you need a big god

Chest heaving, magic still spiking on every inch of her skin, she barely noted his compliments while he had her constrained. Alessia instead tried to find a quick fix this, but before she could act upon her half-formed plans, Istar put her through the cruelest moment of confusion. A hug. It was a brutal awakening, a sudden and vicious steal of her concentration that left her breathless with widened eyes and crushed limbs. The younger Iskaldrik witch let out a choked cough and wriggled in Istar's grasp after a few seconds of stillness and shock. The Unseelie form faded away as she banged a fist on his back. "I. Can't. Breathe! Big lump!" There was no malice in her voice, only the usual attitude of a sardonic teenager that was, perhaps, emotionally stunted but certainty not a teenager. If anything, Alessia just sounded surprised. And if a bit of pride and weird affection suddenly made it way through her heart when Istar expressed his own pride in her, the younger witch would never admit it.

"Did you use earth because it was the only thing you could feel with certainty while you couldn't see?" Alessia questioned abruptly, the moment he'd let go. "How do I stop you from doing that next time?" Her brows furrowed. "And what's that magnetic field thing? Is it teachable?"

"You're better off getting used to it. Being a Warrior of Mars taught me that you can never know when your last hug with someone will be. That's why I never miss an opportunity," he tells her, giving one final squeeze before releasing her with a boisterous laugh. Already there were a few Novices and Accepteds who had done enough to warrant Istar's affection who got it into their heads that they could run from his hugs. They're learning though, as he's sure Alessia will as she earns more, that such a thing is impossible. Like he told her before, if there was any witch in the Tower who could match her stubbornness, she was looking at him. "When you're an outsider, it helps to have people you're in with. I'm loyal to the Tower, but it's not home. The opportunity to help you train will help me feel a that homey feeling a little more. I'm certain."

Istar's domineering, confrontational aura was all but dissipated now. If this were an official test, as proctor Istar would say Alessia passed with flying colors. "By Odin, you're more interested in grilling me than recovering after a bout? More fighting spirit than half the current Warriors, that's my new little sister, alright," he laughs again, ruffling Alessia's hair before settling his one-eyed gaze on her. "Alteration, one of the schools of magic taught in the Tower and my first specialty. I learned how to hone my earth weaves to manipulate metal through my use of my armor, Andvari, as a weapon. She was once just a normal suit of armor, but after years of being altered by my magic her transformations are near instant. Though I only weave threads like that in her earth form. The extra hands make it easier to focus so I can channel more. However…" Istar paused to think, wanting to answer Alessia's question as completely as possible. "Of all her forms, that one is the one that allows me to focus on spellweaving. Give up defense to control larger weaves. It was a trick, manipulating the trace minerals in the earth to control the room, making the strength of their pulls on the earth surrounding them flow like a circle. It's not that I consciously thought it would be most effective against you, it's that in battle I adapted to the conditions you set. I couldn't track you and I was being hit from all sides. So I imposed my own conditions that would lead me closer to victory."

Istar shows the runic marks on his palms to her, his boons from the All Father himself. "Stopping that one technique would've only made me use another. Warriors don't concern themselves with matching one weave or figuring out how to best one opponent, we dominate the battlefield. Always. It doesn't matter who we're up against. Stopping you from moving around was best for me then, so I did it plain and simple. As for it being teachable … yes. But should you learn? That's up to you. You shouldn't model your spellweaving after any other witch. If you noticed, that weave required me to be pretty stationary which works for me. Your skills and talents are much different than mine, so learning how to dominate in Alessia's way will yield better results. But from what I saw it's not out of reach for you. Improving your destruction weaves will teach you all sorts of ways to manipulate the elements."

As more of the undead fell to Istar's flame, Zagreus ensured the way was paved. An easy funneling, the demons would be pushed away by the radiant energy that Zagreus forced forward. The genasi pulled the element by bolstering Istar's magic with it – radiance that moved the demons towards the center, towards where the Red Hand would be waiting.

As the final undead fell before Istar, Zagreus reached out, putting his hand on the other's wrist to lower his hand. A rage demon stood not too far from them, burning in place as it writhed in the agony it had become. "What do you believe happens to demons, Istar?" He asked the question quietly, his hands coming up to create a barrier around it. "A spirit that has been tormented so long, it's become rage. What does the Tower do to such things?"

