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Post by anathema on Jun 26, 2017 12:51:17 GMT -5
Sea was gifted to a man of twenty-four years by the name of Ozeanoa, whom was born and raised as part of a tribe that lives on a tiny island not too far from the coast and thrives off of the sea, where magic was nearly unheard of since it was kept hush hush. His parents were born and raised in the tribe, and his father has high expectations to raise him to be a navigator on the sea and on the land among travelers and territories, since their community was known most infamously by their ability to figure out paths and ways by using the stars. During his teenage years, he was taught by his father how to fend for himself and taught to wield a spear, as well as shoot a bow. Until he was allowed out onto the water, Ozeanoa was always one to join hunting parties on land and even spearing fish on the shallow parts of the shore. With the gift of Sea, he gained the ability to control small amounts of water, and with this gift, he has a tattoo of the ocean's waves with blue coloring on the inside of his right forearm. Ozeanoa's relationship with the sea and water itself became very unusual and obvious to the tribe-members as well as his parents and even the chief. From there, he was kept under surveillance in secret until it was confirmed that he had some sort of 'black magic' about him when he was found "mysteriously making water levitate by itself as if an anomaly were there to carry it for him". He was sent on a boat with escorts to the coast to be arrested and tried for black magic due to the fear of danger to his tribe-mates if he were to be kept on the island, despite his innocently naive use of his newfound abilities.
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Jun 26, 2017 13:46:51 GMT -5
Rhyne and Ryu
Lucid dreaming wasn’t something Rhyne was intimately familiar with.
Even still, he could somehow sense that he was dreaming. Even knowing that it was a dream, Rhyne realized that he was unable to wake, or control the dream’s outcome. He was as much a bystander as he was a participant, it seemed. He knew he was dreaming, knew the situation before him was in the past, but even knowing was not enough. The past still haunted him, it seemed. Within the confines of his dreams, shackled as an observer, Rhyne thrashed and did his best to break free, but he remained, silent, immobile, forced to watch the scene unfold before him.
---
The day had started out carefree enough, with the Summer Solstice in full swing. Although few pagan holidays were still celebrated, especially since the Eternal Fire had more or less outlawed them, the solstices – winter and summer – will still recognized, both for harvest reasons and to mark the change of seasons. Kites in various shapes and colors were wheeling through the air, dancing on the easy spring breeze. The sun was nearing its peak, casting a warm glow on the world below. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which was markedly unusual for the country; Rhyne had noted the unusual weather, but hadn’t thought much about it. There was a festival going on, anyway, and the sounds of children laughing, the sight of kites and banners wheeling through the wide, blue sky, and the overall cheerful aura among the denizens of the festival drew Rhyne into the fold. As a bard, he traveled the world, telling stories in the form of songs and poems. He was well-known, having a particular skill for the storytelling profession. The town of York was ablaze with celebration, and Rhyne allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy the festival. He laughed at children darting about, tugging long strings attached to brightly-colored kites in the sky, some shaped like dragons, some shaped like fish, and some shaped like various other animals.
There was a light-hearted gleam in Rhyne’s amber eyes, and his sister Ryu could tell. As the Eternal Fire had continued to expand its control of the region, Rhyne’s favored profession had become more and more dangerous. There were rumors of other bards – friends of Rhyne and Ryu – being arrested on charges of ‘consorting with pagan rituals’ or ‘furthering the nefarious agenda of all magics.’ Such rumors were deeply disturbing, considering that Ryu and Rhyne traveled the country, singing songs of old pagan heroes and magic and dragons. Stories were part of life, of history. Tales of heroes and villains, of magic and dragons and faeries, were vital for many reasons. They taught lessons, offered wisdom, gave children morals that were necessary to function in a changing world. Rhyne’s job was to ensure that the stories of the past, especially those that had been passed down solely from word of mouth across generations, did not die off, and were maintained for the numerous generations that were sure to follow.
