81st of Ashan, Arc 718
The power. A true portal was a compelling thing -- a demonstration of the width of magic's scope, rending through the fabric of reality itself to fulfill a magister's will. It only took... focus. Seeing the pockets of ether lain throughout the air, grabbing onto them with the Rupturer's second set of hands, the ethereal faded fingertips that stroked and smoothed around the corners of space. And there were corners, everywhere - seen, felt, even heard. A Rupturer made every centimeter of Idalos, even among plain air, into a doorway with a frame and ridges.
He loved his craft. For more than just the feeling of power. It was true freedom - the ability to go anywhere you desired, to escape abuse, dissatisfaction or the pain of death; it was a magic of liberation, through and through.
The first portal opened, glimmering before their mutual eyes, Alistair's nebulous irises shifting to display a brighter violet shade; glowing in response to the portal before him. He could see through it, to the other side... a beautiful meadow beyond the hill, in an even more secluded section of Oakleigh. Alistair, at the point he was at now, did not have immense difficulty in keeping such portals open as a matter of ambience. The ether expenditures were minimal if not unnoticeable, though of course this was but one portal. To sustain the amount of portals he'd opened in Scalvoris, during the riot, for a long period of time... would have been immensely more difficult.
"Doran," he called out to the younger man, waving his raw fingertips before the black blot of an entity; it looked almost sinister, a pure vantablack void in the center with nothing to be envisioned on the other side... unless you were Alistair. He understood that the appearance of his portals were not necessarily inviting - but they were based not on him, but wholly on the shade that his spark was keen on manifesting. It was an arbitrary thing.
"Other portals are different," he said. "I've seen whirlpools of blue, and shifting storms of purple and a sunset shade of red. I've seen green portals, portals that look like jagged spires of ice... it's all variable. Mine, are as you see now," he whispered. Around the edges of the portal were flame-shaded plumes, inward, a fiery appearance but without the heat to match. "Black. The same as the one who initiated me; I share her spark. And the same as Reyard's, the man I told you about. I was initiated by his student, who was initiated by him. So, inside of me, I share a part of his spark... given to him by his master. Magic is a generational phenomena, with so much history inside of it. And as the spark touches the soul, so has my soul touched Reyard's. It's a wondrous thing," the mage remarked, eyes gleaming at the magical construct.
The two men, in the basement of Alistair's home, stood as his fingers danced around the edges of the portal, twisting and shifting it as much as he could. His structures were all phenomenal things; objects of wonder. He loved them, and he hoped Doran would too.
The power. A true portal was a compelling thing -- a demonstration of the width of magic's scope, rending through the fabric of reality itself to fulfill a magister's will. It only took... focus. Seeing the pockets of ether lain throughout the air, grabbing onto them with the Rupturer's second set of hands, the ethereal faded fingertips that stroked and smoothed around the corners of space. And there were corners, everywhere - seen, felt, even heard. A Rupturer made every centimeter of Idalos, even among plain air, into a doorway with a frame and ridges.
He loved his craft. For more than just the feeling of power. It was true freedom - the ability to go anywhere you desired, to escape abuse, dissatisfaction or the pain of death; it was a magic of liberation, through and through.
The first portal opened, glimmering before their mutual eyes, Alistair's nebulous irises shifting to display a brighter violet shade; glowing in response to the portal before him. He could see through it, to the other side... a beautiful meadow beyond the hill, in an even more secluded section of Oakleigh. Alistair, at the point he was at now, did not have immense difficulty in keeping such portals open as a matter of ambience. The ether expenditures were minimal if not unnoticeable, though of course this was but one portal. To sustain the amount of portals he'd opened in Scalvoris, during the riot, for a long period of time... would have been immensely more difficult.
"Doran," he called out to the younger man, waving his raw fingertips before the black blot of an entity; it looked almost sinister, a pure vantablack void in the center with nothing to be envisioned on the other side... unless you were Alistair. He understood that the appearance of his portals were not necessarily inviting - but they were based not on him, but wholly on the shade that his spark was keen on manifesting. It was an arbitrary thing.
"Other portals are different," he said. "I've seen whirlpools of blue, and shifting storms of purple and a sunset shade of red. I've seen green portals, portals that look like jagged spires of ice... it's all variable. Mine, are as you see now," he whispered. Around the edges of the portal were flame-shaded plumes, inward, a fiery appearance but without the heat to match. "Black. The same as the one who initiated me; I share her spark. And the same as Reyard's, the man I told you about. I was initiated by his student, who was initiated by him. So, inside of me, I share a part of his spark... given to him by his master. Magic is a generational phenomena, with so much history inside of it. And as the spark touches the soul, so has my soul touched Reyard's. It's a wondrous thing," the mage remarked, eyes gleaming at the magical construct.
The two men, in the basement of Alistair's home, stood as his fingers danced around the edges of the portal, twisting and shifting it as much as he could. His structures were all phenomenal things; objects of wonder. He loved them, and he hoped Doran would too.