Bolt of heat after bolt of heat were fired from Andvari's bow with Istar consistently moving in a way that kept his large body between Zagreus and the danger. He puffed up a bit at the druid using the fire he weaves pulled together for his own attacks, demonstrating that they fit well together even outside the bedroom. Chemistry was what they had, enough that Zag's touch was more than enough to stay his next attack.

"If one is in front of me, the same thing that happens to anything else that stands in my way: it gets crushed. Or banished. Whatever suits me in the moment or seems like the most enjoyable. But I'm typically sent to the front lines when the Tower needs enemies destroyed, not captured." Istar watches with widened eye how Zagreus seems to effortlessly contain the wild spirit Istar was more than prepared to charge at. He would never be attracted to a weak man, so knowing Zag was pulling off amazing feats and had still yet to reveal all he was capable of put a grin on Istar's face. "Those that follow Prosperina might try to trap it permanently or help it pass on. I imagine others might try to harness its power as well. I'd have no use for a rageful spirit, personally. If it was once a witch I may try to calm it with poetry, but ultimately, I'd want to get rid of it so that it can't hurt any living witches," he says, not firing the bolt per Zag's silent request but not unweaving it either, simply keeping his bowstring drawn while pointing the fire arrow at the ground. "I only concern myself with the living. I don’t think much about Hel or what spawns from there, unless I'm channeling the death realm's power through Yggdrasil. I suppose the only thing that matters is what you want to do with it, oh great and powerful druid. Do be careful though."

THE INHERITANCE ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 25+ SPECIES. Witch FACTION. Tower of Olympia OCCUPATION. UTP

Olympian. Warrior. They knew from the moment you stepped foot in the tower, the knobby-kneed child fresh off a sea-ridden storm. Everyone knew where you would someday call home. It wasn’t your fault that you had been born with magic in your veins, but in Iskaldrik, what awaited you was a fate worse than death. Other children talked about the vile nature of witches; even your father huffed about a mother you’d never met. You thought he’d hate you if he ever discovered what you were. Instead, he wept, shielded you, and gave everything to see you safely on a merchant vessel departing from Bjarnheim and destined for the distant port of Eterna. Eterna was a promised place of safety and sanctuary. Your hands were small, but they were already calloused from hard labor, chopping wood, and the arduous toils of the peasantry you called home. You would never know what ever became of your father, the mines, maybe death, but when the Olympians befitted you with patronage, you knew there was only one place that could suit you: Mars, God of war. Wherever those who would hurt children like you were hiding, you would find them, and wherever kindly men or women were being punished for protecting people like you, you would shield them. You would never be that child again, you would never be weak, and should the day come when the Iskaran lands called you home, they’d find a hurricane where a peasant had once been.

CONNECTS

THE LIIONHEARTED & THE EXILE: Fought in the war together.

NOTES

NAME. Istar Sturluson AGE & BIRTH DATE. 31 & April 20th, 2993 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Witch FACTION. Tower of Olympia OCCUPATION. Warrior of Mars, Soldier FACE CLAIM. Alvise Rigo

biography

A man should only be happy drinking ale with his friends or sharing a bed with a good woman. Happiness in other moments was a sign of soft-headedness and weakness. They weren’t highborn, they weren’t wealthy, so raising their heads above their station to look out at Bjarnheim’s opulence was only setting themselves up for disappointment. Peasants needed to keep their heads down, get through the cold days, and stay out of trouble. The Jarl’s word was law, but witchers could come at any moment and Istar could always sense his father’s fear was inexplicably greater than everyone else’s.

Yet he couldn’t keep his head down like his father wanted. His eyes always drifted to the big city and the atmosphere of magic that persisted within it. There was a whole world out there bigger than the dull days of manual labor he was told were meant to be his everything. It caused Istar’s peers to bully him and his father to become angry with him. If he was a good kid, he wouldn’t ask so many questions or long for things he couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have been drawn to magic at all. Istar received many beatings for simply questioning why it was bad in the first place. He never understood, though he began to associate the concept with his father’s poisonous reprimands. To be compared to “that deceitful wench” for having a simple curiosity left scars on Istar’s heart to accompany the ones left on his flesh. 

