August 6th, 2 AC
Timothy glanced around the dome. Taking a moment to appreciate the shear variety portrayed by the children spread out before him. All self-awakened and between 12 and 15. After 15 they were eligible for a forced awakening. Before 12, well there was no limit, but it hadn't happened yet.
But age wasn't the half of it. There was a red-headed young lady with more freckles than not, and what skin she had was thin enough for blue vanes to be faintly visible.
There was a Nordic blonde girl who looked more like 17 than the 14 she was, tall and already growing in ways that were going to get her, and every young lad around her, in trouble.
There was what he was pretty sure was a Korean boy (slightly more angular face than Japanese and less round of face than Chinese, or was it the other way around?) who looked more like 9 sporting an adorably serious expression of resolve.
There were two young Creole boys, as similar as bronze peas in a pod, if he didn't play cards with their parents, he would have assumed they were twins, instead of brothers born a year apart.
There was even a tall, overly thin boy he was pretty sure he'd seen wandering about in the background at a few pathfinder conventions. But even without the hint, he'd still know where that overbred Aristo Brit look came from.
In their new little world, it meant Bloodhaven.
A dozen nationalities, multiple languages and enough culture shock to taze an elephant.
♪Gotta catch em all...♪ He whistled softly, then forced himself to stop.
“Good afternoon, my young would-be wizards.” He paused for a bit, letting them settle down, nodding to those who responded but not bothered by those who did not. They'd work out respect and politeness later.
“But is it really a Good Afternoon? Does it mean anything, or do we just say it out of habit?”
Timothy abruptly pointed sideways at the Korean boy. “What does it mean to you?”
He hesitated for a moment, then stood, bowing slightly and responded “Respectful greetings, nothing more.”
Timothy glanced around, seeing a general state of agreement on the faces surrounding him.
“We are all in agreement then? Excellent! Enjoy it for it's unlikely to happen very often.” Timothy nodded.
“But, shifting gears here, how did you know that's what I meant? I could have been saying that I am having a good afternoon. Or perhaps I hope you will have one. Just because its traditional doesn't mean it can't be literal as well.”
Not giving them enough time to respond, Timothy continued. “For that matter, how did you understand what my young friend here said enough to agree with him? He was-” Timothy stuttered slightly, he was going to say Korean, but wasn't willing to look stupid if he was wrong. “-n't speaking English.”
Timothy smiled at the sudden commotion. Disbelief and confusion reigned for a while before he dropped Silence on them.
“Consider if you please, I am speaking in English. How many of you don't speak that language?” Two dozen hands rose into the air.
Timothy waved them down and continued. “To make things even more interesting, most of you who don't, also don't speak the same different language. Yet everyone understood the meaning of that ambiguously polite phrase. How?”
He waited for several beats, but perhaps wisely no one volunteered a guess. “Because words are merely a vehicle for intent. My intent is strong enough to communicated even when the words do not. I push my meaning out and because it's my meaning, not your interpretation of my words, you cannot misunderstand. This is the basis for magic. The bridge between the physical and the mystical. Your willpower and meaning combined into intent can command mana.”
“We will get back to that later. I'll also point out, and get it out of the way now, that no, I am not reading your minds.”
The panic growing in the sparkling unstable intents that rasped against his senses didn't fade. If anything, it grew. He grinned.
“I don't have to; you are screaming out what you think all the time. What you felt from my words, I am feeling from all of you all the time. Because you are new to this, and you have NO control. So, when my young friend here spoke, and his intent shouted his meaning to me, I,” Timothy pulsed what he was hearing and at the same volume back at them for a moment, giving a sympathetic look at the flinches and painful grimaces. “-am echoing it back to you. A free translator. You are welcome.”
Timothy gave them a knowing look. “I won't be doing that forever, so spend some time figuring out how to listen. Pick someone who speaks something you don't and talk at each other. You'll figure it out eventually.” He hoped. They wouldn't get very far if they didn't.
“Once you figure out how to listen with your mind to what they Intend, then you can match intent with noise to learn their language. Languages effect thought. Implications, denotations and rich histories add complexities of meaning to base words that can greatly improve your spell work and broaden your mind. Or if you are into deals or oaths, the details you miss in their intent can still be binding.”
“As an example, we could call intent a crutch for communication. It aids our broken connection and allows us to continue on, albeit not as well as if we spoke the language. But in English, that word has some fairly negative connotations. It can imply taking a shortcut or a crippling lack somewhere.”
“Details can get you in a lot of trouble, but they can also be used to empower your words. All other things being equal, which they never are, the spell with the more complicated, consistent narrative will be more powerful. A consistent narrative, that's the rub. Lots of threads of conflicting meaning won't help.
That applies internally as well. When words align with singular focused intent, they can command great power. Be precise in what you say and what you mean.
Sometimes that means you have to go outside your comfort zone to find the right words. If English doesn't contain the meaning you want, borrow it from somewhere else or make up something entirely new. Either way, knowledge is rarely wasted. Listen and learn everything you can. At the very least it will give you more options.”
“Not because I give a-” Timothy paused, they were children he reminded himself, “-care about being culturally sensitive or any of that old world pap. I don't. I expect all of you to speak and understand English to a high degree because it's the language I am most comfortable with. Some of your other teachers may speak French and expect the same. When you come to a man for help, speaking his native tongue is a good way to butter him up. Just a thought.”
“I'll tell you one thing as encouragement. Knowledge in specific areas can snowball. Learn one to learn how to learn, and then every additional language learned will make you better at it. I know more than a few Origins who think magic itself is yet another language waiting for us to learn. I don't know if it’s true, but I don't know it's not true.”
“Even without that, consider folklore and legend. I use them extensively in my rituals and spells. If I want a ladder, it’s not hard to include Jack's Beanstalk. I don't have to tell you the full story, because most of you already know it. Leaning on that group understanding I can condense a good chunk of information into a few pithy words. The big bad wolf isn’t a bad tale if you want to deal with pigs in the open and Goldilocks is amazing for environmental spells.”
“But as simple as that sounds, if you don’t speak a few additional languages you might be in for a world of hurt. Those tales are older than Disney. Older than happy endings. And just because you don’t know the older, darker tales, doesn’t mean they don’t still apply. Learning those stories in their original languages will get you much closer to understanding where those pitfalls lie.”
Timothy let them chew on that for a moment, before continuing. “Now, let's talk about old tales in general. In particular, how to save and store them for the next generation. With that as a hint, now what do you suppose that stone stele, yes that sharp pillar-like object is called a stele, what do you think it's for?”
“A marker?”
“Well, you're not wrong, in time it will mark that platform as unequivocally yours, but that's not what I'm looking for.”
“A rock?”
“...yes, it's slate, but again that's not the key part.”
With an exasperated sigh, the Brit raised his hand, “It's a little blackboard!” The unspoken duh may have been unstated, but it was quite obvious. The youngster was going to have to get over that habit and soon. Timothy fought to keep a grin off his face as a great many glares fell on the boy.
He flinched slightly as the uncontrolled intent behind those glares fell onto his aura like two dozen fist blows. Without the control that training would bring, the blows were fairly weak. But quantity had a quality all of its own. He'd have bruises tonight. Not physical ones, but not less painful for it.
Timothy let it continue for a few seconds, who was he to deny the child the benefit of learning from his own mistakes? Before he extended his intent to shield the boy.
“Correct in spirit, if not entirely the full answer. Chalk isn't going to be of much help. Why do you suppose you each need your own almost-blackboard?” He paused a half-beat then continued. “For those of you who haven’t already tried this at home, I invite you to write your guesses on the piece of paper in front of you.”
He put on a brave front and smiled out at them cheerfully. What came next might just be a disaster. But only might. Everyone was different and maybe one of them would accidentally succeed where the rest of the Union had failed... and painfully failed at that.
Expectations create reality, to a degree at least. If he told them they would fail, and they believed it, then it would be nearly impossible to succeed. Likewise, with confidence even the hardest of tasks had a greater chance of success.
The operative terms were 'nearly impossible' and 'greater chance'. Expectations didn't create success wholesale without effort, nor would it cause failure without recourse. He just wanted to tip the scales in their favor.
He smiled casually, free of worry. Like he wasn't watching them like a hawk. Watching as they set charcoal to ugly loose weave wood pulp paper. Paper that didn't look like it had been soaked in a brine of the same plants that went into the incense.
It wouldn't change the results, just help them to happen faster. Much faster. Instead of hours later, the paper began to shred, smolder or fragment even as the first letters were formed. He was ready for it and snapped out several motion wards. Stopping the pieces from coating the room as the children's uncontrolled and randomly spiking intent absolutely destroyed the pages.
In most cases, he just contained potential messes, but in a couple, it was something more. The phrase 'accidentally awesome' came to mind as a piece of paper turned itself into ninja stars and launched in all directions. Sure, they probably wouldn't do more than cause paper cuts, but it still looked cool as hell! Less cool was the fire that sprung up, burning a little girl’s hands before he could react and snuff it out.
“Well, that went poorly. Not unexpectedly so, but still unfortunate.” Digging into a bag he pulled out a smokey glass bottle of burn cream. Be prepared and all that. It wasn't directly magical, they didn't have the skills yet to purify themselves from the foreign mana in a healing potion, but the ingredients were much more effective than an old-world cream. Enough to dull the pain and encourage healing. With a gesture, a dollop launched itself through the air to coat the girl’s injury. A bandage lined with sticky vine sap followed quickly after.
He glanced around dispensing a few additional bandages the same way. Paper cuts mostly. Still, he noticed a good quarter of children who hadn’t even tried. The looks of sympathy and remembered pain on their faces said all that needed to be said.
“Now, if I knew that was going to happen, why did I let you do it? Hell, why did I ask you to do it?” He paused, giving a sympathetic smile to the few injured children. “The answer is that I didn't know. I suspected. But much like I shouldn’t tell you exactly how to do something. I also need to avoid telling exactly what you can’t do. I reserve the right to tell you what you shouldn't do, but can’t is a different story. What's impossible for me, could be easy for one of you.”
He paused, “And yes, that even includes letting you get injured in the attempt. Get used to it. This is not a safe profession. And maybe, just maybe, all our pain and injuries will result in a child someday walking through those doors who will accomplish what we all have failed to do. You might get tired of hearing this, but just because we haven't found a way to do something, doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Until that way is found, we are left with a somewhat unfortunate situation. Materials have a set amount of strength. A capacity for mana and intent. It's not always tied to physical strength, beast blood ink is a good example, but in general the- let's call it a mystic capacity – of an object does follow the toughness. Paper is easy to tear, weak, thin and with a corresponding absolutely tiny mystic capacity. With your lack of control over your intent, you overfilled it. With predictably unpleasant results.”
“Since paper doesn't work, let’s look at a few other options. Who would like to guess what will happen with the rest of the materials I've provided, hmm?”
“They’ll explode too?” The Brit muttered, sucking on a cut finger.
Rising briefly from his cushion, Timothy knelt next to it above a nearly identical copy of the smallest board each child had and grabbed his own chisel. He took a breath and tamped down his intent. Pulling it back from translation duty and containing it inside his body. He then let a carefully metered amount flow out of his hand and down through the chisel's tip. It didn’t take effort or training to carve with intent. No, it took a great deal of both not to. Carving, especially when he was carving letters, was a way of communicating. Like the spoken word, it was a natural vehicle for intent. And naturally made things explode. Not exploding them was somewhat unnatural and took a significant amount of discipline and control.
The children had neither. Yet.
Like infants, they were screaming at the top of their lungs one moment and barely whispering the next. Even worse when emotions or hormones came into play. Poor bastards.
He pulled that thought back in quickly. If they were infants, he wasn't much better than a 10-year-old. He was capable of speech and even whispering! Congratulations Me! He snorted at the unflattering, if unfortunately accurate comparison. There was still a long way to go!
If his ego needed a boost, which it didn't, he could still glory in being a 10-year-old in the kindergarten. His control was exceptional among the first-generation pathfinders. A matter of focus. They trained to wield big hammers of magic. Lots of power, lots of effect, and all at once. Timothy went more with a carving knife. Carving traps and pits over a longer time period, but with devastating effect.
That mindset let him wright on frailer materials, forcefully preventing most of his intent from flowing into them. It was exceedingly tiresome to do and the results mostly weren't worth the effort. Intent-filled text was just better. Unmistakable and perfectly understandable, you couldn't ask for better. No, removing intent wasn't the answer. But control also determined how much intent a material could hold.
