Eternity, interrupted [Nimvahlis]

[Tarot]

Timestamp: Fall 32, 510 AV

The ground on Sahova had a familiar quality to it, but then again mostly anything held some capacity for nostalgia when you were an Ethaefal. The grey buildings flanked Nimvahlis like pagan altars to some forgotten deity. The Communicator golem spoke some more mundane things, instructing the new visitor to get on an automatic wagon in the back of the port; it would be sure to take him to his destination. For the greatest repository of magic in the world, Sahova had a rather bleak and plain appearance to the son of Leth.

Yet… there was this je ne sais quoi. The metallic taste in his mouth, the slight buzzing sound in his ears, the vein pumping blood through his temples; a reaction was taking place inside his body, though there was no doubt that its source was several layers deeper and sprang forth from the recesses of his soul. Nimvahlis was hit in full force with the feeling that he had been before. Not as Nimvahlis, no. Before, and before the before. Usually, such things touched his intellect with the lightest pastel tones, vague and murky to his aloof mind. Today, though, the artist had switched to vivid oil paint, and a hyperrealist hand driving the brush upon the canvas.

He moved the first step, and another moved that step with him, just besides him. The same leg - his? No, someone else's? The Communicator golem watched him with what could have amounted to curiosity as the Ethaefal came to a sudden stop as if transfixed. The Communicator had not been trained to perform any kind of medical assistance. If the guest happened to die right here and now, it would proceed to call other golems that would transport the body to the Citadel for storage. That was the one reason for its interest in Nimvahlis. The truth was, though, that he had not stopped moving - he simply wasn't doing so in the current reality.

~~~~~~~~~

Vomit. Through his mouth and nose. Someone patted his back vigorously as he emptied his stomach over the railing of the ship. Youthful laughter rang across the ferry, though there was a tangible edge of tension to the sound. "Keep it together, moonboy!" A big-boned young man with red hair giggle-snorted besides him. "We aren't scheduled to die for a while still."

He-who-would-be-Nimvahlis slowly turned away from the great blue and seated himself against the railing once more. The ferry was carrying a party of fourteen, all young, all wizards. Batch 17, the last one. Replacements, they'd been called, and the masters had made it very clear. More wizards had died in the construction of the Citadel than anticipated at first, thus calling for additional batches of researchers. Freshly graduated apprentices who had not made the first cut had been reconsidered for addition into the program - none of these fourteen had volunteered. As his later identity started to fade into oblivion, Nimvahlis felt his name emerge from the depths of his soul like a bubble to the surface just as he sensed the embrace of Leth's mark on this more ancient persona, as well.

They docked half an hour later. A gangplank was lowered and the ensemble of Academy graduates gingerly made their way down to the piers. Some sought refuge in small talk to chase the specters of their impending future.

"I heard there were three more in this batch, but two ran away and one hanged himself…"

"Kova is just a child, what can she possibly do?"

"Guys, this thing ain't actually safe. They just call it safe when it's more likely to work than not. They're gonna kill us, for petch's sake!"

"I got myself all the Spiritism books I could find. Think they're gonna help with this?"

"The Mashaen method is all wrong. My friend says he got all the coefficients messed up."

A man stepped in front of the assembled group, wearing the uniform of the masters. He was very much alive. Some of the students recognized him as Master Mizelio Takk, the Summoner from the Royal Academy. Meekness via double chin. Rumors about his sexual orientation abounded around the dorms. "Welcome to Sahova, Batch 17. Please follow me. I will show you to your quarters."

And so, the moonboy's greatest - and last - adventure began.

OOCFeel free to come up with the name of your alter ego!