Fear and confusion swirled around his childhood so much so that when his small fingers pulled at his first threads of magic he was so certain he had to hide what he was at all costs. For a while he did, but Istar was just a child and eventually let his burgeoning powers show to his dad. However, where he expected a beating he received a warm, desperate embrace. It was startling to say the least, but not nearly as much as his father actually crying in that moment. Everything happened so quickly after that. What few valuables they had were collected into a sack and they set out for Bjarnheim that very night. By morning they’d arrived and by sundown all the contents in the sack had been sold off. Istar was wobbly-kneed from the journey, yet was pushed aboard a merchant ship anyway with nothing but the clothes on his back and another surprisingly warm hug goodbye.

Only the night before had his father confirmed his mystery mother was a witch who beguiled him many years ago. He hated himself for falling for her and hated the instinct in Istar that drew him to the evil arcana he feared. Yet, when his son’s nature finally reared its head, he didn’t hesitate to give all he had to see his child freed in Eterna. Istar would remember his father not as a violent drunkard, but as the man willing to sacrifice for his sake. It helped him to hold Iskaldrik close to his heart as he landed in a new land with a new purpose. 

Witch was what he was, and in Eterna he didn’t need to hide that. Scrawny though he may have been, there was a power that dwelt inside of him that was beckoning to be let out. The Tower of Olympia went from rumored arcana-haven of legend spoken about at night by the passengers of the merchant ship he traveled on to his destination in Eterna. It was obvious that he was Iskaran and therefore no better than an ignorant savage uninformed and too scared of magic to cast properly. He was young with nowhere to go so the library became his second home of sorts. 

Despite his deficiencies, Istar had potential, so the Tower was willing to give him a basic education and provide him shelter nearby until he was ready to become a Novice. Learning to read opened his eyes to much, including hidden truths about his homeland. The Iskaldrik described in Taravellan histories during the Age of Enlightenment was something foreign considering the cold, harsh place he grew up in. The writings were brief and minimal, but Istar was captivated about the implications of forgotten histories. Was Iskaldrik really meant to be a magicless tundra? Istar began to think not, especially as he began to research more about the All Father. His father would speak of Odin sometimes when he got drunk, but only ever as an old god of war and wisdom. According to the Tower’s libraries, there was a time when Odin was once revered as the god of poetry and arcana as well, avenues that Istar knew would earn him beatings if he ever tried to pursue seriously back in Iskaldrik. It was then that Istar began his path to finding Odin’s truth for himself. Whether pre-cataclysm history fragments or his father’s ramblings held the most truth, now that he was free to learn Istar would discover the answers for himself. 

A sacrifice for oneself is sacrifice as oneself. 

This was a passage he translated from ancient runes he found under a depiction of Odin. Istar carried this phrase close to his heart as he finally became a Novice. He tried to remain true to who he was, sacrificing nights when he’d rather be sleeping to study or comfort during hot days to chop wood outside of Eterna. He studied what little there was on Odin to further improve his worship of the God, thinking the protection of the All Father might guide him on his path to becoming an Olympian. Istar trained his body and his mind. He sparred when someone was willing and enriched his soul with poetry. But as the time where it was appropriate for him to remain a Novice drew towards an end, Istar had to come to terms with the fact that he hadn’t progressed like he thought. He was no closer to enlightenment, mastery over arcana, or Odin than when he first arrived at the Tower. 

On the eve of his deadline to become Accepted, Istar realized he had to reconstruct his entire belief system and do something drastic to connect to the All Father to save his dreams of being an Olympian. He made a sacrifice, a real sacrifice, after imbibing a tonic he brewed and blessed himself. It was after this sacrifice and a night with an open mind that he awoke a more powerful witch than he thought possible. It was while under the influence of his worship ritual that Istar realized he had mistranslated the runic creed he decided to live by. 

A sacrifice for oneself is sacrifice as oneself. 

Sacrifice to oneself for oneself.

