RP:Hold On to What We Have

From HollowWiki

Part of the Lies Within Us Arc


This is a Mage's Guild RP.



Summary: In the wake of the almost-war with Larket, the Mage's Guild begins consolidating itself after betrayal from their highest echelons shook the Guild right to its core. Even as life seems to go on as normal, quiet dissolution begins to spread as those questioning the Guild's motives and ethos.

Mage's Training Centre, Karasu's Side

Karasu Tsuji, as the Mage’s Guild knows her by, strides through the halls of the grand tower as if she had never left. Where had she gone? Out. Why had she not informed anyone she was taking an extended leave? Ask Provost Tsuji when he gets back from Larket. While in the half-feline form everyone recognizes, she wears her usual attire that seems unnervingly warm for the summer afternoon: a fur coat with a minor enchantment to be as black as the rest of her clothing, save for a red shawl worn as a scarf. Passing by the offices of the other Arcane Stewards, she stops into the office of Magister Kerrigan, who had yet to move his belongings out from the tiny room. A quick utterance of a cantrip sends a thin veneer of dust out the window she had once snuck into the Tower from. She runs a checklist of names through her head to ensure that this was the last office that needed at least a glance to check for activity. Satisfied, she moves to leave when a quick glance is given to a box where his messenger beetles are kept. With an indecisive hum, one is dropped into her pocket for later. Leaving the room behind, she continues towards her own office. The demifeline stops short just paces away from the door, hearing a faint clatter from the room directly beside hers. There is a moment of hesitation as the spellblade raises her hand to knock on the door. A surge of fear that the woman has become unnervingly comfortable with rises to the front of her mind. Would she even be welcome if she called out her name? What was she supposed to say? Karasu swallows thickly. No. Just like with others who were once objects of her ill-placed affections, she had to accept that Countess Dragana's future had no room for a useless woman looking to martyr herself at any opportunity to appease her guilt. Silently stepping into her own office, the woman gives it a once-over. On the corner of the small desk was a box of her effects from her room upstairs that had been packed away. One by one, the objects are taken out and thrown into a desk drawer to be forgotten, mainly gifts that had never been distributed for after the commencement ceremony. Gifts for those no longer around to receive them. Now in quite the sour mood, the spell-blade takes a roster of students for the Spellblade Corps from her inbox and descends the stairs to the training area. Rhodolite eyes scan the room as she enters, then looks down at the roster. “This can’t be everyone…” She says under her breath before clicking a heel on the floor twice to get their attention. Assuming the role of acting leader of the Corps, she calls out, “Weapons down. Those under rank Caminus Prentis, step forward for attendance.” Once attendance is finished, she raises a brow. “Are any of you friends with the absent members?”


