RP:In Cahoots (and Cantrips)

From HollowWiki

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.


Summary: After much rumination, Genevieve takes her first steps out of the woods and into civilization — all for the sake of her studies. Naturally, she’s taken aback (re: is panicked) by the diversity and complexity of the real world. She finds a fast friend in cordial Celaeno, who’s been spending her days in the Mage’s Tower, and the two bond over necromancy, among other things.

Date: Feb. 25, 2018

Mage's Library

As you stand here, towers of bookshelves completely surround you. Most of them look to be magical in nature, but there are books of more mundane subjects in the library. Some are for spell research, some are about the history of spell casting and magic, while others are just lists of spell uses and objects. The cases are of a dark oak or pine, and glow a little at the ends, where runes have been placed to protect these sources of information from aging and decay. There are tables all over the room, with people of quite a few races sitting and studying. You notice a small door behind the rows of shelves to the north, and as someone opens and enters the room you see that it is the dormitory for those who stay here and study. To the east are two massive doors with designs carved into them, a golden dragon on each door.

Genevieve was experiencing what one would call "culture shock"... or maybe just "shock" would suffice? Shuffling into the Mage’s Tower was a bizarre experience for her, a miniature revelation, a number of firsts since she fled the Crane homestead: the first time she had stepped inside an (occupied) building under conditions that weren't dubious; the first time she had been face-to-face with elves, dwarves, and other races she once believed to be fiction but, according to the books she read and her very own eyes, are in fact real; the first time she had been around so many people in general. To top it off, her grandfather — the man she once was forced to worship — used to stalk the same corridors she now traipsed quietly. This whole situation nearly gave her a panic attack. Genevieve had arrived here under the impression that taking advantage of a library's archive for an afternoon was more conducive for her than wandering the woods, even if it had taken her a few weeks to summon the courage to walk in. She foolishly expected a reverent experience and instead was given enough pangs of anxiety to kill a dragon. (Those were real, too — who would've thought?)
The young necromancer weaves between flurries of chattering students, clutching her tomes so fiercely she threatened to break their threaded spines. Her feet are set on the library, her head deluged in thoughts. It’s hard for her paranoia to rest; she feels that everyone was talking about her, that each whisper held a jeer or a condemnation. She blends in well enough with her layered garb, all fluttering robes and woolen shawls, but every sidelong glance from a passing mage sends shivers. Did any recognize her as the granddaughter of Casimir, the maniac who got himself expelled after declaring himself a prophet? Genevieve hardly resembles him and the incident itself was decades old. The idea distresses her all the same; she tugs at the hood of her cloak bashfully, attempting to veil even more of herself under the shadows of its thick fabric. The more likely case was that they sense the necromantic magics she emanated — she'd gotten better at subduing her so-called presence recently, but, being skilled magi, she wouldn't be surprised if they can sense her from a mile away. Did they think her suspicious? A sheepish blush rises to her cheeks, a testament to her self-consciousness. Genevieve bumbles to an unoccupied corner of the library, collecting herself between two bookcases that nearly hit the ceiling. A haven. The smell of aged parchment lingers in this air and subdues her frenzied mind, filling her head with the intention of learning. Dust-sprinkled light falls from rune-alighted lamps and illuminates the strange and fantastic titles that meet her as she scans the shelves. A faint, crooked smile rises to her lips. Her gloved hand reaches out to a particular text — “Curses for the Nascent Necromancer” — but halts. Genevieve turns; her mouth dries; a single black eye falls upon a stranger.



Celaeno literally lived in that tower, for the time being. Living a nomadic existence in a traveling cart growing up made having a haven to walk back to odd, and the fact that it had one of her favorite libraries attached to it even odder. Magic thickened the place as much as the scent of old parchment and the part time enchanter reveled in it with every visit. That particular day, however, she ignored the runic texts for her new specialty. Despite that she came from a more traditional magical background, self-taught as it may be, she too dripped with necrotic energies--not entirely her own to anyone who could tell the difference. Still, in the past few months she’d occupied that library, the other students and Mage Guild members hardly gave her a second thought. She’d gone and lost her shine as a new figure and become another fixture that studied there constantly. It wouldn’t be Genevieve’s nervous winding through the shelves that caught the half-elf’s attention, but her newly developed sense for dark magic going off. Before she had started up with the Necromancer’s Guild, she took no notice of the difference between it and her own arts. However...now that she had been studying, practicing, she started to pick up a better discernment. The “Minor Book of the Dead” laying in front of her shuts as she tucks it under her arm and rises from her table. Another student from the lurkers wandering about the full seats pounced for the chair, but Celaeno paid him no mind. She wasn’t the quietest figure milling about, but her black robes over her loose red shirt and plain traveling trousers helped her blend in as she followed that prick. It led her to an aisle where a girl, similarly dressing a she used to--as she still did, really--stood with a familiar book of curses she’d combed over a couple times. It’s only Genevieve’s glance that breaks the young mage from her nostalgia and sends her own cheeks heating up as she’s caught staring. She points at the volume the girl holds with a silver finger of her gauntlet, the empty joints scraping together with the motion. Anyone familiar with runes would certainly recognize some of the strings animating the prosthetic armor, glowing all over the metal. “That’s a good one, though I haven’t found occasion to use anything in it just yet.” A short bow of her head. “Good day to you, I am Celaeno.”

