A Case in Philosophy. (Open)

Xerath observed the passersby as they stared and gawked at the abomination sitting before them. Even with nigh-infinite power, he knew he could not restore his connection with the mortals that kept him imprisoned. For some, he could sense the fear that had spawned from their ignorance. Of course, it is the nature of mortals to fear the unknown. Because he recognized this, Xerath pardoned those mortals of their unspoken crime against him. However, for those who were educated in the ways of the magic and sullied the essence of the arcane with hate and anger like dark ink clouding crystal water, he had no forgiveness. Emotion was not the only contaminant, though, as magic channeled through any physical, meta-physical, or even incarnate medium elicited a change in raw arcane energy. Many did not realize the lasting impression they left on the arcane forces, but Xerath could almost feel them as he channeled the arcane- a partial emotion, a momentary thought, or even a figment of a memory. While he reveled in the long-lost thoughts and memories, it was the residual emotions that were the both a great boon and a terrible curse. It was through these that he felt most connected with the material realm that he shared with mortal-kind, and this was what his chains forbid him from experiencing.

Xerath's projected arcane skin became unstable as he drew power from the invisible fonts around him, attempting to appease his thirst for the arcane. The magic burned the fabric of his newly tailored suit, but Xerath did not seem to notice. He increased his draw on the fonts gradually, wanting to experience more of what he'd left behind. A familiar feeling the runic core under his suit tightened on his immaterial form attempting to restrain him- a core that had been built by mortals to control what they didn't fully understand.

It was then that Xerath caught a glimpse of a familiar magic suspended over the area, and he recognized it immediately. It took the same form of that used on a stealth ward, but its target was not a physical entity like the rods in the Fields of Justice. The subject of this scrying spell was none other than Xerath himself.

'The Institute is trying to keep an eye on me? What do they hope to achieve with that, I wonder?'

Xerath reasoned that they believed him to be a threat, but he laughed to himself at the thought of their inflated sense of self-worth. He had no reason to harm anyone, and he couldn't be bothered to anyways, barring they stayed out of his way to achieving his goal.

'Let's see what you would do, then. Shall we?'

Xerath stood from his chair in the Great Hall and flexed his power as much as his bindings would allow. The human-like guise he'd portrayed rippled and distorted, pulsating with the immense arcane energy. The suit burned away into nothing and the arcane energy moved the air with increasing effect, throwing stray papers away from the intimidating form of the Magus Ascendant.