Michael's Wish, part 2

Michael found Morgan in his study. Morgan's fingers flew over the pages of a book. Michael cleared his throat to announce himself. Morgan slid a pagemarker near his finger and closed the book. He placed it on a small table and indicated the seat next to him. Michael sat down and breathed loudly to indicate he was thinking about something. Morgan spoke first. “You are going to entreat me to be home this year.”

Michael nodded noisily. He looked at the several shelves worth of braille books and wondered idly if Morgan had bought any since their mother had tried burn his collection. “The only gift I want this year is to see you smile on Christmas Day.”

“A simple request,” Morgan responded. “Yet, it is one that I am profoundly at odds to give.”

Michael made a keening noise while shaking his head. “I think after thirty years, she can let us have this one special day together again. I can bind her tongue myself, if necessary.”

“It will not be necessary,” Morgan said plainly. “She has not forced me away since Father passed on. It was from him she was keeping me.”

“Then, where have you been all these years?”

“I have been trying not to force myself into the excessive cheeriness of the season. It does not ring true for me. And I would not rob you of your happiness and love of it by sitting about melancholic and ineffective. All this time of year does... is make me wish I could have spent it with Dad.”

As Micheal reached out to embrace him, Morgan stood and walked out of the room with a haunted expression on his face. Michael did not sense an incipient attack, so he let him go, wondering.

Michael's Wish, part 1

Year 35: Michael picked tinsel off his clothes as he went to find Morgan. The festive December spirit that overtook the household every year grew as the children did. Michael loved it. However, there was always one shadow that fell over it, and Michael found himself every year wishing that Morgan could spend Christmas Day home with him and their family. There was a very old photo of them when they were four or five sitting with their father in the large drawing room. Morgan was actually smiling in it. Michael could not remember another December twenty-fifth when Morgan was present. He presumed that their mother would drag him away just to deny him the innocent joy of the season.

As they grew older, Morgan would show up on December twenty-sixth beaten and bloody. The wounds grew progressively worse over time. The effect on Morgan's spirit was noticeable. He stopped partaking in the festivities leading up to the holiday. He'd become morose at the end of November. Any attempts to engage him in activities would lead to a stilted, almost mechanical, participation.

There was one small, but salient, exception. As practicing Anglicans, they often were willing to aid their congregation. Their parish was never short funds. So, on Christmas Eve, Morgan traditionally sang for the evening mass. They would then go back to the small church at the barony and he would repeat his performance in a common mass. Then, at some point between compline and midnight, he would disappear.

He's Got the Whole World

The elven community kept on with its daily routine despite Michael's presence. They spared him a glance, maybe even a short stare, but no more than a brief stop. He continued walking through until someone recognized his aura as Scafir. When they started gathering around, he was unsure of exactly what they wanted. He listened closely and they seemed to be whispering about whether he was friendly or maleficient. He distractedly pressed forward. A child tried to tug on his leg. He stopped and asked in Elven, “What do you need?”

The child made a hand gesture. Michael had no idea what he was gesturing. He wrote the question on the ground. The child gave a quizzical look. The child drew a small four-legged animal. He made more hand gestures. Michael clearly mouthed out the word for 'lost.' The child nodded. Michael return the nod with a quiet 'aaah...'

Michael walked with the child a short while away. He made a bowl shape with his hands. The rest of the community looked at him in wonder. Michael kindly requested a bowl and some water. When they hesitated, he sighed and went to a well. He pulled up water and motioned the young boy over. Michael positioned the child's hand so his fingertips gently touched to water. Michael put his own hands underneath the child's and started chanting. The crowd watched in wondrous awe. A vision appeared to both of them. The child gratefully reached up and hugged him and ran off.

Michael stood up and the village elder said, “You are unlike any Scafir we've seen. Who are you?”

Michael smiled at the old woman and said, “Just a humble man who can talk to dragons.”

She bowed. The crowd followed suit. “Then, you deserve your birth more than any I've seen.”

World Mechanics 4

Bloodline major:
The'pf: draconic, mental, compulsive
Scafir: ley, elemental, enhancing
Gemen: latent, creative, imputive
Magir: djinni, inherent, evocative
Human: none, technological

Bloodline minor:
dracon = the'pf/scafir
ogre = the'pf/gemen
orc = the'pf/magir
dwarves = scafir/gemen
elves = scafir/magir
gnomes = gemen/magir

Arcana:
divination, essence, illusion, manifestation, nullification, portation, projection, restoration

The Teachers' Pet

Year 37: Valerie stood within the circle of the court. Everyone had varying degrees of self-interest on their face. She had been anticipating this meeting for awhile. Poker faces and subterfuge are not the mages' best areas. As Valerie waited, an arcanum formed in her mind...