The first thing Genevieve notices is a odd resonance coming from the stranger’s chest. Something dark and unearthly in nature, something that immediately draws her attention before her eyes can even react. Her gaze, wandering briefly, soon fixes on her ears. "Y-you're... an elf," she sputters, pointing a hesitant finger at her. Not that it was particularly -surprisingly- an elf was here — at least for most people, but Genevieve isn’t exactly most people. She stares at her ears before realizing her rudeness, quickly inspecting the rest of Celaeno’s garb in an effort to act natural. Those gleaming, silver gauntlets catch her eyes, but Genevieve, wholly unfamiliar with real life, takes them as normal. Maybe a lot of people just wear them? In any case, the elven features are much more novel to her. "I-I-I mean, s-s-sorry, n-not that it's odd you're an elf, or a half-elf, or anything, I-I mean, it's, I just don'treallyseealotofthem, and, um," she rambles before trailing off, putting the finger to her chin, gaze once again diverting to the shelves decking them. She could feel her face burning with redness. It had been many months since she last spoke to someone, and it showed. She bows in turn, copying the magelet. "I-it’s v-very nice to meet you, Celaeno. My name’s Genevieve.” Minus the Crane. It felt unnatural to speak her own name, full or otherwise. She pauses, the gears in her head turning, before Genevieve raises a question. “D-do you like… um… a-are you a necromancer as well?" She posits it innocently, but the aura of gloom surrounding her give her a malicious air. There an anticipation that the half-elf is, mostly in hopes that they have something to bond over. The necromancer reaches for the curse book, holding it out between her and Celaeno. It has a nice heaviness to it — definitely a text she could pour over for hours. The smile returns, tugging subtly at her lips. “I, well, I was looking at this book earlier… I, I know quite a bit about r-r-resurrecting, and more basic concepts, but I’m terribly unfamiliar with anything else related to… er… darker arts.” A quick lapse of silence. An idea comes to mind. “W-w-would you, um, like to study together? I-I-If you’re not too busy…”

“Half-elf.” The passive correction came with a traitorous prick of her slightly pointed ears. “I understand the staring.They aren’t very common where I am from, much like dragons and orcs and drow and the like.” Her passive expression softens some. “That’s a lovely name, Miss Genevieve. Are you a foreigner as well?” The bold question, despite the stutter that came with it, has her eyebrows shooting up her forehead. However, a short reflection on her own treatment so far since coming to the lands has her schooling her expression back to a polite, even friendly smile as she holds up her basic guild manual. “Still only aspiring at the moment, but I’m endeavoring to fix that. So far I have a better grasp of sigils and curses than resurrection...It sounds as if we can help each other in that regard. I admit my...usual study partner is busy with other matters lately and between lessons I find myself missing that back and forth.”

“H-half elf…? I see,” she muttered the correction to herself, silently displeased for mixing the two up — as if she even knew the difference. It was more of a matter of the necromancer wanting to assuage her. Celaeno seemed exceedingly polite and forgiving of her mistakes, a personality that put her at ease, and Genevieve would be rude to not correct herself in turn. She felt a kinship with the half-elf; she, too, dabbled in necromantic arts, something that was looked upon with disdain by many. “Y-y-you as well, Celaeno.” The compliment catches her off guard and her recurring blush takes its time to fade. “I -am- a foreigner to Xalious, yes, but not to these lands, n-necessarily… I was born in Sage, to the east. It’s… um, complicated.” Her gaze flickers to what she assumed to be east, expecting herself to face the old Crane homestead. It was a stretch to claim she knew her way around, but to be revealed as clueless and isolated would be far too embarrassing right now. She flips through the cursebook’s thin pages absentmindedly. “I left recently. I was hoping to gain more magical experience elsewhere. I’d heard favorable things about Xalious…” Far too many things. She brushes those bits of her past to the back of her head, intent on revisiting them later, in due time. Now, she would focus on this auspicious meeting of the minds. Genevieve nods anxiously at Celaeno’s comment, beaming. “T-That would be most excellent. Yes. I would be more than happy to teach you what I know, and… well, you seem quite able, and I’d be thankful to learn from you.” Her inflection is stilted, but her enthusiasm is more than obvious. She holds the cursebook close to her chest, looking past her towards the scattered tables. “You, um, do you have a spot? Or should we go somewhere else?” Wherever Celaeno would lead her, Genevieve would dutifully follow.



