#fh's stuff

     They’ve never, ever seen a place as bewitching as this.

    Sunlight glints off of sparkling glass staircases as they spiral up into the great unknown; the steps turning new, dazzling colors that Elizy can’t name as the light shifts. Polished wooden walkways, suspended in midair, crisscross and intersect, draped in silken veils and tapestries which change in the blink of an eye - they spot one that depicts a scenic lake one moment, and a roaring party the next.

    For a moment, they forget to breathe as they take it all in.

    “This is. . . Incredible!”

    In a blur of orange, green, and white, the loose fabrics of their clothes trail behind them as they drag Asra, fingers intertwined, towards a mountain of haphazardly stacked books. It’s something of a struggle to pick up the books that interest them the most - 101 Ways to Grill Shrimp, So You Have a Fennec Fox, and Herbs From the West - seeing as Asra doesn’t want to let go of their hand, but they manage.

    “I knew yours was - I mean, your magician’s gateway - was pretty incredible, but I wasn’t expecting this!” They crow, books piled high in their arms.

    Bending ever so slightly, Asra sweeps the books out of their hands in a fluid motion, speaking before they can even think of protesting.

    “The gateway is a reflection of the magician, but I must say: this place is only half as beautiful as you are.”

    They can feel the smile on his lips as he presses a fleeting kiss to their cheek. But the moment is over as soon as it begun, and when he pulls away, his smile only grows wider as he sees their expression change.

    “Hey, stop joking!” Elizy smiles, laughter in their eyes despite their scornful choice of words. They give him a playful kiss in response, this one a little more zealous and lingering than Asra’s gentle affection.

    Time passes in a haze. Has it been minutes, hours, or even days? They’re far too caught up in exploring, and time is different in the magical realms, so they hardly bother to keep track. The amount of stairs they need to climb, however, is almost discouraging. There are far too many paths to take, too many to count, and the amount of books they’re carrying (or rather, the books Asra is carrying) makes the task of exploration seem all the more daunting.

    “So, how do you suppose we’ll get up there?”

    Shielding their eyes from the light (where is it coming from, anyways?), Elizy points up to their current destination: a floor several stories above, the vines and branches of all sorts of exotic plants spilling over the edge.

    They’re out of breath, and despite stopping for a snack of tea and fruits just minutes earlier, they’re already prepared to take another break.

    Asra makes a small, disapproving noise at the back of his throat, shifting the books in his arms as he contemplates climbing more flights of stairs. He’s more than willing to continue, of course, if it means making Elizy happy. But they already look tired enough as it is.

    “Elizy, could you come here for a moment?”

    They shuffle over, confusion flitting across their features as their brows scrunch together. But as Asra walks them through the steps of the spell he plans to cast, a new, almost impish excitement dawns on their face.

    It’s similar to the magic they’re used to, when they send dark clouds roiling across calm blue skies, when they call down rain to quench dry, cracked earth, but it’s also different.

    With their hand in his, hair standing on end, magic like lightning sparks where their fingers meet. Elizy’s palms begin to feel warm wherever their skin touches his, although they aren’t sure if that’s because of the magic or something else entirely.

    Eyes drifting closed, they can see it in their mind’s eye: water condensing and expanding into something, whose color and shape is undefined, light enough to fly but solid enough to support two people.

    Then, with a flick of their wrist, it pops into existence.

    It’s a cloud - at first, it scarcely seems substantial enough to support a person, much less two - but when they give it a few test pokes and an experimental kick, it holds, the fluff material bouncing back with each of Elizy’s attempts to pass through it.

    They climb on first, Asra tumbling on soon after they offer him a hand. Books scatter across the cloud, some bouncing and some sliding. With a vague gesture upwards, they begin to ascend, their surroundings passing by slowly in a scenic panorama.

    “Why didn’t you say something earlier? This is so much easier.” Elizy grumbles, flopping onto their back and rolling so they face away from Asra in a huff.

    “Now where’s the fun in that? You were so excited to climb all those stairs.” Asra joshes, setting the books in his arms down and laying down as well. He knows they’re not really angry, as they rarely are, so he takes the opportunity wrap them up in a surprise hug, pressing his lips to the crook of their neck.

