ฦeral
๐จ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฒ๐ต๐ญ ๐๐ ๐๐ช ๐ง๐๐๐๐ค
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ฦeral
๐จ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฒ๐ต๐ญ ๐๐ ๐๐ช ๐ง๐๐๐๐ค
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Rationality - the quality of being based on or in accordance with reason or logic.
Humans are rational creatures, or so they liked to think. There exists a perfectly logical explanation for everything. The sun rises in the east and falls in the west - because that is how the earthโs axis happened to rotate in relation to the sun. Water always flows down - because of the proximity of the earthโs gravitational pull compared to the other planets.
But puzzle me this: why is it, that if we sum all natural numbers towards infinity, the equation yields negative one-twelfth?
Why? How?
Humans have certainly offered countless explanations for this seeming paradox, some satisfactory, some not. Poor creatures. They could not help themselves. Because if they ever stop trying to rationalize everything, if they ever stop insisting that there is a perfectly logical explanation for every phenomenon, then they would have to admit the truth โ
โณ๐ถ๐๐พ๐ธ didnโt give a shit about human rationality.
Magic is primordial, no, even more ancient. Unconstrained, unconstrainable. Magic is potential, endless, boundless. Before magic, even the laws of physics must bow.
But, unfortunately for humans, magic is also elusive. Only a select few amongst the 7.955 billion (and growing) would ever come to experience magic. And amongst those, even fewer could boast of truly knowing magic. To claim as such required decades of rigorous practice, the crucible of trials and tribulations, and more than anything else - because magic was ever so unfair - talent. Bloodline. You had it, or you didnโt. There was no way around it.
And even amongst the blooded magi, there existed a surname that commanded respect.
Sterling.
A family so ancient that even the papyrus scrolls stored in the deepest vaults of Roxorth, Academy of the Arcane, could not trace the origin of the name. A name that populated itself within tomes after tomes of learned treatises, of spells and incantations and history. A name that inspired - once upon a time.
Because alas, even the greatest of magi was still human, and humans were such fragile creatures. Had this nasty habit of getting lost in the passage of time, see. Time was funny though. It never did like to flow linearly. Much like magic, time did as it pleased. Because look, the Sterlings - well, a Sterling - was back again. Looking a bit - more than a bit - green behind the ears. Didnโt even seem to know the basics?
Tongues wagged, brows wiggled, and rumors spread. But one thing was for certain. That critter - ah, magnificent fantastic beast - perched on the young Sterlingโs shoulder, with the sun catching the gleaming disc enshrined between its eyes at just the right angle? That was a Ziz. The Ziz. As Leviathan is the King of the Ocean, and Behemoth the Lord of the Surface, Ziz ruled over all creatures of flight. Renanin. Sekwi. A creature of as many names as it had titles.
And, despite looking quite small and, dare one say, cute, it was said that the greatest of the Ziz had wings so huge that, unfurled, they darkened the sun. That the Ziz protected the earth against the storms of the south; that without their guardianship, the earth would not be able to resist the winds blowing thence. Witness the Ziz! Witness the majestic - measuring in at about twelve inches with its lengthy neck fully stretched - white-plumaged terror!
<Three quarters of newt-blood. That was only about two and a half.>
Sevraโs beak never moved, but her words would nevertheless be heard with crystalline clarity by her intended audience of one. Telepathy, a rather simple trick, just another facet in Isla Sterlingโs new life. <I suggest you remedy that with all due haste. Or donโt. Mixing this particular potion wrong can have rather farcical side effects.> A smooth lilt, distinctively feminine, dulcet and matter-of-factly, but with a good-humored sarcasm that was hard to miss.
<In fact, why donโt you add in a few pinches of Feverfew, and slip this batch into Wilfred Bradleyโs drink when heโs not looking?> The legendary - miniature - creature had no eyebrows to waggle, but if she did, they would absolutely be waggling. Instead, Sevra ran her beak along her flank, grooming herself, as if she were not the one planting all manners of bad ideas in her new ward of two weeks and a few. <He deserves it, you know. I heard him calling you a fraud and a bastard just the other day.>
Humans are rational creatures, or so they liked to think. There exists a perfectly logical explanation for everything. The sun rises in the east and falls in the west - because that is how the earthโs axis happened to rotate in relation to the sun. Water always flows down - because of the proximity of the earthโs gravitational pull compared to the other planets.
But puzzle me this: why is it, that if we sum all natural numbers towards infinity, the equation yields negative one-twelfth?
Why? How?
Humans have certainly offered countless explanations for this seeming paradox, some satisfactory, some not. Poor creatures. They could not help themselves. Because if they ever stop trying to rationalize everything, if they ever stop insisting that there is a perfectly logical explanation for every phenomenon, then they would have to admit the truth โ
โณ๐ถ๐๐พ๐ธ didnโt give a shit about human rationality.
Magic is primordial, no, even more ancient. Unconstrained, unconstrainable. Magic is potential, endless, boundless. Before magic, even the laws of physics must bow.
But, unfortunately for humans, magic is also elusive. Only a select few amongst the 7.955 billion (and growing) would ever come to experience magic. And amongst those, even fewer could boast of truly knowing magic. To claim as such required decades of rigorous practice, the crucible of trials and tribulations, and more than anything else - because magic was ever so unfair - talent. Bloodline. You had it, or you didnโt. There was no way around it.
And even amongst the blooded magi, there existed a surname that commanded respect.
Sterling.
A family so ancient that even the papyrus scrolls stored in the deepest vaults of Roxorth, Academy of the Arcane, could not trace the origin of the name. A name that populated itself within tomes after tomes of learned treatises, of spells and incantations and history. A name that inspired - once upon a time.
Because alas, even the greatest of magi was still human, and humans were such fragile creatures. Had this nasty habit of getting lost in the passage of time, see. Time was funny though. It never did like to flow linearly. Much like magic, time did as it pleased. Because look, the Sterlings - well, a Sterling - was back again. Looking a bit - more than a bit - green behind the ears. Didnโt even seem to know the basics?
Tongues wagged, brows wiggled, and rumors spread. But one thing was for certain. That critter - ah, magnificent fantastic beast - perched on the young Sterlingโs shoulder, with the sun catching the gleaming disc enshrined between its eyes at just the right angle? That was a Ziz. The Ziz. As Leviathan is the King of the Ocean, and Behemoth the Lord of the Surface, Ziz ruled over all creatures of flight. Renanin. Sekwi. A creature of as many names as it had titles.
And, despite looking quite small and, dare one say, cute, it was said that the greatest of the Ziz had wings so huge that, unfurled, they darkened the sun. That the Ziz protected the earth against the storms of the south; that without their guardianship, the earth would not be able to resist the winds blowing thence. Witness the Ziz! Witness the majestic - measuring in at about twelve inches with its lengthy neck fully stretched - white-plumaged terror!
<Three quarters of newt-blood. That was only about two and a half.>
Sevraโs beak never moved, but her words would nevertheless be heard with crystalline clarity by her intended audience of one. Telepathy, a rather simple trick, just another facet in Isla Sterlingโs new life. <I suggest you remedy that with all due haste. Or donโt. Mixing this particular potion wrong can have rather farcical side effects.> A smooth lilt, distinctively feminine, dulcet and matter-of-factly, but with a good-humored sarcasm that was hard to miss.
<In fact, why donโt you add in a few pinches of Feverfew, and slip this batch into Wilfred Bradleyโs drink when heโs not looking?> The legendary - miniature - creature had no eyebrows to waggle, but if she did, they would absolutely be waggling. Instead, Sevra ran her beak along her flank, grooming herself, as if she were not the one planting all manners of bad ideas in her new ward of two weeks and a few. <He deserves it, you know. I heard him calling you a fraud and a bastard just the other day.>
Last edited:
sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2021
- Location
- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
Silver. Light gray coins balanced by copper shavings. Second only to the heavily desirable gold piece. Living, breathing, bleeding human organisms pitting precious metals and gems together and deemed value on something as base as attraction. Little burlap sacks weighed on scales, the bulk of it tipping until silver spilled over the lip, bouncing over the tables, scooped by red hands. A hundred of them, and maybe one would roll to the ground and find itself in the pocket of a sticky-fingered child. A hundred silver to a single gold coin, and not one less.
But Sterling was singular.
There was only ever one living, breathing heir in the world at any given time. It was not a universal law, or out of coincidence but a rule made by man itself. Sterling mages boasted a power so great that their many advisors feared splitting the bloodline would dilute their magic. Their fire would turn to smoke, the arcane would sputter and spit and die. One heir meant all the resources, all the energy. One meant special. One coin. But rumor had it that once upon a time, twins were born. A greatly exaggerated rumor had it an unfortunate curse befell the both of them. Their birth was an inconvenience, their death was mercy.
So. Singular.
It was this pride, their hubris, and arrogance that the world itself had blessed them that brought the powerful family to its knees, and then to the ground and six feet under. Because it had never occurred to them that they would not command the elements. It was their god-given right. It was their inheritance and their destiny. Their name was synonymous with the greatest! Their tongues were crafted to lift language from stone and speak the Ancient words. They had knowledge that did not exist now, then, ever. Spilling a drop of Sterling blood was tantamount to baring a blade to the Obelisk and declaring a holy war.
History would never know which generation conceived the first child that did not hum with invisible electricity. History would never know the name of the child that could not speak the Tongues. There was not a soul alive who could say when magic vanished from the Sterling blood, or if it was the curse of the twins that started it all. It did not matter. Why would it? History moved on. More books were written, more poems. Civilizations marched on and the world did not, in fact, crumble. And a hundred silver equaled a single gold coin.
Isla Sterling was standing in the shadows of giants. She was a small bird in an ocean, wetting her wings and believing she could fly all the same. Her parents were determined to make it so and never questioned why their baby was born so melancholic. They were more concerned about why her silver locks had brightened to a shimmering blonde, why her silver eyes purpled. It was the magic, their advisor explained with fretful gestures, the magic was returning slowly. Give her time. Give her five years, ten years. Maybe five years more.
But she was twenty-four, and her blond hair was tied away from her face with a simple black bow, pale brows creasing in thought over bright purple eyes. They were currently watering. Isla hadn't blinked in fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two seconds. She had a vial of murky green liquid in one hand and fuzzy brown leaves clenched in the other. Her little cauldron puffed black smoke every so often and gurgled alarmingly in the interim. She didn't look at the Ziz, and if only it could be so simple to block the voice ringing in her head like a pretty bell.
"I'm sure that's what I put in," Isla murmured under her breath. She could have thought it, but that always made her feel silly. Because other thoughts could slip in unsupervised. Like the time she thought about that boy who smiled at her. The leaves crunched in her fist at the memory, pieces of it scattering into her cauldron. Isla did it anyway, tapping the glass vial for a couple more drops of the foul stuff. As far as blood went, newts smelled acrid and tasted painful. The mush leaves were supposed to make the potion more palatable, even though they smelled like nothing.
"Wilfred Bradley can say what he wants," Isla said, dropping the rest of the crumbs into her mixture, stirring until the liquid began to whirlpool on its own. Finally, she could side-eye the Ziz freely, wiping the moisture from her eyes with her wrist. "Besides, you know how protective the professor is about his ingredients. He measures each and every one of them when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep, and keeps the records under his pillow." The potion was quickly thickening into a sludgy oily mess. Isla frowned and glanced at her textbook. It definitely did not look smooth and inviting.
Oh. Well. She never claimed Potions as her strong suit. Or Charms. Or Spells.
"Anyway, Wilfred Bradley said your forehead was made of copper." The cauldron slurped horribly. Isla wrinkled her nose. "Maybe more mush?"
But Sterling was singular.
There was only ever one living, breathing heir in the world at any given time. It was not a universal law, or out of coincidence but a rule made by man itself. Sterling mages boasted a power so great that their many advisors feared splitting the bloodline would dilute their magic. Their fire would turn to smoke, the arcane would sputter and spit and die. One heir meant all the resources, all the energy. One meant special. One coin. But rumor had it that once upon a time, twins were born. A greatly exaggerated rumor had it an unfortunate curse befell the both of them. Their birth was an inconvenience, their death was mercy.
So. Singular.
