Then you may begin.” The woman who spoke struck Drake as being alive rather than a Nuit. Although, Drake had seen some Nuit so well preserved and some Pulsers so ravaged by their life on the island, that his ability to differentiate between them had somewhat blurred. ”Drake Kasparov, miss. Formerly, Drake Snowsong.” He inclined his head slightly, before continuing. ”And I am a Reimancer.” She had stated that he may began, so without waiting for any further prompting, he set himself too it. Setting his staff deftly on the ground, he closed his eyes a moment, coming to a kneeling position as he took a long, slowly inhale, and held it a moment. A long time ago it was common practice for him to offer a prayer to Morwen before he began any serious cryomancy, but he didn’t feel right doing that any longer. Instead he tried to empty his mind. Regardless of how this turns out, nothing is going to stop you. As long as you are still breathing, the path leads only forward, ever onward. With that thought, he slowly let the air back out, and with it, the great knot of apprehension in his chest. As he stood he finished exhaling, Drake pushed the sides of his palms together, his hands forming a cone-like shape. Beginning to sway, moving his entire body but primarily just his hands in a slow, winding spiral, he reached deep inside himself mentally to begin to tug at the Djed that made up the core of his being. The first visual signs that anything was happening would not come for several more ticks - as at first, it seemed as if he was doing absolutely nothing. The res extruded from his left palm in a very thin gas, so thin it was almost visually imperceptible, but with closer inspection glowed a faint, ethereal shade of blue. It began to swirl around him in the same basic little spiral he was moving his hands in, and as it did, it pulled at the air around him, beginning for create a gradual spiraling pocket of wind centralized around him, although at the moment it did little save ruffle his bangs and cause the sleeves of his robe to puff and flap. From the other palm, nearly simultaneously, tiny droplets of res began to form on his palm like platelets of sweat, which immediately were transmuted into ice. The gaseous res picked the small particles of ice up as he was expunged from his other hand, and as was the intention, the frozen particles began to disperse naturally through the air as he swirled it around, a cold mist beginning to form around him. As he continued, the mist didn’t take up more and more space, but it did grow denser and denser, beginning to partially obstruct Drake from view. Once it had grown thick enough that he could no longer clearly make out the faces of the panel, he stop producing the Res and swaying, breathing deeply of the fog and taking just a tick to enjoy the freezing sensation that spread outward from his chest as he did. Okay, so there’s step one. Now comes the tricky part.

[Drake Kasparov]

