Category: Journals of an Academy Mage

Entry 5: 2nd day of the month of Arborie, Spring of the year 897 Ibx. 10th Era:

Estoban was elated to hear the news of my acquisition of a map.

So elated in fact that he leapt across the table and kissed my cheeks left and right in a very Pastrieran fashion that nevertheless succeeded in bringing my face to a blush.

Regaining his composure, he reclaimed his chair, which wobbled slightly on the uneven cobbles of Tallenie Plaza, where we met for coffee.

Estoban grinned as he looked about the Plaza, “we ought to begin this excursion quite immediately, lest our new ally decides she wants to make even more money off that same map.”

“Which means, of course, that we are in need of a party,” he continued, “of which we are somewhat lacking. Have you given the idea any more thought since last?”

“Indeed I have. I believe we are somewhat agreed on our need for an Arcanist, in which our dear friend Yosefin will provide her services. And I do believe I would be no friend to Pyotr if I did not permit him the opportunity to give Eugeny a field test. Of course, this expresses extreme bias on my behalf, but I sincerely believe they will each prove indispensable in our endeavours.”

Estoban reclined in his chair, a mischievous twinkle animating his eyes. “Very good, my dear Enri, I am inclined to agree. I dare put forth yet another ally,” he ventured. “Allow me the privilege of acquainting you with Szacha Marya.”

Intrigued, I leaned forward, having heard the name once before. “Pray elaborate, Estoban, who is Szacha Marya?” I inquired.

Estoban’s grin broadened, clearly relishing the opportunity to regale me with this tale. “Ah, my friend, Szacha Marya, stands unparalleled in their mastery of both the alchemical arts and the very new art of the fire-arm. Their exploits in sundry skirmishes have borne witness to their prowess, their elixirs and potions singlehandedly turning the tide of many a dire strait.”

This was likely Estoban’s way of saying they are a very successful student in their fields, but I accepted his words with eager eyes.

The young knight continued, “just yesterday, I was requested by Szacha to accompany them into the Lorie Forest to the east, as they had many an ingredient to collect. Well as it turns out, my services were hardly required, as they reacted well before I did. Being leapt upon by wolves is no small event, yet they procured a rifle quicker than any hunter I have seen. Three wolves were shot dead at my feet before I had even drawn my blade.”

Estoban’s eyes shimmered with admiration as he continued his narrative. “Szacha would be an inestimable asset. With them by our side, we shall possess a paragon alchemist, equipping us with the means to surmount whatever chance encounters may arise.”

I nodded, thoroughly impressed. “Indeed, Szacha would be an asset. I place my trust in you, Estoban. Let us extend an invitation to them and ascertain their willingness to partake in our endeavour. With Yosefin, Pyotr, Eugeny, and Szacha’s, we shall surely be an indomitable force.”

“My sentiments exactly, Enri! Before the end of the week, we shall embark upon a momentous odyssey upon this treacherous path.”

As our discourse continued, the world around us seemed to recede. The bustling plaza dissipated, reduced to mere whispers carried on the winds. In that moment, our alliance secured, we locked eyes, and something welled up deep within me.

Estoban’s soft eyes smiled at me, and I averted my gaze. My beverage danced in circles beneath my nose, letting off streams of warmth. Something about Estoban called me to adventure, to journey open road with only a map and my wand. I trusted he would lead the party well, but I feel that I somehow wish for something more than just battle-brothers between us…

“Well,” Rising, Estoban spoke, “I ought to depart. Life and the afterlife awaits me.”

Upon seeing my shocked face, the paladin clarified, “It is a class from the Mystic magic course! Do not fret for me, Enri, death does not seek me yet.”

As he gathered up his satchel, I felt compelled to ask him for dinner. Or a film. Or a walk through town in the evening as the sun set behind the Hall. Life will be short, and shorter yet without a friend — do not deny destiny its desires. And yet, I watched the young knight bid me farewell and, spinning on heeled boot, join the pedestrian throng.

A terrible pain overcame me then, as if fate, denied once more, was throwing a tantrum against my soul, crying out for me to act! to leap up and run out after him in the street. Instead I sat there, stunned by my inaction and frozen in my shame.

What compulsion had come about me then? What necessity? Why had I felt so inclined to solidify my friendship with Estoban, like some politician sealing a treaty? Could it be that I?— no.

I overcame my paralysed state and stood, leaving a few coins for our coffees upon the table.

As I walked through the narrow alleys of the College town, I fixed my tie, ensuring it fit well beneath my cream sweater. I had elected to don my wand holster today out of eagerness for adventure, and so I checked that my wand was indeed still stored within.

The wand had been my father’s when he moved to Ecreslory. He often remarked to me that it had been in our family for generations, having been constructed during the 7th Era by mystic monks. The shaft is made of ebony wood, adorned at the base with a silver handle. Inscribed into the top of the handle is an inscription in the ancient elven language Eldfe, ‘fa deirothi leusin’ — do not let legacy fade.

As my first lesson of Dailunn would not be until the 13th hour, I decided to visit the College’s esteemed museum collection, which happened to be adjunct to my next class anyways.

The museum is located on the main road which bisects the entire town, in the first two stories of a fantastic limestone building. Brass-bolted doors lead off the busy cobbled road into a quiet lobby where, to the left and right of the doors and situated before the immense windows onto the street, many small tables are clustered about a lushly gardened fountain, with tortoises spurting clear water into a coin-filled basin. A grand staircase spirals away from the marbled floors up to the gallery, a brass banister following the steps up to where the curator’s offices are. Behind the ticket desk opposite the entrance, one can see through the entry doors into the main hall of the museum and the entrance to the collection’s main attraction — the 1st Era Thelonic tomb around which the building was established.

After paying the admission fee (a single bronze coin called a Choux), I crossed the threshold and into the main hall, which was illuminated by the vaulted glass ceiling. Passing by the now familiar statues of Ibex Thaumazon and the Perithneskotic Deer, I escorted myself to the east wing to admire the mithril artefacts there. In preparation for my lesson later in the evening, I attempted to translate some of the brass tablets written in the Original Tongue.

Most of them were political accounts, retelling legal disputes and the like, but one, a tablet of possession of land from the 1st Era, intrigued me. The name ‘SAROCHON’ was emblazoned a number of times in the text — that very same Sarochon whose letters I had still sitting at my desk in my apartment, where the midday breeze blows inwards the gauze curtains. I made a mental note to begin translating, before returning to the exhibition.

Almost too late I realised the hour, and hurriedly packed away my pocket dictionary. Now, my own heeled boots clicked with fervoured speed as I rushed back into the lobby, regrettably neglecting the other wings (on the ground floor, let alone the upper story).

Turning myself, I scampered up the grand stairs, letting myself in to the upper entry of the adjoining lecture hall via the door at the end of the gallery.

As I stepped into the lecture hall, I was greeted by the familiar sight of cascading rows of polished wooden desks and the redolence of time-worn parchment. The chamber hummed with the subdued murmur of eager students making final preparations for the imminent class. Beyond the closed door of his office, the muffled voice of Reverend Arvid could be discerned, undoubtedly engaged in erudite pursuits before the forthcoming lesson.

Torof Arvid is a priest of Thelonius from distant Lihat, the holy city of the Thelonic triad. Being from the southern reaches of the Great Continent, the Reverend was pale, with greying hair and a serene presence. He typically taught religion units, but being an expert on the 1st Era, he had been especially requested to teach this history class. I had heard from Estoban that the man was a very calm and patient mentor, and equally keen in his wits, comprehending not only the Original Tongue, but also Old Veld and Old Thelonic.

I swiftly sought out an unoccupied desk toward the back, so as to be undetected in my proximity to tardiness. The desk’s surface, bearing the polished patina of countless scholars’ labours, bore witness to the sanding of punished vandals caught in the act.

Seated comfortably, I allowed myself a moment of contemplation, reflecting on the conversation shared with Estoban earlier. The impending adventure stirred within me a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Assembling a party for our intrepid expedition would be no trifling matter, and the expertise of Yosefin would be crucial. Her mastery of the arcane arts promise to be an invaluable asset in our odyssey.

Then, of course, there was Pyotr, yearning for the opportunity to put his contrivances to the crucible. A sense of loyalty welled within me, urging me to afford him the chance to trial Evgeny. It bore risk, certainly, but my conviction in the ultimate dividends of his ingenuity remained steadfast.

Certainly, Szacha would be undeniably useful. Their prowess in combat and alchemy would leave us in a truly secure position. Alchemists are notoriously versatile, and that is exactly what we need. My hope is that they do not charge a hard bargain in their share of the riches.

Lost in ruminations, I scarcely registered my fellow students filling in the remaining spots of the lecture hall, their measured steps resonating upon the well-worn wooden floor. It wasn’t until the door to Reverend Arvid’s office swung open that my reverie was abruptly disrupted.

The old priest emerged bearing a stack of tomes, his steps filling the chamber as he proceeded to the lectern at the fore with wine-dark vestments billowing in his wake. The students swiftly settled into their seats, their collective anticipation almost palpable. The Reverend’s resonant voice cut through the expectant silence as he greeted the assembly, his utterances endowed with erudition and sagacity like lemon in a cool glass of water.

“Good day, esteemed scholars,” he began, his gaze encompassing the assembled cohort. “Welcome to Empire and Divinity: A Thelonic Inquiry. I expect this unit will treat you kindly, as the Thelonic triad has had an undeniable impact on the lives of every person since Ibex first discovered magic, and you will no doubt be in many respects familiar with the 1st Era.

“You will soon find, however, that the Thelonic Empire was far from simple, and indeed quite far from good. If you will observe beside me these 6 tomes, I shall describe to you a brief outline of what will be examined this semester.”

The fervour within the hall swelled, and quills poised above parchment, eager to capture the impending summary. I felt a surge of anticipation and a renewed thirst for knowledge as I scratched a new heading into my notebook.

The lesson passed by in increments, the weight of the midday seeping through the floorboards like sponge. Dust danced in the air before the Reverend like an ancient chorus, leaping in the yellow sun that crept from windows high. Often the old man would pause, drumming his fingers upon the wooden desk as if the word he searched for would leap down from the rafters which he searched. In that silence, the scratch of quills and pens sung like a choir in the still air of the theatre, sweeping across the pages in a harmony that snatched and plucked at the bow-strings of history.

