Do you now what a wizard without magic is?

I don't normally put ones up on my jounral, but since I'm probably gonna be on haitus for the offical one, I figure I ought to put something up here. Expecially since Ioann is pretty new and has been alot more complicated in comparision to my current OCs, though he's been pretty comparable with Anomie, I think.

Any feed back would be wonderful. Gonna see if I can enbale anon posting and all that jazz.

The University-Court
The first sight of the High Wizard’s Court of Glence is staggering. It hits the viewer upside the head with all the glamour and glory and menacing might of a hundred generations of wizards. Contained within that floating city, court, and university, are the most powerful wizards of Glence and the brightest minds and innovative casters. Hundreds of teachers, each the best in their field. Thousands of students, almost all of which are from a noble family, hailing from even the farthest domain of the lands of Glence. And servants, so many, more than all the people living within the bounds of Breliven. It’s the very beating heart, brain, and bitter soul of Glence, all rolled up into one tight wad of magic.

Far from Glence, the word has spread from mouth to mouth, ear to ear, that the mighty wizards of Glence, for all of their brutal civil wars, have never been defeated by an outside foe. Their floating castle has never been taken, can never, even, be taken, by force or magic frontal attack. It requires skill to gain entry to such a place, noble blood to contend for the throne, and magical ability above all else, in order to be respected by the myriad of wizards that rule the land of Glence.

Let those other countries pretend that their armies might protect them. Let those far and distant nations and monarchies and theocracies and chaotic city states, let them imagine for a moment or even a life time, that they might, should a war ever brew, stand a chance of shattering the alliance of mages that constitute Glence. And then let them come here, if they can find it. Let them come and look and feel, and shudder in horror at their own impertinence to dare to believe that such a place can be taken.

And let them flee, before the mages that occupy those high seats, who rule their lands with ruthless control and freedom in the broadest understanding of the term, with powers that defy the very laws of reality, look down from their positions of power, and notice.

Loradon

This province is a rather well known one, with many famous High Wizards, including Lisbet the Lapis. They are renowned for their fire magic and for producing powerful war wizards. The Wizards are almost completely segregated from the common population, and a feudalistic society functions across the land, with wizards ruling over different sections. They have an active military, and every unit is equipped with battle wizards.

The terrain is mostly mountains covered with dense forests, and rolling hills of farmland. The general wealth level is low and most commoners will never travel farther than the nearest town and will take on the job of their family. Wealth is highly concentrated in the hands of the wizards, though in recent generations, there have been significant increases in tradespeople and crafters.

The darkfire wars have been particularly devastating in Loradon, both because of pressures on the borders and because of the Wizard using the mountains as a base. There are roving bands of darkfire soldiers razing villages and attacking anyone and anything that comes within reach. Many are starving, more are homeless, and the military spends as much of its time keeping order as it does battling enemies. They have resorted to hiring mercenaries and anyone who will volunteer.

Breliven

The Breliven Province is just east of Loradon, nestled in high mountains. The entire providence lies within a single large, low valley. It tends towards colder weather and the soil is not particularly fertile, resulting in mostly shepherding among the commoners. The primary source of income that the province acquires is through visiting wizards come to experience the peace and healing air of the valley. There is very little socioeconomic difference between the wizards and the commoners, and even the poorest members of the Breliven society have enough to live comfortably. This is largely due to an unnaturally low birthrate, as every aspect of life in the valley is controlled by the matriarch of the Breliven family.

Bloodline and family status is very important in Glence, but in the Breliven Province, it takes on a completely different level of family identification. Instead of jealously guarding the bloodline from contamination and using purity of blood to define status, in Breliven everyone is part of the family. The bulk of the population can trace themselves back to the royal family, and immigrants quickly intermarry. To be a citizen of Breliven is to be a member of the family. The low population, low birthrates, and long life-spans, make it so that everyone knows everyone else, maybe not very well, but everyone is connected. Being around other Brelivens creates a comforting and empowering sensation. Even if two Brelivens encounter each other who have never met before, they feel an intrinsic identification, a slight up-beat in the energy of the world and themselves.

