Trial with a new form.

Intro Mira, Prt 1
Original: http://projectsummerprt3readyforduty.blogspot.com/2015/07/intro-mira-prt-1.html

Arminus sits in his office with his back to the window. piles of paper are on his desk. 

He stirs and exhales slowly.

Arminius: what a long day (muttering)

He twirls his fingers. the pen on his desk rises and hovers over one form.

Arminius: (in a tired drone) Number of students, not available. The pen scribbles on the page
 Arminius: Primary residence, Calcibar Manor, the city of Strouton, in the Cornell provence. Not                            available, Not applicable. No. No preferred method.

A bell chimes. Arminius stirs in his chair, strait backed, noticeably more alert. with a releaved look on his face. 

Arminius: Finally she arrives!

He eagerly and briskly walks to the door, opens it, and starts down the hallway. The hallway is clear of obstructions, but dirty and dusty with a few cobwebs. 
Arminius keeps walking, preening as he goes. He turns right, then descends down five steps into the main building of the manor. This hallway is noticeably cleaner, though the walls are faded.
Arminius takes up an impressing pose at the edge of a banister overlooking a grand, but dusty, foyer.

With emphasized movements he pulls a wand from his coat pocket and thrusts it toward the door.

Arminius: (grandly) Welcome to Ithalreal, Professor Mira Valithiano!

Mira wears billowy clothes, and has her hair in a loose bun. There are traces of paint on her fingers. 

Mira: (equally grandly) It's a pleasure to be here, Principal Traffurd! (sarcastically) Or at least it will             be when cobwebs aren't framing each corner.
Arminius: Haha, I thought with your artistic sense you would see past that to what this place could                       be.
Mira: (raises eyebrow) Ahuh, in other words you want me to do the cleaning?

Arminius: (with humor) I'm drowning in papers, and forms, and reports, and job applications. I've                                               done nothing else all day. (more calmly and seriously) In fact, I've not even                                             eaten. I know you just arrived, but how do you feel about going back into                                            town and catching up over dinner?\\

Mira: I feel as though the very smell of coal smoke will make me sick. pause Still, if that's the option                for dinner, let's be off before I get comfortable.

There used to be six of us

There used to be six of us . . . Now I’m alone.

George, Benny, Martha, June, Max they were my friends, my family. Now I’m alone.

We fought, we laughed, we wept, and we cheered. Inseparable to a man, that was us. Now I’m alone.

Alone and running. I used to be running for my life, now I was just running so that I wouldn’t stop. Left here,

Right there. Running fast as my body would allow. A second left across the square. I stumbled, my heel catching a crack in the cobblestone.

With that brief interruption came the tears.

I made it to the far side of the square, almost two miles from where I started running, before I collapsed. Sobbing and gasping against a wall. I hugged myself, if only to suppress the trembling and shivering. My eyes burned, my lungs burned, my legs burned and yet I was cold, my gown soaked in sweat and bile and blood.

After a moment my senses returned and I slapped the brick of the wall. A nail broke, and my palm bled but the pain reminded me to move.  Theatre district, Plaza of music, Masque Emporium. A friend of a friend.

I started to sprint, then to jog. The tears still fell. They fell black, painting lines on my face and smears on my hands. Max’s friend was not far away now. I remembered going with him to get the supplies for tonight.

“This, my dear Meg, is the best place in the world.” Max had said one they were in the Plaza of Music. He had such a proud and amusing grin on his face. “The owner’s a friend of mine, we go waaay back.” His red hair glinting in the morning sun, almost level with my eyes. So childish, and childlike, skipping like a school girl.

When we reached the door he winked at me and skipped around the corner, laughing at whatever face I had made. He stopped at a narrow door along the side, right were the street began to slope down. “Welcome to the cave of wonders!” He bowed as the door swung open. Breaking out into a ridiculously childish grin, gleaming with joy and pride. I’ll never see that smile again. . .

I fell forward as my right heel broke. Bloodied, shaken, exhausted, sore, and now bruised in most sensitive areas, I curled into a ball and surrendered to my grief. I no longer had any strength to hold myself back. My friends were gone. My family was dead. I am alone.

There used to be six of us . . . now I’m alone.

I heard the footsteps’ I couldn’t move. They moved to the patter of running; I didn’t move. I heard them stop, and could sense someone close. Still I cried, curled with my knees to my chest. There was a rustle of fabric, and a coat was lain across my shoulder. A firm but gentle hand grabbed my arm and lifted me up. A seconded, moved the coat to cover both of my shoulders, and lift me higher. With a sudden shift, this stranger had lifted me up, one arm around my back, the other beneath my knees. My sight was blurry, and the street was dark. I smelt perfume, a strong smell of sandalwood and vanilla. I turned to my savior and smothered my cries into his chest.

His caring squeeze was no comfort in my grief.

I don’t know how many streetlamps, how many sobs, I spent marking my grief onto his shirt. But my tears ran out, and my throat was raw before I looked around. Around me were restaurants and store fronts boasting exotic menus and flashy jewelry. Posters for a magician were plastered against the available space. I had been carried into the theatre district. I turned to look at my savior.

It was indeed Max’s friend, thick golden hair like a lion’s mane, a rich trimmed beard, strong arched nose, and deep-set blue eyes. Eyes that were moist, and rimmed with red. He met my gaze, and his lip trembled beneath his moustache. He had just lost family too. I moved my hand onto his chest, all the hug I could give. His gaze dropped, and then he looked on with resolve, with some kind of strength holding back the tears still behind his eyes. I pulled his coat closer to me, the night was warm, but the coat was safety. A vagrant, the only other life on the street, stirred and shuffled forward beginning some grieving tale. He was immediately silenced by a glare filled with true grief, blue eyes piercing the darkness.

I closed my eyes, and let my weariness take me.

