Right time, wrong party [Athrym]

[Nauleth Siordanti]

3rd Bethas, 2718

“You really need to learn to do this yourself.” Mateo half-grumbled, half-teased his taller friend as his deft fingers artfully re-arranged Nauleth’s cravat into something that looked more intentional than just an ugly, ruffled mess. The judgement in his voice was more sarcastic than real, field tight with annoyance, and yet the two young professors still struck an awkward pair in the near-empty hall outside of the ballroom.

“Sorry, Anaxi fashion isn’t my clocking thesis.” The red-headed galdor snickered, lopsided smile reluctant as if he anticipated a reprimand from his housemate and friend.

“It’s not mine either, but at least I can dress myself like a man. I don’t know why we’re here, anyway. I’d rather be getting guttered off campus than under the watchful eye of most of our senior staff. Don’t we spend enough of our time in these halls already? Oh, wait—” The shorter man laughed, shoving his fellow professor toward the double doors that lead into the far end of the formal ballroom. Beyond them, the faint hum of conversation buzzed over the tinkle of the final form Student Orchestra playing this year’s trendiest selection of chamber music. The Headmistress was courting support again now that the new year would soon bring politicians from all across the Ten Kingdoms for yet another Vyrdag in the rainy season.

“—close it. We’re both here because we’re fine young examples of the next generation of Brunnhold professors and our fine Headmistress Ophelia wants to make sure we make a positive impression on the foreign dignitaries here tonight so our esteemed institution maintains its superior status throughout all of the Ten Kingdoms.” Naul said with a mockery of haughty pride and authority, his crooked grin bordering on the wicked. He knew why he was really here in fancy clothes tonight: the red-haired galdor wanted a glimpse of his father. Well, no, he really wanted a clocking conversation with the elder Siordanti who payed his rent and kept him fed mysteriously but couldn’t write a single damned letter to his oldest son. Eight years had slipped through his fingers and the young graduate student and fresh professor hadn’t exchanged a word with the man, let alone a thank you.

“Positive? Tocks. Well, you should clocking go home then.” Mateo chuckled, the auburn-haired galdor letting his dark-eyed gaze fall onto the passive near the doors to watch the creature avert his gaze to the woven carpet of the floor and reach quickly for the engraved handles, swinging the doors open for the two young men without a word.

“Oh, please—sod off already. It’ll be fine. I can behave.”

“Can you really, Naul? I’ll bet you grading the next round of mid-terms—mine and yours, thank you—that you find some trouble to get into—your father not withstanding in that equation, of course.” The shorter galdor was holding in so much laughter that his faintly freckled cheeks were red now, though he could feel his ginger friend’s field bristle, the sudden frayed edges a warning that his humor was beginning to brush against the other man’s boundaries of acceptable teasing. Mateo was well aware of the other galdor’s infamous past, having been a young student on the Lawn opposite the contemporary-form sorcerer years ago. Strangely enough, it had been his embarrassing loss that brought them back together as friends post-graduation, for the auburn-haired galdor had always held a secret candle of respect for Nauleth’s outside of the traditional approach to casting.

“Mine and yours? Done.” The taller man rolled his blue-green eyes before taking in the vast, high-ceilinged, brightly-lit room full of sparkling glassware, too many galdori bodies and the wash of their fields.

Passive servers dressed ridiculously well for their lowly gated status mingled among the Brunnhold staff—professors, the board, and somewhere the Headmistress herself—with appetizers and drinks on tray while the politicians from all over the Ten Kingdoms who’d bothered to come made it obvious they were just here for the food and the gossip, taking advantage of the open invitation before the process of government began anew for next year during Loshis which officially began tomorrow despite the past several days of drizzle as a preview of the turning season.

With voices and the touch of mona everywhere, the young Siordanti quickly reminded himself that this was a good cause, that he was there for a reason, that he was more than capable of representing an actually praise-worthy selection of new Brunnhold professors, no matter what his personal history may have been, no matter how immediately claustrophobic the press of fields and the expectant glances of senior staff and strangers made him feel. The ginger galdor was almost immediately ready to leave, sure someone would bring something up about just how remarkable a turn around he’d made of his life in casual conversation before he even caught a glimpse of his father, let alone before he hoped to corner the man.

He’d made his mistakes. He’d learned from them. And now, somehow, he hoped to keep others from following in his once-malicious, nearly fatal footsteps. Or, well, clock it all, something like that. Running a hand over the left side of his face in sub-conscious remembrance, Naul leaned toward Mateo with a tilt of his head,

“Drinks first, Matty. I’m not going to make it through this room full of foreigners' vibes and swollen skulls entirely sober.”

“Aye, seconded. That way.”

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Athrym gently tapped the side of her glass with a well manicured nail, her summer green eyes focused intently on the room around her, shifting from face to face as she gained her bearings. It had been a long clocking trip from Qrieth to Brunnhold, and with only a few hours rest she had already been asked to attend some function. Ophelia had sent a passive, in yet another carriage, with a clear message that the servant wasn’t to leave the small house in the Stacks without the Giorian Ambassador.