The All Father didn’t want him to become a feckless sheep. Odin’s path was one of darkness and madness. He was the warrior and the wandered, a constant perveyor of higher knowledge, wisdom, and power. He was a god who’d remain elusive and withholding, but his followers would be rewarded if they committed to bettering themselves for the sake of themselves and not him. If Istar was to continue down his path, then he would need to sacrifice even more than he had thus far not to gain Odin’s approval but to become the best. Through his years as an Accepted witch, Istar committed himself to the path of Mars. He concerned himself less with appeasing the All Father and dedicated himself to becoming the greatest Warrior the Tower ever produced even during the weeks he felt loss without a single sign from Odin. The results spoke for themselves. In three years, he had sprouted from a scrawny young man to an imposing threat. He mastered a way of fighting that was unlike how a Lysaran or a witch would engage a combatant, making him incredibly effective at besting opponents. Istar improved himself for no other reason than he wanted to be his best.

When it was time for his Trials, he completed them and drunk from the basin of dreams with such conviction that his spirit shined through clearly for the Sitters. The war with Astoria was just beginning and yet they felt it appropriate to send the newest Warrior to the front lines despite his youth and lack of experience. Seeing this as a reward from the All Father himself, Istar underwent his final sacrifice to reach the pinnacle of his magic before throwing himself into the war. Darkness and madness spiraled in his eyes after nine grueling days of a ritual in Odin’s name, but the payoff was even more potent than the boon he received after the first time. A fully realized Olympian witch and a man committed to being warrior and wanderer for the rest of his life, the battlefield reforged him into a champion for all that is just in the world. Istar knows what Odin expects and is content to sacrifice more and more of himself for his own self improvement. It is this conviction that keeps him going despite all that he’s seen in his many years of war. Istar will not stop fighting until he stands atop a mighty altar built with the bodies and blood of all who’d do harm to those with magic in their souls. 

personality

+ Cheery, Bold, Protective – Fanatical, Domineering, Militant

A moment ago, her muscles had been aching and her magic pulsing at the erratic beat of her heart. Now, Alessia didn't noticed the ache because she was fueled with adrenaline and she controlled her magic because she was summoning all of it to her conscious will. The Veilmaiden began to glow completely as her mind pulled at the strings of good memories to strengthen her. Fharzai's journey had unlocked that ability within her, but Alessia wasn't sure what the druid say if he found her this murderous, despite all the good vibes that she summoned.

The Veilmaiden waited until the last second, until the halberd would surely hit her, before completely wrapping the stage in magical darkness, disappearing and reappearing a moment later behind Istar. She used the Warrior's own forward momentum and heaviness to kick him at his back, strengthening the kick with weaves of air that blasted the larger witch even more forward. She would usually stop there and gloat or remark something witty, but all that came out was another yell as Alessia mercilessly pursed.

Body stripped of all armor to instead be concentrated into four large arms at his back, he forwent all defenses to focus his spellweaving and heighten his attunement to the one thing he was certain of in the midst of Alessia's layered assault: the earth beneath his feet. Four palms slammed down, softening the ground to concave beneath him. He dropped out of the barrage and immediately took hold of the room's polarity, putting it under his control with his weaves. In a somatic gesture mirrored by Andvari's arms, Istar commanded a magnetic field of his design, six arms spiraling in total to create a weave of concentric circles. Rock and stone remained solid yet flowed like an ocean, rotating the poles to create instability within the space. Istar didn't need to disrupt Alessia's spell or even stop her from moving in a way that imposed a disadvantage on him, he needed only control the flow of combat.

Chunks of rock matched the pattern of the blades to block while the room folded in on itself, encasing them in a sphere of stone. He maintained his weave, riding the wave of motion around and around as he maintained a constant rotation of the poles. The sphere of stone ocean closed in, restricting the space until … there! A repeat in her movements that his eye caught and one he wouldn't ignore. In that instant, the weaves broke form, swirled around Andvari's arms, and rushed Alessia, magnetized sand buffetting her into the side of the earthen cage he trapped them in. With speed enhanced by the weaves repelling the metal of his armor, he rushed her as well before she found another surge of anger to draw upon. However, Istar abruptly stopped once the runic stigmata on his outstretched right palm was a hair's breadth away from making contact with her flesh. This was merely a lesson after all. "That was … incredible! An Accepted making me put in effort to combat her? Never would I have imagined such a thing possible!" His tone lightens as the streams of sand pinning Alessia dropped. But that didn't mean she was free yet. Oh no. Istar's final attack came in the form of a bear hug strong enough to lift her off the ground as earth threads released their hold on the room, returning it to normal. His laugh was boisterous, his hold tight, and he couldn't have been prouder that Alessia finally showed what she was capable of. "To layer so many techniques on top of each other like that, in the heat of battle, too? Where has this girl been hiding? That magic was far more advanced than anything I could pull off when I still wore white robes!"

