#istralar

In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been so bad for Pin to have forced him to stop and say a proper farewell. At the very least, it’d given him a moment to calm down and think about where he was teleporting to - he’d originally planned to go directly to the High Priestess’s office, but the brief interruption had changed that. Not that he’d ever tell Pin that she’d been helpful by trying to annoy him. Instead, he had arrived in the temple’s royal suites and terrified a poor maid who’d been dusting the place. After he’d finished apologising, he’d sent her to alert the Priestess to his presence with a short letter asking for a meeting later that evening. The delay would, in theory, let him figure out what he needed to ask.

Barely ten minutes later, as he lounged on a plush sofa with pages of hastily written notes before him, he received a response. He ignored the formalities, scanning for the time. “Seven in the evening... an hour,” he murmured, watching the room’s clock slowly tick past six. “Plenty of time to write.”

One of the perks of being a nobleman was the impeccable education. He’d grown up among the finest minds and libraries in the lands, and had taken full advantage, meaning that he wasn’t unfamiliar with the stories of prior Champions. They weren’t common, and now that he reviewed his memories, they generally didn’t lead to anything good. But usually, hadn’t they been chosen individually? It wasn’t hard to remember legends of previous heroes, stories of how their god bestowed them with championship as a reward for great deeds in service to their deity. Hell, as a child he’d loved the story of an ancient champion of Nethys, who’d channelled the arcane god’s destructive power into literally tearing the nation of Magyka Majoris from the earth and turning it into a mass of floating islands to defeat a colossal aberration that had dominated the minds of its people. It was no wonder nobody knew how to react when Ashlyn’s group of wanderers showed off their tattoos. This was.. unheard of. It had to be.

Yet that cleric had seemed to know otherwise. He’d recognised her symbol, that of Torag, but her style of clothing wasn’t too far changed from what his clergy still wore today, and there wasn’t a true way of telling how old the spirit was. Ghosts were notoriously bad at remembering years in his experience. Sighing, he pulled up his sleeve and removed the leather bracer that covered his mark. He certainly didn’t feel as heroic as the legends had always painted champions. And if there had ever been a champion of an Eldest before, he’d never heard of them. Hopefully Lady Tinuval could elucidate. Shooting another look at the clock, he slid the bracer back on and stood up, wincing at the pain that shot through his chest as he did so. He hoped he’d at least helped Kraia by absorbing part of that hit, but the sudden pain had nearly knocked him over when it’d happened. He’d at least been able to bandage the wound before it bled too much, but... perhaps he should ask Lady Tinuval to assist with that matter, too. It’d be better than leaving the wound to scar for his sister to then panic over. Gods forbid he have scars. He smirked at the memory of Alysia first catching him lazing around instead of heading to the infirmary. She’d been more upset over the marks than anything else. Anyway. It was nearing seven already. He glanced once more at the notes he’d written, knowing he couldn’t bring them, and teleported.

The High Priestess’s office was always stunning to behold. The floating silver orbs were mesmerising if one looked at them for too long, and the mixture of marble, glass, silver and gold made the entire room feel almost heavenly... which was the entire point, really. He’d asked her once about the orbs. She’d explained that each held something of each god worshipped at the temple, whether it be a holy symbol or something more, and had demonstrated by calling down one containing an ornate miniature harp bearing Shelyn’s symbol. Apparently, they represented the temple’s unity and allegiance to each god. The High Priestess herself was a typical elf - tall, slender and incredibly beautiful, her pale hair cascading down the back of the white and gold robes she always wore. Her sharp purple eyes caught his arrival immediately, and she rose from her chair to bow deeply. Mentally sighing at the formalities, he gave her a shallow bow in return, before indicating she was to sit as he took the room’s other chair, hiding the wince. Or so he thought, as she raised a brow at him.

“It is an honour to meet with you, my lord. Does something ail you? You seem pained.” Her voice was cool, crisp and carried a genuine undertone of concern. She was always so observant. Bloody clerics. He nodded, smiling sheepishly.

“You have a good eye. I had hoped to ask later, but yes. I was assisting Princess Ashlyn in her assault on Fort Kildaine earlier today and received a slight injury. Would you mind?” As she rounded the desk, he undid his shirt and dispelled the shadowy bandages he’d created to reveal the deep slash across his chest, watching to see how she reacted. Her eyes widened in concern, snapping from his chest to meet his in a stern glare.