[Nimvahlis]

Sickness was nothing new. The cords of hypnotic influence he had woven around the sailors must have frayed, shooting off djed and making Nimvahlis ill. Overgiving was sometimes as surreptitious as hypnotism itself. Or was this born from without? His body moved autonomously as his internalizations wrapped themselves about his consciousness, mechanical as the golems about him. As the assault amplified, the vague memories reformed with razor clarity and he knew he had been here before. When had his legs stopped moving? When had he started glancing about the harbor? Had he ever? No, he had not. The strange thoughts of golems and sickness faded as Saivere stepped down the gangplank, wiping the vomit from face. He stood off to the side of the his thirteen compatriots, grateful for the land beneath his woozy head. Though no prayer or thanks escaped his lips, he was silent as ever. Saivere never made a sound (as if he could after the incident), yet many knew of his gift from Leth. So he stood, tranquil to the external forces at hand. Though his serene and mute countenance failed to betray what boiled in his brain- few knew he could be as emotional and violent as his patron deity. Should the pudgy entity Saivere knew as Mizelio Takk not be struck dead or otherwise incapacitated, his waddling gait would lead them to the pair of horseless wagons awaiting them beside one of the stone grey structures. Clumsily clambering onto the lead wagon, their the summoner would await the students to load themselves before shouting out the command for commencement of transit. Saivere sat uncomfortably close to the same burly, red headed boy who had joking with- or rather at- him earlier. Assuming the wagons did not conflagrate or otherwise become expelled from existence, Saivere would find himself sinking into his thoughts as he lurched forward. After the big-boned boy turned to speak with another apprentice as his queries toward the mute magician were met with the often predictable silence. No, rather than engage in the idle gossip and talk of those around him, Saivere found his attention to be drawn toward the road ahead. To our quarters. To the Citadel. To replace those who had foolishly lost their lives in its creation. It was such a lovely notion, being a replacement for those who had been superior. Second rate. The wagons rattled along, toward the Citadel of Sahova. Hazy memories plagued him. Saivere knew he was of Batch 17, he knew he was to become a Nuit, and he was well aware that he was not volunteering for this eternal service. But something... Something was missing. The mark of Leth flared on the magician. Saivere reached out to Mizelio, consciousness spilling forth from his mind to embrace and infiltrate his. As the waters of Saivere's mind eddied around the master summoner, a voice that those in the wagons would never hear brought the words, "What is is we shall be tasked to do? What is our purpose?"

[Tarot]

Conversation had mostly subsided on the automatic wagon. There was only so much whining and complaining people could do before it got too tiresome to keep up. Especially if they didn't have a choice to begin with. The red-haired boy was taking up more space than he should have, and Saivere had to squeeze himself tight to compensate. The air smelled like sweat and crystallized fear. Mizelio Takk had been looking forward the entire time, but his head turned suddenly in response to Saivere's telepathic powers. He blinked twice in mild confusion, wondering if one of the students had perhaps dared to use magic on him, a master. Such a transgression was as rare as its punishment was harsh, so he shook the feeling out of his mind and decided one of the students had simply spoken a question directed at him. "Be patient," he said, "all Batches will receive an extended briefing from Court Mage Mashaen himself tonight, during the induction dinner." Their last meal, most likely. "Tomorrow, we begin redeploying all personnel as metadead units." He thought it may have sounded less scary if he was formal and aseptic about it. When it came down to it, the redeployment still involved a golem arm piercing your heart just at the right time. Mizelio could not deny being uneasy about this just like everyone else. The walls of Sahova stood tall and pristine, the Alahean flag waving in the gentle breeze. They were mostly a distraction, though. Suvan had likely received word that they were building something here, perhaps a fortress for the royal family's last stand. In the event of their final victory, the enemy would likely raze the island to the ground, but they would not find the real surprise hidden in its labyrinthine depths. The wagon crossed an open portcullis and entered a spacious courtyard bustling with activity. People running left and right, golems carrying heavy loads, senior wizards shouting orders. Mizelio got off the wagon and motioned for the students to do the same. He pointed at the large towers interrupting the walls. "Follow me. There are dorms you can use today in the East tower. Of course, once we are redeployed, all buildings above ground level will be abandoned as we move down into the subterranean shelters." The Summoner led the way towards the tower, but his march froze mid-step as a small pebble flew and hit Saivere squarely in the middle of the forehead, the pain stinging him almost immediately. A man was sitting cross-legged on the cobblestones of the courtyard, grinning wildly with his arm still extended. He was a middle-aged man of obvious Benshira heritage, tanned and sporting a long greying beard. His face was rugged but his dark eyes shone with a fierce passion that seemed to stare at the universe behind you - no, beyond you. Blood had retreated from Mizelio's face, leaving it three tones lighter. "Did you guys hear that?" the Benshira said, spreading his arms as if to invoke the whole party as his witnesses. "'Tok'! It tok'ked. Not tak, not clik, not kluk. Tok. 'Tok', my friends, is the sound of the dangerous ones. Hard head, filled to the brim with things unsaid. There is nothing more unaesthetic than a tok'ker. Well, except possibly a fluk'ker, but we shall not go into that." Mizelio made an effort to speak. "Y-your Excellency, when did you arrive? You were not…" "… supposed to be here? Yes, you could say that. But I heard you people were suffering from a nasty case of mass constipation, and thought I could help loose your collective bowels, so to speak. Anyways, I was just curious to hear the tok'ker's opinion on all this. What do you think of spending the rest of forever as a cold shell slaving away for your great country, boy? Does it make you tremble with despair?" His grin seemed to grow wider by the moment. "Would you not rather be free?"

