Spring Season: The Land of Giants: Wallowworth, The Town of Bones…
“Heard another Coven was called today…” a hand places an old wooden cup firmly onto a fine, polished oak bartop. The hand rests upon the circular opening of the cup, worn and leathery with gaudy rings and gold chains dotting the painted black fingers.
“That’s the fifth one in five consecutive months…” a voice returns from beside the first, raspy, yet filled with concern.
“Yeah this ain’t somethin’ to sneeze at… A Coven of Four happens just once or twice a year, during Blood Moons…”
“So why do you think they’ve met five times already just during the spring season?” The second voice chirps, swallowing a gulp of his drink.
“Couldn’t tell ya… all I heard is that for each of the past four meetings… all four of the nation's Lords showed up, both of their Grand Guardian’s in tow, and the Shaman from their prospective lands.”
“No kiddin’ the Shaman too?”
“All four of em’.” The first man brings his cup up to his dried lips, taking a swig. He sighs as he plants the cup back down, and as soon as the cup finds its way to the glossy tabletop, a louder *thud* sounds off just before the two older men, both whip their heads forward, facing the bartender standing upon the other side of the bar, both meeting the gaze of a young man. His bright blue eyes wide with excitement, the low, warm oil lamplight from the quiet tavern reflects from them giving the young man a bright twinkle in his eyes as an excited smile spreads from ear to ear. His head of long black, and highlighted grayish-white hair runs medium to long in length, tied up in a small bun at the back of his head. The men examine the young man for a moment, noting his more formal outfit, a blazer jacket, accompanied with a button down silk vest. A tuft of fabric protruding from the neck, and cascading down the front of the outfit, a rage in his hand.
“The two of you have stories about the Shaman!?” The young man calls, his smile growing wider.
“Er- well… I wouldn’t say stories about the Shaman…”
“Right…” the second man chimes in “…rather general, public information about them.”
“Uh- here! I’ll pay you, coppers, silvers… uh even gold if you want it, just for your information!” The young man rummages around his pockets for a moment.
“Hm? You’re going to slide us gold pieces simply for a bit of information?” The first man raises a fluffy gray brow in suspicion, awkwardly exchanging glances with the second man.
“Ah… well I guess I don’t really have any gold right now…”
“HAHAHAHA!” Both men erupt into laughter, slamming their hands onto the bar top and nudging one another.
“H- hey, but… I’ll make it soon, and I’ll be sure to pay you back so please!” The young man slams his hands together as if to pray and closes his eyes. “Any information you've got!”
“Hm?” The first man mumbles, drying a tear from the corner of his eye, riddled with crows feet. “You’re really serious about all this? What’s a bartender want with information about Witches?”
“I’m begging you! Before my boss comes back please!”
“What’s your name kid?” The second man chimes in, after settling himself from his laughing fit.
“It’s Ringo Rohan sir!” The young man calls. “I’m seventeen years old!”
“Alright, alright… you said you didn’t want your boss to come back, so quit yellin’ would ya.” The first guy groans, he takes a swig from his cup, and taps the rim.
“Right!” Ringo quickly rushes to a pitcher and pours another cup for the man.
“Listen kid…” he mumbles. “… truth is I really don’t know much about the Shaman… hell us average folk don’t know much about our own Lords for that matter. Even if I wanted to make something up to scam you out of your coin, I wouldn’t even know where to begin…” the man glances down at the liquid in his cup, and sighs. “…those four guys are enigmas to the entire world”
“Woah… the entire world…” Ringo’s eyes widen, as he plants his cheeks in his hands.
“Forgive me for prying, but what’s it to you anyway?” The second guy asks, shrugging his shoulders loosely. “I mean what’s a seventeen year old bartender from Giant worried about Shaman for anyway?”
“Hm? I dunno…”
“You a Witch or somethin?”
“Hmm… nah…” Ringo glances to the side. “…not yet at least.”
“Oh I see! So you’ve got plans to become one then? Whaddya aiming to be a Shaman?” The first man asks, both erupt into loud laughing fits once more.
“No…” Ringo mutters under the cacophony of laughter. “…at the end of the day… guess the truth is that I wanna kill one.” Both men chuckle and begin calming down, sighing and rubbing the tears from their eyes, before they finally settle.
“WAIT WHAT!?” Both roar out.
“Hey, hey Buddy!” The second one calls out. “You can’t be saying shit like that alright!?”
“Hm? Why not? You guys asked…”
“You’re saying you want to…” the first man glances around. “…kill a Shaman!?”
“Yeah I guess… not a fan of the one from Giant.” Ringo picks up a dish and begins scrubbing it. “Anyway… thanks for the information you guys could provide.”
“Wait, don't walk away from us! Do you have any idea what you’re saying!? Just thinking about the Coven and the amount of strong witches that have gathered there, is making my skin crawl!” The second guy shivers.
