The dawn of a new year.
All across Arethil, celebrations erupted, from obscure savage ceremonies that begged the sun to grace them for four more seasons to the more traditionally observed debauchery to mark the beginning of a new calendar. Even Vel Anir, in all her human-centric glory, was not immune to the festivities, not so xenophobic as to entirely disregard the will of celestial bodies.
At the Dreadlord Academy, an old tradition came to the fore, Natalis.
Once upon a time, it was a simple way to keep records. When parents wouldn't willingly relinquish their children, so much of their former lives were often lost, and their entire identities were left behind to be reforged in the fires of the Academy. Fresh names were bequeathed upon them, alongside a new date of birth. For ease, they had settled on the 1st of Diamant.
Initially, there had been no cause for celebration, the matter a clerical one, and birthdays surplus to requirement in the training of the future backbone of the Anirian Guard. However, as time went on, a tradition was born. At first, such festivities were unsanctioned and organised by the Initiates, often resulting in a feast of punishments for all those who partook, but with the regime's softening in the wake of the Revolution, the Academy had decided to endorse the event.
After all, if the Initiates were to succumb to their youthful desires of socialisation, was it not better to monitor them? Under the watchful eye of the Proctors, all potential unsavoury shenanigans would be nipped in the bud.
Right?
In austere* Academy fashion, the stage was set.
A large fire roared at the head of the hall in defiance of winter, with the tables and chairs set and the floor prepared for the last batch.
The assembly hall saw the passing of several age groups over the course of the day, starting with the children in the morning before moving on to older age groups until the grand finale, open only to the older initiates a year or two from their Graduation. Under the organisation of the Proctors, it had so far been an uneventful success, with each designated time slot treated with military precision.
At last, the evening had come, and the overworked kitchen was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel as the final platters of finger food were set out on the tables to be picked at with reckless abandon. The pastry alone was astounding, with a delightful array of crisp filo pastry parcels stuffed with spiced lamb, perfectly golden sausage rolls, and puff pastry caramelised onion and goat cheese bites. Not to be outdone, a selection of cured meats, cheeses, breads and fruits were arranged on platters across the tables.
The food was a luxury most of the Initiates weren't accustomed to and worth attending on its own merit.
On a far side table, various carafes of cordials had been painstakingly arranged by order of colour by Proctor Pillock Pilleth, who had been forced to part ways with his enthralling analysis of the socio-economic factors affecting modern-day Molthal to stand watch alongside another. They had anticipated that alcohol might have made its way to the drinks, and so had arranged a watch to prevent a case of spiking.
Besides, he found the apple and elderflower cordial delicious without being tainted by dubious grain alcohol. While Proctor Grodt much preferred the subtle warmth of the spiced pear, especially given the colder season, the two remained, well, cordial on the matter of flavour. Several attempts to taint the carafes had already been thwarted, so the pair radiated an aura of smugness. Still, the Proctors did not allow complacency to take root; their eyes were watchful over the hall as more bodies filtered in.
Well, not entirely watchful.
On the balcony above their heads lurked Initiate Limont, a lanky streak of piss that was about as trustworthy as his hair, bordering somewhere between a topknot, a mullet, and a crime against humanity. Not that it mattered on this occasion, as his invisibility touch had suddenly rendered him the most popular beau of the ball. He casually leaned over the railing, also in observation of the celebrations in between bouts of business. Carefully arranged against the opposite wall under the spell of his illusion magic sat a veritable bar of acquired beverages for the more discerning tongue. He had an array of cheap wine of both the red and white variety, a frightening herbal rotgut that tasted like fire and hatred but left the breath fresh and most inexplicably of all, two firkins, one filled with amber ale and the other with a delightful framboise.
Naturally, he had been assisted in his venture, which required extra hands and, more importantly, eyes, and the payment came in the form of free drinks. He anticipated getting his money back and then some. However, as Limont believed himself a man of the people, he also accepted favours for a taste of his bar.
It was going to be a night to remember.
*Austere, in this sense, meaning a severe lack of hanging decorations. In the words of Proctor Grodt, 'We're not doing any bloody bunting this year, not after last time!'
Unbeknownst to all but one, the real shenanigans had already taken place the night before.
The bottles of cordial, earmarked for the senior Initiates, had seen the hand of sabotage by a most mischievous element in attendance. It had taken trial and error to sneak past patrolling Proctors and into the stores, not to mention the amount of practice beforehand to master the technique of flawlessly recorking bottles.
Every single bottle spiked.