"This Lordship will make it worth your while," Zagreus gave a lopsided smile, though it disappeared the moment the Olympian stepped forward. The touch along his jaw was so gentle, that there was perhaps an echo of shock in the druid's gaze. It left his nerves alight, and the genasi had to essentially pull himself together. He was going to fuck the hell out of this Olympian when this was over, and that was a promise.

Following after Istar, Zagreus brought forward the earth, clearing the final way down to the cove below. The undead were everywhere along the lower levels, demons that pressed against wards rearing their heads as they attempted to swarm towards the Olympian and Genasi. Standing behind Istar, Zagreus pulled on the weave between his hands, fire leaping ahead to burn the undead before they could even get close, "If we clear this path, I'll be able to send the signal. And when this is done, you'll return home with me – and I'll thank you properly." When this was done – the undead dragon and rider would have a clear path, and if a single hero didn't fall, well – that wasn't Zagreus' job, either. Yet Istar? He'd be safe and sound.

"The place sure, but the witches who died didn't need to. If I had been better, I would've saved more than I had." Adopting the element of fire as well, Andvari shifted into its flame form, giving Istar a bow to fire piercing white heat. Unfortunately, this one was slightly more suitable for defense, and the metal used for formerly sprouting wings from his back shifted to hide the nipples and obliques that were visible in his flight form. But like this, Istar could fire arrows into the darkness. He knew that a druid probably had more than enough power on his own, but like Istar promised, he was Zag's knight. He would walk forward with haste and defend the other against any threat that showed itself.

"I'll keep going, and I'll kill anything I see down here," he promised Zag. Was there a straggler or something wandering about? Tough luck, he wanted that reward, and he'd shoot down anyone who prevented him from getting it. "I will not fail here too, Zagreus. Everything you're here to do will be accomplished now that I've arrived. I'm not leaving until it is so."

All of it was to say that Nurcan’s experience with the Iskalrdik pantheon was limited, so all of Istar’s magic took her by surprise. The wonder of a proper spell bursts for a moment, as her eyes survey the battlefield and watch the roots carry the wounded towards the tree’s light. 

“Thank you for your aid. I owe you a drink or a warm meal after all of this is done.” With a nod, she turns to the wounded and begins to survey the new healing camp. Not only had Istar saved her life, but had offered a solution to a problem she had been confronted with and could not find a solution for. She was beyond grateful, but beyond that, she was invigorated and ready to keep going as a wave of hope swept through her. “I will focus on making sure we save all those that can be saved.”

On a personal level, he simply wanted to stop witches from dying. Glory didn't interest him, at least not as much as his own personal satisfaction from using his full might. He would be the sword and shield, the one to keep witches on their feet while forcing the enemy back. He would soar across the battlefield, helping those who needed him most and moving on immediately once they were safe. Istar was a sentinel on the battlefield and his convictions certainly lessened the death of his allies. But he wasn't invincible. He couldn't save everyone, but he would try. He didn't have any more time to waste.

"You owe me nothing. There is nothing like seeing the faces of those healed beneath the light of Yggdrasil. Keep them alive, I must keep going. Until all the witches are safe, I will not stop." Andvari shifted into its flight form and with a powerful flap of its metal wings, Istar soared off to find the next witch in need of his protection.

