At the Mages Guild hall in Shornhelm, the apprentice Naudet Fauconniere can be found practising her craft day in, day out. The air about the Breton apprentice feels crisp with static charge, particles of molten gold hew dance about her every intimation, and each phrase she speaks she crafts with the subtle complexity of a blossoming flower.
To the layman she performs little more than parlour trick and gimmick, but these simple feats of conjuration and imagination are essential training. For much like a soldier who batters a straw dummy with his wooden sword for hour upon end, only through repetition does response become reflex.
Magic is the art of altering the world about through ones thought and will. The mage knows that two and two makes four, but nothing gives them more pleasure then finding ways to convert two and two into five; because for the mage, it is far better to conquer one’s own limits than win a hundred battles against another’s.
Sparks begin to fizz from her fingertips, she draws yellowish brown light from the ground below, and I leave her to her world within a world; the realm of magica, the boundless prairie whose only borders and limits are those of her own will and imagination.