Exactly on the hour, Arvid rose from his chair, straightening out his dark robes, and lifted the spectacles from his nose. Sweeping his gaze across the fifty-odd students in the hall, he stepped out from behind his desk and silently gestured with a single, gloved hand for the class to follow him. The hem of his robes sweeping the floor, he glided away to an adjoining room.

With all the haste and none of the elegance of the priest, the class gathered up their belongings — pens slipped away into their cases, wands tucked back into coats, gloves retrieved from belts — and scurried down the central aisle to file in through the stone archway.

This very room, awash with unnatural light from overhead bulbs, was an object examination room. Reverend Arvid, being so enthused for our education, had organised weekly viewings of artefacts from the 1st Era taken from the museum collection. The Reverend positioned himself at the centre of the room, observing through careful eyes the students taking up their positions at the tables which had been variously adorned with ceramics in that ancient fashion which seems to capture in a single breath the very being of human expression. The delicate scenes of myth and legend which play across their surfaces leap out at a glance, maintaining that classical ideal of beauty and melancholy which tears away at the facade of the modern aesthetic.

With the knowledge of ages overflowing from the vessels before us in hues of red and black, the old priest began his second lesson. Speaking more softly and gently – with the same silent veneration that one exhibits near a tomb – he introduced the figures painted in exquisite emotion upon the ceramics: Diam and Suefer hunting the Torhenian eagle; Ibex and Andalus in fevered battle; Espiana in her golden robes. Each scene, with its foliage and characters, created a presence as if motion and violence had been rendered into the very memory of sweetness, the expressions of emotion upon the faces of the legendary persons snatching up at the tears of the onlooker. One scene that seemed most prominent and most elegantly depicted was the Thelonic apotheosis, an array of officials, warriors, and mages surrounding the forms of the triad burning with divine flame.

“Apotheosis,” Arvid explained, “the assumption of a godly mantle within one’s essence, was no small feat, and yet to the divine triad, it was as if they had been a soft breeze licking at the curtains in an old home, racing about the halls as if they had lived there for an eternity already. Indeed, when one undergoes apotheosis, it is as if one has already been a god before, the retrospect of divine sight filling in the gaps of one’s life by creating prophecies not yet remembered. Where divinity and mortality meet, fire is always present, hence the heavy imagery of burning in both apotheotic and divinely judicial scenes.

“You will also notice that, as the Triumvir were becoming Thelon Nehwos — the heir to the cosmic order — attention is drawn to lineage: Thelonius himself was a Khana, a demi-god, a semi-divine warrior; his genus, attributed to Dehwos himself, the divine God, is displayed in the upper section of this ceramic, where a ray of sunlight shines down upon the man in his moment of ascension. The Thelonic apotheosis in particular was a social apotheosis, and this is certainly apparent in the figures in the scene. Now, if you will observe here on the left-most position—”

“Is it true apotheosis is possible without mantling an existing divine superstructure?” A student somewhere across the room interjected.

The Reverend stroked his moustache, silently constructing the answer under his closed eye-lids. When at last he spoke, he did so with an air of caution, “This is a question for the ages, young man. How a person might answer it depends entirely on their worldview: Did the god Sojer truly die and become replaced by Thelon? Or did the god survive and deny the Triumvirate their place in the divine paradigm? Perhaps one might exclaim that Sojer allowed Thelon a minor place in the divine paradigm, and should take the credit for the apotheosis instead.

“How could it be possible for the Triumvir to become Thelon Nehwos if another Nehwos, the god Sojer, already existed? but if Sojer died, as reported by the Chronicles of Divinity, would it not be appropriate to assume the easiest path to apotheosis for Thelon would have been to fill the empty niche in the divine paradigm? We cannot say for certain by whom, but the role of Nehwos is currently occupied in the divine paradigm, and so it is without question that some cosmic worldview is the most correct.

“If one is to take the Thelonic apotheosis as the first and only successful apotheosis in recorded history, then we can safely say that only through the assumption of an existing mantle can a mortal become divine. However, what cannot be ignored is the existence of local gods, heroes and demi-gods and saints who hold small amounts of divinity, in the divine paradigm: did these gods undergo apotheosis? whose mantle could they have assumed as beings with power that is only locally true, since no wholly divine gods have been found to be only locally powerful? should their divinity diminish or affirm the significance of the Thelonic divinity?

“However we may choose to see the situation, it is certain that your question is not simple, and cannot be answered with yes and no. If you wish to know more, I recommend for you to read Sullivan Marinar’s The Divine Paradigm and other Paradoxes.”

[A good essay I assure you. A.E.]

I penned down the name of the essay, the ink from my hasty notes turning my hands to black on the page.

Soon after, the hour of afternoon arrived that we were to depart. Rising once more, Reverend Torof Arvid bid us all farewell and good week, assigning Eira Dher’s Symbol & Expression: Modes of Communication in the Archaic Style as reading before next week’s class.

Muttering amongst themselves, the students filed away from the class-room in flurries of cliques. Bursting forth from those small doors to the adjoining museum, my peers took no pains to silence themselves in the stillness of the lobby, where just seconds before all that could be heard was the trickle of a fountain-stream and the turning of a yellowed page.

While many of them remained within the museum, browsing the galleries or lounging in the lobby, most tumbled down the grand stair-case in awkward bundles, rushing to the next lessons of the day.

I, for my own part, simply strode across the upper gallery, running my spindly, gloved, fingers along the bronze balustrade, arriving at the opposite door which led directly into the small office where I would have my next class: Classics, or the study of the Original Tongue.

Despite a similar subject matter, this class would have far fewer students than the previous thanks to the difficulty of the language. While most mages had something of a grasp on the Original Tongue — it being used as the primary tool for Mystic magic — many chose to only learn at the most basic of levels: pronunciation and transcription of pictograms. The grammar and syntax — being the very grammar and syntax of the Cosmos and of gods — is far too complex for most, and so many simply do not bother trying. Only the most passionate of scholars and the most diligent of Mystics choose to continue their studies of the script to the point of translating texts.

It is for this reason that our class had come by this point to a low population of four, each student being just as historically inclined as the last:

Gomohaya Tanuki was student of Mysticism seeking to continue the tradition of elite Tsunalf warrior-mages called Jikurai as his family had for generations before him. The golden-haired youth used to wear colourful robes of an eastern cut and weave to class before his father tragically passed at the hands of pirates on the Argen isles. Now, he dons clothes white as bone and with blood-red lining — a mark of his tarnished honour until he can avenge his father and claim his place in his household as master of wand and blade. Indeed, strapped to the young warrior’s belt always sat a small blade with a grip of knitted azure cloth that stood out against the starkness of his clothes.

Grumhilda Sjeric was a six foot tall Northerner whose anachronistic Mediæval dress in collaboration with her pale complexion made her look like a ghost roaming the streets of the College. Only the colourful embellishments that lined her tunic and skirt hinted that the young woman was very much alive and full of passion for the Mystic arts. She was training to be a healer, and wished to master the full extent of the Original Tongue so that no ailment may evade being vanquished at her hand. Besides her affinity for Mortomancy, the Njord was also skilled with the blade, frequently strapping her dirk to her belt ‘should the need arise’. Indeed, she had been scouted by many prospective adventuring parties for her utility, but declined on the principle of not fighting alongside any but her brother, who still lived in her home at Kviviknes.

Ms. Lillian Kurudel was obsessed with the old 9th Era cowboys of her homeland in the plains of east Pastrier. On some days, she would attend class in a dandy dress, all frills and ribbons and with matching bonnet and umbrella. On other days, she would arrive in riding boots, chaps, a leather vest, bandana, a wide-brimmed hat, and a holstered revolver. (It once occurred to me that I was the only one of my peers who did not come to class fully armed, so I went out and acquired a thin pocket knife to be kept on my person during classes such as this). In any case, the young lady had a passion for the Romantic, delighting in both the levity of Modern literature, and the grandeur of Archaic epic. Many of the College youth sought her hand, but she cared not for the trifles of romance, only for the mystery of the Romantic Ideal. She often met with Yosefin on humid evenings to watch the knights spar and discuss ideas of youth and eternity.

Evidently, in such an eccentric class I felt very comfortable, with my own obsessions for the Archaic and the anachronistic. Sometimes after class we would meet for dinner down on the Boulevard to discuss notions of death and peace or knowledge and memory or health and marriage; always something in conjunction with the other for that is how the Original Tongue is spoken — through conflation: each word is a combination of two basic parts conspiring as one: a verb warped in aspect by a noun, an adjective pre-changed by a verb, two nouns in a dual meaning. We swore to live our lives this way, always in conflation with some ideology or another and never in a consistent union to anything but the Ideal.

Our professor was equally as eccentric and sentimental as the rest of us, and it was into her office that I walked now. Opening the door, I found myself in a room with a low ceiling, with only candles and an old ceramic lamp lighting the frescoed walls. A square desk grasped the centre of the space, its eight, leather clad chairs currently empty. Lining the walls were low wooden book shelves spilling over with bound tomes for all manner of subjects. Pressed up against the far wall, facing a fresco of an ideal youth violently massacring a wolf-cub in spectacular detail, was the desk of one Dr. Keira Sinwer, who now verily sat in her chair, murmuring to herself as she translated. The very sound of the ancient and sacred language seemed to fill the room with a weighty breath, as if the words hung from the ceiling like vines and had to be pushed aside to pass through.

Not noticing me enter, the professor kept her head submerged deep in translation, her silver curls suspended about her head.

Letting out the most melodramatic sigh muster-able by any mortal, I dropped myself into a chair, letting my belongings scatter across the table.

“Life must be difficult for a young student who thinks himself to know everything and have nothing, Enri,” teased the professor, not turning in her seat. “Haven’t you any excitement for the laurels of education to be bestowed upon you without any hardship to earn it?”

“I sigh not for the difficulty of life Dr. Sinwer,” I sighed again, “nor of education, but for the difficulty of Idealism. Just today I have pined and hoped and dreamed, but to have the knowledge that whatever it is that I pine for I shall never have pains me. How unjust! How cruel! Why should I ever long for something that is not mine to long for? I cannot help it and yet — perhaps even therefore — I do. What am I to do with my hope when I know it to be unjust?”

“The best kinds of hope are unjust, my dear boy,” she said, finally turning. Her large spectacles reflected the candle-light in her eyes, so that a crazed look seemed to wash across the Snow Elf’s face in manic inspiration. “It is good to sigh over Ideals left denied. Do not fret over the lesser events — theft, debt, punctuality — but those very things which concern the Cosmos — death, wisdom, passion. That is what is worth sighing for.”