There was a mental plasticity that followed from the intense focus needed to maintain a spell. It was that special mental state between rigorous conscious thought and instinct. Something Drake had often heard warriors refer to as ‘the zone’. It was within this narrow space that inspiration truly struck. Now, with the icy grey veil covering him, his gaseous res circulating in a tight circle around him, his arms moved almost with a will of their own. A hand shot out of the mostly opaque fog. Upturned so his palm faced the floor, he began to once again transmute res - carefully, achingly slowly. He was vaguely aware of the strain deep inside himself as the substance pooled onto the floor in a thick, viscous puddle. His hand began to jerk and twitch simultaneously, like a puppeteer bidding his subject dance. The res responded, peeling up from the ground, wriggling and writhing like it was alive with each flick of his fingertips. It spread, thinned, and slowly began to take a form. A small pocket of the gaseous res, formerly interlaced into the mist, remained trapped inside as a humanoid structure began to form. A rounded body, arms and legs. Crude in construction, but recognizable for what it was - a target. Drake’s hand trembled now. Despite the chill in the air, he could feel the sweat beginning to roll from his brow. But there was no fear of failure in his mind. No paranoia about long term effects of djed loss and overgiving.There was nothing in his mind, save the task at hand. With a flick of his wrist and a snap of the attached fingers, the res became matter. A small, humanoid structure of ice, like the most basic and primitive kind of sculpture, no more than four feet tall. A child sized opponent. The small pocket of gaseous res Drake had made sure was trapped inside now began to expand and coat the inside of the structure, transmuting into ice as well, seeking out weak points in the structure. Places where the distribution of ice had been uneven, it filled and transmuted, strengthening the structural integrity of the whole. Couldn’t have his target collapsing before he struck, after all. Now back to the mist that still coiled around him like a great white serpent. The res that had interlaced with it had partially dissipated, but Drake quickly latched onto what was still there, his arms spinning about his center like windmill blades. His mind clawed deeper inside himself - demanding yet more djed from his core to mix with what little remained in the air, which he breathed out of himself in a long, wide-jawed yawn. He then focused on pushing it inward, the substance grabbing the ice droplets in the air, and in doing so forcing the mist forward. It crept across the meter or so that distanced him from his target, leaving him totally visible, and the ice child completely hidden behind the fog. A smile crept across Drake’s face. Now was the moment he had been looking forward to. The wow moment. The moment that would likely make or break his Judgement. It was a move that he had practiced in an effort to create an attack that was both effective, but visually pleasing as well. He lifted both his arms, holding them outstretched toward the cloud of mist. His hands pushed together at the palms. He was soaking now. Moisture left on him from the fog mixed with the sweat that now poured off him to lend a slick sheen to his pallid skin. His breath was coming in uneven gasps now. His body trembled softly like leaves on a tree being chaotically tormented by the winds. His eyes, however, told a different story. Almost grey now, nearly colorless, like frost on a windowpane. No fear or hesitation. Narrowed and steely. He forced his hands apart ever so slightly, and res inside the cloud reacted accordingly, grabbing every particle of ice from the res and pulling it wide. This made the fog thin enough to pierce with one's eyes. With his arms outstretched, his fingers began fidgeting. The gaseous res split into four pockets, each drawing all the nearby ice into it. The process was nearly instantaneous: The fog was nearly gone entirely, and in it’s place, the ice had coalesced into four, wicked looking spikes, that hovered threateningly over the target. The trembling in his body wasn’t getting any better, and one of Drake’s eyes clamped shut. He could feel his concentration beginning to waiver. Simultaneously, however, and almost paradoxically, he felt a surge of something. Power, strength, confidence, pleasure - whatever it was, it was a familiar sensation, and one that was worrying to the parts of Drake’s mind that weren’t abuzz with whispers: A choir of ghostly voices had begun to chatter into Drake’s ears, and although mostly reduced to noise from the sheer volume of them, the message still rang clear. Keep going. Drake whipped his arms around now. The res that kept the spikes suspended gripping onto them and simultaneously sent all four hurling toward the target. One missed and went careening into the floor, shattering on impact. The other three each made their mark into ice child - one in the head, and two in the upper chest. All kill shots. Resounding satisfaction gripped Drake as he heard each one connect - the dry, flat packing noise as the spikes drilled into the icy body of his target like music to his ears. He was still smiling. The display was over. Or at least, it could be. Drake made a pulling motion with both arms at the air around him, willing what res remained in the air inside his sphere of control to begin to return to him with the intent of reabsorbing it. Then again, I could keep going. His smile twisted into a wide grin as the res began to collect over his hand. With a flicker of his mind, it became ice, yet another spike floating just over his hand. He glanced at it, pausing. The smile slowly faded from his face. His arm wasn’t just shaking now. It trembled, as if the spike weighed down physically on his hand. He could hear nothing that might have been being said in the room around him at this point, and, come to think of it, anything that might have been said before. His heart was hammering inside his ears like the rapid beating of a drum. And that taste. That coppery, metallic taste in the mouth, like he had bit his tongue and now it filled to the brim with his own blood. He let the ice spike fall to the ground and shatter. He closed his eyes, shakily lowering himself to a kneeling position as he closed his eyes. He wasn’t even particularly concerned with the judgement now. The thousands of voices telling him to keep going, though, they were of grave concern. He tried to center his mind. Focus only on breathing. Just… Keep… Breathing.

