75th of Frost, 4621
The day started early for the young Rath. Sometime in the early morning, there was a loud knocking at the door of his room in Fort Alistian. With a deep breath, he roused, slunk out of bed and trudged the short walk from the warmth of his covers to the door. With a deep sigh, he twisted the handle, pulled the door ajar, and found none other than the Veir he’d been chained to for the entirety of Ash. “Good morning, my scalie friend!” Raphael called joyously.
Arkash grumbled in response, then turned back to the unmade bed with the door left ajar.
As though Arkash’s distaste was taken as an invitation, the noble let himself into the room, and closed the door behind him. In his hands was an ewer made of some pale china, flawless, without any cracks or imperfections There was some strange design woven in the body, almost like the teeth of a gear, but curved in their protrusions, and elongated along the surface of the jug. The Rath furrowed his brow while he looked upon it, then tilted his head. “Why’d you bring your jug?” he asked simply, still in the process of waking.
“It’s not a jug,” Raphael returned, then placed it upon the dresser in which all Arkash’s effects were stored. “It’s an ewer, and it’s a means of initiating you,” he explained with a smile, then leaned against the dresser as he removed his mask and gloves. “To become Nightfallen, you need to drink my Umbralplasm, and allow it to set within your soul. After that, the mark will surface on your body, and you’ll be a proper mage, free to explore Daravin to your heart’s content.”
The Rath’s furrowed brows lifted a little at the gesture. “…It’s time already, huh?”
“Yes… At long last, and then we can be off. Are you ready?”
It felt a little soon, it was only a little more than a week ago that Arkash initiated the noble in Blood Magic, where his vocal cords had been damaged and he’d almost bled out on his own operating table. But there they were, ready to initiate him in Nightfall, and there wasn’t so much as a scratch on him. It was… Almost hard to believe. His five-month journey was at an end, there would be no more distractions once Dorn and the others were separated. With a deep breath through his nose, Arkash nodded, then examined the noble’s movements as he turned to face the ewer.
Something wasn’t right. Some little mannerism, some way that the mage moved or behaved sent chills down the Rathor’s spine. Why had Raphael come to see him instead of sending an escort to retrieve him? He took a glance at the door but found no presence beyond. He listened carefully and found no movement either. Was he just paranoid?
Arkash pursed his lips, then returned his gaze to Raphael as congealed Darkness began to gather at his hands, and fall into the Ewer with a series of echoing splats. “Almost there…” The noble spoke aloud, peering over the rim to see the level at which the Umbralplasm had gathered, then promptly stopped the flow before it became too high. “Alright, good. That’s enough,” he decided with a lift of his gaze, then turned around and brought his hands together as if to wait for Arkash.
“Is it hard?” Arkash quizzed that expectant gaze.
“Is what hard?” The noble asked with a tilt of his head. “The initiation?”
“Yeah,” he answered with a nod.
“Oh, look at me, I didn’t even explain the process! It’s all really easy and benign. All you have to do is drink from the ewer,” he explained before bringing his hands together.
“…How do I survive?” Arkash returned. He knew every mark had a chance to kill the mage before they could complete the process. “Like how I sealed your wounds to keep you from bleeding out. How do I make it through this?” he wanted that assurance, some semblance of effort from the more experienced mage to help him survive the process.
Raphael sort of squinted and wobbled his head side to side while he thought. “Well, the Umbralplasm has to set in your soul after moving through your body… There’s a small chance it can clog some of your organs and kill you… As for how to avoid that, well… I guess I could cut you open and fix it, but we won’t know if that’s happening for some hours yet.”
The noble’s words didn’t really do well to soothe his nerves, but at least the risk of death was apparently low. Arkash furrowed his brow, then nodded. Briefly, he weighed his situation. He was bound to die soon, regardless of whether or not he accepted the mark. If he survived, then he’d be even better off in the plots to come. If he somehow failed, Raphael said he would help him. But could he trust Raphael? Sure he could, Raphael had something to gain while he lived. The Necromancer wished to study the amalgamation in Tyrclaid for his own benefit; he had cause to see Arkash’s survival through. “Okay,” Arkash agreed. “Let’s do it.”