The gathered might of the Spellblade Corp was looking decidedly... dented. The recent string of political upheaval that has struck the Guild has left its mark in every corner of life in the Tower. Corridors once bustling, if not at least well-trodden, are now gathering dust and heavy puddles of silence. Likewise, there is not a department in the Tower that hasn’t lost at least a handful of members. Many through regretful departures, as friends and family outside the Guild call their loved ones home, away from the next potential political blunder. As they gather to greet the halfling Steward beneath the gently shimmering dome of the protective barrier, there are distinct gaps in the once-regimented grid of spellblades. As the silvery glint of their salute is tucked into scabbards and sheaths, the apprentices of the Spellblade Corp look about themselves, eyes falling to the ground as they discover their own disheveled state. At the Steward’s call, the greater majority took one crisp half-stride forward, while the upper ranks filed out from between them, forming a ragged line behind Karasu as she inspects the remaining troops. Even now, condensed though they are, the gathered spellblade apprentices are still clearly decimated, and three apprentices step forward from the bunch, each one a different shade of anxious as they stare ahead. Firstly, Caminus Betina, a High Elf from Rynvale, clears her throat with a raspy cough, then not meeting her superior’s eyes, she barks in a hard militant tone. “Sir! Caminae Oda and Tanja have returned to Rynvale under orders of their father, Sir! They left three days ago! Sir!” The elf’s tone is harsh, but it is evident from her puffy eyes and flushed face that she had been crying sometime recently. Still, her iron-clad resolve holds true, and she steps back to retake her position in the line. Next up, Caminus Brustag of Craughmoyle, a squat and squarely built dwarf, with hands like two great sides of ham, one of the few hammer-users of the Spellblade Corp. The dwarf folds his arms behind his back and grumbles out something incomprehensible, muffled by his thick hairy beard. “Speak up, Apprentice! The Steward may have good ears, but the rest of us don’t.” One of the higher-ranked members lined up behind Karasu announces firmly, earning a glower from Brustag. “I said, I got in a fight wi’ ‘pprentice Kulmur. ‘E thought we shoulda dun more than ‘pologised to Larket fer what ‘appened to the kid, I said it were tha’ brainless Administrator’s fault. Well, ‘e left, sayin’ ‘e’d rather spend ‘is life as a forgeworker than a ‘onourless mage. ‘E’s probably back in Craughmoyle by now.” The dwarf levels another glare at the ranking member that admonished him, then he shuffles back into the ranks. Finally, Caminus Duisteph, known fondly as “Dusty” is left standing alone before the Corp. His eyes are on the tips of his polished boots and he dares not meet the eyes of his assembled colleagues. “Cully - I, I mean Apprentice Cullen… he’d been having bad dreams for a while. Since… well since Venturil.” The apprentice swallows, and around him, his fellows shuffle awkwardly. No one needed to spell out what had happened in Venturil, enough of them had been suffering nightmares after the calamity that they participated in out on the dusty plains. “He kept quiet about it, because well, we all did. But they got really bad recently. Because of the whole “war with Larket” thing looming over. I think it just got too much for him. His bed was empty this morning and I haven’t seen him all day.” Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Dusty rejoins the mass of apprentices, who fall silent, awaiting the Steward’s next orders.


