RP:Theory of Magic 101
This is a Mage's Guild RP.
Summary: Determined to learn more about her strange relationship with magic, Syrri Darkfoot takes the first steps in what will no doubt be a treacherous and illuminating adventure. A trip to the Mage Tower in Xalious Village brings the intrepid halfling face-to-face with the Archmage himself, and there is much fangirling. The awe-inspiring Magister Baines is name-dropped, and more fangirling ensues. Lanlan is obviously charmed by Syrri's earnest curiosities and adorably direct manner, and agrees to help the young Magic-Forgotten warrior for what are probably completely noble reasons. To conclude the scene, the pair make plans to begin testing the limits of Syrri's immunities next time they meet.
Meditation Center of the Mage Tower
As you step off the stairs, you see people who study the mystical arts all sitting or laying down in deep meditation. Some of them are chanting while others hum, speak soft prayers, or their own personal mantra. There are no windows in this room, but a small altar is at the far end of the room, with many candles sitting on and around it. The light in the room is thus a little dim, but it’s perfect for this room, creating a quite and kind atmosphere. All around you are nice, lush pillows and carpeting, very comfortable for one to relax and forget the body and expand the mind. There is also quiet music playing from an odd device in the corner of the room. This place seems very peaceful, and you can almost feel the spiritual world nearby. There are two sets of the carefully crafted stairways from here. One that goes up and one that goes down to the ground level.
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Lanlan is in the meditation center, taking a more relaxed approach to his monthly ‘office hours’, a time that he leaves available to address wants and needs from the general population. It allows him to be more in touch with the desires of his people, and allows them to see him in his natural state. That’s the perception at least, that he is a leader that deeply cares about his people. Normally he would take these moments in his office, but it’s currently being renovated, the story goes. Cynica is his eyes and ears at reception into the mage’s guild. A lithe and especially androgynous, beautiful elf standing at reception. They communicate with Lanlan using special enchanted parchment; the words they write in their notebook appear in Lanlan’s notebook in real time. They normally impart the reason for meeting him, to give him the barest hint, if possible. It’s a slow day. Not many have recovered from the festivities of the new year, and Lanlan is enjoying a rare treat: having nothing to do. It’s also an uncomfortable one, and he welcomes the latest guest’s entreatments without delay. Despite the weather outside, the temperature in this place is on the warm side, without being too dry. And he wears a sheer oversized sweater, woven from a thin but obscuring violet silk embroidered with such patterns you might find on a butterflies wings. Still, his outfit resists being too loud in this area for meditation.
The meditation center — much less the Mage's Tower — is not especially the intrepid halfling's first choice. In fact, the region of Xalious as a whole has been scarce an entry in her travelogue, but if there's anything known about Syrri Darkfoot, it is her curiosity for adventure. What better quest than one of self-discovery? At least, this is what Syrri has told herself while en route to the renowned tower. To help get herself into the right mental state for this most honorable of journeys, she arrived in the area by way of a wyvern who had, at this point, been quite tolerable of its rider's exuberant flying antics. Alit and wyvern stationed, she made her way to and into the Mage's Tower with all the fresh-faced effervescence of a young woman who absolutely loves to fly. She arrived dressed in dark blue-gray leather leggings and a matching long-sleeved top. A bright emerald tabard was draped around her narrow frame like a cloak, secured with a pin in the shape of a bronze torc, while comfortable but dusty riding boots carried her along the path guided by whatever welcoming persons the guild greeted her with. "No, I don't have one o' them appointments," she insisted with a blithe grin, confident that she would find someone, anyone really, about employing an instructor from the guild of mages. It was this query that ultimately led her to this center of meditation, a million and a quarter miles from her comfort zone. She was internally glad she had arranged her wild silver hair in two tightly-woven braids before flying to Xalious and that it wasn't now a halo of wind-swept chaos for as flustered as she felt in anticipation of a topic she herself scarcely understood. Squaring her petite shoulders, she finally found herself in the presence of the leader, a name and face she had had the privilege of meeting before. And as she steps forward, quietly with respect to the space she has intruded upon, she lifted her dual-colored eyes slowly to consider the elegantly-garbed elven figure. "Ex-excuse me," she began, her voice carrying a faint but not entirely indiscernible lilt common among native Halfling speakers yet just a smidge louder than it should have been. Her pale, freckled cheeks flushed as she continued in a dropped voice. "Syrri Darkfoot at your service." Contrary to her usually earnest and honest demeanor, Syrri's internal monologue hoped Lanlan would have forgotten how they met and she promised she would help with certain Big Bad Evil People and yet had failed to follow through. At least, a girl can dream.
Lanlan communicates with Cynica briefly, and Syrri passes through to him. His cushion is seated so he’s facing her when she finishes climbing the stairs and enters the meditation room, giving him some time to make an appraisal. A Halfling, but not a homebody like many of them. There’s an element of confidence to her gait, he thinks, only tilted somewhat by the unfamiliar circumstance, and, the presence of himself, he flatters himself to think. He’s offput somewhat as well. Normally, whether he likes it or not, his eyebrows long and feathery, would sample of the magical anatomy of a person in his presence. They starve and impart none of the subtle tickling he’s come to expect. He smiles, even with his eyes. “And I’m Lanlan, the Archmage here. It’s good to meet you!” He gestures to a cushion across from him, one that, like his own, is buoyed somewhat by his magic. To him, it feels like sitting on a cloud; he’s supported and feeling weightless, cushioned but uncrowded. “Or, maybe we’ve met before, but only briefly? Perhaps you saw me in my visit to the Burrows. Anyway, shouldn’t it be the other way around? Surely I am at -your- service. Tell me how I can help, and I will if I can.” He’s amicable as can be and even appears sincere. Only his best face for a stranger, of course.
Syrri probably couldn't help herself even if she tried; she always got a little overly enthusiastic when in the presence of Important People. As such, she tended toward behaving like a delightfully enamored, if awkward, fangirl. It was a completely true fact that she sought out Lanlan's eyes with stars in her own once she made her way into the meditation center itself. "It is a pleasure ta meet you again, Ser Lanlan. I think— well, I'm certain we met before, but in very different circumstances." However, Syrri made her way toward the seating arrangements with some hesitation; and the very reason for her visit broke her out of her metaphorically-enchanted stupor. "If you could help, that would be awesome." Syrri turned her azure-and-chestnut eyes toward the floating cloud cushion. "You see …" Her features twisted into an expression of self-doubt. "Magic and I have a … complicated relationship." The silver-haired warrior remained standing, her hands resting on her hips as she shifted from one foot to the other. "I ain't fit to be in a guild like this, not really … where I belong. But I must admit—" She took a couple of steps nearer the suggested seat, and gave the cushion a tentative poke with a gloved finger. "I don't -really- understand how it all works." The self-doubt melted away from her features to reveal a certain quality of gratitude. "I can pay, that's okay Ser, I'm hoping to hire a teacher to learn about magic. You know, like magic theory. Do you allow students in this style?"
Lanlan could see the admiration in her eyes. Those eyes were the reason for his existence. “Ah! So we did meet before, I knew we must’ve, however briefly.” Perhaps as a reward, or maybe just because he’s happier, he begins to jot something down in his journal. “Would you like something? Cynica is going to bring out some tea.” He wields a mischievous eye against her. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but if you like pastries, we -do- have someone with a specialty for baking, right here at the guild. I could have some brought out…” He would jot down her request, if it was within reason, and close the book, knowing it would come imminently. Then he returns his full attention to Syrri once more, more eager to see how he can help than before. Eager to maintain her attitude toward him. But her request is a difficult one. “Hmm. Perhaps I do see, in fact.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “We allow students of any level, of any understanding, and most don’t have to pay, merely cooperate. And understanding magic is perhaps as rewarding an endeavor as would be drinking the ocean, but,” he’s buying time. “It is taught nonetheless. Magical theory is taught from beginning to end. But would you say that you might be a special case?”
Syrri's blue-gold eyes widened with further delight that was tempered only by the relatively serious topic she was delicately trying to pursue. "Tea would be fine—" she tells the Archmage, although there is the slightest hitch in her speech. For reasons, she had left Ham and Eggs secured to Quicksilver's barding and bags when she stabled the pony in the village; as a result, her hands fidgeted with the leather belts slung around her hips rather than play with the Nightstone-banded pommels for comfort. The mention of pastries is an awfully presumptuous suggestion indeed, but the very last thing the well-meaning warrior intends is to disrupt the balance of social niceties required to get through this quest for knowledge on magical theory by being goaded by stereotypes related to her species. The grin she brings to her face is as earnest as any, and she firmly chooses to focus on the positives gained in this conversation. "Oh, well the thing is I can't do magic, I ain't here to waste anyone's time trying to change that. But … I feel it's time I learned a bit more about why that is, exactly."
Lanlan seems to be somewhat relieved by her admission. “Can’t do magic. I think I’ve heard my share of that in the past, but I do take it to mean something far more literal. It’s not something I choose, but most times I do get an impression from people with an inclination. But something else stood out to me when you walked into the room.” The tea and pastries arrive presently, “Thank you Cynica,” he says with eyes that linger on the elf for an extra jiffy. His coy smile adapts to a curious one for Syrri. “A lack. It was like, imagine if there was no wind. No breezes!” He waves his hands, caput. “Something you get so used to is suddenly gone.” He takes a cup to his lips, ignoring the pastries, they aren’t for him. “And people can -do- this! For a number of reasons. They do it intentionally, however.” He realizes his tangent was doing nothing to answer her plea. “Ah! But you had a request. Then, in short, the answer is yes. We will try to help you understand.” He replaces his teacup on a tray, kept hovering aloft despite the lack of table. It floats between them so either could easily make use of it. “I wonder, how far have you gone toward understanding this on your own? Have you learned anything? Or have you any theories?” He isn’t quite ready to hand out a questionnaire, but almost.
Syrri side-eyed the ubiquitous magic use with a nuanced layer of unease, her thumbs rubbing against the worn leather of her belts. She did not envy the ability to cast spells or channel energies currently foreign to her; in fact, she held a sobering respect for magic that exceeded the average person's. All the same, her 'lack,' as Lanlan called it, was a double-edged sword, and she nodded to him. "Yeah, I get that," she confided in him with a crooked half-smile. "It's definitely not something I'm tryin' to do on purpose. I've been like this as long as I can remember." Her narrow shoulders rolled in a dismissive shrug. "Some … sometimes magic seems to have an effect on me." She suddenly blushed all over, and her grin blossomed into dimpled cheeks. "Most of the time it doesn't. I don't know if you've ever gone to the tournaments in Frostmaw, but I used to be something of a duelist." The youthful Halfling didn't particularly care to boast of her accomplishments, and it was with a matter-of-fact tone that she continued; "I've studied weaponry and fighting tactics for many years, and used to do kind of great at the whole duelin' thing. People tend ta take magic for granted in those things." Of course, she fully understood that focusing on only might -or- magic can sometimes lead to deficits in the other. "It's not an all-the-time thing though. Knew a high priestess of Aramoth whose abilities healed me when none other could." This encouraged the woman to explore her faith, but that's a story for another time. With a vague gesture toward the scars that peek out from her hairline on her right temple, she added, "Usually just heal the old-fashioned way." Truthfully, she enjoyed the markings that bore witness to her martial prowess.