Family veneration is a large component of what it means to be Breliven. It is an expression of the solidarity of the family, a solidarity that runs vertically through the generations as well as horizontally among members of the same age. Refusing to participate in the communal life is considered the most shameful and selfish action a Breliven can do, and individualistic behavior that runs counter to family interests are targeted at an early age with punishments designed to shame and degrade the deviant into proper community.

The Breliven “up-click”
Brelivens can immediately identify each other, as coming into contact with someone else who shares their particular brand of Life magic causes a slight improvement in the very feel of the world around them. I like to call this the Breliven up-click, but they would refer to it as their peace, or the Breliven Presence. There has been so much of it in the land of Breliven that it flows over and sinks into the land, creating a powerful resonance that can impact anyone who goes there, giving the land a reputation as a place of healing and rest.

Even a spark of Life magic is enough to guarantee a long life, should nature be allowed to run its course without violent interruption. Sickness, in all its myriad of forms, is reduced to a minor incontinence, to be over come and not to be feared. Miss-carriages and fatal accidents are rare in a land populated by Brelivens, as if their strange aura of calming extends even to the errors of every day living, to defy the forces of entropy and chaos that would interrupt the order of a body, a community, a nation. Even when war reaches the border of Brelivin, that invisible line so easily seen, it resolves with astounding speed, as if the land itself, and the air and the water, rejects the unwelcome interruption.

The excited heart is quieted. The anxious soul finds rest. The nervous hand finds peace. All the whirls and swirls and shakiness, that trembles out of order and rushes through the days, is confronted by the palpable attitude of the rocks of Breliven, and the determined and tenacious gray-green grass. It whispers, underneath the surface, ‘don’t you want to join us? Don’t you want this peace, want it to envelope your heart and shield you from every tension and life-defying anguish?’ The Brelivens sigh as they cross into their domain, and they breath deeply and without fear for the peace of their homeland, striking an inner chord on an instrument that only they can feel. And the stranger finds easing, at first, until they realize that the whisper is not for them.

Foreigners do not stay for long, in Breliven. After a week, a month, a year, they all flee, eventually, back to what ever land spawned them. This valley is not for them, but for those of the blood, born of the earth and stinking of life. And Breliven can not stay away for long.

Explanation of the Magical System
Magic in Glence is strictly inheritable. If you are not borne with the potential flowing in your veins than all the study and knowledge in all the universe is useless, and worse than useless, taunting a soul with what is possible but beyond his or her reach. The blood will tell, as each bloodline donates to the wizardry of Glence its own unique offering and manifestation. And as the lines mix, new possibilities blossom and bloom into entirely new fields of understanding and wonder.

Wizards tend to separate types of magic into two broad categories: War Magic and Supportive Magic. War magics tend to be abjuration, evocation, conjuration, necromancy, and elemental. Supportive magics can be those in weaker levels, but most Healing and protecting magics count. High status magic tends to be flashy and lethal. Outside of unique provinces like Breliven, Healing, while necessary, is not prestigious.

There are ways, subtle and secret, and vastly deadly, to steal the magic from another. Of all the variety of ways and forms of treachery that the High Wizards amuse themselves with, that is one that will not be borne nor tolerated in any size. For stealing the magic of another wizard mandates the magic user’s death, as the essence of their being is ripped asunder and taken in by a foreign body. Like blood spilt, the source of power lies in the hearts-blood, the deepest inner most being. And one who has taken that once will never be satisfied with any lower crime; pure murder is not as stigmatized.

Religion in Glence (because how can I resist interacting on this topic?)
There is no established religion in the lands of Glence, and while the common masses may put their faith in a deity, among the Wizards such a weakness would be contemptible. Whether or not gods exist, the noble Wizards of Glence would not lower themselves to the point of worshiping one. Those who depend on an external force for power and salvation do so because they are incapable to trusting their own power and force. The Wizards worship power alone, and see themselves as striding ever toward greater and greater levels of power and control.

The Wizards do not believe in an afterlife. They hold that there is such a thing as a soul, because necromancers have revived bodies and found them lacking that critical persona of the original life, but the general belief is that upon death the soul is destroyed, unless otherwise preserved in a magical construct or spell; and whether that is a strict elimination or a blending into the world is up for debate in certain circles. It is enough for the wizards to hold that all that they lay claim to lies within this life.