The Stewardess purses her lips as the three dual-enrollees speak for their absent members, making notes next to each of their names in her father’s native language to keep any scrying eyes from the members behind her from seeing. A quick side-eye to the ranks behind her grants her a momentary glimpse of another native Rynvalian with wandering eyes at her roster, who immediately glances back forward at the Caminae. While the writing itself is derived from the elven language and appears to be elven at first glance, it would take some minor study for any non-native to decipher the writing. Though she wanted to have faith that these apprentices were not compromised by some incorporeal creature or part of yet another possible secret organization she had to worry about, no member could be overlooked. When her eyes fall on the high elven woman, her lips tug down slightly. There is the slightest of hesitations in her writing as Brustag mentions the death of the child in the guild’s custody, and again when Duisteph brings up Venturil. There was no need to speak of how everyone felt about the bloodshed on the plains, given that it and Trist’oth’s fights were still the subject of half of her own nightmares. Karasu clenches her jaw and exhales slowly before looking from the roster to her students. “Correspondence will be had with Oda and Tanga’s father regarding their continued education while I go down to Craughmoyle to speak to Caminae Kulmur.” Turning her head back to an avian with a mop of hair obscuring a neutral gaze, she comments, “Militus Aumaxra. I would like you to accompany Dusty to The Dancing Destrier. Esmerelda and Elhaym are generally awake before sunrise, they may have seen whether Caminae Cullen went east to his father’s in Cenril or south to his mother’s in the Burrows.” The stoic man gives a single nod and moves over to the apprentice, wordlessly resting a hand on Dusty’s shoulder in a reassuring manner. The students continue their gaze at the Steward for further instruction, and Karasu hands off the roster to Betina to hold for a moment. “I know that we cannot change what has happened, nor can we erase it from our minds. I think about how ill-prepared we were to go into Venturil and to Trist’oth every day when I look at my sword.” As she speaks, a thumb is flicked upwards to undo the safety catch of her sword, and the long blade is withdrawn. The fragmented blade catches in the light of the barrier surrounding them. “In Provost Tsuji’s culture, they practice an art called ‘kintsugi.’ When an object is broken, one’s instinct might be to hide the damage or replace it with something that won’t break the second time around. The Mage’s Guild does not operate in this capacity, though. You don’t hide a spell gone wrong, nor do you replace the branch of the Xalious Tree should you decide that its shape no longer suits your tastes. Obscena stipitem egerunt.” The blades of the sword suddenly detach with a soft scrape of metal as the blunt edges fall against one another, then move out around the edge of the arena. A soft arcane light encompasses them to allow them to remain suspended mid-air. “Why would you hide what has made you more experienced, though, when you can allow it to serve as a reminder as to what not to do the next time around? No one will ever truly recover from the war brought to our doorstep by the Razurath, nor will Brenwyn’s treason ever be a simple footnote in the history of Xalious. But we learn from it and allow it to make us better warriors.” The more she speaks, the more nauseous she feels, though. Her voice lowers a pitch when she adds, “Believe me when I say that no one wanted these last few years to happen the way they did. Magic is first and foremost a force for good, to make lives better and prevent unnecessary loss of life, and that is exactly what the Guild intends to do. Adolebitque.” The blades close the distance and attach themselves to the chain that holds the metal pieces together. “I’d like you all to practice enchanting your weapons. Not using your main weapons if you’re not comfortable with it yet; at the center of the arena are various unregistered swords, halberds, and,” With a pointed look to Brustag, she notes, “even some double-sided battle hammers confiscated as smugglers attempted to move them through the mountain pass. As this is contraband to be disposed of regardless, I don’t want to see any sad faces if a weapon breaks. The weapons will also break the moment they go past the barrier as well, if any of you were thinking about keeping a spare.” Karasu puts her sword away and clasps the safety back into place as she takes the roster back from the high elf.


The spellblades seem to rally slightly as Karasu begins issuing orders. The feeling of someone higher up the chain stepping in and dealing with the problem is a comforting one for the anxious students; too many of them recently have felt a disconnect between them and their superiors, so to see their problems being recognised and given the attention they deserve is a large step forwards in reaffirming the Spellblade apprentices' wavering faith in their leadership. Dusty manages a brave smile as Militia Aumaxra stands shoulder to shoulder with him, the avian's great wings brushing his back lightly, but enough to convey the stoic avian's presence and support. Betina nods firmly, but from the way her bottom lip is tensed, it is clear that she is holding back emotion. Brustag merely stares holes in the ground as he mumbles under his breath. For those with good hearing, they would pick out "- hope the hairy bastard's alright -" as the dwarf scuffs his boot off the stone gruffly. When Karasu's voice picks up, the amassed apprentices snap to attention, eyes riveted to the halfling as she raises her shattered sword aloft. As the broken blade breaks anew, encircling them in an exquisite array of shards, the students as a whole puff out their chests with pride. She's right, you know?! We're not untarnished, we've been through hell and back and we'll go through it again. But by Sven above, we'll wear our scars in gold and be proud for them! As the halfling rounds off her speech with an incantation, one student draws her sickle-blade and holds it high in salute, soon followed by a steely array of metal, raised in solidarity with the Steward. "Adolebitque!" They roar back, and some of the blades even spring into flame, as the searing emotions of some apprentices, paired with the incantation, erupt into fiery adulation. The armory of honour is held skyward for a moment longer, before being lowered and stowed, patted out hastily in some cases. As the students turn towards the pile of weapons under the centre of the large egg-shaped forcefield, Militia Ondrel follows Karasu as she moves away from the pack of spellblades. "Steward Tsuji. A moment, if you will." The Rynvalian elf clicks his heels to attention when the demi-feline eventually turns,. "I thought it best not to bring it up when you had launched into your speech, but my best estimates show that there are a number more apprentices unaccounted for than the four just mentioned. On top of that, it seems some of our number-" the elf gestures to the gathered Stewards, who talk amongst themselves in hushed tones, "-have misplaced themselves. I don't want to alarm you, Steward, but if this kind of desertion continues, we may need to consider implementing some form of… martial disincentive." Ondrel purses his lips with displeasure. "I sincerely hope it does not come to that, but the fact of the matter is, the integrity of the Spellblade Corp will come into question of this continues." After spending a decade in the Rynvalian Guard, Ondrel has become something of a military advisor to the Spellblade Corp, and while his tone is brusque, his bluntly worded advice comes from a place of experience and concern. "If we are to operate as a military, then we need to ensure that we stick together like one. Something will need to be done."