And so, as per her duty, the pale skinned galdor had dressed in a formal royal blue sari embroidered with geometric lines and curves in silver thread and paired with a black leather waist cincher. She pulled her white blonde hair tightly back into a high sleek ponytail and slipped into a pair of black heeled shoes. Painting her pale lips a dark mauve, brushing her lashes with a lick of mascara and spritzing just a touch of Giorian Lily of the Carverns perfume, the Ambassador of Gior took to the carriage with an unsmiling face.

Up on arrival at the University itself, the platinum haired official took in the tall rust red brickwork with a mild rise of an elegantly curved brow. It was impressive, but it was no Qrieth. Her home had been carved out of the very rock, this was merely the handiwork of slaves and servants. Hardly impressive. She was led through the school yards, and into the ballroom, greeted briefly by the Headmistress herself, a lacklustre greeting without ritual or performance.

Athrym offered the woman a politically correct smile, answering the questions she was asked as her mother had practiced with her. Yes, she was well. Of course the trip was lovely. Indeed Anaxas is a wonderful place.

All necessary lies, of course.

Ophelia introduced her to the faculty heads. Harper Moore, Castor Devlin and Freja Lux. All known academics even in Gior. They exchanged niceties, before she was then taken to talk to so-and-so or such-and-such, about how they were so excited to have her here and would love to discuss the cultural differences between their countries. Gods, save her from their drivel. Where was the ritual, the dancing? Where was the dualling and the witty magical banter. So much for first impressions. Her field danced against her peers, looking for a challenge, for a like-minded soul. All she felt was tightly controlled and politely unobtrusive disappointment.

With a somewhat impolite excuse, the blonde withdrew herself from the throng and grabbed a glass of whatever was on offer to move to the back of the room.

“Clocking dullards.” She muttered to herself, fingernail tinking gently on the glass before she took a delicate sip, judging every single galdori in the room. At least in Gior an official would have been greeted with Ba Bieth to bring the rains, and a fantastic duel in the Temple.

Only a year. She only had to last a year in this hovel before she could go home.

Day one, and counting.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

3rd Bethas, 2718

“He's been over there in conversation with Professors Moore and Devlin for thirty damn minutes." Nauleth groaned from over the rim of his glass, rolling his eyes. Two drinks in and the party was at least a little more tolerable, the buzz of conversation less annoying and the hum of magic more interesting, as always. The pair had made their proverbial rounds and done their necessary formal greetings, Naul enjoying a careful analysis of the monic compositions in the fields of foreigners far more than the actual conversation about his academic accomplishments or the state of affairs in Vienda or the newest trend in fashion. Now the young Siordanti stood with his shorter, auburn-haired friend and let his gaze linger on the back of his father, the man's fading red hair and propensity for deep green suits allowing his eldest son to pick him out from a crowd, "He's not going to clocking talk to me, Matty."

"I wouldn't clocking talk to you, either, if all you did was stand around and stare at me."

"I suppose you're right. I don't know what to say, anyway."

"Hello's a good start, idiot." Mateo laughed darkly, finishing his drink in time to set it on a passive's tray as they walked past, nodding their head at him as if they were grateful. His dark eyes took in the crowd. He was a much more social creature than his taller friend, the young research assistant never one to miss an opportunity to talk about his latest theories like some mad scientist to anyone who had a few ticks to listen, willing or not.

"Thanks, you stop-clocker. Have we missed any of the dignita—who's that?"

"Who? What?" The auburn-haired galdor tried to follow Naul's green-eyed gaze, noting the young professor had looked away from his politician of a father that had managed to hold a silence between them for almost eight years now and was looking over to another conversation, one which involved a petite blonde dressed an obviously Giorian formalwear and one of the professors of living magic Mateo couldn't remember the name of. The other professor, Eren Hulle, was such a bore the research assistant loathed to wade in, "Her? The tow-head? Oh, Nauleth, you're incorrigible, you know that? She must be the new ambassador from Gior. You know, Penny was telling me about her and—"

"—Tocks, Matty, let's go rescue her from Hulle. This is an issue of Anaxi hospitality, clearly. Not only is he as dull as a first year student’s field, but the man’s only got about four jokes to his name and none of them are at all appropriate for this evening’s guests.” Naul smirked lopsidedly, just full of enough alcohol to feel almost social, curious, wanting to make sure he’d met at least a few foreign dignitaries so that he could make some form of impression on his superiors or even catch the eye of the man who paid his rent but paid him no attention.

Reaching for something else sparkling and mildly alcoholic in a glass from another passing servant in a desperate attempt to work up some subset of conversational confidence without waiting to see if his auburn-haired friend was behind him, the young Siordanti knew no one, Anaxi or otherwise, really deserved to be subjected to Professor Hulle’s slow form of brain death by talking. No one. This clocking social event was boring enough—everyone putting their nice clothes and faces on (some, like himself, requiring assistance), parading their academic accomplishments in word instead of out on the Lawn in action. He hated these things—he had papers to grade and theories to write about and … well, maybe this drink wasn’t so bad. Maybe he could endure another half a house of this mess.

Mateo grumbled some swears under his breath and followed his taller, red-headed friend, though he may have shouldered him roughly into the middle of the trio instead of clearing his throat and doing Naul the favor of speaking up first, eager to see what his otherwise rather socially inept fellow galdor could possibly do to save the blonde from the two older, senior professors’ inane, self-aggrandizing banter.

