Teresa of the Faint Smile, Adventures of a Stringy Bosmer Options

[haute ecole rider]

Another great chapter, and a nice recap of Teresa's antics through the Crisis. And we meet yet another member of the Bravil FG. I wonder if he had an encounter with Servilia the Serpent while there?

And Olen, there is no hard and fast rule about which wine to serve with which. Just serve what tastes good. A lot of the Italian table reds (and not a few of the Sicilian ones) are excellent with seafood. Some whites can stand up to a hearty beef dish just fine.

The fact that they're serving wine and not that rotgut called Nordic Whiskey is what sets them apart from barbarians. Now that I've got the Nords all in an uproar, I'm going to quietly sneak away . . .

[Grits]

Yay, Vincent!! Does this taste funny to you?

I loved Vincent recounting his trip from Skingrad. There are so many ways to get around in Teresa’s world other than endlessly running. More great conversation, and Vincent’s arrival injected some fun into an already lively group. Nice to see Teresa get some credit, even though the attention made her uncomfortable.

Hearing Vols’ words makes me miss him.

[Acadian]

I'm so pleased that this dinner covered more than one post, as it was such a pleasure to read. Again, you master the natural flowing dialogue of multiple speakers.

I echo my pleasure at hearing of my mate Vols.

I also agree how well you painted Teresa's response to being rather highly praised.

Pappy's leadership shines throughout, ably assisited by the lovely Tadrose of the fiery skirt.

Pappy's comments on each fighter as he introduced them to Vincent were brilliant - each and every one.

[Zalphon]

I loved the 'it brought a chorus of laughter' line, it was extremely vivid, SubRosa

[Captain Hammer]

Well, a good fighter does whatever he has to in order to reach his objective.

Spoken like a true fighter. Maybe not an ethicist, maybe not a jurist, and definitely not a politician, but definitely the words of a doer of deeds.

May he always reach his objective in the future...

[mALX]

First, I have to add that screenie of Teresa to my list of faves - that dress is perfect with her coloring - great shot !!!

Your ability to encompass an entire room full of lively conversation is amazing, and inspiring - and capture Teresa's emotions throughout !! HUGE talent !!!

"Two ogres are eating a jester. One looks to the other and says 'does this taste funny to you?'"

SPEW !!! GASP !!! ROFL !!!


No one can do it like you do, SubRosa. You nailed this chapter as if it was nothing to juggle all those people in one setting and develop their personalities at the same time - you deserve all the kudos you can get on your story, and this chapter proves why !!! - hey, where is that emoticon that bows down "salami" I think Foxy calls it? Well, here is the next best:

[ghastley]

The fact that they're serving wine and not that rotgut called Nordic Whiskey is what sets them apart from barbarians. Now that I've got the Nords all in an uproar, I'm going to quietly sneak away . . .

It's well-known that Nordic Whiskey is drunk to accompany dishes of offal and boiled grains. Which of the two is supposed to make the other taste acceptable by comparison is open to debate.

Which means that the tea that makes weevils taste OK must be even scarier ... did Delphine make it?

This post has been edited by ghastley: Feb 25 2011, 09:42 PM

[SubRosa]

Olen: Tadrose does seem to be pleased with the knowledge of Teresa's antics, doesn't she? That is the only thing that made being the center attention bearable for her. She is a bit too much like a certain white-haired Redguard in that way....


haute ecole rider: If Vincent did spend the night with Servilla, I am sure he will never admit it!
I figure Pappy only breaks out the Mimisbrunnr for special manly occasions. Poker games, hiring people for secret missions, brooding, coming up with a plan to outfox Colonel Lard Moderyn Oreyn, etc...


Grits: The ogres and jester was only the tip of the iceberg. I have a whole list of bad jokes for Vincent to tell.

I am glad you picked up on the details of Vincent's journey. In Teresa ver 1.0, it was the first time I mentioned a ferry from Pell's Gate, or being able to take a ship from the IC to Bravil. Of course in ver 2.0 we know about the ferries across the lake and ships from new chapters I wrote over here at Chorrol.

You will not have to miss Vols for long. Just keep reading!


Acadian: Like the rest of the chapter, the dinner, and its final segment were meant to show the kind of camaraderie and spirit in Pappy's Guild. As you said, his leadership shows through, as the entire tone of the Bravil Chapter is set by him. In the future we will be getting a peek at the IC chapter, and the difference is tremendous.


Zalphon: I always liked that line too. Unfortunately, thanks to the forum swear filter, I had to change the body part I originally meant in "pain in the neck"! But it still works, as it so aptly describes what a pain Teresa can be for the people around her.