“Ah, I see. I haven’t lived in Lithrydel very long, I’m afraid. Thus far, it’s been far more exciting, to say the least.” How exactly, she wouldn’t say just yet. And she wouldn’t pry into her sudden study partner’s origins either, for the moment. Propriety demanded first meetings shouldn’t be that in depth unless it happened to be brought up along the way, voluntarily of course. After all, she too had a complicated history she tended not to divulge in much depth. She led the way from the stacks and back toward the tables. Unfortunately, the crowd of students had the tables all full to bursting. That period of the day tended to be busier than most and she purses her lips at the conundrum that poses. “My background is in runic enchantment, so I suppose the assorted sigils and rituals of necromancy come easier to me than what it’s better known for. I picked up some scraps of lore from my old mentor. That relationship...soured, however, and he tended to be stingy with any of his arts.” As she walks back between the shelves, toward the far wall of the library, her gauntlets clench at her side and around the tome she still carries, as close to flexing as they can get. “This library is a marvel, to be sure. From what I’ve learned in my short time here, however, the library in Vailkrin is far better stocked in darker specialties. Only available to the guild, I’m afraid. I’m still rather new, but I can tell you who to contact to see about joining, if you’d like. They’ve been very helpful, so far.” Despite her being unsure if she could trust them half the time...but then again, she should be used to that by now.



“Runic enchantment…? That’s actually quite fascinating,” she notes. Genevieve is the first to admit she understands little of runes and other aspects of magic primarily learned from books, but that doesn’t mean they don’t pique her interest. If anything, they’re an untapped resource that could heighten her spellwork. She keeps a brisk pace behind Celaeno as the two stroll by huddled, silent study groups and professors enclosed by stacks of books. She envies this camaraderie, this communal aspect that she’d been missing. Genevieve is still very much in her shell — hesitant to show herself during daylight hours, much less join a guild or clan — but the part of her that isn’t aggressively antisocial longs for that sort of support. As she’s guided by her companion to a more quiet corner, she adds a bit diffidently, “I-I’m mostly self-taught, so my method of resurrection and reanimation tends to be… well, crude. But these readings I’ve found have helped tremendously.” Resurrecting, to Genevieve, was a lot like getting a stubborn old machine to turn its gears again; it often involved a lot of swearing (or what amounted to swearing for her) and brute magical force. But, as she learned from one of her beloved texts, forming a connection to the target body made it simpler. Being reverential, showing respect, guiding it like an adult would a child. This isn’t hard when it comes to animal companions: though living beasts shy away from her on account of her dark presence, undead are quite fond of her. Perhaps this eagerness in spirit when she performs resurrections is what makes them so simple. For now, she can not attest to humans and humanoids — they’re far more complex and, she extrapolated, probably more in the brute force category. The mention of a library excites her, but she’s soon forced to acknowledge she knows little of Lithrydel’s geography. “Vailkrin… I’m not familiar. And, well, I tend to be on the more introverted side, so I’m not terribly sure if I’d be a proper fit…” Vailkrin is a strange word on her tongue. It speaks something significant to her, but she can’t quite ascertain what. She briefly buries her face in the cursebook’s contents, embarrassed, thinking of what to say, and peeks out to add more. “B-But thank you for the offer, Celaeno. Perhaps once I gain experience,” — and a bit of pluck, she thinks to herself — “it wouldn’t be such a bad opportunity. Especially… um, w-with you there.” Already she feels an affinity for her, which is rare for someone as mistrustful as Genevieve. Her mind chalks it up to a combination of their shared abilities, their love of learning, their unexpected encounter. The dark aura that comes from Celaeno’s chest comforts her, in an odd way. It indicates to her that they’re more alike than different.

Celaeno also found a welcome familiarity with the dark aura emanating from Genevieve, something she grew up with and had found fast friends with before. It reminded her of home, studying among cemeteries and striving for something great. Given her own traumatic experiences at the hands of the dark arts, one might think her foolish for feeling such things, being drawn to them even though she lacked Genevieve’s natural affinity with that sort of magic. The corner she led them to had a nice seclusion to it, surrounded by the little used sections on more domestic subjects: knitting/crocheting on one side and children’s stories on the other. “Yes, as well as bits of pyromancy and some barrier work. All self-taught as well from volumes my family managed to gather on our travels. What I’ve learned of the dark arts has been much the same, very textbook without much direction. Reanimation seems to be more intuitive than I’m used to...I hope lessons will aid there. It’s...still strange having actual instructors to turn to. I’ve only recently conquered my pride enough to attempt utilizing them.” A smile spreads the young woman’s face as she gestures toward the shelves around them. “As for Vailkrin’s library, imagine this, but only necromancy texts. It’s a haven. The opportunity is worth access to that, alone. Vailkrin itself has been called the ‘City of the Dead,’ mainly populated and run by vampires, among other ‘unsavory’ types. Being still alive, I did not feel quite at home there and the head of the guild, I believe, is part of a power struggle within their political system at the moment. They did not have those back home either...” She props her introductory reference text in her lap and opens it up to the last page she had left off at. “What sorts of curses were you thinking of picking up? What I know of, so far, requires quite a bit of preparation and malice. If you ever meet a rather shriveled looking undead man named Ernest, you should speak with him. Not a necromancer, but he knew a great deal on the subject.”



