wizzy blog

Ryan | Champion Conjurer | They/Them

[crawdaddiie]

more blade icons!!

Star is kinda scuffed I'm ngl

[crawdaddiie]

can i post my blade icons here

[dyvimkisser]

GUYS

GUYS

GUYS!!!

[ghostingbrightly]

wiztober 2022 day 7 -- deprivation / overstimulation

[an-inspired-eternity]

well you see ma'am, funny thing! i've not been able to attend classes because i was designated a child soldier

[para-socialist-deactivated20250]

2024 pride collection is out!!

[sparlax]

[melveres]

teaching the Wizard to read old scripts and runes

[deckofflora]

[bp-nsimmo563-deactivated2023110]

The Life School is music. Life magic resonates with the Song of Creation itself, harnessing its harmonies and melodies to create new life where there was none before. In order to practice their magic, Theurges must become intimately in tune with the rhythms of the universe, the music composed of birdsong and street traffic and horse hooves clopping and zephyrs rustling, the better to know how to manipulate those melodies, to pull apart each thread of the song and reweave them into something gloriously new.

The Myth School is literature. Myth is a relatively young form of magic, relying as it does on fables and legends that needed first to be written. The history books are written by the winners—some of them, anyway. In order to practice their magic, Conjurers must study those and all the rest closely and conscientiously, clearly link the cause-and-effect trajectory of history with the conditions of today, the better to know how to use all those stories to their advantage, to harness the creative power of the mind to revitalize old tales and spin new ones.

The Death School is art. Though shunned and outcast by many, Necromancers perform a vital societal function, one that few feel called to and even fewer want to get their hands dirty in the doing. Arranging funeral bouquets is an art form, as is the application of makeup to the face of the deceased, and there is a strange grace to be found in the coordination of one's last rites. In order to practice their magic, Necromancers must familiarize themselves with the glorious and horrible trappings of death, become well-educated in the pomp and circumstance and ultimate degradation of the final acceptance, the better to know how to pull all the colors together under a canopy of mourning black, to learn how to comfort those who are still here and guide those who are not.

[oposside]

[rongzhi]

A long-eared jerboa sheltering from the wind in Xinjiang

[tinygiantrobotsinouterspace]

“What do you call the little mouse, the one that goes hop-pip?” And he made a jumping motion with his hand.

Stilgar laughed. ‘We call that one ‘M’uad Dib’. it means ‘He who is wise in the ways of the desert.’“

[triflesandtea]

Philosophy of the Spiral

Hellooo, Spiralings. Boy, has it been a while. I try not to write blog articles here anymore since I have plenty of other things to do, but

Hello, folks. Here is my latest article regarding some philosophical questions that can be raised in the lore of Pirate101 (and its sister game Wizard101) and its galaxy of the Spiral. These are just random philosophical questions inspired by the poster Star Gator on the official W101 message boards.

Enjoy!

[oldestenemy]

“Concerned for my safety.” The wizard echoes, fingers tightening around the spyglass they’ve been using in place of a wand for the past year. “Where was your concern for my safety when you sent me off to fight a war singlehanded and alone?” Their tone is soft. Conversational. Merle Ambrose does not flinch.

“Please, tell me what happened, do not spare a single detail.”

And they don’t.

They weave the felling of the shadow palace as it ought to be weaved, in darkness and blood and discarded web. In unmade worlds and the snapping of tree roots. In opponents twice their size, half their skill, in winning through bared teeth and broken skin.

They do, in fact, spare Ambrose a single detail.

They do not tell him about their request to Raven.

They do not tell him how it felt to watch the shapeless winds of the void between worlds tear Morganthe apart.

She had been his apprentice, once upon a time.

The wizard can offer him that one, singular kindness.

If nothing else.

“This news of Old Cob is troubling, but we shall just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. New adventures for us all, yes?”

“Am I free to go?” They do not hide the chill or bitterness in the words. “It’s over.”

Merle Ambrose does not flinch.

“Yes, yes you may go, please get some rest. You have earned it.”

~*~

The wizard does not get some rest.

“Professor Drake?”

It’s off hours.

