Alicenne remembers where she is. This isn’t the famed Mage’s Hall of Rexsalia, this is her attic-room. She’s still an apprentice; that was just another dream, just like the last one too. It’s happening too often, she thinks to herself, she shouldn’t be dreaming like this so often. She lazily eyes the clock from her comfortable bed, still wrapped in soft white sheets and blankets of assorted furs. She drowses as if meandering within her own mind, and before she knows it, it’s half past six.
This would be a perfectly acceptable time to be waking up, were it not for her mage mentor -- Lord Domnicke Mitslas, though he asks to go by Master Nicke. Nearly two decades her senior but less experienced of a mage than most masters, he’s a decent man, as far as she is concerned, but one with… odd idiosyncrasies. One such quirk includes his abominable circadian rhythm, and it is with attentive detail that she notes it is his circadian rhythm. The man wakes naturally at four in the morning. On a regular day, he’ll nevertheless hesitate to wake until at least five, but he has admitted on several occasions to feeling sluggish and slothly for doing so. Oh Creator forbid him from ever marrying. As his apprentice, he expects Alicenne to be awake at six and ready by seven - in which time he has already performed his daily exercises, meditated on the holy scriptures, and prepared himself breakfast.
She rolls out of bed and onto the floor, cushioned by the blankets still wrapped around her, and then climbs out of those blankets so that she might shower and change into some decent clothing; silk white shirt, plaid waistcoat, black pants, decorative girdle, and tall boots - the usual working uniform she puts up with under Domnicke’s tutelage. It’s not bad fashion, but it grows continuously humiliating for a woman of her status to be consistently out-dressed by a man who believes purple is just a shade of blue. To add insult to injury, every morning he has the gall to ask her if she couldn’t have worn something more colorful. When she’s clean and dressed, she checks the time again - not seven yet but getting close. She grabs a mint from the snack vases and begins crunching into it, finishing as quickly as she can before she grabs a pitcher of water with which to rinse her mouth. With no time to brush one can only improvise. The breakfasts here are always scented aromatically, regardless. She ties a bow around the collar of her shirt as she hurries downstairs to the dining chamber - the clocks ding seven just as she leaves.
Master Nicke is already waiting with his elderly mother and the household servants at the dinner table, of course, preparing to say grace. He seems to have been the only one not minding his own business, choosing instead to watch for Alicenne’s approach. He fakes a fatherly frown when she makes eye contact.
“I thought I taught you punctuality, Apprentice - the clocks rang seven. Come and join us for grace. Today our lesson shall diverge from the usual course, but we can discuss that as we eat.”
“Understood, Sir,” she replies with a warm obedience. Domnicke attempted to be stern, but seems to have determined mid-thought that there’d be no point in chastising her for being a mere minute late.
Breakfast proceeds, therefrom, as any other. Domnicke chats with his mother about recent events - the flesh corruption, scandals within the inquisition, recent tech crime arrests, and so on - while Alicenne sits by herself, not family enough to join the lord and his mother, but still too honored of a guest to join the household servants. Were he a married man with children, Alicenne might at least have a governess to keep her company, though she doubts she would be able to have an equal relationship with anyone of the middling class.
The servants finish their meals first, and return to their daily tasks - of which Alicenne cares too little to memorize. Domnicke’s mother is escorted back to her room along with whatever food she hasn’t eaten yet but wishes to finish. When they’re alone, Master Nicke invites Alicenne to join him at the master table. Usually she has already finished her meal by this time, and her host has always eaten before formal breakfast - but makes a show of snacking to maintain the supposed sacrilege of communal eating. Nevertheless, he prefers to discuss the day’s plans during “Breakfast,” even if that breakfast is only them sitting at a table snacking on sweets and sipping wine.
“I apologise for having reprimanded you in front of my household - it is important for a man such as myself to maintain his appearance in front of his family and servants, but I believe it was unreasonable to fault you for such a miniscule tardiness… However, I suspect you will forgive me soon enough. A day we have both long awaited now arrives upon us. Would you like to take a guess?”
“The Adoration of Hallowed Brano?”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"As impressed I am that you'd remember the nameday of my favorite saint, that is only tangentially related. Take another guess, though; it is in relation to your studies, not religion. In fact, you might say that today will mark the beginning of the fruition of your efforts in pursuing magecraft...”