Genevieve settles herself into the seat across from Celaeno’s, plopping the cursebook in front of her and leafing through the first few pages, most of it introduction and acknowledgements. Her gaze meets the half-elf’s for the first time, and with it comes her small, slanted smile. “I’m self-taught as well. I much enjoy it… developing your magic at your own pace, it’s almost freeing.” She glances down briefly to find her page before continuing. “And, well, y-yes, reanimation does require a bit of intuition, but if you start small, I-I -do- think someone as bright as you can easily master the basics.” She’s a bit listless and a bit impatient to get down to studying, but listens intently to her companion’s description of the mysterious dark city. It enraptures her — not just the library (which is mighty impressive on its own, almost making her salivate), but the description Celaeno presents. A city of undead… a city of potential research subjects and experiments. The opportunities there must be limitless. What secrets are hidden past those dreary walls? She does not share these darker thoughts with her newfound peer, content with just nodding again and adding, “...That does sound compelling. I would be delighted if you took me sometime. Us living need to stick together, y-yes?” Another smile crosses her face, one of slightly more dubious intent, as her eyes wander down to the text. She isn’t exactly sure what she hope to accomplish by studying curses, and admits as much. “Uh, hm… fair question.” Genevieve doesn’t consider herself malicious, but her demeanor can easily change if her thoughts grow negative enough. “Perhaps something simple and easily reversible — I’m more interested in the mechanism of curses than the effect. I’m sure consulting this book will be helpful. And Ernest, was it? An undead?” A similar name to her mother’s, Ernestine; strange. Meeting an undead is high on her list — to see someone moving, breathing, -living-, when by all accounts they should be six feet under. “I’ll have to keep an eye out.”

“It is nice not having the added pressure of outside influences, having the luxury of doing it at your leisure,” Celaeno replied with a small smile that seemed wistful a moment before it faded back into a neutral line, pensive even. “Slower going, though, than with proper instruction in my limited experience. My situations have left me with quite the mess, which means progressing in hurry, so time isn’t something I can afford anymore.” A small sigh, but it was subtle enough that it could have been merely a heavier exhale. She seemed to perk up again at mention of Vailkrin. “So long as we don’t run into any of the more unsavory residents. As fascinating as vampires are, I’ve been quickly learning that some do not behave themselves and enjoy biting into strangers they think they can get the better of. The cemetery there is vast, though. I believe there are even dragons buried there. I admit, I wouldn’t mind digging up one of those up, when I’m able…” Her eyes light up for a moment as a thought occurs to her, the late teenager’s true youth coming to light for a moment. “I wonder if they could still fly once raised…” The daydream popped right as the bubble started to form over her head as she glances back down to her own book, flipping through the section on curses and such. “Let me see...here it says it’s more a ritual based construct. And I have been told it’s very much about focusing inward, summoning up negative emotions and dwelling on them for a long time before imposing them into an object or a being. That Ernest fellow actually likened it to baking, with a recipe and precise steps.”

Genevieve is inwardly relieved that Celaeno is engrossed by the undead too — it’s validating, proof that her thoughts aren’t quite as outlandish as she imagined. Her mind alights with this minor epiphany; she can sense herself becoming more animated as she grows engrossed in their conversation. She slouches back in the seat and loosens her shoulders, hands resting delicately on the aged tome, her inky black eye shining with the brightness of an oil slick. “I-I would love to show you the basics if we manage to venture out there. I’m sure any… uh, interlopers will be hesitant to take on two of us.” The idea of resurrecting a whole dragon is something unthinkable to her. She’d never seen a live one, and she postulated that reviving such a beast would take quite a bit of energy. Yet it excites her all the same — she takes a mental note of it as the conversation shifts. “Baking? Ah.” She perks up; magic analogies are her -favorite-, as mentioned earlier, and her head nods at the logic. “I liken my form of resurrecting to restarting some old contraption. Like, you know, restarting a-a water mill, or fixing a spinning wheel? Lots of fine-tuning, and, well, sometimes force.” She laughs awkwardly, a bit out of place for someone so gloomy, and neglects to mention the swearing. “But, yes, I see where you’re coming from. The book here mentions the same thing…” Her eyes skim the passages, which repeat what Celaeno mentioned: ritualistic, a control of negative emotions, a certain patience. The very first curse in the book is remarkably simple: the imbuing of negative energy into a glass of water, transforming it into unholy water. Genevieve could pull this off easily, she thinks, and remembers that she carries a flask in her satchel. “D-d’you think I could do this?” She pivots the book to face her study partner and points out the instructions in the page. She adds in a whisper, “Should we go somewhere else to practice, or…?”