Cyrus Drake is in the Myth tower, where they had once dueled him, years ago now—before they were sent to the heat and tragedy that was Dragonspyre.

“I was not informed of your return.” It’s formal, it always is, but the wizard manages a half smile. “I am pleased to see you have made it back predominantly unharmed.”

“Are you free?”

“I am.”

“Can I show you something?” Cyrus’ lip curls in a way that the wizard recognizes, and they correct themself before he can patronize them. “May I show you something?”

Words are important in Myth magic. To nobody more than Cyrus Drake, who seemed too often to wonder if things would be different, had he only found the right words.

“Are you meant to be resting?”

“I am always meant to be resting or fighting. This is as close to rest as I’m going to get for a while.” They respond, allowing the hollow tone to take over their voice. Allowing the empty spaces where they had freshly leeched magic show. “Once we’re there, we can sit, I’ll drink tea, pretend I’m doing well.”

The wizard takes Cyrus to their castle. The myth castle. The castle sitting atop a cyclops that might be alive and might not be. The one crawling with automatons and unicorns and every wayward sprite they’ve ever picked up. Where the small green dragon they’d tamed in Avalon sleeps by the river when they do not ride it. Where they host the trophies of the times when victory tasted sweet and real.

The castle that houses Malistaire’s memorial.

Cyrus doesn’t ask why they made it.

Doesn’t balk at it.

Does run his hand along the edge of the stone, and the carved relief of Malistaire and Sylvia.

“When did you make this?”

“After,” The wizard says softly, “just after—you sent me to the dorms and, well I ran to Northguard, I couldn’t rest, couldn’t stop—”

“—I understand.”

They sit together.

They drink Hespermint tea and listen to the breathing of the cyclops above.

Eventually, the wizard has calmed their nerves enough to voice the thing that is weighing on them.

“I don’t want one for her.” They say softly, staring at the memorial, at the fresh flowers, the crystals bursting from the earth. “I wanted her dead. I wanted to hurt her. It’s—I’m not a kid anymore, I can’t pretend I’m doing this without understanding, I wanted to make her feel like I did, I wanted to make her pay—but I—I’m not supposed to.” They are going to cry and they don’t want to, they blink it back, grip on their teacup far too tight. “I chased power I shouldn’t have—I messed up again and let out a—a monster—I couldn’t think beyond wanting revenge for Azteca, for Pacal and Zaylin and Tezcat and Neza—for watching Dyvim die and for having to swallow Shadow and—” A sob is working its way up their throat and if they aren’t careful this will shatter them.

“You spent two months in the burrows and barrows of Khrysalis.” Cyrus interjects as the wizard gulps down air, “Isolated again from your classmates, your friends, those who can ground you. It is… easy, to get swept up in the tide of getting even. Especially when one is alone.”

“You didn’t.” They manage to mumble.

“Ah, but I am rarely left to my own. I have… children to teach, collegues who deign to check on me at irritating hours, and an apprentice who has flourished despite having been unable to appear in class more than twice a term, too busy getting themselves dragged into oncoming conflict.”

The wizard’s gaze snaps up at the word apprentice.

“I would have done more for you if it were in my power to do.”

He’s being nice.

He’s not supposed to be nice.

He’s Cyrus Drake.

He’s supposed to be lethal and logical and at best polite, but not nice.

The wizard laughs, and it’s hiding a sob.

Read the rest here <3

[wizard101isreal]

where are you

WIZARD FREAKING CITY BABY

[balanced-but-falling-apart]

Do you ever wonder how wizards make their magical cards? You've probably guessed with the card crafting station, however with photomancy we can take a closer look.

If you look closely, the backside of the card says "Enchant other side" and the front side of the card says "Wizard use only."

I highly recommend using photomancy too look at the world around you because the developers put so many cool details like this in the game.

Magical cards start out on a long piece of paper which is then cut down to proper size. You can even see the markings for where they need to be cut!

[arthurwethersfieldfanpage]

wizard101 really gets me attached to characters easily i’ve known Ivan the Great for like 2 days and already id die for him what do you mean we’re parting ways