[Wolfiedog3]

username: Wolfiedog3
which kit are you trying out for: Top
name:
gender:
prompt:

[Wolfiedog3]

username: Wolfiedog3
which kit are you trying out for: Bottom
name:
gender:
prompt:

[astraf]

username: astrafrack
which kit are you trying out for: top
name: taki
gender: male
prompt: wip

[astraf]

username: astrafrack
which kit are you trying out for: bottom
name: linka
gender: female
prompt: wip

[MuddyPawprints]

res when i get home

[SilhouetteStation]

username: SilhouetteStation
which kit are you trying out for: top left
name: Alamira
gender: female

prompt:

Yes, Mother. No, Mother.
I haven't seen that witch, mother.

It's funny how routines work. How it becomes like clockwork. How words and phrases and times become so ingrained into your everyday life and your responses become automatic. Like your eyes glaze over and a voice comes out of you that you know is yours, but you hardly remember saying it. Puppetry, almost. Going through the motions while someone else pulls the strings.

Everyday is the same. Get up, make tea. Cut bread to make toast. Eat breakfast. Wash face. Get dressed. Wash clothes. Hang out to dry. Go and help in the bakery.

Make dough. Knead dough. Put dough in the wood oven. Wait for it to bake. Pull it out. Let it cool. Give it to Mother to take into the shop. Repeat the process.

Yes, Father. No, Father.
I won't talk to that wizard, Father.

He was a woodcutter. It was a common job. He and others would go into the forest, take what trees they needed, and haul them back. They would sharpen their axes and chop them into pieces. More skilled people would saw trees at the mill, to make pieces for house building. But her Father and his working friends were simple people. They used their axes to make firewood. When Alamira was done helping in the bakery, she went to help him.

Go to him. Bring food. Help to sort out pieces of firewood. Tie them into bundles. Take some home to Mother. Be ready to make deliveries later.

Day in, day out, repeating these processes. Always the same. Well...mostly.

Her Mother and Father were simple people. They liked routine, and doing things by hand. They liked things natural, so they said. They did not like things unnatural, and they did not like change.

Mages, they said, were born with their powers. Whether that was the ability to create flames or produce light from their fingertips or summon wind and snow flurries and all the other things they could do. What mattered to her parents was that they were born with it, and it was natural. They had been gifted these powers.

Witches and wizards, however, were not born with their powers. They used spells and incantations and rituals and summoned a power that was not theirs. They used crystals and scrolls and made potions from strange ingredients that had powers of their own. Unnatural, her parents told her. We do not associate with those kinds of people.

It was an opinion shared by others, Alamira knew. But it was not an opinion shared by her.

She had to be careful, she knew. She had to go through her daily routine and pretend that it might not change. That little things wouldn't happen to tip her off to events, to meetings. She had to pretend that she didn't see the witch, she didn't speak to the wizard. When she did her delivery rounds - taking bread and firewood to the townsfolk who'd ordered - this was her chance to be alone. Even with eyes around her, calling out greetings, stopping for chats; they all still found their ways.

The witch would tip her off with just a little touch of her hat. A slight adjustment, a gentle tug on the dried flowers. A casual glance in her direction. Alamira would either ignore her, to show she couldn't come. Or she would stop for moment, pretend to study the hand written list she kept in her pocket, to show she would be there.

The wizard would be in disguise; bare feet, a tattered old cloak. "Food for a beggar?" he would croak as she passed by. "Not today," she would say if she couldn't. "Perhaps later," she would say if she could. She passed him now, and there was the question. The corners of her mouth turned up in the tiniest smile. "Perhaps later," she said. He nodded his head, and she carried on her way with excitement tingling in her stomach.

She would sneak out later tonight under the cover of darkness. Past the wood oven, the piles of firewood, the chickens sleeping in their coop, the fence on their property line. Keeping to the darkness and shadows and trees as she made the way to the witch's house. She knew the route better than her routines. There she would meet the witch, and the wizard, and more folk learning to dabble in the magical arts. They would teach her more about spells and potions and all the things she was so fascinated by. She had a real knack, they said. A natural talent for these things.