“I have thought about trying the beaches along Cenril for practice on smaller bodies as well, considering fish wash ashore all the time. It’s akin to a graveyard despite the swimmers and such.” The idea of raising something being akin to fixing a mechanism left dormant makes her eyes widen. The concept hadn’t seemed to occur to her. Her family had fallen prey to quite a few potholes in the road on their travels, so broken cart wheels at least were not foreign to the nomadic girl. The closest she herself had come to such domestic fiddling had been...well. “So it’s more...mechanical? I suppose if one were to say, understand parts of anatomy so as to know how to fill in the gaps, it would be easier to navigate the process?” A gauntlet disappears to her side, in an outer pocket of her pack. She pulls out a small journal and stylus, then an ink well that she quickly sets atop her text, uncorks, and scribbles notes upon. Genevieve might peek over and see a funny shorthand, neatly written in a mix of common and broken runes and sigils. Notes from prior study sessions, perhaps? The new entry had mentions of anatomy, the name Cari, and an odd reference to “flesh doll puzzle” with a question mark beside it. The half-elf glances away from those jotted thoughts to the curse her fellow student holds out. She skims over it with a few flicks of those stormy greys and the first full smile of their meeting flashes over her lips. “That certainly seems simple enough. I would like to try it as well, if you don’t mind.” After all, what seasoned traveler didn’t walk around without a wineskin full of something? “A different, more private location would be prudent. I often perform my enchantments just outside the tower, on the other side of it. The weather isn’t quite as cold as it was and the wind seemed moderate today. And perhaps we should modify it with a containment circle so nothing leaks out or creeps in to sully our results.” She flips back to the rune and sigil section of her own tome and leans it over enough so Genevieve could read over it herself. It wasn’t an overly complicated series of symbols, merely three protective ones set at certain points along a ring, yet inverted so as to keep negative energy within something rather than keep it out. “I’ve used a variation of this with a past ritual that turned out well.”

She makes a mental note. “Cenril…” Another city she’s woefully unfamiliar with. This seems to be a pattern. From what she gathered, it was near the ocean, a concept she could scarcely imagine — an expanse of water, unfathomably deep, surrounding the continent from all sides. Did it end? Was there anything else out there? Her reverie is soon interrupted, however, and Genevieve approves of Celaeno’s explanation. “That’s more or less how I imagine it, yes. But I’m always honing my craft. Obviously the subject itself is organic, and I imagine someone experienced enough could make the process very fluid… B-but, um, yes, anatomical knowledge makes it infinitely easier, especially with subjects who still have tissue.” Skeletons are one thing, easy enough to handle that fledgling necromancer can imagine how the structure moves together. When reanimating something with flesh and muscle — and, rarely, a working cardiovascular or respiratory system — it becomes more complex; more micromanagement, more medical comprehension and, naturally, more experience. But this would all come with time. She peers at Celaeno’s notes for a brief moment, but she’s inquisitive and nosy and will probably mention the script (along with those gauntlets, smacking of something truly odd now) at a later date. “Th-that’s an excellent idea. Somewhere secluded. Shall we go, then?” Her excitement is discernible by actions alone, briskly scooping up the borrowed book and rising from her seat. It’s fairly obvious that Genevieve values her privacy; her experiments are no exception. A curious gaze falls onto the sigils the half-elf produces and, unsurprisingly, she’s intrigued. “They have those capabilities? As barriers? I-I mean, I know that branch of magic is versatile, but I never considered… ” She trails off, trying to articulate her thoughts and failing. The whole thing is ironic enough considering the rune-enchanted robes she dons. Genevieve’s aware that runes and sigils have some kind of pragmatic purpose, though the extent of their power and capabilities had been lost on her until Celaeno mentioned them. “You’re a very interesting mage, indeed, Celaeno; I’ve never heard of or read about a mage that specializes in runes and sigils. I assumed they were, uh, just supplemental — forgive my ignorance — but, um, it’s remarkable, really.” Not that she knew many mages. Still.

“I’ve been thinking about this all wrong...” Celaeno made still more final notes as she muttered before stowing away the writing supplies in the side pocket of her pack and hefting it over her shoulders. The muffled clank of a small stew pot and tea kettle came from inside, but the cloth covering the articles thankfully muted it enough that the entire library didn’t become offended by it (a lesson hard learned). “Indeed. Let us be off.” The Minor Book of the Dead stayed tucked in her forearm as she mulled over the revelation and walked alongside Genevieve toward the exit to the library. Her pointed ears perk at the other’s questions regarding her own present specialty and she quirks her head a bit in renewed interest as she delivers her answers. “It’s versatility was what attracted me to it in the first place. It’s much like learning to read and write in other languages. The characters make words, and different combinations can be used to create other meanings. I would liken it to what a bard does when spinning songs or stories. Different sounds and lyrical devices create different effects. It’s not nearly as whimsical as all that, tedious even, but similar in how the symbols amplify something. One can, in theory, even apply classical runes to medical science, or necromancy even. Tissue is merely another substance, after all. With tattoos or scarring, one can certainly make permanent marks on it. That’s not even going into the potential for smiths to create artificial limbs, of which these lands have a couple. ” Her cheeks heat up, her tawny cheeks gaining a faint red tint. “Apologies, I seem to have rambled.”