She had lifted herself from her chair by now, pacing across dark, wooden floors in her brilliant green robes. She gestured with her hand as she spoke, holding it in the same form that the ancient orators were depicted, so that with each measured step and word, her hand would brush at the air before her like a painter creating a memory of art.

“Solitude, Enri, is what upholds a person’s passions, and what maintains a person’s memories. To remember amongst the many is to remember not at all, for the social memory can warp the truth withal far stronger than any Mystic. Testimon, that grand and foolish philosopher who perished at the hands of his wife, once said, “Tisi memanderui turbservi mollifer snerty bunfio pleradus.” ‘If one should call upon a memory, let it be brought only through a slave-crowd, who will never repeat the same recollection twice.’ After all, repetition is life’s greatest disappointment, wouldn’t you say? To dream the same dream again would to me be a nightmare, for I would know all the dialogue and yet never have pause from the author. Ah but here is Ms. Kurudel coming down the hall in her spurs. Let us begin.”

Indeed, while the old teacher had been waxing poetic, Gomohaya and Grumhilda had taken up their seats at the table and, just as Dr. Sinwer had identified with her keen ears, Ms. Kurudel came in, her spurs clinking with every step.

With each of us seated at the table, having each shaken hands with the others and made greetings, we began the lesson.

This semester, we would be studying a play by Criones called The Waning of the Sun, a tragedy from the 5th Era about a demigod of legend named Ceyladon, Weaver of Glass. The poor man had received a prophecy in his youth that he would be second only to sky-tearing gods and night-dancing angels but would only be remembered by grass, so that his entire life he went about surpassing all in might and wit but being untold in his glory. To this end, the Thelonic triad came about in their power and might and surpassed him into godhood abounding in poets, thus fulfilling his prophecy. There, the tragedy reaches its climax, where Ceyladon, first of Thelonic Knights, submits himself into the very coven of Kairon Warlocks against which they warred in the hopes of reaching glory. Instead, the demigod, driven mad with power, slaughtered his family and fellow knights on his hallowed ground, transforming himself and them all into pillars of stone. With only one knight being saved by the will of God to be left as witness to the horrific scene, the play ends in a brief dialogue between him and the newly divine Thelon Nehwos, who instructs him to reform the knights and complete the destruction of the Kairon.

In the first lesson, we did no translating, instead discussing the concept of the Narrative Destiny and the difference between a Divine Protagonist and a protagonist of a story or play.

[The Narrative Destiny is a concept which was first coined in the 4th Era which describes a certain mystic state of being wherein the spirit of the Narrator — God — pays especial attention to an event or series of events of certain import to the Divine Paradigm. A Protagonist, therefore, is essentially the ‘main character’ to whom the Narrator and indeed the audience pay close attention to or may even witness the events through. Enri, of course, possesses this Narrative Destiny, although he does not yet know it. A.E. ]

While Ceyladon was a great hero of the 1st Era and the protagonist of The Waning Sun, he simply never could have held the Narrative Destiny, it being foretold that he would be surpassed only by gods, referring of course to Thelonius, who was indeed the Divine Protagonist of the 1st Era.

“Destiny,” began Dr. Sinwer following a brief dialogue between Gomohaya and Grumhilda about the Mystic implications of Narrative Destiny, “is inescapable. In some cases it can be warped or changed by means of Mysticism or miracle, but at the very crux of it, one cannot escape their own fate. It is by God’s will and memory that things can come about, and it is therefore by God’s will and memory that things will come about. Ceyladon could well have hired all the poets and singers he wished, but the Narrative did not belong to him. What is important to remember is that, although he is the subject of the play, he is not at all the hero of the story. His title ‘Weaver of Glass’ is apt not only for his distinct affinity for annihilating his opponents in a storm of glass needles, but also for the invisible nature of his great deeds. Ceyladon was not able to come to terms with his irreklipedas forsem — unrecognised glory — so that he was never able to achieve apotheosis as his demigod cousin Thelonius could.”

Soon enough, the hour came about, and we each twisted our way from the table having marked out the lines that were to be completed by tomorrow’s lesson.

With classes for the day complete, I made my way through the narrow streets and blinding spires of the college until I reached an old building with an ornately carved wooden facade and a sign above the door that read in a sharp serif font: “Lamont’s Cellars, est. 780 Ix.” The shop in question, with tinted windows and a porch on the second floor, was one of the better establishments in the college, providing good drinks and excellent entertainment for its loyal patrons, of whom I am one.

Entering, I was immediately met with the thrilling runs of Il Peruic being played on the piano. Frau Lamont, a giant of a woman with an equally enormous care for her patrons greeted me with such jovial volume that the pianist, Filipe Mazoe, paused his recital to reel from the sound.

With a resounding laugh, Frau Lamont lifted me off the wooden floorboard easily with two hands. “Enri! What such pleasure I have in seeing you again! Welcome back! Have your classes treated you well? Has your home in Ecreslory remained as beautiful as ever? How are your parents? When will that father of yours visit?”

Evidently, I had been visiting Frau Lamont since I had first attended, and indeed when she had discovered that I was the son of her old brother-in-arms, she quickly ensured my continued attendance at the bar by way of employing the young Mazoe to play my favourite arrangements of piano movements from the Imperial Age.

I was utterly barraged with questions, but attempted with some amount of patience — as is required with such overwhelming personalities as Frau Lamont — to respond each. Within minutes, I was seated at my favourite table in the upper gallery, with a small glass of Deran scotch in hand and a plate of ‘Evening Pastries’ as they were so called.

Having now settled in, and with the resumption of music, I allowed myself a moment to gaze out the window at the ‘Duelling Club’ gathering in the park across the street. As the gentlemen lunged at each other, blades clashing with a cunning swiftness, I found myself watching with an intense interest. Having watched the martial prowess demonstrated by the duellers, I am certain that the physique of the modern man has not stagnated into the inertia of lethargy, despite what Ermau Kamix might think about the 10th Era. After all, although the club takes the art of duelling for sport, I am certain that martial war is not the only means to a healthy body.

With my thoughts turned to war, I remembered the journal which I had tucked into my bag this morning and which contained the diaries of Sarochon Kulsun. With renewed excitement, I withdrew the book and resumed my translation:

[Editor’s note: Enri has evidently chosen to translate in the a way that favours style and theme rather than rhythm or literal meaning, so naturally one must take caution in reading his interpretation of the text]

‘Cha pneksi æthi te gieviu cha
huec pseuthe wo shautsū hen giegno
pnæsh chē te vœ te thi te djo pniem.
I en thetsiu djeuc Lihat giegne de
muke pseuthæ chē giegniu sucheu
en pnuec rheuchoik chēn hēroœ chuwiz?’

1. Excerpt from the now lost ‘Epic of Sarochon’

By the side of sky-tearing gods and among the ranks of demigods

There I do call upon the horn-tongued angels to permit me to begin

This song which Blood and God and Prince binds in holy air.

It is in god-touched Lihat that any holy tale must begin, and yet,

Who was it, oh evasive angels, that began that first calling [5]

At the towering senate-house in which those heroes did meet?

For it is only prophets who can inspire such dividing beginnings

Among the councils and armies of men, so that the name

— Oh that terrible name! — could be spoken aloud: Nihilus Brymetheos.

Tell me, angels, how that name could disband families [10]

And undo the identities of gods? For now ill-fated Sarochon,

Youngest and smallest of the Knights of Thelonius,

Will tether the ropes between Divine and Mortal

And thrust Destiny upon the Paradigm of God.

It was Thelonius, King of Kings, that first came to the senate [15]

Carrying an inquiry against death-eyed Nihilus Brymetheos.

Before the council and the warriors and the Ibex and the Kathan,

Addressing all and announcing greatly did that King speak:

“Blessed are you, oh holiest of counsellors, who with fiery speech

Advise the city of God toward glory and divinity. But now a cloud [20]

Hangs over the sacred hill, and the prophets sing of death and godhood.

We have each done our part to fulfill the rites and wash out death

From our clothes and our dreams, but nevertheless bad omens have befallen us.

Though we have desecrated many temples and killed many priests,

We are still clean of such sins, for we did these things in the name of God [25]

And in the name of the city, which is most holy by name and deed.

We knights of Lihat itch not for battle nor glory, but a curse on the city

Stains the very empire which we each swear to protect.

How then, may we defend our city and our spirits from error?”

Nodding in thought was the senate when one and all of them spoke: [30]

“Noble King, your presence in this chamber spills divine light.

We forebode that north, in the lands of Castrix and of Kairon,

Who still clutch at desecrated land with witch-black fingers,

And who snatch up the bones of fallen warriors for the sake of their dark magic,

There does annihilation await you all in the guise of death-eyed Nihilus. [35]

Zhaireb, that fortress which you freed from the Kairon warlock Toloir,

Has befallen injury and ruin at the hands of the Kairon now,

Lest any Castrix take up a military position there. Those warlocks

Inhabit that land now, being more accustomed these days to places

Of ruined and scorched rubble than well-walled cities of stone. [40]

The gods and the soil have directed that the Kairon must be annihilated.

Go there. Make war on the foul people who threaten our state.

And let Ibex, First Mage and Lord of the Mystic arts, establish his school

There, so that evermore it will be a college of the church of Lihat

And a bastion against the terrible abomination that is the Kairon.” [45]

In response spake holy-worded Kathan with gesturing hand:

“The God has truly consecrated you, oh holiest of counsellors,

For your words are truthful, being the words of God.

So we princes three and our knights twelve shall take arms

And go forth to those places where the will of Gods snatches [50]

At the hearts of beasts and men and in the fields and streets

Of nations growing from the shadowed streets of well-walled cities.

But tell us how we should travel to that place which simmers with Fate,

Whether by day or by dusk or by the clandestine creep of night,

Whether by foot or by horse or by bronze-tipped boat on salty wave, [55]

Whether under imperial standard or under holy shield or under Mystic wand.

Of course, what would be the best of these ways by your divine decree,

As spoken by you in this hallowed court and among our dearest friends.”

So then spake Philerix, who had first divined these things to the council:

“Heroic knights and princes of the holy city and the hinterland, [60]

You have done well to protect yourself from ill-deeds passed.

But know that God punishes for deeds yet to be done,

And you each have a destiny yet unfulfilled by neither Seer nor Poet.