It was this pride, their hubris, and arrogance that the world itself had blessed them that brought the powerful family to its knees, and then to the ground and six feet under. Because it had never occurred to them that they would not command the elements. It was their god-given right. It was their inheritance and their destiny. Their name was synonymous with the greatest! Their tongues were crafted to lift language from stone and speak the Ancient words. They had knowledge that did not exist now, then, ever. Spilling a drop of Sterling blood was tantamount to baring a blade to the Obelisk and declaring a holy war.
History would never know which generation conceived the first child that did not hum with invisible electricity. History would never know the name of the child that could not speak the Tongues. There was not a soul alive who could say when magic vanished from the Sterling blood, or if it was the curse of the twins that started it all. It did not matter. Why would it? History moved on. More books were written, more poems. Civilizations marched on and the world did not, in fact, crumble. And a hundred silver equaled a single gold coin.
Isla Sterling was standing in the shadows of giants. She was a small bird in an ocean, wetting her wings and believing she could fly all the same. Her parents were determined to make it so and never questioned why their baby was born so melancholic. They were more concerned about why her silver locks had brightened to a shimmering blonde, why her silver eyes purpled. It was the magic, their advisor explained with fretful gestures, the magic was returning slowly. Give her time. Give her five years, ten years. Maybe five years more.
But she was twenty-four, and her blond hair was tied away from her face with a simple black bow, pale brows creasing in thought over bright purple eyes. They were currently watering. Isla hadn't blinked in fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two seconds. She had a vial of murky green liquid in one hand and fuzzy brown leaves clenched in the other. Her little cauldron puffed black smoke every so often and gurgled alarmingly in the interim. She didn't look at the Ziz, and if only it could be so simple to block the voice ringing in her head like a pretty bell.
See no evil, hear no evil. Speak no evil.
"I'm sure that's what I put in," Isla murmured under her breath. She could have thought it, but that always made her feel silly. Because other thoughts could slip in unsupervised. Like the time she thought about that boy who smiled at her. The leaves crunched in her fist at the memory, pieces of it scattering into her cauldron. Isla did it anyway, tapping the glass vial for a couple more drops of the foul stuff. As far as blood went, newts smelled acrid and tasted painful. The mush leaves were supposed to make the potion more palatable, even though they smelled like nothing.
"Wilfred Bradley can say what he wants," Isla said, dropping the rest of the crumbs into her mixture, stirring until the liquid began to whirlpool on its own. Finally, she could side-eye the Ziz freely, wiping the moisture from her eyes with her wrist. "Besides, you know how protective the professor is about his ingredients. He measures each and every one of them when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep, and keeps the records under his pillow." The potion was quickly thickening into a sludgy oily mess. Isla frowned and glanced at her textbook. It definitely did not look smooth and inviting.
Oh. Well. She never claimed Potions as her strong suit. Or Charms. Or Spells.
"Anyway, Wilfred Bradley said your forehead was made of copper." The cauldron slurped horribly. Isla wrinkled her nose. "Maybe more mush?"
b6b7d2 x cdceba
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ฦeral
๐จ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฒ๐ต๐ญ ๐๐ ๐๐ช ๐ง๐๐๐๐ค
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Hm. The potion was not supposed to do that.
Sevra paused mid-preen to scrutinize. Miniature eagle-like talons lifted off of Islaโs shoulders, leaving only the leonine back paws somehow still clinging on for balance. Unblinking quadrilaterals of liquefied flame peered into the bubbling cauldron, head tilting off to the side and sending one of those prominent plumes nudging into Islaโs chin. That was definitely not right. With a quiver of feathers, the Ziz half-glided and half-hopped onto the nearby table, poking its beak into the ingredients. She pecked at a mush leave, making a face - to the extent a Ziz could make a face - at the taste. Thin tendrils of smoke puffed from those narrow nostrils, and the ever chirper Ziz was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment.
โNo more mush,โ she communicated, โletโs just chalk this attempt up as a practice run. Make it again, but this time, replace the mush leaves with zeolite powder - they practically serve the same purpose anyway.โ Both wings spread with indolent grace, stretching out and sending the softest downy feathers imaginable fluttering. โMighty fine weather today. The great Ziz desires a nap. I shall see you after you return to the castle.โ And with that, the โgreatโ creature brought her impressive wingspan down, soaring out of the potion class. Someone messed with Isla's mush leaves. This called for an investigation.
There was quite a bit more buzz surrounding Islaโs afternoon class, Defense against Black Magicks, than usual. For starters, this particular lesson - a practical demonstration of rudimentary offense and defense spells - had been highly anticipated by all the first years from the moment the syllables had been handed out. All the tables and chairs in the room had already been gathered up and stacked against the walls, leaving the circular room largely bare, like an arena. The students shuffled from foot to foot with nervous excitement, because this - the thrill of battle - was the irresistible pull of magic for most. But that didnโt explain the giggling.
โAhem, class,โ the elderly professor, a kindly older gentleman whose patchwork robes draped loosely over his gaunt frame, clapped his hands together for attention. Unfortunately, that attempt was doomed to fail. Nearly every pair of eyes in the room was instead magnetized to the figure besides him. An Auror Dauntless, in the flesh. Long regarded as the hallmark of excellence in magecraft, the Dauntless were the elite law enforcement squad, taking their orders directly from the High Council. Given the nature of their work, not much unclassified material existed on individual Dauntless, at least, not on the living ones. Instead, every Dauntless could be identified by the universal insignia of the High Council, if and when they chose to display the same badge.
This one wore hers as a clip pinned to the lapel of her classically tailored doublet. The rich burgundy was cusped with muted copper brocade, resting at about quarter-thigh, and further embellished by thin, crisscrossing belts. Flanked by high collars, the silken cravat and its citrine brooch added to the anachronistic flair. But then again, mages were notorious for clinging to the past - a magus wearing centuries old fashion was really not all that uncommon. The genteel ensemble highlighted the Dauntlessโs height, the strength of her shoulders and the blue-blooded elegance of her build. Something further compounded by the pale white hair, as pristine as the driven snow, and that cool, reserved amber gaze. And that was not to mention her stately features; actually, just crop out her visage and paste it next to the dictionary definition of 'aristocratic', and that entry would be much improved.
โThatโs it. Iโm picking Dauntless as my career goal.โ A girl elbowed her friend, whispering. โPsh, you know what grades you need for that?โ Said friend rolled her eyes, thoroughly unimpressed with that declaration. โBesides,โ she confided back in a hushed tone, โwouldnโt you rather fuck that Dauntless than be one?โ First years. Suchโฆlicentious creatures. โIโm pretty sure she would be fucking you.โ The former snapped back, their voices drowning into the quiet murmur all around.
โClass.โ The professor tried again, snapping his fingers. Purple sparked and there was a boom, not too loud, but certainly loud enough to drown out the murmurs and pull the studentsโ meandering attention back. โLetโs give a warm welcome to our guest and raise our thanks to the High Council for generously sending one of their own as a visiting lecturer for today. Msโฆโ He trailed off, realizing that he never actually caught a name, before turning to look at the woman in question.
โSevra. Sevra le Blanc.โ The Dauntless stepped forward, smoothly filling in the gap. Speaking again after such disuse still felt weird on her vocal cords, and her voice came out a touch scratchier than intended, before she cleared her throat. โIt would be my pleasure to instruct such a promising group.โ Sevra spoke with an affected French accent. Wasnโt from France - wasnโt from anywhere in particular, actually - but lived in most mortal countries long enough to adopt the corresponding mannerism convincingly. The accent was in part to sell the fake surname. Look, once upon a time, a long long time ago, she needed to come up with something on the fly, and le Blanc - the White - was the best she came up with, okay? Besides, she needed to differentiate her voice from that of the chirper and slightly sarcastic Ziz Isla was growing used to.
โAs many of your know, the Dauntless serve as our worldโs best - some might say the only - defense against the apostates.โ To be branded as an apostate in this world was a death sentence, one brought about only by the most severe of infractions - dabbling in blood magic, necromancy, and other assorted โBlack Magicksโ. โIt takes courage, cunning, and strength. But with dedication and hardwork, any of you could ascend to our ranks. To keep our world safe.โ Yawn. This whole sales pitch bored her, but the same did not show on her ever temperate expression. It was just for show anyway. Had to sell the whole Dauntless thing. Well, the badge was real; the peculiar gleam of Adamantium was impossible to duplicate, and that was precisely why the High Council selected it. But the last time Sevra had actually reported to the High Council wasโฆumโฆwhen was it?
Anyways, โTalk is cheap, I prefer to teach through action. For that, I would need a volunteer.โ She pretended to scan the crowd of eager faces, seeking that familiar mauve gaze until their eyes met. She smiled. โHow about you?โ
Sevra paused mid-preen to scrutinize. Miniature eagle-like talons lifted off of Islaโs shoulders, leaving only the leonine back paws somehow still clinging on for balance. Unblinking quadrilaterals of liquefied flame peered into the bubbling cauldron, head tilting off to the side and sending one of those prominent plumes nudging into Islaโs chin. That was definitely not right. With a quiver of feathers, the Ziz half-glided and half-hopped onto the nearby table, poking its beak into the ingredients. She pecked at a mush leave, making a face - to the extent a Ziz could make a face - at the taste. Thin tendrils of smoke puffed from those narrow nostrils, and the ever chirper Ziz was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment.
โNo more mush,โ she communicated, โletโs just chalk this attempt up as a practice run. Make it again, but this time, replace the mush leaves with zeolite powder - they practically serve the same purpose anyway.โ Both wings spread with indolent grace, stretching out and sending the softest downy feathers imaginable fluttering. โMighty fine weather today. The great Ziz desires a nap. I shall see you after you return to the castle.โ And with that, the โgreatโ creature brought her impressive wingspan down, soaring out of the potion class. Someone messed with Isla's mush leaves. This called for an investigation.
There was quite a bit more buzz surrounding Islaโs afternoon class, Defense against Black Magicks, than usual. For starters, this particular lesson - a practical demonstration of rudimentary offense and defense spells - had been highly anticipated by all the first years from the moment the syllables had been handed out. All the tables and chairs in the room had already been gathered up and stacked against the walls, leaving the circular room largely bare, like an arena. The students shuffled from foot to foot with nervous excitement, because this - the thrill of battle - was the irresistible pull of magic for most. But that didnโt explain the giggling.
โAhem, class,โ the elderly professor, a kindly older gentleman whose patchwork robes draped loosely over his gaunt frame, clapped his hands together for attention. Unfortunately, that attempt was doomed to fail. Nearly every pair of eyes in the room was instead magnetized to the figure besides him. A
This one wore hers as a clip pinned to the lapel of her classically tailored doublet. The rich burgundy was cusped with muted copper brocade, resting at about quarter-thigh, and further embellished by thin, crisscrossing belts. Flanked by high collars, the silken cravat and its citrine brooch added to the anachronistic flair. But then again, mages were notorious for clinging to the past - a magus wearing centuries old fashion was really not all that uncommon. The genteel ensemble highlighted the Dauntlessโs height, the strength of her shoulders and the blue-blooded elegance of her build. Something further compounded by the pale white hair, as pristine as the driven snow, and that cool, reserved amber gaze. And that was not to mention her stately features; actually, just crop out her visage and paste it next to the dictionary definition of 'aristocratic', and that entry would be much improved.
โThatโs it. Iโm picking Dauntless as my career goal.โ A girl elbowed her friend, whispering. โPsh, you know what grades you need for that?โ Said friend rolled her eyes, thoroughly unimpressed with that declaration. โBesides,โ she confided back in a hushed tone, โwouldnโt you rather fuck that Dauntless than be one?โ First years. Suchโฆlicentious creatures. โIโm pretty sure she would be fucking you.โ The former snapped back, their voices drowning into the quiet murmur all around.
โClass.โ The professor tried again, snapping his fingers. Purple sparked and there was a boom, not too loud, but certainly loud enough to drown out the murmurs and pull the studentsโ meandering attention back. โLetโs give a warm welcome to our guest and raise our thanks to the High Council for generously sending one of their own as a visiting lecturer for today. Msโฆโ He trailed off, realizing that he never actually caught a name, before turning to look at the woman in question.