“It’s been quite some time since we’ve been in town for a festival,” Ryu murmured to her brother, casting her yellow-green eyes across the crowd of people. The pair were often on the roads, moving from inn to inn, in search of work and of new stories to pass on. Rhyne inclined his head in agreement, remaining silent for the time being. Rhyne wasn’t one to speak much in such occasions, usually saving his voice for the inevitable time when it was requested that he sing to the crowds. Ryu often lent her voice to her brother’s songs, but it was him that drew the crowds in and captivated people. Rhyne had an air about him; one that oozed power and confidence, but also soothed and eased worries. He was a born leader, but one that had little interest in controlling people or forcing his dominance on others.
A giggling bundle of children tumbled by, one knocking into Rhyne’s right leg, tripping over his own too-big feet. Immediately Rhyne knelt, picked the child up and set him back on his feet. “Careful,” he chuckled, giving the child a conspiratorial smile. Rhyne loved kids. The child returned the grin and then took off, once more disappearing into the thrum of people. He stood, straightened the lute that he always carried with him on his back, and moved to mingle. The crowd swallowed him and Ryu, and for a time, he let himself be carried away in the sounds, the sights, the scents – of joy and celebration. For a time, the worries of his professions, the fear for his friends, the concern caused by the Eternal Fire’s rapid spread, drifted away and was replaced by a swelling peace that expanded in his chest, engulfing him and drawing him even further into the festivities.
There was a gentle tug on his sleeve, and Rhyne pivoted to meet the hopeful gaze of a small group of people.
“Are you a bard, sir?” one of them asked.
“Indeed,” he responded, giving them a warm smile. The nearby children stopped their play, turning at the prospect of a story. They began to chant, begging for a song, a tale – and Rhyne was only happy to oblige. With a chuckle, he unhooked the lute from his back, plucked a few strings to ensure the instrument was in tune, and then eased into what he enjoyed most – storytelling.
He strummed a tune from memory, and his sister tilted her head, recognizing it almost instantly.
“Sunset, Moonrise, See how the land is bathed, In silver hue. You feel so lonely, Come with me and let me show, There are others just like you.
Who feel the powers of Earth, Sea and Sky, Of Dragon and Faerie and Shades of the night, Hear the call of our ancestors of blood and bone, Of womb and tomb, and standing stone...
Lady stir your Cauldron well, Chant your words and sing your spell, Deep within the darkened hall, Hear the Goddess Ceridwen call.
See a man, Alone on a hill, His arms raised high to the Moon, Chanting words, a charm, a spell of power, A Witches Rune.
He calls to the powers of Earth, Sea and Sky, Of Dragon and Faerie and Shades of the night, He calls to his ancestors of blood and bone, Of womb and tomb, and standing stone...
Lady stir your Cauldron well, Chant your words and sing your spell, Deep within the darkened hall, Hear the Goddess Ceridwen call.
Come and taste of the Cauldron's Brew, And magic she will give to you, You will dance in the eye of the storm, You're Ceridwen's Children, The Cauldron Born.
A charm of silver, The Romani said, When he was just seventeen, Your future I'll tell you, Every thread and turn, If there to be seen
She took his hands tracing the lines, Searching for patterns and looking for signs, Your life a construction, one day you will see, Through the illusion and into the dream.
Lady stir your Cauldron well, Chant your words and sing your spell, Deep within the darkened hall, Hear the Goddess Ceridwen call.
Come and taste of the Cauldron's Brew, And magic she will give to you, You will dance in the eye of the storm, You're Ceridwen's Children, The Cauldron Born.
So we stand, On this hill, Our shadows are cast by the Moon. Chanting words, a charm, a spell of power, Our Witches Rune.
We call to the powers of Earth, Sea and Sky, Of Dragon and Faerie and Shades of the night, We calls to our ancestors of blood and bone, Of womb and tomb, and standing stone.”
When the song ended, the crowd cheered and clapped, thanking Rhyne profusely for the fantastic story-telling and singing. Rhyne smiled and nodded, assuring those gathered that it was his pleasure. A few people handed him a couple gold coins as payment for his services, and Rhyne thanked them. Being a bard wasn’t necessarily the highest paying job, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.
