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Ide let her gaze fall to the ground, wrinkling her nose as she heard what her fellow prisoners were saying. They thought they were so brave, talking about going down with a fight instead of in a pyre, but was there really a point to it, if the end result was going to be the same? And maybe the fight seemed like a great idea for those men protecting their honour, but Ide rarely had to stop to think about honour. Instead, she had to consider how she was really small, and not really strong, even for a woman. She'd be gone in a second.

The other prisoner's will to escape -or fight- did stir something within her though. She brought her hands close to her face, and examined the hand cuffs carefully. She squinted her eyes to focus better, when she found the key hole. She lowered her hands again, as an idea started to take shape in her mind. It was crazy, and she didn't know if it'd work.

She guessed it would be the definite proof that she either still had her gods' favour, or they had given her their backs.

She further wrapped herself in the fabric, in order to completely cover herself up. Little by little, she clawed at the ground between her legs. To anyone not paying attention to her, the movement of her hand wasn't noticeable. To someone who cared to observe her, it would seem like she was scratching herself or something. Pulling out all the grass in that little piece of ground, she left the ground clean. She closed her eyes so she'd be able to feel better with her finger tips. She started taking little pieces of grass and carefully putting them on the clean piece of ground, to draw something. She had to trace her creation often with her finger, to make sure it had the correct shape, but she was managing to do it. First a long line to act as a guide, then little pieces of grass to shape the many leaves. She considered poking holes along the drawing, to represent the flowers, but then she noticed there were some cloves growing among the grass around her. Barely extending her arm from under the fabric, she picked up some cloves, went back to trace her drawing, and placed the clovers where they could now be flowers, and traced her drawing with her finger a last time.

Now she had a simple drawing of a rosemary branch, done with grass.

She curled up, now covering herself entirely with the fabric, as if she couldn't stand how cold her face was. In the privacy of the darkness, she closed her eyes, and tried to remember the most tasty meal she had ever had in her life. As she felt the saliva starting to flow in her mouth, she let it drip to the ground, wetting the ground and the drawn rosemary in her saliva. She kept doing this, now focusing her mind on something else.

Usually, when performing her magic, she wrote a little spell to recite. She never used rhymes or rhythms, she limited herself to recite what she wanted to happen in detail. But this time, the way she worked her magic was less of a craft, and more of a plead. "Please," she started in her mind, hoping her will would carry out her thoughts to her gods. "You gave me this talent. You made it so I had the possibility of learning this in my life. I've never used it to harm anyone. I've always done my best to help people with my magic. And I don't regret it one bit, since thanks to magic I managed to save his life."

She started sobbing, but she was too focused on her spell to notice -or care- if there were any worried eyes on her. Tears rolled down her face, but she didn't feel embarrassed about that in the slightest. If anything, they'd serve to water her rosemary even more, so she let them flow. "But now this talent has made it so powerful people want me burnt to ashes. I wish to hold on to this life. Even if I have to hide for the rest of my life, I think I still can help lots of people with my magic. I wish to go back to my family. To ease my parents' pain when they start to get old and their hips and backs hurt. I want to help ease the stomach pain of the nephews and nieces my siblings will give me, after they've eaten way too much in their birthdays."

Her plead was starting to sound really silly, but it came from her deepest feelings. At this part, she started whispering in a very low voice. "Please, if you haven't abandoned me... Lend me your power. I have this plant of Anthos before me. I wish her to grow strong, and in this instant." She lowered her hands to the ground, trying to leave the keyhole of the handcuffs facing the drawn plant. "I want the Anthos to grown into this keyhole, to open it from within, to break the handcuffs if necessary. I want to be set free. Please... Ciarán and Mara... If you haven't abandoned me, lend me your help. I love you, from the deepest part of my soul."

She stayed curled up, crying and waiting for the spell to work. Waiting for a response from her gods.
 