[Nimvahlis]

Tonight we dine, tomorrow we die. Saivere sat miserably cramped in the wagon as they continued. Like a plant wilting in the overcrowded meadow, he sat and suffered in silence. His eyes continued to burn into the citadel as they approached, though a smile managed to creep its way onto his face as his compatriots fell into silence. That is right, share my fate. It was painfully obvious though, that their condition was only temporary. However, there were a few creatures lingering in the beyond that would gladly change that in a few seconds. A series of sixteen numbers flashed past Saivere's mind. Idle thoughts continued to stray as the wagon continued, stretching from images of a beast rending the redheaded boy's throat to the forthcoming day. Yet each of these brooding notions was dispelled as the wagon lurched to a halt. Mizelio clambered off the wagon, each of the future metadead following suit. The procession continued its waddling pace, until of course something unexpected occurred. At first Saivere blinked, as if trying to dissolve the last dregs some particularly nasty nightmare. He brought a hand up to his forehead as his nerves yelped, curious as to what had interrupted his mechanical march. Yet all answers were had when he noticed the pebble clattering to the ground. Saivere looked straight ahead to the Benshira sitting on the cobblestones on front of him. As he spoke, and continued to speak, the apprentice bent to retrieve the small projectile. Mute as ever, the apprentice stood and gazed at the man with his monologue. Saivere did not know who this man was, nor did he truly care. He had thrown a pebble at him, shouted some nonsense, and asked Saivere's opinion. So he threw the pebble back. It sailed across the space, hitting the Benshira man in the forehead- though not squarely. A small sound, barely audible to Saivere, resounded as it collided with the target's skin. And so the procession stood halted, watching the two men throw rocks at each other. Though unbeknown to those who watched, a conversation was at hand. The gnosis mark on Saivere's body flared, pouring forth the magic of his deity to carry the words of his mind to the sitting man. The djed coiling around the pair as the apprentice bombarded the man with his language. "You too, are a tok'ker. Yet the sound you made was less audible than mine, so logically you must be less dangerous and unaesthetic. But if I had thrown the pebble harder, it would have made a louder noise. Thus, you would be more dangerous and unaesthetic. Either could be true, both able to be brought to said state by my hand." Saivere's voice continued to ring in the man's ears, the power of Leth buffeting his mind with djed. "We shape the world as we see fit. So do I despair? No. I shall take this slavery and turn it to a freedom far greater than any they could taste." The magician who was destined to die stepped forward several steps, until he stood before the man on the ground. Then he sat. Crossing his legs in the same manner his pebble throwing counterpart was, he plopped his frame a few feet away. Mizelio and the other ignorami were all but forgotten as his mind spoke to the Benshira. "Tell me why you asked me this?"