She could see it on the horizon. The day she packed her things and left. The day she thanked her parents for all they had done for her, and told them she loved them, but still walked out the door towards the witch's house. Towards all of them, this new family, and their travels to come. Towards a new routine, towards a new life.

Yes, Alamira. Yes, Alamira.
You will become one of them, Alamira.

.

[SpartanAmethyst]

username: SpartanAmethyst
which kit are you trying out for:
name:
gender:
prompt:

[zakuro.]

Mark

[uηsρεcifiεd ¢ryҏtiɗ]

username: uηsρεcifiεd ¢ryҏtiɗ
which kit are you trying out for: Right
name: Quinn
gender: Female
prompt: wip 👀

[ambopteryx]

username: ambopteryx
which kit are you trying out for: bottom right
name: Sidas
gender: Male
prompt:

There is no magic, not anymore. The Magicians who ruled in ancient times vanished with their craft long ago. In their stead, a new wave of magicians have taken their place. Historians at best, and speculators at worst. They pour over books and scraps left behind by true Magicians with no intention of practicing magic themselves. Magic does not exist, of course, so why would they even try?

Groups of magicians tend to congregate in cities, drawn to each other in a non-magical and explainable way. The books a magician cherishes are few and far between. A group will collect their books and scraps to create a meager collection out of necessity. Even with these conglomerations, a group of magicians often have a scarce inventory.

Sidas is considered one of these new-age magicians. Once a week, he meets with his fellow enthusiasts in a cramped room over a bookshop. His group is one of the larger ones- a club to be jealous of. They had a grand total of 20 books in their "Magic Library," which is just a small, ordinary bookshelf. Of this collection, 17 books are written about magic, authored by those born long after the age of Magic ended. Two books were written by non-magicians during the age of magic. The last book is a cookbook, believed to be penned by a Magic-age Magician.

The group spends their meeting time discussing magic in a vague sense. Theory and speculation rarely enter the conversation, as even referencing the possible modern use of magic is frowned upon. A magician does not practice magic- they study it, and that's all. Magic does not exist any longer, and such scholars should not stoop to such ridiculous flights of fancy.

During these meetings, Sidas does not participate beyond what he has to. He sits, and he listens. When the others acknowledge him, he pipes into the conversation, but that's as far as he goes. The other group members seem to tolerate him. Sidas has no clue what the other member's names are.

In the time between meetings, Sidas lurks in his own house- small, and just a bit run-down looking. The inside looks like a hurricane has torn through it. Papers and plates and general clutter cover the floors and any other flat surface. The most used room is a small office space in the back. It's clean compared to the rest- a desk with a single chair.

The desk is mostly clear, besides a few small items. A candle in a candle holder, old yet never lit. A small box, filled with odds and ends- sticks, feathers, herbs, animal bones. A single, yellowed page, torn at the edges and faded with age.

The paper was gifted to Sidas by a mysterious traveler while he was still a child. It's his prized possession, and his life's purpose.

Though faded, the words can just barely be made out. The majority is written in a roundabout way, as if an extended riddle or unusual poem. The title, however, tells a different story.

"A Spell for Fire that gives no Heat."
Magic may be gone, but Sidas will not stop until he draws even a sliver back to the surface. He spends his days in that room, muttering arcane phrases and creating runes, all of which result in absolutely nothing.

On a particularly bad day, Sidas has gone through so many rituals that his throat is hoarse and his hands are stiff. The frustration builds, and builds, into a raging fury behind his usually calm and clear eyes. In his anger, SIdas throws his supplies onto the floor, putting his workroom in a similar state to the rest of his house. He screams. It's hopeless. It's hopeless.

He holds the old paper over the burning candle. He didn't want to see it ever again.

Burning. Burning. Burning.

Sidas's scowl faded as the reality sank in. The candle was lit. And the page was not burning.

A fire that gives no heat, lit by magic.

Sidas sat on the floor, clutching the candle with shaking hands. The second age of magic had begun.