Genevieve marvels at the potential of Celaeno’s craft. Indeed, she misjudged its role completely. If she could learn some of this, perhaps she could find a way to control her dark presence, channel it at her leisure. Imagine! “Like language… astounding. I v-v-very eagerly anticipate you teaching me some of this, Celaeno. C-considering your expertise, you must be capable of a great many things.” The enchanter’s remark about artificial limbs brings her attention back to those shining gauntlets. Her lips briefly part as if to say something, but closes them just as quick. There will be time for (enthusiastic) interrogations later. As they depart from the bustle of the library, Genevieve removes her hood, procuring a wooden comb from an inside pocket and meticulously combing out her hair. “A-and don’t worry about rambling! I do the same thing, quite honestly,” she admits with a hint of sheepishness as they round the back of the tower, scouting out a suitable site to practice. A dusty trek down a nearby slope leads them to a fairly leveled spot, somewhat reminiscent of the southward Xaliousian countryside, dotted with towering ranks of aspen that break the crisp midday sky into pieces. The grass grows in short tufts, serrated by boulders and jagged bits of ledge that gradually continue downwards towards the mountain base. The ground is covered with fallen foliage, remnants of long-dead trees, and what appears to be sporadic streaks of fire, frost, and lightning. Others have had the idea to practice here. Any magical presence is long evaporated, thankfully, meaning there’s little possible intrusion. “I think this will work.” Genevieve, satisfied, settles here, removing her outermost cloak and sweeping away the debris with it. She then plants it on the ground, gingerly emptying out her belongings on top of it. She’s sure to only take out what’s necessary: her water flask, a few random books for reference, a tattered journal and charcoal to scribble down field notes. The skeletons hiding in her knapsack can come -later-. She kneels down. A careful hand takes the flask and places it in front of her, the book of curses to her right and opened to the instructions. The water is mutable, clear and untouched, taken from a Sage spring; any changes made to it will be obvious. Before she begins, Genevieve turns her head to Celaeno, deferential to her judgement. She’s the one drawing the sigils, after all. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Yes, this is a good spot. Perhaps I could draw your containment circle and you could draw mine? You first of course for turning the water.” Celaeno glanced over their surroundings, giving a firm nod of agreement as she joins the other necromancer in kneeling and pulling out tools of her own trade. Her own tome is placed open beside her, and the wineskin comes out, along with a tin cup she often uses for tea--couldn’t corrupt all of hew own water, else what else would she brew for her and her new acquaintance afterwards? The sigils of the circle were simple enough, their lines not needing a delicate hand. An open patch of loose soil lay in front of them, where previous practitioners had drained the life from that particular patch, perfect for a quick and dirty canvas. No reason to bother with having to wash ink off of a cloth with that at their disposal. She reaches under her right gauntlet, loosening the leather straps holding it to her forearm before tugging the thing off. They didn’t need an excess of finesse for this work after all, so no need mucking up her finger joints with dusty debris. When the armor comes off, however, Genevieve would fine empty air where a hand should be, the arm stopping at a stocking-covered wrist. That was quickly yanked off with the young mage’s teeth and dropped in her waiting lap with the enchanted prosthesis whose previously glowing runes had gone dark with the loss of contact. Her forearm had neat rows of runes tattooed over it from the burned tip of her wrist to her elbow, the decorative, fiery outline edging those inked markings exposed as Celaeno rolled up her robe’s sleeve first, then her red tunic. She gets to work tracing a perfect circle in the bare patch of soil, drawing out the runes in thick lines, albeit still the neat work of one who was used to writing such things, whether with a finger or, in that case, a stub. “Here we go, this should be serviceable. I’ll get to powering it up in a moment. Pardon me.” She wipes the excess particles on her pants, making sure nothing got stuck under that black stocking as she slipped it on again. She glances to Genevieve, brows going up expectantly. “Any questions or remarks while I put this back on? Most people tend to.”

