((ooc: either prose or action brackets are fine with me!))
{ 1. the freedom festivities (open/wildcard) }
For the first day of the Black City's celebration, Howl wanders, accepting food and drink when it's offered and playing with children when invited. To the average onlooker, there's nothing unusual about him, aside from being easily identifiable as Mirrorbound to those who knew what to look for. But for anyone with even a passing familiarity with Howl, there's something notably different about him: a lack of grandiosity to his appearance. He wears an ashen suit with a black and silver cowl and cloak, far less gaudy than his usual attire, and his hair is its natural black color for the first time in weeks.
The discussions he'd had with fellow Mirrorbound did little to make him feel more comfortable about this celebration. The political situation still seems unstable and vulnerable, despite the progress that had been made. The forget-me-not wreaths compound this fact, intensifying his worries about one year being much too soon to celebrate such a violent conflict - and then again, the freed people of this city are the ones putting on the celebration, nobody else. Perhaps he's overreacting, or projecting some of his homeworld's plights onto Dorchacht. Either way, Howl simply didn't feel right indulging in this party the same as readily as Aefenglom's holidays.
Eventually, over the course of the week, as Howl peruses the city's new shops and restaurants, his attitude towards the celebration shifts from trepidation to acceptance. On the final night of the festival, Howl can be seen meditating over a forget-me-not wreath of his own making along the burnt outer walls of the Old Coven before walking towards the city square to watch the final fireworks show.
{ 2. the uninvited guests (open) }
{ a. flashpoint }
It does not take long for Howl to figure out that the sudden appearance of the woman is not part of the fireworks show, but too long nevertheless. Despite springing into action as quickly as possible, Howl teleports just a few dozen panicked bystanders into the safety of nearby buildings before the suffocating thickness of Drummond's magic makes him stumble to his knees himself. In the back of his mind, he growls something miserable about always having to be right all the time, before forcing himself to stand up and do something.
But what can he do? If Calicfer were here, if he hadn't lost his magic, it would be so much easier to come up with some sort of answer to that question. Not only does he still lack skill in Aefenglom, but he lacks power. How can he do anything in a situation like this when his magic is so weak? Is this how regular wizards in Ingary always feel?
The oppressive pressure from Drummond's spell suddenly ceases, and around him, people begin to collapse to the ground - almost everyone, but not everyone. Sensing that he can move more freely again, he blinks away from blasts of fire and sparks and reappears beside those who are still awake, whether panicked or fighting.
"You," he yells over the noise. Howl grabs at one of the person's hands, whether it's the appendage of a monster or the palm of a witch. "Bond with me, now! Yes, you heard me!"
{ b. battle in the streets sky (open) }
Hours into the fighting, enough of the city is on fire to cast a hellish orange glow into the sky above. With fire comes smoke, blocking most of the clouds and stars from view, but providing a flat background for harpies and other flying creatures to be illuminated against.
At some point, those on the ground may notice that something loud and violent is happening above them, beyond the curtain of smoke. A cacophony of screeches travels intermittently over the city, mixed in with blasts of magic and the heavy flapping of large wings. A flock of harpies, accompanied by a handful of witches, is chasing something up there, and it's putting up a vicious fight. The alliance of each side isn't clear until an enormous tangled mob of feathered monsters suddenly crashes into the roof of a small storehouse, tearing at the enormous flying creature they were intent on killing. The harpies themselves reek of decay and mold - these are the risen harpy pawns of necromancers.
Whatever it is that they're trying to kill, it isn't going down quite yet. A haggard roar explodes from beneath the harpies before it springs to its bird-like feet and thrashes about, trying to throw them off. The creature is ten feet tall, with glossy black wings thirty feet across and a shaggy peacock-like tail, furled-up and tattered. Its feathers are matted with blood, which splatters about as it jerks around.
Maybe, most disturbingly, this creature seems appears to have no head - where its neck ends, there's nothing more than a gaping mouth lined with jagged stone-like teeth.
This is clearly not a harpy, or any other kind of monster. It has the unmistakable magical aura of a Mirrorbound witch - weak, but still alive, and maybe recognizable to those who know him - wrapped in the envelope of a crude transformation spell that was poorly constructed, ineptly cast, and immediately bloated by an enormous imbalance of unfiltered, overflowing magic in the caster's body.
