Word Vomit, day three
Arthan, called the Verdant, holds a place of prominence in the University-Court, and a cloak of the brightest green, the shade of a new spring leaf, unfurling in the brightest of morning sun. It is said, among those who dare to speak of such things, or whisper, as the case may be, that he serves the High Wizards himself, directly. That from those callus hands are served elixirs of distilled life, held with careful kindness to trembling lips. Trust, pure, utter and simple, that is what Arthan possesses, and the life of the most powerful man in all the known world hangs unquestioned on his abundant knowledge, unwavering discretion, and indisputable skill.
Hailing from the Province of Thanpent, Arthan came to court as a young boy, and never left again, other than periodic visits to study the eccentrics of far and distant healers. He once spent a month in the land of Breliven, and his fondness for the land and its fresh air and soothing water is well known, in the proper circles. Many are the nobles that he has recommended to the province’s treatment centers and spas, when rest is called for. But that man is far to energetic to rest in such a backwater domain for long, and is soon on his way again, to seek the next cure, the next potion, the next spell that means the difference, somewhere for someone, between life and death’s deep draught.
The aging of a century has done nothing to slow him, and the healer is known to outrace, out run, and out distance men a quarter of his years, with a flush health that puts youth to shame. He moves with a fluidity of action that wastes no effort and possesses no hesitation, each gesture correct and each word specific for what he seeks to do. There is no room for his students to stumble or falter or fail, because he demands of them the same dedication that Arthan gives. He will ask nothing from the children sent to him that he is not willing to give himself; but some souls have limits far beyond that of normal men and women, and Arthan gives his all and holds nothing back, and the majority of mages in the world would drown in the difference between his efforts and their own.
The irony is that those same wizards frown upon the healer’s choice of profession, for Healing magic is, almost by definition, energy dispensed on another’s account. What a fool, the war-wizards laugh, behind their shields and leven blasts, to give so freely of his energy store, to people who might someday be an enemy. Pouring out magic like water, when it should be as precious as blood, and dispensing teaching based on dedication instead of more practical decision making devices. Why, he lets peasants mingle with his apprentices of true blood, and judges them on the same footing!
What portent such power, when it goes to naught? The trust of the High Wizard is no little thing, but does Arthan use such influence? Not so that one might be able to discern. His rooms are no grander than any other master of his rank and lineage. He possesses no special treasure, or stash of books, having the naivety to grant entry to his library anyone who claims to have a use for the information. He gives, and does not ask the cost, and so passes by a great deal of profit. The day will come when Arthan lies down and never rises, and from his death discarded possessions, there will be nothing that bore his hand alone and none other.
When the wizards of Glence gather, Arthan is among their number, and yet, apart. The healers have always had an uneasy alliance with the other wizards of the University Court, for the power of Life magic is more often tied to land than to blood. Perhaps it is a legacy of the centuries of civil war, of blood spilt on fields and rotten in shallow graves, churned into rich soil. It wells up with the grass, and it blossoms with the trees, and it flows through the air with the clean and crispness of a spring wind or carrying the sicken sweet stench of death, decay, and new growth. Across the breadth and depth of Glence, long over looked bloodlines burst forth, offering up to the greater good the promise of a better future for the healer who dares to petition for a place among the students of nobles.
Gray-green cloaks, and rusty browns, mosses and sages and dirty shades of green… the lower magicians of Glence far outnumber the most mighty. Every town has it’s healer, every village it’s witch. Midwifes and nurses, animal handlers and farmers in their fields, the common wizards spring like weeds from the rich soil. Even the highest of Healers mingle among the lowest, and for thousands of menial labor and workers across all the domains the only bright cloaked wizard they will see, in person, in flesh, in fabric and breath, will be one of those bright green cloaks of a Healer.
Can it be different from Arthan’s doing? Perhaps, the policy was in place long before his birth was even an idea in some matriarch’s scheming. And it will exist long after he is ash and dust and wasted blood. But he is the face the war wizards see, the hand that holds the scalpel and the potion, that eases fevers and binds broken bones. They practice their arts of war, and send their soldiers, broken and battered, to be tended by the Healer’s, and they demand his time and his effort on their behalf, when their thirst for violence and power brings them injury.
The High Wizards fo Glence love Arthan, and hate him. Fear him, and dismiss him. They do all of these, and think little of it, because that has been the way it has always been, for years uncounted. And the treatment for a teacher extends to his students. Had Ioann been soley of Breliven stock, then maybe they would have overlooked him, counting the backwoods province as little better than the hedge-witchery of their own fields. But in his blood flows the war magic of Loradon as well, and he seeks none of it.
