The man continued to stare in bewilderment, more in shock than anything else. The other two stared in a perplexed fashion implying the unspoken question, ‘What the fuck is he doing?’
“Uh...”
“Why are you still here,” Elon bellowed, eliciting a jump from his partners.
“Maaan, fuck this.” He walked out and slammed the door behind him. Elon pointed a finger at the door, stopping just short of a slam, shooting grey magic at it and letting it close quietly.
“Um, what the fuck, Zippy? He’s the best fucking ink ’chanter in the grade.”
“No, Cherry. He’s the most unreliable and inconsistent ink enchanter in the grade. Skill is meaningless without the ability to manage it. If he can’t work with me, he’s useless.”
“Have you never done a project like this? I know you have. Sometimes, you just put up with the dumbass and use him for what he’s useful for.”
“No, Cherry. I don’t. I get people who want to work on this project. I get the best people of their trade to get the best product out. I get a team that will work with me, for me. I get people that will care about the outcome and will strive to do something to be proud of.” His voice rising to almost a shout on the last word, the room fell silent as he went back to his book, she went back to her parchment, and Harena looked on confusedly before going back to conjuring balls of energy and wisping them away.
As his last class for the dess finally rang out, he floated out of the classroom and down the hallway back to his study. Yes, it was a dormitory, but study just sounded so much more refined in his head. A smile stretched across his face. The project went well; Arianrhod was lauded for her excellent rune design, Harena was applauded for her perfect rundown of the scroll and casting, leading to a great execution, and the professor specifically called Elon out for the preciseness and purity of the ink enchantment. He noted that it was the best enchanting he’d seen in it in tens of turns.
The hard threat-filled glare from one Jeremiah Eriford gave Elon the most joyous feeling. That alone was at least sixty percent of the smile on his face. Surprisingly enough, that smile did not fade from him when he turned down a hallway to shortcut his way to the dorm, and was subsequently cut off by a familiar looking stacked Milaric with black hair down past his waist and two of his friends.
“You trying to make me look like a fuckin’ idiot, Arroway? You tryin’ to shame me in front of my public?”
“It’s not hard, Eriford. Oh, and ‘your public?’ Gods, you’re worse than I thought.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re too slow to understand inference. What I meant is that you’re a smug, self-righteous jock who is limited to putting someone else’s magic into someone else’s inkwell. You’re a glorified magic transport system, Eriford. You’re just lucky that you’re fast enough to get that ulama scholarship.”
“You think you’re so smart—”
“I do. The professors do too.”
Arcane energy is manifested in four ways; it must be found from the ether through one’s natural connection with it, a trait most call a “spark.” Without a spark, magic was beyond anyone. Once a spark was lit and a connection was made, brawn, endurance, and dexterity were necessary to form a spell. Without a certain grace, the spell wouldn’t form as one desired. Without raw brawn, a finely-tuned spell would fall flat; a spell needs force to project it and give it strength. Without good constitution, the wizard would collapse before the spell could be formed or launched; forming a spell was ridiculously taxing, and without the necessary endurance, the spell might falter, or even if it went off, the caster could be left open for attack afterwards.
Elon specifically noticed that the bolt of force being shot out by Eriford’s thug was based entirely on his strength. The bully’s bulging muscles were the entire basis for his magical ability. Without his brawn, he was nothing. The spell wasn’t finely crafted, he didn’t have an art for it, but it hit hard enough that it didn’t matter. Thankfully, Elon was lean and limber enough to counter.
In his mind, Elon did not counter spells, he tuned them against the caster. A counterspell, as he would explain to anyone who asked, is water to fire; light to dark; life to death. You take a frostbolt being flung at you and you counter with a bolt of arcane heat. The two hit each other and fizzle, neither one effective against the other caster.
His alteration magic was more of an adjustment to the other caster’s spell. His metamagic worked against any spell the opposition chose; fire, frost, life, death, lightning, force. Rather than opposites fizzling each other out, he took their theoretical frostbolt and would instead change its trajectory to up in the air, then back down to him. With alteration, he could stop the frostbolt, hold it in his hand, look at hit, admire the spellcraft, then throw it back.
One of his favorite parts of the arcane arts was how it messed with a mortal’s preconceived notions of physics. Speed equals force to most people. If you swing something faster, it hits harder. Spells completely ignore that. A weak fireball will fly at you faster than an arrow and the size of a coconut but leave a candle’s heat on one’s shoulder. A strong fireball would be no bigger, no faster, but would explode with heat comparable to dragon’s breath, incinerating all in a five-meter radius to ash.
When using alteration, it messes with the composition of the spell. On basic levels, its trajectory or form (bolt, ball, wall, etc.) could be messed with. On advanced levels, though, its element (fire, lightning, shadow, enchantment, etc.) or the force behind it could be tweaked, allowing for weakening or dissipation of a spell, or the one could add to it, making it stronger for the retaliating shot.
A simple forcebolt was flying at him, recklessly formed but packing a punch Elon couldn’t hope to counter or take. In response, he poured alteration energy into it, forcing its trajectory to swing around him, then back around, and soon into a spiral about him. Another bolt came from the other guard dog, to which Elon forced into the same pattern.