“Your highness, I understand that it was a battlefield, but you of all people should know better than to leave such a wound virtually untreated.” she chided gently, resting her hands above the wound as they began to glow gold with healing power. He grimaced, feeling the magic rush through his body. “It would be shameful for our heir apparent to pass from sheer stubborn dislike of hospitals.”

He grinned ruefully as she withdrew, taking the opportunity to fix his clothing. “Thank you, but the circumstances were such that I felt it more important to seek your counsel first.” Predicting a retort, he rested his arm on the table almost casually and cut her off with a question, carefully studying her reaction. “What do you know of this emergence of champions?”

He was glad he’d watched for it - her reaction was slight, but immediate, glancing between the leather bracer and him with a calculating expression. Closing her eyes for a moment, the High Priestess leaned back in her chair. “...Gods typically choose champions when they have performed near-legendary feats, and it is unspeakably rare for multiple to be chosen at once. From my understanding, Princess Ashlyn and her associates were marked before, not after, their slaying of the Ilendran corruption. Even had they begged their gods for power, for multiple champions to be chosen is almost completely unheard of.”

“When the princess succeeded in taking the fort, her companions uncovered a ghostly cleric of Torag who spoke of it being a sign of the end times. When you say ‘almost’... the only apocalypse-level event I can recall easily is the Worldrend.” A chill ran through him as he considered the implications of that, causing him to lose concentration for a moment, missing her reaction. Her voice snapped him back to reality.

“Yes. That is the only recorded occurrence has been confirmed to contain a more numerous amount of the champions as we know them today. Of course, divine power was carefully given in those days, and common parlance speaks of every caster involved as a champion of their god. However, the day’s scriptures speak of specific favoured in addition to these, marked with tattoos that seemed to spread across their entire bodies as channels for divine power. Being so long ago, we have little solid information. I had assigned a research group to the champions after Princess Ashlyn’s appearance, but I believe you may wish to study the information yourself.” She looked meaningfully at his still-covered arm. He gave her a tired smile, pulling it back to himself.

“Thank you, it’s very much appreciated. Still, if this signifies an apocalypse of some sort, have the Celesthem oracles foreseen any signs? Neither my sister nor any of the cursed that I’ve been travelling with have received any visions of such a thing.”

“I will consult with them, but none of my recent conversations with them have gleaned anything of the sort. If I might be so plain, which of the gods has blessed--” He held up a hand, stopping her, and removed the bracer, worry gracing his brow. After allowing her to gaze at it for a moment, recognition and curiosity sparked in her expression, he leaned forward and took her hand before she could react.

Switching to Celestial, his golden eyes glowed softly as his crown’s illusion deactivated. “High Priestess Aetha Tinuval, and any who may spy on this meeting. By my right as the Crown Prince of this land, I command thy silence on mine status as Champion, mine religion, and mine person’s relationship to any future events connected to the Champions. Thou may speak of these only to me, and to those whom I give thee leave. If thy fail to heed these words, whether it be thine intent or not, thou shalt be found Guilty of High Treason by the holy blood that runs between through mine veins. In the name of Aletheia, I command this be done.” A flash of gold surrounded the two, sealing the command, and he dropped her hand. “...My apologies, but absolute secrecy in this matter is paramount.”

The High Priestess nodded contemplatively, seeming to spend a moment of time considering her next words. “I understand, my lord. I shall not fail you.” She gestured at his wrist, still exposed. “This is the symbol of the Lost Prince, is it not? An Eldest, of the First World?” He nodded, allowing her to continue. “I have not, personally, ever heard of an individual being named champion of the fey. This is especially odd, considering that you yourself are not fey - yet - and that you spend the majority of your time on the Material Plane.”

“Yet?”

“...Past champions have had their bodies altered to better suit their gods. I recall one scroll recovered from the Underdark that spoke of a drow serving Lord Kostchtchie who swelled in size, becoming more akin to a dark giant than a drow, and developed armour of ice as he cut swathes through the abominations lurking beneath Iskaldhal. It is not implausible that the Lost Prince might alter you to better fit your role.”

Sliding the bracer back on, Cyne frowned deeply. That wasn’t good. Being an outsider was a hard requirement to taking the crown of Aletheia, and were he no longer compatible.. it would fall to Alysia. Which, again, he would not allow to happen. “I’m very thankful for your information and time, my lady. I have much to think on. How soon will I be able to study that aforementioned research?” 

Instead of an immediate reply, she retrieved a map from beneath her desk, spreading it over the table and indicating a room. “It is currently here. Would you be able to teleport there when you wish to study it, or should we have it relocated to your quarters?”