He didn't try to push the limits. Letting his intent out like a normal speaking voice. The point wasn’t to show off. Quite the opposite.
He spent about 30 seconds carving three short words into the soft balsa wood. The magically dense stone of the chisel carved through the soft wood like butter, even if it was a bit of a hassle to make his 'o's round. He really wanted his pen-is-mightier for this sort of thing, but that would come later. He held up the plaque, now covered in large letters reading “NOT FOR ME!”
“Give it a try. There is a lesson in all four materials and I hope all of you can find them. I have plenty of bandages, burn cream and whatnot. Trust me, as long as you are still breathing, it may take a bit, but you can be healed. Use your common sense, but don't let fear of a little pain keep you from learning something useful.”
He carefully set the plaque face down, hiding the cracking and slow growth of the letters. Balsa wood was very easy to work with, he'd made towers and model cars with it in the old world without anything more than a sharp knife and some glue. But it was its very softness, its lack of strength, that made it easy. It was a weak excuse for wood. The weakest that he'd been able to find. Add in the herbal soak and... Well, it was still wood so it wasn't likely to explode.
He dropped the Silence and sat back down. Leaning back into the comfortable beanbag with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. With his physical eyes at least. He extended his senses, hovering in the Field over each child. He didn't expect major issues with the wood, but chisels were sharp, and children accident prone. Case and point, Timothy winced as a small brunette, with an unfortunate twist to her lips that left her perpetually scowling, tested the chisel's tip with a finger... and left a deep bleeding cut. Seriously?
With a sigh he flicked his hand and a bandage shot out.
Then another.
And another! This time he took a moment to berate the girl. Pushing hard on a chisel with her leg directly behind it? He caught the chisel before it went too deep but it still bled like a stuck pig. She'd need some medical attention after class. Possibly an infection watch as well. On the positive side, it might scare her, and everyone else, into paying a bit more attention! Don't worry about a little pain does not mean act like an idiot!
“Everyone finished?” He paused, hearing many ‘yeses’ and no ‘noes’ he nodded. “Let's move on then.” he held up the thick piece of nearly violet wood threaded with black grain lines. A bit of oil brought out the grain structure but he hadn't painted it. It grew this color.
“I love this wood. It’s a reminder that we don’t know everything. Would any of you have believed that some trees grow purple?” He shook his head in admiration. “But while it is beautiful, I picked it for more practical reasons. Even before the reset, this was a tough and rugged hardwood. It's resistant to water rot and not bothered much by fungi. Add in mana? Well, you can figure that out for yourself. I’ll just say we build most of our riverboats from it.”
“It's called Amaranth, or sometimes Purple Heart. It’s not an uncommon jungle tree. But it doesn’t grow at the edges. This puts it in a very nice range of valuable, but still affordable.” He glanced around and added wryly. “At least from a common hunter’s perspective. You lot might not feel the same way right now. And yes, you will have to pay for it. You will pay for all your school supplies and no you can't get friends or family to help. When you finally figure out why, you will thank me for it.”
He picked up the chisel again and leaned into it, slowly forcing the essence-laden tip through a shallow cut. This was the dumbest way to do it but it was all they were capable of right now. It was real work and he was tempted to at least reinforce the tip with a bit of his intent. It wouldn't take much... haaa. Best not.
Without any cheats, he had to pull out all the stops. Carefully working with the grain and keeping his weight centered he took several minutes to painstakingly carve out a single word. “HARD.”
He held up the plaque, smiling at the children below. “Well? Go ahead.”
The doubt on their little faces pushed him to the limits. Barely able to hold in the laughter. Then he failed completely as one bright little guy child simply grabbed the charcoal. Timothy nearly fell out of his bean bag but managed to snap two walls of mist between the kid and his neighbors. Suddenly enclosed the child froze like a deer in the headlights.
Timothy pressed his intent against the tyke. Approval and encouragement in equal measures. Releasing a relieved breath the kid quickly sketched out “I did it!” on the surface before holding the plaque up triumphantly. Timothy, his eyes dancing with mirth, raised his thumb in response.
He wasn’t the only child to have some form of success of course. More than a few scratched a word or two when they failed to carve with the chisel. Another pulled a fist-sized blueberry wrapped in a handkerchief out of his pocket, leftover from lunch no doubt, smashed it, and used the resulting juice to finger-paint. The blue didn’t show up very well against purple, but Timothy gave him points for creativity.
Most accomplished almost nothing of course, not having the upper body strength or the understanding of their own weight. Or worse, requiring him to snap out several protective wards and dispense a few more bandages.
But hey, at least a few did manage, in one way or another. It gave him some hope for the class. Hope that they were smarter than they looked. More, he hoped they'd be open-minded enough to learn to look outside the box for solutions. “Alright students, hold up your plaques and show each other what you have.” He dropped the mist walls that surrounded the more cheaty of the lot. Not that that was an objection. He rather approved of workarounds. At least when they actually worked.
“Hard, wasn't it? Did you enjoy it?” He paused, giving them a chance to air their complaints and agreement in equal measure. Sneaking a quick wink at the charcoal child. He would have to remove the charcoal before he tried this next time. Workarounds were good, but he didn't have to make it easy for them.
Then again, maybe he should leave it, the results made a nice statement.
With a flick of his finger, the boy’s slab lept into the air and began to rotate through the classroom, giving everyone a good look. Already the charcoal, being considerably less durable than the wood, was crumbling away. Letters were already unreadable and it was getting worse by the moment.
The blueberry juice had long since decomposed and the shallow scratches some children had managed were already twisting and deforming as the wood cracked and aged around them. He could tell they'd tried, but it was already completely illegible.
Timothy held up his own purple heart slab, along with his balsa wood. The balsa wood was now an unreadable spiderweb of cracks and charcoal but the Amaranth, despite looking like he'd carved it several days ago was still completely readable.
“Right now, you have no volume control on your intent and writing on weaker materials takes fine control at the best of times. With time and practice, many of you will be able to work around that. All of you should be at least able to speak without slamming your intent into your listeners. And that's important because it’s not just materials that can explode.”
He didn't give them time to think about that unpleasant fact. “And the easiest way I know to improve is to learn to listen. Here-” he taped his temple, "as much as here." he tapped his ear. "Only when you can hear your intent fluctuating will you be able to start clamping down on it."
Timothy glanced around at his non-English speaking children and smiled broadly at a large, well-built girl on the older end of the spectrum. She'd managed a decent carving.
Probably German, and considering the young lady's already significant musculature he had a pretty good idea where she was from. The bodybuilders of Baumhaus were an odd lot, but like all survivors of the early years, their methods worked. Even if those methods weren't Timothy's cup of tea.
With a crook of his finger her plaque shot into Timothy's hand. Merely touching the word, “starke” with two dots above the a, and he could feel her intent filling it. It whispered strength to him, though he didn't speak more than a few words of German.
With a gesture, his own plaque shot back to the German girl. “Pass it around please.” He launched her plaque to the opposite side of the circle. “Give it a try, what did the beautiful young lady write?” He ignored her blushing, slight as it was. It was true enough, even if the bodybuilder look was a bit nonstandard. She was a beautiful child, on her way to growing into a striking young woman.
Leaning back, he let the two pieces make the rounds. English or German, or hell even Kanji if the poor Korean lad had the strength for it, it didn't matter. The intent within told its own tale.
“Intent is a blessing as well as an obstacle. It makes writing difficult, and materials that can store significant amounts of complex information are often unwieldy or extremely expensive-” Timothy paused, reaching down to open a stone safe. It took a dozen seconds or so to release several wards and the locking enchantment, but at last he came up with a massive book, of sorts at least.
It was not the slim paperback of his youth. Nor even the leather-bound collectors’ editions he'd occasionally handled. Each page was five times thicker than the thickest old world page he’d ever seen and the thick leather that enclosed it looked more like armor plating than a cover.
The only thing that gave the game away was the title carved into that armor plating. “A Meaning in Herbs.” Dusting off the book for a moment he started to hand it out then reconsidered. It was both too large, too heavy and too valuable.
He slowly opened it, pausing to appreciate each of the thick, handwritten pages even as he marveled at all the small things that had a disproportionate impact.
There was no introduction, no table of contents or the back-slapping 'I won page' modern books always seemed to include. Certainly no, 'I dedicate this page to my loving fans who will buy it in droves.' The 'paper' was far too valuable to waste in self-aggrandizement. That and personally signing your name was a pretty easy link for someone else to curse you with.
Each page was a prime section of high Tier 2 beast leather. Carefully cleaned, de-haired and preserved. Velum they might have called it in the old-world, though the examples he'd seen were much thinner and whiter than what was in front of Timothy.
Finding a suitable entry, he held up the book, showcasing the thick velum pages first, then the clean sketch of the maggoty carrot-looking roots of the arrowroot plant. To the right was another picture of its leafy top sticking above the ground and a third sketch of the types of climates and surroundings where it was most likely to be found.
All of it sketched in with a rich reddish-black ink. There was no text, instead, Timothy felt the intent within, an entire encyclopedia entry of information, from where it grows in the wild, to how to grow it locally and following up with its symbolic attributes, how to extract those properties and several more mystical uses for them once extracted.
That alone would have been impressive enough, but it wasn't just saving page space. The author’s understanding was included. Not just: plant the root six inches deep, but here's what the earth should feel like, here's how wet it should be. How to find it in every season and how it might change with maturity. Where to look for patches and how to spot them amidst the clutter of the jungle floor or plains. Even what the mana should feel like for domesticated variants. It was priceless knowledge and experience, not just text you had to understand and misinterpret.
The entire block of information was quite large. Large enough to cause headaches, migraines or worse if the reader lacked the capacity, or at least the control to take it in small bites. Possessing both traits in spades, Timothy carefully drew out a small portion, just the basic properties, then pulsed it through his intent to the class.
He waited for the blank looks in their eyes to pass before he repeated the process with the next chunk. Carefully holding the entire block in his mind so as not to strain the page with repeated use.
It took most of 10 minutes, minutes the class spent glassy-eyed and nearly catatonic. Just to finish a portion of the first page. Timothy closed and put the book back in the safe. Re-warding it shut while giving them time to absorb the information and recover. Though most wouldn't be able to hold onto much, they didn't have the background knowledge or the training in rank memorization. Not yet at least. Either way, they'd be suffering from a mild headache for the next few hours. But when that faded, their mind would be stronger.
When he felt they'd recovered enough to pay attention, he continued, “That was just a taste. Not even a full page. I trust you can imagine how much total information this book holds. Valuable information. Worth more coin than you lot have ever seen. And that's with my sister, the Green Mother, selling it at cost. Just paying for the materials would bankrupt all but the richest individuals. So, it’s rarely individuals that own tomes like this. Its Holds that are the customers, holding, if you'll pardon the pun, them in trust as public references.”
“Knowledge is the most valuable commodity we have, but storing it and retrieving it are non-trivial tasks. You can try for cheap or convenient, pick one. On the cheap side, you could just find an exposed rock face. A large one, mind you and spend all the effort needed to carve a big picture filled with intent into it. A lot of work and it's not portable when you're done. It's not terribly private either.”
“Or you can go the other direction. Use something stronger that contain the information. The pages you saw earlier are alchemically treated tier 2 beast hide and ink made with the blood of the same beast along with several other expensive herbs and minerals. It takes an expert to prepare it and I imagine I don't have to tell you how much all of that costs?”
Timothy sighed. “There are less than 15 copies of “A Meaning in Herbs” in the entire union.” And Jenney had slaved away to make even that happen. She wanted to have one for each Hold, but just hadn't been able to finish them all yet.
“Just crafting a blank tome is expensive and time-consuming, then the Green Mother had to draw each page by hand.” Timothy grinned out at his audience, ignoring the raised hands. He was pretty sure he knew what they were about to ask. “No, if you're wondering, we haven't found a way to cheese it, despite spending a considerable amount of effort in that regard. We tried carving it into stone and making rubbings. The intent doesn't transfer unless you can hold the entire contents of the stamp at the front of your mind and transfer it at the same time.” Which was frankly harder than just slowly adding it as you drew.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
“The intent has to be added with the images. I won't say it's an absolute, or that there are no potential workarounds. It isn't and there are. Small stamps work for individual words for instance. But the stamper still has to understand and make the transfer. The stamp can't do it on its own.”
“Understanding. That's a good lead-in. The writer has to understand, not just have read but really internalized, the information to embed it in a material. So each book is The Green Mothers' personal work. Some day, one of her apprentices might have do that. But they don't have that understanding yet. Very few people do, and before you ask, I'm not one of them.”
The looks he was getting were turning a bit dubious. It did nice things for his ego to see, but he had to nip that in the bud. “I can't copy it because I'm not much of a gardener. I've never planted arrowroot. I've never babied it through infancy and into maturity. I don't know how it reacts to fertilizer, growth spells or excessive water. All I know in that regard is what you could also know. What she wrote.”
“Not every plant she included is so richly detailed. Some only grow in the wild so planting instructions are worthless and others even she hasn't had enough experience with to do more than provide best practices for harvesting. It's still a massive amount of information.”
“If any of you want to go through and really practice everything in the book, go for it. It’s an area of study that is very much worth your time. And after half a decade or so of dedicated work, if you are talented in the subject, you might be able to write your own book... If you can afford the raw materials and if your reputation is high enough for people to buy it. Oh, and also if you've been diligent in learning to control your intent.”
“That's a small taste of real magic. It's not science, it's and art. Experiments are rarely repeatable and even rarer between different people. Your frame of mind at the time, your level of understanding that changes day to day and even personal perspectives, all of these things can and will change each spell you cast. Everything you try to communicate.”
“So here we are. Able to communicate so much clearer than we could in the old world. But 'listening' is actually harder. And recording even more so. It's ironic really. I started this entire lesson in my head because I was worried about how you, my new students, could take notes. All that information... Silly, isn't it?”
“But let's call that your first milestone. The goal to cap the first section of your training. Find a way to record notes for me. I won't tell you exactly how to do that, but I'll give you a few hints on starting steps. First, you need to strengthen and control your intent.”
“I’ll be providing practice tasks, homework and suggestions to help you with that. Then we add on a few things. The language lessons I suggested and the jobs you will need to take on to pay for your room, board and school supplies. Now once all of that is done, in your copious free time that is.” Timothy gave them an evil grin. “You need to start theorizing. Think up methods for writing on stone, hardwoods or whatever else you can think up. Think, I want to emphasize this again. Only think. Do not do. Not yet. You could get something much worse than a paper cut or a small burn.”
“With that warning given, take a look at this.” He held up his pen-is-mightier, activated the cutting field and took a swipe, leaving a perfect, polished cut across the stele to his right. “I've seen a Pathfinder use his own blood and will to etch the stone like an acid. Another imbued so much intent into her finger that it destroyed the stone locally, leaving perfectly legible letters behind. Others make powerful inks or make the wood grow into the letter shapes they desire.”
“There are hundreds of tricks used throughout the Union and I hope you lot will double that. So that's your schedule for the next month or more. I'll write down the particulars for you on my stele, this time at least. You are free to check it whenever this room is open and class is not in session.”
“Again, think up ideas, DO NOT try any magic outside of my direct supervision! It's not because I'm trying to hold you back. It's because I don't want you to kill yourselves.”
Silence, and not the magically induced variety covered the room. “This is not a safe profession, and each of you is going to be walking on a knife blade for the next few years. Don't make it any more dangerous for yourself than it already is. Pay attention. Use your common sense. And when in doubt, ask.”
“Now, moving past that unfortunately morbid point, in a month or two, I will expect you to have at least three ideas. Three unique ideas. If I call on someone else first and they tell me your idea, then you had better have a backup, and more likely a large number of backups.” A chorus of groans leaked out as understanding started to fill their eyes.
He hesitated then continued. “Also, until you've mastered your intent, you are not to talk to or spend any length of time around the unawakened. In particular not around children. It's not just wood or stone that stores intent, hmm? Your brains do as well, that's why you have a headache. Remember, explosions are bad, m'kay?” Timothy glanced out sternly.
He waited a moment to let the warning sink in, then gestured to a stocky brunet 13-year-old. She stood up rapidly, if a bit gracelessly. “When will that end, Runefather? I have a little sister I...” She trailed off looking both worried and miserable.
“That depends on you. Normally that month to two should do it. But in a few rare cases, where they wanted power so much that they never learned control, it never went away. Even after I give you the go-ahead, you still have to be careful. It takes constant effort and self-control to live with norms without harming them. Even for those of us with great control, we still need to worry about losing our tempers. It can and has resulted in several deaths.” And hadn't that been a shit fest...
He stared at the horrified girl for a few seconds then relented. “There is damage with brand new awakened but only the very powerful can deliberately kill with it. If you put in the work, talking won't be a problem. Strong emotions can still break your control, but they would at most leave her bedridden for a few days. Painful and traumatic, but not permanent.” The damage wasn’t at least... The relationships were another matter.
Timothy waved her back into her seat “Communication.”
Timothy mused, running his mind over a few experiments he ran the month before. “It all comes back to that. Casting spells at its heart is about communicating your intent to mana. To get better at that, you will train yourself to be 'speak' clearer. Think clearer. The unfortunate consequence is that everything you say, or think loudly will start to have power.”
Timothy made another gesture and a stone pillar rose from the floor. Pushing up a painting, watercolors on balsa wood. The colors were garish and the subject matter, a human standing between supine giant camo leopards with her hands on their backs, absurd. Not to mention the title of 'Life in Harmony'.
“Now as an example, this is a painting, if you want to call it that. It's the work of an unawakened artist and has no intent embedded in her... somewhat questionable subject matter. I DISPISE it.” Like a baseball hitting a glass window the painting splintered, spiderwebbed cracks reaching every edge from a dense not in the middle. Timothy waited a few seconds, then nodded as it collapsed into scraps and sawdust.
“Yes, I bought it for the privilege of destroying it. Yes, it’s a bit of a dick move. Yes, I had a good reason for it. And yes, I will explain, just let me finish this thought first.”
Clearing his throat he continued. “It's a long way off, but you need to create the right kind of habits now. In the distant future, hasty, angry words, ill-thought words, or even ill-controlled thoughts, could cause significant damage. Many people are calling it killing intent. Though it’s not just hate or bloodlust. Have a care and think, even now, before you speak.”
He stared out, willing them to understand. “Going back to my willful destruction of someone else's art, I need you to understand that what I'm saying isn't some fluff about me being a better person. Lies, even seemingly mild or white ones that occur in greetings or compliments to a significant other's pants, hurt. Any discordance between what I mean and what I say can destabilize my magic and cause my more delicate rituals to backlash. I really did find it disgusting. And while lies hurt, I don’t actually know a way to project Intent that I don’t feel.”
“Only with a true emotional reaction can I show you what damage directed intent can do. Otherwise, I assure you, I’d not have given that… lady money for that terrible image.”
Timothy smiled as an awkward round of laughter spread through the still shocked and fearful children. That was a bit more serious than he'd intended. Trying for a change of mood he pulled out an incense burner and walked forward off his dais.
“Now, having dragged you through the many things you shouldn't do, let’s move on to something you should. What say we try some actual magic, hmm?”
A chorus of excited voices quickly chimed in with agreement.
“Now, eenie meenie miney mo” Timothy semi-randomly pointed to a boy to his left. “What do you choose to be called young man?”
“Ah, I ah, I don't have a handle yet.” He admitted with a red face.
“Might want to work on that very quickly. If you don't pick something appropriate, I can tell you from experience, you will likely have something unpleasant picked for you. To prove it, you are now Flopsy McIndecisive.” Ignoring a garbled objection he continued on.
“Come on down Flopsy, sit here.” With a gesture, a stone stool rose out of the floor in front of the dais, with another stool in front of that to serve as a table.
Nonplussed the boy floated up at another of Timothy's gestures, kicking wildly as he sailed through the air to drop, gently, onto the stool. “Thank you for moving so promptly! Now to get started.”
With a few simple, practiced movements Timothy drew out a stick of incense, placed it in the burner and lit it. He waited a few seconds as the smoke started to rise, then glared causing the burner's carved runes to light up in a radiant purple as the floating smoke was yanked backward, balling up now merely a foot above its source.
As the smoke continued to build up, he looked around for a moment, then began to speak again. “There is an old Celtic, or maybe it was Welsh, I can't remember... Google knows, but I don’t. Anyway, there is a legend. A legend about Ceridwen and Talisen. She was either a goddess or a sorceress of considerable skill who had three children.
The smoke abruptly contracted, taking the form of a small slim black-haired woman with three unformed clumps of smoke in front of her. A second passed and each of them in turn took human form. The first two formed into pretty enough children, but the third was hideous.
“Now I won't attempt to pronounce their names, I think you have to be born in the area to manage it, but the third child was not simply ugly, he was also stupid and had great trouble learning even the simplest of things. Despite these massive flaws, Ceridwen was still a mother, and she loved him dearly. Knowing what he was, she sought by her arts to provide him with some help to cover for his shortcomings.”
“So, with many costly herbs and great skill she brewed up a potion that contained the sum of all knowledge.” In time with his words, a great cauldron appeared over a fire and dozens of plants danced their way into its smoking mouth while the dark-haired women furiously stirred. Her brows pinched up in concentration.
Then she faded away and an old man and a boy took her place. The old man began to take wood from a pile and feed the flames while the boy climbed up on a stool and began to stir.
“But the potion needed to brew for a year and a day and she could not abandon her responsibilities to personally stir it for such a long time. So, she hired an old man and a boy to do the busy work. And for a year and a day they did.”
Time sped up; a tree appeared behind the fire. It grew green leaves from bare winter branches that then shifted to bright yellows and browns, then at last fell to leave the branches bear once more. All the while the fire was fed at full fast-forward speeds and the pot was stirred faster than a blender. Then time froze and all but the potion with it. In that frozen moment, three drops bubbled up and splattered out of the simmering liquid.
“But at the very end of the allotted time, the potion splashed onto the stirring boy.” Time restarted but at a normal pace. The drops fell on the boy’s hand and he jerked away and shoved his burning digits in his mouth to ease the pain.
“Now Ceridwen was watching,” her dark-haired form swirled into existence on the side, eyes wide and smoldering with rage. “-and knew her plan had failed, for the three drops contained the sum of the potion's strength and she didn't have the herbs or the time for a second attempt.” Ceridwen’s image lunged forward fingers extended like claws, mouth open and teeth bared like fangs. “But the boy now had the sum of all knowledge and he was not so easily dealt with.”
The boy's form shifted and collapsed into a hare that darted out of the clearing. Ceridwen's form in turn morphed into a greyhound and darted after the rabbit. The rabbit, seeing the dog gaining on it lept into a river and became a fish, darting away downstream. In turn the dog dove in and became an otter rapidly catching up to the fish. Again, losing ground the fish jumped from the waters and became a dove winging away. But the otter lept out as well and became a great hawk and gained on him just as quickly as ever. Running low on both hope and ideas the boy returned full circle to the barn behind the still-smoking cauldron and became a grain of wheat in a full granary.
But Ceridwen was not so easily escaped either. She became a hen and pecked through and ate every last grain of wheat, including the boy.
“Now you might say that Ceridwen won this battle. The boy may have had the knowledge, but not the skill in using it. But the story doesn't stop there. For Ceridwen found herself pregnant.”
The hen became a woman and walking back to her home and three boys the seasons changed once again even as her belly grew to the bursting. The smoke eddied and lost its form. Becoming just a cloud again. “The story continues as a great epic tale, well worth hearing but you'll have to find someone else to tell you the rest. Suffice it to say, Talison was born and Ceridwen could not bear to kill a child of her own body, but neither would she raise a thief, even an accidental one. The boy was sent off with many a mystical and heroic event, stories well worth hearing if you can find someone to tell the tale, before eventually becoming the greatest and most powerful bard of Celtic... Welsh? Anyway, of legend.”
“I mentioned before, legends are powerful things. They tell us about times long past, and even if they're exaggerated, or straight fiction, they still teach us important lessons. Like remembering to hire someone to do long boring jobs for you. Also, intentional or not, there will still be repercussions. I could also point out that only defending will never let you win. Sooner or later, they will find an attack that works.”
Timothy grinned, “But most importantly, in the face of certain defeat, change the contest. Cheat. The original boy had no chance of survival and indeed did not survive. But in time another boy was born from him, and while a mother’s love was the weapon used against the first, it was the shield for the second. Transformations, both of kind and of thought. Look beyond the obvious and find new solutions.”
“Intent is willpower combined with meaning made manifest. Willpower will come with practice, but meaning comes with study and experimentation. These incense burners will help you with both. Forcing your will on the smoke will exercise it, helping you to improve. Experiencing how one bit of mana can feed into another, will improve your understanding.”
Timothy ran a gentle hand around the rim of the burner. “Several Pathfinders had a hand in making these. It's the best tool we could think up. It's not how I did it. Or how most of them did it either. But at its roots, it is something that occurs in all of our paths.”
Timothy gestured to the smoke cloud in front of himself and it exploded into a nauseating mass of multicolored threads, puddles and shadows of something that might or might not have actually been there, but they certainly weren't capable of describing. “It feeds into the third leg of your training, mana. This is how I see the mana flow. It's all around us all the time, you just don't see it. Yet. It's a chaotic mess of every kind of mana you can think of, and many more that you can't. So chaotic that its incredibly difficult to use directly.”
He cupped his hands to the side, forming a small 2D image of a fire in the smoke, complete with an equally small circle of stones to hold it. Recognizably a campfire even with the limited details. Then with a pulse of intent, Timothy pushed the ideal of it outward. An image of warmth. The scent of stories told for generations and visible in the smoke. Nostalgia and safety given form. A memory of mankind, perhaps imagined, huddling over similar flames dressed in rugged untreated hides.
The idea hung there, stable but unmoving for a few moments, then like an artist’s painting in fast forward it rapidly gained life. Rocks gained definition and a light coating of soot. Gray flames began to flicker and turn a light yellowish red. And at every step, small moats of color left the chaotic mess to join with it, depositing a bit more detail, a bit more mana with every shard.
“First there is an idea. A concept real enough to resonate with the mana flow. Then your will forms the impetus, forcing the idea into existence, and drawing in mana to fuel it.”
“This isn't terribly difficult, though it can be time-consuming. Mana wants to have purpose. To have meaning. I offer the mana a concept ripe with that meaning and any mana that is conceptually similar rushes to join in. In the process, it becomes tainted with the meaning my image embodies. This is now campfire mana. My campfire mana to be specific. It's all of one kind, no longer chaotic or wild, and ready for use.”
Timothy glanced out at the room for a moment then back at Flopsy. “But let’s not get too far ahead. You and I are going to have a friendly little transformation duel. I made the first move, transforming chaos into a campfire, what transformation of mana will deal with it? To make things simpler this time, I suggest you try to put it out. Though there are no rules here. Some other time, you might add people to it and claim it by increasing the complexity, or shift it into something else entirely.”
Still red-faced and with a bit of anger in the set of his shoulders, the boy thought for a few moments, then reached forward to place both hands around the incense burner, closing his eyes. It took a few moments, but a portion of the smoke cloud drifted upwards to form a fluffy disk. A cloud, Timothy figured with a second glance, though not a great one. The unmoving droplets of rain beneath it were a pretty easy clue.
Like the fire, it hung motionless and rough for a few moments, then translucent blue and fluffy white mana specs drifted from Timothy's still manifested image of the Field. Slowly bringing the image to life.
The monochrome, idealized water droplets gained color first, slimming down from exaggerated droplets to something a bit leaner as they began to fall. It was still rough, and the clouds looked more like gray cotton balls, but it was moving. And wet, which was better than Timothy expected for a first attempt frankly.
It was like, hmm. Timothy mused. Like the painting of a first grader or one of those glued macaroni images. Not pretty, but still something for a parent to coo over and Timothy was more than willing to put it up on his nonexistent fridge.
Unfortunately, what it didn't do was put out the fire. The small drizzle burst into steam before it even made contact with the flames.
The boy’s shoulders hunched and he withdrew into himself at the failure. Timothy held in a sigh. He was too tender and needed to toughen up. But Timothy didn't have it in him to stomp on his cringing form.
“Not a bad idea, rain can indeed put out fires,” He said trying to project some warmth and approval in the simple words “but my fire has had time to collect several units of mana, three or four mana as we judge it. Your rain cloud is drawing in some mana, but it’s a very slow feed. You'll need to work on your understanding of clouds before it speeds up. Even then though, I have a head start, a direct contest between mana of apposing types favors me.”
“Still, it was better than I expected for a first attempt and your idea was well thought out. Don't hang your head. That's it, raise it up with some pride. Better, now try again, but not a vague idea. Not something you've seen a few times but don't understand. Go with something you've felt. You've played with and have a real feel for.”
The boy, now sitting straight and with a bit of determination in his chubby features closed his eyes again with his tongue sticking out from between his lips. Another bit of free smoke moved out of the cloud and spread out to the side of the fire. Forming a simple hillside overlooking it. A dirt hillside without ground cover to hold it steady and with a steep slope. The rain continued to fall, but this time onto the dirt rather than the flames. Brown spots of mana filtered over at a much faster pace to mix with the spots of blue from above. In time earth turned to mud and the already unstable hill started trembling.
It wasn't a quick transition, but its slow speed just gave it time to collect more mana from the flow, which in an underground room was heavily biased towards earth variants anyway, building up until the mudslide was both inevitable and unstoppable.”
It said something about young boys that this concept was much clearer. Mud he understood, rain? Not so much. Either way, the massive wave of mud rumbled downward and waved under the fire.
“Very good, Flopsy!” Timothy called out. It wasn't a direct contest of mana density this time. Fire doesn't burn dirt. It might dry the mud out a bit, but that still left it covered and suffocating.
Without the flames to hold it, the built-up campfire mana held for a time, then like heat began to slowly bleed away.
Timothy glanced up at the rest of the class. “He found an excellent counter that takes advantage of the local mana concentrations, hint, hint, and I trust you noticed how giving it a bit more time to collect mana before the conflict occurred paid off? He also leveraged a much better understanding of mud and its interactions with fire into a victory despite his construct having considerably less mana.”
“An excellent start, Flopsy! Now let me show you how to improve on that start. Can you see the remnant fire mana? It's starting to fade away, but it’s not gone yet. It also isn't Flopsy's. It’s still my mana, and it's still available for use. The mud won, but it’s not any stronger now than at the beginning.”
“The best solutions harness the opponent’s mana and claim it for your own. Let me show you what I mean. A transformation that will grab these disparate forces and unite them as one. Stepping outside the box a little bit, fire is a concept. It’s not just burning flames; it can be so many other things. From the comfort and nostalgia, I showed you earlier, to a simple spark. A spark of flame won't help me, but what if I take a step to the side and think of a spark of life.”
A small green leaf broke through the piled mud and quickly grew into a towering tree. A tree that in turn dropped its leaves and grew new ones in a rapid cycle of a full year in a dozen seconds. The buried yellow-red mana twisted through the seeds into a verdant green color, as did the muddy brown and the still-falling droplets of blue. The remaining ideas continued to draw in mana, but the mana was continuously converted into Timothy's tree mana.
As half a minute passed, new saplings began to push buds up through the muddy-looking smoke. “It's your turn again.” Timothy gave a gentle reminder to the spellbound child. “The longer you wait, the more mana the image absorbs and the harder it will be to face directly. You will have to do what I just did, take advantage of what's there rather than fighting it. You need to be tricky.”
With his eyes closed again, Timothy would have to fix that habit, everyone here would have to deal with combat at some point. Still, he'd do it later. Wouldn't do to kill his burgeoning confidence. He needed him interested and engaged. Along with the rest of the class.
A small fire sparked into existence.
Rapidly flowing over the built-up leaves gathering steam as it did. It consumed some of the small saplings, but having exhausted the available fuel it bypassed the larger central tree without doing more than moderate damage to its outer bark. Greenwood wasn't easy to burn.
Timothy waited for a few extra seconds, making sure everyone saw him waiting for his turn, then with a small flex of will, the ash-strewn smokey ground rapidly began to regrow. And in fact, came back all the faster for the rich nutrients the fire left behind.
“That is an excellent transformation! You didn't succeed in terms of a dual.” He glanced sideways at the abashed child. He'd definitely wanted to fire back at his teacher, no pun intended. Timothy grinned at him. A child without spunk wasn't worth teaching. Even if it made them frequently pains in the ass. “But it was in the right line of thought. Co-opting my wood with fire to make your own ash. In turn, I co-opted your ash to make even more wood.”
“Let’s let someone else have a turn, hmm.” The boy nodded bashfully and headed back to his seat. “Who has an idea? Who thinks they can convert all this entrenched mana and meaning into something else?”
A few moments passed, then a hand shot into the air, wagging a redhead and petite frame beneath it. At Timothy's gesture, she darted off her platform and damn near teleported to plop down in front of the burner. Placing her hands on the burner she stared up intently. A few moments later, small black specks started taking form. Pulling in several indeterminate gray and brown mana specs for a time. Then the spots started moving. Scurrying even. All over the small forest’s greenery. As time passed, the specks increased greatly in number till a virtual oil slick was covering the proto forest.
Timothy squinted at them, holding back his intent and only using his eyes to be fair. Ants maybe? Then he caught a bit of light diffusing off a forming brown dust cloud. Ahh! Bark Beatles or Termites? Already the time accelerated forest was starting to show brown leaves and dimpled trunks. Nasty little shits.
Less than a minute later, sawdust was covering the grass and trees were already dying. Worse than death, it was complete destruction. The standing deadwood didn't make room, like the fire did, for new growth. Its dead roots strangled out the potential for new life.
Timothy gave the girl in front of him a sympathetic look. That kind of devastation didn't come from a book, nor simple imagination. This was fear. Fear that came from experience.
“Well done, for those of you who haven't figured it out. She used insects. Termites mostly. They're nasty little bastards and I’m sorry that you know them so well.”
Rachel shuddered a bit. “Our home was condemned when I was 10. It... was pretty bad.”
“Indeed.” Timothy gave her a gentle pat on the head before turning to face the class. “Death can also be a transformation. The tree is still there. The wood mana didn't go away, but where it was once live wood mana growing and increasing in quantity on its own, it’s now dead. It's also an obstacle to prevent new growth. Almost the opposite, no? The mana didn't go away, it was just changed. It's no longer drawing in mana from the earth and water, but the life that was there has been converted over and now belongs to her. Well, done. Let’s continue shall we?”
The smallest thread of his intent reached up to still-present rain clouds and a bolt of lightning came down. Where before the tree was green, moist and fire resistant. It was now dead and dry. The strike was too bright to see, but the flames that followed it were not. And soon enough they were not something you could look away from as the smokey world seemed to explode into aggressive and vicious flames. No campfire warmth, no comfort and no nostalgia here. It was primal and terrifying. A great beast of flames let loose, unstoppable and uncaring. Destroying everything, wiping clean the slate. But in time even that beast had nothing left to feed on. It starved and also died. Leaving nothing left but ash, and death. A world waiting.
Timothy glanced at little Rachel with a raised eyebrow, wondering if she would see the destruction for what it was. She caught his eye and grinned. She turned back and it only took a few moments before a small green sprout struggled through the ash, beginning the cycle over once again.
“Dead on!” Timothy praised, before turning back to the class. Now, this wasn't the only way. I could have taken the dead wood and turned it into furniture or a house. She could have taken the cleared fields and made a farm. It's not just a cycle of nature that you can use here. It's anything you can think of and more.”
“Concepts are going to be a key part of your life moving forward. Take the time to learn everything you can from them. Also, remember that they are rarely only one thing. Take death for instance. It gets a bad rap. If it’s a pantheon of gods, the bad guy in the story is almost always the death god. We see rotting meats as disease fodder or just plain nasty. But that's not the full story. It can also be the meat on your table for dinner. It can be the fresh compost in your garden. Keep an open mind. Concepts are rarely evil or good.” That took sapience.
With a flick of his hand, and a hidden flex of his will, the growing forest collapsed back into smoke, the mana rapidly decaying into simpler forms. “Now, it’s no fun if only two of us play while the rest watch, so~” Timothy gestured and a full set of burners, complete with incense sticks flew out from a cupboard along the back wall like chicks behind their mother. Circling the room briefly, before spreading out to drop, one between every two children.
“Ta, da. Enjoy. A few final hints and a summary. Understanding is a force multiplier. A good idea that you barely comprehend will fare far worse than a mediocre idea that you are highly experienced with.”
“Also, don't get trapped into following the same old paths. It doesn't have to be a nature show. A vase upside down might suffocate a fire. Leather armor might let a man or beast survive thorns. You can race, you can fight, you can play tricks or hide one transformation inside another. Try it all, and anything else that I didn't mention. And, if you find yourself losing a battle, always remember, change the game! Surprise me and your opponent with something new and original.”
“I repeat, new and original. This is not a test to see if you find the best set of variations and repeatedly beat your classmates with it. Don't do that please. Sure, you should try to memorize as many variations as you can but don't try to find the 'best' ones. Instead, train your mind to adapt and overcome no matter what your opponent throws at you.”
“Now, have fun!”