There is no eternal damnation or salvation, no forgiveness that needs to be begged from some all powerful intangible entity. All rewards and punishments come in this life, and stem either from what one can do to his or her self or can do to someone else. There is no need to fear a deity; only the more powerful wizards. There is no religious basis for preservation of life, treating others with kindness, charity, justice or mercy. Any such stance must be upheld through logical arguments or practical implications, else be mocked by other wizards as an emotional based weakness of those unable to be ruthless enough to take what they want without concern for others.

Perseverance is his primary character trait, for better or for worse, and he doesn’t care which. Underneath the crunchy hurt and vengeful exterior is a hard and chewy center that is quiet and reserved, faithful, dependable, and very loyal. A large core of his problem is he feels that his faithfulness and loyalty betrayed him and lead him down the road to his current misery. Ideally, he deals with things internally, taking in evidence in a concrete fashion and dealing with them rationally and logically. Magical training in Glence is a rigorous science and philosophy, demanding mental discipline and attention to detail. But that means that he was never trained to deal with his emotions, in fact, too much emotion was considered a sign that he is weak. He likes order and instructions, and never really wanted anything more than to do right by his family and community, and being on his own has left him floundering and looking for a source of authority to tell him what he needs to do.

He is quiet, introverted, and frustrated by his inability to do things up to his high standards of performance and attention to detail. Normally a clean and careful student, his refugee lifestyle prevents him from the study that made him happy or the work that gave his life meaning. He doesn’t like feeling rushed, but he doesn’t feel like he has time left to waste or linger. Anything that is worth doing is worth doing poorly; no half-attempts here, even if failure is likely. He could work alone for long periods of time and put tremendous amounts of energy into his goals. There was something he really liked about being accountable for his successes and failures, and was looking forward to someday being in a position of authority. Once he takes on a cause, Ioann will go to just about any length to ensure that he is doing his duty by it. He has a ‘stick to it’ attitude, that now firmly fuels his desire for revenge.

All his life, he was defined from the outside, by other people. No one ever enabled or encouraged him to define himself, to ‘be himself,’ because that would be selfish and thus shameful. What he wanted never mattered, until he had nothing left to lose. There is a rage that is simmering under the surface, flickering upward each time he loses himself in a kill, that hates the random chance that ruined his life, but also the careful planning that made it not all that much of a life to begin with. Having refused to roll over and die, he is desperately seeking a way to reverse or stop the dark fire that is burning through Glence.

A wizard without magic is nothing in Glence. Without his tie to his home, he is no longer Breliven. Without his life magic, he is no longer a healer. All the ways he used to identify himself (heir, wizard, healer, Breliven, student, noble) have all been made lost to him, and left him with only two things to truly call his own: A refusal to die and a need to have his life been worth something. He appraises himself in comparison to the people who used to be his peers, or even the most minor of wizards, and finds himself wanting.

Ioann feels a deep sense of disgust with his self and the person he has become. The frustrated hope, the internalized feelings of pain, resentful bitterness, and a profoundly wounded heart have formed in the previously peaceful, if proud, boy a deep desire for violent revenge. It is easy for him to admit, and act on, the desire to have vengeance against the wizard whose darkfire disrupted Ioann’s world. Much harder to face is the fury at the people he loved and trusted who he feels have abandoned him to death or disgrace. He seeks gratification by retaliation for injuries suffered, and he will take it where he can find it, with ever decreasing concern for the actual guilt of his victims

He is deeply ashamed of himself and what he has become, and considers himself to be unworthy of any positive consideration or treatment. Ioann believes that the irrefutable evidence is that he is a guilty, cruel, unworthy and unwanted mistake, and that the very best he could possibly do to make up for it is to use his badness to get revenge and stop the people who threaten what was once his world. He has developed a complete lack of interest in other people, or in relating to them. Once out of the context of serving his family and home, he has a general “look after oneself only” tendency; having decided that people only care about themselves. After having been so hurt by the people he loved, he has reacted by dismissing the importance of relationships and pushing away anything that threatens his highly private and introverted life.

His personal weakness lies not in his anger, but in the hurt that fuels that anger: the pained conviction that he is good for nothing, and the fear that other people will realize that and also cast him out. Ioann has been so conditioned by his childhood, that he has a hard time functioning outside of the framework he grew up in. Magic is everything, and he doesn’t have any. Ioann is willing to do just about anything, including cold blooded murder and madness, in order to have some kind of magic, even darkfire magic.