There was no time for introductions, no time to offer an excuse for barging in, either, for Professor Hulle was just about to launch into some very inappropriate joke about corpses and urges no one should talk about in fine company, the Living Conversation professor fancying himself on the edge of discovering some necromantic secret that would make him infamous,

“Uh. Hello.” Nauleth managed lamely, recovering his footing with an obviously awkward smile—the right side of his face coming into focus just a few barely noticeable milliseconds before his left—and managing to keep a hold on his small glass of something or other. Professor Hulle blinked but his smile was also slow, only calculating and amused instead of shy,

“Ah, Professor Siordanti and, hmm,” The short, greying galdor glanced almost dismissively at Mateo, “Aren’t you just a research assistant, Brivald? I didn’t know you were invited.” He chuckled, glancing to his Giorian conversation captive and then to his other Living Conversation compatriot, Jurine Kalit, the woman no younger than himself but far more talented if anyone else had been asked, “Where are my manners? Please, allow me to introduce to you two young men to Miss Athrym Bruthgrave, a skilled young sorceress and ambassador from Gior here to offer her talents and make use of our vast library. Miss, these two are recent graduates of our fine institution of Brunnhold, both looking to stretch the boundaries of our understanding and all of that prattle you’ve heard a bit much of this evening.”

Professor Hulle gestured with his dainty hand, first to the auburn-haired galdor who was clearly doing his best to hold in a grin, perhaps a little inebriated by the fuzziness of his own field, “This is Mateo Brivald, a research assistant in the Static Conversation department, if I recall correctly, and this is Nauleth Siordanti, junior professor in the Physical Conversation—is that correct? They’re letting you teach now, are they? It’s a good thing I’m not on the board because I remember a few years ago—”

Any welcoming expression the taller, red-headed galdor had been wearing for a moment began to fade quickly from his face, one side at a time. For a moment, he’d been distracted by the press of so much Living mona in the fields from the two women and Eren, though the hint of Physical mona implied that at least the young blonde woman was familiar with his focus. The introduction was going well until the older man began to reminisce, for Professor Hulle had been part of the team tasked with Naul’s recovery from his severe backlash all those years ago. He opened his mouth to speak, but his friend was a good one,

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bruthgrave.” Mateo spoke up quickly, cutting off Professor Hulle before the old, graceless galdor went on about things best left unsaid. It was easy for the short, enthusiastic young man to ask the obvious question, being interested in the pursuit of deeper magical understandings himself, often to the point of obscure abstraction, “What sort of research are you hoping to be exploring while you’re here?”

Naul was left holding his drink in awkward silence, though Jurine flashed him a smile as if in apology, rolling her eyes. He recovered from the moment of panic slowly, green-blue eyes coming back into focus on Athrym with the return of a polite smile, “Welcome to Brunnhold. I do hope that Professor Hulle wasn’t trying to bore you with another one of his ah-mazing tales of experimenting with just how long his test animals can stay dead before he brings them back to life again.”

Two could play this game. The young Siordanti resisted the urge to sneer at the older man from over the rim of his drink, instead struggling to deny that the young Giorian Ambassador was rather pretty and the traditional attire of her Kingdom making him feel the most interested he’d been in fashion his entire life.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Clocks her feet ached.

Athrym kept her eyes on the man before her with a mildly annoyed face, the muscle in her jaw jumping just a little as he droned on. And on. And on. It had been only a brief moment of time that she’d managed to escape the drivel of the faculty, before Professor Hulle and his colleague had approached her under the guise of being Brunnhold’s leading expert in Living Conversations. At first, the pale Giorian had been interested, finally looking forward to some rich discussion.

Only then, the older man started to wander into bizarre musings about reamination of the dead, and unbelievably poor attempts at humour. At first Athrym had looked at the woman with Hulle and smiled briefly, but as the chatter went on, her green eyes became harder. Now, she just needed the dottering fool to shut the clock up so she could make a speedy departure. Surely she’d been social long enough to be polite. God’s could only hope tomorrow was not more of the same—

Quite suddenly, and utterly inappropriately, another man was thrust into the conversation. Literally. The foreigner looked over the taller intruder, taking in his Anaxi red hair and lightly freckled face, including the ever so slight delay with the shift of his left-hand features. As Hulle introduced the Giorian, she reached out slightly, brushing against the fields of the two men with her own. The one known as Mateo grinned like he had a head full of kenser dung, and his field was hazy at best. Her gaze shifted to the young Professor instead, fascinated by the sudden bristle in his own Physically imbued field. Clearly whatever the old greying Professor had been about to say, it was not for polite company. With a nod to Mateo, she spoke up.

“Thankyou Mister Brivald. I’m actually looking to continue my studies in Living conversations, and our relationship with the Mona. Actually, with our ancestors relationships. I’ve been told the Library here houses some of the oldest papers and grimoires in the Ten Kingdoms, some of which may give insight to how our forebearers built such powerful conversations with the Mona.” Turning to meet Nauleth’s smile, Athrym narrowed her eyes slightly, her painted lips curling up at the corners just a little. It was true, Hulle had been droll, and it was a welcome distraction to have the two men interrupt, but she couldn’t very well agree in front of the very man himself.

Not unless she wanted to read an essay from her mother on the finer points of Ambassadorship.