“There is fine, thank you. I believe, then, that this meeting is concluded. I will let you know if I discover anything of interest; in turn, please do the same for me.”

“Of course, my lord. Fare thee well.”

It wasn’t easy for him to show emotion this strongly. Usually, he kept everything under tight control, letting all of the anger, fear, sadness and stress be pushed back and ignored in favour of dealing with more important things, such as the regular quarrels between Yuethin’tar and Ilendras, or Amarin’s latest import tax increases, or inspections on the Mages Guild by the Keepers of Divinity, or... er, really anything involving the Keepers or Mages. Damn Keepers couldn’t keep their noses out of anything magical, and the Mages would let their experiments get out of hand and risk starting fights (or exploding the entire city) if not watched over. 

That was the usual, though. This... wasn’t.

Barring a small meltdown that he was fairly certain Azyel had seen, he’d managed to keep everything locked away through the funerals and ceremonies. He’d even been able to look his grandfather in the eyes and show him the ‘appropriate respect and honour deserved by the Emperor’ as he was officially crowned Heir and given the Veritas Crown. He’d told no-one what he’d done, and by now, he was good enough at hiding it that nobody suspected anything. Grandfather had talked with him for hours after the ceremony, just in case something else happened, and... he’d had to designate an heir. Now he really couldn’t screw up. Alycia was a kind leader to her realm, but she’d be eaten alive as an Empress.

The ensuing months had been filled with further ceremony, with enough teleporting and conversing to make anyone feel ill. He’d finally been able to get away, after quietly convincing one of the Shadows to send him an ‘important message’. At least Asterion-- sorry, Grandfather-- had been impressed with his dedication to a cause.

He’d slipped into the Underdark in silence, seamlessly melding with the shadows, and had made his way to the one escape he knew would be.. relatively safe. Shadows had turned to brilliant lights, and he’d carefully made his way through the strange new world until he found the spot he’d made his own, dark stains and shadows marring the area in contrast to the rest.

Then, alone at last, he’d let go. All that self-hatred over what he’d become, all the fears of ruling, of how people would react, of the lack of freedom. The stress that’d immediately come with his new position... the dark, empty feelings that followed behind. And, most overwhelmingly, the loneliness. He’d not been the first in this position, but he was certainly one of the most hated and distrusted. Entirely because of what he was. He just wasn’t good enough.

It had been hours, if he had to guess. The time in this world was never normal, but usually when the light had changed this much, it’d been some amount of time. Groaning, he sat up, wincing at the protest his body gave, and shifted to the shadows by the nearby river. The water was purple today, a vibrant, shimmering purple that would almost certainly taste of some random sweet the local fey had discovered on the Material Plane. Ignoring the slight temptation to dip his hand in, he forced himself to stand up, using the violet surface as a mirror.

“...shit,” he mumbled, running a hand through messy black locks. “Gonna take a while for this to repair...” It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Usually, when he could escape and let everything go, his blank-minded fury would leave the earth scarred and dark. For the shadows to slice him, things had gotten out of hand. Or he’d been attacked, and given the lack of any blood other than his own (or any other indication that another had been present), he doubted that. Sighing heavily, he shifted back to his hideaway, letting himself fall onto a reasonably soft mattress of hay-like material he’d created a while ago and lying there for a few minutes in silence, unmoving, before remembering something.

If he was going to use this place, he needed to at least show some respect to its overseer. That had been the agreement they’d come to, after all, all those years ago. Sitting up again, the wounds already beginning to seal themselves shut, he found a quill and began to write a memory.

The day my cousin and uncle died, I led Death to their very doors in blindness and idiocy, seeking my own success and instead bringing only misery and loneliness in my wake...

It took a long time for him to write, the ink blurred in multiple spots where tears had unknowingly fallen and stained the page. He stared at it for a moment, before conjuring a spark of fire and turning it into ash. It was time to leave. There’d be no sign he’d been there soon enough - the stones and shadows would return to their usual state, and the tome on the recent improvements on planar travel that he’d taken from the Arcanium and left behind would no doubt disappear the moment he stopped looking.

This day was like every other day whilst court was in session - veiled threats and manipulation hidden under innocuous - and often idiotic - guise. The northern provinces were becoming more volatile, and the western were still dealing with the aftermath of the storms that had swept through and devastated the region. The southern were clamouring for expansion of trade, and the eastern were annoyed with this: the border issues they faced wouldn’t be helped by increasing trade exports through Terenholt, and docking the ships anywhere else would be extremely costly in the long run, apparently. The zealots in the Keepers had their own issues, too: the mages were growing stronger, some of the storied Champions had appeared, and a string of supposed demonic activity in the central provinces had them on edge. Not to mention the damned Medimian Empire were gearing up for something big. His Oracle had whispered of the tragedies ahead, and the Keepers had confirmed it with their sensors. The alliance between Aletheia and its neighbouring countries was apparently not enough to quell the warmongering sinners. He’d need to mobilise forces in the border regions within the following weeks.