“Oh yeah… you’re right… the coven.” Ringo smiles, glancing away, before getting lost in thought I wonder what a meeting between the sixteen strongest witches in the world looks like…
…
Spring Season: The Land of Fairies: Feyfurn, the Town of Indigo Flames…
“Quite the meeting spot you’ve selected…” an older gentleman mutters to himself. He sits lazily in a large stone chair, a reddish pink cushion under him, a light pink, wooden, circular table sprawls out before him with three other seats. The table is polished and smooth, and mosses, flowers and other plants decorate the interior of the large wooden cottage, as well as the table. The older man sits at a staggering, nearly nine feet tall when upright, and even from under the heavy robes of black and gray, decorated in graying irons and silvers, it’s evident that his height is only complimented by his musculature. The man removes a black head wrap from himself, and begins folding it neatly his enormous braided, white beard rolls down to his lower chest, and his mustache stretches out toward his ears. His pair of narrow, nearly black, gray eyes examines a seat to his right, as he raises a hand back to one of the two figures standing behind him. The one at the man’s right shoulder reaches for the head wrap, and stows it on his person.
“Think you of all people would have enjoyed a meeting place like this Gilfried.” A woman’s voice speaks up, as she strolls out of a smaller room off to the side. Indigo colored tattoos run the lengths of her limbs, as a regal designed dress bright with whites, pinks, greens, and blues flows behind her. A tiara rests over her head fluttering with a translucent clear look, though some form of stone rests in the center. Her strawberry blonde hair is done up in a bun, with waves of layered, ombréd hair cascading down to her shoulders.
“Too bright for me…” Gilfried responds. “…just lucky you’re hosting this time round Finni, or you may have spent so much time slathering makeup on, you may have missed the important parts.”
“No makeup here Gilfried… you know this.” The woman smiles, providing a melodic, calm tone to her voice, her amber colored eyes softly glaring back at Gilfried.
“Doesn’t matter if the three of us all made it on time… where the hell is Isura.” A third figure mumbles twirling a golden coin in his hand. His dark, leather hood resting over his head of silvering hair. He looks younger than Gilfried and a few years older than Finni. The white scruff he’s accumulated on his chin seems to indicate an older age, and the scar that runs from the bottom of his cheek up to his temple would seemingly indicate experience as well. A small dark green stick of some kind cracks in his mouth, he chews and swallows it. Before giving an exasperated sigh through his nose, before continuing to move the stick around his lips.
“Those things are probably awful for your sodium count, Yaknow…” Finni mumbles.
“Like I care… Seaweed’s a delicacy in Death, so I’ll savor it even if it kills me.” As the conversation dies down the heavy oak door opens itself again, a loud groan from the doors hinges echoes through the large room, as heels click onto the floorboards and into the room. Each of the three who sit in the room prior take alert to the newcomer, and the two figures at each person’s side stand on guard.
“Do you know what you’ve just walked into girl?” Finni mumbles, her eyes narrowing.
“My name is Yakira Youki, Grand Guardian, and vassal to Lord Isura.” The woman quickly responds to Finni. The woman sports vibrant, crimson colored hair, tied into twin braided ponytails and parted at the middle, the right side of which swings low, covering her eye. She wears loose, light blue robes, with cloud designs floating around them. A straight sword sitting at her lower back, tied into a sash that lies around the young woman’s waist. A black beauty mark rests just beneath her left eye, which radiates an encapsulating gradient of red and blue.
“Piece of shit can’t bother to show up even when war lies on the horizon.” The man in the dark hood scoffs, crunching away at his seaweed stick once more.
“Yes… fifth meeting in the first half of the Spring Season I hear… Dragon Lord Isura sends her regards and says you’ll understand.” Youki makes her way toward the table. She plants a hand on the seat a few feet from the man with white hair, before a boot meets the chair with a *slam*
“I don’t give a damn what Dragon Lord Isura says, Death Lord Luciano, Fairy Lord Finni, and Giant Lord Gilfried made their time to be here, the least she could have done as the fourth seat was shown up.” The man growls, glaring up at Youki.
“Sorry dear…” Finni speaks up. “… during this meeting we were to have our Grand Guardian’s step out as well, everything we are speaking about is confidential to the Lords of each nation, it’s not meant for the ears of their seconds.” Finni takes an exasperated sigh, before waving her hand, her Grand Guardian’s leaving her side, the guardians around the other two Lords make moves toward the door as well, each passing Youki. “I hope you’ll understand.” Finni finally smiles at Youki.
“Right… of course.” Youki’s glare darts between the others before she steps toward the door.
“You’re the young girl that Isura spoke to me about before.” Gilfried’s voice booms across the confines of the large room, as if thunder cracking the sky. Finni, and Luciano raise a brow as they listen calmly to Gilfried, but Youki jumps, startled at the vocal eruption.
“Yes.” Youki returns glancing backward.