Karasu herself is taken back at the show of solidarity from the apprentices. Only then does it begin to register that these students actually looked up to her. Her eyes seem to sparkle in the sudden firelight as her anxiety subsides to reveal an emotion not felt for nearly a year: Determination. Karasu has to crane her head back to look up at the former guardsman, even while wearing heels. The slight smile that had just begun to creep onto her features fades away to a grim nod. “I noticed. The roster shows at least half of the Caminus Prentis ranks gone. Even if they were only here on a trial basis, I don’t want them to have left because this asshole-- may Sven, Hind, and Lore grant him rest-- decided that he felt the need to try to instigate war and drag the rest of us into it.” There’s another sigh as she looks from the elven man to the roster. Ondrel’s mannerisms roll off her shoulders, having learned from teachers of similar caliber. As hypocrital as it was for her to be the one enforcing this action... “But I completely agree with the sentiment that we have strength in numbers, regardless of whether the Spellblade Corps are to act as guards or militia. Absences discussed beforehand are fine, disappearances like this are only going to worry the others. That’s why I’m going to go to Craughmoyle to get the other hammer-wielder back. Apprentice Kulmur may come around if I tell him about the program that’s going to be announced at the Celestial Ball. From what I read in Steward Dragana’s notes, he had enough potential and be a full fledged terramancer if he truly wanted to be. He shouldn’t have to give up on his dream.” The list is lowered before she looks up at him again, a smile ghosting her tired lips. “So long as someone else wants to learn, I’ll be happy if they even master self-defense spellblading. Hey, you know all the basic water incantations, right? Make sure they don’t set each other on fire and I’ll have a bottle from Veneficus Azakhaer’s office transferred to yours.” Karasu flashes him a toothy grin before departing the training area. Her smile fades the second she is out of sight from the students. As she ascends the stairs, her eyes fall on the door to her office left just slightly ajar. Rather than her sword, a dark steel dagger is produced from its resting place inside her boot. Tentatively, the door is pushed open to reveal an empty office. On the face of her desk is a black handprint burnt into the birchwood. As if reacting to her entrance, the hand flexes in place on the desk and curls its fingers in on itself before relaxing upwards. Between the forefinger and thumb rests a familiar black crystalline hoop. The spellblade hesitates initially, but quickly sighs and takes the piece of jewelry. There is the slightest sound of joints popping as she assumes her fully human form to equip the piece. She opens her mouth to whisper to the shadows, but thinks better of it. The walls have ears now. Instead, she scribbles on a paper and places it into the fingers of the handprint. Curling in on itself again, the handprint vanishes into a plume of smoke that dissipates into the air. It is only then that she realizes that the office next door has gone silent. Someone else she loved is gone again. The beetle from before begins to crawl from her pocket as if sensing the waning energy from before. Karasu gently picks up the creature and places it on the floor. “Go back to Odi-- to Kerrigan’s office. There’s… nothing more I can say.” As if it understands her command, the creature scurries out beneath the gap of her door, leaving her alone in the tiny office that was once all she strived to have. Oh, how Karasu wishes she could dissipate into smoke too.