"DRAIOCHT; OR A STUDY OF THAT WHICH IS NOT SEEN" ᛡ CHAPTER III: THE FOCUS GALE OF MANY WATERS

Any experienced mage knows that magic is filled with little tricks, and follows its own internal order that - while it may not make sense to others, is clearly structured. It's well-known that in order for magic to work, there are several components at play. It's similar to the alchemy that the Druids practice; a combination of multiple parts that, on their own, are useless - but when added together, can turn lead to gold. That, I've heard, is nonsense, but the point still stands. Magic is not just one part - its multiple. Every mage, novice or otherwise, comes to know the three distinct parts of what we call "spells"; The Spirit, The Focus, and the True Name itself. Enacting a name is simple enough; through a bond with a spirit, a mage can speak a true name, enhanced and grounded by the focus. The Focus, of course, can take many forms, and appears to be individuated based upon the True Name, the mage casting the spell, and the spell itself. This, naturally, makes teaching magic an incredibly difficult undertaking; how do you teach what is different to every person, unique to every True Name? This chapter will discuss, in detail, what the Focus is, and how it functions.

Before we move to a discussion of how to classify the Focus, an example. The Decemvirix Isemay Dulcia - called the Silver Rush in her homeland, the Northern most part of Lodain - has always kept her Focus a public matter. Her Focus, she says, is to take lavender leaves, and slid them between her finger-nails. Once all of her nails have a leaf beneath them, she takes a serving-spoon of Aqua Vitae, and drinks it. When consulted about this chapter of the book, the Decemvirix explained that not all kinds of Aqua Vitae are capable of working the strong magic she performs - weaker Aqua Vitae leads to weaker magic. She prefers, as she explained, a version of it from deep within Eireen Island, where they call it Akavit. This version is very strong, because, according tot he Decemvirix, the boats that ferry them down to Lodain move across the Linje Channel twice, making the pine casks its kept in constantly churn. This apparently distills more of the alcohol, and provides a stronger version of the Name. She does not swallow the Aqua Vitae, and instead lets it sit in her mouth as she removes the leaves. She gathers the leaves, and then, her Argent Highness brings the leaves to her mouth, and lets the leaves sit there amongst the Aqua Vitae. When the back of her mouth begins to sting, that is when she can expel out the alcohol, and the True Name along with it. Although the Silver Rush has many secrets, she has permitted me to publish which True Name the Aqua Vitae ritual synthesizes with. Oddly enough, it is the True Name for Diamond that requires this ritual.

Although the Decemvirix is the greatest mage known to Donegal, a simple village healer who has some skill in Names will have their own ritual. When collecting research for this book, I stumbled across the small village of Farrow, on the southern border of Igris, shared with Gaul. The town was fortunate enough to have a village healer, a young woman of about fifteen years named Niamh. She explained that the True Name shared with her, which she perhaps over eagerly explained, was the true name for honey. A useful Name for a healer to know, Niamh had lived comfortably her whole life with magic, and she was doted upon by the entire village, who treated her quite well. When she first bonded with her spirit, at a very young age, she explained that the spirit had learned a song from this world - from the song that Niamh's mother used to sing her. Niamh would sing the lullaby - mages from Gaul and Igris might recognize it as "Suantraithe" - and she would knead bread as she did. When it came time to add the honey to the bread, she would put her forefinger into the dough, and lick the honey from her finger. She would sing her True Name in tune with the song, replacing the lyrics of "Suantraithe" with her the True Name for honey. Unlike the Decemvirix's ritual, Niamh's Focus is related to the Name she is attempting to speak; and involves it as a crucial component for the manipulation of the substance.

I can only conclude from this, and other examples, that more powerful mages do not need the substance itself in order to speak the Name; they only need to enact some Focus ritual. The Focus Ritual - which I have termed the "Focusing Rite" - must be engaged in, with some variations upon each casting of the Name. My own Focusing Rite, varies upon which application of the Name I intend to use; whether helpful, harmful, or utilitarian. Mages seem to constantly discover new ways to alter their Rites, for greater power to their Names, or for different applications. However, the Rite is not always a practical thing to perform ; Niamh would be constantly baking bread, since she speaks honey's True Name with regularity. Sometimes, for speed and convience, a Mage must turn to other measure. Of course, I mean the universal conduit; a caster's blood.

