Moira picked up the rejected applications, her hands trembling slightly as she held the parchments. A soft glow of magic sparked from her fingertips, and she whispered, "Blood to blood." The applications fluttered into the air like startled birds and soared back to their owners in the crowd. Each rejected person caught their parchment. Their reactions were mixed, some sighed with relief, clearly pressured into applying by others. But many stared at the papers with tight jaws and narrowed eyes, grumbling discontentedly among themselves.
The grumbles grew louder, like a crowd itching to push forward. Voices demanded answers. "Why were we rejected?" "What's this supposed to mean?" Their tone sharpened as frustration boiled over. In the crowd, Isobel Strathmore moved smoothly, her face calm and understanding as she nudged those around her to speak up. She placed a steadying hand on a man ready to shout, her voice low and smooth. "It's only fair to ask questions. They owe you an explanation," she murmured, her words slipping like silk into his thoughts. The man nodded, feeling validated.
At the council table, Hamish leaned back, arms crossed, watching the scene. His lips quirked into a grim smile. "Feels like someone's whisperin' in their ears, stirrin' the pot, aye," he muttered, half-joking, but his sharp eyes scanned the crowd with suspicion.
Moira's unease was obvious. The crowd's restlessness tightened her chest, and she fidgeted with her fingers, her confidence slipping under so many hard stares. A crack of thunder boomed across the clear sky, her magic flaring by accident, startling the crowd into silence. Gasps spread as they gaped at her, some scared, others angry.
Moira cleared her throat delicately, standing taller. Her voice was steady but held a touch of apology. "I understand your frustration, and I owe you the truth. These choices weren't personal. I don't know any of you well enough for that." She paused, scanning the crowd. "Some applications were rejected because of incompatibility with the system. Others, well, others had poisonous souls."
A man in the front stepped forward, face pale, voice tight. "What do you mean by 'incompatibility'? What's wrong with us?"
Moira hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Incompatible souls are those who have no aptitude for fighting or magic of any kind. To grant magic to such individuals would do irreparable harm to their bodies, and in some cases, it could twist them into something monstrous." Her words sent a chill through the crowd. Several glanced at their rejected papers, faces pale with relief.
"And poisonous souls?" another voice snapped, sharper. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Moira glanced at Robert for support, but he was eyeing the crowd, hunting for troublemakers. She steadied herself. "Poisoned souls are those with ill intentions, whether toward this settlement, toward magic itself, or toward others. These intentions can be subtle, even unconscious, but the system detects them as a threat to the future of magic's success."
The explanation sparked more grumbles, some confused, others bitter. A young guy stepped up, fists clenched. "How can you decide who's worthy? We all suffered the same!" His shout drew nods and raised voices.
Moira's composure wavered, and she looked to Robert again. Before he could step in, Lillia climbed onto the table beside her, graceful as ever. She wrapped Moira in a sisterly hug, head resting lightly on her shoulder. The gesture was warm and reassuring. Moira's stiff frame softened as she hugged Lillia back, careful not to squeeze too hard.
Lillia pulled back, her emerald eyes locked on Moira's. A silent exchange passed between them, and Moira relaxed, a small, real smile forming. "You're a true gem, sweet one," Moira said, her voice soft and tender.
The crowd, many healed by Lillia on their trek to Doras Dagda, hushed. Their respect for her spread, calming even the loudest grumblers. For now, the storm eased.
Moira faced the crowd, voice firmer. "Aye, there's favoritism, but my favor's earned. It's not for all humanity, 'cause not everyone deserves it. Entitlement gets you nowhere. For some of you, it'd turn you into the monsters that wrecked Edinburgh."
In the crowd, Isobel pressed her lips tight, barely holding her rage. She wanted to lash out but stayed quiet. Inside, her thoughts boiled. The Warlock won't let her mouth off like this. She'll be on her knees at his feet one day, right where she belongs.
