- Messages
- 20
- Character Biography
- Link
House Iskandar Private Grove
Petrus stood with arms outstretched, his usual fixed and proper appearance ever so slightly disheveled from it's usual posterity due to the fact his sleeves were rolled half-way up his bicep. His arms hung in the air, bent at the elbows, with his palms facing upwards toward the night sky. Roots of thin, fine quality twisted and arced around his shoulders and arms, their fine wooden ends scribbling ink onto his skin in intricate spiral patterns. Laying the very groundwork for the magical ritual he was about to undertake. Normally for something like this he would vastly prefer other practitioners to help stabilize and power the ritual, however, there was a stark lack of Druids of his stripe in Alliria and.... frankly there were none he trusted enough to join him. Thus, as ever, Petrus had to improvise and adapt to overcome the inadequacy of those around him.
With his eyes closed and focus wholly on directing the roots all around him, they entwined together into a binding circle, wood interlocking delicately before snapping taught into something more fit to his purposes. Small stones, gently but carefully scratched away to show a flat face toward the inside of the circle, were also picked up by the entwining roots and made part of the circle. Upon each of the stone faces was carved a rune of a different meaning and there were quite a variety assembled here. Duty, Honor, Reclamation, Curiosity, Stability and Discovery were all worked meticulously into the stone faces, dimly glowing with the faintest bit of power infused into them. Small, blue-green embers of magical energy floated from the smooth faces of the rocks out into the circle, casting the faintest of lights all about as Petrus felt the markings on his arms come to completion.
With a satisfied, commanding nod did Petrus bid the roots to withdraw and, instead, burrow into the ground from his forearms. Their own natural form twisting to the very shape of the symbols on his forearms and, digging deep into the rich soil, Petrus would begin to channel the energies of Arethil itself up into his arms, causing that familiar green-blue energy to weave itself along the formations on his arms, bound peaceably into the very language of nature and creation itself. Something fit for him to wield, no doubt, and drawing a deep, stabilizing breathe Petrus felt his fingertips go numb as the magic reaped it's due. Arethil itself could, of course, bear the entirety of this ritual even using only the scant soil beneath his feet, but Petrus did not even venture to shunt the cost entirely onto the earth. No. Cold, firm logic held before his mind the stern reminder of that numbness, that fact that ever stoked his growing ambition: Even HE had his limits. Even the greatest, most powerful influential archmagi, even dragons.... all of them.
Curling his fingers ever so slightly he accepted this fact as an old, antagonistic friend, promising for the millionth-and-one time that though these limits may always exist he WOULD always expand them, he MUST always push them, for just as these laws were of nature to the world to maintain the tenuous balance between respect for the world and to improve himself was a law to Petrus' own nature. With his amber eyes now glowing with resolve and earned magical energy Petrus turned his hands, palms now facing outward toward the circle, and his lips began to move in barely-spoken utterances. Small flecks of amber would interweave with the pouring power from his fingertips, arcing along the encircled vines like what another world might call 'electricity' though in a comparatively sluggish fashion. It was not speed or raw eagerness Petrus sought, no, it was absolute control and precision, for the energy to rush would be.... counter-productive.
Only once his eyes had swept over the circle for the seventh...no...eighth time did Petrus nod in satisfaction. His fingers relaxing their curled status as his eyes slipped shut again, his consciousness beginning to expand and flow out into nature itself, becoming an amber mote that would weave and mix amongst the unseen spirits of the forest, the Fae, and while Petrus searched the sprits he found their, scrying them deeply, he found their gaze as drawn to him in return. He was no stranger to the fact his magic was... enthralling to creatures of Fey ancestry, even Elves to a lesser extent, but he cared not for the lesser sprits and beings that busied themselves around his presence. Instead his search continued, relentlessly, for a being of the caliber, magnitude and susceptibility that he wished until, finally, after almost an hour of searching he found something of interest. A spirit that was, at once, both immutably dim while also possessing a small core no larger than a spark that flared like a miniature star. A being all at once proud, aloof, cunning and meek enough that Petrus felt controlling and coaxing the being to be well within his means.
Drawing just a bit more deeply on Arethil's soil Petrus would harness a surge of magical energy within himself, His toes joining his fingers in hazy numbness, before he brought the Amber weight of his projected mote of power down onto the creature that traveled, physically, not far at all. Energy like a warm fireplace, mixed with the firmness of something akin to a father's grip, contrasted by the stern gaze of one accustomed to power, would all flow over this unknown entity. How it responded remained to be seen but empathic sharing aside Petrus' lips echoed with a single command, stern enough to shake the bones of the earth, heightened by the no doubt intoxicating qualities of his magic in a single, repeated utterance that he fed to the interesting little Fey. One word to drown out thought and reason, one word to drive it's footsteps, to enthrall it's mind.
"COME."
The amber mote of power would weave root-like tendrils about the Fey's consciousness, not binding or fully forcing the creature to obey. But alighting it's senses with a sensation much like euphoria as a trail, like amber roots snaking just under the skin of the earth, would alight the way for it to him. Leading, drawing and pulling it inexorably closer as Petrus applied one bit of knowledge over years of his craft. For every step the creature took away from where it was bidden he would not only bid the euphoria lessened by distance, but would also purposely draw down the more pleasant aspect of his magic upon it, like a splash of frigid water to the face while one was swaddled amicably in a warm bath and, conversely, he rewarded the unknown entity with additional surges of that euphoric power for every meter it made it's way closer to him. The roots of the binding circle before him would split open in the direction of the Fey, ready to snap shut and close about it in a concealing circle once it stepped within, a trap set for just the prey he had found.