Ioann’s person strength lies in his steadfast determination. Once the boy sets his mind on a goal, nothing will persuade him from it. He will keep going and seek to strive past the pain, despite the illness, in spite of what ever gets in his way. Ioann does not give up, else it would have been so much easier to just lie down and die. Instead, he clings to life, at what ever cost. His potential loyalty, if ever given, is invaluable. Even now, after everything he has gone through, he still reacts like a healer, when push comes to shove; gut reactions that add to his guilt and shame at his acts of murder.

More info on his personality can be found here: http://notafirewithin.livejournal.com/2231.html

Arthan, called the Verdant, holds a place of prominence in the University-Court, and a cloak of the brightest green, the shade of a new spring leaf, unfurling in the brightest of morning sun. It is said, among those who dare to speak of such things, or whisper, as the case may be, that he serves the High Wizards himself, directly. That from those callus hands are served elixirs of distilled life, held with careful kindness to trembling lips. Trust, pure, utter and simple, that is what Arthan possesses, and the life of the most powerful man in all the known world hangs unquestioned on his abundant knowledge, unwavering discretion, and indisputable skill.

Hailing from the Province of Thanpent, Arthan came to court as a young boy, and never left again, other than periodic visits to study the eccentrics of far and distant healers. He once spent a month in the land of Breliven, and his fondness for the land and its fresh air and soothing water is well known, in the proper circles. Many are the nobles that he has recommended to the province’s treatment centers and spas, when rest is called for. But that man is far to energetic to rest in such a backwater domain for long, and is soon on his way again, to seek the next cure, the next potion, the next spell that means the difference, somewhere for someone, between life and death’s deep draught.

The aging of a century has done nothing to slow him, and the healer is known to outrace, out run, and out distance men a quarter of his years, with a flush health that puts youth to shame. He moves with a fluidity of action that wastes no effort and possesses no hesitation, each gesture correct and each word specific for what he seeks to do. There is no room for his students to stumble or falter or fail, because he demands of them the same dedication that Arthan gives. He will ask nothing from the children sent to him that he is not willing to give himself; but some souls have limits far beyond that of normal men and women, and Arthan gives his all and holds nothing back, and the majority of mages in the world would drown in the difference between his efforts and their own.

The irony is that those same wizards frown upon the healer’s choice of profession, for Healing magic is, almost by definition, energy dispensed on another’s account. What a fool, the war-wizards laugh, behind their shields and leven blasts, to give so freely of his energy store, to people who might someday be an enemy. Pouring out magic like water, when it should be as precious as blood, and dispensing teaching based on dedication instead of more practical decision making devices. Why, he lets peasants mingle with his apprentices of true blood, and judges them on the same footing!

What portent such power, when it goes to naught? The trust of the High Wizard is no little thing, but does Arthan use such influence? Not so that one might be able to discern. His rooms are no grander than any other master of his rank and lineage. He possesses no special treasure, or stash of books, having the naivety to grant entry to his library anyone who claims to have a use for the information. He gives, and does not ask the cost, and so passes by a great deal of profit. The day will come when Arthan lies down and never rises, and from his death discarded possessions, there will be nothing that bore his hand alone and none other.

When the wizards of Glence gather, Arthan is among their number, and yet, apart. The healers have always had an uneasy alliance with the other wizards of the University Court, for the power of Life magic is more often tied to land than to blood. Perhaps it is a legacy of the centuries of civil war, of blood spilt on fields and rotten in shallow graves, churned into rich soil. It wells up with the grass, and it blossoms with the trees, and it flows through the air with the clean and crispness of a spring wind or carrying the sicken sweet stench of death, decay, and new growth. Across the breadth and depth of Glence, long over looked bloodlines burst forth, offering up to the greater good the promise of a better future for the healer who dares to petition for a place among the students of nobles.

Gray-green cloaks, and rusty browns, mosses and sages and dirty shades of green… the lower magicians of Glence far outnumber the most mighty. Every town has it’s healer, every village it’s witch. Midwifes and nurses, animal handlers and farmers in their fields, the common wizards spring like weeds from the rich soil. Even the highest of Healers mingle among the lowest, and for thousands of menial labor and workers across all the domains the only bright cloaked wizard they will see, in person, in flesh, in fabric and breath, will be one of those bright green cloaks of a Healer.