Captain Hammer: Pappy is all about reaching those objectives! Be it four hundred year old bottles of flin, or eighteen year old bottles of virginity.


mALX: Mmmmm, salami...


(Sir Graves) ghastley: Offal! Where is the puke icon!


Next: Our previous chapter showed how Teresa is acclimating herself to her new life in the Fighters Guild. This next short chapter (only 2 posts) will take us back to the Imperial City to look in on Vols. This is also the final chapter from Teresa 1.0 on the Beth forums.


Chapter 30.1 - Starting Over

1st Hearthfire, 3E433

Volsinius looped the leather patch around his head, covering the gaping hole where his left eye had once shone. May as well look pretty, he thought as he frowned into the mirror. Not that anyone had ever called him that. Not even before half of his face had been burned off. Now only the blind did not flinch away from him.

"What is done is done," the centurion sighed as he pulled on his gauntlets, made of thick leather backed by pieces of steel. A moment later he grasped the long swagger stick that was propped in one corner of his small room. The twisted staff of oak was hard under his fingers, and the raised pattern of vines that wound along it gave him a solid grip, like the wire that wrapped the hilt of the mithril sword riding his armored hip.

Turning from the mirror, the middle-aged man stared at the simple room in which he stood. A plain rattan bed stood in one corner, beside an equally plain wardrobe. The arming rack where he hung his plate armor stood nearly empty on the other side of the room, with nothing but his transverse-crested helmet gracing its wooden frame. A table sat next to it, holding a neat stack of parchments, quill, and pot of ink to one side. A half-burned candle sat to the other, flanked by a small marble statuette of Akatosh. With wings outstretched and serpentine head reared back in a mighty roar, it was a match for the much larger statue that now dominated the Temple of the One. Hanging from a peg in the wall over it was a laurel wreath made of solid gold. Its leaves glittered like honeyed stars in the beam of sunlight that slanted through the room's single window.

This was it, the centurion thought. His entire life was cramped into this little room, and still it looked empty. Twenty years ago he had left Skyrim to follow in his father's footsteps. To win fame and glory in the service of the Empire. For a moment his hand reached out for the laurel - his Grass Crown. Laid upon his head by the High Chancellor himself.

He drew his hand away before touching it, and instead let his armored fingers fall along the smooth leather of his eye patch and the burned skin of his face around it. What was it Tiber Septim had once said? Glory only comes through sacrifice. Well, sacrifice was something he damn well understood.

Before his mind could wander any further, Volsinius stomped from his room and into the barracks beyond with a clatter of steel. His red cape swirled behind him as he marched with back stiff and head high. The golden scrollwork of a wreath gleamed across the center of his breastplate, announcing the Grass Crown he had been awarded to all.

Most of the bunks he passed were empty. The recruits that owned them were probably out whoring and drinking themselves silly, the centurion thought, as it was the first day they had been given off duty since the camp had gotten into full swing. The few that lingered behind played cards, read quietly in their bunks, or otherwise occupied themselves. More than a few stared as he marched past, but not one opened their mouth to speak to him. They had at least learned better than to address a superior out of turn! he thought with satisfaction.

Shoving his way through the door and out into the open air, the centurion stalked through the network of white-washed barracks and parade grounds that filled the north-west quarter of the Palace District. Soon enough his feet set upon the stones of Green Emperor Way. Across the thoroughfare from him rose the raised stone warehouses of the city's granary, all tucked away behind a tall iron fence that was crowned with spikes.

Stepping into the busy traffic on the street, he turned left and made his way through the gatehouse that separated the Palace District from the Market. Even though it was Sundas, Commerce Street was still crowded with wagons, horses, and people. Everywhere he looked with his single eye, he was greeted by a tide of mortals of all races and social status. Wealthy patricians in velvet, equites in fine linen, pedites in worn flax, and lowly proles in sackcloth, all jostled and darted to and fro on the street.

The mass of citizens parted before him like a wave, as they always did. His size and bulk insured that, if not the heavy legion armor which he wore. More than a few stared at the laurel on his breastplate, eyes widening in wonder, only to fall in horror at the sight of the mass of scars that covered the left side of his face.

Volsinius ignored them, as he always did. Let them stare, he thought. Let them see what a real hero looked like. He had more important things to do.

With that in mind, he turned into the first alley he came across. He knew that what he sought would not to be found in the wide, sunlit streets. It would be here in the narrow lanes between stone insulas. In the places where the light did not reach.