Not by alcohol, however; no, that was too mundane a feat, and quite frankly, the results of which were boring and predictable. A fight here, some spewing there, a regrettable triste there, and one too many Initiates being far too forthcoming with brutal honesty. What was craved was chaos, a night that would be carved into the memory of the Academy.
What better, then, to create chaos than hallucinogens?
Each bottle of cordial had been dosed with an extract of blotched belly, a mushroom with psychedelic properties. In pursuing the unpredictable, the measurements hadn't been entirely precise, and no bottle contained a set strength. The blackcurrant had been at the tail end of the extract, perhaps offering a milder evening to those who unknowingly partook, but the apple and elderflower, well, they might have gotten a little carried away with the vial.
The plan had gone off without a hitch, and with the deed done, all there was left to do was sit back and enjoy the show.
Marcia sat alone.
She dreaded Natalis every single year, and yet every single year, she was diligent and punctual in hateful attendance. The girl didn't see the point in celebrating another year lived; it was hardly a worthy milestone to have simply existed. The records showed a different number. So fucking what? The single redeeming factor was that she was one year closer to graduation, the culmination of her life's efforts coming to the fore.
This made the festivities even more loathsome. She could have been training, studying, or literally doing anything else than sitting in a hall with a bunch of feral goblords.
At least the food was excellent.
Unlike many of her peers, Marcia had opted to forgo the donning of gladrags for the occasion, instead donning the practical uniform reserved for more official events in the presence of those who held status. Initiate Avery had proposed the horrifying idea of helping the girl pick out something nice to wear. Marcia had responded with a short burst of expletives before dodging her peer in the run-up to the celebrations.
Just a reminder that things could have been worse; she could have been forced into a dress.
Her face painted a miserable picture, clutching her cup of lemon cordial as she sat hunched at the end of one of the tables (minimising the risk of being sat next to). She expected this to go exactly how most years went, to be provoked by one of her endless lists of tormentors to the point of lashing out, to which she would be removed and punished with the bliss of isolation.
Not this year. No, she would not cave to her rage. If anything productive was to be had this evening, she would test her self-control and win out against her worse nature.
This year was going to be uneventful.
Out of Character: Happy Natalis! There's a spiking afoot; I hope you haven't indulged in the cordial! Just for some information, a player character has already filled the role of nefarious cordial spiker. Have fun and trip at your own pace!
All across Arethil, celebrations erupted, from obscure savage ceremonies that begged the sun to grace them for four more seasons to the more traditionally observed debauchery to mark the beginning of a new calendar. Even Vel Anir, in all her human-centric glory, was not immune to the festivities, not so xenophobic as to entirely disregard the will of celestial bodies.
At the Dreadlord Academy, an old tradition came to the fore, Natalis.
Once upon a time, it was a simple way to keep records. When parents wouldn't willingly relinquish their children, so much of their former lives were often lost, and their entire identities were left behind to be reforged in the fires of the Academy. Fresh names were bequeathed upon them, alongside a new date of birth. For ease, they had settled on the 1st of Diamant.
Initially, there had been no cause for celebration, the matter a clerical one, and birthdays surplus to requirement in the training of the future backbone of the Anirian Guard. However, as time went on, a tradition was born. At first, such festivities were unsanctioned and organised by the Initiates, often resulting in a feast of punishments for all those who partook, but with the regime's softening in the wake of the Revolution, the Academy had decided to endorse the event.
After all, if the Initiates were to succumb to their youthful desires of socialisation, was it not better to monitor them? Under the watchful eye of the Proctors, all potential unsavoury shenanigans would be nipped in the bud.
Right?
In austere* Academy fashion, the stage was set.A large fire roared at the head of the hall in defiance of winter, with the tables and chairs set and the floor prepared for the last batch.
The assembly hall saw the passing of several age groups over the course of the day, starting with the children in the morning before moving on to older age groups until the grand finale, open only to the older initiates a year or two from their Graduation. Under the organisation of the Proctors, it had so far been an uneventful success, with each designated time slot treated with military precision.
At last, the evening had come, and the overworked kitchen was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel as the final platters of finger food were set out on the tables to be picked at with reckless abandon. The pastry alone was astounding, with a delightful array of crisp filo pastry parcels stuffed with spiced lamb, perfectly golden sausage rolls, and puff pastry caramelised onion and goat cheese bites. Not to be outdone, a selection of cured meats, cheeses, breads and fruits were arranged on platters across the tables.
The food was a luxury most of the Initiates weren't accustomed to and worth attending on its own merit.