I warn you, go to this place along the even sea, lest you find your journey

Impeded by the fiery storm of that most holy Lohacs Mountain [65]

Or by Gehran deserts and skin-ripping sands swept away.

To-morrow, take up by its shaft the imperial standard,

Which now whistles before all the citizens in the forum.

Arm yourselves well, with greaves of bronze and blades of iron.

And stock the bronze-tipped hull of the ships down in the harbour [70]

So that you may round the Kyuerwin Cape and sail north-bound.

Heed the word of neither messenger nor seer as you travel,

Only marking well the words spoken by Ibex himself, who will assign

As your guide into Castrix shores and Kairon hills, his student Sarochon.

He indeed hails from the wine-rich Zhaireb, and will take you there [75]

To that place where once you rescued him from Toloiric clutches.”

Thus he spake, and at last responded many-witted Ibex, first among mages:

“I indeed will prepare my Mantic forces, lest antinomian voices

Hinder us from our most holy task given over by God himself.

We will heed the words and warnings of you all, senators, [80]

And set iron and oak upon the Kairon, who were once teachers to me,

And indeed even to Sarochon. Him I entrust with our guidance,

So that we may board the bronze-painted ships with still minds

And stiller waters, and with hearts aimed to destruction.”

Thus speaking, the meeting became completed, and they [85]

— The senators and the princes and the knights twelve —

Went forth to their shallow quarters and retired to a cosmic sleep,

Since the councils in those ancient days were held in the evening,

When time was narrow and heat was swallowed by the stars,

So that the lengthy speeches of orators and citizens would become bearable. [90]

That next morning…

There I chose to pause. For in fact Filipe had begun to play a nocturne, and the bar-hands had begun to illuminate the room with electric globes that hummed and popped in their casings. Realising the late hour, I decided to finish my meal of salmon on a tomato purée which had been brought to me in my studies, and thereafter return to my apartments.

On the dark waltz home, one could easily make out the hue of industrial light from the cities on the horizon — that of Mevilles to the east and Hellhest to the west.

Though it was early in the week, it was early also in the semester, so the other students were not yet inclined to holing up in offices and studies for the evening. A chill breeze swept through the mud-brick alleys in a way which caused a whistle to blow around every corner, so that one’s attention was drawn this way and that even walking down an empty street. The street lamps now cast long shadows along dusty pavements, so that even as the odd alchemist or Mystic shuffled along clutching at their coat, they seemed to dance with the wind like an ancient choros.

Perhaps by chance, or perhaps simply by virtue of sharing a room, I encountered Pyotr on his own journey home, having spent the entire evening sighing loudly in the courtyard by Yosefin’s house — though once he had realised she was not home, having presumably stayed in the Great Hall after her dinner to debate with a professor about the quantitative arcane value of bismuth or something of the sort, he decided to hang up his proverbial hat and return home.

We decided to split a bottle of cider over dinner as inspiration for the evening’s studies, and indeed we soon found ourselves dancing about and laughing like the leaping priests of Esera, who stomp their feet like hares to rush out the miasma of the day in festive fervour.

Cider-drunk and jovial, we each claimed our desks to a gentle Prelude humming from the gramophone. While Pyotr fiddled with Eugeny’s eyes, I sat and translated the prologue of The Waning Sun, though I must admit that reading it back over now that it is morning, I can find neither sense nor depth in what I wrote.

Nonetheless, with each of us — Carnelius included — having been fed, we dimmed the gas-lamps and shuttered the blinds against the night, so as to shutter the lamp’s gas and dim the night’s light. With sheets abandoned to bed-corners and the window left ajar (the blinds crashed softly with a titter against the frame thanks to the gentle breeze of the night), Pyotr and I stretched ourselves out in our beds, chittering and giggling like song-birds.

Entry 3: 11th day of the month of Arborie, Spring of the year 897 Ibx. 10th Era:

As is common among mage colleges, Daimon was dedicated to lessons on theory. Unfortunately, this did leave a sorrowful smudge upon my timetable, as my sole lecture this morning – Astralism theory– was at the 11th hour. Naturally, I was none too pleased by the early morning on the first day of the week.

Discipline strengthens the mind and affirms the soul. My father would have said. I ceased my protestations and rolled myself out of my bed as silently as possible so as not to wake Pyotr. Daimon was his only day of classes which did not include an early morning, so I did not wish to disturb the poor fellow.

Having crept about through my morning routine, I finally retrieved Carnelius from his slumber and departed for the day. I swept down the flight of stairs to the front door of the terrace, my mocha trench-coat billowing behind me as I rushed out into the street. I had chosen to wear my olive coloured wool suit today, and the coat (which I inherited from my human grandfather, a trophy from a slain corsair in the days when he liberated the eastern Levonic coast of its pirate problem in the 8th century) complemented it well.

[The Elsevier household was well placed in the Ecreslory hierarchy, with much of their fortune being owed to Enri’s grandfather, Benfien. In his youth, the man had been a noble adventurer, going about his deeds without the registration of the empire as an act of defiance against the bureaucracy. Without the heavy taxation of the empire, Benfien built up quite an estate on his travels. By the time the empires fell and the revolutionaries established the Levonic republics in 870, the old man had established no small name foe himself, and was placed as the first Chancellor of Ecreslory. Enri came upon much of this inheritance, including many of Benfien’s more decorative possessions — and what a luxurious taste he had! A. E.]

At far more than a dribble, life had already taken its course through the night-dried rivers of the Academy’s streets. Students thronged in flurries around corners and cafes, clergymen bubbled and gurgled in their prayers, crowds rumbled and roared in the courts before the thrum of the day’s labours.

I scurried my way up the brick steps of the North-Eastern Hill clutching my satchel, which seemed to grow in the heaviness of tomes with each step. The grey grass reached up from its peripheries, welcoming my return to glory. The quick tap tap of my leather boots on the pavement reverberated through the arched colonnade that marked the halfway of the hill.

Behind me, a voice called out, “Enri!” I calmed myself to a halt, twisting to behold Niamh Esmer, my fellow soul mage and cloud elf. “Good mornin’ to ye sir! How goes th’ weather?”

Niamh was in the habit of asking me this, what with the stereotype of cloud elves knowing the weather. She had the archetypal appearance of a Clodalf youth, tall and grey-faced, her raven hair coifed neatly behind her head, and donning a traditional student’s attire — a white tunic under a pale, tasselled cloak that would be marked over time to commemorate key events in her life.

We continued up the hill, recounting our vacations as we went. Niamh had spent her time completing her pathway to spiritual trichotomy — a rite of passage for more orthodox Clodalf in which the individual receives the essence and memories of two ancestors into their soul to guide their way. She promised to show me some of the rites necessary to undergo the process if I was willing.

For my own part, I described the literature I had pursued in my time at home, including Estile Marieve’s Stielheim, a story of an imperial who fled to Korvai, (the land where the hexed fled during the goblin diaspora) and his subsequent struggle to justify his morals to the people there.

We soon found ourselves at the gates of the Elegiad court, huge and Isthral. The frieze upon the towering facade depicted a hunting scene, with herons and panthers decorated in gold and silver leaf.

[Isthra is a precious metal found deep in mines near holy sites across Haestha. It has powerful insulating properties against magic. A very effective door indeed! A. E.]

We proceeded into the central court, and beheld the most magnificent tree. Just as a roaring fire bursts forth from the coals beneath, licking up in a central trunk of swirling heat and billowing out plumes of shadow from its reaches, the Elegiad Elm grasped at the sun with its wrinkled leaves, so that the cobbled stones which it grips tightly as a wand are mottled with morning light, only shaded by the peaceful leaves on high. The court was placid this morning, so that one might hear the drop of a mighty petal from a flower, and look about in time to watch it be scooped up by a creature or some love-sung student, who would take it along to their next class, pinned to their breast.

Finally, we overcame our awe, and the pair of us climbed the steps into our small classroom that had become oh so familiar to us. The room was simple and sterile, to keep the minds of students in focus: only a single granite bench at the front of the room spared space for the few students left in the course; a blackboard was mounted on the wall beyond, and a small wooden desk with few possessions sat before it on a platform; about the room, only low cabinets lined the flat-brick walls, revealing magical trinkets and items for the sharp of mind; finally the majority of the room was reserved for a large astral sigil carved into the wooden floor boards, illuminated by the sun which oscillated under elm-ed shade through the windows.

See, our class only comprised of 10 students. Being such a difficult and time-consuming course, it also came to be that the majority of us came from high standing families that could support the expenses for our studies.

There is of course Carlos Noixe, the Alrean heir to a great silk empire and nephew of the Calik. Indeed, Carlos wore fine and delicate silks and pursued theological studies, frequently quoting The Chronicles of Divinity whenever he could. The young man’s kind eyes were often cast watchfully over crowds, like a shepherd over his flock, a tendency which only rarely explained his affinity for arriving just in time to halt a disaster.

Niamh is a member of House Esmer and was in a position to become a Duchess in her future. House Esmer is well known for its Orthodox practices and outright rejection of external influences — including the current alliance the Clodalf state of Berria has with the Cave Elf empire across the water. Niamh is, as such, highly invested in political matters, though this does not impede her passion for the fine arts. The walls of her home are a bounty of modern art, her collection being worth enough to make the college gallery gape.

Besides myself, there were three other Levonic students in the class. Charles Crigex, Pierre Moren, and Vivienne Minieux. The Crigex family has a monopoly on commercial alchemy in the Western Hemisphere, and the Moren family were luxury designers of mage robes, and so Charles and Pierre strutted about campus in their pristine dress shirts and powdered faces, looking down upon their peers from heeled boots. The only person that the boys accepted into their circle was Vivienne, whose family produced the finest wands in all the republics (her wand was ashen white, with a silver cap at the base and a gorgeous Elven floral design). The three of them fell subservient only to cigarettes and sex, both of which they frequently shared between themselves — and only themselves.

Somewhat more controversial, at least to my father’s mind, was the presence of Ier Erke Xammar, the daughter of Baron Soren Erke Xammar II. The Erke Xammar house were a more recent addition to the Pastrieran nobility, having themselves immigrated from the homeland of their nomadic people, the Harak Khan. Upon arrival in the West, Soren I established his own city on a plot of land he won in a duel, thus beginning the new fate of fortune for his lineage. Ier shares the grey complexion, round features, and silent disposition of her people, but lacks not —though others of her kind do — in her mana reserves. Ier was born under the star sign of the dark magus during a shadowed moon, causing her soul to abnormally plentiful, even for a human. As a result, the young noblewoman was raised with reminders of her inescapable fate and her inspiring soul, leading a profound interest in astronomy and astralism.