I woke up to light. Not the cruel light of day, nor the cold light of the moon. This light was warm, and comforting. It made its way through my eyelids and made me safe. Then I noticed the warmth. Not a sticky warmth, a warmth that was soft. Finally all my other senses aroused. I was in a bed, covered with a thick duvet. The pillow smelt of sandalwood and vanilla, and the room of sweet tobacco. I opened my eyes and looked about.

There was fireplace with a handsome dark wood mantel done in some sweeping style, and a heartwarming fire in the hearth. A thick but faded oriental rug was on the ground at the foot of the bed. Beneath it polished pine wood gleamed a pale warm reflection of the fire. A changing panel of braided bamboo strips stood next to a mighty, oaken chest of drawers. A floral painted wardrobe stood imposed over a chipped, grey earthenware teapot resting upon the drawers, kept warm over a candle.  Piling high next to a curtained off doorway, were stacks and stacks of books upon teak shelves. Paperbacks fighting hardcovers for dominance. Plays jousted poem collections, and novels quarreled with operas. The walls were just as chaotic. Playbills for every type of production were here. Cheap thrill magicians practiced under the mocking smile of insightful comedians. Shakespeare and Wilde conversed side by side above the drawers. Souvenir opera masks hung above the doorway, and sheet music from a dozen ballets papered one corner. A clock with a cracked face stood on the mantel, marking the time as three in the morning. Six hours had passed.

A cloud of smoke appeared from the bookshelves. I shifted and saw something that had been blocked by the bedpost. It was a threadbare armchair and in it was a young man with a body that couldn’t decide if it was lean or robust. Deep lines creased his forehead and encircled his eyes. He wore a housecoat and was dressed for sleep, but his rich, thick, golden hair was as neatly groomed as a cat’s fur. His beard was likewise well trimmed close to his face, and his mustache neatly combed. In his hand he held a briar pipe, one side of which had etched into its surface the relief of a pair of masks, one laughing one crying. Placing it between his lips, he took another long draft from the pipe and expelled a white-grey cloud of sweet smelling smoke. All around me looked so peaceful, so diverse yet in its place that for a moment I almost forgot what had happened. Almost.

I sat up, letting he duvet fall and expose my soiled gown. The man turned to me, his eyes met mine and were filled with emotion. Concern for me, sympathy for what had happened, confusion about what had happened, pain of recent death, and grief. I felt tears in my eyes. For half a moment we trapped each other in our gaze. I was moving to sit and he was still moving to stand, but in that half moment we understood each other. I had lost my friends, my family, everything that was ever dear to me, everything ever worth protecting was forever lost. George, Benny, Martha, June and Max. He had lost Max. This blond, bearded man had forever lost his best friend. Marco had forever lost his little brother.

Marco walked over to me, a thousand words written across every line and hair on his face. I quivered, wishing I had words for what happened for the emotions I felt. He reached my side, and neither of us could utter a syllable. He sat down on the bed and reached around me, pulling me into a soft, warm embrace. I felt a hot tear drop onto my shoulder, then I heard and felt a deep rippling sob. I began to cry with him. Not a teary eyed silent weeping, not a trail of salt carving down my face. Together we wept with the weight of our loss. Clinging to each other, because we were all we had.

We were alone.

Tales of Magic: prologue

In Lucifer's rebellion against God, one of the archangels declared himself uninvolved. He, and those Angels who sided with his neutrality, were punished for their actions with a banishment to earth. Part of that punishment was to guide mankind in the way of God and teach them how to use God's most powerful gifts. This duty they fulfilled. As such, each of them was evaluated and his punishment ended.

Overtime, however, without the Angel's guidance man corrupted these gifts, debasing them and ignoring the God from whence these abilities came. Those who practiced the gifts used their creative abilities to divide and sort the powers the head been trained in. Over generations a single word emerged to defined the powers that had been corrupted, magic.

Prompt #3

    "You're still here. . . and you're making pancakes?" She murmured sleepily

". . . I couldn't find your waffle iron." Alex answered still looking after his cooking.

Jacqueline shook dreams from her head. "What are you doing here, I told you to leave me alone?"

"And I told you that I can't do that." Alex replied.

"I'll call the police!"

Alex chuckled. "You did that yesterday. Didn't work then, won't work now."

With a moan, Jacqueline rolled her eyes across her messy studio apartment and plopped down on her bed. It was then that the gravity of the situation sunk in. "HOW THE H*** DID YOU GET IN HERE?!?" Jacqueline yelled, her eyes wide and focused on Alex.

"Don't shout," He ordered. "As I explained yesterday, for five hours mind you, I am a mage. I worked for your late father." For the first time that morning he faced her. "No need to look so mistrusting, you knew your father was a mage."

"BUT WHY ARE YOU HERE?!?"

"What did I say about yelling." Alex scolded. "Now, do you have maple syrup or do I need to melt chocolate onto these?" Jacqueline was too much confused by the events of last night and the morning to continue fighting. Instead she contented herself with glaring silently and pointing toward her fridge.

Alex moved past a sink of dirty dishes and opened the age yellowed refrigerator. He hummed a lilting tune as he brought out the syrup and emptied it's meager contents onto the two plates of fresh pancakes. He continued in his little melody as he adroitly negotiated the mix of underwear, books, and trash which covered the floor.  When he was near enough, he reached out with one of the plates, including cutlery, to give it to the still glaring lady of the flat. Against better judgement, she accepted the fluffy, buttery, maple glazed breakfast.

As there were no tables or chairs, Alex pivoted where he stood and squatted down atop of a pile of unwashed clothes. He began to eat, his humming silenced by the chewing of food. Jacqueline looked down at the plate she had been given. There was an extra pancake on it, and it smelled fantastic. The primal desire to eat overcame good judgement; she took a bite, and then another, and then several more. Before long she devoured her food before her intruder was even half done. It was good, and very filling.

