Two Nobles, One Spark

[Alistair]

86th of Ashan, Arc 718

He could feel the nerves tightening on him, as if they were clamping his skin. The sweat began to grow on his brow, as the sun shined vibrantly. It was hot, and he was far too equipped, wearing a leather-strapped armored vest atop his white, tucked in top. His pants were, also, an equally black leather... and his face did poorly to free heat, what with the beard acting as a second layer of insulation.

The heat, and his nerves, conjoined to ensure a generally unpleasant experience. By the time he was through the city of Lysoria, presenting himself before the guards, he was drenched in his own sweat and scent . . . a pungent smell extending past the barrier of his attire. Alistair had been walking for whole breaks. While Rupturers could portal to places they could visualize, Alistair had failed the essential component of remembering vividly any place in particular: Lysoria had been a blur within his memory, only the southward half of the lake clear in his mind.

But he came for a reason. Victor Amielle, a noble of the House that ruled this city and the realm surrounding it, owed him a favor. Perhaps, more than one, though he was certain the Lord did not mind any of the favors he'd stowed away; perhaps Alistair would stack them into piles, with carved tallies. Victor and he got along, from what little interaction they'd had. They thought similarly enough so as to not be enemies, and the two of them carried equal interests as well.

More than that, Alistair had something he wanted, and Victor did too. Ambitious men were fast friends... and with the proper agreements, they could remain that way. Alistair... had already begun to spin a web of strategies and ultimately, venues for their partnership. Some were radical ideas... others, not so much.

"You remember me, don't you?" the burly mage questioned, as the two guards held their pikes together to bar his entry.

"State your business," they simply said. Alistair rolled his eyes.

"I'm here for Lord Victor of the House of Amielle. I am a noble Lord myself - Alistair of the House of Venora," he called himself. One of the men simply squinted.

"Venora?" he asked. "Odd. That's pretty far. Your sigil?" the guard questioned.

Alistair showed him the necklace he wore - inscribed handsomely with a bronze and ruby rose. He bit his lower lip and frowned. "We have no policy for foreign Houses... but we were advised to allow requesting nobles inside..." he stated. The guard was clearly mulling it over, and the other seemed ambivalent to all of it.

"Got any of your fancy wine, man? Is it even better locally?" the... dopey one questioned.

Alistair nodded, staring at the less dutiful guardsman inquisitively. How did men such as this retain their positions? He'd always wondered.

"Lord... Venora," the other interjected, "I'll allow you into the palace. Victor may not be inside the palace proper, though -- I believe I saw him out in the gardens. A smaller retinue will have to follow you until your greeting, however, as we don't simply let potential assassins slip through. As a Lord, you must know; every man is a potential assassin. Yourself included," the guard nodded, and so too did Alistair. It was a fair deal.

He stepped through, immediately shadowed by a small group of four men, with one marching in front of him so as to cut off any brave assault. The five of them, Alistair included, went on to the gardens that were - attractively - both colorful and rife with man-made waterfalls. Alistair loved those. It was good to be at a real palace again, even if it didn't truly rival Sabaissant du Cristel. Somehow, the scenery felt right to him. He belonged in places such as these.

But he, nor any of the guards, could find Victor outright. Perhaps the one guarding the gate had lied, and he'd never swung by. Alistair frowned, and looked around steadily, his eyes shifting to each field of view.

[Victor Amielle]

Victor had not realized how much he had missed Lysoria until he had stepped through the gates of his brother’s palace again for the first time in almost an arc. His stay on Scalvoris had been eventful – he had battled sea monsters and stood face to face with undead and even an Immortal – but there had always been something missing. In Scalvoris where his family’s name held little meaning, he hadn’t been able to realize his full potential. Of course Lysoria had its own share of problems. The conflict with Ne’haer – the reason for his return - was about to escalate, but there was no doubt in his mind that he would be able to take advantage of the situation – and come out on top.

