[Closed] Necessary Efficiencies (Cerise)

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

Brunnhold -Umberto's Office

The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon

T

he letter arrived a little after the eleventh hour. Pale in color, something between grey, blue, and purple. All of these, and none. An envelope in shades of disappointment. It could hardly be otherwise. Should he open it, read the inevitable words? It would begin as all the others, polite, mechanical, impersonal. Then there would be the customary string of dry academic insults, allusions to the fundamental errors in the grounding of the work. The damned soulless minions of orthodoxy. No imagination, no drive to look at magic for what it could become, rather than what it had always been. What they thought it had always been. Would there be a subtle implication that his work was at least imprudent, if not borderline blasphemous? Of that, at least, there was some hope. Veiled accusations of blasphemy at least indicated that someone on the review committee had bothered to read the paper in full.

Or his reputation had preceded him. That too could be gratifying in its own unhappy way.

The letter then. Better to get the agony over with and read the inevitable. The envelope is heavy and textured, good quality. At least The Proceedings of the Consortium for Monic Studies has the sense to use only the finest stationary to deliver their rejections.

The letter opener, brass and ivory, almost dagger-like, and its sound, the catharsis of rending paper.

Dear Sir,

We the fellows of the Consortium in panel assembled do thank you for your most interesting submission . . .

Etc. etc.

. . .regret to inform you that though well written and provided with a surfeit of learned citations, the paper does not rise to our standard of publication. Without further review . . .

Further review! Well that was rich, considering review was the whole point of submission, the point of any submission. A magnificent bit of logic on the part of the fellows, an argument so cunning it could only ever go their way. They should be commended. Or condemned. Either would do.To publish in their pages one required proper peer review, peer review that they and their ilk were the learned providers. Magnificently done. There was probably a paper in argument alone. Worth sending on to Pergola back in Anastou. She dearly loved an annoying piece of spurious reasoning. Had made a career of creating them and tearing them down. He cracked a small smile. It was always entertaining to bring a logician to a cocktail party. They either made an ass of themselves, or argued against all sense, but with iron-clad logic, that no matter how many glasses of grappa that they had consumed, it was logically impossible to be drunk. Pergola was an ass, but a very entertaining one.

He could use a coffee, strong as could be mustered here. It would have been something to occupy his hands, provide a little comfort while reading this entirely predictable letter.

The analysis of the Monite lexicon your propose is exceedingly novel, though we fear that so radical a proposal without more robust data, is neither prudent nor entirely in keeping with the editorial standards of our publication. . .

Of course it was novel. Of course it was radical. That was the point. Applications of undirected graph and net structures to try and work out the polysemy problem were new enough. The proposal that this analysis could lead to the discovery of hitherto unknown lexemes in Monite, to reconstructing lost or potential lexemes? Well, perhaps he was working at the thin end of analysis, but the boundaries had to be pushed. What else was scholarship for? Letting is languish in mere commentary on magic that had been done in the past, or in the practical applications of known principles, that was the path to stagnation, to rigidity, and ultimately to decay.

Was the analysis right? Were the lexemes he had ‘recovered’ valid? Small scale experiments were, well not conclusive, but promising. Always ‘promising’, it was the perpetual issue. He needed more data. He needed the experiments repeated, debated, his arguments torn apart or reinforced by leading scholars.

. . .we therefore must, in the strongest possible terms, reject your paper for publication. Resubmission without considerable outside review will likewise be rejected summarily.

We remain, sir, your most humble obedient servants.

Oh fantastic. Yes, that meaningless mollification at the end should work wonders. A rare balm for a rejection. Soothing to the soul, and more than sufficient compensation for three pages of dry and academic insults in learned and unlovely language.

Very well. If review was required, if verification was required, then he would go through back channels. Sanaa Kibwe at Thul’Ka might review the work. He had never met her, not in person, but they had collaborated in the past. And she too had had any number of papers rejected. Would Cassano-Sforza at Anatou? He could at least be bribed with considerable citation. It could be done. It would take time.

More letters, this time his own, and copies of the paper. No small undertaking. They will need to be worded just so. Coffee is required, now more than ever. At least among the few amenities of this closet the University was pleased to call an office, someone had thought to install a bell-pull. Well done that person. A pull, a distant jangle.