[Languish]

"There are worse fates than death."

"Drake Kasparov, Miss. Formerly Drake Snowsong."

Snowsong. The singers of the North. A hypnotist for certain. Thelma reclined, feeling safe in her assumptions. It would be a predictable show. Cryptly, too, must have come to the same concluion, as he gestured for a test subject to be put into the arena. But before the command could even be completed, the boy was off.

He moved as in a dance, causing a grin to dust Amaryllis' face. "Beautiful." She whispered, watching as he swayed to and fro. "But not useful." Azhak snapped at her. She accepted the scorn silently, waiting for what would come.

She was not disappointed. Around him, the Res swirled. It obscured him from view in a few short ticks that felt like chimes. A Wizard set up a small shield around the Judge's table nervously, but the Judges themselves appeared unperturbed, entranced.

The display was artful, simply put. But putting it simply shorted the true feeling of it. It was powerful, emotional. It was tangibly delightful to move in that way, and the women of the Judge's table smiled. Amaryllis hummed a strange, lilting tune to the movement, halting only at Cryptly's glare.

Then, there was a figure created, in the semblance of a young boy. For the first time that day, Azhak smiled. The boy could've requested a dummy. He could have brought one of flour and cloth, or wood, but he had gone on to create his own. Dedication.

The spikes that shot toward the ice dummy were rather typical for a beginning reimancer. It was a combat-oriented style that many favored. His aim was near flawless, and the twisted grin on his face told the Judges he knew it. He continued, shooting again, and then once more. He conjured a fourth ice spike more hesitantly, and the Judges held their breath (so to speak).

Would he go too far? There was a limit to dedication. It could be damning. But the spike fell, and so too did the boy. It was over. Silence persisted for a minute more, and then a soft question.

"Shall we vote?"

Whomever had spoken was met with hushed agreement. Filch spoke first.

"Aye. He's on the right track."

"He's passionate. You can't beat that." Amaryllis sang.

Thelma nibbled her lower lip in thought. "He's going to fall to overgiving in a season."

"That's not an answer." Cryptly reprimanded.

"Fine. Nay." She said stubbornly.

"Aye. But if he falls, do I get him?" Cryptly followed with a grin.

"He's mine." Azhak said firmly. He stood, challenging anyone to question him. No one did. "That kind of power..." He drifted thoughtfully.

"Tell me. Do you follow Morwen still? Religious distractions will not be tolerated in my lab."

[Drake Kasparov]

Voices. Drake was vaguely cognizant that they spoke of him, but they seemed far away. Echoes against the walls of the chamber rattled his head from every direction, like tiny bells in his head. Hand trembling still, he put his hand over his eyes, rubbing them briefly before peeling them open to stare groggily up at the Judges. ”Fine. Nay.” The pulser woman. Her words were foreign. Gibberish. He could make out the syllables. Recognize the pattern. But they held no meaning. Hundreds of other dim voices sang to him in the tongue of his homeland, blanketing his thoughts like a sheet of snow.. He reached up and rubbed his eyes again, softly shaking his head. ”Aye.” Male voice this time. It seemed closer now. The chorus in his head had faded to a dull whisper; now little more than a nagging itch at the back of his consciousness. Drake looked back up at the Nuit as he continued. ”But if he falls, do I get him?” The words themselves were still somewhat difficult to make out, particularly since Drake had caught none of the context leading up to them. But he understood enough to swallow somewhat nervously. The grin that accompanied them spoke volumes in and of itself. Need to look out for that one… Finally, one of the voices in his head speaking sense. ”He’s mine.” Now that Drake did understand. As the Wizard spoke, he stood. Drake smiled, despite himself. It was a dramatic move, one that what Drake might have done in the name of showmanship, this Nuit, a potentially ancient being, now seemed to do in earnest. Drake wasn’t sure if he found that funny or not, but knew better to squash any instinct he might have had to giggle. Azhak then seemed to mutter something else to himself, but with his mind still swimming, Drake couldn’t catch it. ”Tell me. Do you follow Morwen still?” The young vantha was genuinely surprised. He had anticipated anserwing a hundred and one questions at this moment in the weeks leading up to it. Questions about his magical background, perhaps. Or his criminal one at the very least ”Religious distractions will not be tolerated in my lab.” Drake smiled, though it was obviously strained. ”Ha… What a question. Does the sheep follow the shepherd, or merely lack the courage to break faith with the flock?” His northern accent, which already tended to lend a hard sharp edge to every consonant he spoke was exasperated by his uneven breathing, and he was forced to speak even slower than usual to keep the words intelligible. ”Apologies. I do not mean to speak in puzzles. The mind is still a little, misty, no?” He cleared his throat, taking a deep breath, and releasing it slowly. ”A more direct answer for you is no, I do not.”