After he had eaten breakfast, he made his way into the garden, past those artificial waterfalls that his brother was so proud of and where he had spent so much time during his youth, dreaming of faraway countries. It was not even noon yet, but it was already quite warm, and he took his jacket off and draped it over a branch of a nearby tree before he drew his sword. Since he had returned home, he had taken to training every trial, no matter what. He had realized that he needed to hone both his mind and his body if he truly wanted to make it in this world and step out of his brother’s shadow.

He held his sword in his right hand, with the tip facing the ground for a moment, and then he moved his arm upwards, until it was parallel to the ground, describing an arc of sorts. He held it in that position for a few trills before he brought it down again and switched sides. That particular exercise was meant to strengthen one’s wrists, but at the same time there was a strange, almost meditative quality about those somewhat monotonous movements. They helped him clear his mind and regain his focus. He was just about to move on to the next exercise when he noticed movement, somewhere to the side.

He lowered his sword and turned around, just in time to watch four guards step around the corner, a familiar man in tow. “Lord Venora”, he spoke and gave the guards a sign that they could leave before he approached, sheathing his sword as he did so. He made no attempt to hide the feather-like markings that covered his arms and that were the most obvious sign of the bond between Delroth and him. They were a point of pride to him. “I didn’t expect to see you here to-trial. It’s a welcome surprise though. We didn’t have a lot of time to talk the last time we met, for obvious reasons.”

“I owe you something”, he admitted with only a little reluctance. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been able to return home before Mid-Ymiden – at the earliest.”

[Alistair]

All men who wanted to rise first needed to master the self. The body, the mind; discipline maintained and unnecessary vices slain. Victor, balanced and poised as he was, understood the necessity of individual growth in order to facilitate the spread of influence. With this in mind, he was not surprised to see him dancing with his blade, practicing his form, or anything else. Fortunately, these traits were attractive to Alistair, who valued nobles much more on merit than blood. Keeping in mind the tireless and diligent nature of the Amielle, the man greeted him with a warm smile.

"Lord Amielle," he called him in turn. It was, as always, pleasant to be called by 'Lord'. Being here and in Victor's company made him feel in his element, even if he had no palace of his own, nor fanciful gardens or armored men with pikes of Sorelian Steel. "To be entirely honest," he began, "I did not expect myself to be here this trial . . . not upon returning to Lake Lysoria, and leaving you to your life. But things have progressed, successively, faster with each night and trial." He placed his arms together, behind his back, staring blankly at the other man.

It was clear that his visit was not entirely friendly -- business, pleasure, they mixed. He wanted something, and didn't care what he had to do in order to get it. "I do intend to collect on the favor you owe me," the mage stated bluntly. "I am no sycophant. I will not lie to you and claim that I have no motives for my actions. I... think we can both benefit from one another. And you have something that I want, intimately. Something that can tie our partnership together - on a level beyond kinship. Beyond even life." As a mage, Victor would surely understand what he meant.

All mages knew a bond deeper than blood, as all had undergone an initiation in the past.

"I want your spark," he said, clearly. There was... no room for misunderstanding. "I want you to give me Transmutation. I know the initiation is a signifier of a perpetual, life-long bond . . . and that's alright. My purpose, as things are now, is much a transient thing. My interests and dreams flicker, winnow and wail, as the circumstances around me change... beyond my control. But you have control - you hold your name." The mage stepped forward, not two feet away. He wanted a pact, and like with all things, he was quick to offer.

Patience, pragmatism, had failed him. Passion would compel change; he knew that, now. "I can be by your side - follow you into battle, and politics, and upheaval. We can be allies; or more. Or less. A political union, or strangers who occasionally view one another from across the wings of a castle ground. I want to rule Ne'haer. I want to be a King. With your influence, I can achieve this goal. And with my power... you can achieve yours."

Blunt. Perhaps too much so. Forward - to a dangerous point. At least, unlike too many mages, he was honest.

[Victor Amielle]

A smile flickered across the Transmuter’s face as Alistair addressed him as ‘Lord Amielle’ before his face grew serious again. It felt good to be called such again after all the time that he had spent away from home. He had left because he hadn’t wanted to play second fiddle to his brother anymore and because Lysoria had suddenly become too small for him – he had wanted to see the world and experience everything that it had to offer - but now that he had returned, he found Scalvoris and all the other places that he had been to lacking. Maybe, he thought while he waited for Alistair to tell him what the reason for his visit was, he had needed to leave in order to realize where he truly belonged - and be ready to claim his birthright.