Where in Oblivion was she? he wondered as he hunted through the back alleys and side streets. The beggars and street urchins stared at him with the blank, hard stares they reserved for everyone who wore legion armor. Eyes as empty as those of a doll, he thought, or a slaughterfish. He did not waste his breath trying to speak to any of them. He already knew they had nothing to say to a soldier like himself.

Magnus crawled across the azure sky overhead as he prowled through the streets, until finally in a narrow alley piled with smashed barrels and crates he found his quarry. A pair of bare feet that stuck out from under a small hill of wooden boards and fragments. They were small, the feet of a child, and Volsinius instantly knew who they belonged to.

"Brekke!" he exclaimed, picking up his pace as he approached, nearly breaking out into a run. "Where in the blazes have you been? I have not seen you in-"

The half-Nord, half-Imperial's words trailed away as he stared down into a small recess in the wood pile. Sitting within was a young girl clad in torn and muddy sack cloth. Her brown hair fell around her face, but could not conceal the large black and blue bruises that blossomed across her swollen features, nor the dried scabs that split her lower lip and graced one of her eyebrows.

"Leave me alone!" the young street urchin cried, turning her face away and thrusting out a slender hand to ward him off.

"Damn," the centurion muttered, falling to one knee to get a better look at the girl. "Let me guess, the other kids did this, because of me?"

"Go away!" was the only response from the youthful Breton. She crawled deeper into the shadows of the woodpile and curled into a fetal position.

"And the clothes I bought for you too?" he sighed, unable to prevent the slump in his shoulders. "Even your damn shoes?"

Akatosh's bloody wings! the centurion thought ruefully as he stared at the pavement. How on Nirn had he mucked up something as simple as helping an orphan?

The saddest thing was he was not really surprised. He had been half-expecting something like this might happen. But half-hoping it would not. Especially after what Teresa had told him how her friend from the Waterfront had turned on her.

The thought of the Bosmer triggered another memory deep from the pits of his mind. He saw his hand clamping around her thin, child's wrist after she had stolen a sweet roll. A moment later the steel back of his gauntlet was crashing into her young face. In his mind's eye, he could still see the molar fly from the wood elf's mouth, riding a fountain of blood. Then Simplicia was screaming at him, calling him a monster, good for nothing but killing.

He still did not know what had driven him to backhand Teresa across the face. Something in him had just snapped, and not for the first time. Was Simplicia right? Was he good for nothing but death?

Staring into the darkness that shrouded Brekke's torn and battered frame, he was struck by how similar they looked. They had the same brown hair, the same dirty clothing, the same haunted look in their eyes. Brekke was a few years older, perhaps ten or eleven, and was human rather than elven. Yet there was little difference beyond that. It was almost as if time had rewound, and he stood once more in front of a young Teresa.

How might things have turned out if he had acted differently so many years ago? Would her life have been different? Would his?

"Damnit kid," Volsinius growled, staring into the darkness before him. "Come out of there. You can't hide forever."

"Not until you go," came the thin voice of the Breton.

"If that's the way you want it, then I will," the centurion sighed. Rising to his feet, he planted his hands on his hips and stared down at the wood pile. "But you need to decide what you're going to do, right here, right now. You can spend the rest of your life being a victim, or you can learn how to fight. If you want to fight, step out here and I'll teach you how, just like my mother taught me."

The centurion waited, his heart racing as fast as it had in any battle. Licking his suddenly dry lips, he found himself wishing for a mug of ale. What was it going to be? he wondered. Would it all have been for nothing? Or was there a way to go back and change time?

Teresa had possessed the steel to change her life, he had seen that in more ways than one. Did Brekke have the same? Could she rise above a lifetime of learning that running and hiding was the only way to survive?

The sound of cloth scraping on stone was his answer, and the centurion had to fight to suppress a grin as the girl crawled from the wreckage. Rising to her feet, she stood before him in the dim light that filtered down between the high stone buildings around them. He could see the tears forming in her eyes, but he also saw how the fingers of her hands curled into fists. She had it! Relief coursed through his frame like the Niben in flood as she spoke.

"You'll teach me how to fight?" Her brown eyes stared back up at him without flinching, and the centurion noted the firm set to her jaw.

"Damn straight I will," Volsinius answered. "I got hundreds of meatheads back in the Palace District that aren't half as tough as you are kid. If I can turn them into legionaries there's no fetching reason I can't make you one too. But nothing in life is free. I'm gonna want something from you in return."

"What?" Now the Breton's eyes darted one way and another, and the centurion knew she was looking for places to run.

"As prefect of the Fifth's training camp, I'm entitled to name a benificarius," the soldier explained. "I want you to be it."

"A benif..." the young girl struggled with the word.

"Benificarius," the centurion explained. "It's just a fancy word for an aide. The Imperial Legion loves big words like that, it makes the patricians feel more important. It means you'll run errands for me, clean my armor, that sort of stuff. When you're not working for me, you'll be learning how to fight, and toughening up. Who knows, by the time you're grown you might be as tough as me."

"Really?" Brekke looked up with wide eyes, and Volsinius could see that she was trying to decide if she could take the chance that he was lying or not. He had caught enough people taking advantage of street kids to know that she had good reason to be cautious. He only hoped that he had earned enough of her trust for her to take that gamble on him.

"Really." The centurion held out his hand to the child.

Another wave of relief washed through him as Brekke placed her small fingers in his palm. Gently wrapping his hand around hers, he led the girl down the alley to the main street.

"Do they have girls in the legion?" the Breton suddenly asked.

"Dreck yes we do!" the centurion laughed. "Damn good fighters too. Got more common sense than us men."

"Then I want to be in the legion!" the Breton declared. Staring down at the girl, Volsinius noted the same resolute look in her eyes that he saw in those of Teresa during the Crisis.

"See what I mean!" he laughed. Bending down, he reached an arm around the much smaller Breton and lifted her up onto his shoulder. "That's good sense! Now let's go get you fixed up. There's a little chapel of Arkay around here that has a healer who works cheap."

The Breton wrapped her arm around his head, her fingers splayed across his forehead to steady herself. Volsinius could not restrain a smile as he marched forward into the main street. Perhaps time had indeed unwound itself, giving him the chance to start over again.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 1 2011, 01:51 AM

[haute ecole rider]

And Vols is baaaaack! As baaaad as evah!

Yeah, right. We all know what a big softie he really is. But Sage R, I can't tell you how happy I am to see him again! I loved this chapter back in 1.0, and I'm loving it again here. Here he really shines, and little Brekke just brings it out of him. Sure, he's all crusty and tougher 'n nails, but beneath that scarred exterior, he's all heart. And I just luuurve that heart!

Speaking of scarred exteriors, I think he scared away the 'h' in this:

Soon enough is feet set upon the stones of Green Emperor Way.

Dang, where is that twirl emoticon when I want need it?

[Olen]

I'm liking this, Vols is a great character. Very much a mixture - hard but soft in some ways, and real. He does lose his temper, he does make mistakes. I also liked the bitterness he has about how he looks, he doesn't want to feel it and thinks he shouldn't care but does. I wonder what wonders magic can work...

There were some great lines there, and a well placed part with how well everything is going for Teresa it gives a bit of darkness to the piece again.

This is also the final chapter from Teresa 1.0 on the Beth forums

Wow, what length is it now? So new stuff from here...

And on the subject of whiskey, Haute, I agree. If it has an 'e' it's probably vile. Though I'm going to disagree on smashed up offal and oats, that's perfectly tasty...

nits:
ninja'd on first
darted to and fro before him. // The mass of citizens parted before him like - repetition of before him.

This post has been edited by Olen: Feb 26 2011, 08:50 PM

[ghastley]

Let's get the nits out of the way first:
Now only the blind did not flinch when they saw met him.
It's just jarring the other way.

Across the thoroughfare from him rose the raised stone warehouses {of the} city's granary,
Lost a couple of words here.

Now back to the story.

Nice description of Vols' room, spare to match the room itself. But it looks like he'll need more space soon.

I thought Brekke's reactions to Vols were perfect, emotions turning on a dime like any resilient little urchin's would. Looking forward to the new stuff with her in it.

@Olen: I'm a Haggis and 'neeps fan myself, but it's one of those dishes that can be really good or really not. In the latter case even a good single malt can't save it.

This post has been edited by ghastley: Feb 26 2011, 09:52 PM

[Grits]

Yaaaaaaay, Vols! The small statue of Akatosh was a heartwarming touch, and a reminder that some lost more than half their face.

His red cape swirled behind him as he marched with back stiff and head high.

I felt the urge to stand up when I read this!!

His empty barracks room and the mostly empty bunks led nicely to Vols collecting Brekke. Now they both get a new start.

[Acadian]

Yay, Vols!!! I'm with Rider. Where is that twirl emoticon?

You snap us right into Vols' character and mindset here. Then the scene with Brekke is adorable. It clearly shows us the impact that Teresa has had on Vols. I really liked that because Vols has certainly had a wonderful impact on Teresa. I fully expect he will do so again with Brekke, only with some newfound experience and hard-earned wisdom.

