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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Torx" data-source="post: 588129" data-attributes="member: 2730">Zjin detested his Orange Robes.  He consciously hated them every moment he could spare.    “The smock they deign call Robes!” Zjin muttered forcefully to himself.  He disagreed with the way the melon orange looked on his skin.  He hailed from the western marshes of Mashora – nearly the entire span of the continent away.  That area of the Corrlands receives more sun than any other, save perhaps the Crystal Plains, and as a result its inhabitants sport tan complexions naturally.  Zjin’s was darker than most of his kin.    Zjin’s tone neared “creamy chocolate” as he called it.  He stood taller than most Mashorans and took long strides with his gangling legs.  His hair had been stricken white (whether by magic or by mundane means, Zjin refused to divulge) and he wore it long.  But his most striking feature belonged in his stare.  Peering above a short, stubby nose were two orbs of midnight, irises that appeared to be devoured by their pupils.  Strangely enough, Zjin promised to perform a similar feat on Master Peirhonus.    The Orange Robe was storming through the halls of the great Academy of Magisi.  Its simplistic style hid the true power that lay within its walls.  Some of the greatest masters who practiced the craft of magic tutored at the Academy.  Here, every great sorcerer since the time of the Corr had studied – save the Renegades (but they can’t be called great).    Zjin hated it.  He hated the Academy more than he hated his Orange Robe, not that he’d dare admit the fact within its walls.  Zjin had spent over twenty years in the Academy, most of his adult life, and had only recently been raised from the rank of Yellow to Orange.  It would be a crowning achievement for most: the culmination of years of hard work, study, and dreams.  But for Zjin, it was only a step; though he saw it as a barrier.    Zjin had his Talent “discovered” at the ripe age of six.  It was a year past the date his Talent manifested, but his remote location caused the grejals’ delay.  He didn’t receive his Brown Robes at the Academy until he was nearly seven – making him two years older than most of the other Browns.  This, combined with his Mashoran tendencies, and the fact his Talent blazed bright with the potential for Purple, caused Zjin to bully the other Robes.  Despite his Talent and skill, he was held back.  At least, Zjin saw it that way.    Finally, Zjin came to the room he sought out.  Without pausing save to rap the door thrice quickly with his knuckles, Zjin blundered into his Master’s room.  The room was spacious, yet conservative in décor.  Shelves filled with books of numerous languages lined every walls space.  Tiny baubles and figurines spread out on small nightstands and in front of the books.    Peirhonus of the Green sat at his desk solemnly.  He had been previously studying a large tome folded out in front of him, but as Zjin disturbed his office, he moved his eyes – and only his eyes, his head was still angled downward – and leveled his gaze toward Zjin.  This nearly stopped Zjin in his tracks.    “Master,” Zjin bowed sardonically, there was no love lost between teacher and pupil.  “How could I have been assigned to the Ser’lan Compound?  There is no way I can advance to Red if I serve there!”    “It is a great honor to monitor the Ser’lan,” Master Peirhonus reminded Zjin.  “Dutiful service to the prophets has earned many a Robe a graduation.”    “Perhaps you could send me out as a grejal.  That’s where I could do the most good.  I can perform the grejislis very well.”  Zjin referred to the process in which a five-year old was tested for the Talent.  Those who were found to possess the Talent above a certain level were brought to Magisi.  Those who did not come to the Academy were destroyed.    “No, Zjin.  You cannot advance in the Robes by just hauling in trophies from monsters you have slain.  Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after.”  It was true.  Zjin had no interest in becoming a grejal.  He was looking for the opportunity to get out into the world again.  Any time the younger Robes had been granted a sabbatical, Zjin seized the opportunity to “hunt” with his bodyguard, Morghan.  The pair brought numerous monster carcasses back to Magisi, in an effort to boost Zjin’s prestige.    “Then I am to baby-sit a doddering old fool who will never again see the light of the Cayme?  Does that mean I will never see the sun again as well?”  Zjin neared whining, but he was calculating.  The right amount of pressure in the right places would earn Zjin leave to earn his name and propel him through the upper ranks of the Robes of Magisi.    “Mind your place!  Hold your tongue when you speak with your superior!  You will do as you are told.  You are assigned to,” Peirhonus looks down at a sheet of parchment on his desk quickly, “Romus of the Ser’lan.  You will monitor him to the best of your abilities.  If he goes into a prophecy you are to activate the recording device and immediately notify Ygarno of the Blue, so that he might interpret the prophecy.  Under no circumstances are you to listen to or try to interpret the prophecy yourself.  Do you understand me, young Orange?”  Peirhonus’ eyes garnered a fire Zjin had not kindled before.    “Yes, Master,” Zjin replied.  Though his reply was a bit strained, Zjin carried a grudging new respect for his Master.  He now knew the limits of Peirhonus and would analyze how to best utilize those limits later.    Zjin granted himself leave from the suppressing room and made his way to the entrance of the Academy.  