One particularly bad actress caught his attention through her irritating screeching. “My, I do hope His Imperial Highness returns to Aletheia! The midwinter festivities are so beautiful, and I heard Livia of Ordan’s daughter was excited to skate with him upon the lake once more!” He immediately tuned out the latest gossip about his heir’s possible future wife, and let his own mind linger on the topic for a moment.

Crown Prince Cyne of Aletheia would certainly be a prize to any woman, yet he seemed to be happy leaving a trail of longing admirers instead of picking one to settle with. He’d heard from his brother about the attention the prince had been giving an adventurer, of all things, and how he’d seemed utterly engrossed in a wealthy tradeswoman at the Undrian Ball. It was hardly acceptable for him to continue these dalliances, yet the boy got away with it - as he got away with most things - by being so completely unacceptable by rite of his birthrace that the Lords and Ladies seemed to ignore his other faults. Such as working as an assassin intertwined within a secretive spy network, abandoning his lands for aimless wandering or ‘adventuring’, favouring underhanded resolutions and relying on others to help solve his problems instead of taking a leading role himself. His son would have had none of these faults. How he wished that fate hadn’t lead to that slaughter. How he wished his son still lived.

Still, what was done was done. Sarenrae’s light would guide them, as it always did. The screeching woman had certainly been a reminder of that: the Crown Prince couldn’t avoid his duties forever, marriage (or at least production of an heir) being one of them. He’d summon the boy at dusk. It was about time for him to gain more experience in the court, and for the aspiring brides to meet him. If he dared attempt to refuse, the Emperor would send the damn Court Mages after him. 

He paused, considering that decision. He’d heard that the prince was at least managing to travel with the lost princess, their apparently eternal lady, the Champion of Sarenrae. If the goddess herself had blessed this woman, it might be that the prince was of more use there. On second thought, it would be better to discuss this with his advisers. Recalling the prince might be necessary soon, but ascertaining his current position and plans would be important, too.

Not to Liese. Her schedule dictated it was time for her bimonthly checkup, and she was becoming absolutely fed up with those. Since she'd helped Azyel leave and had stayed away for a time herself, she'd fallen under much scrutiny. If it were only as easy as leaving as he had, if only she'd actually thought before acting. Unconsciously, she lay a hand on her wrist, where the results of her disobedience still lay hidden. Damn her idiocy in listening to that alchemist! All she'd wanted was someone to study with, and he'd seemed so interested in her. At least Jericho was safe with the others, as strange as that felt to say. Even with all her strength and magic (and she was fairly certain she by far outclassed even the strongest person in this building), she could do nothing against this. Not yet, at least. She'd make sure that changed.

Knowing that lateness would not be tolerated, Liese teleported to the room she'd grown to despise, making sure to stay invisible. Teleportation wasn't so bad in the hospital, but the Temple's guards had chastised her for practicing the arcane in the main building before, and she wasn't going to try and make their jobs harder. Or get herself arrested. She dreaded to think what the result of _that_ would be. Checking for others upon arrival, and finding the area quite deserted (one of the advantages to the schedule being that certain areas would always be clear at specific times - she suspected this was partially why the schedule was enforced so heavily), she dropped the invisibility and knocked. A cool, clear voice rang out, one Liese knew well by now. Whilst she was certain there were others present, it was only ever the priestess who spoke to her.