Genevieve watches Celaeno’s work with intense interest, especially following the removal of her gauntlets. An audible gasp escapes her lips once she realizes that her companion lacks hands. (Those gauntlets weren’t for show, after all.) Her gaze traces the runic tattoos that travel up her arm with a vigor she hadn’t felt since she touched her first spellbook. The entire act of sigil-marking itself is something that keeps her attention, but the necromancer can’t take her eyes off of Celaeno’s arms, particularly the wrists. The whole reveal is sudden, bizarre, and enchanting all at once — this half-elf always seems to have something new up her sleeve, and it excites her. Once she finishes the sigil, Genevieve is at a loss for words, too many questions and postulations abuzz in her head. “I-I-I-I… um, that’s… very… I-I’ll ask you some questions later, if that’s okay?” More like an interview. Get ready, Celaeno.
The barrier is set. She breathes in, freeing her mind of thoughts. Genevieve takes a final once-over at the instructions before letting out a slow exhale. She removes her glasses and the world, past a few paces, becomes a blur. A similar start to when she’s resurrecting an unfamiliar kind of beast; corrected sight almost feels like an obstruction when she attempts something new. Her gaze rests on the water now — she mulls on its fluctuant qualities, its willingness to change — before her eyes unfocus and she falls into a trance. The necromancer senses her presence shift and stutter around her, a shadowy beast of its own, as her mind unravels the constraints of her dark magic. Visible objects are soon reduced to vague blocks of light and color in her eyes, her dark aura taking their place by becoming corporeal, stark. Her aura, if one could physically see it, takes shape as black smoke unfurling off her skin as if her body itself harbors flame; thick, viscous plumes of tar envelope her almost possessively. If she can visualize it then she’s on the right track. She shuts her eyes. Her thoughts turn inward now, delving deep into the recesses of her memory, digging out a moment that arises almost instinctively: the day she left home and the hatred she felt. Genevieve, for the first time in ages, allows herself to meditate on what she remembers of it. Deep, burning hate. Fear. An envy for her family, a longing for love. Desperation. Exile. Isolation. Profound heartache. She dwells on this almost clinically, picking apart each tiny bit of sentiment, before it coalesces into a single burning accumulation. Her mind holds onto it for a time unknowable — it could be seconds, minutes, hours to her at this point. Then, satisfied, she lets it go. A jolt. Her eyes flutter as if startled from a long dream and fall again on the water. Her presence, still visible, is fierce, protective, visibly envigored by her bleak meditations; it cloaks her on instinct. Wordlessly, she directs it to the target. Smoky ebon tendrils dart from her aura, snaking in the air with a newfound ferocity. They curl and twist before enshrouding the flask and steeping their malice in the water. She senses a change. Genevieve blinks once again, this time falling out of her trance, her aura fading out of her vision. A sharp, anxious inhale marks her shift back to reality, a shaky hand grasping for her spectacles and restoring her vision. Even blinky and bleary-eyed, the contentedness on her face is obvious; she notices the water, though not much different physically, now radiates the same dark energy as her. Like an imprint. She’s silent for a brief moment until another smile creeps up on her face. “I— Celaeno— I think it m-may have worked!”

The staring was not a new phenomenon to the half-elf, and she found some wry humor in the reactions others gave her. She recognized that fixated quality to it, though, and had often done the same thing herself when approaching some new volume she hadn’t explored before. Oh, she dearly hoped this one would join the guild, if only for the opportunity to witness how her face would change upon seeing the Black Library. That pang of excitement followed with a subtle disappointment and reaffirmed determination. Practice, develop those skills, protect those that matter. All that aside, she strapped her gauntlet back on, wincing as if a headache had suddenly come about. Another lecture… That neutral facade slips back on as she shifts her full concentration to that circle. Her hands hover over it, directing her energy as the runes light up brighter. It was similar to enchanting work, except how the necrotic sigils pulled at her more than her runes, demanded more than accepted her energy in exchange for success. Still, she fed them, the toll for their “service” slipping from her bit by bit with the transference. Her insides burned and her breathing turned to wheezing, but no blood trickled down her nose and her stomach didn’t explode into heaving fits. A dark aura radiates from the circle as it gains her power, charged enough to keep the curse from wandering too far from its flask. Her work finished far sooner than Genevieve’s though, as she glanced over and noted the trance. The foreboding feeling about her flared to life, making the young woman’s stormy eyes widen as flashes of another sprang through her mind. Was that why they seemed to be getting along so well? She too detected the change in the water at the trance’s end, how the mundane substance seemed tainted, the flask hardly containing what she sensed. Celaeno’s face lights up in a beaming smile at the success as she nods along, near making herself dizzy. “Yes! That was...it seemed so natural, like you merely extended yourself. That’s amazing! Is this an innate gift or something you merely have a knack for?”