“Quite an...impressive school.” She said cooly, sipping on her beverage with an arched brow, before tilting her head a little.

“Physical conversations, was it Mister Siordanti? Seems a little elementary.” The Giorian continued, noting the slight rim of gold in the galdor‘s green-blue eyes. It wasn’t hard to imagine the young Professor as one of those types, the ones that rode the tailcoats of the easiest studies whilst spending their student years wooing girls and goofing around with ‘The Boys’. The slight lag of his features was fascinating though, and Athrym couldn’t help but muse as she looked at him for a fraction longer than was polite. Was caused it, she wondered, her Living studies driving a curiosity she couldn’t help. Was it genetic? Was it curable?

Catching herself staring now, the blonde blinked and flashed a quick short smile, her cheeks turning with just a touch of embarrassment.

“Then I suppose we can’t all study the more intricate fields of Monic connections.” She said with a shrug, covering her embarrassment with a mild insult.

Yes, that’ll really impress them. Prepare your carriage home Ath.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

3rd Bethas, 2718

"Our Library is agreeably one of the most impressive in all the Kingdoms, it's true. I've heard from a librarian friend—I have a few connections, Miss Bruthgrave, if you'd like to meet them—that we may even have some books from Roannah itself hidden somewhere in the musty old vaults."

"Oh, Mateo, come on, they're just telling you that to get you in—uh—er—" Naul caught himself, aware that he was in front of senior faculty and shouldn't be talking about his research assistant friend's larcenous method of making sure he had all the source materials he wanted for any given project, "—to get you to cite their names in your footnotes."

The taller galdor cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes accusingly at his auburn-haired roommate. Professor Jurine spoke up next, perhaps because she recognized that it was time to get Professor Hulle out of the way before he chose to bait the junior professor more with his reminiscing over the young man's backlash years ago, the remnants of which were just enough to bring up stories from the old galdor. She was aware there was no friendship between the two men, if only because Hulle was one of the few who had attempted to have the red-headed galdor expelled instead of allowed to continue classes as normal. Their professional relationship was barely polite,

"Ah, Professor, there's Iylo Thal. I believe you wanted to speak to her about her work with the Plague in Mugroba?" The older galdor woman snuck a wink at the younger galdori, a hand on Professor Hulle's arm as she pointed.

"Oh, by Alioe, yes. I did. Well, I'm sorry, but I must excuse myself. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bruthgrave. Please don't listen to anything that one says. He won't be on staff long, I'm sure of it." The old man sneered at the red-headed professor before allowing Jurine to drag him away, chuckling and shaking his head.

Naul blinked and chose to say nothing in response to Eren Hulle, controlling his field and frustration with the faintest hint of reluctance before the trio was alone and Athrym spoke up again. She'd been staring, and for a moment he realized he was more than amicable to being under her green-eyed scrutiny, tempted to study her features with similar enthusiasm. Only, he quickly concluded that the intensity of her gaze was most likely the result of her analyzing the slower shift in half of his features, the Living mona thick enough in her field to remind him that she was probably coming up with all sorts of ideas and theories, not admiring his good looks or at all attempting at some flirtatious stare. His smile faltered further and he looked into his drink for a moment or two, missing her blush entirely under the sudden weight of embarrassment and lingering shame. Professor Hulle had only made things more awkward, and the young Siordanti suddenly regretted attempting to rescue the petit blonde from the older galdor's horrible stories.

This was why he didn't like parties. This was why he didn't bother being godsbedamned nice all the time.

"Eleme-what? More intricate—oh, please." The shift in his field obvious, a rush of Perceptive mona gathering as if he'd almost considered a more magical response to the comment, though the Physical mona that clung to him were as nonplussed an unimpressed as ever—constant, reliable, like gravity itself.

Mateo snorted from over his drink, a lightweight compared to his red-headed friend and obviously a little tipsy. He was giddy, but the movement of Nauleth's field was familiar and he took a step back out of instinct, not out of fear. His mid-term papers were as good as graded if this was how the introduction was going to go. It had been the red-head's choice, not his. His dark eyes creased at the edges as his expression warmed into a shit-eating grin and the short, auburn-haired man refrained from goading the other galdor further, no matter how tempting it was.

"—Miss Bruthgrave, if by elementary you meant fundamental to the daily life you and I and all of our kind enjoy, then, yes, Conversation with the Physical realm is elementary indeed. If you meant to insult me like a first form student, then I'll have to question whether you're actually Giorian or not with such a comment about your Kingdom's Conversational strength." Nauleth's tone was prideful, their proximities allowing him to read the curiosity in her field, the boredom, much more adept at reading surface thoughts without casting a single Perceptive spell now that he was teaching in a classroom full of fifth form students.

The young Siordanti cared little for her reasons for being here, ambassador or not. If she was really here for studious reasons, then her insults revealed a mind not ready for the task at hand. She appeared close enough to him in age, a recent graduate least, and as far as he was concerned, Brunnhold was a far superior educational institution than whatever Gior had to offer. She was here to study and push the boundaries in monic understanding, and Naul would have gladly respected that had it not come so insultingly from so pretty a mouth, though Alioe help him if he would have admitted that out loud,

Stone cold, those clocking Giorians.