“A young girl barely fifteen… that can hold her own as a witch among one of the Lords’ Grand Guardians, that is not an easy feat, nor is it common. I look forward to seeing your progress vicariously through Dragon Lord Isura.” He finishes, returning his attention to the other two.
“Right… yes- yessir.” Youki responds as she exits the enormous oak door, it groaning and slamming shut behind her.
“Told ya it was off limits.” A voice calls out to Youki from a few feet away, her eyes narrow and she glances to the side, where a group of others stand. “Not even sure why they called us here.” The voice finished. Yakira glances toward the origin of the voice to be met with four figures that she had encountered during her approach to the door. Sitting upon the stump of an enormous oak, the man who possessed the voice that had rang out to Yakira, scribbles something onto a spell tag, a small rectangular piece of parchment typically more sturdy than regular paper. Dozens of spell tags lie around the stump around him, each depicting wildly different symbols of arcane lettering that Yakira had never seen. Her mind scrambled through the list of symbols she had come across during her time as a witch, only to come up empty handed. The man’s eyes are glued to the current tag that he doodles on, his wild, scruffy hair wafting all about his head in the wind, as his shallow dim violet shaded irises peer through his bagged eyes. A short, patchy beard compliments the wild and misshapen hair that befits the man’s head, and his regal, violet and golden robes decorate his body. Golden metals cover his fingers, as well as black and gold nail paint. “We came here together, remember Youki?” He mutters, keeping his eyes glued to his work.
“Would it kill you to look at me, when you talk to me Kaspar?” Yakira mutters. The man holds a finger up as he flicks his wrist and calmly scribbles a few more bits on the tag, Kaspar finishes, sits the tag on the stump he has been sitting on, and plants an elbow onto his knee, placing his cheek into his hand.
“Undivided attention Lady Youki.” A mocking smile flashing across the man’s face as a light chuckle exits his lips.
“A Shaman referring to someone else as “lady” is unbefitting.” A feminine voice remarks from a few feet away, Yakira’s view snaps over to the origin, while Kaspar simply removes a new spell tag from a bag and begins doodling once more.
From a flowered willow hanging a few feet down the mossy stone brick path, a figure stands against the wrinkled bark of the tree, Yakira’s eyes narrow as she examines the figure, one of the four that stand around outside of the enormous cabin atop the hill. The woman’s eyes turn to Yakira, and as they meet her own, Yakira feels a pit form in her stomach, eyes of pure black, as if filled with tar glare at her. The woman who meets Youki’s gaze is a tall seven feet high, and though she possesses strength comparable to The Giant Lord that had spoken with Yakira in the cabin, this woman possesses a far more feminine form rather than built musculature. The woman is dressed in a silk, dark black woven dress, a large, rolling hood hangs over her head, locks of the woman's jet black hair peeks out from the inside of the hood, and a large, black, floppy hat, the top coming to a point and folding over the back sits atop the hood. Starting at the women's mid-bicep and running down to her hands, she wears black fishnets, and from mid thigh down to high black boots, the woman is adorned with more fishnets. Tattoos depicting skulls, weapons, thorned flowers and vines, run the length of her right thigh and arm.
“Now, now Mari, try not to scare my partner here.” Kaspar mutters.
“She shouldn’t have come anyway, that coward Isura should have shown herself. If she doesn’t wish to take part, then she should consider relinquishing the crown. I know Gilfried would be more than happy to entertain that idea.” A wide smile stretches across Mari’s face. Yakira’s brow furrows as she steps forward, a hand being placed on the sword at her back, before she freezes, and her stomach drops, her vision darting down to Kaspar.
“I wouldn’t say something like that again Miss Marigold…” Kaspar’s vision remains glued to the spell tag he sketches on, but a warm smile comes across his face, his hair flapping around even more wildly now, as Yakira examines the man.
Her mind races with the impossibilities of what Kaspar is doing… Witches can’t simply emit a force of Magick, they ingest it from the world around them and act as a conduit to produce spells. In order to emit raw Magick as Kaspar has done, the Witch must be able to store Magick from the surrounding world to then expel later. This in itself is not an impossible feat, even a Grand Guardian, the weakest among Shaman, Lords, and Grand Guardians, Yakira has found herself able to store and emit Magick, but nowhere near the amount Kaspar currently emits an amount like this would be enough to rip Youki’s organs and musculature off her bones.
“Hey… this one’s pretty…” a voice mutters from a low spot behind Kaspar.
“Think so? Why thank you Miss Mist!” Kaspar smiles, as his Magick emission dies down. Yakira looks on, her eyes glued wide open.
She was able to approach him while he emitted such an arcane force?