A smile took the human’s lips, and he bowed his head in acceptance. “Whenever you’re ready,” he spoke with a gesture to the ewer, then stepped aside.
Arkash hummed, then approached and took the jug with his claws. He peered inside, and found the thick, liquid darkness as it sat in the container, then looked up at the noble with a smile. Raphael returned the gesture, then bowed his head solemnly.
The malice he’d seen before wasn’t there anymore, perhaps he was just paranoid? Their relationship had come a long way since they first met, and though Arkash was sure he didn’t want to continue contact with the noble when they were done, he didn’t think he really had a mind to kill the man, either. He was comfortable in his ambivalence toward the mage.
After a deep breath, he lifted the ewer to his lips, sniffed its contents, and cast a final glance at the noble before he opened his mouth, and began to drink the viscous black matter. It was thick, almost hard to swallow, even. If he’d been in his true form, he would have had an easier time, but there were several points where he had to stop for breath, and then resume his chugging. Raphael hadn’t said how much he needed to drink, but it certainly didn’t feel like anything was happening until he emptied the vessel, and set it on the dresser.
He smacked his lips as he felt the congealed darkness shift within him, then took hold of his weighty stomach with some level of concern. “…How do you feel?” Raphael asked.
“…Strange,” Arkash answered. “…I …I think it’s working?” he asked, unsure.
“Good, just relax, let the Umbralplasm flow through you…” He instructed, voice soft, smooth.
Arkash couldn’t; it was quite the uncomfortable experience to feel his guts shifting with the push and pull of the Umbralplasm. Uncertain, he lifted his eyes to Raphael, and found the man with a pair of black wings, fully extended in the room. Arkash blinked in confusion, and as the surface began to warp, he found the malice in the Veir's eyes. Quickly, he dove to the side to escape whatever was being thrown at him, but he wasn't nearly fast enough.
There was a sudden burst of pain through his limbs, his side, and in a defiant rush of adrenaline, he ripped himself from the impalement. White-hot pain surged through his nerves as he all but deliberately tore himself open to pry his form off the black spears of Overreign, and quickly became buried in sheer adrenaline.
The smell of his own potent blood filled his nose as he landed crouched on the floor to Raphael's left. Arkash's right was badly injured, but all he saw was red and an immediate need for revenge. Wild and free he bolted from the floor, pulled a blade of black, condensed blood from his wound, and wildly slashed for the Nightfallen mage. He hadn't the time to sharpen it with Suffusion, so the moment it met the flex of Raphael's wing, the blade glanced to the side and cut away the corner of the dresser. Arkash tried to cast suffusion on his blade, but there was some interference.
His chest seized up, and his soul throbbed as the Umbralplasm worked its way through his damaged body. He didn't care. Savage, reckless abandon overcame him, and he turned on the spot to cleave through the mage in one slash but failed. Raphael had already withdrawn his spears, and though Arkash had successfully cut through the entirety of his wing, Raphael met his blade with hardened curved edges of darkness that lined his forearm and deflected his strike to the side.
Open, he was made to step back up and use his whole body to swing and break the volley of sharpened dark projectiles that came at him. Raphael had cast Shadowrend on both arms, and though Arkash was hard-pressed to cut through and deflect those crescent blades, his eye and arm were fast enough to manage. The second volley struck, and Arkash was made to back up further, just to get that extra inch, that extra millisecond of time on his parry.
Just as the Rathor cut through the last edge, Raphael raised his one wing, and Arkash preemptively dove to the side to avoid the volley of black spears that crashed through the wooden door behind him. Arkash had fully evaded the strike that time, but the cascade of warm wetness down his side and through his burlap pants meant it was time to go.
Arkash was on one knee. Stable there, he tried to harden the blood in his wound, but his magic wavered and sharp ringing overcame his senses as his soul was attacked by the Umralplasm. Arkash was falling to pieces, but there stood Raphael, readying more of those crescent black blades. Too bad. Arkash attempted a spear of his own, and cast sacrifice on his open guts just to manage the ether he needed. The result was a miniature spike, pulled from his clothes and hardened to fling like a bullet, but that was all he needed.