[Languish]

"There are worse fates than death."

OOCSo sorry for the late reply. If you're ready to be finished after this, simply let me know via PM or throw the thread in for grading, and I'll get it finished up. Thanks for your patience.

The boy spoke with an even heavier accent in his exhaustion, and the foreignness of it made a few of the Nuit glance around. However, Azhak did not flinch. Instead, he stood tapping a long finger on the desk as he waited for a proper response. Finally, Drake seemed to find his mind and voice.

”A more direct answer for you is no, I do not.”

Whether or not this was true, it was the answer he had been looking for, and that was all that mattered. As long as it wouldn't get in either of their ways, it was of no concern to the Wizard. After all, if he did find his Apprentice disobeying, he was always in need of test subjects.

"Very well." He concluded, motioning to a Golem in the back of the room. The mechanism rolled forward with a pitiful, low whine of its joints. "This is a copper ring with the emblem of a Reimancy student on it. It will give you access to everything you will need in order to advance."

The Nuit took the ring in his hands and moved forward, down the steps, to hand it to the new Apprentice. "My lab is twenty-three F, titled Research of Reimantic Paraelements. The door is iron, and it will not be easy to miss." He articulated sharply, almost condescendingly. He did not like to repeat himself.

"I expect you to be there this evening when I return. We have some preliminary testing to do."

The idea of "preliminary testing" was certainly eerie, especially to anyone who had come to Azhak's lab, because they knew what it entailed. To each new Apprentice, he would push and push them, reaching to see how far they would go to please him. Once he was satisfied, they would spend the rest of the night sleeping, as Pulsers so enjoyed. And if he was not...

Well, that wouldn't likely be a problem with this one.

[Drake Kasparov]

There was an uncomfortable moment after Drake answered of silence. Azhak’s face was inscrutable, and the young mage worried a moment that he may not believe him. After all, Drake wouldn’t have believed himself, if the shoes were reversed. How many Vantha did not worship Morwen? Especially those that still carried her brand on their necks. ”Very well.” Drake was trembling as he stood back up.”"This is a copper ring with the emblem of a Reimancy student on it. It will give you access to everything you will need in order to advance." He cracked a smile. That settled any lingering doubts in Drake’s mind. He had passed. He tensed slightly at Azhak’s approach. ”"My lab is twenty-three F, titled Research of Reimantic Paraelements. The door is iron, and it will not be easy to miss." The wizard offered him the ring as he spoke, and Drake took it deftly from the Nuit’s cold hand. He held it in his palm a moment, staring down at it. It was a little surreal, more so than he was willing to let on, to be finally holding it. Entry into Sahova had been a goal for so long that subconsciously, without even realizing it, it had been demoted from a plan, to a mere dream in his mind. But here it was, a physical reality. It had weight. Discounting the meager wages he had earned as a caravan guard, it was the first real validation of his magical abilities he had ever received. He wanted to sing. ”Twenty-three F, big iron door.” The young vantha nodded enthusiastically as he slipped the ring deftly onto his left hand, splaying his fingers out a moment to eyeball it. ”I think I can manage that.”