A moment passes, then another. Footsteps in the corridor, drawing closer. There was no point in looking up when the door creaked open. Too much work to do.

“Ah, my compliments on your alacrity. If I may request strong, very strong, coffee? Black and rich as can be managed, I would be very much obliged.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Umberto's Office, Brunnhold
Bethas 9, 2720 - Before Noon

"Monite Linguistics and Incantation Theory" struck Cerise as a rather fine way of saying "nothing of particular use". She had thought so when she had seen opportunities posted to take part in the lectures starting last summer, and she had not attended--Cerise had little patience for dry theory. And it was sure to be dry, she thought, from a visiting lecturer, on a subject so purely academic as to have "theory" right there in the name.

What she was doing walking briskly down the hall to said visiting lecturer's office, on a nine no less, was anyone's guess. No, this was not strictly speaking true--she knew what she was doing. She just wasn't sure why she'd agreed to do it.

It had been Professor Reginald's idea, presented to her as if it were Cerise's choice. She knew, in the way that many things were presented to her as if they were for her to decide that were not at all, that when Professor Reginald had said that this Mr. Bassington-Smythe was doing research that might prove of her interest and that she should speak with him, there was the unspoken understanding that Cerise had very little choice in the matter. An opportunity for extra credit, sorely needed to bolster grades that suffered from class attendance that was improved, but still poor.

She did, however, have choice in the timing of such a conversation. Cerise wouldn't wait to be summoned; she was too impatient for that by half. No, Cerise Vauquelin was not the kind of young woman who waited for very much at all. As soon as she had agreed, she had resolved also to take matters into her own hands. Besides, the sooner she showed up, the sooner it would become clear that Cerise was of no help and they could both wash their hands of the whole thing. She could, at least, say that she had tried.

Clipped, decisive steps took her further and further out of the way, to hallways far from any convenience. Far from most things, it turned out. Was this an office, or an exile? Hardly mattered, she supposed. It was what it was, and she would be rid of it soon enough. This rarely went well for her.

Cerise knocked first, of course, on the door. There was no answer, but when she touched the handle it proved to be unlocked. There was a moment where she considered if she should let herself in--but if the man was out, she wouldn't linger. If he was in, then he should have said something and any fault lay with the other party. Yes, that made a certain kind of sense. Enough for her to work with, anyway. Cerise opened the door.

"You may not," were the first words out of her mouth, eyebrows raised and posture straight. Her field spilled out into the room as she took a step more inside, already frowning. Behind the desk was a dark-haired man who resembled rather what Cerise would have imagined a stork to look like, if given human form. She thought she had read a book to that effect once, as a young girl. She could not recall that the bird-man in the story had been quite so rude.

"Are you Mr. Bassington-Smythe, or have I come to the wrong... office?" That was perhaps a generous term for it, but Cerise was practicing being generous. Her arms still crossed in front of her green-uniformed chest, sharp chin coming up just so as she peered at the man behind the desk. This would be a very, very brief visit.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

Brunnhold - Umberto's Office

The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon

H

ard-edges and ramscot-rash, the visitor’s field burst in the door. Presumably the rest of her followed afterward, as was customary. The field, but above all, the voice, was enough to quash any idea that this personage was here to take his coffee order. From the feel of that field, she was rather more used to giving orders. That posed a quandary.

“Ah,” he said, looking up for a flash from his scribblings. “Yes, I can see now you are not a servant.” A young lady, dark haired and stiff, too proper by half. No, stiff was not quite the right word, now was it? “My apologies. Only I had just rung the bell to summon one, I am in horrific need of coffee. Do you take coffee? Tea perhaps? The tea is more consistent here. Unfortunately that consistency tends toward the repulsive. Still, I suppose there is some virtue in predictability.” He scribbled on, scratching the pen over the page, lifting his eyes only from time to time to regard this wholly unexpected visitor. Sharp! That was the word for this untimely young lady. Everything about her was honed and pointed, like a stiletto. It was all together probable that she could draw blood with that fiercely tapering chin. A remarkable appearance. It suited her deportment.