He was just about to ask Alistair about those things that he had said had progressed – he remembered that the Rupturer wanted to create a safe haven for all mages – when he admitted that he had indeed come to collect his favor. The Transmuter furrowed his brow as he wondered what Alistair could want from him. Money? No, he didn’t seem like the kind of man that craved material goods, at least not for themselves. He wanted power. He wanted influence. Did he desire a political position? Permission to acquire a plot of land where he could start to build his safe haven?

He didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on those questions as Alistair started to speak again. He simply looked at him – directly at him – for a moment before he curtly replied, “I appreciate your honesty and your directness. I cannot abide people that beat about the bush.” He was just about to ask him what exactly he meant when he spoke of a partnership that went beyond kinship and beyond even life – there was something vaguely disconcerting, but at the same time fascinating about it – when he realized that he already knew the answer. Alistair wanted what he had, had likely wanted it since the trial they had fought side by side against the bandits in that cave, back on Scalvoris.

He was about to flat-out refuse him. He was reluctant to tie himself to a man that he had only known for a few trials – if he initiated him, Alistair would be closer to him than a brother, maybe even closer than a lover - but then he paused and reconsidered. Some of the things that Alistair mentioned were intricately familiar to him – the desire to have control over one’s own destiny, to be more, more powerful and take on the world. Had he been facing any other man, had any other man displayed such arrogance and promised him such great things, he would have laughed and called him a liar to his face, but he had seen what Alistair was capable of. The fact that the mad boy king had deprived him of his title meant little in comparison to the immense power that he still possessed.

He only needed to make sure that he kept his side of the bargain …

“These things that you speak of are tempting”, the Blessed of Delroth admitted. “You need to be aware that I have never initiated anybody though. I only know how it is done in theory. You also need to be aware that the initiation into Transmutation is different. It is agonizingly painful – more painful than anything that you have ever felt before or will ever feel again. I will have to attack you with an ether missile. Your very soul will be transmuted. By the time I’m done with you, you may wish that you were dead. There are also rumours that those who fail become nightmarish creatures that are forced to wander Emea for all of eternity.”

“Are you willing to take those risks?”

[Alistair]

He was... tempted. That was good. Alistair's lips curved into a grin as he nodded, listening along as he spoke. He'd never initiated someone before . . . which was a precarious think, and a risk to take. Still, he did know how to do it. Hit him with an ether missile... Transmute his... soul? Agonizing pain, worse than imaginable. Luckily, Alistair was perhaps one of the more durable people around. Though, if the pain came from his spirit itself, he could not guarantee that mortal endurance would outdo the metaphysical anguish.

At least Victor showed... interest. He was willing, it seemed, to initiate him. Just like that -- a bond that would last a lifetime, shared between the two. Alistair, now, could only wonder from where his temptations derived. Was it the promise of power? Of partnership? Or did he simply want a fellow mage to walk with him in this life? Clearly, whoever had initiated Victor was no longer around. And the person who initiated Alistair, well... she was one of the most reviled people on Idalos.

That meant that the two of them were, speaking in terms of the spark, untethered to anyone. Their bond would therefore be considerably more important to the two of them, which remained - and likely would remain - a fearsome aspect of their relationship. To jump into the unknown so easily was... challenging, but magic in itself was a plethora of unknowns, and mages as a result were intrinsically brave.

With all of his thoughts aside, the mage nodded, staring quietly at the noble and taking in his features - his current appearance. The blade at his side, the well-made attire that he wore. His hair, eyes, skin and color, and the array of hairs that wrapped around his lips and jaw. If they succeeded, and Alistair did not die, Victor was certain to become a permanent fixture of Alistair's life. Was he prepared for that? Did he want that?