I will not be discussing in this chapter the moral or physical consequences of using blood to replace the Rite with any regularity. But it is the universal focus, has synergy with every True Name, and its usefulness should not be discounted. As expected, larger amounts of sacrificed blood lead to greater yields from the True Name. However, the pain and blood loss can result in the name being said carelessly - and addiction for this easy, seemingly costless form of magic can occur. Suffice to say, magic should be used cautiously and sparingly; and relying on blood magic for lavish displays can have disastrous effects.
There is another option, or so the folk claim. Although the Decemviri have publicly denounced this as a possibility, I, for one, do not. True Love is said to be the universal, bloodless, conduit. After-all, it is through true love that all spells are broken, or curses are dismissed.
As I passed through wester Moravia, I heard a strange story about a monster with pointed shoes. There was a girl, or so the story claims, who sat weaving with her three sisters; and they decided to have a competition. Whoever could weave the most beautiful gown would marry the boy they all had their eyes on, and whoever's gown was the most wretched and ugly would have to agree to be that girl's slave. They all agreed, all proud girls, and they made a pact of blood and salt. They gave each other one summer, and on the first day of fall, they would go to the handsome boy that they all wanted to marry ; their village's cobbler. The eldest sister wove a gown of starlight - the middle sister wove a gown of sunlight. The littlest sister was ambitious and clever, and tricked the moon into being her gown. When they went into town, to be judged by the cobbler's son, the eldest sister arrived first. Her gown enchanted the townspeople, and they thought it was very beautiful. The middle sister was late - she had not finished her gown. So, the littlest sister arrived, and her dress of the moon was so beautiful, so bright and shining, that it bathed the whole town in moonlight, and the evening sky was the train of her gown, stretching off into the horizon. But then, the middle sister ran into town - her dress half-finished, but shining so terrible and bright - that it chased the sister's moon gown away. Left in nothing but a few loose white-wool strings, the town proclaimed the eldest sister the victor, and the littlest sister the loser.
The eldest sister married the cobbler's son -- a cruel, vicious boy. The worst sort to know a Name, but a boy who knew one. He treated the eldest sister well - for she was as rotten and cruel as him - but not the littlest sister. For his amusement, he dressed her in pointed shoes that went clack, clack, clack all across the town. They were painful, these pointy shoes, and every night, the littlest sister's feet bled. But she could not escape, for she had made a pact of blood and salt on a wayline, and she was cursed to serve her wicked sister and her brother-in-law until the day that she died. She wept everyday, but she tried to get revenge when she could. One day, she poured boot black into her sister's makeup, and she ended up with a thick, oily mask on her face, that the flies were attracted to, and got stuck in. The eldest sister could not believe her new face, but the boot black would not come off. The cobbler's son was horrified by the actions of the girl with pointed shoes, and said; "Ugly you made her - but none shall be uglier than you." The True Name that the cobbler's son knew was the name for "Pig". He turned the littlest sister into a pig-faced girl with pointed shoes, and all in the village shunned her.
However, one day - a man with shining hair and bright eyes came to town. -- It was their Prince, Kurfürst Otto! He had stopped at this little village because he had ridden so long that there were holes in his boots, and he stopped at the cobblers to get his boots fixed. He was waited upon by the pig-faced girl with pointed shoes, and they began to talk. She was kind and sweet to him, and he was kind and sweet to her. They were fast friends, and the littlest sister finally felt confident that she could tell him of her predicament. The prince was horrified, and told her that he would carry her off back to the palace - and protect her from her sister and brother-in-law. The pig-girl weeped and explained that if he was to take her away - she would die. But the brother-in-law and the sister heard her friendliness with the prince, and demanded that he leave their house - holes in the soles and all. He explained he wouldn't leave without the littlest sister, because he was both good and honest. She said that she would rather die than stay here. So, he carried her off, and she died on the road.
And here is where the story becomes about true-love. The prince kissed her on her pig-mouth, and it was a kiss of true-love. Not only did she live once more, but the littlest sister was turned back into a real girl, and they rode off, Otto married her, and she became Queen Morgrause. Or so the story goes. And while there are those mages that entirely discredit the notion of true-love breaking curses, enacting spells - it may very well be a feasible alternative to blood magic. True love, if it can be acquired, is an endless, sustainable source of Focus for speaking True Names, and enacting powerful magic into the world. For further examples of True Love, and Folklore's place in magic - please examine Chapter X: The Monstrous Gift.