Stopping now, pend still in hand, he waved her to the only acceptable seating in the closet that had been wished upon him. Damned cramped space. No room for proper seating for a guest. Not that he had many of those. Visitors could be tiresome. Especially new ones. They, like Miss Knives here, always seemed to want to verify his name. His name. Another little annoyance for the day. “I am, as you observe, Mr Umberto Bassington-Smythe.” At least, he thought that was who he was being today. A glance at the address on the rejection letter confirmed it. “Yes, yes indeed. Was the name not up on the door? On a little brass plaque?” Brows knitted, he considered that, rejected it. “No? Well, to be expected I suppose. Getting maintenance down here is a nightmare. I mean, not a literal nightmare, I don’t make a habit of sitting bolt upright in bed in the small hours shuddering at the thought of a maintenance man who never comes, but rather in the more prosaic sense. Sense, sense. Ah yes! Thank you Miss, be with you in a moment.” Clicking now, in the time honored manner of someone seeking a lost article. A minute passed, perhaps more. Papers riffled, draws opened. A stack of articles formed, a rampart of unpublished, of rejected papers. Emergent Properties of N-Gram Lacunae, one of the papers he needed. Some fine foundational work there. Kibwe would be able to work from that. She always had an eye for what wasn’t there.

There. There. The young lady, Miss Knives. Still there, still staring. “Ah, yes, you persist in existing. Good good. Well done. My apologies again, or for the first time if I neglected them before, only I have been unsettled by the soulless minions of orthodoxy. You aren’t one of them are you?” A glance again was all it took to conclude that was very far from reasonable. “No, of course not. You appear to have too much sense. And, you are here about something? I don’t believe I have requested any papers from my students recently.” A notebook appeared from somewhere in the chaos of the desk. “Yes. No. No papers due in the immediate future. Nor decompositions of incantations, nor even practical exercises in Monic efficiency. I should request some of those be done. Remiss of me.” He looked at her again, gathered in those razor-edged features. They meant nothing. He had not seen her, he would have remembered such a face. “Well, you are not here for any of that, now are you. So, Miss, how can I help you, if indeed it is help you have come here to request.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Umberto's Office, Brunnhold
Bethas 9, 2720 - Before Noon

Ah. This one was chatterer. Cerise remained standing, and remained frowning, trying to follow the thread of the conversation. She was not, she gathered, expected in the least. Which was understandable, as she had come with no appointment or preamble. She was asked if she took coffee or tea, but in a way that made her suspect her answer didn't matter in the least. This was her least favorite kind of question, one of preference with no interest in the answer, and so she narrowed her eyes. They were, it had to be admitted, neither of them very good from Brunnhold's kitchens.

"Either," she said slowly. The man waved her towards a seat, and she took it. There weren't any other options, really. It wasn't like the small room left her particularly spoiled for choice. She was feeling more and more annoyed about this by the moment. Perhaps she was being put on in some way by being sent here. At least she had come to the right place, a cold sort of comfort when she felt certain she would leave almost as quickly as she had arrived.

Had it been on the door? Cerise thought it must have been, or she wouldn't have known which door to enter. Just because that was the name on the door did not mean it was the name of the man behind the desk. The question had also been rather rhetorical; she had more wanted to confirm that he knew she was there, and for a purpose. His answer didn't really tell her either.

Cerise sat in the chair and she waited, as politely as she was able. A minute passed, and then a minute more. The man, this Mr. Umberto Bassington-Smythe, shuffled through the various things in, on and around his desk for what seemed to her very little purpose. Cerise shifted. She tapped her booted foot against the ground. Still he had neither looked up, nor asked her name, nor even her purpose.

"That would be the first time anyone has used the word 'orthodox' to describe me, I believe, so no. I am not." Her dark eyebrows fluttered towards her hairline, then drew together. A soulless minion of orthodoxy. What, she wanted to know with a flare of irritation that she did not make even the slightest attempt to keep out of the field around her, had she been sent to. She opened her mouth to say that she was not, in fact, one of his students, and then shut it again. Best it seemed to let him finish, to run out of steam, and then attempt to interject.

At last. "Vauquelin," she put in as mildly as she was able, which was not very. He had not asked, and Cerise had the distinct feeling he would not. "Professor Reginald suggested I come and speak with you. I thought..." Cerise frowned. She had thought the idea would have been put to Mr. Bassington-Smythe before her, but perhaps not. What had he said? Ah, yes. Practical exercises in Monic efficiency. Cerise straightened.