Then she remembered that she had been glaring. Having eaten, she was more alert. Alert enough to notice that the strange man had changed his clothes since last night. He now wore a dark brown sports coat set overtop a crisp white shirt. His collar was high, and bound by a stripped, yellow bowtie. The intruder's pants were equally immaculate. Clean khaki with center creases so sharp they looked dangerous. Jacqueline almost couldn't see his shoes, but the shine of polished leather peaked out from the debris on the carpet.

Almost against her will Jacqueline looked down at her own clothes. Sweat pants and a baggy t-shirt were fine for sleeping, but in the presence of this dapper man they seemed downright inappropriate. Though, not as inappropriate as trespassing. Jacqueline sharply returned to glaring at Alex.  He was almost finished eating his pancakes.

"What are you doing here?" she venomously growled,

He cleared his throat with a small cough. "As I thought I had made clear yesterday, I'm here at the behest of your late father to protect you from a calamitous event which your father gave his life to unleash upon the world."

"My father died three years ago." Jacqueline stated flattly.

"I know, I was at the funeral. As a matter of fact I organized the catering." He stood up, his knees popping as he did. "Now, will you allow me to collect that plate, or will you misconstrue that as an attempt on your life?"

Taken aback by the unexpected sharpness of his tone, Jacqueline extended her plate. "How could he have told you to protect me if he's dead?"

"He told me before he died. I thought that would be obvious."

"This doesn't make any sense," she groaned.

Alex rolled his eyes. "Okay, summary of yesterday. Your father was a very bad man. He created a spell to release chaos into the world. I worked for him as he did this. When it came time for him to give his life force to the spell, he asked me to look after you." He paused for clarity and received a nod. "Now, three years later, the latency period is almost over and the spell is about to be completed. And so I came to find you and keep you safe."

Jacqueline sat in silence. Not getting any reaction, Alex resumed his rhythmic humming and began to wash the dishes in the sink. Minutes passed like hours for Jacqueline. Before long there was a noisy buzzing from somewhere on the floor. This snapped Jacqueline out of her dazed thoughts as she rooted around for her phone. It was her alarm, going off at six o'clock on the dot.

"I recommend you get cleaned up." Alex voiced. "I have a gut feeling it's going to be a long day for both of us."

"I'll do what I'd like," she retorted.

Alex shrugged in indifference. "If you want to smell like body odor all day be my guest. However, I doubt that will help you in any way."

She wanted to refuse him, but even in her shocked and angered state she knew he was right. It wouldn't do her any good to go through the day unwashed. So, she made her way to her drawers and pulled out whatever was clean. Finding only undergarments, she hunted down and smelled a few shirts and shorts until she found a match which didn't smell bad. She made her way to the bathroom, cursing when she kicked a random shoe. Then with some comfort, closed the door separating her and Alex.

When the light was on and her bed clothes removed, she gave herself a close look. She hated the perpetual dark circles under her eyes. She disliked her course black hair. She detested her short statue and light frame. She loathed her unchanging scrawniness. The only thing she didn't degrade about her appearance where her eyes, one deep green and the other dark brown. Those she merely disliked.

Her disdain for her body had grown gradually. The more she grew the less she liked her body. Until now at twenty years old, she hated just about every bit of her appearance. As she stood there loathing her appearance, she recalled what her mother would say. Appreciate what you have! It's not like it's ever going to change. Jacqueline grimaced at the memory and tore her eyes off of her reflection and turned on the shower.

Once cleaned and dressed, she reentered her studio to find it looking very different. In the absence of the flat's owner. Alex had turned on the lights and tidied up. The sink was free of dishes and had been wiped clean. The same for the counter top and cabinet doors. All of the floor was visible. The clothes had been pilled up neatly in a corner. The books were returned to shelves or stacked on the nightstand. All else was organized into drawers, or tucked away into the closet. Near the door was a full trash bag, ready to be removed. Alex himself was futilely trying to fluff Jacqueline's pillow to complete the image of a well-made bed.

Jacqueline couldn't decide if she felt impressed, violated, flattered or insulted. Perhaps it was a mixture of each.

"How can you sleep with such a lumpy pillow?" Alex inquired. "I'd have just as soon gone without one rather than this thing."

Insulted was definitely in the mix.

"You cleaned my apartment." She said blandly.

He looked around at his work. "I'm not sure I'd call this cleaned. Certainly picked up. But I haven't had the chance to dust or vacuum." He gave up on the pillow and allowed to to sag on the headboard.

In the new light Jacqueline gave him a long look-over. He had short blonde hair, held in place by some type of gel. His face was angular, with a proud, cleft chin. He stood with his back straight, revealing all of his six feet of height. His clothes were still perfect in the light, not a wrinkle or stain to be seen. Jacqueline decided he would be out of her league, even if he wasn't some ten years older than her.

"Why did you do that?" She inquired.

"Do what?" He asked, his eyebrows arching up.

"Clean my apartment."

He blinked for a space before responding. "It was messy. I didn't really put much thought into it."

"Well," she paused. Alex took a moment to look guilty. "Thanks."

Alex quickly relaxed. "You're welcome."

"I still don't want you here." Jacqueline added.

An annoyed look flashed across his face. "I'm not really giving you that option."

"Oh I know," Jacqueline admitted. "I've realized that. But I'm not about to give up my day just because you want to follow me around."

"Fair enough. So long as you don't try to run off on me."

"Just don't think I'm going to drop my guard."

"Of course not. Actually I'd prefer you to stay on guard. Makes my job easier." He flashed a smile of white, straight teeth.

"Uh-huh," she said rolling her eyes. "Well then stalker, you gonna follow follow me outside now?" She asked as she grabbed her purse and went for the door.

"Now you're getting it," he chortled.

They left the apartment and made for the street. As they went Jacqueline produced a cigarette and lighter from her purse. As soon as the cool morning air met her face, she lit it and began her stroll around the block.

"It'll be hard enough protecting you without you poisoning yourself," Alex chidded.

Jacqueline ignored him.

The two walked in silence for a few minutes when they heard fast footsteps headed in their direction. Alex wheeled around to face the sound. Jacqueline was a little slower to see a man in a warm-up suit running across the street toward them. Then she noticed the protective circle moving along the ground, staying centered around the runner. A fireball rushed from Alex's hand, it dissipated as it crossed the edged of the circle.

"RUN JACQUELINE!" Alex bellowed as he sent streams of fire at the runner, who had not even slowed. Panicking, Jacqueline froze. Then Alex gave her a shove in the back. She ran a fast as she could. Before she reached the corner, she felt he like a furnace behind her. Turning to look, she saw Alex completely surrounded by flames which were responding to his every gesture. It didn't surprise her at all that her strapping protector was a fire mage.

Amid the flame, neither the runner nor his circle could be seen. Jacqueline stopped a moment thinking it, whatever it is, was over. It wasn't. From out of the flames the runner emerged the air around his hands glowing with the glyphs and pentacles of celestial magic. He launched arrows of light at Alex. Alex consumed them with hungry flames. Smoke billowed up from the edge of the protective circle. Alex loosed a massive torrent of flame. Jacqueline shielded her eyes with her forearm.

When she lowered her arm the flames were diminishing. Alex, picked her up as he dashed by at full sprint. They rounded corner after corner, Alex's flames following them as they went, consuming the glowing projectiles as they came. Soon they reached an open stretch of road which Alex rocketed down, aided by his fire magic.

Then there was a flash. Jacqueline loosed a scream. The celestial mage, now in front of them, lunged with a glistering blade of magic. Alex dropped Jacqueline and rushed their attacker. Flames obscured Jacqueline's vision as she got to her feet and ran, ran as fast as she could past the attacker. She heard sirens, ahead of her she saw flashing lights. But she kept running.

When she could run no more, she collapsed coughing. Turning, she saw the battle still commencing. The police car was blocking the road, surely more were on the way.

Alex was winning. He launched attack after attack. With ease he rebuffed the strikes made against him. Even at a distance Jacqueline could see a smile of impending victory on his lips.

Then there was a flash. The runner was before Alex, with his hand on Alex's chest. A word was said. Alex's face contorted into a soundless scream. Chains of letters glowed on Alex's skin, shining through his shirt and hair. All the flames were snuffed out. Alex's corpse fell and crumbled into dust.

From a distance there came the sound of an implosion. More police arrived. They drew guns and chanted wards. Then there was a flash.

And Jacqueline cried.

Character Builder #1

"Marcus Quinn Claudus." She told him. He stared at her.

"Claudus?"

"Mmhm."

"You're sure."

"yep"

"The survival of the kingdom depends on that flop?"

"That is correct."

The captain of the guard took a deep breath. "I'm going to make some changes to my will before we head out."

Five miles away, Marcus Quinn Claudus stirred in his afternoon nap.

Captain Yarvis, Court wizard Anabell and three unimportant guards set out for Marcus's cottage. They arrived to find the magician munching on bread in his flower garden. 

"Greetings Anabell, it's been a long while." He motioned them to join him on the ground. "How are you keeping, up in that stone monstrosity?"

"I'd be doing better if we weren't under attack by necromancers." She answered. "I need to see your books." 

"Ah, that explains why you've come here." Marcus leaned back. "You need a necromancer."

Captain Yarvis gripped his sword, Anabell soothed him. "Don't worry, Marcus is a necromancer in name only. I don't think I've ever even heard of him performing anything."

"Yep, you can relax your guard. I have the books and I know how to use them. That's really about it."

Yarvis relaxed his grip but was no less tense. Wizard Anabell locked eyes with Marcus. "We're in a hurry, so if you would show us to your books I would appreciate it."

"Fine." He got up and led them into his cottage. Once in the doorway he indicated that the three guards remain outside. Captain Yarvis raised an eyebrow, but did not contradict him. "The fewer the safer," Marcus explained. He led them through his sparse cottage, past a gilded chess set (which stood out in contrast) and down a hatch in the corner.

From a lit taper on a table Marcus proceeded to go around the room lighting seven oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. He then put out the taper just as Yarvis hopped off the last rung of the ladder. "What is this cave?" he asked gruffly.

In truth, the captain wasn't far off. The depth of the hollow was seven paces, it's breadth was seven paces, it's height was seven paces. This left it to be quite small, and damp from the dirt and rough bricks. The moment the lamps were lit, the room was filled with smoke in spite of  a hole connecting the nook to the chimney. The only furnishings were a table in the center and a bookshelf, completely full of black bound books, positioned across from the ladder. It was cramped, and dim. None the less, Marcus was none too happy to hear it called a cave.

"I'll have you know there is more power in this 'cave' than in anywhere in your stone house. It is protected by magic more powerful than you have ever encountered." Yarvis rolled his eyes, which Anabell saw.

"Don't scoff. He's telling the truth." A quizzical moment passed. "The books," she said pointing, "they are bound with black magic. Even if I tried I could never open them. It also seems this room follows the rule of seven."

"It does," Marcus interjected. "Seven sconces, seven paces in depth, seven in width, seven in height, seven shelves with seven books, and seven pieces of silver hidden from sight. It elevates the power of all the magic in this room. It also follows the path of three,"

"Ok I'll bite, what is the link of three?" Yarvis asked.

Marcus allowed Anabell to answer. "He means there are three of us in here. Magic is best controlled by three points; since magic swirls around life energy, the three of us make magic easier to control. So what he means is there are three talismans in this room causing the magic from those books to flow throughout the chamber."

Yarvis glared at Marcus "Sounds like a waste of time to me, if he doesn't even do any magic."

"There are other benefits," the wizard interposed. "Now, could we move on to saving thousands of people?"

The captain blanched and the necromancer stepped up to his book set. "What can you tell me about this necromancer's threat?"