The day started early for the young Rath. Sometime in the early morning, there was a loud knocking at the door of his room in Fort Alistian. With a deep breath, he roused, slunk out of bed and trudged the short walk from the warmth of his covers to the door. With a deep sigh, he twisted the handle, pulled the door ajar, and found none other than the Veir he’d been chained to for the entirety of Ash. “Good morning, my scalie friend!” Raphael called joyously.
Arkash grumbled in response, then turned back to the unmade bed with the door left ajar.
As though Arkash’s distaste was taken as an invitation, the noble let himself into the room, and closed the door behind him. In his hands was an ewer made of some pale china, flawless, without any cracks or imperfections There was some strange design woven in the body, almost like the teeth of a gear, but curved in their protrusions, and elongated along the surface of the jug. The Rath furrowed his brow while he looked upon it, then tilted his head. “Why’d you bring your jug?” he asked simply, still in the process of waking.
“It’s not a jug,” Raphael returned, then placed it upon the dresser in which all Arkash’s effects were stored. “It’s an ewer, and it’s a means of initiating you,” he explained with a smile, then leaned against the dresser as he removed his mask and gloves. “To become Nightfallen, you need to drink my Umbralplasm, and allow it to set within your soul. After that, the mark will surface on your body, and you’ll be a proper mage, free to explore Daravin to your heart’s content.”
The Rath’s furrowed brows lifted a little at the gesture. “…It’s time already, huh?”
“Yes… At long last, and then we can be off. Are you ready?”
It felt a little soon, it was only a little more than a week ago that Arkash initiated the noble in Blood Magic, where his vocal cords had been damaged and he’d almost bled out on his own operating table. But there they were, ready to initiate him in Nightfall, and there wasn’t so much as a scratch on him. It was… Almost hard to believe. His five-month journey was at an end, there would be no more distractions once Dorn and the others were separated. With a deep breath through his nose, Arkash nodded, then examined the noble’s movements as he turned to face the ewer.
Something wasn’t right. Some little mannerism, some way that the mage moved or behaved sent chills down the Rathor’s spine. Why had Raphael come to see him instead of sending an escort to retrieve him? He took a glance at the door but found no presence beyond. He listened carefully and found no movement either. Was he just paranoid?
Arkash pursed his lips, then returned his gaze to Raphael as congealed Darkness began to gather at his hands, and fall into the Ewer with a series of echoing splats. “Almost there…” The noble spoke aloud, peering over the rim to see the level at which the Umbralplasm had gathered, then promptly stopped the flow before it became too high. “Alright, good. That’s enough,” he decided with a lift of his gaze, then turned around and brought his hands together as if to wait for Arkash.
“Is it hard?” Arkash quizzed that expectant gaze.
“Is what hard?” The noble asked with a tilt of his head. “The initiation?”
“Yeah,” he answered with a nod.
“Oh, look at me, I didn’t even explain the process! It’s all really easy and benign. All you have to do is drink from the ewer,” he explained before bringing his hands together.
“…How do I survive?” Arkash returned. He knew every mark had a chance to kill the mage before they could complete the process. “Like how I sealed your wounds to keep you from bleeding out. How do I make it through this?” he wanted that assurance, some semblance of effort from the more experienced mage to help him survive the process.
Raphael sort of squinted and wobbled his head side to side while he thought. “Well, the Umbralplasm has to set in your soul after moving through your body… There’s a small chance it can clog some of your organs and kill you… As for how to avoid that, well… I guess I could cut you open and fix it, but we won’t know if that’s happening for some hours yet.”
The noble’s words didn’t really do well to soothe his nerves, but at least the risk of death was apparently low. Arkash furrowed his brow, then nodded. Briefly, he weighed his situation. He was bound to die soon, regardless of whether or not he accepted the mark. If he survived, then he’d be even better off in the plots to come. If he somehow failed, Raphael said he would help him. But could he trust Raphael? Sure he could, Raphael had something to gain while he lived. The Necromancer wished to study the amalgamation in Tyrclaid for his own benefit; he had cause to see Arkash’s survival through. “Okay,” Arkash agreed. “Let’s do it.”
