Chapter 1: Druid Magic
- Location
- USA
Druids
Livia is less than amused to hear of your first meeting with the [Druids]. She takes it as a personal attack that her [Slave] - you - was used as a diplomatic insult without her knowledge. And though the two of you combined have fewer levels than any one of the Weaver-Governor's bureaucrats, that doesn't matter.
Because your master is Silk, and they are not.
"Most of the big cities in Nerrhavia's used to be independent city-states until about six hundred years ago," she explains. "A great war had ended, and the cities had suffered greatly as mercenaries and foreigners rode across their lands, trampling crops and killing civilians. They had been too weak individually to stand up to any of the stronger nations of the day, but when the war ended Nerrhavia's Fall reached out and formed alliances with them. Some cities needed lots of help to recover, so the kingdom appointed Weaver-Governors to help run them. And that worked so well that a bunch of the city-states swore fealty to the kingdom."
This sounds like propaganda. A bloodless conquest where the city-states had nothing but praise for their conqueror? You don't have any evidence that Livia's wrong, per se, but at the very least it sounds like a very sanitized version of history.
"But," she continues, "The Weaver-Governors are still just advisors. They're Cotton, not Silk. The Council of Silk are the nobles with the real power… even if Papa says they never go against the Weaver-Governor. But it's still a crime for Cotton to insult Silk! And using you like that is an insult to me and to Papa."
You have many questions about how the Council of Silk can be the 'real power' if they never dare to oppose the Weaver-Governor. You do not think anything good will come of pointing out that it certainly sounds like the Silk nobility are at the mercy of a Cotton bureaucrat appointed by a distant throne.
"So, how badly did the [Druids] take it?" Livia asks.
You keep your expression bland. "They figured it out right away, and started talking about which destructive ritual they'd have to unleash to get the attention of someone important," you say. