(no subject)

[fluffiest_archadian]

One problem with being in a diplomatically busy border country is that there are loads of other nation's soldiers on your barracks, having arrived there to accompany their ambassadors (and entourage). The Rozarrians are fine - they're loud and raucous and put the generally more reserved Archadians on edge, and they take a certain amount of vicious glee in challenging the Archadians to fight, but it's the kind of loud, noisy, even somewhat friendly antagonism that's not too bad.

The Bhujerbans, on the other hand, are silent, detached, and utterly uninterested in even acknowledging the presence of other people, and Sherral finds that much more unnerving.

So he's training out back instead of at his own training grounds, barefoot, dressed in a grey t-shirt and equally grey trousers. He has a large crate, and a target drone - a kind of spherical, metal sphere with rings of crystal on one side and a glossair ring around it - floating in the air and is currently aiming at it with one hand, gripping his wrist with the other hand.

The blast of silvery-blue light that issues from his palm is very impressive. It also misses the drone by about four feet, although the waves of energy coming off it practically shred the drone anyway.

He makes an irritated noise, and pads over to the crate. Botherable.

Comments

[will_scarlett]

Will's over by the lake enjoying a beer when Sherral sets up and winces when the blue light misses,

"Careful o'er there."

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Aye, I would not wish to accidentally blow away a tree thirty feet from my mark," Sherral says, with gruff irritation at himself. When Judge Magisters perform their Quickenings, they hit every time.

Sherral has been practicing for two years, and half the time it veers off to one side.

He activates another training drone, and pulls a bottle from the crate, uncorking and breathing its contents in, letting the Mist within it replenish his own.

[will_scarlett]

Will walks over but making sure to stand behind Sherral, "'ow are ye doin' that?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"With great difficulty and poor accuracy," Sherral says. "The first time I used this, I hit my mark perfectly. Since then, it veers off half the time." Admittedly, two years ago, it often did land thirty feet from the target, and now it's rarely more than five feet from it, but that's five feet too many.

"It's a technique in my world, where a person draws in the ambient magic around them and then expels it all at once. It manifests differently for everybody. And terribly for me, it seems."

[will_scarlett]

"Oh aye, an do ye get many chances to practice it?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Clearly not enough," Sherral says ruefully, and raises his hand again, gripping it at the wrist with his other hand.

As close as Will is, he may be able to feel the momentary pulling sensation, before the incandescent beam bursts out of his palm again. This time, the drone is half-engulfed by it, the rest of it blackening and turning to ash and charred metal.

With a grumble, Sherral paces towards the crate again.

[will_scarlett]

He can and its an odd feeling that has him bracing himself as he watches the drone burn,

"Ye dinna e'en 'ave to 'ave perfect aim to kill a man that way."

[fluffiest_archadian]

"It helps," Sherral says, and opens the bottle again to inhale the Mist, giving his head a quick shake.

"Forgive me, I've not even asked your name," he says, activating another drone.

[will_scarlett]

"Will Scarlett o'Nottingham, England. What's that ye're drinkin'?"

Drinking's not the right word but its the best one he has.

[herr_bookman]

"Effugium," Autor says, and drops down from his perch on his flying carpet ten feet away as it shrinks beneath him. "That's a rather efficient way of killing people. It doesn't appear to be what I expected a Fire or Blizzard spell to look like, so I assume it's a Thunder derivative? Or is it something more advanced?"

[OOC: Placeholder, and Millitimed 'till before Sunshine's post, if that's all right? :)]

[fluffiest_archadian]

"It'd be more efficient if it hit its target," Sherral mumbles. "It's more advanced. A technique for drawing in the Mist around yourself and expelling it as a focused attack. Each person who learns it yields a different spell."

[EDIT OOC: Yep, that's perfectly fine by me. :D]

[herr_bookman]

"Fascinating," Autor says, adjusting his glasses at all of the destruction. "What are they called? Can anyone learn it? Are soldiers expected to?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

Sherral holds up a finger. "Quickenings," another finger, "in theory," a third finger, "no, although Judge Magisters are expected to learn three."

[herr_bookman]

"Three," Autor says, shaking his head. "That must require a great deal of Mist. Can you continuously cast it? Seems a little too powerful to come without some sort of a cost."

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Three," Sherral confirms, nodding. "Each one learned builds on the power of the previous one and increases how much Mist you can draw in for it. But in my case, it just about wipes out all of my Mist."

[herr_bookman]

"Wipes out? I thought you drew it from around you?" he says, peering at the remains of the drone. "How do you replenish it? Waiting?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Aye, but then you expel it outwards from yourself. That takes any Mist you have stored up with it. It's like a really big magical sneeze," Sherral says. "Then you can either wait it out, or - well, I have some Mist bottled up which I'm using today."

[pattersongs]

"Ah! You again," says the space newt with the broken horn and forehead tattoo. "Was wondering what became of you. Looking better than last time."

[fluffiest_archadian]

O hay space newt doctor.

Sherral ducks his head. "It's been a few years for me. Haven't gotten Mist sickness since, though, which suits me well. Once was enough."

[pattersongs]

"Understandable. Looked remarkably uncomfortable," says Mordin. "Wouldn't mind learning more about it, when you had time."

Social niceties are for other people. Ones who aren't in the final five years of their species' life expectancy.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"I have time now, if you wish, but I'm not an expert, I fear."

[pattersongs]

Mordin doesn't quite chuckle, but there's something like a laugh in his voice as he says, "Doubt I'm going to encounter any experts here to interrogate instead. Willing to listen to what you do know."

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Well, Mist is magic in its gaseous form in my world. It exists in varying concentrations everywhere, but it's usually not visible. It accumulates in people and animals, and there's scientific speculation that the reason so much of our wildlife consists of hostile, magic-wielding monsters is because they're mutated by Mist. When it's very thick, it can end up re-animating the dead."

He furrows his brow, thinking. "When it's gathered in too high a concentration, it tends to cause mental instability or mutate whoever it's affecting, and it works quicker if they're in a heightened emotional state. The Nu Mou, the people that are the most sensitive to Mist in my world, have essentially become a species of monks, because the Mist affects them so heavily that if they harbour certain emotions or desires for too long, they invariably end up mutating into monsters."

[pattersongs]

"Interesting," says Mordin, tapping one long, slender finger against what passes for his chin. "Reminded somewhat of element zero. Physical element with extremely peculiar properties, including inducing biotic abilities in individuals exposed in utero. Doesn't keep bodies moving after death, though."

[fluffiest_archadian]

Curiously: "Biotic abilities?"