"The professor seemed to think it would be of our mutual benefit if I were to speak with you about--how did you put it? 'Practical exercises in Monic efficiency.' I am on the Varsity duelist team," she continued for clarification. Cerise glanced down at the chaos of the desk. This would not go well, she thought. She glanced back up. "If you would like such assistance, sir." A polite statement, delivered on the edge of a razor. Cerise waited. With any luck, he would have no idea what she was on about, and she would be dismissed. Although she was, she had to admit, somewhat curious.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

Burnnhold - Umberto's Office

The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon

D

uelist. Duelist? What did dueling have to do with him? The whole idea always seemed faintly barbaric, a throwback to ancient days and to conflicts long dead. Little cabals of galdori were no longer holed up in their fortified estates, plotting against their neighbors and quarreling amidst the barley fields. Burning down those same fields, to the everlasting inconvenience of their tenets. It has been more than a century since hired duelists, really just formal assassins, had accompanied their patrons down the canals of Florne, flaunting their skills and begging for a challenge. Now, they were a romantical stock character in execrable novels and ghastly plays. All elegant manners and noble codes of conduct. Lies. All of it. A sanctioned murderer is still a murderer.

The young lady did look as though she could quite happily murder at least one or two people, possibly before breakfast. Would have heard about that, even here in the backwater of backwaters. The spiders would have all the relevant gossip. No, not a murderer, a sporting lass then. That might be worse.

Duelist.

Why send her here? And Prof Reginald? No recollection of meeting her, not even at one of the dreary faculty soirees he had been obliged to attend as the shadow of his father. The downside of being the offspring of a Chair, even one so neglected and forgotten as the Walsonian Chair of Entomology. Odd to send a sharp and pointy student to the dusty corridors of this part of the university. Odder still to a lecturer with no particular association with dueling. A fob-off? Another problem student sent his way in accordance with the long-held tradition of tormenting the newest and most disposable member of the faculty?

Duelist.

Wait a tick. There was a logic here, and a devious one at that. Duelist. Efficiency. Efficiency. Duelist. Yes, yes, all very logical. All very devious. Should all go well, he would have to write Reginald a fulsome letter of thanks. Or what passed for such things among academics: considerable citation. Possibly both.

“Miss Vauquelin, I do believe we can be of considerable utility to each other.” She to him more than perhaps he to her. Data, the Proceedings had demanded. Well, here was data herself sitting sharp and a tad confused before him. “If in perhaps a rather round-about way.”

An old draft article, another rejection, and he slid it toward her. “You might care to peruse this, as a bit of background.” Background? He was getting ahead of himself. Time is an arrow, explanations a vector. Best to start at the origin. “I work on theoretical indications, partly in trying to piece together why the incantations work, what they truly mean, and how they might be improved. It is the latter, I believe, that Prof Reginald was thinking of when she sent you in my direction.”

It was, in point of fact, rather flattering. Had Reginald read his work? It was not impossible. Some had been published, though in bijou journals with small circulation. Respectable, yes, but very niche. “Would I be correct in thinking that upon the dueling fields, speed and efficiency, not to mention surety are of the utmost concern?” He leaned forward, ever so slightly, a wild scholarly gleam in his eyes. “What if I told you that there might be a way, a theoretical way, to increase the succinctness of incantations by as much as a third. Would that be of interest?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Umberto's Office, Brunnhold
Bethas 9, 2720 - Before Noon

She had thought she'd explained; she evidently had not. Or the bird-man before her, this lecturer, was well and truly moonier than he seemed and no explanation would have aided in the least. Cerise sincerely hoped it was not the latter, even if it annoyed her to think what she had provided was insufficient.

Why, she wondered again, had she been sent here? Of all students, of all duelists. Was it a punishment disguised as assistance? And if it was, who was it punishment for? Either one of them, Cerise or the stork-like academic in front of her, seemed equally likely to have earned it. An unkind thought, perhaps, to put him in the same lot as her, but not untrue as far as she could tell.

