50th of Vhalar, Arc 716
From his room within the Coven's quarters, Alistair grew unruly. He'd begun to ponder, curiously, the next step of the Rupturing - advanced Compression, beginning with the Sundials. The mage rose to his feet, stepping to the corner of the wall and twisting his palm as an energy flowed through the base to the tips of his fingers. From the energy formed a Scrying portal, a thing he could use to see and speak to Damien from a distance. He'd connected it to the Lich's room, and from it they had been speaking consistently despite their difference of continents. It was one of the few things that brought him solace in the isolated predicament he'd found himself in, lost in Ne'haer with no friends to speak of.
He did seem to catch Damien's attention, though, which was a blessing. "Hey, Alistair," the Lich said, stepping towards the Scrying portal and waving to his apprentice. A tinge of excitement rose in the nobleman; Alistair could see him as if he were merely beyond a glass window, outside, trying to catch his attention. Unfortunately, a distance of thousands of miles separated them now rather than an inch of glass. Still, the Scrying was a wonderful thing. It'd been years since he'd used it actively, and especially from across such a vast distance. The last time he'd used Scrying in such a way was back in Korlasir, in the Empire, when he needed Ellasin's help to return to the West. He barely recalled the conversation they shared, but it was muddled and messy as if a poorly done piece of watercolor art. The clarity of the Scrying now was evidence of how far he'd come.
"Damien," he said excitedly. "It's good to see you. How are things in Rynmere?"
"Tiring," the Lich replied. "I'm very bored. Trying to entertain all of these apprentices is vaguely similar to when I was left in charge of the toddlers at the Cathedral of Yaralon. There's no Ellasin to spice things up with her megalomania, nor a single Alistair to pose me overtly dramatic questions about the meaning of life or whatever you worry about these days..." The man laughed, though Alistair could only roll his eyes.
"Mmhm," he said. "Well, I'm wondering about your assistance. I'm trying to build my first Sundial, and though I've commissioned the base from one of the blacksmiths in Ne'haer, I haven't actually done much work on it. I haven't done the coordinates, haven't planted the conduit, haven't even figured out how to properly read the Idalosian Global Index without stuffing myself with candle fluids and lighting the fuse..." That was again overt melodrama, but it wasn't far from the truth. And Alistair was one of the best doctors around - possibly in the world. His patience was legendary. But, reading about global coordinates was something that surpassed even those of legendary patience.
The Lich sighed. "I'm not a Rupturer, you know," he stated. Alistair nodded his head. "Yes, but you're a Transmutationist. You have to do all sorts of boring things with your transmutation circles. All the lines and symbols and glyphs and numbers. I imagine it's similarly as tedious. Can't you at least provide me entertainment? You said you've been bored, right?" To that, the man merely nodded with a frustrated look. It wasn't Damien's idea of fun, obsessing over mathematics and their relation to magic, but such was Rupturing. As fancy and enamoring as it was, the magic was filled with dull obsessions with things he couldn't even properly process. Math, the science of space and distance, astronomy and theories regarding compression of cosmic energy . . .
It was a mess of a magic - one ultimately complex. It made all too much sense that Reyard had been the one to modernize it, as the man himself made little sense at all.
From his room within the Coven's quarters, Alistair grew unruly. He'd begun to ponder, curiously, the next step of the Rupturing - advanced Compression, beginning with the Sundials. The mage rose to his feet, stepping to the corner of the wall and twisting his palm as an energy flowed through the base to the tips of his fingers. From the energy formed a Scrying portal, a thing he could use to see and speak to Damien from a distance. He'd connected it to the Lich's room, and from it they had been speaking consistently despite their difference of continents. It was one of the few things that brought him solace in the isolated predicament he'd found himself in, lost in Ne'haer with no friends to speak of.
He did seem to catch Damien's attention, though, which was a blessing. "Hey, Alistair," the Lich said, stepping towards the Scrying portal and waving to his apprentice. A tinge of excitement rose in the nobleman; Alistair could see him as if he were merely beyond a glass window, outside, trying to catch his attention. Unfortunately, a distance of thousands of miles separated them now rather than an inch of glass. Still, the Scrying was a wonderful thing. It'd been years since he'd used it actively, and especially from across such a vast distance. The last time he'd used Scrying in such a way was back in Korlasir, in the Empire, when he needed Ellasin's help to return to the West. He barely recalled the conversation they shared, but it was muddled and messy as if a poorly done piece of watercolor art. The clarity of the Scrying now was evidence of how far he'd come.
"Damien," he said excitedly. "It's good to see you. How are things in Rynmere?"
"Tiring," the Lich replied. "I'm very bored. Trying to entertain all of these apprentices is vaguely similar to when I was left in charge of the toddlers at the Cathedral of Yaralon. There's no Ellasin to spice things up with her megalomania, nor a single Alistair to pose me overtly dramatic questions about the meaning of life or whatever you worry about these days..." The man laughed, though Alistair could only roll his eyes.
"Mmhm," he said. "Well, I'm wondering about your assistance. I'm trying to build my first Sundial, and though I've commissioned the base from one of the blacksmiths in Ne'haer, I haven't actually done much work on it. I haven't done the coordinates, haven't planted the conduit, haven't even figured out how to properly read the Idalosian Global Index without stuffing myself with candle fluids and lighting the fuse..." That was again overt melodrama, but it wasn't far from the truth. And Alistair was one of the best doctors around - possibly in the world. His patience was legendary. But, reading about global coordinates was something that surpassed even those of legendary patience.
The Lich sighed. "I'm not a Rupturer, you know," he stated. Alistair nodded his head. "Yes, but you're a Transmutationist. You have to do all sorts of boring things with your transmutation circles. All the lines and symbols and glyphs and numbers. I imagine it's similarly as tedious. Can't you at least provide me entertainment? You said you've been bored, right?" To that, the man merely nodded with a frustrated look. It wasn't Damien's idea of fun, obsessing over mathematics and their relation to magic, but such was Rupturing. As fancy and enamoring as it was, the magic was filled with dull obsessions with things he couldn't even properly process. Math, the science of space and distance, astronomy and theories regarding compression of cosmic energy . . .
It was a mess of a magic - one ultimately complex. It made all too much sense that Reyard had been the one to modernize it, as the man himself made little sense at all.