Such precious blood. So wasted. Arthan can only protect him so far, and beyond the healer’s domain, the nobles have very different ideas. Lessons must be taught, willing or not.
Hailing from the Province of Thanpent, Arthan came to court as a young boy, and never left again, other than periodic visits to study the eccentrics of far and distant healers. He once spent a month in the land of Breliven, and his fondness for the land and its fresh air and soothing water is well known, in the proper circles. Many are the nobles that he has recommended to the province’s treatment centers and spas, when rest is called for. But that man is far to energetic to rest in such a backwater domain for long, and is soon on his way again, to seek the next cure, the next potion, the next spell that means the difference, somewhere for someone, between life and death’s deep draught.
The aging of a century has done nothing to slow him, and the healer is known to outrace, out run, and out distance men a quarter of his years, with a flush health that puts youth to shame. He moves with a fluidity of action that wastes no effort and possesses no hesitation, each gesture correct and each word specific for what he seeks to do. There is no room for his students to stumble or falter or fail, because he demands of them the same dedication that Arthan gives. He will ask nothing from the children sent to him that he is not willing to give himself; but some souls have limits far beyond that of normal men and women, and Arthan gives his all and holds nothing back, and the majority of mages in the world would drown in the difference between his efforts and their own.
The irony is that those same wizards frown upon the healer’s choice of profession, for Healing magic is, almost by definition, energy dispensed on another’s account. What a fool, the war-wizards laugh, behind their shields and leven blasts, to give so freely of his energy store, to people who might someday be an enemy. Pouring out magic like water, when it should be as precious as blood, and dispensing teaching based on dedication instead of more practical decision making devices. Why, he lets peasants mingle with his apprentices of true blood, and judges them on the same footing!
What portent such power, when it goes to naught? The trust of the High Wizard is no little thing, but does Arthan use such influence? Not so that one might be able to discern. His rooms are no grander than any other master of his rank and lineage. He possesses no special treasure, or stash of books, having the naivety to grant entry to his library anyone who claims to have a use for the information. He gives, and does not ask the cost, and so passes by a great deal of profit. The day will come when Arthan lies down and never rises, and from his death discarded possessions, there will be nothing that bore his hand alone and none other.
When the wizards of Glence gather, Arthan is among their number, and yet, apart. The healers have always had an uneasy alliance with the other wizards of the University Court, for the power of Life magic is more often tied to land than to blood. Perhaps it is a legacy of the centuries of civil war, of blood spilt on fields and rotten in shallow graves, churned into rich soil. It wells up with the grass, and it blossoms with the trees, and it flows through the air with the clean and crispness of a spring wind or carrying the sicken sweet stench of death, decay, and new growth. Across the breadth and depth of Glence, long over looked bloodlines burst forth, offering up to the greater good the promise of a better future for the healer who dares to petition for a place among the students of nobles.
Gray-green cloaks, and rusty browns, mosses and sages and dirty shades of green… the lower magicians of Glence far outnumber the most mighty. Every town has it’s healer, every village it’s witch. Midwifes and nurses, animal handlers and farmers in their fields, the common wizards spring like weeds from the rich soil. Even the highest of Healers mingle among the lowest, and for thousands of menial labor and workers across all the domains the only bright cloaked wizard they will see, in person, in flesh, in fabric and breath, will be one of those bright green cloaks of a Healer.
Can it be different from Arthan’s doing? Perhaps, the policy was in place long before his birth was even an idea in some matriarch’s scheming. And it will exist long after he is ash and dust and wasted blood. But he is the face the war wizards see, the hand that holds the scalpel and the potion, that eases fevers and binds broken bones. They practice their arts of war, and send their soldiers, broken and battered, to be tended by the Healer’s, and they demand his time and his effort on their behalf, when their thirst for violence and power brings them injury.
The High Wizards fo Glence love Arthan, and hate him. Fear him, and dismiss him. They do all of these, and think little of it, because that has been the way it has always been, for years uncounted. And the treatment for a teacher extends to his students. Had Ioann been soley of Breliven stock, then maybe they would have overlooked him, counting the backwoods province as little better than the hedge-witchery of their own fields. But in his blood flows the war magic of Loradon as well, and he seeks none of it.
Such precious blood. So wasted. Arthan can only protect him so far, and beyond the healer’s domain, the nobles have very different ideas. Lessons must be taught, willing or not.