Johann Avendari Skyborne had hated wash-outs since his first day at the Harubridgium. From small-scale aspiring adventurers like Poguzqe to superstars like the former Council Member Max. Had hated them because the Pebbles around him had hated them, laughing with his friends and Order-mates whenever another student got themselves in enough trouble to get banished. Had hated them because his father was technically a washout, exiled after too many warnings for views other [sky.elves] from their Native Continent of Garaqa'Delegathe had thought of as unseemly. Had hated them because deep down, the thought of becoming like them, like him, had always sent a shiver down his spine. And now he hated them because the fear had been made manifest. He was imprisoned in the dungeon Asadu'Mevenathe, situated at the Northern Edge of the School, named after the Harubridgium's first ever exiles and known for being the place where Rule-breaking Pebbles spent their remaining days in the academy before facing an Ethics Council headed by three, a Student Council member, a Parent Council member, and a Teacher Council member. An Ethics Council which would either give him and his friends a slap on the wrist or show them the front gate. That he knew one of the members had put him up to it was a small relief, for she could still betray him. Let him flounder and fall.
How could he have been such a fool? Putting everything and everyone in jeopardy for the promise of friendship to a future [Queen]. Putting his real friend’s life in jeopardy, for a game none of them should’ve even been playing in the first place.
I'm sorry, Sareth'Amoniqa.
Now, a person short, the others sat in the building's main dinner hall in groups of two as far apart from him and each other as they were able: The married [Orcs] sat at the giant banquet table on the elevated ground at the end of the hall; The [Geomancer] Gabrilore and the Sky-Elf Tamara sat at a table to the side, next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, each gazing longingly through it in the direction of the park, and the wife they'd lost there; The Eagle Fadala'Mezes and the Human Cyra'Lasidius, best friends since their starting year at the academy, sat near the door, aware of the latter's recent climb in popularity amongst their group; and Johann sat alone at the center of the room, skimming through an old book he'd found there—a historical fiction novel set around the last [hero] if he'd survived into the Age of Slumber—aware of the silver Chandelier above him that shook every time a breeze passed near it, and almost desperate for it to fall and save him from his failure.
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Murmurs of protest echoed through the silence of the room from near the red, worn, double-doors. The raspy voice of Fame arguing with Cyra. Not before long, the human stood from his brown, wooden seat, eliciting one final unintelligible warning from his friend, louder than the rest but ignored all the same as the [Metal.Mage] started walking toward Hann. The book stayed open, but the Sky-Elf more or less stopped reading it, attention shifted to the footsteps coming closer and closer toward him. Mind fading back to the park; to Cyra’s betrayal; and to his own comments only moments before then. The two’s correlation was not lost to Hann, as he was sure it hadn’t been lost to any of the others either. With exception of Gabrilore, mayhaps. The Sky-Elf had probably lost the Human as a friend that day. Bad choice after bad choice after bad... Such a fool.
Cyra was only a few feet away from him. He took in a deep breath and waited for the confrontation. The human walked past his table, throwing a glance at the book before continuing on his stride, hands in the pockets of his dark, ruined coat. Halfling’s Gate. He hadn’t been coming to talk to him. He’d been heading toward the banquet table, and the Orcs who sat there. Off to make his own apology. If that was the case, maybe…
“Cyra,” Hann called out, standing from the table. “Can we—”
The mage stopped. One hand left the cover of his pocket, pointing up at the chandelier. “Have more pressing matters,” he said. “Besides, I’m human, remember; wouldn’t want me dirtying the air around his precious Majesty.” Cyra turned, feigned a bow and a smile, and continued on his way. From up ahead, the Green Orc Qath’Vereta snorted. Hann fell back into his creaking chair and let his eyes find the book’s silver pages once again, watching the coming altercation in his periphery.
A minute later, Cyra reached the table infused with Techno-Mana and started talking. Murmurs from him. Murmurs from the Purple-skinned Half-Orc Wede’Qawana. A laugh from Qave.
“You have more pressing matters, I think,” the smaller Orc boomed, pointing downward at the table. The mage let his eyes follow, and the pointing hand clenched into a fist, heading for his face, but meeting a raised arm instead.
She hit at it once and twice, baiting him with a feigned punch from her amputated arm before letting the third hit take him off his feet and send him sprawling past the steps and onto a rotten table which broke on impact. Struggling to rise, his eyes started to glow, red in the irises, silver all around them. Rusting cutlery on and below the table, and anything else metallic—the lintel and sash bars on the windows, the hinges on the door, even their belt buckles—began to tremble. Everything but the Chandelier, Hann noted.