    They don’t fight back. Instead, they rest a hand over his and laugh - a lilting sound which Asra loves so dearly - and with one hand they reach back, tangling their fingers in his snowy locks.

    The moment they begin to relax, it hits them all at once: exhaustion. They’ve taken breaks here and there, sitting down on some of the piles of posh cushions dotted here and there, sometimes on Asra’s lap but exhaustion weighs down their limbs, dragging their fluttering eyelids to a close, their breath slowing to a steady, even pace.

I feel like The Arcana presents us with a pretty unique opportunity for character creation, especially in the way of the Apprentice! And I’m not just talking about their personality or appearance, I’m talking about their backstory.

When a character goes through a traumatic or particularly memorable experience, an impression (or scar, depending on the event) is left on them, and is reflected in their actions and disposition. For example, the victim of an airplane crash might be reluctant to ride an aircraft ever again; while someone whose life was saved by a firefighter might aspire to become a firefighter themselves. A well-written character carries their past experiences with them, as a real person would. The Apprentice, however, doesn’t have that.

If you’ve played up to Book 13, you should know that the Apprentice’s life was taken by the plague three years prior to the main story. Although they were reincarnated a few months later, they lost the most important things connecting them to their past. Namely, their memories. They not only forgot how to speak and how to cast spells, but being reminded of their past life would send them into a catatonic state. Any scars they might have had from their past, any fond memories they had, all gone.

Put simply, this means that a tragic backstory doesn’t equal a tragic character when it comes to the Apprentice. If they went through something traumatic in their childhood, it would be reflected in their personality all the way up until they were reborn, and the slate was wiped clean. An Apprentice who lost their sense of justice after being exposed to copious amounts of corruption would once again find that justice after being reincarnated. Similarly, a friendly Apprentice who closed themselves off to the world after being betrayed would no longer carry the scars of said betrayal after losing their memories.

Anyways, I just think that this is pretty neat! In the Arcana, you can make an Apprentice with as awful of a backstory as you want, and you won’t have to deal with the aftermath!

     “It’s pretty quiet, isn’t it?”

      Of course it would be. Up in the crow’s nest, it’s so isolated and tranquil that you feel almost as if you could reach out and touch the stars.

      “Yeah.”

      His response is little more than an affirmative grunt, but it’s all you needed to hear. After all, anything louder would have scared away the night’s tranquility.

      The two of you are silent for a while, listening to the waves and the wind as it combs tangles into your hair. If only for a few moments, everything was right with the world.

      Tilting your head upwards, you gaze at the stars and let out a small sigh.

      “Hey.”

      You can’t see him, nor can you hear him. But you can feel him turn to look at you, even if just for a moment.

      “You have some sort of life goal you wanna accomplish, right?”

      There’s a moment’s pause, and the question hangs in the air for a while.

      “But what happens after that? When you complete your life’s goal, doesn’t life lose all meaning?”

      Closing your eyes, the world vanishes from your sight. You no longer look to the future in hope, nor do you look to the bittersweet past. All that matters, if anything matters, it's here and now.

      He doesn’t reply, unable to respond for reasons unknown, so you continue on.

      “If that’s the case, wouldn’t it just be better to not have any goals at all? What’s the point to all this? What’s the point to a life with meaning if it all becomes meaningless in the end?

      I mean, if you live for a single purpose and strive towards this one thing, what happens after that? What happens when you satisfy your ambition, surpass your goal, and you’re left devoid of purpose? What then?”

      There’s silence. Silence for a long, long while. Your companion takes out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with a smooth, practiced movement.

      For a few moments, your questions are left unanswered.

      He sticks a cigarette in his mouth, inhaling before blowing a shapeless cloud of smoke into the air. He does this once more before he decides to respond.

      “You just keep on living, I guess. Find another purpose, throw yourself into one task and another until your life burns out. Sure, there’s probably no meaning to all this - “ He makes a large, sweeping gesture with his cigarette-holding hand, “ - but so long as we can go with a smile, everything would be worth it.”

      After that, there’s silence again, and you open your eyes to the future and the hopeful, starry sky above.