โSevra. Sevra le Blanc.โ The Dauntless stepped forward, smoothly filling in the gap. Speaking again after such disuse still felt weird on her vocal cords, and her voice came out a touch scratchier than intended, before she cleared her throat. โIt would be my pleasure to instruct such a promising group.โ Sevra spoke with an affected French accent. Wasnโt from France - wasnโt from anywhere in particular, actually - but lived in most mortal countries long enough to adopt the corresponding mannerism convincingly. The accent was in part to sell the fake surname. Look, once upon a time, a long long time ago, she needed to come up with something on the fly, and le Blanc - the White - was the best she came up with, okay? Besides, she needed to differentiate her voice from that of the chirper and slightly sarcastic Ziz Isla was growing used to.
โAs many of your know, the Dauntless serve as our worldโs best - some might say the only - defense against the apostates.โ To be branded as an apostate in this world was a death sentence, one brought about only by the most severe of infractions - dabbling in blood magic, necromancy, and other assorted โBlack Magicksโ. โIt takes courage, cunning, and strength. But with dedication and hardwork, any of you could ascend to our ranks. To keep our world safe.โ Yawn. This whole sales pitch bored her, but the same did not show on her ever temperate expression. It was just for show anyway. Had to sell the whole Dauntless thing. Well, the badge was real; the peculiar gleam of Adamantium was impossible to duplicate, and that was precisely why the High Council selected it. But the last time Sevra had actually reported to the High Council wasโฆumโฆwhen was it?
Anyways, โTalk is cheap, I prefer to teach through action. For that, I would need a volunteer.โ She pretended to scan the crowd of eager faces, seeking that familiar mauve gaze until their eyes met. She smiled. โHow about you?โ
sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2021
- Location
- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
Isla's shoulder felt light after having the metaphorical devil perched on it for so long. Two classes with two to go. Suffering through the chiming to questions she didn't ask, bearing the brunt of opinions she never asked for, it was bound to make a girl go mad. But the Ziz was more than just a voice in her head. The Ziz was a symbol she didn't ask for. The white plumage drew curious eyes away from her vanilla blonde hair, the golden disc earning mutters under the breath instead of hallway questioning about her heritage, her family, why she looked so funny. But more than that, the Ziz was a friend of sorts. She could never say, truthfully, that she had any faithful ones.
She marinated on that depressing thought as she watched the Ziz strut around her small desk. The purple fire heating the cauldron was dying under the weight of failure, empty vials of all kinds of blood were packed neatly in their wooden rack. Smoke wafted up to to fill the silent space where the chirping should have happened. "Zeolite-" Her protest was bitten off as the Ziz excused herself, thought overlapping vocal words as Isla stared after the rapidly disappearing silhouette. "See you soon." The delayed response was a whispered afterthought, the Sterling deep in thought as she poked through the dish of leaves with sudden concern.
That did not stop the prodigous daughter from ignoring the powdery zeolite for something a little more exotic.
The castle was but a distant dream. Isla's cauldron had decided that it didn't want to exist anymore after she had experimentally dropped some of the Ziz's loose feathers into the unholy mix. The result: disaster. Somewhere along the line, her sleeve took a dip into the potion in her haste to clean it up. It left her robes smelling somewhere between a container of boiled eggs and a grave of unearthed corpses. Her professor had singed the offending area off, and left Isla a little put out and embarrassed as she slipped into her next class a few minutes late. Her book bag slapped against the edge of a desk because of course she needed an announcement.
Defense against Black Magicks didn't inspire Isla the way it did other students. In fact, it was the opposite. It was all well and good to learn how use magic to your advantage, but was she not born with two working legs to run with? Or perhaps it was the disgusting smell of the potion still lingering on her clothes that left her mood sour. Even her desk mate inched away with a nervous smile, and Isla really had to stop the urge to reach out and over-explain what happened. She focused on scratching at the divots in her desk, eyes glued to her task even as the chatter died then clambered back up again.
Isla picked up little pieces of whispering. The word dauntless being thrown around, unsurprisingly saucy remarks with the accompanying giggle here and there. The professor had given it his best effort, but magic spoke to magic. The peach fuzz on the back of her neck tingled as a spark of invisible arcane arced through the air and imploded harmlessly at the apex, the sound similar to that of Miranda Taffy when she rolled off her bed and hit the ground after a sweaty nightmare. It was always the little uses of magic that pestered her blood. Like it could be used for so much more than just housework or paperwork. Magic needed to be grandiose and filled with wonder! Or so her lineage wanted. Demanded, actually. Learned or genetic, it was an annoyance all the same, to feel like everything was pointless when she had so much more to learn.
A distinctly French accent which did not belong to her usual professor shook her away from the itch beneath her skin. Isla realized she had not looked up since sitting down, and in doing so, failed to clock the imposing figure of the Dauntless. But she'd never heard of Sevra before, certainly not a Sevra le Blanc, and she'd pored over all the records she could get her hands on, consuming lists upon lists of names with such fervor, one might have guessed a personal vendetta. But this lanky woman didn't look like a Dauntless. No Cristobel Kard would wear a napkin like that, and Isla would bet her perfectly working left hand that Sirren Sheffing never wore maroon. But there was something in the eyes - ancient and golden, like an unearthed coin stripped of dirt and laid beneath a crystal fire.
They were also very familiar. Isla wondered which issue of Doubtless she'd seen the woman in. Maybe it was #5, where three Dauntless had been interviewed on the socioeconomic state of Dubloon's local castle, or #12, when a yeam of them saved a small village from being grave-robbed en masse. The Sterlings never really paid much attention to local affairs. In fact, they all tried very hard to ignore it. Isla scratched her head, her eyes locking onto Sevra le Blanc with a keen sort of attention that would melt Wilfred Bradley's knees. There were only thoughts of where and not the why such as: why is she looking at me?
Taken by surprise, Isla blinked slowly. Very conscious of her charred sleeve, she stood, hiding her arm behind her back and looking very awkward because of it. She was used to being picked out of a crowd though, her stance reflected that. Save for the wayward elbow, her raised chin was well-practiced and her eyes did not leave the stranger's golden gaze. Isla Sterling was only a little older than her peers by a year or two, but to her, it felt like a century. She could hear the snickers when there were none, feel the multiple pairs of eyes drilling into her back.
She marinated on that depressing thought as she watched the Ziz strut around her small desk. The purple fire heating the cauldron was dying under the weight of failure, empty vials of all kinds of blood were packed neatly in their wooden rack. Smoke wafted up to to fill the silent space where the chirping should have happened. "Zeolite-" Her protest was bitten off as the Ziz excused herself, thought overlapping vocal words as Isla stared after the rapidly disappearing silhouette. "See you soon." The delayed response was a whispered afterthought, the Sterling deep in thought as she poked through the dish of leaves with sudden concern.
That did not stop the prodigous daughter from ignoring the powdery zeolite for something a little more exotic.
The castle was but a distant dream. Isla's cauldron had decided that it didn't want to exist anymore after she had experimentally dropped some of the Ziz's loose feathers into the unholy mix. The result: disaster. Somewhere along the line, her sleeve took a dip into the potion in her haste to clean it up. It left her robes smelling somewhere between a container of boiled eggs and a grave of unearthed corpses. Her professor had singed the offending area off, and left Isla a little put out and embarrassed as she slipped into her next class a few minutes late. Her book bag slapped against the edge of a desk because of course she needed an announcement.
Defense against Black Magicks didn't inspire Isla the way it did other students. In fact, it was the opposite. It was all well and good to learn how use magic to your advantage, but was she not born with two working legs to run with? Or perhaps it was the disgusting smell of the potion still lingering on her clothes that left her mood sour. Even her desk mate inched away with a nervous smile, and Isla really had to stop the urge to reach out and over-explain what happened. She focused on scratching at the divots in her desk, eyes glued to her task even as the chatter died then clambered back up again.
Isla picked up little pieces of whispering. The word dauntless being thrown around, unsurprisingly saucy remarks with the accompanying giggle here and there. The professor had given it his best effort, but magic spoke to magic. The peach fuzz on the back of her neck tingled as a spark of invisible arcane arced through the air and imploded harmlessly at the apex, the sound similar to that of Miranda Taffy when she rolled off her bed and hit the ground after a sweaty nightmare. It was always the little uses of magic that pestered her blood. Like it could be used for so much more than just housework or paperwork. Magic needed to be grandiose and filled with wonder! Or so her lineage wanted. Demanded, actually. Learned or genetic, it was an annoyance all the same, to feel like everything was pointless when she had so much more to learn.
A distinctly French accent which did not belong to her usual professor shook her away from the itch beneath her skin. Isla realized she had not looked up since sitting down, and in doing so, failed to clock the imposing figure of the Dauntless. But she'd never heard of Sevra before, certainly not a Sevra le Blanc, and she'd pored over all the records she could get her hands on, consuming lists upon lists of names with such fervor, one might have guessed a personal vendetta. But this lanky woman didn't look like a Dauntless. No Cristobel Kard would wear a napkin like that, and Isla would bet her perfectly working left hand that Sirren Sheffing never wore maroon. But there was something in the eyes - ancient and golden, like an unearthed coin stripped of dirt and laid beneath a crystal fire.
They were also very familiar. Isla wondered which issue of Doubtless she'd seen the woman in. Maybe it was #5, where three Dauntless had been interviewed on the socioeconomic state of Dubloon's local castle, or #12, when a yeam of them saved a small village from being grave-robbed en masse. The Sterlings never really paid much attention to local affairs. In fact, they all tried very hard to ignore it. Isla scratched her head, her eyes locking onto Sevra le Blanc with a keen sort of attention that would melt Wilfred Bradley's knees. There were only thoughts of where and not the why such as: why is she looking at me?
Taken by surprise, Isla blinked slowly. Very conscious of her charred sleeve, she stood, hiding her arm behind her back and looking very awkward because of it. She was used to being picked out of a crowd though, her stance reflected that. Save for the wayward elbow, her raised chin was well-practiced and her eyes did not leave the stranger's golden gaze. Isla Sterling was only a little older than her peers by a year or two, but to her, it felt like a century. She could hear the snickers when there were none, feel the multiple pairs of eyes drilling into her back.
"I have no designs on being a Dauntless, and one of my more talented classmates would be better suited for your demonstration."
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Isla Sterling was the most peculiar Sterling Sevra ever encountered, and she had certainly done her due diligence in that regard. Tall Sterlings. Short Sterlings. Lanky & squat and & mustachio-ed ones. Much like how silver coins in circulation acquired uniqueness in chipped edges or worn-down inscriptions, no two Sterling were quite the same. But, using the same analogy, a silver coin was a silver coin, whether blackened with use or in mint condition. As far as Sevra was concerned, every Sterling mage had three defining characteristics: intuitive, powerful, and arrogant. Isla appeared to possess some degree of trait #1, but as to #2 and #3, ahโฆ
In fairness to the young Sterling, she really hasnโt had much time to try her hands at this โmageโ thing. Sevra, before her centuries long sleep, was used to being a constant presence in the life of every newest forged Sterling fresh off the press. Used to watching buzzing babies - truly bizarre - toddlers causing mini-tremors in their tantrums - oh god not again - angsty pre-teens flying after her and attempting to pluck her feathers - no, no, NO - and too-energetic teenagersโฆwell a teenage mage was still a teenager; somethings, even Sevra cannot unsee. Oh, and without fail, each and every single one of them grew up into a noteworthy magus. Some generations were nice. Some not so nice. But all of them were conceited, cocksure of their prowess, boastful of their inheritance and oh-so-proud of their bloodline.
Meanwhile, Isla deferred to this group of exceedingly mediocre mage-apprentices inโฆtalent??? That concept baffled Sevra, but if she learned anything in her centuries - verging on a millennium - long existence, it was how to keep her thoughts to herself and maintain that outward illusion of complete and utter composure.
โDo you think an apostate would ask whether you wanted to be a Dauntless before attacking?โ Her rebuke was swift but gentle. She could sense Islaโs hesitance. Bit of a pacifist, this Sterling, another word she never thought she would attribute to that acclaimed surname. But then again, that was precisely the point of this โguest lectureโ. Well, ยฝ of her objective. The other ยฝ remained to be seen; Sevra never believed in showing her cards, after all.
