Diego
Sem astrum tortor consequat ornare arcu odio sem nulla pharetra quam elementum pulvinar etiam quam.
Zyth
Semper feugiat nibh sed pulvinar proin gravida hendrerit lectus morbi enim nunc faucibus pellentesque.
Xerena
My memories are a little hazy the further I go, but the earliest I have is around two months old. I’m told our mother died at birth. My father says I drained her life and my brother’s magic in the womb so I wouldn’t be stillborn. Says if I had let nature take its course, my twin brother would have inherited enough magic to meet his standards. Maybe. Declared me, a newborn babe, a freak of both nature and magic. And if the “Grand Caster-Scholar, head of the royal LaSatanna family” deems it so, then so it is.
Nonetheless, this freak bore the LaSatanna name, and had an annoyingly clingy brother, so even if he wouldn’t take time out of the day to care for us, we had plenty of relatives and people around the manor to do so. Although brief, my time there is one of the only memories I’d like to call “happy”. Until I got my magic.
It’s a tradition to brand newborns with the balance rune; it automatically activates on magical attunement, so that when they take their first steps they never fall again. On average, Magics become magically attuned around age two. I got my magic at five months. By one year old, my magic had washed away the balance rune completely. It was simply just part of me now. This was unprecedented apparently, and father hates unprecedented change; anything that goes against tradition.
By two, my brother’s balance rune had still not activated and my father became more and more convinced that I was less of his daughter and more of some sort of magic parasite that fed off my brother's attunement. I was promptly kicked out of the estate to see if my brother could develop normally without me “interfering”. I did get taken in by a nice couple of ladies who took care of me for some years until my magical attunement became disturbingly unnatural. I began memorizing spells after seeing them cast only once. I could cast them myself simply by drawing the rune with my fingers. I didn’t need any special medium; I was my own medium.
Word of me spread like a wildfire and the consequences followed shortly after. What should have been a miracle was more than utterly terrifying for an entire country of people who saw any slight deviation of tradition as evil. Ironically, the LaSatanna name means nothing when you slap it on a devil. Shunned, humiliated, manipulated, abused, downright tortured; the people of Terra Magica had no shortage of methods to deal with me, the newborn monster, over the years. Xerena: a word that has no meaning. That's what they used to address me.
Up until the age of ten, it was pretty standard homeless kid stuff; dumpster feasts and newspaper blankets, trash can fires, the whole nine yards. I refused to cast any spell, despite having perfectly memorized hundreds by that point; from either seeing them cast in regular society or eavesdropping on local academy students practicing for their finals.
On our tenth birthday, my brother had the stupid idea to ask father if he could go see his sister. Apparently, one of the caretakers had been slipping him the truth of his long lost sibling over the years. When father demanded to know who, my brother said he would tell him after they go and see me. Father refused to let him “reconvene with that parasitic abomination” and declared the matter over. So naturally, my brother escaped in the night and went to search for me. Multiple times. Of course, this is all just paraphrased from his side of the story which I assume is, itself, paraphrased. I don’t doubt its validity any less, however.
He always found me almost immediately. He said it was “twin telepathy”. I’ll bet he still says that to this day. In a way, it was nice; knowing he was everything I wasn’t. We could fill the missing pieces in our souls. The most beneficial transaction from his visits, among food, clothing, and other amenities, was our education. While my brother was best versed in broader subjects such as mathematics and literature, my aforementioned eavesdropping on students gave me access and insight to more niche subjects of study. Specifically, I managed to mainly retain information about anything Magic; the race, the force, the land, the religion, all of it. I grew a particular attraction to Magical Studies 801: Mythology and modern theology; origins and connections. I even got to sneak aboard some archeology trips the class would take. My brother was a late bloomer, achieving magical attunement at the age of 5, and his ability to memorize and cast runes was barely subpar. As such, we became each other's tutors and managed to teach each other.
That lasted for about five years. The last five years I ever spent in my homeland. It was a nice time. ‘Course, when he wasn’t around, things weren’t too great. I got in some bad situations, met some bad people, met some good people. Then I met D and, well, let’s just say the end of that fifth year was messy, to put it mildly.
There were a lot of things that could have happened differently. From all ends. I know how to make sure they do. It’s been a decade since I last was in my country. My education and magic have only ever grown, despite my current circumstances. I sure hope father has been well. It would suck if he croaked before I paid him one last visit.
Venatores
The air is stagnant and sweltering, the shine of the unobscured sun reflects off the gold lined amethyst walls of Terra Magica. Any newcomers, or rather anyone that was not already accustomed to the sight, would not see the purple spires nor the golden roads hewn into the very land; they would be blinded by a savage flash of lilac.
Deep within the purple shine of Terra Magica lies the royal manor, a hunk of gold and amethyst carved into a delicate design standing taller than any spire in the kingdom. Any passerby could only interpret it as “important”. And indeed, only the most important people live within and are allowed entry. Today, on yet another sweltering and buzzing day, five beings were allowed entry. Three of them gather proudly here in the middle of the royal garden, surrounded on all sides by bush violets.
In a line they stand and wait, dripping with sweat as the massive purple shoulder pads push down on them and the thick black garments trap the heat from the blazing sun. The uniforms are heavy, stuffy, itchy, and far too tight fitting for anyone’s comfort. On such a momentous day as today, however, who wouldn’t be willing to bear it?
Alvarez looks up and down the two figures waiting with him. At the forefront of the line, blocking the hot sun and casting a cooling shadow, stands a giant. Alvarez hasn’t been to the forest, but he’s heard the stories from the traders and merchants that travel to and from. He’s heard the stories of the massive beast-people that lurk in the shadows of the trees, he’s heard stories of their strength and might that could level even Terra Magica to the ground. Maduul Jara is not like the stories. For starters, his height must have been stunted or at least that’s what the team thought when he joined. He was taller than the average Magic, sure, and though he can let out some severe damage, he certainly couldn’t level a city. What makes him unique, however, is his knowledge. Giants already possess some innate knowledge of Magic even if they’re incapable of attuning. Maduul is a unique case. His knowledge of Magic goes beyond anything anyone in his tribe, or any others, knows or could know. Oz was tasked with finding him and bringing him to the manor. When asked about the information he knows and where he got it, he simply responds “The munchata whispered to me” every time. This is why Oz picked him, why Oz trained him, and why he stands here today.
Next to Maduul stands a woman picking purple petals, flown in by the brisk wind, out of her red curly mane. The woman is dark, so much darker than Alvarez; darker than any Magic in Mors Mortis, let alone Terra Magica. He remembers so vividly the day she arrived in the city. Who could forget the day an Oroka waltzed through the gates of Terra Magica? With her darkened skin and fiery hair, Karona survived within Terra Magica with a target right on her back. Alvarez had heard stories of the Orokana as well. After the war, the Orona faction is all but extinct; however the stories paint them as much nicer than the Oroka savages lurking at the base of The Peak. He’s heard the stories of how they pick at the bones of their fallen and drink their blood for sustenance. He’s heard the stories of their bloodlust so deep, they forget language and only communicate through ruthless violence. He’s heard the stories of how the Orona would use them as pawns in the war, the perfect cannon fodder to bide time; a horde of beasts just above that of rabid animals. Karona was not like the stories. She is as well mannered as any Noble within the royal manor, and even better spoken. As for her “bloodlust and ruthless violence”, if there is anything Karona has mastered since her first day, it’s patience, control, and composure. However, any member of the team will tell you, when truly angered, Karona can be the nastiest and scariest on the team. This is why Oz picked her, why Oz trained her, and why she stands here today.
A sharp howl breaks through the silence, dragging a chilling breeze behind it. Everyone directs their attention to the large black wolf making its way down gold-lined amethyst stairs that lead out into the garden. Though they stare into purple eyes, the three standing in a line had a troubling time focusing on its form. Its legs did not step onto the stairs, they flowed within; its whole form seemed woven into the material, flawlessly swimming across. Just like a shadow. Perhaps that is where Umbra gets his namesake. Umbra was already here before any of the three joined the team. Sometimes they joke around and say that he recruited Oz, not the other way around. Still though, he is loyal and he is ferocious. As soon as Umbra descends the stairs and flows to his spot facing the line, Oz appears. Pale gray skin, and sulfur eyes; like jaundiced islands floating atop black ponds. A man unlike anyone else on the team, unlike anyone else anywhere; except one place. Alvarez has not heard stories of the creatures from the City Damned. His father has only told him one thing about them: To not concern himself with those blasphemous Creatures. Despite his “blasphemous” nature, however, Ozias has always been a close ally, daresay a friend even, of Alvarez’s father; even before his ascension to Grand Scholar-Caster. At least that’s how it seems whenever his father so fondly recalls memories of his youth, from before the war. Ozias carries himself with grace, confidence, and elegance. His mighty demeanor matches his all purple uniform, fitted with more medals than anyone there combined, and only enhances further as he comes closer with each step. His already short hair contains a clearing wherein a ghastly scar rests. All this with the combination of his battle hardened glare and physique gives him a threatening presence as to make even the giant in their midst cower ever slightly.
“Aside from Lady Satanna herself, and the royal family, there is no higher position Magic could ever hope to attain!” His booming voice carries with it a long trail of pride. Looking at his recruits, his thick beard rustles; a smile beaming with admiration he cannot hold back. He quickly hardens his face with a sharp inhale. “We are defenders of our land!” He walks past the giant. “We are protectors of our nation!” He walks past the Oroka. “We are saviors of the less fortunate!” He stops in front of the Magic, and casts his stern yellow gaze toward the lavender pastures of his young subordinate. “There are those among our gracious numbers that would succumb to the tainted allure of Foul Magic! It is our duty to dispose of such urchins! Be they friends, or family!” The man leans in close and speaks low to Alvarez. “Got that?” After receiving a nod, he straightens out and raises his voice again. “We are the first and last line of defense against these betrayers of Magic! For the perseverance of peace for our people and tranquility for our nation, we must swear to destroy any who dare be foolish enough to twist Lady Satanna’s ever gracious gift for their own Foul ends! For it is Lady Satanna that has graced us with this bountiful land and prosperous dynasty! And it is her Magic that binds us not just to the land, but to ourselves, and each other! Lady Satanna is Magic! Terra Magica is Magic! And all that resides in its precious boundaries is Magic! To turn Foul is to reject and betray this gift! It is our birthright to defend this land from Foul Magic! This is our oath! Through many trials and tribulations, you have earned the spot you stand in today! Allow yourselves a moment to feel pride, if you have not already.” He offers a generous pause. “I, Ozias Sacrima, ask you one final time: Are you prepared to swear by the oath?!”
“SIR, YES SIR!” All three yell out in synchronization.
The man lifts his hands in the air and draws a rune too fast for anyone to see. Within seconds, a rune sears into their hand. Though invisible to their eyes, the burning pain allows them to memorize the rune nearly instantly.
“This is the mark of your ascension! Maduul Jara! Karota! Alvarez LaSatanna! Hold yourselves high with pride from here on out! Blessed by the leges absolutae and donned with our leges terrae, you are now, and shall forever be, honored with the title of Venator!”