Cerise held still in her chair, every spare line of her impatient. Eventually, Mr. Bassington-Smythe spoke again. Comprehension blooming at last. Cerise did not smile, but the tension in her posture retreated. Instead she leaned forward to look at the paper he slid across the desk towards her. Her eyes ghosted over the title, the abstract--an article. Neither item was encouraging, even if Mr. Bassington-Smythe seemed to think otherwise.

She took the paper up carefully, glancing over it once more with a hum of consideration. Theoretical indications she had no interest in, nor the true meanings of incantations. The improvement, though... Cerise looked up from her skimming of the paper he had pushed her direction and she smiled.

"You would be absolutely correct," she said, with a smile that showed all of her teeth. No, Cerise had no patience for theory. But the practical application of it? That she could sink her teeth into. "It would be of great interest indeed, Mr. Bassington-Smythe." That smile turned to a frown just as quickly.

"Provided, of course, it is possible. What, precisely, would my 'utility' in this be then?" She hadn't missed the size or location of this office; she did not think it was entirely the man's manner that had put him here. A theoretical way. So he'd not tested it, or not tested it enough? Her sharp, considering frown held after the question.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

Brunnhold - Umberto's Office

The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon

M

iss Knives, Miss Vauquelin rather, -- he would have to remember that -- had an entirely predictable smile. Sharp, vicious, predatory. Not humorless. Humorlessness might have been less threatening. Teeth-bearing determination, snapping interest. Well, that was something wasn’t it? And better than the scoffing dismissal that usual arrived shortly after he explained this most experimental part of his research.

Nine papers, reams of notes, a cliff-side of chalk used up, and an ocean of ink run dry, was all he had to show for the work. Well, that and some preliminary results. Improvements to his own incantations, purgations of ritual dross and customary filler. Marginal improvements, but measurable. Then again, the spells had been complex affairs, nothing so simple, so raw, and the magic of duelists. Were their incantations already efficient, or did they stand before each other reciting deadly poems in meters of wrath? Worth studying. Better still to study the war-magics. Little enough margin for error upon the battlefield, even less toleration for delay.

“You must understand, Miss, that though I have some practical data, some decent experimental results, they are mostly with rather different kinds of magic.” Clairvoyant, perceptive, quantitative. The magic he knew best, the magic most of interest. No sense in being blind to other applications. No sense, and a great deal of folly. “Still, the principles remain.”

More rummaging through stacks of notebooks, towers of paper. “Ah! Yes, here it is.” A small red notebook, rather worn at the corners. “You may find the data here of interest. Field tests, incantation revisions, field measurements, pure semantic notation. Abstract incantation, divorced, at least in part, from the unlovely, butchered Monite we use.” He slid the book towards her, hoping to spark some interest in that predatory face. How much of a scholar was she? How up on the latest theories? She was still a student, still wearing the green. Still green in her pursuit of magic. He’d let her wrestle with the full notation, with the full theory. If she had difficulties, no sign of failure or inability if so, then he would try and condense it, lay it out in a clear pedagogy. Well, clearer at least.

“Your utility will be at least twofold. First, you will either prove or disprove that the model here, the method can be reproduced by another sorcerer. That alone is of immense value. The second, being predicated upon the first, is that in your application of the method will provide extremely important raw data. We can measure the degree of improvement, both in effect and efficiency.” He smiled his own, rather less predatory, rather more mad smile. “I will, of course, need to observe your current means of casting. I would ask you not proceed to blow up my office.” Then again, a detonation here might render the space useless, forcing the University to find him another space. Or throw him out of his ear, terminate his grant, and charge him with willful destruction of property. Best to leave that alone. “But perhaps a small spell? A creation of a handful of fire perhaps? Or whatever it is that strikes your fancy. We must have a baseline, Miss. We must have a baseline”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Umberto's Office, Brunnhold
Bethas 09, 2720 - Before Noon

Cerise nodded, the considering angle of her frown not shifting in the least. That, at least, made sense. The principles remain, indeed. She shifted her posture to place one elbow on the arm of the chair. There was more shuffling of papers, somehow--whatever else one could say about this man, his supply of papers seemed rather endless. Papers and notebooks and other things besides, towers and walls of them in ever corner.