“What does this one do?” The woman asks, holding a spell tag up. She possesses long, silver hair that runs in one enormous braid down her back, reaching the ground as she crouches. She dons a dark grayish black cloak, with a large mound of fur running along the neck area of the cloak, shining buttons clipping the cloak shit in the front. The woman has a youthful exuberance to her, her face is young as if in her mid to early twenties, but to achieve a level as high as Shaman, this woman must be several years older than that. Yakira’s mind races as she watches the two interact
This woman is by far the youngest looking of all of the four here… but to approach Kaspar in such a lackadaisical manner… she must be… The Gatekeeper of Death!
A story told by those in The Land of Death, told so often this woman has become a legend among the Shaman. Some say she can’t be killed, and some say she’s discovered a secret to immortality, but all agree that when you die, this woman will find and deliver you to the afterlife.
She’s scary enough knowing the legend… but I can’t see her as anything but a young girl looking at her like this… Youki thinks to herself as the woman and Kaspar continue to communicate. The woman leans on her long wooden staff as she listens to Kaspar explain, a snowy owl resting, seemingly dozing off atop the staff. Yakira’s eyes stay glued to the two for a moment as they talk about the immense Magick Symbols they’ve designed before her thoughts wander once more Hm? Oh yeah… the fourth one’s been quiet… Yakira turns to where she had noted the fourth one earlier, her head cocking to the side slightly. Sitting beneath another weeping tree a few feet off to the side from the two discussing spell tags, a smaller, seemingly more frail figure sits. A large circular hat made of some odd type of bark from a tree of which Yakira had never seen, spell tags written on and hanging from the edges, rests atop the man’s head. He sits on a fine maroon silken rug. The man removes a fourth jar filled with fireflies and sets it in the final corner of the rug. He then reaches to a bag sitting at his lower back, over his form fitting gi-style robing. The man removes a container of incense, before burning it and placing it in the center of his rug. The man takes a deep breath, and sits up straight as he does, the shadow that covers his face from under his hat clears and Youki’s eyes widen and her jaw drops.
“Close your mouth dear, you’ll catch a bug.” The man mutters, as he speaks a raspy voice cuts through a head made entirely of bark. Flowers and vines grow off of the man’s face and wrap around his neck and head from under the hat which seems to be connected to this mass of tree flesh. The face of the man is devoid of eyes, a nose, or even a mouth; his voice echoes out at a muffled tone with the sound of gasses puffing out from the interior of the tree mass.
“Go easy on her Gaian… she’s not used to seeing Witches such as ourselves.”
“It’s no matter… I would prefer she not make faces like that at Miss Moreno though, not as even tempered as I” Gaian remains perfectly still.
“Piss off tree.” The woman from under the willow bites, she stands still, staring at her nails. Yakira glances between all four of the figures, once more getting lost in her thoughts.
This… is insane… I get it now, the Shaman of the Four Nations, Kaspar Krown, Magnolia Mist, Gaian Grail, and Marigold Moreno… I’ve heard their names but these are the four strongest Witches in the world? I can’t tell… if I feel safe or in danger among them…
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Spring Season: The Land of Giants: Wallowworth, The Town of Bones…
“Whew!” Ringo flips a used towel over his shoulder, and moves out from behind the bar, lowering the wooden plank as he steps out into the dining area.
“Hey, kid.” A deep voice bellows from a few feet to his left; he turns over his shoulder and raises a brow.
“Yessir?” He returns.
“Leavin’ for the night?”
“Yessir, I cleaned off all of the glassware and wiped down the bar area, so I’m done for the day.”
“Right right… come here.” Ringo raises a brow and turns, making his way toward the shaded counter where the voice echoes from. Douglas Doherty was not a very prominent barkeep, he preferred to keep himself away from the patrons and conduct his business in a quiet area, to himself. Because of this it was unlike him to call Ringo over for a chat before quitting time. Ringo raised a hand and slid the curtain that covered the area aside.
“Sir?” As Ringo opened the cloth, his nostrils were burned with the scent of tobacco and alcohol, as a cloud wafted out from the area.
“Mind tellin’ me what I found at your station last night?” An enormous hand, fingers rounded as if inflated, and coated with wispy strands of hair slides out from the shaded section of the bar, sliding a small bar napkin across the counter that Ringo stands on the other side of.
“I…” Ringo struggles to find the words to defend himself.
“You wouldn’t be a Witch now would you?” Douglass growls from his corner, Ringo glances up at him, a large lumbering male, his gut plump and round, but his entire body, aside from his hand shaded into a silhouette, where only the lair of round glasses on his face catch the reflection from the moon as it peeks into a bar window. Ringo glances down at the napkin, a trio of small swirls, complete with a concise dot in the center.
“Just a doodle sir.” Ringo reaches forward, before he jumps back, wincing as a *SLAM* sounds off on the table. Ringo opens his eyes to see a knife jammed into the countertop, through the napkin.
“Magick symbols carry a lot of power, boy… all you need do is take in some of the surrounding Magick, and accidentally pass it through the napkin, and you could cause some serious damage.”