If only Teresa could put on her Emma hat and work some magic betwixt Vols and Simplicia. Oh well, we can hope.

I agree with Vols. Seeing Brekke is almost like Little Teresa!

[Thomas Kaira]

A very heartwarming moment between Vols and Brekke!

I must say, you avoided the usual cliche of the tough-as-nails outside, big softie inside quite well, Rosa! Lots of people out there just use that approach to try and have the character write himself, and it almost always doesn't work. You, however, are not using that approach. Instead you made it an actual part of his character. A very deep character he is, as well.

Good work!

[mALX]

I love this chapter - Vols trying to redeem his past mistakes. There is an integral bond between Vols, Simplicia, Teresa, and now Brekke that is a tangible continuum weaving through the story that keeps the reader tied emotionally to them - Huge Character Write, SubRosa. You created Vols and brought him from child-whacker we hated along with Teresa to a deeply sympathetic, emotional, and complex man - written so well that the two times he murdered - we all cheered for him! It is the best character write I've ever seen for a secondary character, AWESOME WRITE !!!!!

[Jacki Dice]

Awww Brekke! I love seeing her again. Good thing she'll learn to defend herself. Next kid that throws a punch, she'll be able to have him on his back!

[SubRosa]

haute ecole rider: I don't know that he's that much of a softie inside. He just still has a conscience is all, plus a boatload of regret. I was watching Rio Bravo a few days ago, and I realized that John Wayne would also be perfect in the role of Vols.

It does look like his scars scared away his h. Thank you for wrangling up that stray calf for me.


Olen: Vols has always been a popular character. I think because he is a manly man in what it otherwise a chick story. That and he really is a classic archetype that makes him easy to grasp onto.

Good eye on the repetition. Fixed.

If you include the next post (which ends this chapter), the total word count for the TF 2.0 is 250,221. Of course 1.0 was a lot smaller, as I added in a lot of chapters in the middle of the old ones when I restarted over here, like Vilverin, The Witch of Lake Trasimene, the Battle of Bruma, etc... Not to mention some of the old chapters received a lot of extra material, like Knight of Swords, which quadrupled in size.


ghastley: Words found, thank you for spotting them.

Vols' room was the most difficult part of this chapter to write. I can look around a modern bedroom and describe what I see. But so much of that vanishes when we change settings. Brekke on the other hand, was easy to write.


Grits: You hit the nail on the head about this chapter. It is all about a new start, for both Vols and Brekke.


Acadian: This is another of those non-Teresa chapters that I did not mind writing, because as you said, you can see the influence she has had on the characters here. And as you said, you can look at Brekke and see Teresa ten years before, and imagine What If?

Teresa will be borrowing Buffy's Emma hat soon, next chapter in fact.


Thomas Kaira: I guess because as I said to h.e.r., I don't really see Vols as being a big softie on the inside. He is simply a man who is old enough to become filled with regret for the coulda', woulda', shoulda's in his life. Unlike when he was younger, he now has enough grit (maybe) to step up and try to break that cycle.


mALX: you hit it in your first sentence. Vols is trying to make up for his past mistakes. Also as you said, the lives of him, Simplicia, Teresa, and now Brekke have all been bound up with one another in a spider's web. So tightly that as you said again, when he committed murder, twice, we all cheered.


Jacki Dice: Imagine Brekke in eight years, when she is all grown up after the tutelage of the meanest Imperial Centurion in Cyrodiil?


Next: Our previous segment followed Vols as he searched for and found Brekke, who has become the target of bullies due to her friendship with him. Next we see Vols take the first step in keeping his promise to teach Brekke to take care of herself.


Chapter 30.2 - Starting Over

"I thought we were going to the chapel?" Brekke asked as Volsinius set her down in a portico lined with shops. Above the pair swung a wooden sign emblazoned with an eye, and the words Mystic Emporium painted over it.

"I had a better idea," the centurion explained, and jerked a thumb toward the door before them. "I know the guy who runs this place. He's ex-legion. He fixed me up after the Daedra attacked."

"He's going to heal me?" the girl asked as Volsinius led her into the shop. The stone walls were decorated with silk tapestries, each adorned with one of the magical star signs. On one wall was the Mage, the figure of a wizened man holding a staff. On another was the Apprentice, this a young man also carrying a staff. The last was the Atronach, a humanoid creature made of rocks that floated around one another.