[Editor’s note: Enri’s father finds Ms. Erke Xammar’s attendance controversial due to a long standing feud between the Harak Khan and their neighbours, including the Cloud and Cave Elves. During the 7th era, a demigod known as The Grey Prince of Storms, or Harak, caused a mana storm that greyed the skin and muddled the souls of all those it enclosed, including the peoples of the Cloud, Mountain, and Cave elves, the Orcs and Goblins, the Patharaka, and the Argalt.
While the Patharaka and many Argalt rejoiced in this storm, being freed from the astral serfdom they had been subjected to, the elves suffered greatly under Harak. Due to the traditional elven method of magic being somewhat volatile already, many souls were destroyed instantly.
Eventually, a Clodalf hero named Tripa and a Cevalf hero named Urpa defeated Harak in an epic battle, and the storm subsided. The storm had permanently altered the astral signature of those effected, and left their skin greyed. Since those days, Tripa and Urpa became heavily integrated into the ancestral worship of the central elves, and many of the Patharaka and Argalt named themselves Khan, or children, of Harak.]

The other three students in our class each originated from the southern trading islands of Alrean occupied Hallad, Sea Elven Eleusis, and the trade and guild lands of the Frieres archipelago, respectively.

Biruk Elalsha comes from the historic city of Old Hallad, where his family have mined Isthra since the 3rd Era. The young man was rather fanatical about hunting, and often attended classes in hunting jackets or leather coats — his spoils of war. Carlos once reported that Biruk had confessed to him his love for soul magic came from a desire to see a death deeper than the physical.

Finally, Usirmeno Falaxides and Maria Perrandez were each heirs to trade empires of the seas to the east and west of the Great Continent. A prophecy in the vaults of the holy city of Lihat foretold their union, combining the two families through a naturally formed soul bond between the two youths. As such, they are betrothed in both name and deed, lacking only the official ceremony to mark their union. Usirmeno and Maria’s combined fates and souls sparked an interest in them for the more absurd phenomena of the soul, and often seek to witness as many spiritual marriages as possible.

Usirmeno was a quiet, well mannered boy, with the deep green complexion of a northern Sea Elf. His long silvery hair was always tied up in a top bun, revealing his long ears which tapered to two distinct tips. He bore on his wrist the scales of a black and gold sea snake grafted into his skin — a rite of passage for Sea Elves of all stock. Due to the death of his mother last year, he wore a washed denim jacket dyed in red coral to mark his mourning and a silver coin amulet around his neck to ensure her passage into the afterlife.

Maria was highly animated, in her own lady-like way. She could talk for hours on any topic mentioned, and often did — much to Usirmeno’s joy. Most days they would sit and people watch while they read or while Maria explained the intricacies of photosynthesis or experimental hyper-focused wards. The heiress always wore the dandiest of clothes — summer-y walking jackets and feathered hats — often at the detriment to her mobility.

In any case, Niamh and I claimed our seats at the bench. Biruk and Carlos were already seated, and were currently discussing the invasion from the north and south of the Hallad islands. Meanwhile, Charles stood at the window, his one hand in his waistcoat with the other smoking a cigarette, the line of smoke reaching out to cut across the far off river.

By the time the cigarette was ash on the sill, the entire class had convened, seated at our desks. Soon enough, we were standing once more to herald the entry of our good teacher.

Dr. Afir was a muscled Alrean man, with long mustachios and an unremittingly grave expression. The professor dressed in an almost militant garb, with clean cut linens and a long coat with golden lining. At his waist would always sit a curved sword in its sheath known as a Shemiir.

Carved into the ivory hilt and bronze blade of a Shemiir blade is a poem from an ancient prophet of Sojer and a promise of devotion made by the bearer. At the end of their education, a Sojeric mystic (the forefather of Carlos’ religion of Ynx mysticism) would devote themselves to protecting an ideal, and would only draw their sword in either protection of the ideal, or in solemn defeat of failure to do so.

Sometime last year, Pierre decided swords would be the newest piece of high-end wizard fashion. He began to don a rapier on his belt as he went about his classes on campus — and an exquisite one at that. Dr. Afir would often glare daggers into the fool during class-times, and even made remarks to Carlos and Biruk in Old Veld, much to their secretive amusement. During the last week of classes, Ier challenged Pierre to a duel, in which he instantly lost, falling to the Khana’s quick and clever manoeuvres of the blade. Needless to say he did not find rapiers quite so attractive after that.

Once he arrived at the front of the class, Dr. Afir surveyed the room through his spectacles with satisfaction. Finally, he nodded, and turning, said, “Please be seated and take to opening Iravais’ On Systems of the Aether.”

We each scrambled into our seats, reaching for our fountain pens and books as the professor began scratching an equation onto the blackboard. Without much room for pause, we immediately began to investigate the information exchanges between the physical realm and the aether, and the dynamics that it poses for mystic and aethereal mages.

The aether, being the categorical expression of reality which ‘retains’ in the simplest terms all knowledge past and future. For mystics, the aether is exploited to gain and manipulate information. Aetherists are more concerned with how this information is expressed to a human soul, asking such questions as, “does the aether have a language, and is it the Original Tongue?” or “why did early Hominids develop the capacity to connect to the aether?”

By the end of the class, we had entirely deconstructed our understanding of basic metaphysics. We were also assigned some “light reading” as Afir put it, meaning in truth complex metaphysical scholarship and dense scientific literature.

As we all departed, Dr. Afir nodded to each of us, promising to see us two days hence on Daihumet for our practical lesson on aethereal magic.

After our lessons, we would often convene in the common room in the north-west corner of the Elegiad Court to recline. The room was an adequate space, with windows that looked on one side upon the Elegiad Elm and on the other upon the viaduct to the north-western hill. The midday light illuminated the leafy wallpaper, which sat behind wooden antiques and velvet lounges. Upon the sandstone mantel sat a majestic painting of Exian Kovach, an old Chancellor of the college. He stood by a desk, one hand clutching an old-fashioned cane-wand, and glaring down upon the recliners about the fireplace below him as if to say ‘haven’t you anything better to do?’

In fact, we hadn’t. With most of us not having any more theory classes to attend, we each made our way into varying degrees of reclination. Maria leapt right to the small piano pressed against the wall and began to play an upbeat melody as Pierre went and fixed himself a cup of tea at the small cabinet in the corner. Meanwhile, Charles lit a cigarette, claiming a tall chair that looked out on the fields to the north. The rest of us took up positions around the hearth, and soon enough Biruk and Niamh were playing a game of chess.

Given its proximity to so many classrooms, it was surprising that so few students utilised Elegiad’s common room. We typically had the space to ourselves, especially on Daimones.

Today, we were joined only by a young Lunalf woman, whose pale silver hands were frantically flitting through reams of paper strewn across the dining table in the southern vestibule of the common room.

Usirmeno leaned over to me and whispered, “That’s Seon Jeru, president of the Cartography Society. Apparently their archive has maps as old as the 5th Era. Maria and I have been considering the joining of a particular adventuring party known as El Chito Eiro. I have a feeling that a dungeon map from her may be our way in…”

He rose from the couch and twisted his way into a seat on an old wooden bench. Curious, I pursued, lingering somewhat at the far corner of the table. Usirmeno began his proposal:

“Excuse me, I would like one of your dungeon maps. I will give you a hefty sum of cash in exchange. What say you?”

A concerned expression washed across Seon’s face. (Admittedly, he is not very skilled in the mercantile arts.)

Scowling, she said, “I beg your pardon sir, but these maps are not at all for sale. Please take your money elsewhere.”

Just as Usirmeno motioned to leave, I made my move.

“Perhaps you’re willing to trade a copy of one in exchange for something other than money? Perhaps, a promise?” I suggested.

Seon frowned once more. “A promise? Who do you take me for, a schoolgirl?” She paused. “… Perhaps we can trade something, however. Suppose I give you one of these maps. I would like a 30% cut. That seems fair doesn’t it? There are three of us here after all…”

Usirmeno shook his head in disapproval. “I need those maps to get myself into an existing party, I can’t make any promises like that.”

“But perhaps I can,” I said, grinning. “I can even provide a further deal for you. I am forming a small party of my own. Provide us two maps, and I will register you as a member. Adventurer’s rights, an even cut of the spoils, and a good amount of glory, with absolutely no risks. Final offer.”

“I suppose that the travel benefits of an adventuring license would far outweigh the risk of—”

“Of earning money all cosy in your apartment? Yes.” Usirmeno interrupted.

In any case, we spent the next hour discussing the terms of our agreement, and as the last of our class dwindled away (Niamh won the game of chess and Charles had smoked 3 different cigarettes) we completed the trade. At some point, Maria had finished her private concerto for the common room and had joined us at the table to watch the exchange. As it turned out, Seon was also a well trained mystic mage, being currently an apprentice to one of the professors at the academy. It seems to me she may turn out even more valuable than just her cartography in providing us some foreknowledge on our adventures.

By the end of the hour, the president and I were shaking hands over the freshly copied maps of two dungeons in the Mevilles foothills to the north.

Stuffing the one paper in my bag and handing Usirmeno the other, I excused myself and left Elegiad court altogether. As I descended the steps of the north-east hill, I congratulated myself on a job well done, and noted to give the new plans (and the news of our new member) to Estoban.

Seon had transcribed the maps using a mystic spell known as ‘transcript’, a spell which I was all too familiar with due to my time volunteering at the Mevilles City Museum and Gallery’s archives. Indeed, that was where I was headed now, intending to catch a train city-ward.

After a brief visit to my vacant apartment, where I relieved myself of the burdens of my textbooks and Carnelius (animals are not allowed in the archives), I returned to my procession to the train station.

Today’s locomotive (all things being in good order) would be a sleek black machine, entirely powered by magic with all-new Academy engineering.

Having purchased my ticket at the station, I investigated the notice-board — always a good thing to do as a student with plenty of free time. Besides the odd announcement of orchestral concerts or small band performances in some backwater bar, there were two fresh, government issue posters:

NOTICE: DUE TO RECENT PLUNDERING OF TEMPLE VAULT,
ALL BUILDINGS ON CAMPUS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED
BY ORDER OF MAYOR MARCUS DELIUS.
SEARCH WILL BEGIN ON 14th OF ARBORIE.
PLEASE COMPLY WITH AUTHORITIES DURING THIS TRYING TIME.