“R-right I know… I wasn’t planning on-“ another slam cuts Ringo off, as a plank of wood rattles against the wall behind Douglass, the large hand from earlier planted firmly next to the sign. The sign has the word WITCH painted on it, with a large circle and a cross mark going through it.
“I have these signs planted up all over the bar for a reason… I don't serve Witches, no one in Walloworth does, so I won’t have any work for me.”
“Understood, I apologize… it was a simple oversight.”
“Very well… I don’t wanna see it again. I'll be taking your pay for the week to repair that countertop. See you tomorrow.” Douglass waves Ringo off, before sliding the curtain across once more, severing him from the outside area. Ringo, sunken, and exhausted, exits the building slowly taking care to take a deep breath of the cool evening, spring air.
“Just great.” Ringo’s attempts to lighten his own mood immediately shatter as the reality of a missed week of pay sets in, he removes the tie that holds his hair up, and it’s medium length collapses down to just above his shoulder blades, he stuffs both hands into his pockets and with a far more sullen look behind his trek further away from the city. “This town's problem with Witches is becoming obnoxious.” Ringo sighs. “All I did was write a lousy spell out, and I’m fined my entire week's pay like some criminal.” He lets out a sigh, and glances down at the dried brown grass he strolls upon. Ringo allows his thoughts to wander as he continues to make his way further toward the outskirts of Walloworth before long he approaches a small run down home, made of dry rotting wood, loose fitting tile and rope, complete with a door that sits off kilter on its hinges. “Home sweet home…” Ringo mutters, opening the door. Ringo's home sits in an area of slums around the town of Walloworth, and while the entire town is not particularly wealthy, this area in Walloworth, complete with crumbling concrete fountains, overrun with vegetation, half made fences and poorly designed homes that lack entire walls, is particularly rough looking.
Thankfully, Ringo’s home still stands with all four walls intact, and barring a leaky section in the roof here and there, Ringo’s tiny one room home stands with minimal damage. Ringo moves between the several windows in his home, peeks outside of then, before drawing them closed. Toward the middle of his home a worn out couch sits, springs and cotton poking out of them, quickly, Ringo moves the couch away from the center of the room, and returns to a workbench that lies horizontally, against the farthest wall. Littered across the old wooden workbench dozens of spell tags, with symbols written on them, different empty potion bottles, and small glass jars with tiny insects crawling around inside of them lie strewn about, a dirty, torn, purple felt table cloth runs its length beneath the clutter. Ringo takes the four glass jars taking one in his free hand, closing his eyes and letting out a breath, in an instant the insects jumble themselves around and their bodies illuminate a bright yellow color. Ringo does the same with the other three and places them at four points on the ground, before stepping back, and giving a labored breath.
“Done!” He sighs, wiping his brow, and smiling at the ground, where a chalk drawing of a circle with a square inside making four points outside of the circle, where each jar sits, and in the center of the circle a large symbol drawn in great detail depicting a pentagram, an eye in its center with a five point hand reaching out of it. “Typically Witches would work under a mentor… but this town refuses any Witch capable of that to enter.” Another long breath enters, before escaping Ringo’s lips. “It’s for that reason that I need to learn by doing it myself… though a lot can go wrong during ritual castings.” Ringo rushes back to his table, gathering a small pouch, before returning to the base of his circle.
“East Wind come… I summon you with a clear heart..”
Ringo opens one eye to see nothing has happened, before nodding to himself, and taking another deep breath.
“East Wind come… I summon you with a clear heart”
Ringo’s eyes remai shut as he takes in one final deep breath, reaching into the pouch and raising it above the floor. He speaks as he releases his grip, the sand he once held fluttering down…
“East Wind come, I summon you with a clear heart!”
As Ringo finishes his chant, the sand continues to flutter downward, Ringo opens one eye once more in an attempt to see what’s going on, his view jerks toward the sand falling straight down as it reaches the floor, but before Ringo can release a defeated sigh, the sand jerks to his right, a blustery wind following just behind it. Ringo’s eyes dart to the left as he opens them wide, wincing as this wind tears through one window, collects the sand and rips out of the other window, several spell tags kick up from Ringo’s workbench and begin swirling around the room as the wind begins to concentrate at the center of the chalk circle. Ringo’s eyes widen even further as the wind begins to shape, it starts at the ground forming taloned feet, then builds up a muscular set of thighs comprised of the whipping winds. Before long the wind completes its design, with a broad set of shoulders atop a built torso, and enormous arms, complete with more talons at the end of the fingers, and lastly, atop the thickened neck of the creature a head, human shaped and sized, yet a single eye peels open between where two human eyes would lie, the eye darts around before locking into Ringo. The creature bends forward, once standing at around nine to ten feet tall, now matching Ringo’s height, the singular eye glaring into Ringo’s own… no it feels more like the creature is staring directly through Ringo himself… into his soul. With Ringo able to get a better handle on the visual of this creature, his heart rate accelerated rapidly, the single eye, wide and seemingly prying around for an answer of some kind, swirls violently with a grayish blue tint as if a stormy wind blisters around inside of it. This is further solidified by the bursting cloud of wispy wind that flutters about from the back of the creature's head. The beast lets out a low rumble as it breathes a burst of air through its mouth, bursting Ringo’s hair around wildly.