Can it be different from Arthan’s doing? Perhaps, the policy was in place long before his birth was even an idea in some matriarch’s scheming. And it will exist long after he is ash and dust and wasted blood. But he is the face the war wizards see, the hand that holds the scalpel and the potion, that eases fevers and binds broken bones. They practice their arts of war, and send their soldiers, broken and battered, to be tended by the Healer’s, and they demand his time and his effort on their behalf, when their thirst for violence and power brings them injury.

The High Wizards fo Glence love Arthan, and hate him. Fear him, and dismiss him. They do all of these, and think little of it, because that has been the way it has always been, for years uncounted. And the treatment for a teacher extends to his students. Had Ioann been soley of Breliven stock, then maybe they would have overlooked him, counting the backwoods province as little better than the hedge-witchery of their own fields. But in his blood flows the war magic of Loradon as well, and he seeks none of it.

Such precious blood. So wasted. Arthan can only protect him so far, and beyond the healer’s domain, the nobles have very different ideas. Lessons must be taught, willing or not.

In the lands of Glence, family linage is determined through the mother’s line. What a strange and foreign way of thought, to the nobles of the wizard-lands, that someone would trust a thing as important as blood heritage to the meager bonds of the marriage bed.  The wizards have only a passing interest in the institution to begin with, a particularly formal alliance between members of a royal house, but with none of the religious clout that more primitive lands adhere to. Nor such a silly thing as bed room morality.
 
Heritage is simple, if not self evident by the manifestations of one’s blood. A mother can know what lies with in her womb, a father can be fooled. Sometimes, mothers are tricked as well, but those are rarer, and so the standard rule applies among the high families. And should a wife violate the marriage contract, that is her prerogative, for a contract can be violated by either side, and each must deal with the repercussions of their own indulgences, if they have the power to get away with such acts. The child, however, will always be hers. The man should feel grateful to be included into a noble lineage, that the blood of his blood will mingle in the deep magics and pass on to future generations of rulers.
 
There is no shame in being borne out of wedlock, no tragedy or insult, though the husband would do well to be slighted at his exclusion from the blood pool and the father greatly honored that a wizard would chose to carry his seed to term and claim it as her own. After all, among the wizards of Glence, there is no such thing as an accidental birth. No, rather, among the highest borne, reproduction is a careful hobby, a dedicated plan, not to ensure for one’s self or one’s child a throne, but to promise it to one’s grand son or great grand daughter.  It takes time and patience and careful lobbying and courting. And love, oh love, has nothing to do with any of it.
 
Ioann had the virtue of being born with his mother on the correct side of the equation, giving him a direct link to the linage of Larodan, and his magic proof enough of his Breliven heritage. Fyador, the grand-nephew of Pyotr, the High wizard of Beliven, had been wed with all due formality, and some affection, for all that mattered, to Polina, who was the daughter of Isabella, a cousin to the High wizard of Loradon, and thus of fine royal blood. Through their alliance, and the blood that runs warm in his veins, Ioann was born to bear the burden of blood from two royal lines.
 
Ioann, and his infant brother Mikhail,  are the reslt of careful planning and breeding by the patriarch of the family. But Pyotr had made his will well known, several years before, when the young boy’s invitation to court was declined in favor of furthering his healing training. The life mage is pegged for the future role of Master Healer, which would deny him, once in place, from ever being in contention for the Heirship. What little Aleksandr had seen of that happy nine year old had filled him with familial pride. Would that things had stayed the same.
 
Politics shift quickly, even for those as long lived as the Brelivens, and Vanya, the decrepit old fool, longed for home more each passing day. Stepping down from the Heirship should have left the field open for Aleksandr, who had been raised at court in constant preparation for his place as Vanya’s due replacement. Who else from Breliven knew the place so well, had the proper conections, how could they dare to imagine that this mere slip of an untried boy, not yet even possessing a cloak, could ever be better suited. Does not the royal blood of two great houses flow through Aleksandr’s veins as well as Ioanns?
 