"Two minutes early. Well done. Step inside and change into the robes. As per usual, your effects will be returned after the testing." The door slid open before Liese could reach out, the air inside making her shiver. It was always far, far colder in here than the rest of the Temple, even on the hottest days. She wasn't entirely sure how that was possible, given the bright whiteness that greeted her as she walked in, barely noticing the door slide shut behind her. It was silent here, too. No hum of chatter in the background, no mechanical clicking or rustling of paper. She could barely hear her own breathing, let alone anyone else's. Changing into the robes took but a moment. It would've been foolish to bring much other than clothing, given that it'd just be taken. Even her spellbook was just a backup. Like _hell_ she'd let that go. Even so, it still hurt to place it into the basket with her usual dress. Slipping on the robes and tying the belt firmly around her, she turned to face the second door, waiting for the next instruction. What would they have her do today? Both wrists tingled in painful anticipation. Like every other time, she ignored it. Better to not grant her more ammunition. As she waited, she turned her thoughts to her most recent studies, determined to not allow the silence or light to affect her. It seemed that the priestess was willing to have her wait for what felt like hours, this time, though, and the oppressive light began to grate on her nerves. Just as Liese began to consider the benefits of leaving without completing the tests, the door opened, revealing the laboratory she was all too familiar with. The Priestess's own, of course, with its owner waiting for her in the doorway. Seeing her in the labcoat immediately had Liese worried. The last time she'd seen the priestess wearing it, she'd felt drained all month, and Allure (who was currently back in Nirvana seeking help for her mistress) had barely been able to stand going near her for the first few weeks. The priestess smiled entirely too peacefully, and gestured to the... Liese couldn't call it anything other than a slab. Well, she could, but she'd rather not send herself into a tizzy, not here. As it was, she had to keep her emotions on total lockdown. She nodded stoically, and obliged, barely reacting when the priestess muttered the words of an arcane spell to keep Liese still, nor as a blindfold was placed over her eyes.

"You've been good today, Liese. For that, I'll--" The priestess's ever-calm voice was cut off by... what almost sounded like a fireball going off. Or some other sort of explosion. Even with all her linguistical understanding, she couldn't recognise the words yelled after - multiple voices, too different for her to keep track of, followed by a sharp burst of pain and a sensation of... bliss.

The mission had been going far better than anticipated by any of them. It’d sounded slightly worrying on paper - infiltrate the group of assassins known as the Voidwalkers, settle one of the group into a high-ranking position, and begin intercepting the more.. dangerous assignments before any harm could come to certain significant figures. Retrieving some of the more significant journals from the assassins’ library would also be quite important - information always was - but that wasn’t the part that had them worried.

Joining the group had been the easiest part. They’d used their intelligence to intercept and kill one of the organisation’s targets, a small-town religious leader who’d been luring people into cults. When the assassins had shown up to find their mark dead and Malketh guarding the body, it’d not taken much sweet talking for them to be recruited. It hadn’t even needed to be them that did the sweet-talking. The Voidwalkers seemed to want new blood, especially new blood that could be so efficient.

The oaths of joining had been easily tricked, too, after they’d seen what happened if you lied. Rinmi, the least cunning of his group, had intentionally not tried to fool their tests. It was a good thing she’d not had family - there was no easy excuse for her death. Thankfully, the subtle use of illusory magic had saved the others from any binding oaths, and from any untimely demises. From there, it’d been years of work. A trail of innocents wanted dead by the greedy lay behind their ever-thinning number, but it was nearly over. Malketh had reached the position of Caller, the elite circle that received near-direct instruction, with one final test lying between them and the information they’d been bid to retrieve from the library. It wasn’t even a hard task. A final assassination of a small family unit. Take out the child and his father - removing the woman would be unnecessary.

He’d been volunteered for it by Malketh, to prove both of their trustworthiness. Declining it was not an option. Not when they’d gone so far already. His mastery of the darkness allowed him to manage it virtually alone, and entirely undetected. The small mansion wasn’t well guarded, and the boy - who, really, looked only slightly older than him - had left his window open. He’d dosed the sleeping figure with poison and allowed the shadows to hasten it, before repeating the process with the father. Placing the remnants in the food would hide any of his involvement. The chef would be accused. He only hesitated once, at the windowsill, when the woman shifted - leaving her amongst dead family seemed.. cruel. But she at least deserved to seek justice for her husband and child, however misplaced it ended up being - perhaps they’d even mistake it for illness. The poison he’d used was, after all, fast-acting and left little trace.

Mission complete, he’d returned to the Voidwalkers. The information was trivial to secure, and they’d left Malketh installed when they departed - their own deaths were faked in the next large assignment. An easy task, when you’d gone by a fake name and race for the past few years. Alone, he travelled back to his hideaway to find a raven waiting for him bearing a letter. It had to be fairly recent - the bird would’ve left otherwise. His cursory checks for poison or curses revealed none. Assuming it’d be a standard letter from his family - perhaps his sister was troubled by whispers again, or his mother needed him for something - he opened it. He’d later wish he’d at least read it whilst sitting down, as the implication of the words within had slammed into him, and he’d collapsed in a dead faint.

‘Your uncle and cousin are dead. Your grandfather requests our presence immediately. The succession must be decided.”