“Y- you’re the Spirit of The East Wind…” Ringo takes a wobbly step backward, bumping into his workbench, catching himself with his hand. The beast lowers its head to meet Ringo once more, a low grumbling reverberating through Ringo’s rib cage, rattling him to the core. “It… worked…” Ringo mutters to himself. “…it finally… worked!” He reaches a hand out, his worry turning to a smile, before the beast lets out a deafening roar, causing Ringo to flinch backward. “H- hey!” The beast swings it’s clawed arm across Ringo, in a flash, Ringo dips below the strike, he gets back to an upright position, before whipping an arm forward, a spell tag Ringo had grabbed from his bench, sailing through the air. “JETSTREAM!” The tag illuminates a gray color, before the paper morphs into a single tiny point of air, bursting upward toward the creature, zipping up, through the bottom of its mouth, and out the top of its head. The roar stops as the beast stands still, a hole bore straight through its head, solidified clumps of condensed air drip from the hole as if blood, but dissipate before hitting the ground. Ringo’s heart rate only accelerated as he stands in shock, staring up at the beast. He takes a step closer, and as his foot hits the wooden plank, the beast lets out a second roar, closing both hands into fists, and slamming them down to the floor.
The wall to Ringo’s home explodes outward, Ringo following suit as the wood and debris from his home collapses and sails outward around him. Ringo’s body hits the ground with a *THUD* and he skids and rolls several feet backward. Ringo plants his feet down and stumbles backward as he gets a good look at the wreckage of his home. The slam sent a burst of wind outward in every direction, causing each wall of Ringo’s flimsy home to be shattered and dispersed in every direction. The burst of wind also formed a crater where the beast stood, and exploded outward in a diameter of several acres, wrecking homes and buildings at an enormous area of effect. No way… Ringo’s mind wanders as he stumbles to catch his footing. The planks from the destroyed buildings had sailed into other homes, and collided with bystanders, dead bodies lie in the roads, and blood cakes several of the surrounding boulders and planks, dying the dried brown grass of Walloworth a new shade of pearlescent crimson. …It wiped out such a large area… just by slamming the ground. The area to its left… goes even further… Ringo examines the section to the left of the beast… for miles it seems the effects of the surrounding area go on, the beast had produced a gust of wind so terrible it had destroyed things out of Ringo’s field of view. With clenched teeth, Ringo shot a hand forward, finally falling to his back, and rolling to a stop. From his hand, three spell tags fluttered forward, each turning into the small streams of wind from earlier, rocketing forward and piercing the body of the beast once more. With the original hole still present, three new holes bore themselves through the creature's torso. JETSTREAM is the only spell I’ve got written down perfectly… aside from… well I can’t use that, I know it from memory but it drains so much of my stamina… Ringo’s mind races with potential solutions but none come to mind. Panic has now stricken the streets of Walloworth people rush around, evading the beast at all costs, calling out to fallen family members, bathed in the blood of their loved ones.
“YOU THERE!” A voice roars out from behind Ringo. He moves to turn, but is immediately slammed into the ground, as three men clamor on top of him. “YOU'RE UNDER ARREST WITCH! You two, gather the rest of the guard, we’ll handle this monster and deal with the Witch after, go!”
“Right!” The other two call out in unison rushing off in the direction they came.
“I’m… I didn’t mean to…” Ringo’s eyes widen as he watches the creature he had summoned rampage throughout Walloworth.
“Shut it filth!” The guard Slams Ringo’s head into the ground. No… wait… it doesn’t matter how much stamina I have left… Ringo pushes his head up, mud and dirt roll off of his brow, as he narrows his eyes at the beast. Ringo shuffles with his arm, attempting to pull it from the guards grasp.
“Hey! Stop that Witch! You’ve lost so surrender!” Ringo gives a final yank, and the guard loses his footing a bit, stumbling a little, as Ringo shoots his arm toward the beast.
“It’s sort of far… but still within range… third gauge…” Ringo curls in his thumb and pinky, pointing three fingers toward the beast. “…DISPERSING WINDS!” Ringo drops his fingers at the wrist, pointing to the ground, as he does the three fingernails, from tip to bed the nail crumbles and disappears from Ringo’s fingers. “GAAH!” Ringo roars out as he squirms in pain.
“H- hey! Calm down!” The guard struggles to stay on Ringo’s back, holding him down. Ringo clasps his three fingers in his hands, the pulsing sensation of the nails being removed numbing Ringo’s entire body. “What did you do witch!” The guard slams Ringo’s face down again, as he glances up at the creature. With no strength left after the casting of Ringo’s spell, all he’s able to do is raise his eye slightly, to catch a glimpse of the creature he had summoned. Since the spell was casted the beast had simply remained stationary, unmoving and silent… “Did you calm it down?” The guard mutters through heavy breaths. Suddenly his eyes widen, as the wind that makes up the skin and structure of the beast warbles, bits of wind tear from the creature's body, lashing out at the nearby villagers and their homes violently. “H- HEY! ANSWER ME!” The guard yells. His vision darting between the two, as chunks and lacerations of wind begin appearing upon the beast's body. The creature roars out in pain, as wisps of wind erupt off of its thighs, bursting a gust of wind in the direction it was torn. It doesn’t take long for the legs of the beast to be reduced to nothing, its arms following, only to be continued by its torso, and neck. The head of the creature turns toward the caster of this spell, and locks in on Ringo. The sole eye, stormy and filled with bitter malice, glares at him.
“Be…gone…” Ringo mutters, a pained and raspy voice racing out of the dirt it’s half covered in. Before the head of the beast is torn apart in shreds, burst of wind erupting outward from every angle, an enormous gust rolling toward, and past Ringo, blowing the guard from his back. “That wind… he’s off?” Ringo quickly plants his hands onto the dirt, and struggles upward. “Dammit… love muscles!” Ringo roars, sweat pouring from his face, as his arms shake and struggle to keep up. “DAMMIT!!!” Ringo, finally drops a knee beneath him, and sits back on it panting and struggling.
“H- hey… don’t you move Witch… forget capturing you… I’ll fucking kill you…” the guard gasps, he raises a sword up, pointing it at Ringo, who half turns, his breath puffing out into the warm spring air. At first Ringo is filled with worry, he feels an immediate urge to stand and run… but he examines his captor, as his arm falls limp, dropping the blade. Ringo’s eyes trace the blade, then the arm to the man who wielded it, and his eyes follow down his torso to a piece of floorboard that now protrudes from the guard's lower back, and gut. Blood rolls down the man’s chin, and stains the wooden mess he lies in.
“I… I’m sorry… I didn’t…”
“Hey! Over here!” A separate voice calls, this rattles Ringo out of his trance, and he plants his other foot down, thrusting up to a standing position. Move! Come one dammit fucking MOVE! Ringo shouts in his head, as he plants a foot forward, clutching his fingers in both hands, before he’s able to find the strength to limp off toward a nearby outcropping of forest…
Spring Season: Classified Location…
“Hm? A beast surfaced in Walloworth? Impossible, that town is known for its displeasure in witchcraft.” A posh voice sounds off, this voice sits behind a large countertop that wraps around a circular shaped room. It’s here that ten enormous seats of etched stone, complete with cushions and different banners representing each of the four nations sit, each seat filled.
“We from The Land of Giant know this to be true and we’ve shared this information with all of you as well. But even so that doesn’t mean it’s immune from attacks.” A second voice speaks up, it belongs to a man decorated in a deep plum colored suit. A tie shimmering in gold, and his face dotted with a multitude of piercings, the shine from each contrasting his darker skin.
“So you’re saying Walloworth was attacked?” The first man mutters, a much smaller gentleman with a caramel colored tone to his skin and slicked back black hair. His potbelly barely contains the plain black suit he wears, and the skin from his fingers pudge out from the rings around them as if they’re stuck.
“It’s not far from a possibility, there are plenty of Witches that would despise or at least be wary of Walloworth given its… stance.” The second man returns, giving a regal shrug.
“Well…” a more quiet voice chirps from the ground floor at the center of the room. All ten seated figures glance down toward the voice. A man of fifty or so years of age, stands looking up at the seated men and women. He is decorated in a suit and some other formal attire, white gloves affixed to his hands that hold his fedora style hat close to his chest. His salt and pepper hair matches his graying mustache and beard as he gives a nervous smile at the seated figures. “…I have news that it was someone within Walloworth, one who had lived there for quite some time, who committed this act.”
“Preposterous!” The heavyset man roars out. “I may not be a liaison from Giant but Walloworth is known for its inhabitants being tame and accommodating! Hell I own a vacation home on Mount Walloworth! It’s absolutely unthinkable that a witch from this town would commit such a crime as to destroy the entire section of Walloworth!”
“It’s true sir… except… the report we received from the guard wasn’t that a section was destroyed… all of Walloworth has been wiped off the map.” The older gentleman in the center sighs, an upset look in his eyes. The heavyset man looks on with widened eyes, unsure if what the words he had heard were true or not.
“Come again, Mayor?” The man in the plumb suit leans forward, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth.
“Right… er… as Mayor of the neighboring city, Stoughton, I saw it necessary to examine the remains of the attack… what the men from my scouting brigade came across was a few people still standing and conscious, but the majority killed. My men spoke to those alive and brought back to me the words of which they spoke…” the man reaches carefully into a pocket and removes a folded piece of parchment opening it. “… if I’ve read this correctly, the people saw a Witch summon The East Win, Rigaouth and then do battle with it. Upon summoning the spirit, it decimated the entirety of the slums that lay to the east of it, and destroyed a large portion in all other directions.” The man sighs, and clears his throat. “During their fight… the Witch used a spell that apparently killed The East Wind, and in its death it let out lashes and bursts of wind that eliminated any standing parts of Walloworth.” The man gives a worried sigh, folding the paper, stowing it, and then removing a handkerchief to blot the sweat from his brow.
“Someone from Giant can summon and kill The East Wind?” A feminine voice cuts over the silence. The man in the plum suit glances a few seats to his right, where the voice had originated from. A woman in a black suit glances over to the man, narrowing her thin brown eyes. Her suit dons bits of armor and some extra robing that cascades down her front side and her back.
“Dragon has no need to worry… for not even Giant knew about this.” The man returns, letting out a sigh. “Neither of Giant’s two liaison’s had any inkling that someone other than Marigold Moreno possessed such power.”
“Then we assume you’ll deal with it?” A man to the woman’s side speaks up, a long beard covering his mouth, formal looking robes with metallic bits of decorated armor dotting the important parts of his body. A large iron staff with a spear at the tip rests against his chair.
“Should go without saying.” The man in the plum suit mutters, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Mayor Saltspit… handle it how you see fit, I want this Witch handled.”
“Er right away sir!” The older man in the center turns and makes his way toward the doors. Two people dressed in identical robing each iron helmets depicting skulls, press the enormous stone doors open, allowing Saltspit to make his exit.
“The rest of you… set a bounty out for this Witch… a thousand copper pieces, keep him alive though, I have some questions.” The man in the plum suit orders, as the doors slam shut.
Spring Season: Walloworth Woods: The Land of Giants…
A body slumps to the ground, a luminescent purple sword gauged into its flesh. The body belongs to a four legged creature, covered in black fur. Blood from the wound leaks out and matts the fur of the beast down as it breathes its last breath. The blade dissipating from the wound it was stabbed into.
“Aaah… solid warm up.” A man takes a step forward, passing the face of the beast he had slain. A bears body, but the head of a goat, blood dripping from its maw. “Hey Ailey, whaddya think of that?” The man glances backward, he possesses a youthful exuberance that to the woman following behind him, makes him unbearable. Strands of dirty blonde hair hang over a headband he wears, and his dark black and purple robes lie open, hanging loosely about his body, a twisted stick sits holstered into a blade scabbard at his hip.
“I think you’re too loud about it and this Witch that Mayor Saltspit had us hunt down will catch wind of us before these horrors do.” The woman scoffs, stepping past the man. “Keep your head up Leander… and watch those spells you’re so haphazardly slinging.”
“Someones just jealous that their spells aren’t as exciting as mine!” Leander sneers, crouching over to meet Ailey’s view from his seat atop the horror he had just killed.
“And proud of it, if I went around slinging spells the way you did we wouldn’t be very good hunters for Stoughton would we?”
“Hup!” Leander hops off the beast, and tails Ailey. “Old man Saltspit just had to partner me up with a boring woman huh?”
“And I’m forced to be partners with a guy who can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“Hey shut up!” Leander calls as the two continue down the path they move along.
…
“*HUFF* *HUFF* Gah! *HUFF*” Ringo presses his head against the wilting tree he lies upon. His head of black and grayish hair falling into his face, covered in his own sweat and filth. Ringo grits his teeth and glares up, his vision peering through a portion of the nighttime sky that clears a hole in the tree line. “How the hell did all this happen…” Ringo breathes through his pain, clutching his fingers close to his body. “…I should be more conservative with the third gauge version of DISPERSING WINDS… its only three Magick Symbols worth of a spell, but the third spell is a a trade off, the minimum thing I could sacrifice was a fingernail… but even losing just one hurts like a bitch.” Ringo drops his hands and stares up at the starry night sky, panting, attempting to catch his breath. “Not that that’s my only problem… I can barely move after using the second gauge… I was really pushing my limits with third. Now… it seems… I won’t be able to move for a while…” Ringo closes his eyes and lets out a defeated sigh.
“Well we can’t have that can we?”
“Hm?” Ringo’s eyes open to meet the eyes of another person. A man, probably around his mid thirties or forties, dark maroon robes cover his body and a black top hat completes the look. He stands up straight, leaving Ringo’s view, Ringo adjusts against the tree to look at the man, a black cane, with a collection of maroon wrappings, a kind look in his brown eyes as he smiles through the black stubble around his face, and as he lowers his top hat, a full head of deep black hair, sitting medium length and parted at the middle on his head two red cubed earrings hang from his ears, as he cocks his head.
“Delano Dread… at your service.”