"No, we can't all mistake toying with mortal life to be the same as conversing with the mona on a deeper level, you're correct. Professor Hulle is proof of that as far as I'm concerned." He didn't clocking want to be here, but he also could feel the weight of Mateo's mid-term papers sink into his very soul with the words. Her staring had disappointed him, another reminder of why he'd kept to himself for the rest of his education, of why he was an exceptional student instead of the exceptional terror he'd once been. Athrym hadn't been admiring him, and yet her words proved she was just as thrilled to be at this politically motivated social gathering as he was. Or wasn't.

But, tocks, if he made a scene with his father around, was it worth it? Probably.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Athrym’s brow raised slightly at the mention of Roannah books possibly hidden in the dismal depths of the University library. Perhaps it wasn’t all as bad as it seemed. She began to open her mouth, to answer the man, when Professor Siordanti spoke up again, clearly holding back more than he said.

“A pleasure Professor Hulle, I am sure I will be quite alright on my own with him, thankyou.” She gave a short bow of her head, glancing sharply at the taller red head as she felt a definite surge of his field. Perceptive, the Giorian could taste it in the air, like a tang of lemons. Her eyes narrowed, shifting to Mateo with a frown.

Was she becoming the butt of some foreign joke? Her temper flared at the thought, meeting Nauleth’s probing field with her own, unashamed to let him feel her anger simmering behind her cool facade. Taking a moment to steady her emotions, the white blonde galdor smiled at the insulted man with all the sweetness she could stand to muster.

“Well that’s precisely my point, Professor. In Gior, Physical conversation is our...what’s the word...it’s our basic knowledge. Any child past their coming of age can converse with the mona in elementary Physical. Why stay in such an easy line of study when there’s much more complex conversation to be had?” Sipping her beverage, the young Ambassador tested the waters again, her field humming against the taller auburn-haired Anaxi with a challenging inflection as she glanced down at her glass.

“If we were in Gior, I could show you. We would be dancing and duelling in the halls of Qrieth, not standing around making pointless small talk and stroking political egos.” Athrym muttered, smile fading into another scowl.

“Your approach to ‘celebrations’ in Anaxas are—”Boring? Frustrating? Mind-numbingly dull?

“—different.”

Mother is going to hang me for this.

Lifting her eyes again with a sigh and drawing her field back, the summer eyed woman swallowed her pride bitterly. The admittedly attractive man didn’t deserve her bite, nor was it appropriate for her job.

“Sorry. That was inappropriate. It must be the drink. Or the carriage ride. It’s been a really really long clocking few days.” She could do with just getting off her feet for a few moments. Or a bath. The Bruthgrave rubbed her temple faintly, trying to stem the frustration wearing at her.

“Living conversations are more than raising the dead, Professor Siordanti, no matter what you’ve heard. I could bring you to your knees with pleasure or pain, or I could break your bones and heal them over. With Living studies, it’s possible to feed the poor or starve the rich. There are tangible needs for Living. Granted, Physical is the speciality of my people, but it’s not mine.” She finished with an icy ring to her voice, passionate about her studies and her opinions.

“Besides, what use is the ability to float objects outside of their natural gravity? It’s a lovely party trick I suppose?”

You just cannot help yourself, can you?

[Nauleth Siordanti]

3rd Bethas, 2718

"So you are implying I'm a child, then. Or, at least, that my chosen studies are in fact childish." Nauleth's tone was completely deadpan and he arched his more functioning eyebrow in almost predatory curiosity. Complex? The laws of the world they hardly knew enough about were far from simple thus far, and what kept the tall galdor going was the promise that there was always more to discover, ready for the exploration and explanation. The sensation of challenge was there beyond the tone of the admittedly attractive blonde Giorian's voice and he felt more than he merely heard with the press of her field. The junior professor smirked, then, finishing his drink while she spoke of dancing and dueling in a way that sounded far more entertaining than their current situation, desperately filling his mind with piles of handwritten mid-term papers all about whatever godsbedamned subject Mateo was allowed to teach.

Oh, gods. He'd lost now.

"I think you need to work on your Estuan, despite that being the primary language of Gior last time I checked. If by different, you mean clocking boring, I won't argue with you there, Miss Bruthgrave." The red-head looked past her for a moment, catching a brief glimpse of his father in politically ego stroking conversation. Just there. Right out of earshot. As always, "But I beg to differ on your opinions on Physical magic on all accounts."

Mateo's grin was almost wicked. It'd been growing slowly across his flushed face as his friend kept speaking; the shorter, auburn-haired galdor quite pleased with the trap Nauleth had found himself in with his own words. Mateo had done nothing this whole time, but he could already feel his victory. Naul had been the one who wanted to come over and attempt to rescue this petit Ambassador from boring conversation, but here the other man was, totally dragging himself out to the Lawn with his own tongue. He felt the shifting of fields, too, despite his level of intoxication, and he knew his friend far too well.

Was Athrym baiting him? Was this accidental? Mateo didn't even care, it was grand! He imagined himself doing nothing for days come mid-terms and that thrill was satisfying.