It wasn’t even a month later that the Voidwalkers seemed to disappear from the criminal underworld. From the Callers to the recently inducted, the Voidwalkers were slowly found dead as whispers of a serial killer ran rampant in the cities. It was such a shame, too, that the Shadows he’d been with on the initial mission had fallen on subsequent ones.

Nobody could ever know but him. He’d sealed his own damn fate. He envied his aunt - she’d at least been able to take up a knife and save herself the trouble of living in her nightmares before anyone had been able to get to her. The rest of this mess was his responsibility to take care of.

“They still live.” If one had to guess, the master was disappointed. It had to be a guess, given that he rarely dropped his casual demeanour for anyone. His voice was low and silken, the kind grandmothers would trust absolutely - in different circumstances, he’d likely make a fortune as a tradesman. Even his body language was absolutely casual. He laid upon the onyx throne as if he were a schoolboy, legs crossed over the arm. It was no wonder that he’d rose into prominence so quickly, with confidence like that - and, no doubt, hidden powers. What those glimmering eyes had to have seen...!

“Not all.” His partner in conversation was just as unreadable - yet far more formal. Such elegance came with age, apparently, for all of the immortals seemed to carry themselves as if they were inherently superior. Perhaps they were, but not to the master, who raised an eyebrow.

“None were captured, so it must be presumed that they live. Divine magic favours them.” The servants glanced at each other. All in the halls had heard about the missions. Magic and contracts would force their silence; there was no need to fear the spread of whispers. This would at least provide news for the betting pool, run in the depths of the kitchens. 

“One fell in the first, two in the second. The watchers inform us that the first has been restored as a different race. The other group has the services of their cleric, who restored three correctly.”

“Which fell of each?”

“Of the first, the gunslinger. The dragon caught them by surprise, but was forced to retreat due to the arrival of the shadewalker and the heir, and the vengeance of the rest. Of the second, the warrior and sorcerer. They were overwhelmed and separated, a tactic the first was less exposed to due to thei--”

The master cut him off with a wave. “I am aware of the advantages and disadvantages of each, thank you. What captives were taken?” Another glance between servants. The master wasn’t specifying which side again. They’d noticed he tended to do that when he wanted more information. Maybe it was to see what the speaker found more important, or maybe it was just to put pressure on them. Nobody wished to suffer his displeasure, after all. The other man bowed slightly, undeterred.

“Whilst the dead were not able to be seized, the.. contract you arranged succeeded in intent. She has taken her payment and provided us with a suitable captive - the druid. She was able to trick him in the forest. What would you have us do with him?” The man held out a mirror - the prisoner seemed to be in good health, at least. The master smiled.

“A druid? Send him to the alchemist, and inform his party that he rots in the bowels of Fort Kildaine - they will head there and no doubt encounter the others. The alchemist has been seeking to incorporate natural poisons, and will appreciate the... newcomer.”

“What of our other--”

Memoria Vitalis

Within pages of ancient texts, the beginnings of a ritual to permanently erase memory were found. Translated and improved, this formerly Dark ritual has been purified into one the Sun can shine down and approve on.

Schools: Enchantment (compulsion) and Divination

The ritual retains the core of the amnesia-inducing ritual, that being a spell weaved into it that adjusts the memory of the target. In place of destruction, however, divination has been written into the runes, modifying the target’s mind to look back into their own past and unlock the secrets hidden within.

Casting Time: 12 hours

The original ritual was 6 hours, allowing for all memories to be locked away within the target, out of reach. Doubling the time allows for the target to break down these barriers with magical assistance, recover their memories, and restore them to their correct locations.

Components: Verbal, somatic, foci (aspects of the gods involved, focusing urn worth at least 2000gp, runic inscriptions) and secondary casters (as appropriate)

The urn, basic foci and runic inscription shall be provided by us, in service to our nation. Each secondary caster will be adorned in the wear of their god, representing the one they champion.

Range: Close (25 ft. + 5 ft./character level of the primary caster); Target: one living creature; Duration: instantaneous; see text

Saving Throw: Will negates (harmless); Spell Resistance: yes

Backlash: Unknown; speculated to cause minor memory issues in primary caster.

Failure: Unknown; speculated to cause amnesia in primary caster.

Whatever the effects on the target’s memory, they will be completely irreversible by any means for 2d6 days. It is possible that this is due to the time it will take for the memories to settle - in this time, more memories may resurface, possibly in a shocking or upsetting manner, so observation of the target in a safe environment is recommended.

Casting Details: