Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir wasn't far behind. She had awoken some time ago, but hadn't the heart to move and potentially wake the sleeping mage after the previous night. Now that Syria was on her feet, the young elf shuffled over to the edge and got out of bed. "Did you sleep well?" she asked as she got dressed, her mind somewhat adrift on the events of the previous night.

[C S]

Syria hadn't expected Beshayir to be awake, so at the sound of her voice she paused mid-motion and turned her head to face the elf's bed. "Well enough," Syria said through the thicket of hair covering her face. In truth, sleep came to her easily by way of exhaustion and provided little rest, but she planned to be tired in private today. "How about you? How are you holding up?" Inquired the mage with her hands still in her hair in a somewhat awkward pose.

[The Kingpin]

The young elf nodded slowly, seemingly pondering her answer for a moment before the gesture was translated into words. "It has been an interesting few days," she said, for lack of a better way to put it. "Classes are fun, the elementals are...strange, but sweet." She contemplated the thought of elaborating on that, but decided against it once she realised she really didn't have anything of value to say. "I want to see something new." She'd blurted it out without really thinking, but after a moment's thought, decided it described how she felt rather adequately. One would think a denizen of a city in the middle of a desert would have no issue with monotony, and yet...the look of the city, for all its colourful personality and varied populace, was an oppressively dull one. It lacked adventure.

[C S]

Syria nodded her understanding and replied, "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you would, after you've gotten accustomed to dragon-flight and the wonders it brings. On the other hand, before I even met Septimus, I used to strap a wagon on Perioul and go poking about the historic sites around Daaven when I had the time. I remember a few... er... difficult run-ins with the ranger patrols around those parts. Explaining to them that I wasn't trying to rob artifacts from standing relics while restraining an overeager and scrappy Frondfoot wasn't my ideal source of excitement but it was... something."

Syria threw her hair back over her shoulders and in so doing revealed a face bemused. Green eyes were all but glazed over with distant contemplation as to how to curtail her daughter from venturing outside of Brodudika into the unfamiliar while there remained a looming specter casting its shadow over the city.

[The Kingpin]

"That sounds dangerous," commented the Pyrodancer as she let her mind drift to the forests of Daaven and the surrounding mountains. Wild things roamed those forests. Frondfoots were far from the most imposing things that wandered among the dense woods. It was why Daavenians were such a tough and hardy people. They had to be. Those that weren't...well, history tended not to remember them. It was this grim line of thought that brought her to her next question. "Was that before you learned magic? Or after?" she asked.

[C S]

"I started off in that long before I'd held my first grimoire or projected my first thought," Syria answered, and became visibly livelier for it due to the migration of her thoughts. A small sheepish smile appeared on the woman's face and her hand went to where the heirloom compass would have naturally settled on her chest had she been wearing it. "It was the example he left me..."

Syria cleared her throat and stated in a more instructional manner, "Though yes, exploring like that can be risky business if you aren't properly prepared. If it should fetch your fancy, maybe you can start when you're a little bit older... but for now, maybe you could try to make some new friends in class? See what they do for fun around the city?"

[The Kingpin]

The elf's gaze dropped with her tone as she answered, "Oh. There's no one in there that's my age. Almost all of them are older people trying to learn ways to feed themselves or their families better. Many of them are working when they're not in class."

[C S]

Syria rubbed her chin and hummed a thoughtful tone. The mage noted that accessible education in magicks did not inherently mean that it was the most intuitive to pursue for a vocation or other means, especially for the young, doubly so in this region. Similarly to Daaven, grounded skills like working the soil, or managing a trade were perhaps most vital to sustaining the city-state.

Syria glanced over to Beshayir for an instant, and then returned her gaze to an unfocused point on the satchel's wall. Children her age that shared her passion for magic would have already been enrolled in an organization like the Arcaenum so that by the time they were adults, they were in the running for a rank of prestige. Far cry from the maverick approach that Syria had taken upon herself... it appeared that it was simply a consequence of the times. It would take some years yet before it would be common place for young children to take their seats in classrooms, learning how to guide mana.

The pains of embarking on a journey while simultaneously paving the way.

"How would you feel about doing things outside of school, then?" Syria suggested with bright eyes, "You can try finding something interesting to spend your afternoons doing. Let's see... libraries... you could try making pocket change assisting with merchant stalls..." She retraced her own path up to now, all the odds and ends before she ended up working the inn.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"It wasn't...supposed to be...like this..."