Butchered, was it? Cerise lifted her eyebrows. Something in that description irked her, and a flicker of it went across her face. One could not precisely describe much she did as lovely, this was true. Her grey eyes narrowed. The measure of the type of man before her was slowly becoming clear, she thought. Data, she thought, with no practical application--that was the goal, it seemed. The knowledge for the sake of it.

Cerise reached a hand forward for the red notebook, unable to smother a small spark of interest. It wasn't that she didn't understand the theoretical--she just had so very little patience for it in exclusion. She opened it while Umberto spoke, eyes skimming over the pages. Her brows came together, the lines of her face changing as she continued. Much of it, she thought, she could follow--large pieces of it, but-- She made some frustrated noise, annoyed with her own lack of understanding.

"Another sorceror--has anyone else tried?" Cerise looked up in time to see a smile she didn't find encouraging in the least. This was all interesting, of course it was interesting. But it also seemed very likely to be nothing more than the ramblings of a madman, stuffed into a closet of an office at some remote corner of the University campus. All that kept her from leaving, from getting up and washing her hands of all of this despite her curiosity, was one sole and fixed point: a hope that Professor Reginald had better things to do with her time than think of new and terrible ways to waste Cerise's. So she evidently thought there was some value to be gained here.

The caution against destroying the office made her smile again with one corner of her thin mouth. Cerise shrugged. "I make no promises." If she was joking, she gave very little indication.

"But, for a baseline--" Her head tilted as she thought, and then she decided. Something small, and simple. Her elbow came off of the arm of the chair. She set the little red book down in front of her, and with a glance to confirm that she should proceed, Cerise lifted it an inch from the surface of the desk and held it there, wobbling only slightly. It was a simple enough spell, more of a parlor trick than anything. But it was, she thought, made at least slightly more entertaining by pushing a little block of force up from underneath of the notebook, rather than altering anything about the gravity of the object itself.

Cerise let it hold a moment, and then curled the spell, dissipating both the block and her concentration. She looked up, an eyebrow raised. "Would that do?"

Roll

Cerise's Invisible Pedestal:
SidekickBOT Today at 3:07 PM
@Cap O' Rushes: 1d6 = (3) = 3

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

Brunnhold - Umberto's Office

The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon

'H

as anyone else tried?’ she had asked. It was a fair question, more than fair. As for an answer, well, that was a little more vexed. At the most generous meaning of ‘tried’ then yes. Cassano-Sforza had done a bit of experimentation, seen some results. Promising results. Well, promising but for the week-long recovery from a backlash that left him mortality frightened of the smell of a particular shade of the color blue. It seemed to have more or less cleared up, and his last letter was almost devoid of paranoid rantings about the flowers his wife had planted their experimental greenhouse. Only one or two flowers now seemed to be plotting Cassano-Sforza’s demise.

He could not be sure his methods had anything to do with Cassano-Sforza’s condition. The man had rotten luck with casting, even at the best of times, and Umberto himself had seen no such misfortunes. Well, that was not entirely correct. He had a number of run-ins with disorientation, occasional sensory disturbances, and bouts of hysterical laughter. But, then again, none of that was abnormal either.

“The method has been tried, by a colleague of mine, but the tests have not been extensive. Most of my empirical data comes from my own work. My own experimentation.” And there were mountains of observations, parsed incantations, field notes, and refinements. “Though, I am more a theorist than a pragmatical, day-to-day caster. Unlike your good self.” He had no objections to practical casting, unlike some of his colleagues. Quotidian casting was necessary to disprove a hypothesis, or reinforce it. If all the elegant incantation parsing and mathematics claimed it should work, but no caster could accomplish it, well then, there must be something inelegant happening somewhere. A gap in the theory. “Your assistance would be of great utility in, I suppose the phrase is ‘stress testing’, the work.”

And now came the first step. The first point of data.

Her cast had gone well enough. Well enough indeed. It was a bit wobbly, the incantation decorated with the usual academic dross that was still being taught. Redundancies. Redundancies. Not her fault in the slightest. She had not formulated the current best-practices in casting. It could be crisper, the touch lighter, the word choice more exact. Yet it was still a very competent cast, with a red-bright and burning field to push it.