Empyrean
Petrus stood with arms outstretched, his usual fixed and proper appearance ever so slightly disheveled from it's usual posterity due to the fact his sleeves were rolled half-way up his bicep. His arms hung in the air, bent at the elbows, with his palms facing upwards toward the night sky. Roots of thin, fine quality twisted and arced around his shoulders and arms, their fine wooden ends scribbling ink onto his skin in intricate spiral patterns. Laying the very groundwork for the magical ritual he was about to undertake. Normally for something like this he would vastly prefer other practitioners to help stabilize and power the ritual, however, there was a stark lack of Druids of his stripe in Alliria and.... frankly there were none he trusted enough to join him. Thus, as ever, Petrus had to improvise and adapt to overcome the inadequacy of those around him.
With his eyes closed and focus wholly on directing the roots all around him, they entwined together into a binding circle, wood interlocking delicately before snapping taught into something more fit to his purposes. Small stones, gently but carefully scratched away to show a flat face toward the inside of the circle, were also picked up by the entwining roots and made part of the circle. Upon each of the stone faces was carved a rune of a different meaning and there were quite a variety assembled here. Duty, Honor, Reclamation, Curiosity, Stability and Discovery were all worked meticulously into the stone faces, dimly glowing with the faintest bit of power infused into them. Small, blue-green embers of magical energy floated from the smooth faces of the rocks out into the circle, casting the faintest of lights all about as Petrus felt the markings on his arms come to completion.
With a satisfied, commanding nod did Petrus bid the roots to withdraw and, instead, burrow into the ground from his forearms. Their own natural form twisting to the very shape of the symbols on his forearms and, digging deep into the rich soil, Petrus would begin to channel the energies of Arethil itself up into his arms, causing that familiar green-blue energy to weave itself along the formations on his arms, bound peaceably into the very language of nature and creation itself. Something fit for him to wield, no doubt, and drawing a deep, stabilizing breathe Petrus felt his fingertips go numb as the magic reaped it's due. Arethil itself could, of course, bear the entirety of this ritual even using only the scant soil beneath his feet, but Petrus did not even venture to shunt the cost entirely onto the earth. No. Cold, firm logic held before his mind the stern reminder of that numbness, that fact that ever stoked his growing ambition: Even HE had his limits. Even the greatest, most powerful influential archmagi, even dragons.... all of them.
Curling his fingers ever so slightly he accepted this fact as an old, antagonistic friend, promising for the millionth-and-one time that though these limits may always exist he WOULD always expand them, he MUST always push them, for just as these laws were of nature to the world to maintain the tenuous balance between respect for the world and to improve himself was a law to Petrus' own nature. With his amber eyes now glowing with resolve and earned magical energy Petrus turned his hands, palms now facing outward toward the circle, and his lips began to move in barely-spoken utterances. Small flecks of amber would interweave with the pouring power from his fingertips, arcing along the encircled vines like what another world might call 'electricity' though in a comparatively sluggish fashion. It was not speed or raw eagerness Petrus sought, no, it was absolute control and precision, for the energy to rush would be.... counter-productive.
Only once his eyes had swept over the circle for the seventh...no...eighth time did Petrus nod in satisfaction. His fingers relaxing their curled status as his eyes slipped shut again, his consciousness beginning to expand and flow out into nature itself, becoming an amber mote that would weave and mix amongst the unseen spirits of the forest, the Fae, and while Petrus searched the sprits he found their, scrying them deeply, he found their gaze as drawn to him in return. He was no stranger to the fact his magic was... enthralling to creatures of Fey ancestry, even Elves to a lesser extent, but he cared not for the lesser sprits and beings that busied themselves around his presence. Instead his search continued, relentlessly, for a being of the caliber, magnitude and susceptibility that he wished until, finally, after almost an hour of searching he found something of interest. A spirit that was, at once, both immutably dim while also possessing a small core no larger than a spark that flared like a miniature star. A being all at once proud, aloof, cunning and meek enough that Petrus felt controlling and coaxing the being to be well within his means.
Drawing just a bit more deeply on Arethil's soil Petrus would harness a surge of magical energy within himself, His toes joining his fingers in hazy numbness, before he brought the Amber weight of his projected mote of power down onto the creature that traveled, physically, not far at all. Energy like a warm fireplace, mixed with the firmness of something akin to a father's grip, contrasted by the stern gaze of one accustomed to power, would all flow over this unknown entity. How it responded remained to be seen but empathic sharing aside Petrus' lips echoed with a single command, stern enough to shake the bones of the earth, heightened by the no doubt intoxicating qualities of his magic in a single, repeated utterance that he fed to the interesting little Fey. One word to drown out thought and reason, one word to drive it's footsteps, to enthrall it's mind.
"COME."
The amber mote of power would weave root-like tendrils about the Fey's consciousness, not binding or fully forcing the creature to obey. But alighting it's senses with a sensation much like euphoria as a trail, like amber roots snaking just under the skin of the earth, would alight the way for it to him. Leading, drawing and pulling it inexorably closer as Petrus applied one bit of knowledge over years of his craft. For every step the creature took away from where it was bidden he would not only bid the euphoria lessened by distance, but would also purposely draw down the more pleasant aspect of his magic upon it, like a splash of frigid water to the face while one was swaddled amicably in a warm bath and, conversely, he rewarded the unknown entity with additional surges of that euphoric power for every meter it made it's way closer to him. The roots of the binding circle before him would split open in the direction of the Fey, ready to snap shut and close about it in a concealing circle once it stepped within, a trap set for just the prey he had found.
Empyrean