"Not much, it's necromancy."

"Well, that narrows it to three categories. . ."

"THREE!" Yarvis exclaimed. "What do you mean?"

"There are three categories of black magic that are death magic. Out of seven categories in black magic and three types of magic, three categories aren't bad!" Marcus snapped. He took a breath, "We'll start with resurrection, that's the most likely." He pulled  one particularly thick black book and placed it on the table. "This one has some of the most powerful spells in necromancy. If we're talking thousands, this is the book to check."

He made to open the front cover. It didn't open, instead the whole book tilted. Then he tried to pry it open. Next he picked it up and began to struggle with the binding. "Open you stubborn text." After a moment, he slammed it on the table. Anabell smirked. Marcus pulled a knife from his belt and began to scrape at the side of the binding trying to get a purchase on the cover. "What do you want from me?" He asked of the non-responsive book. His eyes narrowed. "You vindictive little. . ." He picked up the knife once again and with it sliced the tip of his finger, allowing his blood to drip onto his book.

The blood disappeared into the black leather and the cover soundlessly opened. Anabell loosed a chuckle. "That was a bit excessive."

"The books upset that I can't use it." grumbled the mage. "What do I need to find?"

"It involves a human sacrifice, we think an infant." Anabell said with not a little disgust. "There was also something about the phase of the moon."

"Moon phases, that'll help."

Captain Yarvis grimaced. Marcus noticed. "There is a reason, captain, why black magic is forbidden. Sacrifice is not uncommon, and human sacrifice is not unheard of in spells of great power." He continued to flip pages. "Here's one, a blood curse. Pierces magical protection, multiple targets. . . nope not usable for a kingdom of targets." Yarvis sat down, anticipating a long time to come. "Stand up captain. There is a reason I don't have any chairs in here. If you were to doze off, there's no telling what these books would do to you. Lone books have destroyed better men than any of us. A complete set, could plant a seed of madness with a single moment of weakness." He began rambling, a help for his focus. "The philosophers number, the number of infinite. Seven by seven, magic squared."  He licked his lips. "That's why forty-nine is when a wizard reaches his zenith of power." He paused to take a closer look at one of the spells. He shook his head.

Hours passed. None of the three bothered to track how many. Part way through Marcus put away the book and drew-out another from a different shelf. He struggled slightly less to open it than the first. Thus far, he had not found anything matching Anabell's information.

Several more hours later, Marcus had gone through two more books. Even though he had found a few likely spells, none of them seemed to fit. Anabell was becoming quite irate with him.

"How can you have these books for years and not be able to identify likely candidates? If I were in charge of them, I'd have organized lists of all the spells by now."

"Then you'd be foolish." Marcus calmly said. "Black magic and lists only work against you. I could make a list, but all that would accomplish is cursing myself. That's part of the reason why the black books are protected as such; dark magic taints whatever it can."

"Fine, but how hard could it be to open a book!" She pointed to his bruised and bloodied hands.

Captain Yarvis stirred up with a growl, "This isn't helping!" He took in a long and, if possible, intimidating breath. "Time is of the essence, so how about we focus on the task at hand. Marcus, is there anyway to speed this up?"

"Yes," he replied. "Stop trying to rush me. The more I'm interrupted the longer this is going to take. I can't just suddenly be a great necromancer, no matter how I may wish to."


*Removed for boring predictable content*

After refilling the oil lamps, on the eighth book, Marcus Quinn Claudus found the spell.

"Here it is." He looked up at Anabell. "It's an unnamed spell, but it requires the sacrifice of three infants at the seventh full moon."

"What does it do?" the wizard asked.

"It raises an army of undead."  Captain Yarvis loosed a low growl.

"A righteous army. by killing three infants the necromancers fill the righteous undead with a bloodlust. They could destroy an army under the right circumstances."

"what circumstances?" Yarvis asked.

"Timing, these undead only last a week. Also in order to have an army's worth you'd need to find a graveyard full of righteous deaths." He took a breath. "A crusade graveyard would do it. Isn't there one a few days south?"

"What sort of time does that give us?" Anabell inquired.

"Seventh moon is coming up. The ritual takes three nights to perform and they need at least five powerful necromancers." He muttered "They could start tomorrow night."  He gravely concluded.

"How do we stop it?"

"Kill the necromancers, save the infants don't get killed. The problem is, they don't need to be at the graveyard, just nearby." He yawned. "If it comes down to the last night, you'll be able to trace the dark energy of the ritual about half a day before the ritual is complete."

"and if we can't find them in time, how do we stop them?" Yarvis asked

"Turn them." He glanced at Anabell. "They may be an army, but they are still just basic undead"

"Are you sure?"

A pause, "let me check again." His finger dragged across the page. "Yyeeah, no. They cannot be turned from their purpose. Nor will mortal weapons slay them. They can't regenerate, though." He nodded. "So if the worst should happen cut off their legs and hope they can't crawl here in the week that they live."

"You're sure about the week part, right?" Anabell silently prayed that he was.

"Yes, actually one lunar week. So you'll have about six days to stop them." Then he added, "hopefully you'll reach them before the ritual is finished though. "

"Best be off then." Said Captain Yarvis as he mounted the ladder.

"Indeed." Wizard Anabell followed after.

"I'll send the bill up to the castle, shall I?" Marcus called after them. "I suppose I'll have to." He added after hearing the door shut.

He moved the eight books from the table to their proper places on the seven shelves, carefully shutting them as he did. Approaching the ladder, he whispered "Flickering flame come forth to stop these shadows with a steadfast light."

The flames from the lamps extinguished and the taper on the table lit.

Prompt #2

"That is a terrible, horrible, incredibly foolish idea." He paused. "Let's do it and see what happens." 

So they did.

*Later* 

"SUCH SHENANIGANS DO NOT BEFIT A DEATH!" Their supervisor closed the door to his office. He then continued at a lower volume. "Twelve died, twelve! What are we, terrorism? NO, we. are. natural, causes. Got that?"

