In the home of the Artiste...
Sigmund, after thanking the Artiste, goes upstairs to question the other mages, followed closely by Niklas. Sigmund goes up to the red-robed woman.
"Hello, I think that we haven't been introduced in the best way. I'm Sigmund. And you name was?"
"Erin. Pleased to meet you, Sigmund."
"So, the Artiste told me that you and the others are mages, aren't you? I guess that it would be difficult to learn that profession, am I right?"
"Well, there're exactly two tricks to it. First is making a focus - it's better to cast magic from a focus ya made yerself, ya know. Second is learning a technique - usually harder and more time consuming than making a focus. When you've got both, you're a master mage. Me, I'm still in the middle of developing a technique. More difficult than it sounds, but certainly possible."
Niklas, rather than pester Erin, walks to the golden-robed man.
"I have a question."
"Yes?"
"How does magic work?"
"Willpower and focus, mostly. Both a magical focus and mental focus. The magical focus is a translator, weaving your thoughts into reality, within reason, of course. A focus can be anything, but there's two main things to keep in mind - it should be something you have a kinship with, an important object of some sort or at least something you made yourself, and that the closer you are to it mentally and emotionally, the better it is. I know of a mage who chose his cat as his focus."
"What happened to this man?"
"He is the chief member of the Black Circle of Magic. Currently 167 years old and healthy, I believe, mostly due to life magic - that's what his cat does, by the way. Life magic. The cat's 129 years old and still a right bastard from what I hear. Can only get along with her master, much to the chagrin of the other members of the Circle. It's apparently really difficult to make something living your focus, though."
As the undead's brains swell with knowledge, Kevin plots in the shadows. This next thing he will do will be hilarious. So hilarious, you don't even know!
In a temple of Narcillicus...
Scott, not entirely satisfied by Narcillicus' response, tries to genuflect harder. Wonder what that breeze means.
For a moment, the repeating pattern of breezes stops. There is complete silence for a bit. Then the breezes return.
Outside the home of the Artiste...
Morton, picking up the teapot carefully with his dusting rag, checks how much spring water he has left, finding that it is about half a bucket. With that, he goes back into the kitchen and looks for a pitcher and some glasses.
Luckily, one of the cupboards is both made of solid steel and airtight, and it just so happens to contain a whole lot of glasses and even a few pitchers that have entirely escaped the existential horror of being trapped in a room with Niklas. He pours his tea into the pitcher, then into the glasses. There's still about half a pitcher of tea left in the pot, so he just puts the pot in the cupboard, relying on its safety.
After that, the apostle of the tea leaf quickly walks to Niklas and asks politely for one of his knives, receiving one in due time. Now it is time for the last touches. But for this, he will need lemons. Or limes, he supposes. He fishes around in the pile of food for a while, but finds nothing of the sort. He finds only unidentifiable goo. Ew.
It burns a little, actually. Maybe he should wash that hand.
At a well in Shriekpot...
After flipping off the well-slash-deathtrap, Mark makes his way out of the town, running back to the Artiste's home. He runs up the gangplank.
Dang, the Artiste is right there. Mark feels compelled to run back to a distance of 10 meters from the guy.
Man, magical restraining orders are a pain.
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Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 565391 times)