After a few more minutes, the crowd dispersed a bit, and Rhyne continued to wander the festival – or he would’ve, if someone hadn’t seized his arm in an iron grip. He turned instinctively, trying to tug his arm free, but failed. An older woman stood there, her hand clasped around his wrist with a grip that was far too strong for someone of her age. Her face was wrinkled, belaying her age, but her eyes – there was something wrong about her eyes. They were an icy blue, far more brilliant than the sky above, but that wasn’t really what bothered Rhyne. There was a timelessness in the woman’s gaze, as if she had seen the creation of the world itself; as if she’d seen countless civilizations rise and fall, as if she had watched the death of millions without so much as a batted eyebrow.
“It’s been a time since I’ve heard such a tale,” the woman said. Rhyne frowned, giving her an odd look. The undertone of her voice was the same as her gaze; timeless, ancient, as un-moving and unflinching as the mountains that had weathered the centuries. “What is your name, boy?”
Instinct told Rhyne to break free of her grip and drift away, but she held onto him as if letting go of him meant certain death. “I will ask again. What is your name, boy?”
“Rhyne,” he finally said, giving her an uncertain look. She stared at him for a long time, icy gaze unblinking, as if she peered through his very soul. He met her gaze, refusing to break the stare. A smirk crept across her expression after a moment.
“There are forces at work that you cannot hope to comprehend, boy,” she finally said, and her words sent a chill down his spine. “Ancient things that should never have been awoken are stirring. Do you believe in the gods, boy?”
“There are no gods,” he told her. “The Eternal Fire is all there is.”
She smiled, a cold, cruel smile; as if she were a lion staring down a rabbit. “The Eternal Fire is but one force among many others. If you think one deity controls this world, then you’re very wrong.” She shifted her grip, curling her fingers around his right hand. She squeezed his hand hard enough to grind his bones together – or so it seemed. Her mouth began to move, speaking words that Rhyne could hear, but couldn’t comprehend. The world seemed to fade away, as if no one else existed. He could dimly hear Ryu calling his name, trying to draw him out of whatever spell this woman had clearly cast on him. His ears popped, and the sound of the festival cut off almost instantly. He could only hear the woman’s chant, the words that held more power than he could comprehend. “Gafflyn dihenydd O’r fuddugol yn wiriol sydd. Ni fydd neb yn ein drechu, falch ydy ni I drochu. Traed o flaen I’r Annwn, mewn y gwybodaeth fe godwn ni.” His heart rate picked up, pounding in his ears and chest, although the sound seemed distant. Was this death? He felt disconnected, as if whatever ties that had anchored him to the world had been destroyed. The darkness pulled at him, soft and soothing. He drifted, until the woman spoke again.
“Dragon.” A single word; full of fire, of life. Heat built in his palm, warm and comfortable at first, but it continued to grow. Hot, scorching; too hot. He tried to release his hand, tried to order his muscles to drop whatever was burning him, but he was rooted. The woman stared at him, and when Rhyne broke to look at his hand, he was stunned into silence. Fire, brilliant and hot, had wreathed itself around their clasped hands. He tried to pull away, tried to scream in agony as the burning continued, but no sound was released. The heat began to move, crawling up his arm in ribbons of ride and orange and white until it reached his elbow. His arm was ablaze in agony, the flame scorching every nerve ending, every cell with exquisite agony that he could not describe. He watched, transfixed by the pain, as the fire began to change, melding together to form a shape that he recognized; a curled dragon, its tail wrapping around his arm and down to his wrist, wings tucked against its flank, maw opened in a bellowing roar towards the crook of his arm. The beast’s eyes stared at him, slicing through to his soul, and Rhyne found himself defenseless to such a look. He tried to cry out again, but again, no sound escaped.
The fire darkened, turning a deep ebon as it continued to scorch and burn him. Finally, finally, the heat seemed to fade; the black fire remained, burned onto his skin, but strangely enough Rhyne found that his right arm was deadened, left in ashes as the pain faded away.