"Sir if I can ex..." Holland began.

"Explain!? Explain what? That you and Jerold got bored and decided to string together your assignments. Even though it is strictly prohibited, that is exactly what you two did." Jerold stared down at his shoes. 

"I can hear it now, 'say isn't this dull let's combine three heart attacks, a stroke, two aneurysms, and a S.A.D.'" He took a deep breath, and then spoke more calmly. "I have to go to a meeting for each of those five unplanned deaths. Suicide is sending over a case worker to help with the paperwork." He sat behind his desk. "As for you two," he sighed, "You're going to the Grim."

Holland and Jerold started.

"The Grim!?!" Holland exclaimed. Jerold whimpered. Their supervisor looked down at the report on his desk. "Yes, Mr. Holland. To the Grim."

"Surely you don't have to do that?" fear dripped from his words like honey. 

"You're right, I don't." Jerold relaxed a bit. "But that is what I've decided to do. One unplanned death is serious, five is practically criminal." Jerold keeled over in a dead faint. The supervisor callously added, "take him with you, you're expected immediately." Holland blanched.  

Prompt #1a

Laurence stared down the scope of his modified G28 rifle, its time for use had almost come.

A jeep barrelled down a jungle trail, Inside were three men, former cartel hitmen not even worth the million dollar contract they had just lost. They rounded a turn and a thousand meters away was their safe house, where they intended to bunker down after their failed attempt at an assasination. They couldn't see the rented helicopter behind the house. At four hundred meters six shots were fired. At three hundred and fifty meters the jeep slammed into several trees. Laurence made a call, and received the final payment of his contract.

The next day his jet was in the air leaving Guatemala behind and Laurence was pondering over a hand written note. Laurence had picked it up from his dead drop in London as he was traveling to Guatemala but hadn't taken a good look at it. He flipped open his phone and made a call.

"Brandon Wilks electronics," the voice said over the cell. "What can I help you with?"

"It's Laurence Cassidy, I'd like to ask you about internet security."

"Oh, hey! Did you change your number or something I thought you were a cop?"

"No, same number. I'm using a burner," Laurence replied. "Figured I might as well use the minutes before I toss it."

"You never were much of a waster. What do you need to know?"

"I'd like you to figure out how a nine year old girl living in the suburbs of Glasgow found out how to get a letter and twenty three pounds to my dead drop at the London City Airport."

 "What?!?" came the shocked reply.

"I said I'd like you to . . ."

"Yes, I heard what you said" Brandon interrupted.  "I just don't understand. It shouldn't be possible." Laurence rolled his eyes and made a grunt. "Right," Brandon continued. "pull up your laptop so I can connect to it and we can go through this together."

"No can do Brandon. I'm on my plane."

There was a pause. "It's nice to know that signal booster I installed is working." Brandon cleared his throat. "I'll get to work on it from here and we can comb through it once you get back."

"Yep, and I'll give you a head start. the girls address is 321 Hedge Row Drive."

"Okay I'll start with that. Have a pleasant flight!" Laurence snapped the phone shut.

He read the pink ink of the letter for the eighth time.

Dear Murderer,

I need you to kill my step-dad. He is cruel and mean and needs to die.
I've included the money, now kill him. But leave me and mommy alone. 
We live at 321 hedge row dr. and we're really close to Glasgow. 
Please kill him soon, I don't want to see him again. So you don't
accendently kill me, I'm nine and have pretty brown hair and I'm the 
tallest in my class.

Love,
Jessy

Question #0b

Rules of Divination

1.     Observe, do not act out of ignorance; you must watch and learn.

2.    Do not question what you see, question the interpretation.

3.    There are no contradictions, only missing explanations.

4.    Do not ignore a sign, not one, not ever.

5.    Nothing seen may be unseen.

Am I missing anything?

Story building #5b

Alisa smiled a little, "You're a manipulator."

"I like to think of myself as an outcome engineer," Claude replied. "Besides, if they want to waste their time looking for a dinky old sword, they may as waste their money too." He watched as the treasure hunters faded in to the crowed at the Redington spring fair. 

"And those flower chains you sold them?" Alisa raised her eyebrow.

"Festive and conducive to merry spirits." Claude said as he stored their gold in a hidden drawer of his wagon.

Alisa rolled her eyes at her guardian. Though he was nearly thirty-seven his personality as well as his body were  twenty-two. "Well then, since I'm clearly not going to miss anything I'm going into town to have a look at the wares."

"As you wish. just be sure not to get locked inside," he said with a trace of concern.

"I won't almirra (elvish term: adoptive father), I'll be back well before dusk." With those words, Alisa mixed into the churning throng. Claude then took this moment to go behind his vardo and see that his cows and bulls were in want of nothing. 

While he was out of sight, a dwarf approached his vardo. In this land, dwarves were seldom adventurers. Most preferred to stay in their mountains, or else if they did travel they were merchants. None the less, there were some dwarf adventurers and all of them were treasure hunters.

This particular dwarf treasure hunter was names Kil'ador. He had after many long years, finally found out how to locate a very precious magical item. Unfortunately, he had also discovered that only people of a certain blood lineage could access its chamber. As such, while the other members of his team purchased supplies, Kil'ador sought out a soothsayer to locate someone who could aid the effort. 

Kil'ador strode up to the vardo with dwarfish purpose. He jumped, as much as a dwarf could, up the four steps into the wagon.

Then he froze in place, caught in awe of the interior of the vardo. In the doorway rested a dozen beautiful flower chains. Beyond them were cabinets and drawers made of gleaming spruce. From the roof hung shelves loaded with chests and crates. In the center, covered with a dark green cloth, was a round table. But what really got Kil'ador's attention, was the polished silver mirror on the surface of the tablecloth. It was pure, that much was certain to the dwarf. It was unlike any other mirror the treasure hunter had seen. It shined more purely than any but the best silver, with a slightly concave surface, lining the edges were ruins of a language unknown to Kil'ador. He drew nearer to the mirror, his dwarfish heart enamored by the unknown value of the mirror. So enamored was he that he neglected to even notice the shelves of books beyond the table. Nor did he notice second door to his right. The door through which Claude returned.

