12. meeting
Daimd's hardest lesson had been that magic is limited.
“You've got magical stamina just the same as physical stamina, Daimd.” The master had said, eyeing his neutral expression seriously, “You may be extraordinarily gifted but you cannot cast indefinitely. You will be a better mage for learning your limits early, and only taking on as much as you can efficiently exterminate. You know your armour is insufficient to maintain you in the event that your well runs dry.”
Daimd had thumbed his sword and chewed on severe thoughts. Why play some useless, dangerous game with magic when you could know your own sword arm? Surely there was nothing so easy to understand as physical exhaustion.
Daimd was in trouble, and he knew it.
As he loosed the last fireball from his fingers, he felt the thrumming in his veins subside, and he swore. He understood the master's lessons better than ever, now. He'd learned what it felt like to invoke magic, and he'd learned this feeling: the feeling of magic failing him.
A hand that now pleaded untrained fumbled over the hilt he refused to put by-and he roared furiously as a wolf's jaws gouged his forearm. The cloth, as perfectly mended as it was, gave way beneath the teeth without a shred of resistance. He could feel the magic pooling again in his fingertips, singing tighter and stronger, begging to be used. Another five, another four-and he cried aloud in fury as another wolf struck at him, and dealt it a powerful blow with a massive forearm. Ice crackled after it and the creature froze in place, without the time to yelp.
Daimd went to one knee, cursing again. There was no magic left in him, and he was finished. He made another attempt at drawing his sword, as a last ditch attempt to defend himself, and found his injured left arm unresponsive. He had to laugh. So, he really was going to die.
And then a sword swung in his direction, shattering the bones of the half-frozen wolf who was just starting to prowl towards him again. Dispassionately wielding the weapon was a skinny, tired-looking blood elf, and Daimd found himself laughing again. How any creature could so blandly save the life of someone else was strange to him. Strange, and interesting.
The blood elf disposed of the last wolf standing before turning to Daimd and, for a moment, Daimd was concerned the blood elf would simply kill him as well, easy prey that he was. He could feel, in the absence of stress and adrenaline, the magic's source trickling back into his bloodstream, soon to fill his ears with its hum at need, but he didn't cast against other persons, as a rule.
However, the blood elf only smirked and levelled his sword, saying, “You're mine.”
Daimd eased himself experimentally to his feet and offered a bow, accompanying it with an illustrious, exaggerated hand gesture, “Until my debt to you is paid, I agree.” He was serious, but doubted a blood elf would be able to stomach his company for long.
Some quiet, knowing corner of his mind whispered that debts of life lasted to the death, and he grinned it to silence.
“You've got magical stamina just the same as physical stamina, Daimd.” The master had said, eyeing his neutral expression seriously, “You may be extraordinarily gifted but you cannot cast indefinitely. You will be a better mage for learning your limits early, and only taking on as much as you can efficiently exterminate. You know your armour is insufficient to maintain you in the event that your well runs dry.”
Daimd had thumbed his sword and chewed on severe thoughts. Why play some useless, dangerous game with magic when you could know your own sword arm? Surely there was nothing so easy to understand as physical exhaustion.
Daimd was in trouble, and he knew it.
As he loosed the last fireball from his fingers, he felt the thrumming in his veins subside, and he swore. He understood the master's lessons better than ever, now. He'd learned what it felt like to invoke magic, and he'd learned this feeling: the feeling of magic failing him.
A hand that now pleaded untrained fumbled over the hilt he refused to put by-and he roared furiously as a wolf's jaws gouged his forearm. The cloth, as perfectly mended as it was, gave way beneath the teeth without a shred of resistance. He could feel the magic pooling again in his fingertips, singing tighter and stronger, begging to be used. Another five, another four-and he cried aloud in fury as another wolf struck at him, and dealt it a powerful blow with a massive forearm. Ice crackled after it and the creature froze in place, without the time to yelp.
Daimd went to one knee, cursing again. There was no magic left in him, and he was finished. He made another attempt at drawing his sword, as a last ditch attempt to defend himself, and found his injured left arm unresponsive. He had to laugh. So, he really was going to die.
And then a sword swung in his direction, shattering the bones of the half-frozen wolf who was just starting to prowl towards him again. Dispassionately wielding the weapon was a skinny, tired-looking blood elf, and Daimd found himself laughing again. How any creature could so blandly save the life of someone else was strange to him. Strange, and interesting.
The blood elf disposed of the last wolf standing before turning to Daimd and, for a moment, Daimd was concerned the blood elf would simply kill him as well, easy prey that he was. He could feel, in the absence of stress and adrenaline, the magic's source trickling back into his bloodstream, soon to fill his ears with its hum at need, but he didn't cast against other persons, as a rule.
However, the blood elf only smirked and levelled his sword, saying, “You're mine.”
Daimd eased himself experimentally to his feet and offered a bow, accompanying it with an illustrious, exaggerated hand gesture, “Until my debt to you is paid, I agree.” He was serious, but doubted a blood elf would be able to stomach his company for long.
Some quiet, knowing corner of his mind whispered that debts of life lasted to the death, and he grinned it to silence.