โEvery mage must learn self-defense. Unfortunately, there would not always be a Dauntless around to assist.โ She would not give Isla a chance to argue. โEn garde.โ Keeping one arm pinned behind her back, she brandished her right arm as though a fencer. No wand; every mage differed in that regard, some preferred wands, some staves, still others swords and daggers and stranger variants than that still. It helped with focus, to channel onto a focal point like that, but one hallmark of a magus was being able to cast without a locus.
Arcane did not need to be seen, only felt, but Sevra illuminated her magic for demonstration purposes. First, something simple - she cocked her index at Isla, and bang. Like the gunshot she imitated, a streak of arctic blue rushed at the reluctant young Sterling. A relatively harmless spell; should Isla fail to react, she would merely be doused with water. But Sevra wasnโt close to being done. Bang, bang! Each additional shot was faster, more forceful, and unless Isla wanted to spend her last remaining class as a drowned rat, she must defend. Despite the laughably pitiful potency behind these casts, there would be no denying the sophistication in Sevraโs magic. Each spell was woven precisely, no wasted mana whatsoever. And, even more notable than that, every time she cast, it was like the very fabric of magic in the room thrummed, heeding her call. A tense silence descended upon the room, a heaviness in atmosphere from the invisible pressure. โLet me see you on the offensive, or I will break your defense.โ
In fairness to the young Sterling, she really hasnโt had much time to try her hands at this โmageโ thing. Sevra, before her centuries long sleep, was used to being a constant presence in the life of every newest forged Sterling fresh off the press. Used to watching buzzing babies - truly bizarre - toddlers causing mini-tremors in their tantrums - oh god not again - angsty pre-teens flying after her and attempting to pluck her feathers - no, no, NO - and too-energetic teenagersโฆwell a teenage mage was still a teenager; somethings, even Sevra cannot unsee. Oh, and without fail, each and every single one of them grew up into a noteworthy magus. Some generations were nice. Some not so nice. But all of them were conceited, cocksure of their prowess, boastful of their inheritance and oh-so-proud of their bloodline.
Meanwhile, Isla deferred to this group of exceedingly mediocre mage-apprentices inโฆtalent??? That concept baffled Sevra, but if she learned anything in her centuries - verging on a millennium - long existence, it was how to keep her thoughts to herself and maintain that outward illusion of complete and utter composure.
โDo you think an apostate would ask whether you wanted to be a Dauntless before attacking?โ Her rebuke was swift but gentle. She could sense Islaโs hesitance. Bit of a pacifist, this Sterling, another word she never thought she would attribute to that acclaimed surname. But then again, that was precisely the point of this โguest lectureโ. Well, ยฝ of her objective. The other ยฝ remained to be seen; Sevra never believed in showing her cards, after all.
โEvery mage must learn self-defense. Unfortunately, there would not always be a Dauntless around to assist.โ She would not give Isla a chance to argue. โEn garde.โ Keeping one arm pinned behind her back, she brandished her right arm as though a fencer. No wand; every mage differed in that regard, some preferred wands, some staves, still others swords and daggers and stranger variants than that still. It helped with focus, to channel onto a focal point like that, but one hallmark of a magus was being able to cast without a locus.
Arcane did not need to be seen, only felt, but Sevra illuminated her magic for demonstration purposes. First, something simple - she cocked her index at Isla, and bang. Like the gunshot she imitated, a streak of arctic blue rushed at the reluctant young Sterling. A relatively harmless spell; should Isla fail to react, she would merely be doused with water. But Sevra wasnโt close to being done. Bang, bang! Each additional shot was faster, more forceful, and unless Isla wanted to spend her last remaining class as a drowned rat, she must defend. Despite the laughably pitiful potency behind these casts, there would be no denying the sophistication in Sevraโs magic. Each spell was woven precisely, no wasted mana whatsoever. And, even more notable than that, every time she cast, it was like the very fabric of magic in the room thrummed, heeding her call. A tense silence descended upon the room, a heaviness in atmosphere from the invisible pressure. โLet me see you on the offensive, or I will break your defense.โ
You will prove your blood to me, even if I must force your hand.
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sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
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- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
Isla wrinkled her nose, having thought up some choice words to fire back but then she felt the jolt of magic before it even left Sevra le Blanc's fingertip. It was like brushing up against the hot aftermath of a running engine or feeling the bubbling reverberations of a boiling pot beneath the palm. It rumbled through her for only a second, and the silent squeal came after as the spell streaked toward the baffled Sterling, lightning-quick. Her arms were already moving, the human instinct to defend one's face working much faster than the head. Isla had pulled her book bag up to shield herself, her body shaking with each booming impact, eyes squeezing shut. The professor had coincidentally vanished from sight, not a flap of a patchwork robe to be seen. Her deskmate was of no help, looking immensely relieved not to be picked, and the rest of the class was quiet enough. Teacher-student demonstrations were not the norm and any change in routine was bound to get their attention for a short while. But for poor Isla, she heard the timeless echo in her head of prove yourself.
To the Sterling name, respect was given because it was earned and vice versa, but while Isla was given much, she hadn't earned anything. Her first personal collision with anything remotely magic was on her 11th birthday. It was all downhill from there, as it was quite a sad thing to give an unassuming child the chance to be whatever they wanted out of indifference, only to pry it away out of joyous expectation. So that was it, and it was so simple. Prove you can do this, and also prove you can do that. This wasn't so easily shed. Who she was, who she is and who she could be. She is a mage, that was a fact nobody could deny, by the very definition of the word. Isla had knitted that poor boy's arm back together, seemingly by being extremely upset at it, but it had come apart within minutes which set the crying off all over again. She did not quite understand the fundamentals of magic or its individual components and was now convinced she was hanging on by a very thin rope over a very high cliffside. The Call of the Void came with a very nasty promise, and Isla already made a promise with a being much larger.
All of this happened in a matter of a heartbeat. Isla thought it was very unfair. She peered over the soaked bag, deaf to the nervous giggles of her audience. Clearly, Sevra le Blanc took a more hands-on approach than her patchy professor, whose idea of discipline was a stern word and a page of additional homework. She looked down at the puddle of water gathering on her desk, noting the thin veins of swirling mana that separated it from natural water. Isla did no more than look and look and look, and with her bag being her singular line of defense, it would have been very easy for the Dauntless to blast her with another spell and Isla would have let it happen. Because the magic was proud and relentless. It frayed her nerves and grated her to the marrow. It was clawing at her skin trying to find something that wasn't there, demanding to be let into a space that never wanted it.
"I don't think my books can take another beating," Isla said at last, trembling like a wet cat. She liked her books. Unlike the Ziz, who talked too much, books seldom spoke at all. "But I hope to learn what I can in this class." Her professor knew not to force it, chalking it up to mere inability or something budding. She was a Sterling with lost talent. Isla sat down, ignoring the damp wood soaking through her skirt but left her bag posted up in front of her. The clasp was silver and branded with her family's crest, and she hated to look at it. Isla instead stared directly into those vividly familiar eyes, swallowing disappointment before it was administered. Her classmates were on edge, some bored and some rapt with attention on the Dauntless, waiting for the pin to drop.
Isla was waiting too. The puddle of water wibbled and wobbled uncertainly as if it wanted to escape the volatile atmosphere. If water could think. The stark blue veins of her wrist brushed the edge of the desk, splinters digging into the tender flesh. Something about Sevra le Blanc had shaken something loose inside her. A cog or a malfunction. The air was strange and heavy, she was breathing underwater and tasting salt. Magic boxed them in, gathering on the fringes, probing at the sealed well of her starved for attention. So Isla turned her focus elsewhere. To the only thing that could, in recent times, distract from the spindly grasp of the arcane.
She thought of snowy down basking in soft light on her blankets, golden disc gleaming gently in the sun. Thought of the bite of talon on her shoulder when the Ziz lifted off, the chirrups her companion denied making in the middle of the night. She missed her, suddenly, and having never attempted to communicate to the Ziz telepathically, tried for the first time.
To the Sterling name, respect was given because it was earned and vice versa, but while Isla was given much, she hadn't earned anything. Her first personal collision with anything remotely magic was on her 11th birthday. It was all downhill from there, as it was quite a sad thing to give an unassuming child the chance to be whatever they wanted out of indifference, only to pry it away out of joyous expectation. So that was it, and it was so simple. Prove you can do this, and also prove you can do that. This wasn't so easily shed. Who she was, who she is and who she could be. She is a mage, that was a fact nobody could deny, by the very definition of the word. Isla had knitted that poor boy's arm back together, seemingly by being extremely upset at it, but it had come apart within minutes which set the crying off all over again. She did not quite understand the fundamentals of magic or its individual components and was now convinced she was hanging on by a very thin rope over a very high cliffside. The Call of the Void came with a very nasty promise, and Isla already made a promise with a being much larger.
All of this happened in a matter of a heartbeat. Isla thought it was very unfair. She peered over the soaked bag, deaf to the nervous giggles of her audience. Clearly, Sevra le Blanc took a more hands-on approach than her patchy professor, whose idea of discipline was a stern word and a page of additional homework. She looked down at the puddle of water gathering on her desk, noting the thin veins of swirling mana that separated it from natural water. Isla did no more than look and look and look, and with her bag being her singular line of defense, it would have been very easy for the Dauntless to blast her with another spell and Isla would have let it happen. Because the magic was proud and relentless. It frayed her nerves and grated her to the marrow. It was clawing at her skin trying to find something that wasn't there, demanding to be let into a space that never wanted it.
"I don't think my books can take another beating," Isla said at last, trembling like a wet cat. She liked her books. Unlike the Ziz, who talked too much, books seldom spoke at all. "But I hope to learn what I can in this class." Her professor knew not to force it, chalking it up to mere inability or something budding. She was a Sterling with lost talent. Isla sat down, ignoring the damp wood soaking through her skirt but left her bag posted up in front of her. The clasp was silver and branded with her family's crest, and she hated to look at it. Isla instead stared directly into those vividly familiar eyes, swallowing disappointment before it was administered. Her classmates were on edge, some bored and some rapt with attention on the Dauntless, waiting for the pin to drop.
Isla was waiting too. The puddle of water wibbled and wobbled uncertainly as if it wanted to escape the volatile atmosphere. If water could think. The stark blue veins of her wrist brushed the edge of the desk, splinters digging into the tender flesh. Something about Sevra le Blanc had shaken something loose inside her. A cog or a malfunction. The air was strange and heavy, she was breathing underwater and tasting salt. Magic boxed them in, gathering on the fringes, probing at the sealed well of her starved for attention. So Isla turned her focus elsewhere. To the only thing that could, in recent times, distract from the spindly grasp of the arcane.
She thought of snowy down basking in soft light on her blankets, golden disc gleaming gently in the sun. Thought of the bite of talon on her shoulder when the Ziz lifted off, the chirrups her companion denied making in the middle of the night. She missed her, suddenly, and having never attempted to communicate to the Ziz telepathically, tried for the first time.
"Where are you?"
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But why didnโt that work though?
Magic spoke to magic. And Isla possessed plenty of magic to be spoken to. Sevra knew it - could feel those vital notes sing to her every time Isla cozied up, utilizing Sevra like some sort of stuffed animal. Should have minded being handled like that, particularly when the same girl accused her of snoring - blasphemy! - but never could find it in herself to protest. The warmth, the comfortable scent, and more importantly, that subtle, irresistible call. Finer than any wine, purer than any drug, like an itch she couldnโt quite scratch. So she was a little bit addicted to the sensational taste of the Sterling brand of arcane, what of it.
Which brings her to her current conundrum, Isla Sterling. The girlโs stubbornness frustrated her. Bit like having a bottle of premier vintage grasped within her talons, but despite all her attempts to pry at the stopper, the blasted thing just wouldnโt pour. What she wanted with the magic was not so aggressive, but being denied the same was making her want to peck at and/or chew on Isla. Hm, she hasnโt tried that one yet. Might be worth investigating. At present though, she had other things to worry about. โYou reacted before the first visible cast, very good.โ Instead of the anticipated reproach, she praised instead, her inflection cool but not harsh. โRemember, class, each and every one of you is connected to the fabric of magic. You only need to tap into it. Put differently, if you rely on your eyes or your ears to react to your opponent, you are already too late.โ
Her focus was not on the little speech though; it was everywhere. Nonconsensual invasions of thoughts were absolutely forbidden, falling squarely within the realm of Black Magicks. It just so happened that all the Dauntless versed themselves in the same. You cannot fight what you do not know, in a manner of speaking. Mind-reading was far from Sevraโs forte. Any reasonably capable mage could block her from a mile away. But these were apprentices, apprentices who never suspected their professor. Even then, the most Sevra could glean were surface thoughts and emotions, which was precisely why she had chosen Isla as her practicedummy volunteer.
