mage to mage communication.
TO HIS GREAT EMBARRASSMENT, Lorenz had put little thought in the decision: his prowess in magic afforded him a great deal of leniancy, and to prove his mastery and earn the high marks he craves, he’d all but selected a spell at random from a pool he’d yet to master, chosen the one that was so far out of his usual range of elemental mastery but whose equations still felt familiar enough that he was not walking blindly without a map. Luna, said the chapter heading; mastered, said the mark he’d earned for it.
He had not touched it since, not to cast in the heat of battle, and not even once to practice since it had been added to repertoire. Neglected for stronger spells and other whims that caught his eye.
Lorenz could consider it accidental, just like the choice of spell. He’s had his hands full, after all, and it stands to reason mastery of Thyrsus comes before all else. But, as following that path has taken—detours, it stands to reason progress could be made elsewhere in the interim, while he’s left chasing rabbit holes of ancestry and the whims of cryptic peers. And so, his attention turns back to other places where his knowledge is lacking.
He cannot truly say he’s mastered it without proper use, but proper use requires swallowing the trepidation he feels. It hadn’t sunk in during the impulse to learn it, but dark magic remains the study of few for reasons—
—Well, reasons that, upon reflection, he can’t quite put to words, other than learning from mentors throughout his life that it is a very fickle, very volatile thing, not usually for the faint of heart to try.
Idly, as Lorenz tucks away old journals of bygone Gloucester ancestors and sets Thyrsus back to rights in its lacquered box of a home—another hour of focusing on Thyrsus’s steep learning curve—he wonders how solid that grasp on the reasons why truly is.
Lorenz elects to linger after his own training is done, journals and Thyrsus tucked neatly in a bag, and elects to lean, just a little, for a time underneath the shade of one of the columns that make the large border of the training grounds, to watch others in their work as he sits with his thoughts.
It pays, sometimes, to lay in wait and observe: as he fusses with pulling the scarf around his neck tighter for the afternoon chill, he observes one man, absorbed in his own training, and a spell that has not crossed Lorenz’s vision before. Advanced, he’d venture a guess, as its caster does not give off any appearance of being an amateur.
Lorenz finds himself enraptured. He watches, for a time, current frustrations melting from his expression as pure curiosity finds a spark within his gaze.
It isn’t long before he is out of the shadow of columns, bag slung over his shoulder and crossing the training grounds. He elects to approach from the side, waiting patiently for a moment where concentration will not be so swiftly broken.
“Pardon my intrusion!”
Jovial as can be, Lorenz offers a smile and a courteous bow of his head before pressing ever-onward, adjusting the straps of his back and straightening himself, first in his eagerness and second for his manners. “But I believe myself to be in possession of a keen eye for recognizing spells, even from a distance, but I’ve yet to see that one cast before, be it in training or in practical application. May I ask what it is you’re practicing?”
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