Good. Good. A fine field and used to this sort of magic. That was promising. And yet Miss Vauquelin used her field like a tool, an impeller of force. A blunt, powerful thing. It was her field to be sure, but though she thought it belonged to her, it did not seem quite as though she belonged to it. Not in equal measure. That would need to be changed. She would have to better impart her own sharpness to the field, and then, like a chef with a well-honed knife, she would need to let the field do the work.

There would be cuts along the way. It was unavoidable.

On a scrap of paper, he jotted down the incantation.

He nearly forgot to look at the result. A little cube of invisible force holding the notebook aloft half a span from the desk. A stable little thing. That was one of the reasons for redundancy in incantation. It did make things more stable. So did more exact working, more effective semantics, more well-formed syntax.

“Thank you Miss. A creditable cast. Very creditable.” He smiled at her, the time honored smile of an approving scholar. It was not at all a bad cast. And the choice of spells had been most interesting. Small, contained, and very much in context, very much making use of the environment. Excellent, excellent.

For a moment or two he stared at the incantation, rolling the words about in his head, probing at the edges of their meaning, swapping out a lexeme here, a particle there, adjusting form and encapsulation. Hasty work, and not his best, but a modest improvement. He wrote the new form down, stared at it for a moment, and slid the paper across.

“A light improvement, I think you’ll find. Replacing the head-word for you used for ‘pedestal’ to one with fewer metaphoric meanings. Took a bit of probing and reworking, but I think the altered head-word and the removal of some repetitions and gesture compensations should tighten things up, speed along the effect.”

He gave another smile, and a slightly sheepish one. “The improvements will be slight, the effect likely the same. I will have to learn your casting methods more fully to work through this in more detail. But still, we progress! I don’t suppose you’d care to give it a try?”

Roll

Umberto’s Incantation edits -
SidekickBOT Today at 10:39 PM
@Runcible Spoon: 1d6 = (3) = 3

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Umberto's Office, Brunnhold
Bethas 09, 2720 - Before Noon

If Cerise was put out by the bird-like academic in front of her barely even looking at what she had done, too busy writing down what she had said to do it, she didn't let it show on her face or break the mild amount of concentration needed to hold the block underneath the field notebook.

"Creditable", was it? Cerise might have been offended if she hadn't looked up to see his expression. He was, she suspected, one of those persons for who "creditable" was meant to be praise. In other words, an academic. Cerise didn't need his approval, of course, to know it had gone well. Not the cleanest job of it, but she wasn't paying particular attention with her casting either. She raised her eyebrows.

"Thank you," she said and folded her hands back on her lap. "I think."

She sat, watching Mr. Bassington-Smythe think. At least, she assumed he was--as far as she could really see, he was just sort of staring at what he wrote down. What she had, in fact, cast. She leaned forward while he wrote something else, and picked it up when the paper was slid across the desk towards her. Cerise read it, unsure. It was different, yes. But she wasn't sure if it would bear out be any better.

It was a different way of thinking about it than she thought she used. But it was, she thought again, interesting. Grey eyes flicked up over the top of the paper to see him smiling again. This time she smiled back, briefly. Her hands unfolded from their placement across her lap.

"Why not? Progress indeed." Cerise read over what had been written once more, fixing it in her mind as firmly as she could. Her mouth tugged down in concentration. Then she nodded to herself, and tried to make her pedestal once more. It formed, sure enough, though she didn't think she had gotten it quite as solidly in her mind as she would have liked. There was, indeed, a very slight improvement. Very, very slight. But raised all the same, a little faster than it had the first time. Just as promised. Her eyebrows came up again.

Interesting.

Cerise released the block again. The notebook once more settled to the table with a soft whoosh of air, pushing around the papers on the desk. "Interesting," she said again, out loud, for Mr. Bassington-Smythe's benefit. "Slight, but--interesting."

Cerise picked the notebook back up, turning it over in her hands. Not flipping through it, but concentrating on it all the same. She reached a decision, tucking the book back onto her lap firmly. Her dark head snapped up, and she smiled, grey eyes knife-bright.

"Sir, you have yourself a stress-tester."

Roll

Cerise tries the new, slightly-improved pedestal:
Today at 6:55 PM
@Cap O' Rushes: 1d6 = (3) = 3