Hamish stood, shoulders square, accent thick. "Listen tae me," he said, voice carrying over the grumbles. "If ye've been denied, I ken it stings. But there's still ways tae pitch in here in Doras Dagda. If ye stay, we'll find work for ye. If this ain't yer place, Kilraine's nearby, a town o' non-mages that'll welcome ye. Doras'll give coin tae help ye settle if ye choose that path. It's yer call."
His words drew solemn nods. Slowly, the rejected applicants drifted off, some to their Arcoplex homes, others curious about Kilraine. Isobel slipped into the Arcoplex with a small group, her sharp eyes picking out those whose bitterness she could twist. She leaned close to a scowling woman, murmuring something that made the woman's eyes narrow further.
Everyone else remaining appeared pleased. On one side of the council tables stood the chosen applicants, across from Clan MacEwan teachers. Moira smiled at the chosen. "As for you lot…" She flicked her wrist, and the remaining applications soared overhead, swirling in a whirlwind. "Some of ye are gifted at magic, like Snow, Lillia, or Sorcha, leaders here. Others, like Ewan, Rauri, Hamish, or Chaucer, will wield small magic to become top warriors. Welcome, friends. I can't wait to meet ye all and see what ye build through hard work and loyalty to Doras Dagda."
Moira hopped off the table, her short frame, maybe four foot ten, standing out, curvy and proportioned like any woman. A blush hit several faces, men and women, as they eyed her. "I see ye lookin' at me, and I'm eyein' some of ye too!" she giggled, hands over her mouth. "But now's not the time, ye daft lot. This statue's near done, so let me pick a pose."
Moira struck a bold stance, one hand on her hip, the other stretched to the sky, palm up, like she was calling the heavens. Her hair flowed behind her, wild and fiery, lighting the air with raw energy. The red glow dimmed, her form losing its warmth as the magic faded. Her skin hardened back to cold stone.
The statue now radiated a fierce pull, every curve and detail so lifelike it seemed ready to move. Even as stone, Moira's stance screamed power, confidence, and grace, a guardian spirit frozen in time.
The applications floated down, guided by "Blood to Blood." Warriors caught their scrolls first, glowing with titles like "Superior Warrior," "Gifted Warrior," or "Stalwart Warrior," hinting at skills in defense, attack, balance, archery, or battlefield healing.
Mages' scrolls drifted gracefully, marked with "Mage of" and their element: "Mage of Ice," "Mage of Fire," "Earth Mage," "Air Mage," "Light Mage," "Water Mage." The glowing words lit up the crowd, each person eager for their path. A few rare titles sparked whispers.
Two stood out: a warrior with "Gifted Dark Warrior" and a mage with "Talented Mage of Darkness," their scrolls' black letters stirring awe and unease. But one woman, plain and timid, drew the most eyes. Bethany was mousy, with thin glasses perched crooked on her nose, limp brown hair clinging to her head. Her frail frame, lazy eye, uneven cheeks, and downturned lips gave her a vulnerable look. Her scarred, chewed nails clutched a parchment, hands shaking.
Bethany faded into the background, used to being overlooked. She stared at the words on her scroll. Metallic black letters glowed dark, spelling out: "Peerless Mage of Death." The title seared her thoughts, heavy like a curse. Death magic was very rare, tied to decay, spirits, and, well, death itself. The crowd's hushed stares showed they feared it too, some stepped back, others whispered nervously, eyes darting like they'd seen a ghost. Her voice caught as she glanced around, desperate for someone to notice.
"Uhm, Snow? Lillia? Someone…," she mumbled, barely audible over the chatter of others comparing titles. Her shoulders curled in, fear clawing her gut. The paper shook, her breath fast and panicky. She felt like the words were choking her, like everyone could see the curse stamped on her soul. Then, the fear broke through. "PLEASE! Someone help me!" she screamed, silencing the crowd. Heads turned, startled eyes on her trembling form. Bethany's face burned red, but she gripped the parchment, too desperate to care.