Keeping a straight face while shifting through just how many students apparently harbored fantasies of fucking their teachers was an interesting challenge, but one she managed, just barely. Because, there, her gaze flicked to the one, briefly, memorizing the offenderโs appearance before she looked away just as quickly. The elation when Sevra hammered Isla with those bolts. The jealousy at the praise. Thoughts of mush leavesโฆ Unforgivable.
She nearly flinched when a thought cut through the rest, surprising her from the sheer unexpectedness. Telepathy, absent a physical touch, was not considered a particularly advanced spell, but nor was it taught in the 101s. And yet, unmistakably, that was Isla reaching out to her. Admittedly, with that channel having been previously established by Sevra herself, traversing the same path was made that much easier. But still, progress was progress. She considered not answering, weary of any slip-ups juggling so many different tasks, but curiosity got the better of her. Besides, nobody said that curiosity killed the Ziz.
<Big tree. Sun very warm. Whatโs up?>
She feigned sleepiness, swapping to her natural tonality, before changing gears and continuing the lecture without missing a beat.
โNow, while it is absolutely a good idea to be resourceful, utilizing a bookbag being one such example, that would not suffice before a more powerful spell. As such, for this lesson, we will focus on the basics of shieldingโฆโ
Magic spoke to magic. And Isla possessed plenty of magic to be spoken to. Sevra knew it - could feel those vital notes sing to her every time Isla cozied up, utilizing Sevra like some sort of stuffed animal. Should have minded being handled like that, particularly when the same girl accused her of snoring - blasphemy! - but never could find it in herself to protest. The warmth, the comfortable scent, and more importantly, that subtle, irresistible call. Finer than any wine, purer than any drug, like an itch she couldnโt quite scratch. So she was a little bit addicted to the sensational taste of the Sterling brand of arcane, what of it.
Which brings her to her current conundrum, Isla Sterling. The girlโs stubbornness frustrated her. Bit like having a bottle of premier vintage grasped within her talons, but despite all her attempts to pry at the stopper, the blasted thing just wouldnโt pour. What she wanted with the magic was not so aggressive, but being denied the same was making her want to peck at and/or chew on Isla. Hm, she hasnโt tried that one yet. Might be worth investigating. At present though, she had other things to worry about. โYou reacted before the first visible cast, very good.โ Instead of the anticipated reproach, she praised instead, her inflection cool but not harsh. โRemember, class, each and every one of you is connected to the fabric of magic. You only need to tap into it. Put differently, if you rely on your eyes or your ears to react to your opponent, you are already too late.โ
Her focus was not on the little speech though; it was everywhere. Nonconsensual invasions of thoughts were absolutely forbidden, falling squarely within the realm of Black Magicks. It just so happened that all the Dauntless versed themselves in the same. You cannot fight what you do not know, in a manner of speaking. Mind-reading was far from Sevraโs forte. Any reasonably capable mage could block her from a mile away. But these were apprentices, apprentices who never suspected their professor. Even then, the most Sevra could glean were surface thoughts and emotions, which was precisely why she had chosen Isla as her practice
Keeping a straight face while shifting through just how many students apparently harbored fantasies of fucking their teachers was an interesting challenge, but one she managed, just barely. Because, there, her gaze flicked to the one, briefly, memorizing the offenderโs appearance before she looked away just as quickly. The elation when Sevra hammered Isla with those bolts. The jealousy at the praise. Thoughts of mush leavesโฆ Unforgivable.
She nearly flinched when a thought cut through the rest, surprising her from the sheer unexpectedness. Telepathy, absent a physical touch, was not considered a particularly advanced spell, but nor was it taught in the 101s. And yet, unmistakably, that was Isla reaching out to her. Admittedly, with that channel having been previously established by Sevra herself, traversing the same path was made that much easier. But still, progress was progress. She considered not answering, weary of any slip-ups juggling so many different tasks, but curiosity got the better of her. Besides, nobody said that curiosity killed the Ziz.
<Big tree. Sun very warm. Whatโs up?>
She feigned sleepiness, swapping to her natural tonality, before changing gears and continuing the lecture without missing a beat.
โNow, while it is absolutely a good idea to be resourceful, utilizing a bookbag being one such example, that would not suffice before a more powerful spell. As such, for this lesson, we will focus on the basics of shieldingโฆโ
sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
- Joined
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- Location
- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
Isla was the first to admit the praise elicited a soft shade of pink to spread over her cheeks. The water bubbled merrily in reaction to her poorly hidden fluster. It was not merely the affirmation that had her overthinking. Like any poorly adjusted adult, Isla found their guest professor's sudden charm irresistible, those simple and kind words elevating the Dauntless's status significantly. Her thoughts veered left-field, skirting on the edge of what could have been. Making an effort might have yielded greater results, but she only got so far as countering before her line of sight drifted down to the water, having finally realized that it was reacting in a way undisturbed liquid should not.
Those little veins of dark blue pulsed through the puddle, it being an amorphous blob meant it shouldn't really be moving after severing the connection with its wielder. Though there was no law or rule of magic stating that magic must be separated, Isla knew for a fact that practioners of mage-craft desired control above all. Everything else was an afterthought or a consequence. It took a very special sort of person to maintain control over every tendril of magic, yet she could not see where this one lead to. Either the connection was too weak, or the Dauntless was a very good actress. This suspicion prompted her thoughts elsewhere as she searched for a puzzle sure to exist, her eyes picking away at the tiny threads.
She would have to ask the Ziz, if her companion ever decided to reply. Isla wasn't even sure if it had worked. Like speaking through glass, all she had was the fuzzy warmth blanketing a single shoulder and a hunch that she was not yelling into the void. The important part was that it had gone somewhere, and thankfully not to any of her classmates, if the lack of sudden noises were any indication. They all seemed very eager to learn, and very interested in what Sevra le Blanc had to say. Maybe it was the accent, France was very far and a land rich in mystery and reputation. Her eyes flickered up quickly, trying to glean some instance of the arcane slinging blue thread all over the professor and found nothing.
Another bubble popped, like boiling tar, and the Ziz's familiar voice filled her head.
Isla imagined a big tree and the sun. She imagined warm feathers to the touch, and added a little breeze to ruffle them. The golden disc bouncing sunlight. The Ziz definitely seemed groggy, as far as thoughts went. Telepathy was a funny one to explain. It was like listening to muffled music, except the music was also clear as day. More invasive than personal thoughts while also being less intrusive. Isla tried very hard to insert a loud sigh into her reply, hoping her deskmate's look of concern was because she was staring daggers into her desk.
Those little veins of dark blue pulsed through the puddle, it being an amorphous blob meant it shouldn't really be moving after severing the connection with its wielder. Though there was no law or rule of magic stating that magic must be separated, Isla knew for a fact that practioners of mage-craft desired control above all. Everything else was an afterthought or a consequence. It took a very special sort of person to maintain control over every tendril of magic, yet she could not see where this one lead to. Either the connection was too weak, or the Dauntless was a very good actress. This suspicion prompted her thoughts elsewhere as she searched for a puzzle sure to exist, her eyes picking away at the tiny threads.
She would have to ask the Ziz, if her companion ever decided to reply. Isla wasn't even sure if it had worked. Like speaking through glass, all she had was the fuzzy warmth blanketing a single shoulder and a hunch that she was not yelling into the void. The important part was that it had gone somewhere, and thankfully not to any of her classmates, if the lack of sudden noises were any indication. They all seemed very eager to learn, and very interested in what Sevra le Blanc had to say. Maybe it was the accent, France was very far and a land rich in mystery and reputation. Her eyes flickered up quickly, trying to glean some instance of the arcane slinging blue thread all over the professor and found nothing.
Another bubble popped, like boiling tar, and the Ziz's familiar voice filled her head.
Isla imagined a big tree and the sun. She imagined warm feathers to the touch, and added a little breeze to ruffle them. The golden disc bouncing sunlight. The Ziz definitely seemed groggy, as far as thoughts went. Telepathy was a funny one to explain. It was like listening to muffled music, except the music was also clear as day. More invasive than personal thoughts while also being less intrusive. Isla tried very hard to insert a loud sigh into her reply, hoping her deskmate's look of concern was because she was staring daggers into her desk.
โธฆ "The one time I need your help, you've found a tree."
"A Dauntless is teaching my class right now, and she's being very blasรฉ about attacking a student out of nowhere."
...
"She's suspicious." โธง
"A Dauntless is teaching my class right now, and she's being very blasรฉ about attacking a student out of nowhere."
...
"She's suspicious." โธง
These thoughts were sent one after the other, Isla very unaware that she was sending them one at a time in a stream of consciousness. There was always that moment's pause where the Ziz might have replied if she did not find herself bowled over by Isla's newfound talent.
โธฆ "Her magic isn't like any other professor's. Dauntless or not! It's weird. It feels weird. Like it's complete, but with the wrong pieces." โธง
While Isla continued her silent tirade, the girl with impurity on the brain spoke up. Raising her hand to be polite, she shook her brown ringlets out in a modest motion but, with the slylest voice, said "I know how to shield, ma'am. I don't mind if you try me."
Pin drop.
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<I know, thatโs why Iโm taking a nap.>
Might as well fabricate a good excuse now, given that Sevra and, well, Sevra, were never going to be in the same place at the same time. <The Dauntless, they are all special snowflakes, every single one of them,> she added with an intentionally lazy drawl, yawning for good measure. <I mean, donโt get me wrong, they tend to be nice people? But alas, they also think my feathers make top-notch grenade material, so we donโt tend to get along that well.> That was pretty balanced, right? She reckoned that was snarky enough to not arouse any suspicions. <Anyway, pay attention in class! My plumage will get droopy if I donโt get my beauty rest.>
All of that was BS, of course, but attempting to lecture while Isla was bombarding her with thought after thought proved too difficult even for Sevra. If only the young Sterling applied that same level of assiduity to magecraft, sigh. Given her stranglehold over the studentsโ attention, Sevra knew better than to remain idle. Fortunately, sketching rudimentary defensive runes required no actual thought. Her index traced the air, leaving behind a shimmering trail of a triangle enshrined within a circle. Shapes that, by themselves, conveyed little, and yet, even just gazing at the sigil would impart a sense of security. It was often said that magic was expression; in its purest form, magic was thoughts given voice, emotions made manifest. And that rune, with its warm coppery hue, like the gleaming round shield of a hero from antiquity, absolutely inspired a sense of reliability. As solid as the ground underfoot.
Before she could actually launch into an explanation though, it appeared that someone was eager for punishment. But there was a time and place for everything, and so, she beguiled with a laudatory smile, refusing in the gentlest manner possible. โWe unfortunately must move on. However, since you may find what Iโm about to teach as more of a refresher course than new material, I would be remiss not to impart something a little more advanced for you to ruminate on. After class, perhaps - Iโm sure Professor Fraser would be happy to loan his office to me for a half hour or so. An exceptional student deserves to have that budding talent cultivated in a more one-on-one setting, wouldnโt you agree?โ
Hook, line, andโฆ Too easy. Every mage couldnโt seem to stop snorting exceptionalism like cocaine.
Circling back to the lecture at hand, Sevra improvised a lesson plan on the basics. Aegis. Arcane missiles. Really beginner stuff. But classed up via destroying her own shields with her own missiles. Sending them spiraling, zigzagging and attacking from unexpected angles. A little crackle. A little smoke. Honestly, teaching first-years reminded her a lot of dangling a feathery toy in front of a bunch of kittens. Very samesies samesies but hey, at least they seemed amused.