Between the tapestries, the walls were lined with bookshelves and display cases. Volsinius could see the crystal of magicka gems beneath the glass lids of many, and curled up scrolls in others. A long wooden counter ran half the length of the store, graced by a row of softly glowing welkynd stones perched upon elaborate bases of silver. Hanging from the high ceiling above was a small metal chandelier that supported not candles, but glowing white crystals, bathing the room in their soft light.

"Welcome to the Mystic Emporium, I am Calindil," came the soft, slow voice of the Altmer who towered behind the counter next to the front door. His auburn hair was swept back from his forehead in a pronounced widow's peak, and he was dressed in ordinary russet and blue linens. "Please allow me to offer my personal congratulations on earning the Grass Crown centurion. It is quite a distinction."

Screenshot

Also behind the counter, and sitting by a small table while reading a book, was another Altmer. She had the same auburn hair as Calindil but with skin far smoother, and a frame even more delicate than the man's. Unlike him however, she did not even look up, much less acknowledge their presence. She could be anywhere between twenty and three hundred, Volsinius thought as he stared at her black-clad frame. With elves you never knew, especially the Altmer.

Turning his eye back to the man, Volsinius looked up to meet his gaze, something he was not used to doing. The Altmer did not blanch at the sight of his burns, something else he was not accustomed to, but found welcome nonetheless.

"Thank you sir. I saw you at the presentation ceremony, and I won't forget what you did for me after the Crisis." Without wasting time on more pleasantries, Volsinius gestured to the girl beside him. "Can you teach this kid a healing spell?"

"Well of course I can brother," Calindil said easily, walking around the counter to stand before Brekke. He had to bend a long way in order to lower his eyes to meet those of the Breton. "It looks like you have seen some trouble young lady. Perhaps I should take care of that first..."

The Altmer reached out a hand to Brekke, who flinched away, stepping behind the armored legs of the centurion.

"I think it's better if you just teach her how to do it," Volsinus said, laying a light hand on Brekke's shoulder. "She's seen some hard times, and needs to learn how to take care of herself."

"Hmmm," the Altmer hummed, staring at the young girl for long moments. Then he rose to look at the other high elf behind the counter.

"Eltraena," he said, "please watch the door while I work with our young mage here."

The other Altmer closed her book with a sigh and rose to her feet. Volsinius had the distinct impression that the high elf would rather be somewhere else as she stepped up to the counter.

"My niece, from Cheydinhal," Calindil explained as he led the pair to the back of the shop, where a round table of polished mahogany sat with several chairs. He gestured for the two to sit, and once they had he squatted down beside the Breton.

"My name is Calindil," he said, "and this is my shop. And you are?"

The girl's eyes darted from the high elf to Volsinius, who nodded from where he sat beside her. "Brekke," she finally answered. "Is it true that you were in the legion too, like Vols?"

"Why yes indeed." The Altmer's voice rang with what could only be pride. "I gave forty good years to the Empire. Although not quite in the same manner as our friend the centurion. I was a battlemage you see."

The Breton's eyes widened in surprise, and the magician went on. "Now that we have been properly introduced, let us begin. Do you know any magic already?"

The Breton shook her head violently.

"Alright, I am not surprised," the Altmer continued. "Now, do you know what magic is?"

"Well, it's spells, and potions, and stuff!" the young girl blurted.

"Not exactly," the magician explained with a soft smile. "Those are just expressions of magic, but they are not what magic is. Magic, my young apprentice, is the ability to create change in accordance with will."

"That's it?" the street urchin said under crowded eyebrows.

"Yes indeed," the Altmer shopkeeper insisted, his eyes dancing with mirth. "It is that simple, and that powerful. Magic is the quite literally the ability to reshape the world, and every one of us has it. Including you." The magician tapped a light finger on the street urchin's nose, the corners of his lips upturned in a smile. "In fact, your race has graced Tamriel with many of our greatest magicians. I expect you will be no different."

"I will?" the street urchin said, her doubt clear by the continuing scrunching of her eyebrows.

"Well, let us find out, shall we?" The Altmer rose and took a seat as well. "There are three important things which comprise all magical workings, be they spells, scrolls, potions, or enchantments."

"They are: magicka, a symbol, and the will of the magician." The high elf rose his hand and ticked off a finger as he named each. "Everything a mage does always comes down to these three things. Now, let us talk about each one."

"Magicka is the first. It is the energy that powers all magic, just as pieces of wood are the fuel for a fire." The high elf explained, and Brekke nodded as he spoke. "All beings with souls have magicka within them. It comes down to us from the Aetherius, through the sun and stars, and builds up in our bodies. Our spirits attract magicka, just like you have probably seen flies attracted to garbage. And just as the bigger pile of trash attracts more flies, the more powerful magician learns to store more magicka within them."