WANTED: AUGUSTUS XIRFIRE.
DO NOT APPROACH. HIGHLY DANGEROUS INDIVIDUAL.
IF SEEN ALERT AUTHORITIES IMMEDIATELY.

At the mention of the Temple attack, my breathing quickened and my vision grew blurry. I had the clarity to recognise my soul begin to falter somewhat at the edges before…

Blinking, I found myself aboard the train, already halfway through the journey to Mevilles proper. I figure that following my soul somehow… assumed control over my body in an act of perseverance. An act which it then promptly forgot…

Looking out the window, I saw that we were still progressing through the national forest between Mevilles and the Academy.

With an hour left until arrival, I hunkered myself down into my seat. Inverting my attention inwards, I began to attempt manual repairs to my soul.

Mevilles city was often called the capital city of the aesthete in the west. With its glimmering monuments and abundance of artists, it truly lived up to its name. With Mevilles Castle sitting up cliff-high lake-side, our train chugged its way through the heart of the city, past splendid shopfront and roaring hotel lobby, where the artist — having already completed his commission for the morning — now caroused, enjoying the not-so-gentle extravagancies of the new world, free of imperial levies.

Over and across the way, a wizard shakes hands with her business partner at a street-corner cafe, no doubt concocting a new contract for her conceptual magic services, or perhaps she was purchasing a new studio apartment from which to go about her experiments in the absurd and divine. These tall buildings lined the streets, which as such reached high like canyons into the sky. Those plaster facades, with their great marble friezes, hid the powerful and the viced, the impoverished and the enlightened all the same.

Aboard the train, two lovers giggled and canoodled in the next booth, the sounds of their joy carrying across the rest of the car. They had been on a summer vacation in Ecreslory, where they had enjoyed the canals and the riviera. Now, they would return to their jobs operating the telephone lines that run along the streets, connecting citizens via electrical signal across great distances. For now, they enjoyed the last moments of their holiday, reminiscing on their time together, hand in hand.

Finally, as we pulled in to Grand Central Station, a hush fell about the carriage. Before our very eyes, the city-scape transformed, and an illusion formed around the entire train. Beyond the panes, millions of stars floated in formations about us, as if we were soaring through the open skies. As we finally pulled in to the platform, which was suspended amidst the constellations, hoards of people jostled off the train and made their way up the stairs which led to gates fashioned in the style of the portal doors of yore to create the impression of stepping between realms.

Beyond these gates, the grand concourse welcomed the people of Mevilles city. A huge brass dome rose up above marble colonnades. Affixed into the ceiling were depictions of constellations, with small circular windows at each star that lit up the mosaic floor in a haze of colour and motion. The citizens of Mevilles shuffled about the space in droves, queue-ing at tram terminals or congregating at ticket booths to be served by people in uniforms of brilliant blue.

Having weaselled my way through the crowd, I arrived at Mevilles city’s immortal ‘Central Square’. At the very epicentre of all Mevilles was Central Square, a large cobbled space colonnaded by trees and flanked on all sides by public buildings. To the north, where I stood, Grand Central Station. Opposite me, a monument to Levonic history and culture, was Mevilles National Art Gallery, sporting a classic botanical frieze and bronze statues of great historic artists from Mevilles. In the east was the Veriki Monument; glittering with ten glass ‘pillars’ that arced to an apex at the centre and a much older conical stone structure in the within, the Monument was an ancient temple to Thelonius, and during the Festival of Glass attracted many worshipers from the south and east. Beyond and through the glass one could see the entire length of the Primary Parade, which stretched all the way along to Mevilles Castle, now transformed into a museum in collaboration with the National Gallery. To the west, with its sturdy brick facade, was City Town Hall, containing the Senate House and the Starik Office, where the President and her advisors would meet daily to discuss the matters of state. At the forefront of Town Hall was a magnificent marble stele depicting a funeral procession, beneath which was affixed a bronze plaque of the constitution — the Levonic Memorial, a monument to all those who fell revolting against the empire.

I paused a moment to take in the view and watch the Mevilles socialites stroll about the reflecting pool at the centre of the Square, each one a thin mimicry of the other in their high collared shirts and feathered hats.

Circumnavigating the perimeter of the Square, I let myself in to the back door of the Gallery and proceeded down into the basement.

Within, I was met with dry and dark tunnels of shelves. Shelves and shelves and shelves for what seemed to be endless leagues and across several levels of basement. Sighing at the thought of the enormous task ahead of me, I navigated my way towards the main office of the archives nearer to the front of the building. The office was always a mess, despite (or perhaps because of) its proximity to the archives, with piles of books, papers, and (shamefully) a small selection of artefacts that certainly belonged on a shelf somewhere.

There, I found Thibault Caphon, the primary archivist in the city, surrounded by his collection of reports and archival notes at the desk in the window from the main chamber. He was an older Tarrinian man, with greying hair, wrinkled skin, and spectacles that hung about his neck. Today, as he always did, he wore a bright yellow robe, its long sleeves wrapped up around his fore-arms. I cleared my throat, drawing his attention away from the extensive map he had collated of the archive. Looking up, a smile crept across his face and a chuckle rose from his throat. He lifted a gnarled finger a wagged it at me playfully.

“Ah, Enri, so you have decided to return to my dungeon! You will face me for the last time!” He shouted, leaping up, and with a flourish he procured his wand and cast a spell at me.

Instinctively, I erected a hasty ward…

…and watched as flurries of harmless vapour caught in the seams of the spell, trickling down its front and onto the floor.

I scowled at Thibault, his laughter now rising to new heights. This wasn’t the first time he tried catching me off guard, but he had still never lain a spell on me.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Caphon,” I said, composing myself (composure is the warrior’s greatest weapon in the words of my father) and ignoring entirely his foolish idea of a welcome, “how may I be of assistance in the archives today?”

Still bent over in laughter, the senile archivist said, “it is good to see you too, Enri! Thank you for your help. Would you please begin transcribing the files in basement three?”

Nodding, I turned and left the office and its sole inhabitant. Mr. Caphon had taken me on board his extensive archival project when I first came to Mevilles as an old friend of my father, who had written to him of my interest and capability in such matters. The project involved the texts of the archive onto safer paper which could then be used by visitors to the museum and gallery, and thus far our joint efforts had resulted in the transcription of just about every text in basements 1 and 2. Now, I was to move on, much to my anticipation to basement — historic texts of the 1st-3rd eras.

Having arrived in the sterile and shadowed chamber, I collected for myself a trolley and began my work. In essence, I made my way along each shelf, carefully removing texts from their positions and casting the ‘transcription’ spell — thus copying entire texts at a time. With the help of a ring of transcription and a mana battery, I was typically able to complete about a cabinet an hour at little to no cost to my personal magical reserves.

However, I had entirely forgotten the nurse’s orders from yesterday not to cast any spells, and found myself tiring much quicker on account of my weaker constitution (and a possible leakage of my mana reserves).

Eventually, I conceded to my weakness and found a seat. The archives have an array of viewing rooms at one end of each level, which I decided to take advantage of and went in to. The space was stark white and totally featureless besides a table and a setting of chairs from which one might view an object or book laid out before them.

Collapsing into a chair, I let out a breath of relief. Having been on the move all day, I had hardly given myself any kind of respite, and now, with early evening approaching (at least by my watch’s mark) I was finally giving myself a moment of rest.

Growing somewhat bored, I fiddled with the fobs on my watch chain: a diptych locket of my parents in their portraits; the interlocking key symbol of my father’s ancient house in Berria; a featureless bronze circular charm of good fortune known as a ‘Kourix’, and; a small coin enchanted with a soul ward. Fingering the Kourix in my hand, I began looking about the room when something caught my eye.

The wall opposite the door appeared to have a broken skirting board. For whatever reason, I felt compelled to investigate it, as if it had a strong mystical or aethereal presence (which we had just today learnt of).

I looked about myself with some degree of sheepishness, hoping not to be seen investigating a broken skirting of all things. Satisfied that nobody was about, I rose from my chair and knelt down near the broken board. The wood appeared to have mildewed somewhat due to mistreatment (or simply by exceptional level of age), and even at a touch it dissolved quite rapidly. Behind it, there appeared to be a small recess and within it I discovered to my amazement…

An old book!

By the state of it, it appeared to have been in there at least for the past century or even two, which may indicate it had been hidden there during the early years of imperial occupation in 700 Ibx., sealed in to the wall by previous keepers of the museum. Many of the pages had been torn out or even entirely destroyed by some disaster or another, but from what I could see, it appeared to be written by hand, rather than by type, in the Original Tongue (the ancient language of western mystic and divine spells and texts).

My heart began to beat with excitement at this new discovery of mine. What could be written in these pages that was so important, so fundamentally dangerous, that someone had decided to hide it?

In an act of defiance that almost surprised me, I stuffed the old book into my satchel.

Having thereby caught my proverbial breath, I returned to archiving. For another few hours, I transcribed pages and pages of text, but none could draw my mind from the book in my bag, which seemed now far far heavier than ever before. It seemed to pulsate with such an essence that nothing in the world could have been more important. Before long, I decided to finish my duties in the archives, and bidding farewell and adieu to Monsieur Caphon, I handed him the reams of copied paper and departed.

The train home seemed to be so excruciatingly slow that I wished I had chosen to learn teleportation over warding when I was given the chance.

In any case, with the evening sky now blue as the deep ocean or dark as a fatal river, I returned to the Academy and raced across the campus back to my apartment. Within, I found Carnelius, who psychically scorned me for abandoning him, and Eugeny, who did no such thing.

Ignoring both, I leapt into my desk chair and opened the first page for translating. After a brief questioning of syntax and a good second trying to separate names from common nouns, I had discovered with beating heart what I believed to be the title of this book:

Welcome, dear reader, to the good and honest diaries and letters of Sarochon Kulsun, who, during the 1st Era served as the first student and ward of the great Primamagus Ibex. These are his great insights into the lives of the Triumvirate, their allies, their enemies, and their plentiful and truthful wisdoms.

Now I frantically write out all of this in my diary, so that my re-discovery and translation of this knowledge may be properly documented for historians to come.

Ah, but here is Pyotr with what appears to be dinner. Until tomorrow, dear journal! Farewell…

Entry 2: 10th day of the month of Arborie, Spring of the year 897 Ibx. 10th Era:

As I opened my eyes this morning, I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a strange chamber.