Mage Tower Classrooms, Enelys' Side

Enelys stands alone in a study space. Wearing a sporty singlet and several metal bands threaded with groundium for weight, she enjoys a quiet lunch during her training. Light classical music wafts through the air as she lifts halteres filled with iron shot and reads a large tome set on her stand. Alternating arm pumps and stuffing her face, the not so tiny mage flips a page using a metal book mark. The air shimmers with electric and magnetic power, Enelys using her magic to move the metal with both her muscles and her mind.


The door to the study space suddenly bursts open and a bewildered looking apprentice stands panting in the doorway. "Dalia! There you… Oh, sorry, um, wrong person." Holding both sides of the doorframe to steady herself as she heaves in the strained breaths of one who has just ran a marathon, the tall slender drow wipes her forehead with her sleeve as she desperately tries to catch her breath. "Sorry… was running… stairs...so many stairs." She wheezes as she leans against the doorframe, breathing hard. "You haven't seen... another -wheeze- another drow like me around have you? Same height, red eyes, silver pixie cut?" As her breathing calms down, the drow takes a step inside the room, fanning herself to try and cool down. "Ahh, sorry, names would be helpful. I'm looking for Dalia D'I'sel D'issan. I'm Khavra, also of House D'I'sel D'issan."

Enelys cringes and the sound of thudding metal shakes the room. “Excuse me! Who do you- boo, ah geez, oh my arms-“ seething in through her teeth and rubbing the burning appendages. “I lost my concentration. This stuff is so heavy. I am not paying for those floor dents.” Enelys is caught between trying to recover her breathing, recover her concentration, cover herself up, and point accusingly. “Who do you think you are! This room was marked for private study!” It became a small back-of-the-mind question of how many students might be improperly dressed or pursuing... extra curricular activities behind closed doors, but that wasn’t important right now. “Wait... a drow? Uh... I’m not sure. My name is Enelys Ruza of Willington Village, and I uh... well, I really wish I’d brought something more than exercise wear into this room right now.”


Khavra leans back and inspects the door, noticing the "Occupied for Private Usage" sign slotted into the purpose made holder. "Huh, so it is. Sorry, I forgot my glasses and I can't read for pittence in this light." The drow waves a hand towards her face, indicating her blood red eyes and the pin-point pupils that shy away from the sheer volume of light pouring in the windows. "Dalia's a fan of you surface dwellers' classical music, so when I heard it on my way past, I thought it was her. Apologies." Squinting in the light, Khavra peers towards Enelys, before rearing back and spinning on her heel, facing away from her in a fluster. "Gods below, do all you surface dwellers dress that skimpy behind closed doors!?" Though her dark drow skin hides it well, Khavra's cheeks are burning with embarrassment. "Don't you have...a cloak or something? Why are you so scantily clad in a school practice room?"

Enelys stands unabashed. Slightly abashed. Embarrassed but trying to own it. “No. Yeah. Kinda. Usually.” She takes in a deep breath. “I. Am. EXERCISING. And this is... proper attire, to... eliminate air resistance and... promote vascular... temperature - I am exercising. Privately. Thank you. Does this other drow have a name so I could give them a message later?“


Khavra turns and peeps through her fingers sheepishly. ".. does it? We don't have that sort of thing down in Trist'oth, it wouldn't be acceptable…" The drow apprentice looks aghast, but the slightest bit curious at this strange item of clothing. "I...suppose it does look comfortable. And corsets are an absolute pain to wear during practical lessons." The hand is taken away, and Khavra squints, before immediately replacing her hand. "Still, would you not maybe put some silk or something all-" She waves her free hand in Enelys' general direction "-around here? To at least avert the eyes from - you know what, I'm getting off topic." Khavra turns once more and averts her gaze from Enelys. "Her name is Dalia. Of House D'I'sel D'Issan. If you must know, our cousin was a Steward here. Before the Guild kicked him out. More fool them." Khavra sticks her chin in the air haughtily, it seems that House D'I'sel D'Issan has not yet forgiven that grievous slight. "She should be somewhere around, we're supposed to be travelling home in a day's time, so she needs to start packing, but she's opposed to leaving. If you see her, tell her that she needs to stop being foolish and meet me in the dorms. Now. I will leave you to your...well... I'm not really sure what you're doing. But best of luck to you with it." With that, Khavra walks towards the door, sparing only a sheeposh peep over her shoulder as she closes the door behind her.


