In a grandiose assembly chamber, mages and nobles alike have gathered in flocks that fill the vastness of the baroque hall save for its center - where only two persons stand. One such man is an old mage with a toad-like face that seems always discontent, always distasteful, and yet he is dressed in bright, vibrant colors befitting his prestigious rank - Archmage of the Syndicate - he is one in one hundred. The Archmage Rodrick Selastrine presides over the initiation of a novice mage, likely the apprentice of someone in this very hall. She is a young woman with auburn red hair, dark yellowish eyes, and fair caramel skin. Her own apparel only matches the Archmage’s in its formality, but not in either majesty or dignity. She kneels before him at an altar, whereupon a book and an inkless quill rest.
Arch-Selastrine looks down upon the young initiate with preponderance, before he speaks her name - Alicenne Coascia. In this moment her greatest challenge is to remain with the composure expected of her soon-to-be station. She must be stoic and wistful, and she repeats this to herself as the archmage congratulates her and welcomes her into the Mages' Syndicate in the dry, archaic speech of ceremony. The words are unimportant, but what they convey means the world to her. She will be a mage. That means so much to her. There is no greater honor, at least not one within her grasp.
As a mage she will represent the highest ideals of human civilization, their loftiest goals. She is become order, piety, intellect, virtue, ambition, but above all, she is creation. The ethos of this post-collapse world has been driven by the dichotomy between creation and destruction. Allegedly, just before magic was discovered, human society was at its peak. The sprawling cities of today are nothing but crude imitations of the great cities of the past -- and in many cases these imitations are nestled within the ruins of the old. When the first sorcerors mastered their gifts, they did not create. Men who had been inventors and entrepreneurs grasped the powers of distortion and then destroyed everything in their sight. Some say it was madness and greed, others say it was sheer naive folly. Regardless, that world is gone now. The engines of the past are now relics or fossils, and sometimes contraband depending on who holds them.
The Mages' Syndicate exists as an institution allied with the Church that saved humanity from the ashes of the Collapse. Whatever had happened, it attracted the attention of another... world? The nuances of it escape Alicenne, but these priests came from somewhere else, somewhere far away. They came and they taught of the Creator and his many gifts - magic among them -- and they taught how to use these gifts with responsibility. Though they had not been here to witness the Collapse, they predicted many of its causes, but they could not have felt the same sentiment felt by many that survived it. The first mages trained by the Church were committed to reforming the nature of magic here. It was not just a matter of faith and wisdom, but a code that must be followed obsessively to a fault. Where the Church went, so too did the Syndicate - and when given the choice, most nations chose to follow the Syndicate's rules. Now the word mage is synonymous with a Syndicate license. No longer does it just mean permission to create, it is also a mark of authority. The station enjoyed by a knight in the service of his lord is the same which is felt for a mage in the protection of the world - even if that protection is from the very substance he wields.
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Arch-Selastrine reads off the vow required of all mages, and Alicenne repeats it verbatim - though brimming with excitement she manages to get through with confidence and pride. Through the academy, seminary, and finally her apprenticeship, she has now reached the end of her tutelage and the beginning of her own path to mastery. When the vows are said, there is only one step left: A ritual of sacrifice.
Before Alicenne is a libram and a quill - no ink in sight. The book has been sanctified and prepared by a priest of Wolmar, the patron god of knowledge; when Alicenne has put her name to this libram, she will be a mage with Wolmar's blessing. Normally, any signature or declaration of intent written in a libram is considered to be binding -- but any experienced magic user can undo such bonds with the cursory understanding of theology that is required of a Syndicate mage. What makes magehood so prestigious is that it is not signed in ink, but in blood.
The dry quill resting upon Alicenne's libram has a frightening aura. She must bloody it herself, and when she does so it must be a fatal wound. Most mages opt to stab their quills into their left wrist, some stab their heart to show their devotion -- Alicenne's mentor was one such mage. She isn't strong enough for that -- No -- Goodness no! Her wrist it is then... With a jab she thrusts the blunt end of the quill into her wrist, her trust of Wolmar's blessing being overriden by the great fear she feels for pain.
She yelps when the skin is punctured, but when she opens her eyes she finds herself still in bed, the grandfather clock across from her bed ringing six in the morning. Of course, she thinks to herself, just a dream. She's still an apprentice. Just an apprentice.