SUMMER ᛡ YEAR 10 QC. ᛡ THE WASTES, MORAVIA

Up from the dark, ashy soil sprouted a leaf. And then another, And then, suddenly, a whole, grey twig with narrow green leaves, with a waxy texture. A few purple flowers sprouted along those leaves. The branch filled the air with a smell so commonly associated with cooking - the strong smell of rosemary. Up from the drawn lines sprouted several small leaves, but none, save for the one that Ide's iron cuffs brushed against, grew any taller than half a thumb. This one branch, however, shot upwards, up through the keyhole. It became stuck in the tight channel of the luck, and began to push feebly upwards, its leaves trembling, the floral scent intensifying. The wind caught that scent, and spread it all across the heath, so that all of Ide's companions could smell that sweet, herbal odour from the blossoming rosemary.

The stick shot upwards, further, and further. The lock's pins and the clasp holding it together began to make creaking sounds. Along the joints of the hand-cuffs, the half-circles of the iron, the bolts began to strain in their sockets - unable to quell the rosemary that was growing beneath them. The nails and bolts clinked to the ground, and rosemary spread instead - until the surface of the handcuffs themselves were covered with this plant. The handcuff's lock made a straining, gasping sound. A few iron fillings drifted to the ground - or were caught on a breeze. The salt that they were coated with wore away, pushed back by the purple blossoms and grey-green twigs. The lock snapped, and the loops that held the hinges of the lock together began to widen - widen for the oncoming boughs to push through. The iron twisted, and bent as those powerful branches of rosemary tugged them asunder. The lock was broken, and the wrist holes were wide enough for Ide to slip her hands through.

She could not know, nobody could possibly know -- but this was an act of True Love.


 

I did not partake in the conversation flowing around me. I felt there was no reason to make acquaintances with dead men and women, for that is what we all were at that moment. Should we find some way to get out of this predicament, I was sure I'd be curious to hear their stories, names, all, and reply in kind. However, right now, as far as I could see, we were still going to burn tomorrow. I listened to the plans spun around me, until the bloated, disgusting grotesque of a human being came and rattled her chains to scare into obedience. In that moment, I wished for nothing more than to have my hands free, to rip her sword from her hands and cut her in two, to expose her innards to the outside fresh air. I imagined graveworms spilling from her stomach, or perhaps bile black and thick as sin, for creature such as her, a human being wanting to be turned into such form, could not be one of honest faith.

I cannot say I understand the ways of magic, but I understood well the ways of metals and minerals. One of the prisoners seemed to have his shackles unnaturally heating up, just like that. The acrid smell of burning iron and seared skin was fain, perhaps, but unmistakable. The campfire would hardly provide heat necessary to affect the metal, however... however, I could hear the song again. It was not magic, I think. It was locked inside my head, and could not affect anything outside it, of that I was sure, but its voice was lovely and intoxicating. It sang to me every time I sat over the plans for the cathedral, my gift to this world, its life cut so short out of simple spite. All those radical elements in the construction, the song would inspire me. It created such wonders, I was adamant in my belief it must be a gift from the gods.

This time, it sang to me about metals. The mage was doing it incorrectly. The metal, if heated, would become soft and malleable, but it would burn his hands clean off long before it would be hot enough. But if one would backtrace, go back and freeze it, it had to become hard and brittle. There were plenty of stones around. If one applied proper force on the lock, the fine but weak parts inside would have no other choice but to shatter.

"Mage," I said to the man, my first word since I was put into these shackles. My throat felt like it was grated apart by the movements needed to produce sound, and my voice was raspy and weak at best. "Can you conjure cold same way you can conjure heat? If so, freeze to lock, then shatter it. It will produce no smell of burn, no red illumination from the heat. We can live one more day."
 
I paid it no mind as the Recreant sauntered over and tossed some bloodied cloths at us. I didn't even look up or flinch as she spoke since her stench preceded her arrival to this spot. "She's so repulsive. Just the thought of her existing is making me want to throw up." When the cloth hit the ground, I felt something spatter against my face. Tentatively, I reached my left hand up to touch my cheek. When I pulled it back, the red coloring on my fingers hadn't surprised me, as the smell of copper already reached my nostrils. As my eyes trailed over my fingers, I noticed something off in the distance. A faint glow in the woods. "Whatever could that be? Hopefully something detrimental to our escape. We don't have much time left."