"It's hard to find good help these days," Zagreus couldn't help his quip, his bravery in the face of Istar something that he wouldn't let slip. Being alone was a Dúnedain's fate, even more so when he'd become a HIdden One, yet still – the Olympian would be more than anything else that Zagreus had truly hoped for. He'd have to send out another call soon, the death and demonic energy in the Cove something that not even the pair of them could fight forever. "The lower levels are overtaken. Demons and the undead – they won't stop," Zagreus had pulled up walls of all sorts of maelstroms to attempt to slow them down. "Will you go with me?" He turned to point towards the staircase, half collapsed by the force of the undead and the storm. "It leads down to the lower level of the cove. I've created wards on certain buildings, but I can't hold them up forever."

"You'll find no better than I. I've been searching for a chance to redeem my failings in Aventia. This seems like a worthy battlefield," he says, crossing his arm across his body so that the fist gripping his axe was pressed against his pectoral. "Consider me your knight, your lordship. I will act as your unbreakable wall and defend you, so you can focus on your wards and other protections." With the axe shifted to be held resting against his shoulder, Istar steps forward, stopping only for a brief moment when he's right next to Zag. He allows himself the briefest moment to run a knuckle down Zagreus' jawline before walking the rest of the way to the collapsed staircase. Istar places his left palm flat on the ground, his sigil transfiguring the rubble obstructing the way into bundles of dandelion seeds blown away by the winds of Zag's storm. "So long as I'm here, you won't be alone."

She was fire too, fire and ice. Radiance and nature. Istar had clearly seen that, and that was why he was yelling so loudly that her eardrums were starting to hurt as much as her muscles. Alessia had started out the day pretty strong but her exhaustion was starting to weigh on her and slow her down. Being a Veilmaiden, an Unseelie, was her last option always but it seemed like that was what it was going to take it shut up her Iskaran instructor. He was like the icy stone of mountains, unmovable, and it garnered more respect out of the younger Iskaran witch and more sense of familiarity than any Lysaran witch could get out of her.

Alessia cried out in angry frustration, shadows bursting from her body, enveloping her as she ran. Out of the shadows came the Unseelie, antlers and raging violet eyes that glowed with inner fire. The ground burst open in front of her, earth that turned black with the touch of dark fey magic, pushing to toss Istar back. Bits of the earth crumbled into jagged edges as Alessia continued her battle cry, molding the earthen shards that fell as they began to glow with inner fire as well, turning to magma. With every bit of her tired rage, Alessia forced the air to throw the magma shards in Istar's direction, pelting him wherever he was. "Eat shit," she yelled. (She didn't mean it but she was fired the fuck up.)

Hope wasn't dead, because those who did make it back would only grow stronger. She had a ways to go, but Alessia was one such witch. Istar would push her because she needed someone too, he'd train her because it would only do her good. He'd show her what it meant to be an Olympian because this Tower was freedom. She'd just have to embrace it and she will as soon as she broke through the wall standing before her—Oh Hel. Her transformation shocked Istar. It wasn't an act of alteration, it was something more. Was this what she'd been hiding this whole time? Why? Unfortunately, he didn't have time to ponder because Alessia's attack came as quickly as the sound of her cries reached his ears.

He didn't dodge, mostly because there wasn't enough time to but also because this was still a test. Andvari's water form, the form with the highest defensive attributes, wrapped around Istar in a split second as all he could do was defend himself from the impact of Alessia's attack. This one he felt, and by the time the dust began to settle, drag marks on the ground showed just how far back Istar had been moved. One weave was capable of all that? A weave he needed to use the opposite elemental attribute to counter so he didn't die? And the Sitters dared to doubt her? What fools. Istar's boisterous laugh sounded from beneath his helm, but before he could finish his outburst, multiple slashes of pressurized water cut through the remaining dust and targeted Alessia. "Now that you've gotten to base camp, here's lesson one: always have a follow-up attack!" Halberd in hand, he has it raised as he charges forward, moving much faster than one with heavy armor would be expected to move. "Because the only way I'm eating shit today is if you make me, little girl,"  Istar asserts as he swings his reach weapon down at her with enough force to crack the earth. He kept his eye on her, this was just training and the last thing she needed was to burn out, but if only she could see herself. Alessia was finally starting to feel what it meant to fight like a Warrior of Mars. A fire had been lit under her, he wasn't ready to let it die now. "I've been knocking you around all day. Turn the tables on me, you're so close! Never stop until you're certain your opponent is dead."

ISTAR, THE INHERITANCE