“Wait… Are you going to prepare me for the initiation today?”
“Correct! Just as Blessed Brano was a great thinker of philosophy and overcame his vices through contemplation and introspection - so too shall you steel yourself for magehood by meditating on the teachings of those who have truly captured the essence of our era.”
Knowing Master Nicke, this could either be the most boring day of Alicenne’s life, or the most insightful lesson she will ever receive from him. Lord Domnicke is a brilliant mind, no one doubts this, but his advancement through the ranks of the Syndicate is stunted by his passion for minutia and tedium over practical accomplishments. It is a revealing look into his mind that he could recite nearly every verse of H. Brano, but did not know that today was that Blessed’s Adoration.
“My Apprentice, I will need some time to prepare. For the rest of the forenoon you are free to do as you wish, though I advise -- no, I forbid you go into town today. I’d prefer not to risk running out of time, so I need you to be in the estates when I am ready. Do you remember those packages I told you not to worry about? Well, ta-dah!”
“Master Nicke… I don’t even know what to say, I’m so happy! Are you sure there isn’t a way I can help you prepare?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m pulling strings to get some old acquaintances of mine on the telephone to assist me, because it is beyond even my expertise.” A vast many things are beyond Nicke’s expertise, including most spells known to man, but for him to admit it indicates that it is not some normal magic. It might not even be magic… Could the eccentric rascal actually have gotten a hold of an Ordinator? Machines from before the Collapse held libraries' worth of information, which all could be viewed on a single screen of glass.
“Very well then, sir. I’ll study independently for the rest of the forenoon.”
As she makes her way to the library, a sudden realization hits Alicenne - something that he said. Something that seemed so natural to his mannerisms that she dismissed it. ‘Captured the essence of our era,’ he said, so if it is an Ordinator that he’s acquired, what could it have to do with ‘our era’ - whatever that means? The era she lives in is strange. The current era is an age in which republicanism topples ancient dynasties, millenarian cults slaughter each other over timeless feuds between their gods, and one such cult has harnessed the powers of an entirely other dimension as a weapon against civilized nations. What is the essence of this era? Such a strange proclamation from a man more interested in theology or metaphysics than actual magic. What wisdom could he possibly have to share regarding the contemporary world - this crazy world of here and now? The question makes her restless.
The Syndicate has always regarded magecraft first as the study of the world in abstract, and second as the preservation of traditions - by which is meant that cycle of learning and teaching spells. Magic, by its very nature, is a tradition of creation, rather than a science thereof. Innovation comes from the top, and usually only after due deliberation is a novel spell distributed among its rank and file members, usually as an encrypted scroll. Breakthroughs in magical practice are always gated to ensure the maximum amount of time possible between the discovery and widespread usage. So what is left for the middling mage to aspire towards is not a mastery of prestidigitation, but a deepened understanding of the world’s metaphysics. Frankly, Alicenne finds all of this to be rather drab and dry. One might even say she finds it useless, but she can't underestimate the occasional importance of these "world narratives" as Lord Domnicke loves to call them. To frame the world is to see it wholistically under a chosen lens. No camera is perfect, but when captured in still one may find much more than initially perceived. When the Church frames existence through the world narrative of good and evil (just the mere thought of phrasing it in this manner brings to mind images of Nicke recoiling in pain), it is so that one may see clearly the virtues and vices of man -- and especially of themself. Mages more often see the world through a narrative of control, creation, and order, so they have an eye for finding natural principles.
“Essence of our era…” Alicenne says to herself aloud, as if the phrase is alien. If anyone were to study and capture such a thing, it would be a mage, especially a man such as Lord Domnicke. She knows that is her fate even as a mage, to study and think without doing anything real.
The time she spends languishing in thought turns from minutes to hours, and Alicenne is caught off guard in the library when she hears the meridian bells ring. She determines she should find Lord Domnicke, in case he’s almost ready for their lesson today to begin. His concern for time is not unwarranted - he rises early and thus also tires sooner. On an average day he can push himself to stay awake until eight or nine past meridian, but he’s usually of a mind to be done with the day’s work at six.