Lanlan slides a cigarette from his sleeve and flips it into his mouth. In a second it lights itself as he relaxes even deeper into his cloudformed cushion. “Hmm.” He exhales an herbal smoke, it smells fresh. “If it’s been as long as you can remember. Then maybe you’ve been this way since you were born?” He attempts to format his next question as tactfully as possible. “Do you know if your parents had similar experiences to you?” He spots her blushing, and considers that there might be an embarrassing story in there somewhere. Or maybe a romantic one. Tied to the time magic -did- work on her? “I’ve been to a couple of them, but I don’t participate. I’m really not a fighter,” he says, with what seems almost like regret. He can’t afford to let people in on his abilities, surprise was his perhaps the only element he could rely on. “I don’t have a tolerance for pain at all, I’m afraid!” He chuckles in a way that encourages her to laugh at him too. “Oh! A priestess of Aramoth. Then I wonder, maybe its particular to one or the other? Magister Baines here at the guild is also our resident expert on the divinities.” He cuts himself short here. “I’m somewhat inclined to be discreet with this matter,” he says. “It seems to be somewhat sensitive, in my opinion? But Magister Baines is someone we can trust. Not that I would ever say the others here can’t be trusted…!” But she understands. “If there’s one thing I can say about healing the old fashioned way, it teaches one patience. That can be good, because I have no theories yet. I have a feeling this ‘self exploration’ could take a good deal of time. But as with any exploration, I’m sure the journey will make the destination all the more worth it.”
Syrri offered up a sheepish shrug. "Pretty sure I was born this way," she confided. There was a certain curiosity that occupied her azure-and-chestnut eyes with the presentation of that herbal cigarette; while not a smoker herself, she found it not altogether unpleasant of a smell. "I never knew my mum," she continued a moment later. "But da was ..." The Darkfoot halfling paused, a ghost of a frown tugging at her pale lips. "Magic was his life. I ... wasn't quite what he expected from a kid, I think." Not that she had let it stop her from pursuing her passions with such fervor. "Magister Baines?" the cursed halfling found herself repeating with blatant interest. That fangirlish gleam had returned. In a vain attempt to temper her enthusiasm, she tacked on, "I appreciate your discretion, Ser Lanlan. And I appreciate all yer help." There was a cheekiness to her next smile. "I hope to make it up to you at some point." She's already fantasizing about the ways she can be Big and Strong for the guild.
Lanlan frowned just a little, in sympathy. “Not what he expected. Hm.” He doesn’t apologize on his behalf, but he thinks she means not what he -wanted-. “Surprises can be wonderful, in my experience. And challenges can be too, I look forward to helping you, in fact.” He drags on his cigarette a little more, a convenient tool for buying time when he needs it. “Valrae Baines,” he says, in case she knows her by the first name. “She’s also the mayor of Cenril and the High Priestess of the Devout’s Guild. And truly an asset to us here. And also, a very close personal friend.” It seems a little bit more than a name drop, but it is also very much a name drop. “I don’t think you have to make it up to me! I say it a lot but this time I mean it: we have a lot to learn from each other.” He nods and blows a slight and fading plume of smoke away from them. “I think we should meet regularly,” he says, rising from his cloud, which assists in the effort. “Would you see Cynica on the way out and have them help you with an appointment?” He (perhaps noticeably) doesn’t offer to shake her hand, wondering what adverse effect it might have on him. “Again, it was very nice meeting you, Syrri Darkfoot.”
The magic-less Halfling bobbed her head in a few excited nods. "Ohh, yes, I've hearda her." Syrri lived in a cave, not under a rock. The witch was infamous, whispered in ways that made the silver-haired warrior very curious. As of yet, she hadn't had the pleasure of meeting the Magister personally, but what an opportunity to arise! It was hard to contain her enthusiasm (not that she really tried). With the conclusion of this meeting looming ahead of them, Syrri nodded again, a bit more introspectively this time, though. "Yes, that makes the most sense. I can meet you here again— although it would be my honor to host you in Venturil." There would be ample space in Skjoldet's interim training yard, she reckoned. in case the new arena isn't built yet. In the meantime, her boots were turned toward the exit as she considered her closing remarks carefully. "Thank you for seeing me, I will talk with your, um. With Cynica, about settin' up our next rendezvous." At this point, she was grinning broadly as she arranged the folds of her emerald-green tabard-cloak. "Until next time!" The Warrior saluted the Archmage before showing herself back toward the reception area.