The room was large and bare, with sun-stripped brick walls and iron rafters. The morning sun provided warmth and rejuvenation to my soul. Beside me, I heard a voice.

“Thrice blessed are you friend,” said Estoban, with his handsome face and kind eyes.

He explained to me me that I was in the infirmary at the Academie de Mevilles, and that I had been unconscious for two days. He also said that I had damaged my soul, and would be unable to cast spells for at least a week.

This was a concern most mages faced when undergoing soul magic training. Therefore, there were very many safeguards that students implemented before even beginning. I had bypassed all of these safeguards when I overstretched my soul, at the possible detriment of any future spellcasting.

[For those of you hoping to locate the infirmary, it is one block south from town square. The building takes up an entire block of its own, a size which is to be expeced at a mage’s college — consider how many students may suffer from a botched “levitate” spell on the daily! A.E.]

Despite my injuries, he praised my actions, which had helped the Temple begin tracking down the criminals who had attacked the Pentacle Court.

A chill fell upon the room as images of the attack returned to my mind. Two birds. A wizard. An airship. A disc.

“Say, what was that disc they took?” I asked.

“That was the Divine Astrolable of Cosmic Thelonius. It has been protected in the Temple vaults since time immemorial.”

“An astrolable? What would a criminal wizard want with such a thing?”

“The Astrolable is strong in mystic power. It’s supposed to have channeled and stored the power of the prophetic constellations in the 3rd Era. I doubt there’s a more powerful artefact in all of Mevilles. Sister Diana thinks they intend to use it as a magical power source. I figure it shouldn’t be difficult to find someone using so much mystic energy.”

“Certainly, you’d be correct in thinking that if it weren’t for Augustus Xirfire, the soul wizard working with them.”

Estoban tilted his head in curiosity as he often would when I explained magic theory.

“The size of his antimagic field was astronomical. In order to induce one that large, one’s skill would have to be infallible and one’s mana reserves enormous. He is a powerful ally indeed, and will likely be able to counteract the residual emmissions the astrolable may give off. It’ll be impossible to find them off of ambient mana alone.”

Estoban deflated slightly at this, before appearing to consider something. Suddenly, he sat up with a smile.

“Say, I was thinking…” he began with a pause. All the while my heart leapt into my chest and a chill ran through my body. “I was wondering if you’d like to join my party?”

My hands trembled under the infirmary sheets. “Sorry?” I asked, giddy with the thought of joining Estoban anywhere.

“Well, yesterday I dialled up my mother on the college telephone. She’s an administrator at the Adventurer’s Guild in Mevilles city, approves quests for guild members. She often has spare resources to grant to non-members and their quests, and so I asked her if she would help me track down these villains.”

“And she agreed?”

“Er- not exactly. It was an ambitious request to start with, so she told me she’d give me the resources for smaller quests that might prove helpful. I’m also permitted a small party to join me, and I was wondering if you would join me? And perhaps, since I’m not as well connected as you, you could help me find others to include in our party?

“None of the paladins would be interested, and even if they were, the church recommends against having too many paladins in a party, since they’re a lot more valuable to them than mages or more basic martial adventurers.”

My heart beat so fast it could almost tear out of my chest.

“But of course! I would be honored! Now, as for who ought to be in the team…”

For the rest of the morning we discussed what kind of skillsets we wanted in our party, and who would best suit those skillsets. We agreed to reconvene later in the week to discuss further.

By noon, the healers at the infirmary allowed me to return to my apartment, instructing me not to overextend myself in magic until my soul completely repaired itself.

As I walked home, the now grey skies opened up, letting out a light sprinkle of rain. Raising my wand, I cast a weak plane of force spell over myself, creating a sort of magical shield above myself to deflect the rain.

Carnelius burrowed himself into the inner pocket of my suit jacket, entirely displeased by the rain. He had sat patiently by my side the entire time I was unconscious, and was now eager to return home.

When I returned to my apartment, Pyotr was seated at his old wooden stool, with Eugeny’s back panel open before him. Pyotr’s hands were deep inside the automaton’s torso, fiddling with a set of gold wires feeding into his ‘heart’. Hearing me enter, he turned around with excitement.

The young Kussite was of a stockier build than I, and his face much paler and rounder. His black hair was tied back, showing his luminous silvery eyes. He wore, as was his custom, a plain but good quality shirt and brown leather jacket, and protected his fingers with leather work gloves.

I had hardly closed the door to the apartment when he beamed at me and eagerly announced, “Eureka, Enri! You wouldn’t believe it! I’ve just cracked a way to maintain a weak shield around Eugeny harnessing ambient mana alone! The spell won’t take any power to sustain at all because it will be self-maintaining!”

At this he procured an object from the workbench behind him. The object was a golden sphere about the size of his palm and with a thin groove running along its bisect. With a thin surge of electromagnomantic energy from Pyotr, the runes along the sides of the sphere glowed blue with magic. An electromagnetic field began to form around the sphere, and I recognised this effect as a simple shielding spell. However, once Pyotr stopped funneling magical energy into the sphere, the spell effect continued to be powered by the ambient mana in the space of the room. Pyotr had achieved a thoroughly impressive feat, to say the least.

I nodded to him, smiling. “And a good morning to you Pyotr! I’ve just returned from the infirmary, where I have been comatose for the last two nights. I appreciate your concern.”

Pyotr only frowned at this. Switching off the orb entirely, he went back to attempting to affix it to the inner core of the automaton.

“I noticed you simply unpacked your belongings on the floor of our room before you left, Enri. While you were in the infirmary, I took the time to return them to their rightful places. Please excuse me if they are not in their correct places, since I completed this task from my memory of how you had everything last semester.” The young engineer responded, perhaps with a tone of bitterness.

I took myself over to my lodging to find that Pyotr had indeed replaced all of my clothes and books exactly as I had had them before I left for the spring. I realised that my astral servant that I had summoned before departing for the temple must have been dispelled when the wizard created that antimagic field. I promptly apologised to Pyotr for this and thanked him for his kindness.

Now I sit at the desk in my apartment, writing a recount of the desecration of the temple and my morning exactly as I remember it. I also have begun planning how my week ought to look using the timetable Pyotr had so kindly collected for me from my mail.

Carnelius, for his own part, had already leapt into his enclosure, and was heating his naturally cold blood on the magically warm sands of his domicile. Evidently, the lizard is far less diligent than I am.

As I peruse my timetable, I am pleased to see the schedule of classes and lessons I have arranged for the coming week. On Daimon, I will have only one class, a lecture on soul magic. This day is typically reserved for magic theory across most institutions of learning.

On Dailunn, the second day of the week, I will have two classes in history, the first being a lecture and the second being a lesson in the museum. I have chosen to study the history of the first era for this semester. After these classes, I will have a lesson in the Original Tongue, which will occur at the same time thrice a week. It is yet uncertain what text we will be translating this semester, so I eagerly await this class.

On Daihumet, the third day of the week, I will have a training lesson in astral manipulation, followed by my lessons in Eldfe, the ancient language of the elven ancestors. These lessons will also occur at the same time thrice a week, after which I will attend my Original Tongue seminar.

On Daielen, I will continue my training in soul bonds, followed by the triweekly Eldfe and Original Tongue lessons.

Finally, on Daikhan, the last Eldfe lesson of the week will mark the end of my lessons for this ten-day period. Following this is a five-day weekend on the days of Daicosm, Daisoj, Daibexi, Daitehl, and Daijere. This will be a well-deserved break after a busy week of classes and lessons.

Meanwhile, Pyotr has activated a sigil on Eugeny’s chest, which has since begun playing a soft jazz tune which the radio presenter identified as ‘Haunted Heart’. The music reverberates throughout the room, bouncing off of the wooden floorboards. Pyotr hums along happily, attempting to follow along with the runs of the piano with his left hand while he scans an engineering document with his right.

This evening, Archmage Norel Visk, the Headmaster of the Academie will hold a great banquet for all returning students, and will likely acknowledge the tragedy that indeed occurred at the temple during his opening remarks for the semester. Expect to be hearing my thoughts in the next entry.

In the meantime, I might go have myself a dance to this easy listening.

Entry 3: 10th day of the month of Arborie, Spring of the year 897 Ibx. 10th Era:

Pyotr and I made our way together towards the Great Hall for the orienation banquet this evening. I wore dress robes, as usual – my black suit (kindly freshened up by the holy magic of Estoban while I was abed in the infirmary) with a black mage robe. Pyotr wore a traditional Kussite long coat of black, embroidered with spiral patterns at the hem.

This was a special night for the entire town, and all the townsfolk of the college village were preparing for a small-scale festival that would take place overnight following the banquet. Many wore their best attire for the evening, with most donning a suit of some kind.

Built at the opening of the Academy in 813 Ibex, the hall is a large brick building nestled in the valley of the northwestern and southwestern hills. The great hall is actually one of three halls within a larger building known as College Hall. This building is the pride of the Academie, being a large rectangular structure of sandstone bricks enclosing two central courtyards split by the Great Hall; the structure was topped by a grand clocktower in its front and an observatory in its back, each centred either end of the Great Hall’s roof.

At the strike of the 19th hour on my pocket watch, we made our way into the Great Hall. The inner confines of the hall was a sight to behold, with tall ceilings and gorgeous wooden panels lining the walls, from which paintings of old headmasters and alumni hung. At the end of the hall opposite the grand doors from which we filed in was a platform upon which could be seen a large throne of yew wood flanked by 3 smaller thrones on each side. These seats were reserved for the board of studies – the Archmage and a number of other pompous and honourable wizards. Along the floor and in the gallery above, long tables were placed with benches and lined with fine cutlery. Along the lengths of the tables stood silver candelabras, and perched on the walls were gaslamps carved of painted copper to appear as wizards and magical creatures magically lighting the room. From the tall ceiling, hanging in the spaces between the rafters, were chandeliers – enormous and bright, and adorned with crystals from across the republic. In the gallery above the archmage’s throne, an organ resonated with an upbeat tune that gave the entire hall a jovial atmosphere. The space was already abuzz with sonorous conversation, as over 2000 students and academics began to fill the benches within.