Someone speaking closely to me brought my mind away from my thoughts on whatever would be out in the middle of a forest in the Moravian Wastes. It was the one who had first introduced himself and quickly made himself not very liked by Ademur's standards, the one dubbed Ronan. He seemed to be rather interested in my musing about being a Spirit Mage. "You know, I'd tell you not to answer, but I know better than that." I rolled my eyes and scoffed at my companion before turning my attention to Ronan.

"Indeed, I do hear a voice in my head. In fact, my previous scoff was directed to said voice, so please don't think that was aimed at you." I took in a deep breath as I cleared my mind and tried to think again of any other possible way for us to get out of this. "As for the dreams, no. I've not had a dream as to which you are talking about in a few years, actually." My eyes found their way to settle upon a stone that seemed to be like a ruin just a bit away from where I was sitting. "Might it be safe to assume that you've been hearing a voice in your head and are also experiencing odd dreams along with this voice?"

Looking back around the camp at the others, my eyes fell once again on Ide. The poor girl began to cry and whisper something I couldn't hear from my position. "Poor thing... She really doesn't want to die, does she?" Ademur's voice rang once again in my head and I let my eyes drop for a moment, sighing softly before someone else spoke to me.

I slowly shook my head. "Regretfully, I cannot. I've not gained that ability, yet. Try as I may, it's not something that comes easily to me." With my sorrow filled reply, my eyes trailed back to the peculiar stone with some kind of writing on it. "There's something about this stone... I'm not sure what..."

"Sitting here looking at it admiringly from afar isn't going to get you anywhere. Get off your ass and go take a look." I couldn't help but laugh a bit at Ademur. Sure he was an ass, but I knew that it was just how he is. Listening to his advice, I tried to scoot closer to the rock and try to get a look at the words that were written.

"This looks... familiar.. but different.." I narrowed my eyes at the complex letters. "This is.. some kind of... Perthic.. isn't it?" As I was just beginning to learn to speak and write the language myself, I couldn't decipher any of this, but I could understand that some of the words were built like other Perthic words. With a huff, I turned back to the group, speaking just loud enough for them all to hear. "Can anyone here speak Perthic? Or at least read it?" Was it a fool's hope? Probably. But there was no hurt in asking.
 
Lillian was still staring into space when the Recreant made her way to the fire pit. She couldn't look at her, not when she looked...well, plain was a much kinder term to use. What did bring her back to reality was the blankets being tossed haphazardly at the captured people. She screamed as a blanket smeared with blood hit her square in the chest, plopping down onto her lap. She seemed to be the only one that got hit by the blanket and she couldn't help but hyperventilate, staring wildly at the Recreant with bloodied hands. Blood, whose blood? Why was their blood on her hands? Who did she kill? ...Who would she kill next? Us, of course, her fuzzy mind responded and she began to break down into sobs as the Recreant left their company.

She continued to sob, the feeling of despair welling within her. She stopped paying attention to the conversation and just listened to her thoughts. She missed him, she missed her love. She wanted to see Ismet again, just one last time. She wanted to see him, alive and full of hope like the final days before the two of them were captured and separated. Her mind kept going back to her love and wouldn't stop.

However, her crying did stop at the smell of rosemary filling the area. Wiping her eyes and sniffling she looked around for the source, only to yelp when she saw rosemary growing against Ide's handcuffs. She moved back, away from the magic user, away from the witch. Well, she should've expected it, considering the other young man said a word and the fire seemed to burn harder, but she waved it off as just her imagination. This, though? This was proof that she was around a witch, or at least one of them. She didn't know how to react when the rosemary began warping the metal and she couldn't help but feel a whirl of negative emotions.
 
Ronan nodded in reponse to what Lloyl said, what he said accurate described what Ronan had been going through at the time. Since Seymour had been rather vague on the reasons, Ronan might as well seek some answers from a self proclaimed Spirit mage. Although he didn't exactly find it pleasing to talk to the blonde boy, they weren't similar on a fundamental level almost. Of course Lloyl most likely did not dislike Ronan, Ronan disliked him rather quickly. Of course for now Lloyl was useful, and it would be helpful to befriend him, Seymour went silent when Ronan approached the other boy. Before Ronan could say something back to Lloyl the boy focused on the boulder Ronan noticed earlier, Ronan however ended up focusing on Ide, the shy girl whom seemed rather devastated by her fate ended up curling up in a ball and crying. It was a rather depressing sight, it made the atmosphere a bit more depressing.