The voice echoed throughout the interior of the volcano as its owner struggled to ascend, making his way toward the summit. The path - an artificial walkway that had been carved in the side of the mountain - had once been impossible to traverse without adequate protection; the ebb and flow of the volcano's molten contents would have incinerated anything that had been foolish enough to try. Now, this one shambled on in darkness, with only the vague promise of light awaiting him at his destination. The belly of the volcano to his side lay cold and silent, reduced to nothing but an extinct hollow. How much time had passed to quell such a force of nature?

He knew the answer: a moment.

The raging interior of his volcanic lair was not a distant memory - it had been the case until only a moment ago. A single second. Or had it? How was it possible that such a formation could be snuffed out like a torch in the rain?

But this was the least of his problems. The volcano served only as a reflection, connected by the red string of fate to his very being as it was. This was, of course, by design - so long as this place stood, death would not come for him, no matter how much his body fell into decay. Untold years of study, experimentation, and practice, as well as eldritch knowledge the likes of which had never been seen in the mortal world, had led to this triumph. And, in due time, this mountain, this continent, or even this world's destruction would not be his end. Finally, he would be free of the constraints of mortality, and ascend into the place of gods.

Or, that is what he had been working so tirelessly to achieve. Now, he stood on the precipice of ruin, undone at every conceivable angle - and he couldn't even comprehend why.

Time itself had been his plaything. He had used his mastery of its manipulation to further his cause in ways no mortal could - eliminating unnecessary distractions and failures, allowing plans to reach completion in moments that normally would have taken years. He had undone the demise of both ally and enemy alike - all to pursue the path to godhood as it was written before him. So long as he could see the machinations of time, nothing could go wrong, or take him by surprise - or so he thought.

Every movement forced him to new heights of desperation, having surpassed his limit long ago, yet still he climbed. Confusion, rage, and mad obsession were all that fueled him now. If nothing else, he needed to understand.

Reaching the summit after what felt like an eternity, every nerve in his decaying body screaming in defiance of their unholy existence, the withered husk of a dragon entered into the light of day. At the top of the volcano, he could survey the entirety of his grand work, as he had done countless times before. And, just as every time before, he found himself standing over a legion of emaciated husks - beings of his own design that served him in a state between life and death. All moved with cold efficiency, working without pause to construct grand and alien structures. In time, this unholy workshop would be able to produce more than just mindless husks, and quickly. An army of perfected beings would be at his command, and nothing would have the power to stand his way until his machinations were complete.

To that end existed his prototypes - attempts at these apex creatures crafted by his own hand. It had been a long and arduous journey perfecting their creation, with many steps along the way. From his perch, he dimly recognized two of these beings - the first of his two prototypes - overseeing the efforts of their mindless brethren. Although capable of thought, they were less independent then he had required. His ultimate creation was elsewhere, learning what it meant to be a living creature - and when that lesson was learned, it would return to him completed. Then, he would have all that he required to create his army, as well as a new, perfected body to replace the decaying husk that he currently inhabited.

He reached out into the open air with a clawed limb, only to watch as the flesh that desperately clung to his bones slide off with a grotesque noise. Only putrid bone, rife with decay, stared back at him now. His body was falling apart before his eyes, but he was prepared for such an eventuality. His steady decay had been long in the making, but the loss of his mortal flesh would do little to stop him - so long as this mountain stood.

And stand it did: as a dry, cold, and lifeless husk.

His many studies, experiments, and experiences had taught him a great deal about the nature of the soul. After all, how was he supposed to create life without first understanding what it was made of? As a result, the nature of the soul was laid bare to him - in his creations, in other lifeforms, and, most of all, in himself. Not only could he manipulate the structure of the soul in others, he could do the same to his own, and this served as the basis of his continued existence. His body was not 'him' - it could, and would, be replaced. As long as the soul remained, bound as it was to this place, he would never die.

But the same knowledge that allowed him to create such a mechanism now told him that his soul was coming undone.

"Why?" he rasped, clenching his skeletal limb in frustration...and watching it wither away into dust.

His understanding - no, his mastery - told him that his soul had been eroded. By what? By time. It was as if eons had passed in an instant, but, judging from his surroundings, only for him. His body was not crumbling due to age any more than it had the day prior, either - it was losing connection with his soul as it unraveled. The decaying carcass that had served as his vessel up until now had nothing keeping it together anymore.

"But...how?" he croaked as one of his back legs buckled, forcing him against the stony outcropping. His condition had deteriorated so quickly, he hadn't had much time to think. Nothing made sense. An hour prior, he had been performing his duties as normal...hadn't he? It hadn't been that long since his last advancement...hadn't it? The condition of his soul said otherwise, and something within him was beginning to concur. But...why?

Geezerbro lifted his draconic head, mouth agape in a silent scream of fury, as he crumbled, body and soul, to dust.