Each person wore their formal clothes, and each one was different from the last. While most wore formal suits and evening gowns, often with a modern mage robe on top, many chose to wear the traditional unisex mage robes of yore, with its embroidered star and moon patterns and pointed hats. Many others wore formal attire more suited to the west coast of the Great Continent, with top hats and jackets with long coat-tails. Others still wore the formal robes of their homeland, with a great many of them donning long robes and cloaks in a multitude of colours.

The paladins and clergy, all of whom were seated at the foremost table, wore their heavy plate armour, which they adorned with vestments of white and pale blue cloth. They all appeared to be in mourning, with many of them wearing heavy cloaks of dark wool fastened by a brass brooch effigy of a flower with a snapped stem – the Thelonic symbol of sorrow. I spotted Estoban in the crowd, but he seemed deep in philosophical discussion with a teacher of the Word, so I could not greet him.

Pyotr and I parted ways at the door, with each of us having to turn to our own tables to join the peers of our respective schools of magic. I found myself seated next to Carlos Noixe, my peer in soul magic at the academy. Tonight, the bearded young mage from the sacred lands of Alreab in the south had chosen to wear a fine white suit and a golden half-cape that he bunched into his left fist. Just as we were about to engage in a discussion on the effectiveness of using incense to induce an astral awakening, we were interrupted by a sudden change in the organ’s tone from joyful to grand. A hush gathered among the students.

Everyone turned in their seats to behold the Archmage enter the Great Hall and the board of studies trail in behind him. Headmaster Norel Viriask was, fitting to his status, a rather regal man. Standing tall and proud, he did not shy away from his Argalt heritage, which granted him, as a result of the long passed storm of the Grey Prince Khan that cursed his Thielen ancestors, purple-grey skin and black hair which now silvered with age above the ears. Many believed him to be at least a millenium old, as was common for powerful wizards, and his deep-set eyes showed wisdom beyond measure, from what I could remember from my interview now three years past. For the most important night of the year, the Archmage wore his most official robes: a large hooded robe of white silk and gilded in gold; hanging from his shoulders were the ceremonial Enmvah, a thin scarf and cloth pauldrons which matched the robe in fabric and colour. In his hand he gripped a staff made of mithral-tipped ash wood topped with a small bell – the Oncovayre, a staff extremely well known for its immense power. The board of studies, trailing behind him in equally formal and fine robes, took their seats on the stage in solemn silence.

[It is worth noting, for those unfamiliar, the heirarchical nature of wizard society. At the most basic level are mages, students of magic with skill levels that range anywhere between novice and adept; a graduate of any magic college is considered an adept mage, while new students are considered novice mages. Adept mages are permitted to practice magic professionaly, but must pay a tax to the council of archmages. Enri is in his third year of university, which means he is a ‘Penult’ mage. Next are the apprentice mages. While still technically mages, these students of magic are of a higher standing to others, as they are under the tutelage of an official wizard of the academic system. Only once such a student has completed their apprenticeship at the discretion of their master, they are considered a wizard themselves. Wizards are exempt from magic tax, and obviously may also take up apprentices or employ mages to do their bidding. Particularly exceptional wizards may be promoted to a council of nine wizards counsellors of which there are nine situated across the globe. From the nine councils, one member is elected as the chair and is thereafter placed on the council of Archmages, the highest rank that a mage may reach. The Honourable Norel Visk is one such Archmage, being the representative of the Northern Council. A.E.]

As all settled in to their seats, having been signalled to sit by the conclusion of the organ’s music, the Archmage climbed behind his throne to the lectern, which stood some metres taller than the stage and upon the frieze of which was engraved the image of a griffin in battle with a large lizard-like creature. Leaning forward upon the lectern, the Archmage began the speech that would mark the commencement of a new year of education at the Academie de Mevilles.

“Bonsoir, students and esteemed members of the clergy,” he began. “I am Archmage Norel Visk, Headmaster of the Academie, and it is with a heavy heart that I stand before you tonight.

“As you are all aware, our beloved temple was the target of a vicious attack two evenings past. In the midst of our sacred court, a group of masked assailants, led by the wizard Augustus Xirfire, committed a heinous act of theft and murder. They shattered the window depicting Thelonius’ apotheosis and cast an antimagic field, rendering our spells and incantations useless.

“In the face of this great evil, we were fortunate to have brave students like Julia Theron, who stepped forward to defend our temple with honour. Unfortunately, she paid the ultimate price for her bravery, and we mourn her loss deeply.

“But despite the darkness that has descended upon us, we must not let fear and despair take hold. We must stand together and remain strong in the face of adversity. The Academie will continue to uphold its commitment to the study and practice of magic, and we will not be deterred by the actions of a few misguided individuals.

“We will work together to ensure that justice is served and that those responsible for this attack are brought to their end. And in the meantime, we will continue to honor the memory of our fallen comrade and support each other through this difficult time.”

A wail was let out somewhere among the paladins. Beside me, Carlos shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fiddling with the hem of his cape.

“Now, I would like to welcome the novice mages to their first year at the Academie.” Visk said, changing the tone of his speech. “I wish you all the best in your studies. And if any of you should wish now to transfer from our prestigious college to a local one – say, Mevilles City College – I urge you, reconsider your life’s choices.”

At this, the crowd of students laughed. Mevilles City College was one of many smaller institutions for mages across the globe and, while perfectly capable at instructing students in the magical arts, it did not do them any favours in becoming reputable mages after graduation. Thus, it, and really any other local mage’s college, was seen as something of a joke among academy mages.

[You didn’t think the Academie de Mevilles was the only university for mages in the country (or God forbid, the world) did you? That would be absurd considering half of the global population practices magic. That would never work! A.E.]

“May Thelonius guide us and bless us with his wisdom and strength as we move forward. Toriel monesca un ienis.” The headmaster concluded, and with a wave of his hand, the organ began to play once more, and waiters began to bring out the first meal.

[Editor’s note: those final words spoken by Visk are the motto of the academy, and translate to ‘Through God and spirit, knowledge will prevail’. The motto was decided upon by the high council in 8813 Ibx., and was probably inspired by an early inscription upon the monastery walls. By Enri’s time, the monastery had been destroyed, but I believe the inscription spoke to the sacred power of the number three.]

Throughout the rest of the evening, we dined on a sumptuous three course meal of a quadrifarous quail as an entree, a cooked octopus doused in a warm Elven alcohol, and a fantastic caramel cake which the Archmage ceremonially cut. Over such delicious food, only the most engaging of discussions could be had; I discussed among my fellow soul mages, many of us being immigrants, and ambitious ones at that, whether we would prefer to be on the Northern Wizard Council, to which Levonic wizards often went, or on the Wizard Council of our homeland, were we would be able to meet with individuals of our own ethical and cultural mindset.

At the twenty-third hour of the evening, the hall had all but cleared out, and Pyotr and I decided to return back to our quarters. So, I farewelled my companions, whom I would see only hours later in our first class the next morning, and Pyotr and I began our walk across the village to our home. The streets across town had not yet emptied, as the townsfolk were still celebrating the new academic (and thus new financial) year, so we agreed to take the longer route via town square. The space by now was filled giddy with students and commoners alike, all dancing to the music of a small marching band by the light of the canvas lanterns that hung suspended from strings that criss-crossed the cobbled streets.

As we walked, Pyotr and I discussed which school of magic was the best, an argument which, though arbitrary, was often held between students walking home drunkenly in the wee hours. Pyotr, of course, argued for arcane magic, and pointed to the usefulness of limenism in both utilitarian and academic pursuits. Naturally, I upheld my loyalty to soul magic, counter-attacking by retorting that it is equally utilitarian and academically challenging, but ultimately trumped all other forms of magic as any spell caster could be rendered useless by its effects. Naturally, Pyotr countered that soul magic didn’t even technically count as any kind of magic at all, and we digressed into a debate on whether it deserved that fate before arriving home and retiring to our beds.

Tomorrow will mark the commencement of my penultimate year as a student at this fantastic university, and you will certainly be joining me every step of the way diary. Good night.

[I find this break in the text a good point in Enri’s tale to discuss how exactly magic works in Arrealis, the universe in which both Enri and I play out our lives. There are three types of magic that can be utilised by mages: arcane magic, mystic magic, and soul magic. The first two are considered ‘true magic’, as they fit the definition of magic as upheld by the archmage council: the manipulation of the physical world by magical or magically influenced means.
Arcane magic involves the use of a mage’s knowledge of magic and reality in order to influence it; arcane mages may be vector mages that employ the innate magical qualities of physical matter to create magical effects or they may be rune mages, like Pyotr, that manipulate the fundamental frameworks of reality through the use of language and words of power; two schools of magic may be used by arcane mages – limenism, or the manipulation of time and space, and electromagnomancy, or the manipulation of energy and matter.
Mystic magic requires a more conceptual understanding of the universe as it is, with practicers of this type viewing reality as an admixture of properties that can be observed and changed in unimaginable ways; mystic mages may be spirit mages, also known as classical mages, that channel spiritual energies to to overcome barriers in the mystic corpus, or they may be intermediary mages that employ sacred objects and mystic locatives in order to invoke mystic knowledge and power; two schools of magic fall under mystic magic – mysticism, the basic observation and manipulation of mystic energies, and mortomancy, the use of mystic life energy in healing and harming magic.
Finally, soul magic is the third type of ‘magic’ in Arrealis. The soul is a semi-extra-spatial astral entity that has several properties crucial to sapient life and magic. Primarily, souls are a vessel and conductor for ambient mana or astral energy — the fundamental source of all magic, true or false (soul magic and its subsets occur purely across the astral realm, and is therefore false magic). The most important features of a soul are as follows: a boundary that binds the soul’s inner functions; a series of three interconnected nexuses known as the mental nexus (where the mental functions are believed to take place), the spiritual nexus (where an individual’s identity exists), and the astral nexus (a mage’s primary vessel for mana that is used up via spell casting). Soul magic primarily involves the manipulation of such nexuses either in the soul mage themself or their opponents and allies. There are three different schools of soul mages: aetheriaries, that manipulate aetherial plane that exists around souls, as well as the ambient aetherial or astral energy within souls; astralists, that create and change the bonds that tie souls together, and; psychomancers, that take advantage of the inherent mental properties of a soul. Most soul mages choose to take up two of these three schools, as our Enri has done.
If this refresher has been thoroughly insufficient, then you may soon see that Enri’s notes on his classes may provide a satisfactory supplement. If this is not the case, and you would like to gain further information on the subject of magic and its subsets, please contact me at the desk of the Eternal Library. A.E.]