Ronan then noticed the blooming rosemary around Ide, the depressing display now turning into an intriguing new topic of discussion for Ronan. He smiled and said

"Oh well what do we have here? Lloyl I think the boulder can wait, we might not be the only "witches" present." he said light heartedly

Ronan looked over to Ide once again, as if wanting a bit of an explanation from her. I mean it was kind of rational considering the sudden patches of rosemary that bloomed all around her. She would be able to feel eyes on her even if she wasn't exactly looking at him, a rather overbearing presence.

((Im sorry it's a really crappy post. On my phone and on my way out of the restaurant. I'll be back home later tonight probably so excuse me for the shorter post))
 
With the sickening voice of the Recreant coming to his ears, Cadoc scowled in disgust. Her breath was rank, and nothing about the creature was appealing. His only thoughts, through all that she spoke of and did, was killing her. He imagined the scenario again and again, even contemplating his own death to achieve the result. In all instances her sharpened teeth and ugly face were smashed by stones, and the only thing left was an unrecognizable husk of something that was once human-like. No amount of imagining would achieve the result though, and with the iron shackles that limited Cadoc, and everyone's movement, there was no reasonable way he saw to kill the bitch. His suggestion earlier to stone them all had really just been him venting, but the Recreant's revolting self made him desire to pursue it all the more.

As the creature threw down some soaked cloth and retreated to her tent Cadoc cursed her very existence. “Rotten bitch. May her death be long and without mercy.” A chant Cadoc had picked up among the rebellion after watching people be burned at the stake. The last moments of their lives knew nothing but pain, and he wished all that and more on the Church of All. He was lost in murderous thought at this point, steeling his will to ready himself for death, when Ide and Ronan shook him from it.

The mention of light perked his interest and Cadoc strained his eyes to see what could have been causing it. Too far for him to decipher any number of people, nor their intent and purpose, he continued to watch the faintly glowing torch that bobbed ever closer. As he waited, and the others carried on, Cadoc further investigated the light source. Judging by the size and the movement it was a single torch, and carried by a man atop a horse. Both the shifting bob of the light and the height gave it away to Cadoc. He wagered if there were one horse there ought to be more. After all no one travels alone anymore.

As Ronan probed Lloyl about his aptitude of as a spirit mage Cadoc wondered what to do with himself. His eyes never left the faint bobbing of the torch, so focused was he on it that he never once turned to see what magic Ide was conjuring. Instead more plans ran through his mind about how to escape, and what to do. Chief at the moment was burning down the tents. There was no second part to it yet. With the whole group chained together it wasn't as if they could parry sword blows and fight together. Most of them seemed to have lost the will to fight anyway. Grunting in disappointment Cadoc didn't know what else to do. His small mind had tried everything it could, but it could not find a way out of the shackles that limited him so badly.

Then something snapped. Voices fluttered as everyone looked to Ide and what was once impossible had been made possible. Cadoc's face was afloat with giddiness. He smiled from ear to ear and a quiet chuckle rose from his chest. “By the Gods girl, you may have just saved us all.” He rose from his seat as his senses turned away from the glow of the torch back to the circle of them. The strong scent of rosemary filled his every breath and a cautious eye snapped attentively to the tent of the Recreant. “Girl if you can loosen our shackles we can end this now.” He turned back to Ide. With no understanding of magic Cadoc could only hope she still had something left in her to free the rest of them.
 
Ide stayed curled up, sobbing, as she waited for her spell to give any signals of success. She gasped and moved back her head to see what was happening when she thought she felt something grazing her finger tips. She stared in awe, more tears rolling down her cheeks but with a more controlled breathing now, as the metallic restraints started to give away under the rosemary growing from its inside. She didn't realise when the fabric wrapped around her slid over her shoulders, leaving the spectacle free to be seen for the people around her. When she considered the wrist holes were wide enough for her to slip her hands through, she tried doing so, gasping again when she had enough free space to pull her hands out without the metal even touching her skin. She immediately brought her hands up to dry off her tears, repeatedly whispering "Thank you, thank you..."

