The whole work will be found HERE if you are interested in reading more. This is the prelude/starter. PLEASE give me some title ideas.
The story
“How’s it looking, Nev?”
The person in question started, whipping around to face the one disturbing his peace. It was Arish Vista, a recently-made friend and impressively adept sparring partner, unreasonably quiet for his choice of weapon — his high-power Snow, able to harm even in its powder form. He was surprisingly adept in melee combat, however, and still able to hold his own unarmed against Neviro, a warrior-in-training. Arish would only deny wanting to be a Warlock the more you asked him about it, even though he very clearly had the skills and tenacity for it as his fists packed quite the punch, enough so that it was the sole reason Neviro was sharpening his spear.
“Tch, says the one who ruined it in the first place… again,” Neviro snarked, flipping his spear to scan for any imperfections he could have missed.
Grinning widely, Arish made to pat his back consolingly if not for the butt of the spear appearing before him. It only made him grin wider. “Already raring to go again? And here I thought you looked all defeated and everything.”
Neviro snorted, withdrawing the spear. It looked as good as it could without proper reforging — at the end of the day, while he was good with maintenance, the amount of wear and tear Arish had put it through meant it would likely need to be completely remade by a proper blacksmith in the near future if he didn’t get better with dodging. “Defeated? I am defeated. This is the most beaten-down I’ve been in my life,” he grumbled, getting up to follow Arish to their usual dueling spot.
“Most beaten-down you’ve been? Well, I’m sure that will change after this fight,” Arish taunted.
“Don’t be so sure about that, you snowflake.”
Gasping exaggeratedly, Arish formed tears of snow on his face. “You wanna know why I’m so sure? I just learned—”
“Learned…?” Neviro prodded him in the back. “Learned what?”
Arish wiped his “tears” away. “Just wait and see, Nev.”
< DAYS LATER >
A massive shockwave of energy — neither magic not kinetic — surged through his tower. Potions bubbled, magic vials pulsed, and undying torches flickered, yet if not for all the physical changes it wrought he would not have thought it significant. If it was barely tangible to him, Enzior imagined most people were completely unaware of its occurrence.
However, just because he could sense it certainly did not mean he knew what it meant — and he was nothing if not learned in magic theory. Wracking his mind, he delved into the deepest crevasses of his memory banks and rose back up with nothing, not even a hint of what the pulse of energy could be.
Then, a faded memory. Potential. An old history book, telling of a chain of events that lead to a massive restructuring in magic systems. The catalyst: a pulse of mysterious energy, apparently caused by the displacement of souls through time or space.
Enzior gulped. If this pulse was a similar predecessor to such events, then the War Seas would be queued for the largest shakeup in centuries. Many others, aligned on the side of “good” or “evil” too, would treat this day as one for the books — a Catalyst for upheaval in the War Seas that had stagnated for far too long.
He would need to accelerate his plans. Frostmill had been a nice, isolated location to do his research with little disturbances, but the recent increases in Ice Smuggler activity combined with the slowing of imports from Ravenna had been a significant detriment towards his progress. It was high time he changed locations, anyways. Research had begun to plateau and he’d more or less exhausted all accessible resources. If he was going to make a big move, well, he might as well take advantage of the change and perhaps hire an aide or two. After all, old age wasn’t exactly the most conducive towards becoming ■■■■■
< MEANWHILE >
Collapsing on a conveniently chair-shaped rock, Morden observed the rowboat leaving Dawn Island, attempting to process the events of the last while. The third member of his and Tucker’s escape party had lost their memory, readily accepted Morden’s explanation of their situation, and immediately agreed with his suggestion to leave for Redwake to start a new life, taking one of the rowboats they’d escaped on and departing as fast as they had woken up. They had suggested Morden follow them to Redwake, which was surprising — after all, to them, he was someone who had just supplied them with their supposed life story. He’d declined, though. It wouldn’t be right to immediately burden them with their past.