For all intents and purposes, and in this moment, the answer was... yes. This step - this palace - was his key to conquering his dreams... culling Sarkanis den Nogg, ruling a nation, becoming the greatest mage alive. And Victor... was not a poor companion to have. He was a competent man, intelligent and articulate. He carried the noble air that Alistair felt so bound to, as scarcely as he saw it in these trials. He was certain, that as the arcs, cycles and seasons went on, they would come to appreciate one another.

But for now, all of this... was for himself, and inversely... it was probably all for Victor's own self, too. Was that immoral? Was it wrong? He didn't know. He didn't care.

Magic really was a tool. He'd always known that. Right now, he would use it to bind them together, and to access a new domain... and Victor would use it to gain the loyalty of an agent more elite than any of those captured by his brother's wildest imagination. An exchange, with magic as the... negotiating handshake.

He could only accept.

"I'll survive," he said. "But if I do become an Emean wanderer, expect me in virtually all of your dreams." Alistair offered Victor a... silly grin, quite contrary to his normal stoicism.

"Come on, then, Victor," he goaded him, beckoning with his hands as he lowered his body, kneeling onto the floor with a patient stance... stowed arms and a lowered head. "Do it."

[Victor Amielle]

As Victor stood before Alistair, his thoughts went back to his mentor that was long dead now for a moment. His parents had hired him when he had voiced an interest in learning magic. He had been hand-picked by them. Roman had been an academic through and through, he had never spent trials on end in the wilderness, and he had never stood on a battlefield. He had already been an old man when they had met, and he had never had such lofty goals. What they had had was vastly different from what Alistair and he would have. He could already tell that now, even though their time together had just begun.

He was not sure if the old man would have approved of what he did. Roman had tested him before he had finally deigned to initiate him, he had filled his brain with all kinds of theoretical knowledge before they had even started – which was something that had seemed quite unnecessary to him back then. He didn’t care though. He didn’t care if he was doing things back to front, more or less. He knew that he would only be able to initiate a limited number of people, but Alistair would not be a bad companion to have in the trials to come. Lysoria was on the brink of a war, and there was no guessing as to what would happen. He needed people like him by his side if he wanted to come out on top.

He didn’t smile as Alistair joked about haunting him in his dreams – this was not the right time for humor - but merely nodded curtly. He didn’t begin right away though. There were a few more things that he needed to tell him, that he needed to pay heed to if he wanted to survive the following bits and not become an Emean wanderer, or worse - a Harvester. Even men of Alistair’s power didn’t always survive their initiation. “As the ether missile pierces your body in order to impart the spark, you will not only be overcome with excruciating pain, your body will also begin to lose tangibility, as if you are being transmuted – or moving on to another world beyond this one. You must fight to remain in Idalos with everything that you have and try to overcome the pain. If you do not meld with the spark, you will disappear and be barred from ever returning to Idalos again.”

“If this happens, you will not be human anymore.”

With that he fell silent, took off his sword belt so that the weapon would not get in his way, letting it drop into the grass and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to relax. He needed to be completely calm and focused if he wanted this to work and if he didn't want to accidentally kill the man in front of him. His heart began to beat a little faster for a moment as he it occurred to him that there were other people in Lysoria that were much better suited to doing this – he had been an initiate himself only a few short arcs before – but no, he could do it, he wanted to do it. He made a step towards Alistair and raised his hand, willing ether from his spark through his arms and down into his fingertips until an orb made of pure, crackling energy appeared above his outstretched hand.

He held it there for a moment as he met Alistair’s gaze, and then he abruptly released it. His words were unlikely to have prepared him sufficiently for the reality of what was happening now. It felt as if his entire body, as if his entire being were being torn apart – or on fire. It had begun … but there was no guessing as to what would happen in the following bits – or how it would end …

[Alistair]

He tried to brace himself for the pain - the struggle to remain conscious, and tangible, on Idalos. Rupturing's initiation was a beautiful thing. Two souls, exploring the vastness of the ether, flying through systems and galaxies and stars. He'd seen nebula, rings around planets, blue moons. And still, he knew what none of these things were, but he had loved their vision from the first.

Unlike Rupturing, Transmutation did not have a... glamorous initiation. It was harsh, and brutal. He knew that now.