"May I help you, dwarf?" Claude asked with eyebrows raised. Kil'ador took a guilty step back and fumbled for words.

"well, um, er, ya see, erm."

Claude cut him off. "You're here to seek my mystic guidance in order to locate something of great value is that it?"

Kil'ador shook his head a little. "No, a person," he said,"a person who has the power to access something of great value."

"A person, huh, that may be a little tricky." Claude rubbed his chin. "Tell me what you know about this person and I'll see what I can do."

So the dwarf explained about the lineage and how he didn't actually know the name of the person. However, he did not open up his plan to Claude. Nor give any hint about what item it was he was searching for. While he listened, Claude put away his mirror into a cabinet. and began to extract and replace various items as Kil'ador told what he knew. First there was a bundle of herbs, he put these away when Kil'ador admitted to not knowing the person. Next there was a flask of some brackish liquid, Claude put this away when Kil'ador didn't know the name. After that a pouch of needles, and after those some brownish paint. Finally, when Kil'adore finished, Claude reached up to the shelves hanging over their heads and removed a large leather bag full of clattering objects. 

"This will do it." Claude said as he took a seat behind the table. "Although, this method will be rather expensive for you."

"If it works I will gladly pay," Kil'ador answered.

With a nod, Claude dumped the contents of the bag onto the table, and out came dozens of knucklebones inscribed each with a rune in the language from the mirror. With quick movements the soothsayer plucked out four knucklebones from the pile. Holding the four in hand, he brushed aside the pile leaving a clear space in front of him. 

Claude extended hand, and in his palm the knucklebones seemed to quiver for a moment. With a flick he cast them into the air. They fell to the table, two rune down and two rune up. 

"You'll need to travel south east." Claude said chrisply. "I've enchanted these knucklebones to point out this person you're after. Each rune stands for one of the four directions. This one is East." He raised the knuckle bone to show Kil'ador. "This one is South" he raised the south rune knucklebone. "This one is West" he displayed that one as well. "Which means the last one is North." Kil'ador inspected the north rune for himself. "The best part of this enchantment is that anyone can use them now. Just give them enough of a toss to move and they'll align with the direction of your query. The only thing that will stop them is a shielding spell, but if that ever happens they'll just lead you to another descendent who happens to be closest" 

"Very fine, I'm sure" Kil'ador muttered. "For what price are they mine to use?"

"I see you are one who knows the value of things so I shall give you but my lowest offer, twenty-eight gold pieces, seven per bone." 

Kil'ador inwardly groaned, he could afford twenty-eight in gold but only if they were to set out on foot. This was far from Kil'ador's plan, but the soothsayer seemed honest about twenty-eight being his lowest price. So, he decided to barter.

"Alas I could not part with that amount of gold." He said using his best market voice. "Perhaps I could interest you in this dwarf crafted appraising glass, as a fair trade." 

Fair was stretching things a little, this glass had been purchased for only ten gold pieces. However, the finery of dwarf craftsmanship was rare in Redington and so Kil'ador hoped the difference of value would be  overlooked. 

Claude reached out his hand to receive and examine the glass. "It is of good value, but it alone is not enough." Claude paused and leaned forward a little. "Since you don't wish to part with your gold, include that smaller dagger of yours and I will consider this a deal done."

To Kil'ador this seemed a fair trade, and so left the wagon tossing and catching the knucklebones, confirming the location and beaming with success. Claude for his part, swept the other knucklebones back into their bag and grinned at the acquisition of his new appraising glass, and at such a good price.

Story building #4b

     An hour passed and the warmth of spring woke Alisa Fellgreen, the ward and apprentice of Claude. She peeked her blonde hair and angular face around the curtain to see that her second cousin was asleep on his mattress. For indeed, Claude’s cousin had been her mother, until disease took her mother away from both of them. This was more than ten years since, Alisa had been nine at the time. In the years since, she had come to love Claude as her father, and teacher. In spite of those years, however, she was still amazed by how soundly he slept even in the light of morning. He didn’t as much as stir as she dressed nor did he even shift when she knocked over the milking bucket. Alisa left the tent to attend to their cows, and gather wood for a cooking fire.

        Alisa was a half-elf; her father had tired of her mother when she was very little and left them both. Her mother was Mira Pythian, and by extension Alisa herself, belonged to a small family of scribes. When Alisa’s father left, Mira took refuge from rejection by joining a merchant caravan and working to write contracts and translate gnome and elf contracts. When the time came, and Mira knew she was to die, she contacted her cousin and asked that he be her guardian. This decision came because half-elves have almost twice the lifespan of most humans, and Claude was the one person who might understand how she would have to live. Claude was a soothsayer; he arrived a day too late to speak to his cousin but in the years since her passing had cared for her daughter, his second cousin, with the love and attention of a protective father. As a result, Alisa has grown into a kind natured, well-traveled, and clever young woman. Much to Claude’s pleasure, she was also a promising soothsayer apprentice. 

Story building #3b

        The morning sun swept up over the young green treetops of the misty woods. As it did, six humanoid figures emerged from the trees, each wearing a hooded cloak. They were greeted by their tired comrades and worried families. One particularly bulky individual was pulled into a bear hug by a shorter, but no less bulky warrior. Another of the figures was tackled by two small bundles of energy. While the other three were received with a comparable treatment, one resting a bow against his shoulder slipped away to the south end of the liberator camp.