Shortly, he had six bolts circling him, three clockwise, three counterclockwise. His brain whirred, trying desperately to keep up as his arms shook, his veins popping out of his arms as the blood seemed to glow a different color every split second, every bit of skin a different ever-fluctuating color. Sweat began to pour down his brow.
Eriford and his lackeys stared confusedly at the skinny lad with long, curly blonde hair flying freely around him, eyes boring into Eriford’s soul. His glaring eyes were glowing a harsh tone that changed with each passing second, red to green to orange to blue, back to red, then purple. Before anything could be said, he put all his muscle into throwing them forward.
He wasn’t strong enough really add anything to the spell, and the twirl was purely for dramatic effect, but a placebo of added centripetal force would add to the pain, Elon was sure. Not to mention, turning thrown forcebolts into a whirling tornado before being slung back with equal force was more than enough to strike fear in their hearts.
His hypotheses held true, as two bolts hit each member of the opposition, knocking each one back. As they looked up drearily at him, he glared down, a bit of fluctuating arcane colors still locked in his eyes. “What, can’t take your own punch?”
The two lackeys scrambled to their feet and ran down the hallway. Eriford locked eyes right back at Elon. “You’ll regret this, Arroway.”
“No, I really won’t. It’ll be worth every second after I spread the news to the rest of the academy that you’re my bitch.”
He walked past Elon, contempt deep in his eyes. Elon stared right on forward, pleased with his display of hubris before he felt a series of knuckles collide with the back of his head. The floor hit him hard as he laid there unable and unwilling to move.
“You can fuck with magic all you want, Arroway, but all that meta-magic shit won’t save you from a real figh
t. Next time, it’ll be a fucking blade.”
Chapter 12: The Horror
Nephkeska, Northern Milakria
"It is just so fucking unfair!”
“Shhh,” Rhia hushed her. “My mam’ll hear you.”
“She doesn’t care; she swears as much as I do.”
“She so doesn’t.”
“No, see, you have a cool mum, Rhi. My parents are just so friggin’... Ugh.” She pounded at the bed frustratedly. Rhia sat back in her chair, moved from her desk out onto the carpet.
“So you’re grounded again, it’s not like you haven’t been before.”
“It’s not the point! It’s the gall of it, Rhi.”
“To be fair, it was past curfew with people they said you couldn’t see. And you were smoking.”
“So? I’m almost one twenty. I can handle myself, I don’t need them looking over my shoulder.”
“Yeah... I dunno. What’s the grounding?”
“No friends, no going out, not for a turn.”
“Sooo... Why’re you here?”
“They’re at temple, Rhi. If they ain’t home, they ain’t watching me. I’ll be home before they get there, like nothing ever happened.”
“I’m kinda surprised they didn’t drag you there.”
“So am I. My dad’s probably talking with his ‘people’ about what to do with me. Because I’m so unruly.” She laughed and fell back onto the bed as Rhia’s door rattled and opened.
“Hey Illy,” Cassie smiled warmly, walking in.
“Heya, Mrs. Rhia’s Mum.”
“Just reminding you, Rhia, you got homework tonight, make sure you get it done. You staying for dinner?”
“Nah, my folks’ll be back by then.”
“All right. You good for some steak wraps tonight, Rhi?”
“Sounds great, mam.” Cassie waltzed out of the room and shut the door.
“See?” Illy pointed at the door. “My mum would have been asking why you were here, asking about home assignments, telling me how long you could be here, then yelling at me for not telling her you were coming over. Your mum’s so chill.”
“Your mam’s cool too, Illy.”
“How?”
“She makes really good pot roast, and you’re totally off on that, she almost always leaves us to ourselves.”
“Nah, you’re right, it’s my dad’s always barging in.”
She attempted to play devil’s advocate for Illy’s father, but failed to come up with pros against the cons.
“Ah, see? You defend my mum, but my dad?”
“He tries.”
“And fails. Ugh, I’d be so much better off if I was just your sister.”
“Totally. We’d just stay up and talk, have slumber parties all the time, it’d be great.”
“It’d just be nice to have your mum for once. Not have a dad always up my ass.”
“He’s not as bad as you make him out to be, you know.”
“How’s he not?”
“He works hard for you guys. He’s always at the temple, real busy guy. The fact that he’s there to look over you shows he cares. He takes time out of his schedule to look after you.”
“Way to paint an overbearing workaholic into a good light, Rhi. You’ll note he doesn’t pull this stuff on Kiernan or Aella, certainly not Silas.”
“That’s ‘cause they’re all kids. You’re the oldest, of course he looks at you the closest. Kiernan’s eighty, Aella’s only fifty or so, they’re not up to the trouble you are.”
“True. They are little brats, though. Kiernan’s already a little drama queen, prissy little bitch.”
“I heard Aella beat up one of the boys at school.”
“Takes after me.” Illy flexed and patted her admittedly impressive bulging muscles. Again, there was a knock on the door. It opened almost simultaneously to Cassie standing in the doorway.