He felt it.

"Agh!" he yelled, as the ether missile hit him - and sunk into his flesh. His body absorbed it, Victor's spark installed into the form, seeping through what barriers he had to defend himself. Already, the pain was intense, as if his flesh was being melted. But it remained in-tact, he knew it, he saw it. This pain was one transcendent of true, physical wounds. It was a spark, burrowing its way inside of him, conjoining with his soul by force.

And it was merciless. He could only describe the initial feeling as a slow burn, a torch pressed into his chest that occasionally flared burns onto his surrounding torso. Then, the torch moved through him. The fire was suddenly everywhere, moving through everything. He was consumed by it. Alistair's consciousness, and focus, both waned. The pain. The pain.

His body became impermanent, fading, then not. He was falling away from Idalos, being pushed into the dominion of dreams. How could one stroke such as this turn a man into a native apparition? He did not understand. His mind was only losing focus, fixating on such horrors. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Idalos, breaking away from his distractions. To endure the pain was far better than to ignore it, and let the mind wander. Losing focus, he was certain, was the greatest way to lose.

It was difficult not to see the dream - Emea - even now, though he hadn't yet lost. His view teetered between life and imagination, though often his imagination replicated life. Idyllic moments... he could see, Fridgar, with their child. Together, the three of them, at last. Life itself was a slow burn - often he'd wanted to lose the war, and succumb to his mortal fallibility. To be given such an opportunity... to become a dreamer for all time --

No... that wouldn't do. Dream apparitions, and the mages who became them, found no solace in the life after. He had a life-bond with Fridgar. He would find him in his next life, following the thread he'd made with him into an infinitely broad future. To die now -- he could... never do that. Mages needed liberation. People needed to know of the value of life, and individuality, and freedom. He always had every intention to become the greatest King among them, one who ruled with a firm hand but a loving embrace, who brought his people liberty like they'd never known.

There could be no more dreams, in this moment. He was... a waking thing, still. The pain was physical and spiritual both, but it could not defeat him. To allow it to was far below his character.

He allowed the feeling, not masqueraded as anything else. A pure, immortal anguish, fundamentally extreme. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and focused. He pictured the chaos inside of his body, a twisting red specter, a sphere with web-like tendrils expanding out as it burrowed into his being. Somehow, understanding the spark like he did made it all the easier. The spark wanted to find its old glory. It was once part of a greater whole - an Original Being. To seek godhood was its fate, and the trials and initiations were the culling of weaker inhabitants. They were harrowed, and punished.

It was a disgrace to think of becoming such a victim. He merely had to push through. His mind was wracked with seething agony, building pressure within his skull. He broke out into a migraine, and his body grew nauseous and tired. He was suddenly disoriented, and barely capable of transcribing the world around him. A raw, physical pain pummeled his nerves. On and on, this went... for bits. He writhed, and attempted to keep his body straight, fighting the twitching and flailing with his muscles, setting his body right. His discipline remained as firm as it could, as he rode out the anguish.

"Fuck..." he whispered, lips lowering into a frown as a pained whimper escaped his lips. Even for him, it was too much. To endure it for so long... how had others done the same?

Even so, he continued to be alive. Death did not claim him, but victory, followed by bits and trills of suffering. The otherworldly pain eventually subsided, but still his body remained.

His eyes opened, blinking Victor into view. He was... as clear as day. Alistair's spark had a new addition, and his soul had a new companion. He could feel Victor's ether and his own, as one bonded thing, their energy lain among one another. He felt his own by clear borders, but Victor's surrounded his. Their spark was now one, each sharing from one another.

Always, this was a magical moment. Whatever came after, what he knew was that - ultimately - he had secured a life-long companion, and a friend. The pure serenity following an initiation was a noble thing, a sensation meant to be wondrous. Perhaps it was only because the two fragments of fallen Gods felt overjoyed to be reunited, closer to their original state. It didn't matter. This moment was Victor's, and his.

Alistair tapped into the spark, channeling his ether. He could feel it, clearly, within him. Knowing what he had learned from Jonathan, and Damien, he reached into his stores of ether and drew tendrils out from his flesh. Small, snake-like shapes extended from his skin, colored a cerulean blue. Ether, raw, manipulated. This was Transmutation after all.