A smile took the human’s lips, and he bowed his head in acceptance. “Whenever you’re ready,” he spoke with a gesture to the ewer, then stepped aside.
Arkash hummed, then approached and took the jug with his claws. He peered inside, and found the thick, liquid darkness as it sat in the container, then looked up at the noble with a smile. Raphael returned the gesture, then bowed his head solemnly.
The malice he’d seen before wasn’t there anymore, perhaps he was just paranoid? Their relationship had come a long way since they first met, and though Arkash was sure he didn’t want to continue contact with the noble when they were done, he didn’t think he really had a mind to kill the man, either. He was comfortable in his ambivalence toward the mage.
After a deep breath, he lifted the ewer to his lips, sniffed its contents, and cast a final glance at the noble before he opened his mouth, and began to drink the viscous black matter. It was thick, almost hard to swallow, even. If he’d been in his true form, he would have had an easier time, but there were several points where he had to stop for breath, and then resume his chugging. Raphael hadn’t said how much he needed to drink, but it certainly didn’t feel like anything was happening until he emptied the vessel, and set it on the dresser.
He smacked his lips as he felt the congealed darkness shift within him, then took hold of his weighty stomach with some level of concern. “…How do you feel?” Raphael asked.
“…Strange,” Arkash answered. “…I …I think it’s working?” he asked, unsure.
“Good, just relax, let the Umbralplasm flow through you…” He instructed, voice soft, smooth.
Arkash couldn’t; it was quite the uncomfortable experience to feel his guts shifting with the push and pull of the Umbralplasm. Uncertain, he lifted his eyes to Raphael, and found the man with a pair of black wings, fully extended in the room. Arkash blinked in confusion, and as the surface began to warp, he found the malice in the Veir's eyes. Quickly, he dove to the side to escape whatever was being thrown at him, but he wasn't nearly fast enough.
There was a sudden burst of pain through his limbs, his side, and in a defiant rush of adrenaline, he ripped himself from the impalement. White-hot pain surged through his nerves as he all but deliberately tore himself open to pry his form off the black spears of Overreign, and quickly became buried in sheer adrenaline.
The smell of his own potent blood filled his nose as he landed crouched on the floor to Raphael's left. Arkash's right was badly injured, but all he saw was red and an immediate need for revenge. Wild and free he bolted from the floor, pulled a blade of black, condensed blood from his wound, and wildly slashed for the Nightfallen mage. He hadn't the time to sharpen it with Suffusion, so the moment it met the flex of Raphael's wing, the blade glanced to the side and cut away the corner of the dresser. Arkash tried to cast suffusion on his blade, but there was some interference.
His chest seized up, and his soul throbbed as the Umbralplasm worked its way through his damaged body. He didn't care. Savage, reckless abandon overcame him, and he turned on the spot to cleave through the mage in one slash but failed. Raphael had already withdrawn his spears, and though Arkash had successfully cut through the entirety of his wing, Raphael met his blade with hardened curved edges of darkness that lined his forearm and deflected his strike to the side.
Open, he was made to step back up and use his whole body to swing and break the volley of sharpened dark projectiles that came at him. Raphael had cast Shadowrend on both arms, and though Arkash was hard-pressed to cut through and deflect those crescent blades, his eye and arm were fast enough to manage. The second volley struck, and Arkash was made to back up further, just to get that extra inch, that extra millisecond of time on his parry.
Just as the Rathor cut through the last edge, Raphael raised his one wing, and Arkash preemptively dove to the side to avoid the volley of black spears that crashed through the wooden door behind him. Arkash had fully evaded the strike that time, but the cascade of warm wetness down his side and through his burlap pants meant it was time to go.
Arkash was on one knee. Stable there, he tried to harden the blood in his wound, but his magic wavered and sharp ringing overcame his senses as his soul was attacked by the Umralplasm. Arkash was falling to pieces, but there stood Raphael, readying more of those crescent black blades. Too bad. Arkash attempted a spear of his own, and cast sacrifice on his open guts just to manage the ether he needed. The result was a miniature spike, pulled from his clothes and hardened to fling like a bullet, but that was all he needed.