โAnd that concludes our lesson for today. I believe Professor Fraser already assigned homework via your syllabus, so I wonโt be adding to that.โ
Might as well fabricate a good excuse now, given that Sevra and, well, Sevra, were never going to be in the same place at the same time. <The Dauntless, they are all special snowflakes, every single one of them,> she added with an intentionally lazy drawl, yawning for good measure. <I mean, donโt get me wrong, they tend to be nice people? But alas, they also think my feathers make top-notch grenade material, so we donโt tend to get along that well.> That was pretty balanced, right? She reckoned that was snarky enough to not arouse any suspicions. <Anyway, pay attention in class! My plumage will get droopy if I donโt get my beauty rest.>
All of that was BS, of course, but attempting to lecture while Isla was bombarding her with thought after thought proved too difficult even for Sevra. If only the young Sterling applied that same level of assiduity to magecraft, sigh. Given her stranglehold over the studentsโ attention, Sevra knew better than to remain idle. Fortunately, sketching rudimentary defensive runes required no actual thought. Her index traced the air, leaving behind a shimmering trail of a triangle enshrined within a circle. Shapes that, by themselves, conveyed little, and yet, even just gazing at the sigil would impart a sense of security. It was often said that magic was expression; in its purest form, magic was thoughts given voice, emotions made manifest. And that rune, with its warm coppery hue, like the gleaming round shield of a hero from antiquity, absolutely inspired a sense of reliability. As solid as the ground underfoot.
Before she could actually launch into an explanation though, it appeared that someone was eager for punishment. But there was a time and place for everything, and so, she beguiled with a laudatory smile, refusing in the gentlest manner possible. โWe unfortunately must move on. However, since you may find what Iโm about to teach as more of a refresher course than new material, I would be remiss not to impart something a little more advanced for you to ruminate on. After class, perhaps - Iโm sure Professor Fraser would be happy to loan his office to me for a half hour or so. An exceptional student deserves to have that budding talent cultivated in a more one-on-one setting, wouldnโt you agree?โ
Hook, line, andโฆ Too easy. Every mage couldnโt seem to stop snorting exceptionalism like cocaine.
Circling back to the lecture at hand, Sevra improvised a lesson plan on the basics. Aegis. Arcane missiles. Really beginner stuff. But classed up via destroying her own shields with her own missiles. Sending them spiraling, zigzagging and attacking from unexpected angles. A little crackle. A little smoke. Honestly, teaching first-years reminded her a lot of dangling a feathery toy in front of a bunch of kittens. Very samesies samesies but hey, at least they seemed amused.
โAnd that concludes our lesson for today. I believe Professor Fraser already assigned homework via your syllabus, so I wonโt be adding to that.โ
sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2021
- Location
- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
Unfortunately for the all-powerful Ziz, Isla was persistent.
Having never gotten her way, she never outgrew the annoying ability to push the envelope further than was acceptable. Her Sterling blood manifested itself in the numerous attempts at making things seem bigger than they actually were. Molehills into mountains. Like her sudden and strange interest in Sevra le Blanc and how woeful it was that her one and only friend was not here to deposit intrusive thoughts directly into her head. Thoughts such as I didn't know you were into women who could break your heart and doesn't she remind you a little bit of [ ------ ]. But the Ziz also made a point. Feathers of rare-mythical-creature quality were highly sought after, and had Isla's moral backbone been made of custard, she would be running a highly lucrative business selling Ziz plumage in a run-down shack.
So the mage decided not to reply, leaving the Ziz to slumber peacefully. The puddle was still a strange goopy mess that was beginning to shrivel and curdle at the edges, trying to dry. In fact, the fabric of her bag was only mildly soaked, an inconvenience rather than a tragedy. The mage no longer needed the image of a tall tree basked under warm sunlight, and instead thought of thick blankets and an array of soft pillows. Yawning was contagious, including yawns that were thought and Isla was tired. That, or she simply could not abide the attempt at being coy. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of a palm, and missed the way the water disappeared - like the wood itself was sucking it dry. Isla had other footnotes to brood on.
The brown-haired, sparkly-eyed mage was one Henrietta Fern, who also happened to boast an impressive lineage dating back some many years. It was this perceived battle of surnames that made Henrietta believe she and Isla were competing at something. Only one or two years Isla's junior, Henrietta's control over magic was not something to sneeze at, and while she was obviously no match for Sevra le Blanc, she would have offered a better showing. Isla admitted that it may not have been an indirect challenge, but mages were notorious for their desire to prove themselves as better than their fellows. Age had nothing to do with it. It was in all their blood, however diluted.
Now though. Now, Henrietta had her eyes on a different sort of prize, which was the only reason why Isla entertained the idea of maybe. Her friends tittered around Henrietta unsubtly at the Dauntless's negative-to-positive reply. A private lesson with one as esteemed as their guest tutor! How delightful! A shame that it was only half an hour, but that was half an hour more than anyone else in this class. Henrietta beamed with delight, blushing and thanking and smiling. It was a lot of expressions for a singular face, but Isla had turned back to the front with the rest of the class, half disgruntled that they hadn't tried their hand while the other half wondered what was being served for dinner. Isla, on her part, was enraptured by the defensive rune suspended midair. Not a broken line in sight. The burnished edges were wispy, curling like burning parchment.
It was not uncommon to find the Sterling heir absentminded, but having the foresight to understand that getting hit by a stray bullet was undesirable, Isla was forced to participate. It felt like target practice, with the shooter very clearly holding back. Her bag absorbed stray missiles brilliantly, the poor thing, and was looking shabbier by the second. But it was easy. She saw the blurred curves of arcane energy when they rocketed through the air, leaving afterimages of bright lights. She weaved around them with ease. Isla only made things more difficult for herself by trying to contact the Ziz again, to offer a play-by-play of what was happening all the while for she very much wanted to talk about this afterward. But there was a buzzing, a ringing in her ears that made it difficult to catch what the Ziz was saying, if she was saying anything at all.
All while Sevra glowed. It was so charming, and once or twice, Isla found herself distracted by the beauty of it all. Like staring at something for too long without blinking, everything but the familiar arcane was a washed-out backdrop. They were white and black and colorless, shades of the elements swimming like a school of fish through the air. Sevra le Blanc was a conductor of fine notes, her magic flourishing like flowers in spring. It tickled her delightfully. But her eyes hurt and there was a sizzling hole where the water used to be. She only noticed this later when the class was dismissed, and she was jostled out by an excited bundle of students and found she was standing just outside the door om a daze.
There had been too much magic in such a confined space, and her body was an exposed, trembling nerve. She reached out to the Ziz meekly. A decade of silence, and now she couldn't shut up.
Having never gotten her way, she never outgrew the annoying ability to push the envelope further than was acceptable. Her Sterling blood manifested itself in the numerous attempts at making things seem bigger than they actually were. Molehills into mountains. Like her sudden and strange interest in Sevra le Blanc and how woeful it was that her one and only friend was not here to deposit intrusive thoughts directly into her head. Thoughts such as I didn't know you were into women who could break your heart and doesn't she remind you a little bit of [ ------ ]. But the Ziz also made a point. Feathers of rare-mythical-creature quality were highly sought after, and had Isla's moral backbone been made of custard, she would be running a highly lucrative business selling Ziz plumage in a run-down shack.
So the mage decided not to reply, leaving the Ziz to slumber peacefully. The puddle was still a strange goopy mess that was beginning to shrivel and curdle at the edges, trying to dry. In fact, the fabric of her bag was only mildly soaked, an inconvenience rather than a tragedy. The mage no longer needed the image of a tall tree basked under warm sunlight, and instead thought of thick blankets and an array of soft pillows. Yawning was contagious, including yawns that were thought and Isla was tired. That, or she simply could not abide the attempt at being coy. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of a palm, and missed the way the water disappeared - like the wood itself was sucking it dry. Isla had other footnotes to brood on.
The brown-haired, sparkly-eyed mage was one Henrietta Fern, who also happened to boast an impressive lineage dating back some many years. It was this perceived battle of surnames that made Henrietta believe she and Isla were competing at something. Only one or two years Isla's junior, Henrietta's control over magic was not something to sneeze at, and while she was obviously no match for Sevra le Blanc, she would have offered a better showing. Isla admitted that it may not have been an indirect challenge, but mages were notorious for their desire to prove themselves as better than their fellows. Age had nothing to do with it. It was in all their blood, however diluted.
Now though. Now, Henrietta had her eyes on a different sort of prize, which was the only reason why Isla entertained the idea of maybe. Her friends tittered around Henrietta unsubtly at the Dauntless's negative-to-positive reply. A private lesson with one as esteemed as their guest tutor! How delightful! A shame that it was only half an hour, but that was half an hour more than anyone else in this class. Henrietta beamed with delight, blushing and thanking and smiling. It was a lot of expressions for a singular face, but Isla had turned back to the front with the rest of the class, half disgruntled that they hadn't tried their hand while the other half wondered what was being served for dinner. Isla, on her part, was enraptured by the defensive rune suspended midair. Not a broken line in sight. The burnished edges were wispy, curling like burning parchment.
It was not uncommon to find the Sterling heir absentminded, but having the foresight to understand that getting hit by a stray bullet was undesirable, Isla was forced to participate. It felt like target practice, with the shooter very clearly holding back. Her bag absorbed stray missiles brilliantly, the poor thing, and was looking shabbier by the second. But it was easy. She saw the blurred curves of arcane energy when they rocketed through the air, leaving afterimages of bright lights. She weaved around them with ease. Isla only made things more difficult for herself by trying to contact the Ziz again, to offer a play-by-play of what was happening all the while for she very much wanted to talk about this afterward. But there was a buzzing, a ringing in her ears that made it difficult to catch what the Ziz was saying, if she was saying anything at all.
All while Sevra glowed. It was so charming, and once or twice, Isla found herself distracted by the beauty of it all. Like staring at something for too long without blinking, everything but the familiar arcane was a washed-out backdrop. They were white and black and colorless, shades of the elements swimming like a school of fish through the air. Sevra le Blanc was a conductor of fine notes, her magic flourishing like flowers in spring. It tickled her delightfully. But her eyes hurt and there was a sizzling hole where the water used to be. She only noticed this later when the class was dismissed, and she was jostled out by an excited bundle of students and found she was standing just outside the door om a daze.
There had been too much magic in such a confined space, and her body was an exposed, trembling nerve. She reached out to the Ziz meekly. A decade of silence, and now she couldn't shut up.
โธฆ "Henrietta Fern isn't going to let us hear the end of this."
"Do you remember Henrietta Fern?" โธง
"Do you remember Henrietta Fern?" โธง
Isla shifted her bag over her shoulder and turned the corner, not yet having reconciled the uncomfortable itch at her neck. She was still thinking about that Dauntless when it happened. The collision was a shock to her senses, dragging her back to the present. She gasped, her hand shooting out to grab something, anything, as the ground rushed up toward her.
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Real sparkly, those burnished coppers. A few shades away from gold, and yet, much as counterfeits were only a scanline away from the real deal, copper could not even begin to compare against the more precious metals. Copper. Commonplace. Unexceptional. Four centuries ago, a Sterling mage would not have even deigned to consider a Fern as worthy of being considered a competitor. However, time flowed, unceasing, and it seemed that in the present day, the Fern heiress could not wait to rub her inferiority complex into the newly awakened Sterlingโs face. Unfortunately for her, though Sevra had only known Isla for two weeks and a few (and what a whirlwind it has been), the pact between herself and the Sterlings was timeless. When the last mountain crumbles to dust, when the last drop of ocean evaporates, and when the sun sputters and dies - then and only then, might her destiny be severed from those bearing Sterling blood. Which was to say, practically speaking, never.
Professor Fraserโs office was far too eccentric for Sevraโs taste, but she didn't summon Henrietta here to admire the lacking decor. No, the girl was here for a lesson. โMs. Fern, right?โ Sevra remembered, oh she remembered alright, though she declined to respond to Isla on that topic. Remembered the staring, the pointing, the gasp of disbelief on Islaโs first day. Remembered the whispering, the smirking, the dripping condescension the first time Isla failed to meet some arbitrary standards. Had thought nothing of it at the time; mere schoolyard bullying did not merit her purview. And yet, this girl was now crossing all sorts of boundaries. Enough was enough. โIโm glad you were able to join me.โ That pleasant smile disarmed even as Sevra bridged the gap, bringing with her a whiff of something hard to identify. Atmospheric. Smokey. Arcane. Those formerly dispassionate golds warmed a few degrees, a hand rose and gently laid against the door, bracketing the troublemaker against the same. Was this still a lesson, or?