"Victor," the mage murmured, weakly, "I - thank you. I suppose this makes us partners. Fellow mages." Alistair smiled, faintly, weakly. "I don't mind."

[Victor Amielle]

It had begun, and the Transmuter stood there and watched, arms crossed over his chest and waited, outwardly calm. There was nothing that he could do now. This fight was Alistair’s alone. He clearly remembered what it had been like. The memory had been burned into his mind forever - pain, so great that it had nearly made his heart stop. It had rendered him unable to form any clear thoughts. He had struggled to even breathe. He remembered feeling as if his very soul, that which made him the man he was, was being torn apart, ripped into tiny pieces by invisible claws, that … thing that sought to pull him into Emea, the struggle not to simply fade away and die … the end of everything that he was and everything that he had worked for. He had always thought himself strong, at least stronger than the average human, but by the end of it tears had been streaming down his face, he had been shaking, and his face had been as white as snow.

Alistair didn’t cry, and he looked the same that he always did – at least until he began to fade, but the Transmuter knew that he felt it just as intensely as he had. There was no way to ignore the pain or run away from it. All that you could to was face it. He wondered what he saw, in these moments between existence and non-existence, between Idalos and Emea – if he saw anything, besides the unspeakable horrors that he had seen, even though it ultimately didn’t matter. He could hear him whimper now, and he furrowed his brow, slightly, wondering what was happening now, and if he had reached the tipping point. A moment later he opened his eyes, and Victor finally allowed himself to relax. Most initiates died, but Alistair was stronger and more experienced than most. He had already survived another initiation. That likely had some impact, hadn’t it?

He could feel it now. There was an awareness that hadn’t been there before, a sense of calm that was unlike any other. He simply stood there and enjoyed it – because such a moment would never come to pass again, no matter how many people he chose to initiate, this would always be the first time – and then he extended a hand towards Alistair to help him up, if he allowed it. “I look forward to whatever the future may bring”, he spoke. He didn’t mind either. On the contrary, he saw what had happened as the beginning of something great.

[Doran Cooney]

Doctor Alistair var Radomir, once Lord Venora of Oxentide, The Shrike, The Sunless, The Dreamer, Deoch Daire, Archmage, and Lord Proctor

Knowledges
Transmutation: The Initiation
Transmutation: A Domain Magic
Transmutation: Ether Missile
Transmutation: The initiation can invoke the worst pain imaginable
Transmutation: "Transmutes" something with ether
Transmutation: Can effect both organics and materials
Transmutation: One of my sparks
Endurance: Soul-wrenching pain cannot be resisted through regular endurance
Meditation: Focusing amidst horrendous pain

Loot: Alistair has now been initiated into the magic of transmutation!
Injuries: N/A
Renown: N/A

Points 15 - these can be used for transmutation

Victor Amielle

Knowledges
Negotiation: Initiating somebody in exchange for power
Strength: Strengtening one's wrists for sword handling
Strength: In order to grow stronger you need to train regularly
Transmutation: Initiation: How to initiate somebody
Transmutation: Initiation: You can only initiate a limited number of people
Transmutation: Initiation: Extremely painful
Transmutation: Initiation: What happens when it fails
Transmutation: Initiation: It is important to keep your calm during initiation
Transmutation: Initiation: Creates a bond

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A
Renown: N/A

Points 15 - these can be used for transmutation

---

Ouchies. This was an interesting initiation thread! I loved Viktor's reasoning behind Alistair's blunt, sort of left-field request; war is coming and he needs strong allies. His pragmatism is definitely one of his defining features - that and his desire for power. He's certainly gained a pretty strong companion, that's for sure! Great description on both the pain and mental struggle to overcome; I would not want that magic. Ow, I'd be dead. Here's to the bright future of the Bois of Lysoria! Or their dark downfall?

Please edit your grade request, thank you!

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[center][img]/gallery/image.php?album_id=39&image_id=7932[/img]Doran Cooney[/center]