Brekke barely stifled a giggle at the elf's comment about the flies, and the magician smiled as he went on. Volsinius could not believe how easy a manner the elf had with children. His soft voice, they way he looked in Brekke's eye, the down-to-nirn analogies of his. He could see how they combined to make her warm up to him. Suddenly the centurion found himself wondering if the former battlemage had any children of his own, or if he was just naturally good with people?

"Now let us start by learning to feel the magicka within ourselves," the high elf went on. "I want you to rub your hands together like this," the Altmer slid his open palms back and forth in a quick motion, as if he were trying to rub the cold out of them. "Now you do it."

Volsinius watched as the Breton rubbed her hands together as the elf had. "Now what?" she asked earnestly.

"Do you feel that tingling in your skin?" the high elf asked, and when the street urchin nodded, he went on. "That is magicka. In time you will learn to feel it within you with only a thought. But for now just rub your hands together like you just did."

"Next is a symbol, which is very important," the magician explained. "This is because magic is not governed by the rational mind, what is called the Middle Self. To use magic, we must speak with your Lower Self, what some call the unconscious. So dreams are the language of magic, mythic poetry buried deeply within ourselves. Which is of course another way of saying symbols."

"The symbol tells your magicka what to do. The only difference between a spell that summons a sylph and another that makes you invisible is this symbol. So learning a spell is really a matter of learning the proper symbol. As you probably guessed, the more powerful the spell, the more complicated the symbol is."

"Now there are all kinds of symbols for spells." The magician edged closer in his chair. "In fact, there are often many different ones to make the same spell. That is because magic is as much about your own personal inclinations as it is about universal rules. What works for one person does not always work for the next."

"For beginner spells, the symbols are usually very straightforward," he said. "Simply imagine the result you desire in your mind, and channel your magicka into making that occur. So for the healing spell we are going to learn today, I want you to picture yourself healthy and whole. No bumps, no bruises, no cuts, just a whole, happy little girl. Now picture that in your mind."

Volsinius saw the street urchin close her eyes tightly and nod.

"Alright, now let's try," the high elf said. "Rub your hands together to feel the magicka, and send it into that picture in your head."

The Breton did as ordered, furiously rubbing her palms. She sat there for long moments, until finally she opened her eyes with a frown.

"It doesn't work!" she cried. "I'm no good at this!"

"Oh you just wait and see my apprentice!" the Altmer's eyes sparkled. "No one gets it right the first time. That is because there is one final ingredient we must speak of: Will. You must make the change happen. It is not enough just to want it, or hope for it, or even believe in it. You must know it. Just as you know the sun will rise tomorrow, you must know your magic will work. If your will is not this absolute, then you will cause your own spell to fail. Now let's try again, and this time focus your will."

The Breton rubbed her hands together once more, and this time Volsinius could see her features scrunched together in concentration.

"That is right," came the soft voice of the Altmer. "You can do it. You have the power within you. You can do anything. You can make it happen. You will do it."

Brekke opened her hands, and a white light burst from her palms. First it rode up her arms, then it washed across the rest of her body. After it had completely bathed her in its glow, it faded away to a memory.

"Akatosh's bloody balls!" Volsinius breathed in amazement. The cuts on her face had completely vanished, without even a scar to mark their passage. The bruises still remained however, like black and blue birthmarks, but it was certainly a start, the soldier thought.

"You did it!" He clapped a light hand on the street urchin's back, and she stared up at him with a mixture of surprise and triumph. Before the centurion knew what was happening, she climbed into his lap and threw her arms around him, pressing her cheek into the cool metal of his gilded breastplate.

"Well done apprentice!" The Altmer slapped a hand on the table with a grin. "Very good indeed. Few people learn a spell, any spell, so quickly, let alone their first!"

"I really did it!" the Breton gushed from Volsinius' lap, now looking back to Calindil. "I could feel it inside me, just like you said!"

"Indeed, you have the makings of a fine magician Brekke. But only if you study and practice." The Altmer shopkeeper rose to his feet and walked to a bookshelf. Tracing a slender finger across a row of leather spines, he drew forth a thin volume named Manual of Spellcraft and returned to the table.

"I want you to take this book and read it, my young apprentice," he said, handing the tome to the Breton. "This will go into more of the basics of magic, and give you a bit of the history of our craft. When you are finished I want you come back and we will talk about it. If you have learned well, I will teach you another spell."

"I want to learn a fireball!" the Breton exclaimed, leaping from the centurion's lap with the book cradled in her arms.