The woman stared at him still, and he met her gaze for an instant as the world began to fade for good. Darkness encroached on his vision, and though he instinctively tried to push against the silence, he was swallowed. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he could hear the woman speak again. “Gafflyn dihenydd O’r fuddugol yn wiriol sydd. Traed o flaen I’r Annwn, mewn y gwybodaeth fe godwn ni. Fair winds, my child. We will meet again, soon.”
Darkness reached up, curled its claws around him, and drug him below the surface.
---
Rhyne jolted awake, dispelling the last remnants of the dream with the motion, although he moved so suddenly and violently that he smacked the back of his skull on the iron bars of the cage he’d spent the last week in. His sister stared at him, concern flashing in his eyes, as if she’d known of the nightmare. Rhyne looked down to his right arm, staring at the scorch-mark tattoo that had appeared after the woman had touched him. He would never voice it to Ryu, but he swore – swore - the tattoo had moved. That, and there was another voice in the back of his head. Another consciousness, that Rhyne knew wasn’t his own. He’d locked it away, but he could still sense the being.
He scrubbed at his face – or at least, he tried to. The shackles around his wrists, anchoring him to the floor of the cage, made it a little hard to move.
“Was it the dream again?” Ryu’s voice. He nodded absently, staring at his right arm. His skin tingled, and he was barely able to pull his arm out of Ryu’s line of sight before the damn dragon tattoo moved again, extending its forepaws in a languid stretch.
Stiff, the thing rumbled in the back of Rhyne’s head. He smacked his head on the bars again in an attempt to shut it up. Fly.
Shut up, he snarled at the thing, and it fell silent. Ryu stared at him, narrowing her gaze at him. She saw everything, of course; that was Ryu, always observant. There was a distant jingle and shout as the guards awoke to the rising sun. It was only two more days to Londinium, where Rhyne would surely hang for magic. There was no other explanation for the mysterious tattoo on his arm, or the fact that he could hear, see, and smell better than most people. He only hoped Ryu would be exonerated, but he doubted it; the Eternal Fire wasn’t known for its mercy, after all.
“Wonder if mom and dad will show for the hanging,” he muttered, wincing at the smack Ryu gave him. “What? There’s no way we’re getting out of this alive, Ry. The Eternal Fire doesn’t let magic slide.”
“You are not going to die,” she snapped. “We are not going to die. There’s been some mistake – “
“There is no mistake,” he said softly. “What happened… what I saw, it was… there wasn’t anything else it could’ve been, Ry.”
She fell silent at that, and Rhyne turned to study the other prisoners in the cart. There were five others that he knew of who’d been arrested for magic, and they’d all been shoved in the same cage. “So,” he said after a moment. “Some weather, huh?”
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Post by ☾ Cʀᴇsᴄᴇɴᴛ ☽ on Jun 26, 2017 15:43:45 GMT -5
Night was bestowed upon a young man with twenty-three years under his belt named Daren Oneko. Born to loving parents in the heat of Africa, Daren was taught the simple life of a farmer when young. Though part of a happy family, it was not to last; a drought struck the region, devouring crops and casting a famine over the land. Left with no funds and weakened from starvation, his parents were easy prey for disease and at the mere age of fifteen he was left alone. Scraping together funds however he could, such as theft, Daren was eventually able to purchase passage on a ship bound for Europe. The journey was long and harsh, but he was determined to leave his old life far behind. Once he landed, Daren began his life anew, mastering a completely different language and culture, though he was highly aware of how different he looked. Already a proficient thief, he honed his skill and charm to become a master pickpocket, con artist, and even a mugger. Light on his feet and sneaky, the power of Night came as a sort of extension to him. With it he was gifted the ability to manipulate darkness and create it as well. He has learned how to become one with the shadows and finds that at night he is blessed with increased energy, more speed and strength, and night vision, though if he chooses to activate these powers extensively he usually pays the price with exhaustion during daylight hours. Daren has yet to master exploitation of darkness; at this time, he can't manage much more than creating limited clouds of inky black or expanding preexisting shadows. With these mysterious powers came a tattoo of a black crescent moon and multicolored stars marked onto his left shoulder. After one of his most daring thefts, which involved a very well-known noble, failed, he was caught and arrested for illegal use of black magic.
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