[Tarot]

It was, perhaps, a rare occurrence to see shock on the face of a professor from the Royal Academy. Godlike hype surrounded their figures and their lives, elevating them to the status of living, breathing monuments. Yet, right here and right now, Mizelio Takk was a simple human with a gaping mouth, all blood drained from his face as if rehearsing what he would look like as a Nuit. The sight of young Saivere throwing the pebble at the Benshira had petrified him, as well as some of the older students who had actually recognized the man. The Benshira himself was caught by surprise, the grin slowly dying on his lips as the pebble hit the ground amidst total silence. Some were slowly backtracking from the assembled crowd, fearing disproportionate punishment that never came. After a long moment, and just as Saivere had finished sending out his message, the man burst out in laughter. That did little to reassure the bystanders. The man closed his eyes for a short moment, and when he reopened them he sent forth a wave of power that was meant for Saivere alone. It wasn't the mindspeak of Leth, but some form of powerful Hypnotism at work. It wasn't subtle, nor intended to be such. A voice, existing solely in the boy's imagination, gurgled between his ears speaking some simple words. "Midnight. Top floor of East tower. Password is 'I shall pass through the golden door with the red ibis'. Come alone." Still laughing, the Benshira got up on his feet. "I think I like this boy, after all. Take care, gentlemen. Live each day as if it was the last... because it is!" And with that, he strolled off, waving his hand at the assembled batch. As soon as he was gone, some color seemed to return to Mizelio's face, though the master's nerves were not looking too good. It did not help that his familiar Vyldred wasn't there. Mizelio did not enjoy being in danger without the protection of his familiar. He started shouting in Saivere's ear in almost hysterical tones. "Saivere! Have you gone mad or something? What the petch do you think you're doing, throwing rocks at Sagallius Hrinn! He's a former court mage, for gods' sake, and he's unstable! UN-STA-BLE! He could have killed us all on the spot! Never do that again, okay? Or I will personally have your summmoning license revoked. Are we clear on that? Good." The master stepped back, pearls of sweat on his forehead. "Let's move it now." The red-headed boy took that as his cue to kick Saivere in the shin. "Hrinn is my idol, stupid moonboy," he said, clenching his fist. Mizelio could not have missed that, but he obviously wasn't going to defend Saivere from the bullying that would take place from now on. The marked of Leth had suddenly gotten very unpopular with his Batch. Not long thereafter, the soon-to-be-Nuit wizards made their entrance in the dorms. The males from the batch occupied two rooms, four beds each. A cruel coincidence, or perhaps not so much of one, willed that Saivere had to share the room with the red-haired tormentor and two more boys who kept glaring his way. The room was a simple thing on the third floor, with a single window looking over the wild landscape of the island, with its tall grass and occasional acacias and junipers. There was a footlocker for each occupant. Inside, they found a change of uniform - a grey one without a hood - as well as an instruction booklet. Dr. Nonmortuus' Guide to Being the Perfect Nuit It had pictures too. Dr. Nonmortuus was a stylized Nuit who advised a group of children about the transition to a Nuit. He was smiling in every drawing, even when the speech bubble read something like "Yes, Janet. Now let's try and embalm each other as practice!" Saivere would notice that his roommates were not smiling as they read the booklet.

[Nimvahlis]

Saivere's wide eyes stared at the man before him as words erupted in his mind. Was he a disciple of Leth? The student had not sensed a gnosis mark, nor any indicator that the Benshira worshiped the deity of the moon at all. No, his mind would have prickled with familiarity had this man been a brother. It must have been something else. The academy student's mind ticked through the various disciplines of magic he knew of, summoning, morphing, auristics, magecrafting... The list went on, eventually settling on hypnotism. Saivere knew that some magic could affect people's minds, but he had never seen it used as such. In truth, he had never seen it used at all. The thought of toying with the mind seemed nonacademic at best and dangerous at worst. Saivere shivered and made a mental note of this man's ability. Yet as he stood up and left, Saivere could not help but feel strong curiosity. The student stood up and watched as he strolled off, but suddenly went pale as Mizelio's words reached his ears. Heat and color drained from his face as dread filled his core. His hands began to shake and twitch, his breath coming rapidly. Surely I shall die this night. The thought of his impending euthanasia panicked the boy and a small, choked sound escaped his lips. Yet, was he not to die already? What difference did it make if he died tonight? The thought was more than a little hollow at first, but it slo- Pain. The ginger beast's foot collided with Saivere's shin, pain lancing up the victim's leg. He winced and