        At the edge of the camp, set apart from the closer gypsy tents was a vardo wagon with several ayrshire cows grazing beside it. Alongside the wagon was an adjoined canvas tent branching to the east. The polished wood of the roof began to gleam in the emerging sunlight when the archer entered into his tent-wagon home. He heard the gentle breathing of his ward behind a curtain of canvass. He removed his cloak and boots as quietly as he could and lowered his youthful, but tired body onto his bed. A bed that was made of twisted straw and lavender, which belonged to Claude Pythian.

Background #0 b

Fortunetellers

        Also called oracles, fortune tellers are the best known users of magical foresight. They devote nearly all of their skill to divination and seem to see the very turn of the universe.

Key Skills

·       All forms of divination

·       Curses/blessings

·       Aura manipulation

·       Potion making

Unique Abilities

·       Psyche work

·       Some forms of divination

Social Standing

       Most Fortunetellers are gypsies or hermits. Their focus on fate effects them: it leaves them without a practicle view on day to day. Seldom trusted, gypsies are visited by desperate or curious people who want portends or hints of how to be successful.

Details

·       To enable their more powerful abilities, Fortunetellers live their lives following one of three lifestyles.

·       In contrast to soothsayers, fortune tellers use very few talismans. Items of the trade such as tarot cards and oracle bones are focuses for the fortuneteller’s magic, they don’t have magic of their own.

Background #0 b

Soothsayer

        A practitioner of magic with the ability of foresight. Soothsayers use and make talismans for skrying and divination. They are known to be a step ahead at all times do to their inner focus on the events yet to come.

Key skills

·       Most forms of divination

·       Mystical intuition

·       Enchanting

·       Longevity

Unique abilities

·       The dream snare

·       Some forms of enchanting

Social Standing

        Often working their way into courts of nobles, soothsayers use their foresight and skrying for influence. This same insight makes many people uncomfortable about them. Not that it matters much, a good soothsayer usually knows what they need to anyway.

Details

·       Foresight and mystic intuition wax and wane. The best soothsayers go through this cycle with of a year of strength with a month or two of weakness. An amateur goes through one good month with two bad months.

·       Use and construct talismans very well. As a class they are second to enchanters. Especially things like locators, warning devices, and “lucky charms” that grant a small level of mystic intuition.

·       Unlike fortune teller, soothsayers do not often concern themselves with fate or destiny. A soothsayer will tend to focus on the actions of the present and near future. This shift in focus leaves them superior to fortune tellers in obtaining details but often limits the reach of their foresight.

                                                        

Free Writing # 2b

        Sir Lawlend crouched down in the brush as he caught sight of the slavers. There were a lot of them, at least thirty. He reached down and placed his hand on his sword as the muttered words of a prayer arrived at his ears.

        “Are you sure about this?” Sir Lawlend asked the muttering voice. “There are more of them than I’d thought, and your soothsayer claims one of them is a wizard.”

        “Yes, the plan will work.” The voice answered. “Just get their attention off of the slaves and it’ll be fine.”

        “Did your soothsayer tell you that as well Arron?” Lawlend snorted.

        “No, I’m telling you that.” He paused, “Although, it looks like he was right about the wizard, check out the cage.”

        Lawlend looked over where Arron indicated and saw a cage being pulled on a wagon. In the cage, the knight could make out five, maybe six, very pale figures.

        “I don’t understand.” Lawlend whispered.

        “Those are elves,” Arron explained. “The only way so few men could kidnap elves has to be by using magic.” An owl’s hoot passed through the air. “That’s the signal, get ready.” Sir Lawlend grasped his sword, and leaned forward onto the balls of his feet. Arron hefted his spear in his hand and raised his shield.

        The slavers drew level with the hidden liberators and shouts sounded along the path. The slavers line surged to one side. Flame lit up a tree as liberators scrambled for cover. Lawlend bellowed as he quelled a slaver, and charged bravely as only knights knew how to do. His sword deftly blocked a mace. His fist cleared the way forward. His chainmail absorbed the impact of the wizard’s arcane blast which knocked him and Arron back against the trees.

        Unseen, emerging from the trees opposite the liberators came six figures in hooded cloaks. They were seen by a slaver who was near the cage. An arrow ended his sight as he caught the first glimpse. A knife in the back felled another guard. A garrote met the third as a bulky arm crushed the fourth’s neck. The figure with a bow drew alongside the cage and, in elvish, spoke words to calm and comfort them. A second figure drew up to the cage and began to fiddle with the lock. After a moment, he had the lock open and the door opened with a creak. One of the slavers, who wore a robe embroidered with runes, turned sharply toward the cage, until an arrow burrowed into her back. Once the arrow met its mark, the flames in the trees died out.

        A sharp eyed lookout in the trees saw five pale figured leave the cage wrapped in green and grey cloaks. The lookout also saw six hooded figures take defensive positions around them and slink back into the trees. He lifted a whistle to his lips. A piercing note broke through the ruckus of the skirmish. The liberators retreated back into the darkness as suddenly as they had arrived.

free writing #1b

        In the land of fairies and folklore, where magic is real and adventurers’ stories are made, at the edge of the misty woods laid the camp of the slave liberators. The liberators never bothered to give their group a name, nor did they care what people called them. To the knights, they were gypsies and mercenaries. To the laypeople they were mysterious travelers not to be trusted. To slavers the liberators were a headache and a half. To slaves, they were a dream and a whispered tale for children.

        They numbered, in their height, eighty-seven strong. However at this time it was a mere forty-three and not all were strong. Among their members were many castes and occupations; there were mercenaries, troubadours, gypsies, farmers, craftsmen, a family of blacksmiths, a soothsayer and even a fallen knight. Not among the members but in their company were the families of members, as well as a few servants and allies to the liberators’ cause. They were mostly human, a couple of the mercenaries were half orc, and there were elves of the misty woods visiting and living among the liberators who lived at the border of their land.

        As the evening sun set at the end of its daily voyage, inhabitants of the camp began to dwindle, disappearing into the woods.