Enelys is just sort of flustered at this point. “Yep, bet they wouldn’t. It is comfortable to wear, it is not comfortable to be stared at. Nope, this is how uh, this is- the weightlifting professionals do it. Wrestling, swimming, that sort of thing. It is... an athletic singlet.” Enelys just sort of looks at her toes and puffs. “Not familiar with that person, but if I meet them, I will let them know you are looking for them.” Enelys nods and places her fists on her hips. “It’s called weightlifting!”” She calls at the closed door, “knock next time,” she adds more quietly. Shaking the image of the blushing drow from her mind, Enelys picks up her weights and finds her place in her book. It will be much less embarrassing to wear when she gets hella ripped. At least, that’s what she tells herself for now.


Veneficus' Offices, Kasyr's Side

Kasyr is exhausted, and the reasons for it only seem to grow with every passing day. As he went over the list of essays he needed to catch up on, and the research notes for the spellblade students- he found himself increasingly losing track of time. An already precious resource given the numerous conspiracies and calamities that surrounded him- and which had seemed in short supply even before he'd endeavoured to take up his teaching responsibilities with a zeal that seemed all but unsustainable. At this juncture, the only thing that was probably keeping him intact was the coffees- and the somewhat generous sploshes of whiskey that accompanied each one. It somehow made it just barely plausible that he could somehow navigate the ridiculous scheduling he'd taken up. It also provided an excellent alibi, so he wasn't simply lurking at the terramancers cabin, until when they'd agreed to make their expedition to the underdark.


Word has gotten around. Kasyr is back. The whispers around the Guild only grow, morphing into wild rumours as the speculative abilities of a cohort of pent-up scholars with nothing better to do are let loose. Some heard that Kasyr had fought his way out of Larket single-handedly. Literally. Others purported that he had been let go, because Larket just didn't want to keep footing the bill for his alcohol consumption. And some of the wilder theorists speculated that Kasyr had used his devilish charm to seduce the Queen and gain a Crown-sponsored pardon (with a gladiatorial contract to boot). These rumours spread like wildfire and settled in the minds of some of the more impressionable apprentices, inspiring them to action. Which brings us to the present. A quiet scuffling can be heard around Kasyr's office door, paired with hushed whispers and conspiratorial giggles. "Well someone's got to do it!" One hissed voice breaks free of the mass, and as the voices quiet down, a firm knock bursts from the door. "Veneficus Azakhaer? Are you there?" The voice is young, male, not particularly identifiable. Likely an apprentice.


Kasyr is familiar with the rumour mill, if only because being forewarned let's him know what the current traditions are, something that had been invaluable during the times where his more feline features had been the subject of those talks. Thankfully, once it had been relatively established they were real- attempts at tugging them were more or less to students students who were tasked with doing so as a perverse form of hazing. In any case, where this leaves the Kensai in present times- is rather cautiously sipping at his coffee, as he listens in on the gathered array of voices practically stacked outside his office door. "I am, you can let Betina know I've finished grading her paper, if she's also lurking over there. I rather enjoyed the read on using combustion to create small scale implosions to throw off the opponent." There's a pause, and the Kensai props an elbow up onto his desk, settling his chin down into his palm, "Et you can open the door. It's a bit difficult to hold a conversation this way, monsieur."