Only then she noticed she had several pairs of eyes on her. She looked around a bit nervously, not used to being the centre of attention, lying her gaze last on the man insisting on her loosening up their shackles. She sniffed a bit so her nose stopped leaking, and lowered her eyes to the man's shackles. "I-- I can't do this again, but... I'll do what I c-can, just... Lower your voice, p-please..." she said in a really low voice so only the closest to her could hear, but the nod of her head signalled she agreed to help. Still, she didn't want to risk their captors hearing them. She could try to be silent, even if their captors seemed to always be aware of everything. Her gods had showed their loving support. Now it was her duty to try and help her fellow prisoners.

Making a plant sprout out of nothing, not having even a seed, was extremely hard and took a lot of energy. There was no way she could do that again. But her previous spell had literally given her a rosemary plant, and to work already having a plant, specially such a fresh and lively one, would make the task way easier in comparison. She harvested the plant, sticking some of the small branches in her tangled up curly hair for later use, and the other branches to try and free the rest. She looked around, considering who she should try and free first, not judging by sympathy but by the help they could offer. Her eyes set an instant later on a big bearded man, the one who had just said she might be their salvation. The fact that he looked scary aside, if he was a strong as he looked, then she wouldn't have to put as much energy in loosening up his shackles, as he could finish the job with brute strength, and he could help her with the rest of the people's shackles. Certainly a big man like him would be stronger than a poor plant.

She crawled silently up to the bearded man, and planted a branch of rosemary in front of him, then pulled his hands so the shackles' hole would be right above it, like she did the first time. Something she loved about rosemary, was the fact that it grew really fast, and on top of it, seeds weren't really needed, as the branches were extremely fertile and if one planted a branch of rosemary, it was very likely it would result in a new plant. She inhaled deeply, trying to recall the exact words she had used before. Then she started, barely whispering, but focusing all of her intent on freeing that man. "I have this plant of Anthos before me. I wish her to grow strong, and in this instant. I want the Anthos to grown into this keyhole, to open it from within, to break the handcuffs if necessary. Please set this man free, so may the gods help us all."
 
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The smell was the first thing to alert him that something amiss. It was a familiar smell, although its name he could not recall. It reminded him of his wife cooking when he arrived home from work. Was this a cruel prank set upon him, to remind him of what he had lost? Glancing back to the others, it became apparent that it was instead the work of one of the mages amongst them. One, the devastated woman from before, had freed herself from her shackles and was quickly trying to do the same for another. The sight filled him with dread, for he knew that if their ploy was chanced upon, the entire chain gang would be punished severely; however, he also found despair with the sliver of hope this presented.

He had not put much thought into impossible scenarios such as if he had been pardoned by the church or if he had somehow escaped, nor what he would have done after such absurdities. Instead, he had chosen to accept his fate, believing his sins would justify his death. Now that the dagger of hope had been raised, he began to have such thoughts. There was still something left for him to accomplish, one that he had previously resigned to the church to deal with, but this could possibly give him the chance to settle that bit of unfinished business: running that bastard, Friedrich, through! The church and the All be damned, for he was already set to burn! Jasper drank deeply from the poisoned chalice called hope, giving in to the desperation that he had once mocked the others for.

Taking a breath, he willed his body not to betray him and expose his stoicism for the facade it was as he sat up from his resting spot. Those dark hazel eyes that looked to the others burned with the reflection of the campfire but were just as fitting for what they all surely must have felt in that moment. "We do not have much time." He began, his voice rough with nonuse, "If she could smell iron burning, then she will certainly catch this scent. Those of us still chained will have to act to ensure she does not cut down those who are free and buy them time."
 
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Ronan observed as there seemed to finally be some signs of life within the group, although a strange anxiety dawned over him when he realized that they had limited time to free each other if they could. The girl answered with confusion only, which led him to believe this might have been by mere chance or miracle, but she acted a bit quickly and decided to free someone that was not Ronan first. This angered him slightly but he waited, he inched towards to listen and watch as she attempted to free the larger man. Suddenly another member of the group whom was previously ignoring conversation chose to join them. Ronan smiled and said

"I see we're all on board now are we."