Aleksandr was not so luckily breed, for while his father s well known to be of Haitor, such a parentage was completed without the binding contract of a marriage alliance that would compel his father’s family to accept him as a member of their own. He is but one step in a grand plan, so that he might possess, and pass on, the blood of his father and the firey magic of his father’s blood. In the subtle ploys of the court, his mother was highly lauded for her clever tactic, but for a boy grown into a man, he was a part of a politic system from which he could barely hope to suffer any gain.
 
And yet, he had such hopes, for he learned from his mother to be shrewd and from the court to look out only for himself. Raised far from his homeland, he was free from the careful education that ensures the loyalty of the blood line. He has been exposed to the intrigue and court dramas, the plotting and planning and ploys, and the dark underside of the shimmering court, with all its eyes lurking for a mis-step and a sudden opportunity.
 
Beneath it all, in the place where he does not wish to look within his deepest heart, Aleksandr shies away from the profound truth that threatens his careful façade of indifference and desire for power. Should they ask, should they call for him, he would pack up and go home, tail between his legs, and scowl on his face. But his heart would rejoice. For, as all can attest, Aleksandr is a proper Breliven, and they are bound to their land by more than ingrained loyalty or family feeling. It calls to him, calls to his blood across all the distance and all the years. He might have been born at court and visited his homeland but a handful of time, but his soul can not forget that profound and earth sustaining feeling of rightness that filled him to the brim and over flowing when he set foot across the invisible line that casts Breliven apart from the rest of Glence.
 
He can almost justify his plotting as a favor to the naïve boy that they had dared to send as an interruption to his goals. Ioann doesn’t have to die, no, to be sent back in shame would be enough. He merely needs to be removed. Good and gone. Miserable and homesick, Ioann was unprepared for life at court, and Aleksandr feels no true compulsion to help him. Better to let him fail, or succeed and find the place to horrible to bear. Let him merely get his cloak and be gone. No Healer has ever won the high throne of Glence. No healer would ever want such a bloody and ruthless thing.

The first sight of the High Wizard’s Court of Glence is staggering. It hits the viewer upside the head with all the glamour and glory and menacing might of a hundred generations of wizards. Nothing in all the world can compare to it in terms of sheer expense and wonder, no place is as dangerous, no prize as glorious, and no place that Ioann would less like to be.
 
The floating court looks like a gleaming smear on the horizon, distant and gleaming, sparkling like a giant star on the bitter edge of the world. But not for long. The floating barge swings wise, far and fast, to bring its valuable passengers into alignment with the moving court, dancing in the sky to the whims of the High Wizard and his pet magicians who control the skies. The power necessary to keep that much metal and stone and glass floating a mile about the earth, or surely more, is enough to make whole armies turn tail and flee.
 
It gleams, a gem in a crown formed of the high mountains beyond it and the darkening sky above. And it glows, with power as much as of light, and in all the colors of the rainbow. Who in their right mind would every come to such a place. Who would ever dare to leave?
 
Contained within that floating city, court, and university, are the most powerful wizards of glance and the brightest minds and innovative casters. Hundreds of teachers, each the best in their field. Thousands of students, almost all of which from a noble family, hailing from even the farthest domain of the lands of Glence. And servants, so many, more than all the people living within the bounds of Breliven. More people than Ioann can even imagine, and all caught up together in a floating city, the pride of Glence. It’s very beating heart, brain, and bitter sol, all rolled up into one tight wad of magic.
 
Far from Glence, the word ha spread from moth to mouth, ear to ear, that the mighty wizards of Glence, for all of their brutal civil wars, have never been defeated by an outside foe. Their floating castle has never been taken, can never, even, be taken, by force or magic frontal attack. It requires skill to gain entry to such a place, noble blood to content for the throne, and magical ability above all else, in order to be respected by the myriad of wizards that rule the land of Glence.
 
Let those other countries pretend that their armies might protect them.  Let those far and distant nations and monarchies and theocracies and chaotic city states, let them imagine for a moment or even a life time, that they might, should a war ever brew, stand a chance of shattering the alliance of mages that constitute Glence. And then let them come here, if they can find it. Let them come and look and feel, and shudder in horror at their own impertinence to dare to believe that such a place can be taken.
 
And let them flee, before the mages that occupy those high seats, who rule their lands with ruthless control and freedom in the most broad understanding of the term, with powers that defy the very laws of reality, look down from their positions of power, and notice.