He closed his eyes, reminiscing about the times before — before the facilities, the experiments, and Tucker’s death. Alas, that was the past and this was the present. Tucker deserved a better grave than an unmarked pile of soil. While it would take time, if everything went well, he would deservedly rest for eternity on the dawn of a new odyssey.
After that, well… how could he not be moved to become ? If someone with no knowledge, no past, and possibly no future could move forward with such conviction, then how could he do anything but attempt the same?
The gleaming blue visage of Frostmill island loomed in the south, the small port town of the same name barely distinguishable from the massive iceberg. Tucker had mentioned wanting to visit the colossal block of ice, back before they had lost hope for an end to their imprisonment. It would be a good first stop, for both himself and Tucker. Perhaps he could even bring a souvenir and set up a small shrine for Tucker, to give him all the things he couldn’t when they were still alive. Perhaps when he was finished, he could redeem himself for all that he had and had not done.
< SOMETIME >
Branches crackled as they were consumed in fire, sending sparks flaring up. Waving away a stray ember, Edward Kenton, the Deserter, grumbled. The day’s harvest had been sparse in terms of actual fish, and none of those fish had been all that special whatsoever. Instead, he had fished up an absolutely ridiculous amount of random scrap and trash, such as old boots, metal bits, and even the occasional deformed piece of equipment.
He turned away from the fire to give the pile of potential commodities he had fished up another once-over. It was mostly composed of metal armor, though there were a few weapons somewhere in the pile. None of them seemed functional, as the swords seemed far too damaged — they were blue and had warped edges — and there was a even staff which was practically rotten, but could perhaps be sold to weird-artifact-collectors with the angle that it was composed of magic-infused wood, empowered after years absorbing the dense magic of the seas.
The strangest thing about the pile of stuff was that it was dripping wet, even after hours under the midday sun. Indeed, a small puddle had formed under the pile, which would not be of concern normally except this one was growing larger by the hour, far larger than a normal pile of soaked metals would create. It appeared that some of the junk was legitimately imbued with magic, but alas, he wasn’t the most magically inclined person. He’d have to get some of them appraised the next time he did a supply run.
Magically imbued or not, any value of theirs wouldn’t exactly make up for his lack of good food to eat at the moment. He scowled, returning to the browning fish which could barely be called a meal. It would be a long night.
< PREVIOUSLY >
The wildfire blazing in her chest had started sputtering from burning too hot, yet she forced it to keep raging, forging it into a cold, white-hot anger. Anger focused solely against those responsible for the death of her father: the Ravenna Realm. They would pay for what they had done, in blood and fire and flames and blood and tears and—
Gasping, Iris shot up from her bed, submerged in a pool of sweat, morning rays of the newborn sunrise peeking curiously through the curtains; it was a room in Sailor’s Lodge, rented after fleeing from Rubica, after her father was murdered and her comfortable civilian life had fallen to pieces right in front of her. She had barely been able to pick up the pieces before fleeing away, away from where she had thought she’d spend her entire life until they decided her father needed to die. He had been killed at the whims of a corrupt government, one that had unknowingly given itself a death sentence. They would be destroyed. She’d make sure of that.
However, she had to start somewhere, and that somewhere unfortunately could not be Rubica. Frostmill, a mining town whose sole claim to anything was their ice exports, would have to be an adequate place to begin her crusade against Ravenna. Additionally, if the murmurs of Ravenna defaulting on their trade agreement were true, then it was a golden opportunity to find other people dissatisfied with the Realm and work together to dismantle it completely.
Drying herself off with some light application of her Flare, she prepared for a long day of sailing, flame flaring up in her heart once again. Ravenna would burn for what they did, and the despots who ordered her father’s death would see their city fall, dripping through their fingers as fine ash. But first, she would eat a hearty breakfast — a bright fire needed a lot of fuel. After all, it was included with the purchase.
Title reccommendations please!!! Or just feedback in general if you read more