โYou see, there are a few rather important matters I would like to discuss with you,โ her voice dropped to a murmur, fingers flexing against wood before she allowed her magic to flow unimpeded, shrouding the entirety of the room in her barrier. Claimed the space, including every tendril of magic within, as hers, blocking out all others and, by extension, Isla. โLetโs start with mush leaves, shall we?โ That was the thing with warmth. Get too close, and you might get burnt.
Professor Fraserโs office was far too eccentric for Sevraโs taste, but she didn't summon Henrietta here to admire the lacking decor. No, the girl was here for a lesson. โMs. Fern, right?โ Sevra remembered, oh she remembered alright, though she declined to respond to Isla on that topic. Remembered the staring, the pointing, the gasp of disbelief on Islaโs first day. Remembered the whispering, the smirking, the dripping condescension the first time Isla failed to meet some arbitrary standards. Had thought nothing of it at the time; mere schoolyard bullying did not merit her purview. And yet, this girl was now crossing all sorts of boundaries. Enough was enough. โIโm glad you were able to join me.โ That pleasant smile disarmed even as Sevra bridged the gap, bringing with her a whiff of something hard to identify. Atmospheric. Smokey. Arcane. Those formerly dispassionate golds warmed a few degrees, a hand rose and gently laid against the door, bracketing the troublemaker against the same. Was this still a lesson, or?
โYou see, there are a few rather important matters I would like to discuss with you,โ her voice dropped to a murmur, fingers flexing against wood before she allowed her magic to flow unimpeded, shrouding the entirety of the room in her barrier. Claimed the space, including every tendril of magic within, as hers, blocking out all others and, by extension, Isla. โLetโs start with mush leaves, shall we?โ That was the thing with warmth. Get too close, and you might get burnt.
givemespacegivemespacegivemespacegivemespace
| โAre you alright?โ Those ancient tiles were denied a chance to investigate the distracted young Sterling today, because another hand had reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, suspending her fall. More than that, in the sort of clichรฉ that sprouted like wild grass in those dramas non-mages (and some mages) favored, Isla would find herself securely clutched in the arms of her fortuitous rescuer. Standing at about half a head taller, the strawberry blonde with baby blue eyes might be someone Isla recognized. Nicole Rayes, fifth year, a Perfect from House Ravenor. Rayes was a newer name on the block, looked down by some in the same way the blue-blooded frowned upon the nouveau riche. But Nicoleโs talent, and, amongst students who preferred to gossip about more trivial things, her beauty, was not something any mage could deny. โHey, fuckwit, watch where you are going!โ A feisty ginger, more pumpkin than red, evidently the boy Isla had collided with, picked himself off of the ground and exclaimed with irritation. In his defense, Isla did walk into him. He might have said something else, but those words sputtered out when he got a good look at just who broke Islaโs fall. โO-oh, Nicole, fancy seeing you here. Please excuse my language, I was just, uh, surprised. Wasnโt trying to bully a first-year, I swear.โ A complete one-eighty, accompanied by his face beginning to match his hair, before he rubbed the back of his neck nervously and scampered along. Fortunately for him, Nicoleโs attention was not on him. โAre you sure you are alright?โ Cloying. The perfect adjective for both the timbre of her voice and her fragrance. Not a single hair out of place. An allure almost supernatural. |
sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2021
- Location
- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
"Henrietta Fern," the young mage gushed, curtsying politely and tapping the door shut with her foot in one smooth motion. She had been in this office before, and thought the iridescent skulls were frightfully boorish. The Dauntless was a beacon in the stuffy room, and did not stop to wonder why those skulls had multiplied. All eyes on Sevra, she jostled her hand through her hair girlishly, but. Infatuation or not, every hair on her body prickled. Like prey in the face of a predator, she found herself shrinking back against the door, no longer affecting innocence. The physical and the verbal said one thing, the magic another thing entirely. It was just shy of probing, not quite malicious but overfilled with querying disappointment.
Henrietta was reminded of her meddling. Isla Sterling was the most uninteresting rumor to happen to this school, with a personality reminiscent of a wet napkin, she skirted the line too many times for the young Fern to suffer silently. It had been small things at first. Misplacing books, mislabeling ingredients. But that foul fowl on her shoulder, the Ziz! It knew, and was whispering secrets into her ear, because Isla never got into trouble for setting that screeching flower on fire. So she thought maybe a handful of mummer's powder mixed with crushed leaves would teach her a thing or two...
She swallowed softly, her fingers pressing into the wooden frame as Sevra drew closer. Her body was yelling at her to run, her magic battling against the sigil dampening it. Henrietta still had hopes, and she hoped her sweet smile would be excuse enough. "I really don't know what you're talking about, ma'am."
Warmth bloomed in her cheeks, Isla pressed up against her rescuer like a lifeline, her arms crossing tight over her chest. Her bag had taken the brunt of the near nasty fall, skidding to one side while her books spilled free. She didn't care. The person was soft and warm and smelled faintly of vanilla and spicy cinnamon. Blonde hair that veered toward being pinkish tickled her chin and Isla really had to crane her neck to see who had so valiantly saved her. She recognized the lips, the sharp edge of the woman's jaw. She remembered the shapely nose, the vividly blue eyes that looked at her kindly. She did not know how old Nicole Rayes was, only that when it came to magic, she exuded it like a heavy perfume. It was almost enough to have her lashes fluttering, had she not been consumed with embarrassment.
"Thank you. Yes, I'm quite alright.." The boy she collided with was so far from her thoughts, she barely took in what he was saying. He was a droplet. Nicole Reyes was still holding onto her as if she were some fragile thing, and when she spoke, Isla could feel the soft vibrations against her arms. Her fingers were shaking, unwilling to let go, taken off-guard by the natural allure of the fifth year student. People walked past with only a passing glance, more at Nicole, then recognizing her buttercup locks and stepping gingerly around her scattered books. She didn't know what else to say except to thank Nicole again, the purple of her eyes flaring as she gently extracted herself.
She thought that was it. A stranger passing like a ship in the night, her good gesture for the day. Isla's blood was singing, but it was a solo act. Sterling mages hated competition, and like a lighthouse, they lit up at the first sign of opposition. But Isla couldn't bring just scamper away, instead dropping to her hands and knees to gather up her books and scrolls of tightly rolled parchment. She was experiencing very conflicting emotions, and blamed the Ziz's disappearance for it. First it had been Sevra le Blanc and her exceptional magic, and now Nicole Rayes and her more muted, though no less impressive, magic. Once her belongings were safely slotted away, she.. stood?
Isla blinked and inhaled sharply.
Something hurt. Thoughts of beautiful women pushed aside, she performed triage on her body and found the source. Her ankle ached, it throbbed when she put weight on it, but she was relieved it wasn't broken. She must have slipped or turned it at a wrong angle. Isla straightened slowly, calmly, all the while attempting to communicate with the Ziz, whom she believed was now deliberately ignoring her, having not responded to her past few messages. She tested a step, and immediately refused to continue. Hating to ask for assistance, she looked for Nicole and offered a slight smile. "Sorry, I might have to ask for your help again..I think I've sprained my ankle, and the moving staircases are not sympathetic."
Henrietta was reminded of her meddling. Isla Sterling was the most uninteresting rumor to happen to this school, with a personality reminiscent of a wet napkin, she skirted the line too many times for the young Fern to suffer silently. It had been small things at first. Misplacing books, mislabeling ingredients. But that foul fowl on her shoulder, the Ziz! It knew, and was whispering secrets into her ear, because Isla never got into trouble for setting that screeching flower on fire. So she thought maybe a handful of mummer's powder mixed with crushed leaves would teach her a thing or two...
She swallowed softly, her fingers pressing into the wooden frame as Sevra drew closer. Her body was yelling at her to run, her magic battling against the sigil dampening it. Henrietta still had hopes, and she hoped her sweet smile would be excuse enough. "I really don't know what you're talking about, ma'am."
Warmth bloomed in her cheeks, Isla pressed up against her rescuer like a lifeline, her arms crossing tight over her chest. Her bag had taken the brunt of the near nasty fall, skidding to one side while her books spilled free. She didn't care. The person was soft and warm and smelled faintly of vanilla and spicy cinnamon. Blonde hair that veered toward being pinkish tickled her chin and Isla really had to crane her neck to see who had so valiantly saved her. She recognized the lips, the sharp edge of the woman's jaw. She remembered the shapely nose, the vividly blue eyes that looked at her kindly. She did not know how old Nicole Rayes was, only that when it came to magic, she exuded it like a heavy perfume. It was almost enough to have her lashes fluttering, had she not been consumed with embarrassment.
"Thank you. Yes, I'm quite alright.." The boy she collided with was so far from her thoughts, she barely took in what he was saying. He was a droplet. Nicole Reyes was still holding onto her as if she were some fragile thing, and when she spoke, Isla could feel the soft vibrations against her arms. Her fingers were shaking, unwilling to let go, taken off-guard by the natural allure of the fifth year student. People walked past with only a passing glance, more at Nicole, then recognizing her buttercup locks and stepping gingerly around her scattered books. She didn't know what else to say except to thank Nicole again, the purple of her eyes flaring as she gently extracted herself.
She thought that was it. A stranger passing like a ship in the night, her good gesture for the day. Isla's blood was singing, but it was a solo act. Sterling mages hated competition, and like a lighthouse, they lit up at the first sign of opposition. But Isla couldn't bring just scamper away, instead dropping to her hands and knees to gather up her books and scrolls of tightly rolled parchment. She was experiencing very conflicting emotions, and blamed the Ziz's disappearance for it. First it had been Sevra le Blanc and her exceptional magic, and now Nicole Rayes and her more muted, though no less impressive, magic. Once her belongings were safely slotted away, she.. stood?
Isla blinked and inhaled sharply.
Something hurt. Thoughts of beautiful women pushed aside, she performed triage on her body and found the source. Her ankle ached, it throbbed when she put weight on it, but she was relieved it wasn't broken. She must have slipped or turned it at a wrong angle. Isla straightened slowly, calmly, all the while attempting to communicate with the Ziz, whom she believed was now deliberately ignoring her, having not responded to her past few messages. She tested a step, and immediately refused to continue. Hating to ask for assistance, she looked for Nicole and offered a slight smile. "Sorry, I might have to ask for your help again..I think I've sprained my ankle, and the moving staircases are not sympathetic."
โธฆ [ ---- ] have no [ ----- ] at all โธง
b6b7d2 x cdceba
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OP
OP
ฦeral
๐จ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฒ๐ต๐ญ ๐๐ ๐๐ช ๐ง๐๐๐๐ค
Supporter
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- สแด แด แดแด ๐ฉ๐จ๐จ
Sigh. Humans. They always had to make it so difficult. There was a lot she could do here, not all strictly legal, butโฆ The oath she took as a Dauntless aside, Sevra had this unfortunate condition, see. This incurable, deplorable affliction called โmoralsโ. Truly a travesty. Besides, sometimes, less is more. โIs that so?โ She queried, entirely rhetorically, sifting through Henriettaโs agitated surface thoughts. Those incisive golds did just that, carving incisions into the too saccharine smile. Judging, criticizing, knowing. In the relative dim of Fraserโs office, Sevraโs eyes appeared brighter, more nuanced, like an overly sharpened image. Specks of something lambent and inhuman crowded into the unflappable aureates, and narrowed pupils spoke not to Henriettaโs rationality, but to her animal instincts. Be afraid. They said. Be very afraid.
โIt brings me solace to hear that you donโt know what Iโm talking about, Ms. Fern.โ Sevra retracted her hand, backing up a step, and, just like that, was back to picture-perfect composure. The overbearing magic saturating the air abruptly retracted, enough to leave Henrietta off-balance, before Sevra flashed her a cordial smile. One that did not reach the eyes, on purpose. โYou see, I am a good friend of the Sterlings. If you happened to be the one mixing mummerโs powder into Isla Sterlingโs mush leaves,โ a glint of teeth, pearly, blunt, should not have been frightening but was, โthen, well.โ She allowed that sentence to trail off, smiling that same chilling smile. โYou have remarkable potential, Ms. Fern, it would be such a shame if anything were to happen to that potential.โ And then, affecting sudden remembrance, she added with a start. โOh, merde, I forgot about a meeting! I do apologize for having to cut this short. Please excuse me.โ And with that, she pushed past the door and was gone.