(Valerie: “What is arcana?”
Morgan: “Most spellcasters use magic that is natural and intuitive to themselves. It's called bloodline magic. It requires a little instruction early in life and then one can discover abilities on their own. Arcana is magic that has to be learned. One may have a gift for numbers, but one cannot just naturally know calculus. It is that way with arcana. Many avoid it because it is difficult. And at your age, even bloodline magic will take work to learn.”
Valerie: “Then, teach me both.”)

“You have failed to impress us as a leader,” they started. They were using a shared mind technique that few mages liked using. She must be seen as a bigger threat than each other individually was seen. She kept her incant silent and hid her hands in her skirts. “As such we do not think an inexperienced and weak caster should lead us.”

(Michael: “Fighting as a caster requires being able to cast quickly and you need good grip on evocative casting. However, fighting a caster physically is a better option, as it can buy you time for slower spellcasting. And pain is a great way to keep a less physically fit person from casting at all. So, first I will teach you to fight. Then, we'll work on incorporating spells with swordplay and martial manoeuvres.”)

“Are you sure?” she asked passively. “Experience I may lack but are you absolutely sure I am weak?” The arcana pattern stood brightly in her mind as her hands steadily worked.

(Morgan: “Silent spellcasting requires intimate knowledge of your spells and your technique. And it requires lots and lots of practice.”
Valerie: “I have the time.”
Morgan: “Then, let us have at it.”)

In unison, they all pointed at her and declared, “You are deposed.” As they did so, a brilliant set of sigils flared in the air and flashed about the room. Valerie's hands completed the movements necessary and the brilliance faded. She removed her crown and let it fall hollowly to the ground. “Bite me,” she snapped.

(Michael: “Ideally, you should never engage in a fight that you don't have at least an even chance of winning. If conditions aren't ideal, force them to be.”)

All the illusions they carefully maintained, all their personal protections, and all the enchantments and wards about the room failed as her last spell suppressed all magic in the council chamber. She bared her sword, kicked off her shoes, and said, “Now, who wants to fight me for the crown?”

Based on an Actual Conversation:

Morgan: Do you know about Berlioz?
Michael: I know he's a composer, otherwise je ne c'est qua.
Karen: What does that mean?
Michael: Berlioz?
Karen: Jen nay say qua?
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: I don't know either. What does that mean?
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: The French you just said.
Michael: Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes, that.
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: But you just used the phrase.
Michael: Yes, I don't know what.
Karen: The French phrase.
Morgan (getting amused): Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes.
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: Neither of you knows what it means?
Michael: Yes, we both do.
Karen: And?
Michael: I. Don't. Know. What. Ne comprenez-vous pas?
Karen: What did he just say?
Morgan: Don't you understand?
Karen: No, I don't.
Morgan: That's what he asked.
Karen: What?
Michael: No, don't you understand?
Karen: Of course I don't understand! I don't know what ...
Michael: Je ne c'est qua.
Karen: Argh! I don't know what! Don't you understand?
Both: Elle l'a fait! (She got it!)

And With This Sword...

Valerie appeared in a princess gown. The clicking on the floor suggested she was wearing heels. Michael stared in consternation. “Does this mean you're skipping your lessons today?”

“No,” she said with relish and unsheathed her sword.

Michael quickly jumped back as she lunged. She moved well, even with the natural impediments. Michael had to dodge her sword tip several times before he managed to free his saber. He put his hand up for her to stop. “Wait. Think about this. If you're seriously going to fight in that dress, do it more intelligently. You will tire out far faster than I will with all that added bulk and, from what I can tell, you can't breathe very heavily in it.”

She was already making straining breaths and only nodded in response. He retracted his hand and exhaled, “En garde!”

He let her control the the flow for a minute and was pleased to find she was steering him towards obstacles and a wall, restricting his reactions. He counted strokes, then pressed, breaking her rhythm. The same restricted space that she had been using to control his actions, became a problem with his longer reach. He stroked low at her legs. The dress took a lot of rents. She wasn't giving much ground, but was having problems moving in. Finally, she kicked out, reaching Michael's ribs. She enhanced the kick. He could feel the magical touch. Impressed, he was flattened to the wall, unable to say so. He incanted himself to get out of the position.

He swept up at her beltline and she shot electricity at his face. He let a reflexive incant and his sword take it. The residual shock made him drop his sword. She lowered her blade to a neutral position. Rubbing his numb arm, he said proudly, “I don't think I have anything else to teach you. Now you just need a lot of practice.”

He wiped his brow with a pocket cloth. “And different sparring partners. Not everyone is going to fight the way I do, or as clumsily.”

“And they told me girls can't fight.” She sheated her blade, straining for deep breaths against the dress stays.

“I certainly never said that,” Michael smiled. “You've earned your name.”