The Grand Foyer nested dozens of bustling Whites, eager to greet, help, and act courier for any Robes, bodyguards, or guests of the Academy.  Zjin barely gave them a notice.  He had shirked his Foyer duties as a White.    His sandaled feet touched the frozen tundra on which the city of Magisi stood and Zjin was instantly chilled.  The Compound of the Ser’lan was nearly opposite the Academy.  “It’s not even Hastlon and it’s already freezing before sundown.”  Zjin spat a curse to Conord, god of winter, and added one to Damerk, god of the night, for good measure.    The Spiral blocked the direct route to the Compound, forcing Zjin to circumvent the marvel.  The structure consisted of two intertwining towers, each gyrating about the other five times before joining at the apex, nearly four hundred feet above Zjin’s head.  The Spiral is also called the Gift from Ealare, goddess of magic, as it was among many of the gifts showered upon the Corr, chosen of the gods back before any of the current races existed.  To date, it is the only edifice of its type to survive from that era.    Of all the features in Magisi, Zjin never complained or tired of the Spiral.  He would routinely visit the temple to Ealare, Base of the Spiral, named for its location.  Constructed in the large gap between the trunks of the towers, the Base was the best place to view the physical manifestation of Ealare’s wisdom and might.  Zjin cared not for such things, but he sat there nonetheless.    A bout of mirth spoiled Zjin’s silent reverie.  The Orange peered to his left to discover the nature of the laughter.  Several bodyguards – mercenaries – were having a drinking contest in the Clockwork Inn.  Zjin smiled and spoke to himself, “Master Peirhonus didn’t specify when I had to report to the Compound.”  Satisfied with his justification, the sorcerer veered into the inn.    The Clockwork Inn was famous in Magisi mostly for its non-Robed patronage.  The multitudes of commoners and bodyguards found it safe to relax out of the sight of the Robes of Magisi.  The inn itself was fashioned as one large clockwork machine, culminating in the 13-hour clock in the common room.    He was greeted by the smell of pancake batter and strong alcohol and the raucous nature of the inn’s patrons.  The center of the frivolity was a Rartugan Zjin recognized.  Corath of the Bone Bear Clan was obviously in the throes of inebriation.  Zjin took a seat in the back corner and conjured himself some ale (he didn’t bother with paying).  He wore a brutal smile as he observed Corath.    Corath was enormous, even for a Rartugan.  He wore no shirt, only a desert bearskin loincloth.  Leather straps supported two great axes to his hips and one on his back.  His skin, like all Rartugans, was tinted purple, from the generations spent in the Crystal Plains.  But no one dared to mock his skin here.    Corath had just finished downing his sixth glass since Zjin had entered the Clockwork, his opponents long since succumbing to unconsciousness.  Corath paid them no heed and no mind.    Zjin leaned to a fellow tavern mate, “What’s he drinking, anyways?”    “Grog,” was the simple, awe-filled response.    Grog was perhaps the most potent drink in all the Corrlands, putting even Däkk spirits to shame.  Who knows what the original recipe was, but now grog is perpetuated by the fermented urine of those who have partook of its splendor.  Corath chose then, in fact, to make his contribution to the Clockwork Inn’s winery as his peed on the floor.  Small grates were incorporated into the floor of most taverns that served grog, designed to funnel the donations back into finished product.    Corath, having finished relieving himself, drank his tenth and final drink, slamming it down on the table to a large round of cheers.  Copper and silver were piled liberally on tables as losers surrendered their money to winning bettors.  Corath grinned stupidly, and triumphantly surveyed the room.    “Zjin!” The huge barbarian stood up so fast he sent both his chair and his head spinning.  The Rartugan lumbered over to Zjin’s corner and grabbed the sorcerer up in a warm hug.    “Ugh, you reek of grog, and . . . oh!  You’ve stained my Robe!”  Zjin complained just for show, he truly enjoyed the company of the big brute.    “I hear you assigned to Ser’lan,” Corath’s speech was disjointed, he still did not speak the common tongue proficiently.  This led many to underestimate his intelligence.  When it came to battle with the barbarian, this mistake often proved deadly.    “How did you hear that?”    “I assigned to Ser’lan too.  Bodyguard to Romus.  Me and Haakon.”  Zjin was unfamiliar to the reference, but he was overjoyed to hear that his entertainment would at least increase at the Compound.    “That’s great to hear, Corath!  Now you and I can have drinking games all day long!”    “No, I not drink on work.  It is bad for the job.  But arm wrestle?”  Zjin blanched at the idea, Corath’s arms were as thick as Zjin’s head.    “No, maybe some other time, my friend.  I was just about to go over to the Compound right now to meet the Ser’lan.  Did you want to join me?”  Zjin guessed the barbarian wouldn’t leave his drunken debauchery, but he offered nonetheless.    “Yeah!  Corath show you defenses of the Compound.  They fry you into crystal dust if you not careful.”  Corath’s eyes began to glaze over as the grog was close to hitting home.    “Okay, now would be a great time for you to show me those defenses, considering your condition,” Zjinn said with a wink as Corath fell out of consciousness and onto the floor.  He continued, “Oh well, might as well wait until he’s conscious.  I wouldn’t want to be fried into dust.”</blockquote>

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