Genevieve’s smile sticks, this time with the slightest hint of pride. When she’d first started studying her craft, it had taken her more than a few tries to get the hang of basic spellwork. Accomplishing something like this (minor as it may have been) satisfies her immensely. Perhaps she is worth something after all — Celaeno certainly thinks so, judging by the shining smile, and it only fuels her own glee. The question she poses has her pause as she returns the flask to her bag, slowly gathering up her things in preparation for whatever Celaeno decided to practice next. “Innate…? Yes, I would say so. It sounds silly, but, um, I call it my ‘dark field’, though it’s more like an aura, I-I’d say,” she attempts to explain, a sudden tinge of glowing red on her cheeks highlighting her embarrassment. It sounds so ridiculous out loud. “You most likely sensed it when you approached me. It’s an outpouring of dark magic that I emanate as a result of, um… -certain circumstances-. B-But, in any case, I’ve figured out how to control it and apply it to my spellwork. It’s a bit like… a third arm? But for magic?” She laughs weakly, adjusting her glasses. “It certainly speeds up the process, and adds a bit of potency, but at the detriment of being a bit chaotic.” Among other things. She’ll explain the magic migraines and dead plants when she gets there. For now, she’s more intent on Celaeno, her expertise, and her gauntlets. “Do you plan on practicing some spells as well? If that’s the case, I can save the questions regarding, um, your gauntlets later.” She has more than a few, but is at least somewhat cognizant that hurtling all of them at her at once isn’t exactly the wisest option. “Perhaps we can discuss it over lunch? O-of course, I’ll answer any questions you have as well.” When was the last time she shared a meal with someone? Genevieve can’t even remember.

“Part of me wonders what those circumstances are, but that business is your own, and it feels quite different from what pesky darkness I’ve been left with… Harnessing that to increase potency though, that’s certainly something to look into.” The half-elf’s beam turns more to a cunning little thing as the idea comes and she idly rubs her chest, the epicenter of her own aura--feeling much like that tainted water as if something had been inflicted on her rather exuding from her. “Regardless, I’m glad you can pursue your talents. Everywhere I’ve seen in these lands, but Larket since they started their ridiculous ‘witch’ extermination business, might be wary of the dark arts to some degree, but have been for the most part openminded about them. And if anyone tells you otherwise, they are wrong. Magic is magic, a tool to be wielded and its purpose determined by the practitioner. And from my view you have a gift.” A wishful pant twisted her chest a bit, something old springing back to life, but she winces again, her head ringing. She rubbed her temple as she uncorks her skin and poured some of her own water into the tin cup. “Well, I thought that I could attempt that curse that you did and perhaps you would like to try the containment circle?” She gestures to her book between them where the symbols were drawn out, the steps and theory of empowering the barrier laid out under the diagram. “Unless you are too drained, of course. Regardless, lunch sounds nice. I’m always happy to discuss my handiwork and your abilities are fascinating, to say the least.”

Those circumstances will be discusses in due time. Genevieve focuses on the words that follow. Celaeno emboldens her even as she gives her warning. Genevieve knows little of the current political climate (and had never heard of Larket before her mentioning it) but it’s never bad to get a bit of a heads up. The thought of being persecuted isn’t one that necessarily frightens her — she got plenty of that from her family — but it’s almost tiring, as if she’s returned home from a long journey to find she still has work to do. Avoiding places isn’t that difficult, but avoiding people with certain -viewpoints- is another matter. Regardless, her counsel instills Genevieve with gratification. After hearing quite the opposite for most of her life, she doesn’t take those words lightly. “A gift.” She repeats those words with a certain cadence, a slowness, that tells her not to forget them. “It’s… a little hard to explain, but those words mean a lot to me, Celaeno. Thank you very much.” Not a sin, not a curse, but a -gift-. A talent that she can hone, harness, and accomplish fantastic things with. It’s nice to find someone who understands. At the question of lunch, Genevieve finds her words caught in her throat. “I, um, well…” The book of sigils intimidates her to no end. Celaeno’s field of expertise seems so much higher, so much more complex and theory-driven than the basic spellwork that she performs. It’s a bit humbling, a bit abashing, but she’ll summon the courage to dip her toes into it — after some food, of course. She can look over the instructions then and get a proper feel for the art. “I was thinking we could eat now and continue later, in the afternoon? Simply to chat, is all, I have a great many questions to ask you…” Her hands fumble in itchy coat pockets for gold pieces, scraping up enough for a nice meal at the tavern. Distantly, she realizes that even -more- people are going to be there, but she shrugs her shoulders inwardly — she’ll have to get used to big crowds sooner or later. “I believe I have enough for the both of us, if money is an issue.”

“A friend imparted that bit of truth to me when I first came to these lands. It helped.” Perhaps she too shared a bad history with naysayers. Her demeanor brightens, though, as she takes out a small box from her pack instead and tucks her tome away in it with the wineskin. As she stands, after hiking her pack over her shoulders, she flicks the lid open to a cage-like tea strainer and a mix of herbs and leaves. She stuffs a clump inside the small cage and lifts the cup in her palm, a traditional aura of pyromancy heating the limb and in turn the cup, like a stove would a kettle. No use letting the water go to waste, after all. “I likewise have a great many questions for you and some of them may seem very dull. As for where, the Dancing Destrider is nearby.” She would let her water boil as they walked. “Money is not an issue. I’ll cover the bill. Call it a celebration of your successful cursing!”