another strangled noise that at one point in time may have been a curse escaped his lips. As the boy and party made for the citadel, Saivere fumed and limped along behind. Yes, a death now would be far preferable to an eternity with this lot of fools. If they became upset over a pebble, he could not imagine what a true slight would warrant. At the very least, the magician would engage his curiosity. He would attend the meeting. By the time the students had arrived at their respective dormitories, the moonboy was walking normally again. Much to his chagrin, he discovered that he was boarded with several others who disliked him. Unable and unwilling to voice his protest, Saivere simply ignored their presence for now and changed into his grey uniform. The new fatigues were rather bleak, but it was not too much of a bother as more often he was focused on what was in front of or within him rather than on him. Settling in, he cracked open the book with his peers and silently began to read. Though his eyes moved over the text, Saivere's mind was far removed from the content. More preoccupied was he with the impending meeting and dinner. What if he doesn't actually kill me? What if I become his apprentice? Or perhaps he will have a mission for me? The apprentice could only guess at what the world's greatest magician had in store for him. Whether wonders or horrors awaited him, the apprentice did not know. The anxiety tugged and pulled at him, and an hour before the initiation dinner he finally snapped. Standing up and laying the book down on his bed, Saivere walked from the room. Ignoring the harsh looks of his companions, he closed the door and quickly began walking down the hallway. As soon as he was free of any guards or other people, djed tingled on his skin and flushed his body as it began to contort. His face became darker and beady eyed, and his hair was suddenly much shorter. What was once a standard jawline jutted, and his teeth became crooked and broken. He walking as his legs grew longer, and the entirety of his body thinned out. He continued warping until finally he looked like somebody entirely different. Somebody he knew nobody would ever find on the isle, primarily because he had vanished eight years ago. Saivere grinned as his childhood friend Renault Feroris began walking down the hallway. The only strange thing was now his fatigues only went down to just above his ankles. He roved the hallways, searching for the first available entity. Upon finding said person, Saivere pulled them over and asked the simple question, "Excuse me, where is the East Tower?" The words coming from his mouth were thick, he was unused to having a functioning tongue.

[Tarot]

Five hundred years down the line, a decently-preserved original copy of Dr. Nonmortuus' booklet on being a perfect Nuit would fetch almost one thousand gold-rimmed Mizas among dedicated collectors. There was just something darkly intriguing about the sketches of a smiling undead stabbing himself to demonstrate how much punishment he could take compared to the living. Of course, all this sounded horribly distant and uncertain to poor Saivere, alone in a world gone mad and leaving him little choice but to go mad himself. Finding a quiet place to morph wasn't too hard. Most students in the dorms were too shaken to move around the buildings much unless told to. And no-one was telling them to. There was a decided lack of psychological counseling, given what they were about to experience. No-one could shake the feeling too many people had been summoned here; natural selection being the obvious answer to the observation. Still, open rebellion would only result in permanent death, and as such most were coping with their fate as best they could, studying or praying. Somewhere, Saivere's family was being handed the first monthly check for his "heroic sacrifice for the greater good of the homeland". Also known as, buying their silence. Now transformed, Saivere merely had to walk down a couple flights of stairs before he almost bumped into a grown-up. And it wasn't a master, either - though only time would tell whether this would be good for him. The woman was only barely taller than his borrowed form, but wore a different uniform to the students and the masters. Saivere was sure he'd seen this woman before at the Academy… she looked like a spinster in the making, mid-thirties advancing to forty, brown hair tied in a chaste bun, and a blue gaze that looked benevolent on the surface but had a glint of deeper intelligence that seemed out of place on her. She was an administrative secretary under Qiao, he thought. Not every staff member at the Academy was a badass mage. There were secretaries and paper pushers like everywhere else in the world. Somewhat surprising, though, to see one here, looking him up and down and pondering his question. "It's on the other side of the courtyard, you cannot miss it even if you tried," she answered, casually blocking his way with a tiny smile. "It is quite odd, though… I have pretty good face memory but you don't look familiar at all. Are you from the Academy? And what business would you happen to have in the masters' residences, if I may ask?" Her voice sounded sweet and unthreatening, but she drove the point home just the same.