The handle is turned and the door opens, spilling a veritable torrent of apprentices into the office. A variety of faces of every race and gender, Spellblade and conventional apprentice alike. Leading the herd, Apprentice Merrick of the School of Electromancy. A bit of a wildcard among the usual stream of spellblades, Merrick approached Kasyr upon the Kensai's first arrival, on grounds of his legendary mastery of the fulguric arts. A smart and capable lad, if not a little prone to fanboyism. "Sir! What was Larket like!? I heard you were sentenced to fight to your death in their arena for entertainment!" Merrick leads the charge with his questions, but is soon followed by a stream of shouted inquiries. "What was the prison like?", "How did you escape?", "Did you bring us souvenirs!?". The final question is met with a series of disapproving glares, and Apprentice Ivar shrinks back with a sheepish look on his face. "We heard you were in the Hero if Freedom tourney, but everyone thought it was just an excuse for Larket to do off with you. We're glad you're back!" A sea of cheery nodding faces gaze up at Kasyr expectantly, before a loud and pointed cough at the door garners their attention. Framed in the doorway, Provost Perindal of the School of Electromancy folds their arms across their chest and levels the rogue apprentices with a harsh stare. "You've got five seconds or I'm writing you all up on grounds of misbehaviour. Go on, out. If you need to see Veneficus Azakhaer for official business-" they place stress upon the word official, "-then you can schedule one. Now clear off!" The Provost steps back and allows space for the dejected swarm of apprentices to exit. Which they do, with no small amount of grumbling. "Xalious bless, you'd think they've nothing better to be doing." Perindal shakes their head and turns to face Kasyr. "Glad to see you're back in one piece. My brother watched your fight with the Crimson Mantis. Heard it was a tense one. How's the arm?"


Kasyr s' expression gradually shifts to one as amusement as the initial query effectively opens the floodgates to a full on barrage. In effect, he's left softly drumming his fingers against his deck as he waits for a lull to arrive- the likes of which Ivar manages to briefly produce. "I can't talk too much of it, given it was tied to official guild business. But- Let's just say their healthcare es a bit lacking." That aside, whilst Perindal sees fit to establish some degree of order to the outburst amongst the students, the Kensai does see fit to begin rummaging through one of his drawers. Right before the whole of them can properly leave, he offhandedly hucks the sling he'd been wearing during the tourney, the likes of which still bore the well wishes that were written on it. A gesture which also serves rather nicely to help illustrate his response towards Perindal. "I've been feeling better since I've been liberated from the tender ministrations of the so-called 'Hard City'. The bare necessity did not exactly contribute to my rapid recovery, en fait. Something I made sure to rectify after that last round. It, uh, escalated as you may have heard." The swordsman pauses for a moment, faintly scrutinizing at the student in the case he felt anything familiar- some vestige of what had perhaps been there when Brenwyn had died, before he continues, "How's things been during my absence?"


The herd of apprentices is largely out the door and only poor Ivar follows up the rear by the time Kasyr tosses his sling to the crowd. In a sudden reversal of luck, Ivar snags the sling from the air and beams back at Kasyr as he leaves. "Thanks sir!" He waves as he passed Perindal, who shakes their head amusedly as the rampaging mob moves off down the long sweeping corridor, leaving blissful quiet in their wake. "That's good to hear. Yes, I was told that your last fight was a bit mad. Platforms in a forest was it? Mad. If Larket put half the thought into their societal issues as they did their entertainment, how far better off they would be, right?" They shake their head, exasperated as they lean against the doorframe. "I'm glad to see you're back though. Seems we have more and more teachers leaving every day, and fewer coming back than go. I was having visions of being landed with running the department on my own. Which doesn't bear thinking about." Perindal grimaces, rolling their icy grey eyes at the thought. "Things have improved a bit. We're not at war, which is a start. But you couldn't tell just from looking at the current rosters. What we avoided in military losses, we're more than making up for with staff and student losses. That last hiccup really shook people's faith in the Guild, and they're bailing out like we're on a sinking ship."