But then the Giorian apologized, perhaps recognizing the crisp edge to her words no matter how bold her challenge had seemed. It would have been back to square one had she stopped there, honestly, but then she spoke up again. Naul blinked at her, ready to accept her apology and laugh, ready to offer to cover for her escape or offer her a seat, but instead, she kept talking. At her further exposition on Living magic, the red headed galdor's left hand rubbed the slower side of his face almost with unconscious necessity, the memory of his backlash and recovery something that would never completely fade from his mind, let alone his body. In any other given context, he would have enjoyed her declarations as almost flirtatious, but her dismissal of his own pursuits left his field bristling back with an answer to her unspoken questions,

"I'm well aware of what Living magic is capable of, Miss Bruthgrave. More than I care to explain at this juncture of our introduction when it comes to personal experiences. However—" His blue-green eyes narrowed, setting his empty glass down on a passing tray that was loaded with full ones without any concern before his hands moved to straighten his coat, "—floating objects outside of their natural gravity? Is that the limit of your understanding of the Physical Conversations? And you're accusing me of being elementary? Please. This is the right party for trivial tricks as if I was some vermin of a wick busking for forts on some street corner in the Stacks, but the wrong one to provide the kind of empirical evidence you seem to be lacking from a well-studied galdor such as myself."

"Nauleth." Mateo cleared his throat and drew himself up to his amicably average height, his tone a warning—Think about the papers! the auburn-haired galdor's dark eyes were saying without speaking. The clocking papers!

Damn the papers.

The young Siordanti ignored him, and he smiled lopsidedly at the blonde woman, shameless in his not-so-veiled invitation, "I'd kindly ask you to prove your opinions through a magical exercise out on our Lawn, but it's raining and far be it from me to ruin a lady's dress for a duel. I'm sorry, but there will be dancing this evening I'm sure. I, personally, don't dance, but I do more than play with clocking gravity and a handful of rocks as a sorcerer."

Hopeless. Truly.

Naul's aristocratic, freckled face was so clocking smug and his field was taut with challenge, positively buzzing. He didn't give a tock about the late Bethas drizzle outside in the dark, being that kind of professor that dragged his students out to the Lawn regardless of the weather when there was a point to be made or a lesson to learn. If she wanted to bring him to his knees, maybe he'd be alright with that, especially if he could manage another fleeting smile or two, despite the awareness that she was opinionated or ignorant or completely disinterested in his existence. And if nothing else, she'd learn that Physical conversations weren't all cheap party tricks and childish games.

"Unless the rain doesn't matter. In which case, allow me to walk you outside, Miss Bruthgrave, so you can better learn to represent your country with more educated opinions."

If she agreed, their exit wouldn't go unnoticed. Naul would hear about this for seasons, regardless of the outcome.

Dueling an Ambassador during a social event? Poor form, young Siordanti. Poor form.

Clock them all.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

“Implying? Well, if that’s what you’d like to believe, Professor.” The Giorian said in a nonchalant tone, neither affirming or denying his accusation, swirling the remainder of the drink in her glass with a flat expression and feeling the prickle of his ire and something more. Something that spoke to her on so many various levels. It was a long ride from home to here, and she hadn’t barely spent half a moment in her little apartment before the Headmistress’ passive had come knocking. There had been nothing but lack lustre disappointment in her first impressions, so yes, perhaps she had baited the prickly man.

Just a little.

As Naul corrected her wording, the blonde couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth curling up, just ever so slightly. Perhaps enough to be missed as she looked down at the bubbles gently popping in her beverage, almost delighted that he was working himself into a state. It was wrong, Athrym knew that, but then, the red head could just walk away. She could see the other, Mateo, grinning like an absolute lunatic.

“Something amusing, Mister Brivald?” She asked sharply. Either the blonde was leading herself into some sort of bad joke, or he was genuinely just as eager to be doing something other than this. Regardless, Athrym accepted whatever it would be. At this point, anything was better than this event.

Ahh, but he’s angry now. She could feel it, the definite bristle in his field against her own so politely tucked away. Her barely there smile grew slowly, like the oncoming storm or the rising of the sun, green eyes shifting to look at the red haired Anaxi as he continued on a self-righteous monologue, clearly perturbed by her last comment. It was true, she really didn’t see Physical as more than a rather fascinating party trick, but the excitement of being drawn into a duel on the matter was downright invigorating. He smiled at her then, ignoring the tone of warning in his colleagues voice, getting right to the point.

Well then.

“Professor Siordanti, where I come from it is almost always raining. We even have a dance to call the rain. Luck comes with it, so they believe.” She said, placing her glass on the next tray that passed close enough by, as though the act itself was clear enough she was ready to accept his challenge.

“Gior doesn’t need my respect, nor does it need your inflated pretentious ego to defend its honor in conversation of national choice, but if you are quite determined to show me your party trick, then let’s go.” The pale galdor smiled again, deep mauve lips a stark contrast against her ivory skin, before sweeping her hand out with a small bow.

“Lead the way to this Lawn, as you called it.” Athrym said, following the man with chin high and shoulders back, uncaring whether people were looking at them or not. This is what an event should be about. Duels and discovery, and inclusion of the mona in the festivities. Not a political chattering pot.

The rain was refreshing, falling lightly on her hair as they stepped out, with just enough chill to be noticeable. Depending on how long this took, Athrym was aware she would be fairly close to drenched by the end of it in her thin wrap style garb.

It would however, be really clocking fun.