“Illy, your mom’s here to see you.”
“Aw crap. You couldn’t have just lied for me?”
She just raised an eyebrow at her and Illy hopped off the bed. Rhia hugged her and said, “See you when they let you out of the dungeon.”
“Right?” Illy stalked off, and Rhia popped her head out the door. Down the hallway to the living room, she saw Illy, loaded up with black leather, complete with belted boots, hair hanging to her waist dyed pitch black. She started going with this new look a few weeks ago, suiting her depressive mood as of late. Illy’s mom, Gwenyth, was in the doorway, white and blue dress on and flowing red hair in the soft breeze, the very picture of a preacher’s wife. She was glaring down at Illy.
“Sorry, Gwen. I didn’t know she was grounded.”
“It’s not your fault, Cassie. Illune should have known better.”
Illy stayed silent.
“Have a good one, Gwen! Always a pleasure.”
“See you at the temple, Cassie! Come on, Illy.” She grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her out the door.
“Later, Illy,” Cassandra called out as she shut the door. She turned to look back at Rhia. “You knew, you little turd.”
“Lies. I’m so very innocent.”
“I’m so sure.” She smiled and sauntered into the kitchen.
Rhia shut her door, grabbed a book on chemistry, and flopped onto the bed. Her stomach knotted a bit at some things Illy had said. It was nice to have a mom as nice and caring as hers, with enough money to afford luxuries like air-cooling and an icebox. Mages didn’t come out to Nephkeska, so all their magic items had to be imported. Cassie, having previously been editor and co-founder of a Terathor newspaper, still had money from it, and it allowed them a comfort not many others in town had.
Illy was her best friend, but their lives were so different. Rhia’s house, which she felt was small, was bigger than Illy’s, and Illy lived with two sisters, a brother, and two parents. They rarely hung out at her house since there was no room there. Illy didn’t even get her own room, she shared it with her sisters. If she remembered right, her brother would be moving in with them soon; he was getting old enough not to sleep in his parents’ room anymore.
Her home life was rough, Rhia understood well. Her father, Marik, was the town’s cleric. He ran the local temple of Mauvenara and was the religious center of the town. He had more power and influence than the mayor did, practically. As such, their family, and thus Illy, was well known in town and always under a watchful eye of the entire population. Illy, in her recent turns, had gotten quite the rebellious streak, despite her clerical training. Marik and Gwen were determined to get Illy on the righteous path, but Illy was determined to piss them off in any way she could. Currently, it was dressing in black, smoking, and hanging with all the wrong kids.
That is, except for Rhia. Marik and Gwen liked Rhia, since she was smart and a ‘good example.’ She knew, however, that they had spoken ill of her and her mom because of their money and luxury, as well as the fact that Cassie was a single parent. This didn’t stop Cassie from going to the temple every tendess for worship, and it didn’t stop them from being family friends. Her mom also said some less-than-kind things about them at the dinner table, but Rhia didn’t say anything. Why would she? Nothing she said compared to what spilled from Illy’s mouth.
She couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty, though. Many of Illy’s points were perfectly valid. Her parents were strict, really strict, and didn’t suit Illy’s lifestyle. Rhia did have it pretty easy, since her mom had always been lenient, always being supportive of Rhia no matter her decisions. They’d talked about tobacco and drugs and alcohol, and while she made it clear she didn’t approve, she gave Rhia the facts and said it was her choice. She made the choice to abstain based on facts, but it was nice that she had the choice.
Illy had no choices. She was on a set path
from her parents that by the might of the gods she would follow or there would be hell to pay. She longed to give Illy the same freedom, the same choices, the same upbringing, but she couldn’t. Illy would come over, complain about her situation, and Rhia would simply nod, frown, agree, tell her, ‘that sucks,’ and give her a hug. She felt helpless, useless.
It didn’t help that other kids gave her endless crap. The town wasn’t particularly prosperous, most people just scraping by, barely making enough to eat and pay off an alcohol addiction. Rhia got no end of crap for having money, having enough to live in relative comfort. They weren’t rolling in gold; they didn’t have a mansion by any means. Their house had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and living room, that was it, not that big. Almost fifty square meters.
They ate with ease, afforded life as her mom edited, getting manuscripts from a weekly postman. They weren’t rich; they just lived better than a lot of locals, and that got her scorn from many fellow classmates. She didn’t have to worry about whether she could eat or not, she didn’t have to wait for food until her mom was sober enough to cook, she didn’t have to dodge beer bottles at night or drag her mom to bed. This made her, quite unfortunately, unique in her class, she felt. Too many kids couldn’t say the same. They’d bully her, pick on her, yell at her for being happy, make her feel terrible for not living in the same conditions they did. It worked; the guilt crushed her.
She found herself commonly escaping into her books of science, fiction or non, just to get away from the world. Escape from the scorn of her peers, from the crippling empathetic pain from her best friend, and escape from the guilt of her home life. When she was reading about another world, another planet, weird creatures in space, she didn’t have to think in this world, deal with these problems, worry about this life.
She could hide inside a book and for once, just for a while, be free of any problems.
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