Volsinius could not restrain a smile as the girl darted to the door of the shop, drawing a raised eyebrow from Calindil's niece. "Maybe a shield spell instead," he said loudly, rising to his feet as well. Turning to face the Altmer mage, he reached into the coin pouch at his hip. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing at all," Calindil insisted, holding his open hand up to stop the centurion. The elf's gaze traveled to the street urchin by the door, who was now thumbing through the pages of the book with a look of wonder on her face. "It breaks my heart to see them on the streets, with no parents, and no one to look after them. I think it is very commendable, you helping her like this. I would be glad to do anything I can. She truly does have quite a bit of talent."

"You really think so?" Volsinius asked, looking from the high elf to the Breton. All he had hoped for was for Brekke to learn a simple spell, he thought, so that she could take care of her herself. Now Calindil was intimating that she could be a real magician someday, and a damn good one at that?

"Indeed," the Altmer responded. "I have rarely seen a student learn to cast a spell so quickly. It took me nearly half a day my first time! I will wager she was born under the sign of the Mage, or the Apprentice."

Volsinus nodded. It had taken him a week to learn the same spell when he had been in training. Magic was such a damn hard thing to wrap one's brain around. Yet Brekke had learned the spell in just the space of minutes! His mind whirled with the implications of that as he walked to the door with Calindil beside him.

"Now keep casting your spell my young apprentice, even after you are all better," the Altmer said to the Breton. "You will probably have to wait a while between each time, to let your magicka rebuild. But practice is important, without it, talent is wasted."

"Thank you Calindil!" the Breton exclaimed, a smile beaming through the bruises that marred her features. She lifted one hand in the air, in the same pose Volsinius had seen so many mages use. A white light burst from within her fist, and fell about her as she uncurled her fingers. The centurion stared in amazement as half the bruises on her face vanished in the wake of the brilliant glow. "I will!"

"Alright kid," Volsinus grumbled. He led her out of the shop and under the portico outside. "Let's leave the man to his work. Besides, we need to get you some new clothes if you are going to be working in the palace with me."

"I want to be a battlemage!" the young girl declared as they walked in the shade within the columns.

"Damn right you will be kid," Volsinius said, laying a hand on her shoulder. Inside he groaned however, how on Nirn was he going to pay for the Arcane University on a centurion's salary?

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 2 2011, 11:53 PM

[haute ecole rider]

"I want to be a battlemage!" the young girl declared as they walked in the shade within the columns.

"Damn right you will be kid," Volsinius said, laying a hand on her shoulder. Inside he groaned however, how on Nirn was he going to pay for the Arcane University on a centurion's salary?

That. Right. There. Is. My. Dad.

When I told him I wanted to study to be a veterinarian, he said "Do it." But inside, I'm sure he was bemoaning Oh God, not another college education to pay for?? My older sister was already in college and here I was talking about going for a doctorate degree and I had just begun high school!

I loved this whole scene with Calindil and Vols and little Brekke discovering her innate talents. Quite the world of wonder has opened up for this little street urchin, and it's an amazing thing to make happen. I'm proud of the two men for doing so!

[Olen]

Excellent part, it was really fun to read. Giving her some talent makes her an immediatly more interesting character, I suspect we'll be seeing more of her. Her posing at the end was spot on too

"Akatosh's bloody balls!"

Great lore friendly line. I may even steal it.

"I want you to take this book and read it

This, along with how he spoke to Brekke made me wonder how old she's meant to be. I'd imagined abuot ten but presumably you meant for her to be older otherwise she'd lack the ability to read a book on magic, even a beginners one, even if she was good at reading for her age. It would be a bit like giving 'Fundementals of Physics' to someone, they're going to have to be fairly literate and intelligent even though the concepts are simple. It just seemed a bit mismatched with aspects of her behaviour.

how on Nirn was he going to pay for the Arcane University on a centurion's salary?

If she's that good a scholarship seems likely. Presumably the legion would pay the fees of a potential battlemage if they joined up similarly to how armies do for officers and engineers in RL. Or a bursary, I imagine some aging mages would be that way inclined...

This post has been edited by Olen: Feb 28 2011, 10:53 PM

[ghastley]

Olen has a point about the reading, but I imagine Vols can (and will) help with that. He might pick up a few things from the book himself.

I think we've established that Brekke wasn't born under the Atronach, as she's already cast two healing spells in quick succession without remarking on feeling drained. As Calandil said, Mage or Apprentice are the likely ones.

I wonder if she'll learn that fireball spell before she's ready?

...graced by a row {of} softly glowing welkynd stones ...?