Curling her fingers into the skirt of her dress to lift it away from the wet grass, she kept pace with Nauleth. The school was so much larger than the Giorian had seen between the carriage and the hall, and as they walked through the light Bethas drizzle, Athrym allowed herself a moment to look around her. Red brick buildings and sweeping courtyards dominated the scenery, with the Church of the Moon a start white pinnacle amongst it all. There was a garden off to her right, beautifully manicured and glistening softly with drops of cool water.

“Quaint.” She said to herself, unwilling to admit that now she’d had a chance to have even a quick glance the school was actually quite impressive.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

3rd Bethas, 2718

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Please note all magic used in the following posts is self-moderated with permission. We're here to provide an entertaining example of how magic works in Vita. Have fun. Stay safe. Don't try this at home without PMing a mod first.

"Nothing. Not a thing." Mateo continued to grin, though he wilted visibly under the Giorian Ambassador's rocky stare. She had no idea that he'd known his friend would eventually cause a scene, although since the two of them weren't audibly fighting in the ballroom, he was only winning by default. His mid-terms were as good as graded and Nauleth clearly didn't give a damn, judging by the weight of challenge that had gathered into his field.

There were only a few other people standing nearby, none of them really in earshot, involved in other more important conversation, but they were all close enough. A wave of attention washed in the direction of the trio, most eyes falling on the young Siordanti and his smug, satisfied expression. His backlash had been infamous enough that most of the older faculty knew exactly who he was and a murmur rippled out from where they stood, felt as much as heard.

The petite blonde kept up with him, word for word, but he kept his amusement to himself, not at all wanting to give her or their sudden, momentary audience the satisfaction of his entertainment. He was frustrated by her implication, aware that he'd once been a slacker, that he'd once indeed been more than content to ride on the coattails of his father, to do what he pleased because he'd been a bored, advanced student with too much privilege for his own good. Just like any proper golly, really, but the mona had made the decision to humble him. They had, perhaps, knocked him down a few notches for the time being, but he'd grown from it.

Party tricks.

Nauleth snickered, rolling his gold-rimmed eyes before he let them sweep the gazes of everyone who quickly looked away when he did so. Oh, he'd clocking hear about this for sure, and finally, he grinned, "As you wish, Ambassador Bruthgrave. This way."

Mateo balked for a heartbeat, watching his friend move to escort the pale young woman from the gathering in plain view of everyone who bothered to look, not a hint of shame or concern. The shorter, auburn-haired galdor glanced toward a few senior professors, dark eyes wide, but they only met his pleading look before returning to conversation, laughing suddenly. Stepping quickly after his roommate, the research assistant had the presence of mind to grab an umbrella once they were out in the hall in front of the ornate double doors that lead out into the late Bethas rain, the stairs, the lantern-lit darkness, the manicured walkways, and finally the Lawn. He didn't look back and didn't realize that he'd been followed, a handful of junior staff who knew the tall ginger professor, who knew they were in for a show of noble uses.

The tall galdor didn't bother with an umbrella, but he held every door for Athrym and walked with a contemplative quiet instead of a simmering one. His flash of frustration had been shallow, for despite the pale Ambassador's sharp words, Naul had a thick skin after years of ridicule. He just enjoyed playing along, and this time—this one time—all of that bluster got him exactly what he wanted: out of that clocking party and onto the godsbedamned Lawn. This young woman talked a good game, but he doubted she could bring one. He loosened his Mateo-tied cravat as they walked, turning without apology to shove it into his friend's free hand from under his umbrella, noting a few other well-dressed faces were carefully trailing behind them.

A clocking audience. Really?

School children, all of them. Just for this evening.

He could have laughed, but didn't, lithe fingers loosening the top few buttons of his high-collared shirt and one button of his coat as if he was preparing to undress for a sprint race or something, undaunted by the rain. Carefully, he removed his cufflinks and stuck them in a pocket, rolling up his sleeves all in silence, but the expression that crept into his freckled face, one side at a time, was one of calculated curiosity.

Even in the rain, parts of the Lawn were scorched from the week's studious activities. The red-headed galdor chose a patch of well-manicured grass that was still green so that it wasn't muddy, clearly thinking of the young woman he'd enticed outside with him,

"It's better in the daylight, Miss Bruthgrave. Sunrise upon the red bricks of Brunnhold is truly exquisite." Nauleth opined without malice, smirking at her quip of a compliment to what campus she could see by gaslight and reflection. The walk had been a brisk one, just long enough to remind the young professor that he'd had a few drinks. He'd have to pay attention for sure, for it was clear his judgement was already questionable when sober, let alone when a little buzzed on foreign vintage. This was more than a matter of national pride, however, and the smug professor didn't want the admittedly attractive blonde to think she could simply roll up to Brunnhold and make assumptions.

"While we aren't students any more, I don't suppose you have any requests? Rules or formalities or what not. I don't—"

"Never did." Came a cat-call, one of the well-dressed young women who'd followed Mateo out into the rain behind the pair eliciting a round of laughter from the handful of others standing just out of what they perceived would be the range of this hasty, suddenly very formal duel.

"Probably hasn't learned any class, either."

"Oh please, they let him play professor now. Someone must have decided he's safe."

"That's relative."

"That's enough." Mateo hissed valiantly.