[Nimvahlis]

A wave of panic coursed through Saivere's body, his heart suddenly pounding within his chest. Yet rather than flush, he hid the fear with a scowl; he bore that same hideous facial expression the real boy had worn so often, resembling something like a particularly hateful gorilla and a fish. Despite providing an answer, this moron had detained him. Kill her. No! Years of academy training, all for naught? Saivere repressed the primal, violent urge to simply strangle this woman, taking the more devious route available to him. He told the truth. His speech came out slow and mildly butchered, he had never spent enough time in this idiot's form to truly master speech again. "I was... Assed by a massster to go to the eath tower for an erran. My nomal foam canno' speak." It was blunt and authentic, for Saivere had not yet ruled out the possibility that she could detect lies yet. The morphed features of Saivere began to shift as he leased his hold on the figure, and he snapped back like a band of rubber. He grew shorter, less hideous, and the functioning tongue became a stub once more. After the short transformation had occurred, Saivere opened his mouth to show the woman the stump of his tongue. The gnosis mark of Leth flared brightly, and suddenly the power of his god shot forth like an arrow. It pierced her mind, bringing words that his physical form could not. A calmly dangerous voice played inside her head as the telepathy worked, "This is my true form, madame. I assumed that of the other so I could speak with the master; most do not enjoy me invading their mind, though I had little choice if I was to prove my validity. I was summoned to perform an errand for the master that he wished to keep discreet." The volley of mental speech ended for a few instants as the student allowed this information to sink in, but not for too long. A few moments later the second shot was fired and he began again, "I would suppose it is to prevent more important staff such as yourself from being tied up?. I see you are suspicious, but I do not see why. Even if I was lying, any one of the island's masters could smite me in an instant if I was not wanted. I am not willing to put my life on the line and become a corpse for later use when an eternity of life looms before me. That would be illogical." Spoken like a true Alahean: self-centered, amoral, greedy, and above all logical. Bastards, every one of them. Saivere smiled and made an attempt to brush past the woman, if he was to make the banquet dinner he'd best make this investigation quick.

[Tarot]

The woman listened on, with a curious frown at first, and a mildly surprised widening of her eyes later, when the boy switched to the telepathic gift of Leth. In the end, she simply smiled and gave a curt nod. "Fine by me," she said, "but do accept one piece of advice for the future, my dear. When you get questioned by a superior, it is a sound strategy to lead their thinking in the direction of your choice. But it is also imperative to be more discreet about it. You seem to have mastered cunning, young one, and you may be able to deceive the mind, but the path to true deception," she ended with a whisper, "goes right through the heart. You did not move my heart." She straightened her clothes. "Keep that in mind even after yours stops beating. Everyone on this island has secrets; I'm sure Akajia would have a field day here. Maybe she already did. I am Shalla wa'Nagat, a keeper of the records. It was a pleasure to meet you, unnamed young master; perhaps we shall meet again." And with that, the strange woman turned and went about her business upstairs. What she said was probably true; everyone here had an agenda, ranging from the sheer 'continuing to exist' of Saivere's batch-mates to the machinations of Sagallius Hrinn. Perhaps Saivere had the most fluid agenda of them all. The Alahean spirit was one of craft, intelligence and opportunism. Often enough, it did not come with sufficient morals to steer that potential in the direction of noble pursuits. Indeed, their individualism had condemned them in the battle against Suvan, a country in which a man was worth what he could give to the state. As for Saivere, he was free to reach the East tower unimpeded. The people working in the courtyard would pay him no heed, frantic as they were to get their tasks done on schedule. Snippets of conversations reached his ears as he walked. No-one had seen Zarik Mashaen in three days. He was apparently putting the finishing touches on Supervisor Drainira, the being that would soon be activated and serve as the guardian for the entire Citadel. His second in command, former Headmaster Lector Qiao (a name that evoked dread in the hearts of most Academy students for his brutal ways of enforcing discipline), was the one passing orders around. He did not show in person, of course, but instruction scrolls quickly changed hands, and wizards would barely refrain from cursing. "Outrageous! Fix twenty illumination units? How does he expect us to do this in half a day?" "We should call down the new batches and have them help us around." "Yeah, and who's going to ask Qiao if we can do that? Damn Rotten-hands, that slave driver." The East tower was an exact replica of the others. The main door was open and no-one was guarding it - no-one Saivere could see, anyways. If he wanted in, then he might just be able to.