Biting her lip, the demure arcanist takes a long pause, subtly attempting the quell the rising tide of magic that threatened to overtake her. Snaking through her veins like a covetous, hungry thing, the infused Arcwine burned her from the inside like purest frostfire. It wasn’t entirely unpleasurable; however--unexpected and inopportune--it derailed her train of thought, rendering her mute as the vast majority of her concentration was expended upon the task of keeping herself contained.
Even still, entangled in its grip, with it offered so nonchalantly there was the urge for...-more-. She could no more fight against this desire than she could turn day to night. And so, she merely nodded in agreeance with both his assertion and his question, holding out her glass with limp fingers to fill both empty cup and empty space for her receding voice.
It was of course, as the Archmage desired. One never dealt with a Whitespire without an ace in the pocket. The family was inordinately powerful; and even this graceful swan, Cyan’thiel Whitespire’s youngest daughter, possessed his fiery soul within her frosty exterior. He suspected she had no idea what really happened to her parents; else, he couldn’t imagine that she would have willingly returned to Eldre’Thalas. It was not the time nor was it his place to inform her, however. The Archmage had other goals in mind this day, and his ambition allowed for naught to get in the way of his aims.
With a flick of his wrist, the decanter hovered up from its resting place and levitated over to her trembling glass, filling it well and full again before returning to top off his own and return to its place on the table. Taking a long sip, he set his glass down with a soft thud. Time to get to the point, and quickly, while she was subdued.
“My dear Miss Whitespire. Your beauty and grace are indeed as it has been said, and your skill in magic is formidable.” When her answer was merely a quizzical arched brow, he nodded, continuing quickly. “More so perhaps than even you realize.” The Archmage pushed himself up from his desk, gave one firm tug at his robes to situate them, and padded languidly forward toward the scrying pool which exuded its light in the corner of the office, shimmering and quiet. With a wave of his hand over its placid surface, the illumination increased, slowly coalescing into colors and shapes to help make his point.
“You, my dear, are not just an arcanist; you are a -sorceress-. You are the scion of an ancient magical bloodline. More than that: you likely could out-do them all, should you wish.” Peering aside toward her, with a wave of his arm he invited her forward. The shapes in the pool took on the form of a delicate spire, spiraling in concentric circles toward the ceiling; the colors turned blue and ice-white. “I am aware of your feat at the Nexus with your ‘Collective’. Is it lost upon you that most who would dare such a task would have perished? I assure you, it certainly wasn’t the -human- mage who ensured that feat was successful.” Light gushed through the structure, pouring out of the top of the model tower; pulsing to the ceiling where it crawled toward the edges of the room, vanishing in seeking fingers of smoke.