So this is the rumored Sterling. Isla hadnโt introduced herself, but she didnโt need to. Much like Sevra, โNicole Rayesโ had no trouble picking up her scent. It was faint, buried, even. But for someone like her, assessing quality from even the tiniest of a whiff was second-nature. All of that unrealized potential required some finangling to mature into something truly delectable, and she would need to get Isla alone for some stretch of time for that.
And then the request came. A chance to forge something beyond this chance encounter? She could not have asked for better luck. โOf course.โ Smiling came far more naturally to Nicole. The inviting curvature of those pink-glossed lips would not be out of place on an issue of the Sexiest Mage Alive. They turned just a fraction apologetic, before she added, sincerity in abundance. โRegrettably, I am horrendous at healing magic; however,โ she stepped closer to Isla with the clarion taps of heels, โI would certainly escort you to the medical wing. Itโs the duty of every Perfect to assist her underclassman, whether you are in my house or not.โ An arm drifted to rest against the small of Islaโs back. โIt would be easier if I carried you, may I?โ
Sevra frowned.
<Come again?>
That was the problem with telepathy. Range issues. Bit like a bad cell phone connection, coming to think of it.
โIt brings me solace to hear that you donโt know what Iโm talking about, Ms. Fern.โ Sevra retracted her hand, backing up a step, and, just like that, was back to picture-perfect composure. The overbearing magic saturating the air abruptly retracted, enough to leave Henrietta off-balance, before Sevra flashed her a cordial smile. One that did not reach the eyes, on purpose. โYou see, I am a good friend of the Sterlings. If you happened to be the one mixing mummerโs powder into Isla Sterlingโs mush leaves,โ a glint of teeth, pearly, blunt, should not have been frightening but was, โthen, well.โ She allowed that sentence to trail off, smiling that same chilling smile. โYou have remarkable potential, Ms. Fern, it would be such a shame if anything were to happen to that potential.โ And then, affecting sudden remembrance, she added with a start. โOh, merde, I forgot about a meeting! I do apologize for having to cut this short. Please excuse me.โ And with that, she pushed past the door and was gone.
So this is the rumored Sterling. Isla hadnโt introduced herself, but she didnโt need to. Much like Sevra, โNicole Rayesโ had no trouble picking up her scent. It was faint, buried, even. But for someone like her, assessing quality from even the tiniest of a whiff was second-nature. All of that unrealized potential required some finangling to mature into something truly delectable, and she would need to get Isla alone for some stretch of time for that.
And then the request came. A chance to forge something beyond this chance encounter? She could not have asked for better luck. โOf course.โ Smiling came far more naturally to Nicole. The inviting curvature of those pink-glossed lips would not be out of place on an issue of the Sexiest Mage Alive. They turned just a fraction apologetic, before she added, sincerity in abundance. โRegrettably, I am horrendous at healing magic; however,โ she stepped closer to Isla with the clarion taps of heels, โI would certainly escort you to the medical wing. Itโs the duty of every Perfect to assist her underclassman, whether you are in my house or not.โ An arm drifted to rest against the small of Islaโs back. โIt would be easier if I carried you, may I?โ
Sevra frowned.
<Come again?>
That was the problem with telepathy. Range issues. Bit like a bad cell phone connection, coming to think of it.
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sorayeon
waiting for your smoke signal
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2021
- Location
- the clouds
glass is full and i'm sipping on the words you say
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
you've got me drunk on these potions every day
- Potions, Car Astor
Professor Fraser would later find Henrietta Fern half-sunk in his chair fiddling nervously with a felt pen, thinking so hard all sense of decorum had fled into the night.
Healing magic was one area that required a great amount of finesse and expertise, not unlike their non-magical equivalents of doctors, neurosurgeons, dentists, and all that study that went into knowing the body down to every cell and bone was put to good use. It was why it had been such a shock, and why healers were never born and always made. Stripped down to the raw and pieced back together with intent. So, it was never on Sevra's mind to petition Nicole for a crumb of healing, having only expected an offer of a kindly shoulder.
When Nicole's hand slipped against her back, she felt a jolt of very real electricity. It was not the stereotypical teenage crush where sparks flew and an audience cheered, but a meeting of magic snarling against each other. Her own was a baby born in a golden cradle holding unicorn horns and drinking mana, gulping it all into a black void. Her magic was possessive, baring teeth and unfurling claws in the face of a stranger. Unfortunately, her magic was also under Isla's impressive self-doubt, crushed under the weight of indecision.
"Oh." Faced with options beyond the singular, the young Sterling was paralytic. Isla could have shaken her head and said that all she needed was an escort, an extra pair of legs because one of hers screamed whenever she took a step. She could have, sadly, plopped herself on the ground and waited for the Ziz to come and find her and chirrup for help, or even unveil some great spell that only mythical beasts were privy to, and it would be nice if such a spell also knitted snapped ligaments even as a side effect. These were only some of the many good choices she could take.
Instead, Isla's poor idiot brain took one look at that inviting smile and made the decision to swing both arms up and around the taller woman's neck and allow herself to be lifted into the air. It was such an embarrassment, and she very nearly buried her face into the hollow of Nicole's throat before realizing that this was very much a stranger. A comforting one, but a stranger nevertheless. Isla glued her eyes on her skirt, having only whispered a quiet thank you when they were already halfway to the medical wing. The absolute warmth of a person quickly crowded the radio silence presence of the Ziz, and later, Isla simply had no excuse.
The fire crackled merrily as it devoured the woodchips and huffed smoke up the chimney. Isla was eternally grateful for its presence, as the rest of the castle was cold as sin. The consequences of lacking a lick of Sterling blood meant forbidden access to their ancient fortress. It was a mansion built from the ground up, so the tale goes, under Sterling supervision. From a single room used to plot the stars it was transformed into a war room with maps and chess pieces, and now to a modern-day lounge with full amenities. The essentials were delivered to her doorstep every week, and all Isla had to do was wash the dishes and dust here and there.
After her ankle had been seen to, the nurse gave her orders to stay at home, drink her gross medicine, and rest. Nicole had vanished, or maybe she had helped Isla get home without actually entering, and wow, when did the Ziz return from her nap? Isla didn't care, she was hopped up on regular painkillers with her bandaged foot propped up on a squishy ottoman in front of a warm fire. Everything was a muted, messy blur. One second her head was lolling down to her chest, the next she was snapped wide awake by a daring crackle, or from that dull drone drilling into the back of her skull.
"I hope that nap was worth it," Isla said for the fifth time. She was pleasantly polite too, having committed to the notion it was all her fault and that it was worth it. Nicole's magic clung to her skin like static that wouldn't jump, slipping through her ribs to poke the slumbering arcane beast. Isla hadn't answered any of the Ziz's questions either, likely because she didn't understand what questions were. "You'd think she's pretty too. Soft hair. Nice smile. Didn't ask if I wore contacts." Isla reached out one arm, marveling at her knuckles, staring at the thin web from finger to finger when she splayed them.
"I said I don't know how to use magic, even though everyone says I can and she said.. maybe she said I'm not everyone, which is true, everyone is a collective and Nicole Rayes is just one person. But it only takes one, doesn't it?" Isla's hand came down slow and gentle, reaching out a tentative hand toward the Ziz, as if a sudden touch might frighten her companion and send her into a flurry of wings. It was already happening in her head. She shook her head to clear the fuzz, a futile attempt, and dropped her hand to her chest. Sighed like a melancholic widow.
"She said she could tutor me." The smile that came was like the sun peeking around a moody raincloud. "Just the basics. I'm not a teacher, she said. I said good! I don't think they're very helpful. I almost mentioned what happened, but thought a stranger wouldn't want to hear about it. She didn't know my name, and I didn't tell her but the nurse did. That was the correct course of action, I think. I've been doing that a lot," she blinked, took a well-deserved breath, and turned to look at the Ziz directly.
"Thinking, I mean."
Then she fell silent, blissful peace in the interim.
Healing magic was one area that required a great amount of finesse and expertise, not unlike their non-magical equivalents of doctors, neurosurgeons, dentists, and all that study that went into knowing the body down to every cell and bone was put to good use. It was why it had been such a shock, and why healers were never born and always made. Stripped down to the raw and pieced back together with intent. So, it was never on Sevra's mind to petition Nicole for a crumb of healing, having only expected an offer of a kindly shoulder.
When Nicole's hand slipped against her back, she felt a jolt of very real electricity. It was not the stereotypical teenage crush where sparks flew and an audience cheered, but a meeting of magic snarling against each other. Her own was a baby born in a golden cradle holding unicorn horns and drinking mana, gulping it all into a black void. Her magic was possessive, baring teeth and unfurling claws in the face of a stranger. Unfortunately, her magic was also under Isla's impressive self-doubt, crushed under the weight of indecision.
"Oh." Faced with options beyond the singular, the young Sterling was paralytic. Isla could have shaken her head and said that all she needed was an escort, an extra pair of legs because one of hers screamed whenever she took a step. She could have, sadly, plopped herself on the ground and waited for the Ziz to come and find her and chirrup for help, or even unveil some great spell that only mythical beasts were privy to, and it would be nice if such a spell also knitted snapped ligaments even as a side effect. These were only some of the many good choices she could take.
Instead, Isla's poor idiot brain took one look at that inviting smile and made the decision to swing both arms up and around the taller woman's neck and allow herself to be lifted into the air. It was such an embarrassment, and she very nearly buried her face into the hollow of Nicole's throat before realizing that this was very much a stranger. A comforting one, but a stranger nevertheless. Isla glued her eyes on her skirt, having only whispered a quiet thank you when they were already halfway to the medical wing. The absolute warmth of a person quickly crowded the radio silence presence of the Ziz, and later, Isla simply had no excuse.
The fire crackled merrily as it devoured the woodchips and huffed smoke up the chimney. Isla was eternally grateful for its presence, as the rest of the castle was cold as sin. The consequences of lacking a lick of Sterling blood meant forbidden access to their ancient fortress. It was a mansion built from the ground up, so the tale goes, under Sterling supervision. From a single room used to plot the stars it was transformed into a war room with maps and chess pieces, and now to a modern-day lounge with full amenities. The essentials were delivered to her doorstep every week, and all Isla had to do was wash the dishes and dust here and there.
After her ankle had been seen to, the nurse gave her orders to stay at home, drink her gross medicine, and rest. Nicole had vanished, or maybe she had helped Isla get home without actually entering, and wow, when did the Ziz return from her nap? Isla didn't care, she was hopped up on regular painkillers with her bandaged foot propped up on a squishy ottoman in front of a warm fire. Everything was a muted, messy blur. One second her head was lolling down to her chest, the next she was snapped wide awake by a daring crackle, or from that dull drone drilling into the back of her skull.
"I hope that nap was worth it," Isla said for the fifth time. She was pleasantly polite too, having committed to the notion it was all her fault and that it was worth it. Nicole's magic clung to her skin like static that wouldn't jump, slipping through her ribs to poke the slumbering arcane beast. Isla hadn't answered any of the Ziz's questions either, likely because she didn't understand what questions were. "You'd think she's pretty too. Soft hair. Nice smile. Didn't ask if I wore contacts." Isla reached out one arm, marveling at her knuckles, staring at the thin web from finger to finger when she splayed them.
"I said I don't know how to use magic, even though everyone says I can and she said.. maybe she said I'm not everyone, which is true, everyone is a collective and Nicole Rayes is just one person. But it only takes one, doesn't it?" Isla's hand came down slow and gentle, reaching out a tentative hand toward the Ziz, as if a sudden touch might frighten her companion and send her into a flurry of wings. It was already happening in her head. She shook her head to clear the fuzz, a futile attempt, and dropped her hand to her chest. Sighed like a melancholic widow.
"She said she could tutor me." The smile that came was like the sun peeking around a moody raincloud. "Just the basics. I'm not a teacher, she said. I said good! I don't think they're very helpful. I almost mentioned what happened, but thought a stranger wouldn't want to hear about it. She didn't know my name, and I didn't tell her but the nurse did. That was the correct course of action, I think. I've been doing that a lot," she blinked, took a well-deserved breath, and turned to look at the Ziz directly.
"Thinking, I mean."
Then she fell silent, blissful peace in the interim.
b6b7d2 x cdceba
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