The witch bellows again before being buried once more by undead harpies. The second floor of the storehouse they crashed into collapses, bringing the entire throng to the ground floor.
howl (witch)
{ 1. the freedom festivities (open/wildcard) }
For the first day of the Black City's celebration, Howl wanders, accepting food and drink when it's offered and playing with children when invited. To the average onlooker, there's nothing unusual about him, aside from being easily identifiable as Mirrorbound to those who knew what to look for. But for anyone with even a passing familiarity with Howl, there's something notably different about him: a lack of grandiosity to his appearance. He wears an ashen suit with a black and silver cowl and cloak, far less gaudy than his usual attire, and his hair is its natural black color for the first time in weeks.
The discussions he'd had with fellow Mirrorbound did little to make him feel more comfortable about this celebration. The political situation still seems unstable and vulnerable, despite the progress that had been made. The forget-me-not wreaths compound this fact, intensifying his worries about one year being much too soon to celebrate such a violent conflict - and then again, the freed people of this city are the ones putting on the celebration, nobody else. Perhaps he's overreacting, or projecting some of his homeworld's plights onto Dorchacht. Either way, Howl simply didn't feel right indulging in this party the same as readily as Aefenglom's holidays.
Eventually, over the course of the week, as Howl peruses the city's new shops and restaurants, his attitude towards the celebration shifts from trepidation to acceptance. On the final night of the festival, Howl can be seen meditating over a forget-me-not wreath of his own making along the burnt outer walls of the Old Coven before walking towards the city square to watch the final fireworks show.
{ 2. the uninvited guests (open) }
{ a. flashpoint }
It does not take long for Howl to figure out that the sudden appearance of the woman is not part of the fireworks show, but too long nevertheless. Despite springing into action as quickly as possible, Howl teleports just a few dozen panicked bystanders into the safety of nearby buildings before the suffocating thickness of Drummond's magic makes him stumble to his knees himself. In the back of his mind, he growls something miserable about always having to be right all the time, before forcing himself to stand up and do something.
But what can he do? If Calicfer were here, if he hadn't lost his magic, it would be so much easier to come up with some sort of answer to that question. Not only does he still lack skill in Aefenglom, but he lacks power. How can he do anything in a situation like this when his magic is so weak? Is this how regular wizards in Ingary always feel?
The oppressive pressure from Drummond's spell suddenly ceases, and around him, people begin to collapse to the ground - almost everyone, but not everyone. Sensing that he can move more freely again, he blinks away from blasts of fire and sparks and reappears beside those who are still awake, whether panicked or fighting.
"You," he yells over the noise. Howl grabs at one of the person's hands, whether it's the appendage of a monster or the palm of a witch. "Bond with me, now! Yes, you heard me!"
{ b. battle in the
streetssky (open) }Hours into the fighting, enough of the city is on fire to cast a hellish orange glow into the sky above. With fire comes smoke, blocking most of the clouds and stars from view, but providing a flat background for harpies and other flying creatures to be illuminated against.
At some point, those on the ground may notice that something loud and violent is happening above them, beyond the curtain of smoke. A cacophony of screeches travels intermittently over the city, mixed in with blasts of magic and the heavy flapping of large wings. A flock of harpies, accompanied by a handful of witches, is chasing something up there, and it's putting up a vicious fight. The alliance of each side isn't clear until an enormous tangled mob of feathered monsters suddenly crashes into the roof of a small storehouse, tearing at the enormous flying creature they were intent on killing. The harpies themselves reek of decay and mold - these are the risen harpy pawns of necromancers.
Whatever it is that they're trying to kill, it isn't going down quite yet. A haggard roar explodes from beneath the harpies before it springs to its bird-like feet and thrashes about, trying to throw them off. The creature is ten feet tall, with glossy black wings thirty feet across and a shaggy peacock-like tail, furled-up and tattered. Its feathers are matted with blood, which splatters about as it jerks around.
Maybe, most disturbingly, this creature seems appears to have no head - where its neck ends, there's nothing more than a gaping mouth lined with jagged stone-like teeth.
This is clearly not a harpy, or any other kind of monster. It has the unmistakable magical aura of a Mirrorbound witch - weak, but still alive, and maybe recognizable to those who know him - wrapped in the envelope of a crude transformation spell that was poorly constructed, ineptly cast, and immediately bloated by an enormous imbalance of unfiltered, overflowing magic in the caster's body.
The witch bellows again before being buried once more by undead harpies. The second floor of the storehouse they crashed into collapses, bringing the entire throng to the ground floor.