On a far side table, various carafes of cordials had been painstakingly arranged by order of colour by Proctor Pillock Pilleth, who had been forced to part ways with his enthralling analysis of the socio-economic factors affecting modern-day Molthal to stand watch alongside another. They had anticipated that alcohol might have made its way to the drinks, and so had arranged a watch to prevent a case of spiking.
Besides, he found the apple and elderflower cordial delicious without being tainted by dubious grain alcohol. While Proctor Grodt much preferred the subtle warmth of the spiced pear, especially given the colder season, the two remained, well, cordial on the matter of flavour. Several attempts to taint the carafes had already been thwarted, so the pair radiated an aura of smugness. Still, the Proctors did not allow complacency to take root; their eyes were watchful over the hall as more bodies filtered in.
Well, not entirely watchful.
On the balcony above their heads lurked Initiate Limont, a lanky streak of piss that was about as trustworthy as his hair, bordering somewhere between a topknot, a mullet, and a crime against humanity. Not that it mattered on this occasion, as his invisibility touch had suddenly rendered him the most popular beau of the ball. He casually leaned over the railing, also in observation of the celebrations in between bouts of business. Carefully arranged against the opposite wall under the spell of his illusion magic sat a veritable bar of acquired beverages for the more discerning tongue. He had an array of cheap wine of both the red and white variety, a frightening herbal rotgut that tasted like fire and hatred but left the breath fresh and most inexplicably of all, two firkins, one filled with amber ale and the other with a delightful framboise.Naturally, he had been assisted in his venture, which required extra hands and, more importantly, eyes, and the payment came in the form of free drinks. He anticipated getting his money back and then some. However, as Limont believed himself a man of the people, he also accepted favours for a taste of his bar.
It was going to be a night to remember.
*Austere, in this sense, meaning a severe lack of hanging decorations. In the words of Proctor Grodt, 'We're not doing any bloody bunting this year, not after last time!'
Unbeknownst to all but one, the real shenanigans had already taken place the night before.
The bottles of cordial, earmarked for the senior Initiates, had seen the hand of sabotage by a most mischievous element in attendance. It had taken trial and error to sneak past patrolling Proctors and into the stores, not to mention the amount of practice beforehand to master the technique of flawlessly recorking bottles.
Every single bottle spiked.
Not by alcohol, however; no, that was too mundane a feat, and quite frankly, the results of which were boring and predictable. A fight here, some spewing there, a regrettable triste there, and one too many Initiates being far too forthcoming with brutal honesty. What was craved was chaos, a night that would be carved into the memory of the Academy.
What better, then, to create chaos than hallucinogens?
Each bottle of cordial had been dosed with an extract of blotched belly, a mushroom with psychedelic properties. In pursuing the unpredictable, the measurements hadn't been entirely precise, and no bottle contained a set strength. The blackcurrant had been at the tail end of the extract, perhaps offering a milder evening to those who unknowingly partook, but the apple and elderflower, well, they might have gotten a little carried away with the vial.
The plan had gone off without a hitch, and with the deed done, all there was left to do was sit back and enjoy the show.
Marcia sat alone.
She dreaded Natalis every single year, and yet every single year, she was diligent and punctual in hateful attendance. The girl didn't see the point in celebrating another year lived; it was hardly a worthy milestone to have simply existed. The records showed a different number. So fucking what? The single redeeming factor was that she was one year closer to graduation, the culmination of her life's efforts coming to the fore.
This made the festivities even more loathsome. She could have been training, studying, or literally doing anything else than sitting in a hall with a bunch of feral goblords.
At least the food was excellent.
Unlike many of her peers, Marcia had opted to forgo the donning of gladrags for the occasion, instead donning the practical uniform reserved for more official events in the presence of those who held status. Initiate Avery had proposed the horrifying idea of helping the girl pick out something nice to wear. Marcia had responded with a short burst of expletives before dodging her peer in the run-up to the celebrations.
Just a reminder that things could have been worse; she could have been forced into a dress.
Her face painted a miserable picture, clutching her cup of lemon cordial as she sat hunched at the end of one of the tables (minimising the risk of being sat next to). She expected this to go exactly how most years went, to be provoked by one of her endless lists of tormentors to the point of lashing out, to which she would be removed and punished with the bliss of isolation.
Not this year. No, she would not cave to her rage. If anything productive was to be had this evening, she would test her self-control and win out against her worse nature.
This year was going to be uneventful.
Out of Character: Happy Natalis! There's a spiking afoot; I hope you haven't indulged in the cordial! Just for some information, a player character has already filled the role of nefarious cordial spiker. Have fun and trip at your own pace!
