Ayrell/Logs/Wild Magic 09292024/The Immortals Act

The Immortals Act

Event Date: 09/29/2024

Event Instance: Prime

Date

It has been 450 years, 209 days since the Victory of Lanival the Redeemer.
It is the 6th month of Arhat the Fire Lion in the year of the Golden Panther.
It is currently summer and it is night.
You think it's approaching the Anlas of Starwatch.

Visions Received

Note: These visions were received by the respective five individuals and are shared with their permission for documentation purposes. They were not visible to everyone.

Shaylynne: Hodierna
The ground around you seems to tremble with a silent authority.

Time slows, and the air takes on a golden light. Everything goes silent.

Before you stands a towering figure, wrapped in the scent of blood and iron, with eyes burning with battle-fueled rage. At his side, a massive reddish-gold boar snarls, its face twisted in a scream of unrelenting fury. Razor-sharp tusks gleam in the dim light, bared ferociously at some unseen foe. Yet, for all its ferocity, the boar's presence carries an unexpected comfort, a promise of unyielding strength in the face of any storm.

As you reach out to touch the boar, a flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. Through the quick succession of flashes you see the Knife Clan encasement, a patch of withering blue irises beset, and a glimmer of golden light waning at the top of the spire.

The towering figure says, "The time has come to blaze a new trail. Mixed magic is the key. Stand before the last encasement and cast all that you can, for we will forge a salvo that is anathema to them, and free Knife Clan. Tell them. And hurry."

The figure slams his spear into the ground, and a golden-silver haze suffuses the area, fading with starlight crackles. The boar lets out a final, ear-splitting snort, echoing with battle cries, as He and boar vanish. The scent of iron and blood fades, replaced by the deafening silence of an empty battlefield.

Aaiyaah: Truffenyi
The air around you hums with a silent authority.

Time slows, and the air takes on a golden light.

Everything goes silent.

A stalwart figure emerges, clothed in simple and rustic garments, his gaze paternal and stern. By his side, an enormous ox with rigid eyes lumbers forward, its coat cast with tawny hues. There's a message in its gaze, a command yet unspoken, a truth it carries from the lessons of hard-won battles.

As you reach out to touch the ox, a flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. Through the quick succession of flashes you see Knife Clan encasement, great siege weapons, drakes plummeting from the sky, and a glimmer of golden light waning at the top of the spire.

The man says, "We call on you now to serve. Mixed magic is the key. Stand before the last encasement and cast all that you can, for we will forge a salvo that is anathema to them, and free Knife Clan. Guide Our children. Tell them what must be done. Hurry."

The man smiles and a warm glow intensifies for a moment, then dims, leaving you with a renewed sense of strength and stamina. The smell of tobacco lingers in the air. He and the ox vanish.

Eyst: All Immortals
The air around you hums with a silent authority.

Time stops, and there is nothing but agony.

The air around you feels suddenly burdensome as though many eyes gaze upon you in authoritative judgment. A snarl echoes across your mind, and you are battered by the significance of Their rage, their disappointment, their... yearning for your return. A cadre of voices hiss in your ear, full of malice and contempt, understanding and empathy, strength and honesty. Making out any specific words or phrases is impossible, yet a message still lives in the madness. A command yet unspoken, a truth carried from the complex order of divine law. You feel guilty.

Your ritual knife rings, as if struck by an unseen force. A flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. Through the quick succession of flashes you see the last encasement.

As the voices subside, you are overcome by a sense of deficiency. Still, strangely, you feel full of purpose and urgency.

Tirost: Meraud
A figure cloaked in the deepest black steps forward, his tall staff crackling with barely contained power. Beneath a deep hood, no face can be seen, only the glint of hidden eyes. A low growl rumbles through the stillness as a massive black wolf pads to his side, its eyes fixed on you. Its tail wags slowly, not out of joy, but as if beckoning you closer. There's a message in its gaze, a command yet unspoken, a truth it carries from the darkened depths.

As you reach out to touch the wolf, a flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. Through the quick succession of flashes you see Knife Clan encasement, a patch of dry, brittle vine set aflame, and glimmer of golden light waning at the top of the spire.

The man says, "Mixed magic is the key. Stand before the last encasement and cast all that you can, for we will forge a salvo that is anathema to them, and free Knife Clan. Tell them. And hurry. Lymira needs you."

The man slams his staff into the ground, and a golden-silver haze suffuses the area, fading with starlight crackles. He and the wolf vanish and you are left with a distinct feeling of purpose, filled with a knowledge you barely recall consuming.

Maintain: Firulf
The air around you hums with a silent authority.

Time slows, and the air takes on a golden light. Everything goes silent.

A cloaked figure steps forward, his black marbled staff crackling with a silvery energy. Beneath a deep hood, you're unable to make out his face, only the glint of hidden eyes. Upon his shoulder perches an owl, its watchful eyes fixed on you. There's a message in its gaze, a command yet unspoken, a truth it carries from eons of foreknowledge.

Entranced by the owl's gaze, a flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. Through the quick succession of flashes you see Knife Clan encasement, an unbalanced equation, drakes plummeting from the sky, and a glimmer of golden light waning at the top of the spire.

The figure says, "Humble one. Mixed magic is the key. Stand before the last encasement and cast all that you can, for we will forge a salvo that is anathema to them, and free Knife Clan. Tell them. And hurry."

The figure holds out his staff towards you. Instinctively, you reach out to grasp it, only to be bewildered by a battery of lightning. A golden-silver haze suffuses the area and you are left with a distinct feeling of wisdom and of knowledge you barely recall consuming. He and the owl vanish.