A rather petty remark but he didn't really care, he did however nod at what he said, agreeing with the man's plan. He thought for a second wondering what exactly they could do. He looked around to see what they could possibly use to fend the recreant off if she came out, or how to distract them. Aside from stones there wasn't much they could use except possibly some of the burning fire wood, essentially a torch. He suddenly asked himself if he could do any of what she is doing, which made Seymour speak up, "For the time being you will not be able to do any of those things, but I will assure you, your journey to power will grant you better things." he said. The words reminded him of his purpose once again, he could not die here, he looked to Ide "Free Lloyl and myself after, we're mages we could fend them off if they notice." he began, "That is of course if you can free this bearded fellow over here." he added. The part about himself being freed was surely a bluff but he simply wanted himself free. He needed to escape, he did not care about those around him except for Lloyl and the girl herself, whom have both shown to be people he could learn more of his powers from. He sat back to where he was and stared at the Recreant's tent, waiting.

He suddenly found himself wondering however, how she released herself again, he observed her motions and noticed that she was seemingly praying, begging almost. He wondered if he could possibly be able to use power from just begging for it, he didn't exactly see himself praying for anything.

"If the time comes, I shall grant you protection from harm." said Seymour.

(Another meh post just trying to get things going, Really wanna move forward and develop Ronan's personality. I feel like I'm kind of losing grip on how he is or how he would react to certain things lol)
 
Huddling forward Cadoc brought his hands, and the iron that bound them to the rosemary as Ide guided him. He’d shut his mouth, effectively lowering it for her, but couldn’t help being somewhat excited. If it worked it meant they might all be able to escape. If it didn’t, well honestly they weren’t any worse off anyway. Smiling Cadoc listened to her chant, and wondered if he too could conjure up magical powers like hers. It wasn’t worth the risk though in his opinion. Were he actually capable of it he might do something to contradict Ide, cancelling whatever magics she was working and leaving the shackles tightly on his hands.

As she carried on Cadoc watched closely despite the words of Friedrich and Ronan catching his attention. In the soil the branches of the rosemary took root. The plant shuddered a little, as if fighting off the cold, then slowly began growing up. It pushed itself into and around the shackles. Cadoc could feel the locks straining against the ever growing rosemary. The iron of the shackles began to buckle and Cadoc squated himself further down as if to shorten the distance. Rolling back his shoulders he twisted his arms, one up and the other down, while pulling them away from each other. The iron kept on his wrists, but the shackles began to loosen. Only able to fight the metal for a short few seconds Cadoc tried again. No luck. Again. The shackles snapped, and Cadoc bit his tongue to keep himself from shouting.

He stood up and took a step back, a smile as wide as the seas beamed on his face. Rubbing his wrists in turn he nodded towards Ide in a gesture of thanks, and mouthed the words. She’d freed him, so he’d make sure he was quiet as she desired. Looking to the others Cadoc threw the rest of his chains down. They would need more people free if they expected to live much longer, but he doubted he could do much with brute strength. The keys were out of reach, and he cursed that there wasn’t an axe nearby to try and smash apart some of the shackles. Instead Cadoc made his way near the Recreants tent, but only by a few footsteps. He eyed the fire, looking for a sturdy piece of wood but found none better than any other. Taking off his shirt he wrapped it around his right hand and waited off to the side of the others. If the Recreant were to come out he would smash her ugly face with a burning log and try to wrestle her blade away. That at the least might buy Ide enough time to free the next prisoner.
 
Ide was grateful the man was doing his best, struggling against the shackles to help the rosemary break them, but she was concentrating so hard, she couldn't even put a subtle smile on her face. As the plant grew fully and the man was set free, she nodded at him, acknowledging his thanks. He picked up a new twig from the new plant and stood up, but as she stood up too quickly not only did she get a bit dizzy, but she felt a familiar pressure all over her head. She was pushing her magical capabilities, and she was sure the migraine she'd get afterwards would be terrible. Still, she had to do her best.

She hadn't heard Ronan's words, nor anything that happened while she prayed to her gods, but since Lloyl had been gentle to her despite she barely being able to put two words together, she went over Lloyl just as Ronan wanted. She planted the rosemary twig in front of her, and once again recited her half spell, half begging.

With that, she felt the pressure on her head increasing, but she guessed she could still keep going. She took some deep breaths to energise herself, and tried creating yet another rosemary plant, intending to free as many people as she could, starting with the closest ones to her, so she wouldn't have to walk around and risk the Recreant hearing her.
 
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