The Last Day
Date: 18th of Cylus, 714
Though no one had told him, Dromus knew what Roslyn planned for him. It was obvious, after all. In the time since Cylus' first snowfall, the young sorcerer's mentor had only come face to face with him for moments, giving him task on paper, sent by others. Clearly she was preparing for her next student, which implied that Dromus' own apprenticeship would be coming to an end. As was custom, a ceremony would take place, and with Cylus' chill, it would take place indoors. The sorcerer would, of course, play along. While feigning ignorance was never his strong suit, isolating himself from his peers was a feat the young sorcerer knew to accomplish with ease. The room the boy was in was filled with the chatter of fellow Neophytes, few in number but oh so boisterous, prattling off about their journey through the various disciplines of Arcana. Or if not that, the weight of the chores set upon them by lady Roslyn. Or, the meal that would soon follow.
After all, Dromus was not listening. Nor would he engage. Surely, for fear of revealing the Warlock's plans, the Neophytes avoided the sorcerer this day, knowing that his roundabout questioning, inquisitive stare, and polite demeanor would likely coax from them the answer he desired. It was unnecessary to insist upon their company. Instead, Dromus took his leave, moving first to the Hideaway commons to take a coat to cover his slender form. Making sure that the garment was well-fitted and revealing nothing of his torso, he made his way forward, the chill permeating within the hideaway, eliciting more than one shiver from the Neophytes within as Dromus ventured alone into the snow. Freezing air filled the sorcerer's lungs as he exited, his eyes widening as his heart began to pace furiously in his chest. Already, his body was attempting to adjust to the cold, a thin layer of sweat permeating upon the flesh of his face before freezing and producing small crystals of ice. A hand rose to clear Dromus' features of the intrusion, and as the sorcerer breathed once more, his eyes fell shut.
Ignore the weather. Ignore the chill. The beating of your own heart in your ears. These things are inconsequential
The thought cleared Dromus' mind as the shiver racked his form, his breath frothing as a wisp of air as his eyes opened to find his hand before him, the silver ring fitted onto his third finger glinting in the faint light from inside of the Hideaway. In that ring, there was resolution. Without it, Dromus was a eternal mind cloaked in the frail form of a mortal. With it, however, he had the potential to be so much more. A grin cast upon his features as the sorcerer allowed himself to extend his reach beyond his physical form. The conduit that was his ring began to pulse as Dromus willed Arcana to pull from the air. A breath was taken as the pulse grew stronger, pounding upon his finger as his own heart pounded against his rib cage. In but a second, several things happened. First, Dromus felt the indomitable rush as Arcana bent to his will. Then, his mind twisted the Arcana, rending impurities from it and pulling the pure essence into the ring. Immediately, Dromus' ring kneaded the Arcana, following the sorcerer's command. And lastly, the kneaded Arcana burst forth from the conduit, responding to Dromus' will as a Push. Force beckoned to the sorcerer's will, leaping forward and gouging into the snow before him. A hole carved into the snow, force melting the uppermost layer and scattering about, a fissure materializing within the powder and branching forth. Dromus' The ground did not bend to Dromus' spell, though it could be seen as the force wedged the snow from the impact, forming a vertical divide extending fifteen feet forward and two feet deep, frozen, green grass visible at last.
This was the culmination of Dromus' learning. The ability to breathe his will into force. Into power. The smile that parted Dromus' lips was not one of surprise, or astonishment, but of pride. For the sorcerer, after this day, would no longer be a 'learner', a Neophyte, but an Acolyte. A practitioner, blazing forward on the path to the title of a Sorcerer.
"Impressive," the all-too-familiar voice cut into the sorcerer's thought, Dromus' dark gaze casting from the fallen snow and behind him, to where the visage of the sorceress adept stood, bemusement obvious in her expression.
"I should be capable of more. Dispersion is a problem now that there is power behind the Push."
Dromus' response was automatic, prepared for he knew that Roslyn would not compliment him if she did not expect his assessment of it all.
"And how does one deal with dispersion?"
"Focus, yes. However, using one's environment as a factor is the pinnacle of Gravitation. Enclosed spaces and narrow paths can channel your Push. Obstacles may stop it, though overcoming them turn those same obstacles into weapons at your disposal."
The sorcerer had much to learn, yet. However, for the moment, he allowed himself a moment to be proud. If only a moment.
"Is it tomorrow?" he asked his mentor, breaking the minute of silence that passed between them. Roslyn did not answer immediately, instead taking Dromus' hand and pulling him back into the Hideaway, where his fellow Neophytes greeted him.
"Yes." she answered before absconding, leaving the young sorcerer to celebrate with his peers.