Clocking hell. Naul narrowed his eyes for a moment, recognizing faces with a resigned sort of sigh. He'd better not make too much of an idiot of himself, then. Apparently his job was on the line now.

Still, it was true.

"Clearly, we aren't out to permanently damage each other. That rule is obvious, right? I'm just going to toss around some party tricks, anyway. Harmless expressions of physics and natural phenomenon that even a child can play with. We should be perfectly safe, depending on your actual ability." Haughtiness crept into his tone now, but if she'd known him at all, he was playing a role, slipping into the dusty but familiar. Still, the young Siordanti was gathering his field, a tightening of not just the Physical mona that clung to him, but Perceptive, too. His growing understanding of a second Conversation weaving their way into his relationship with his first.

While there had been a moment of whispering and joking, the small, thoroughly soaked crowd (except for Mateo in his umbrella) fell quiet in anticipation.

"We're good, then. Ready when you are, Miss Bruthgrave."

Nauleth may have waited for her response, acquiescing to whatever she wished, but he didn't wait much longer than that, swift to begin speaking in monite with a lopsided smile, sweeping a hand as if he were pulling a rug out from beneath the Giorian Ambassador's feet, his spell could be called a simple pull, only it wasn't. He called to the mona in the ground under her feet, the still, wet particles of earth just an inch or so deep in the small radius that the icy blonde stood on, inviting them to rise up from their places, building their momentum forward, toward himself, literally attempting to knock her over with the forceful levitation of the dirt beneath her.

His tone of voice was confident, playful almost, the young Siordanti wanting to disrupt her own casting from her very first spell, and yet his was short and simple enough as if he wanted the opportunity to listen and pay attention to her casting as well. Observant and curious, the Perceptive mona of his field was not left ignored, however, for the last lines of his spell wove in the subtle, insidious request to use the motion of her own body, whether she managed to keep her footing or not, to deceive her depth perception and perpetuate that strange feeling of falling even if she didn't.

Aware that his lengthy conversation left him little wiggle room to counter spell, the junior professor was perhaps more than a little willing to take whatever she cast at him, ever interested in what someone could bring to the Lawn against him, ever hungry for experimental experiences, even if it probably would hurt.

[Athrym Bruthgrave]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

OOCShow

Rolled a seven sided die for the success of Naul’s attack. Got a six. For Ath’s defence I got a seven. Yay!

Athrym couldn’t fault his gentlemanly approach to leading her to the Lawn, holding doors and keeping his field in check. As they moved, she watched with some mild amusement as he removed articles of unnecessary formal clothing and rolled up his sleeves, as though about to perform manual labour.

Indeed, in reality, he almost was.

The blonde wasn’t entirely unaware of the abilities Physical Conversation entertained, knowing full well Qrieth had been carved using it. She wanted that power, that depth of monic connection, but not in the same way. There was so much more than just Physical to learn. Why be a blade of grass when you could be a tall poppy?

As they walked into the relatively clear space, the Giorian looked back at the audience, assessing the situation. Young professors, older students maybe? No one of concern in her opinion. Gawkers, really. But then, even in Gior they had spectators.

“I’ll be sure to rise early one of these days to see then, Professor Siordanti.” She said with a nod, finding her footing and letting her skirts go. The rain fell lightly, but already the thin decorative material of her gown was clinging gently to her arm. She threw it behind her and took a deep breath, before releasing it slowly, gathering her field in preparation. The air was thick with the presence of the mona, and Athrym could sense the Living that danced around her, clinging to the monic pathways she excelled in. From the fringes, Physical mona waited, not near close enough in her relationship to eagerly step in, but curious about her casting.

“Perfectly safe, for one of us at least.” She replied, taking another deep breath in and out to maintain her focus, refusing to be drawn into a game of words with the junior Professor. Her green eyes turned to the audience now with a frown, disappointed at the cat-calls. This wasn’t some hand-ball match, it was a deep and honourable exploration of the relationship each participant had with the mona. Turning the glare back on Nauleth, the woman nodded.

“Ready.”

The monite flowed almost immediately, catching Athrym off-guard at first. She felt the ground surge, even as the counterspell began to grace her lips, soothing in her soft spoken voice as she implored the mona to fend off the attack. Holding her hands out for balance, she couldn’t stop the movement, and stumbled forward awkwardly. Her words faltered for a moment, and the faint touch of his perceptive spellwork left the blonde slightly lightheaded, before her counterspell dissipated the effect. Not pausing in her muttering, the Giorian wove in a quick sharp syllable as she flung her hands open palmed at the grass either side of Naul, bringing them together with a flick of her wrists. From the ground, a rumbling would accompany a burst of thick roots growing thick and fast from the earth, curling for the taller Anaxi’s legs. Closing one hand, she yanked towards herself, lips ever moving as a simple command to pull worked its way into her spell in an attempt to trip the red head.

“Floating rocks? Predictable.” She said with a sniff, hiding the way his Perceptive use had shaken her just a bit.

If she’d been successful, the shorter galdor would use it to her advantage, already reciting to the monite to bring forth a wave of nausea with a delicately woven plea to drain the man’s stamina. She wanted to leave the kenser literally wallowing weakly on his knees in his own mess, a picture in her mind clear for the mona to see, her tone still calm and respectful in contrast to the physical activity.