Kasyr is trying not to think too hard on the way Larket runs things- and so he takes a good long drink of coffee, allowing the combination of caffeine and booze to try and blank out the overbearing sense of anger he feels. That royal pairing had managed to gall him, figuratively and literally- and even now, the reminder of his meeting alongside the changeling left him feeling altogether venemous. "La Reine. Rather, Queen Josleen had made her stance on the matter abundantly clear. An intentional inflexibility at the inconvenient concept that she was anything but the righteous party." Yes, that particular turn of phrase had already creeped up in his mind before. "..Er, anyways- What es this about the faculty leaving? Calice- Es it the professors with Tenure, the Veneficuses, ou? Who are we losing?" The mention of students has the swordsman pinching at his nose, "Well, I can't exactly blame them. The loss of a youth et the threat of war would be something the students at large would have issue with at the best of times- et for one of our council members to have had a hand in it? To have nearly provoked such a thing. It's. . . " He exhales, and simply clacks the coffee cup down onto the table, before he begins to refill it from a pot of decidely cold coffee that's sitting adjacent to his desk. He almost reaches into his coat to add the whiskey, before he remembers his guest and thinks better of it. "Well. Has there been any departments especially hard hit?" He's guessing the ones that have lost teachers, honestly.


Perindal rolls their eyes. "Yes, well, La Reine best pray her neck isn't as inflexible as her ideals when they catch up to her." A despairing shrug is spared for the Hard-Headed City before they begin answering Kasyr's questions. "Seems we've been losing people from every department and rank. Apprentices have been leaving left, right and centre. Many families requested their children leave, it's hard to get an exact number when they keep leaving without notifying anyone. Same with some Stewards and a few Provost's. And of course, the Grand Screw-up himself hasn't been seen nor heard of since he walked out after his breakdown. He's the only Magister as of yet to leave, but with the way things are going, I wouldn't be surprised if he's not the last." Perindal purses their lips, tugging at one ear in thought. "I can't speak for the other departments, but certainly Electromancy has taken a fair hit. Two of my fellow Provosts have gone. Ziran left to go back to his wife in Enchantment, and Rodan just hasn't turned up in a week. Lazy ass probably saw the pile of work headed straight for us and scarpered." Another eyeroll from the Provost. "Anyway. Glad to see some of us still have some respect for the job. If you're looking for someone to drink with in the next while, let me know." Perindal nods towards the stocked shelves of the Kensai's personal stash with a sly nod. "Sven knows, most of us'll need it. Keep in touch, Kasyr."


Kasyr might have cracked a small smirk at the image that Perindal presented, even if the implications of Larkets continued mismanagement serves to temper it a few moments later. As the lightning mage continues to fill the swordsman in on the guilds state, the Kensai finds himself pursuing his lips at what he can only assume is aimed towards Odhranos. And certainly, the kensai can agree that the Terramancer really hadn't been a suitable choice for that diplomatic talk, and yet, "I think he can hardly earn the title of Grand Screw-up. Brenwyn earned that title, however short-lived it was." There's a click of his tongue at the memory, before he simply shakes his head, "As for the numbers- have all the ones who departed without notification taken their things? Peut-etre they've simply ...retreated for a time until some of the negative attention has died down." Getting while the going is good. "...It might be a good idea, since we're working on the exchange with Larket, to see how many of our students are showing up their, par chance. It would give us an idea as to how their curriculum would be shaping up." That all said and done, the Kensai can't help but grin when Perindal acknowledges the Kensai's filing cabinets, and the outright rows of booze within. "Mm, I really shouldn't underestimate the rumour mills here. Tell you what, I'll consider it. Especially since it sounds like you'll be needing some extra hands in that department." Pulling a bit of extra weight while the guild was in need certainly couldn't hurt anything except his sleep patterns, right?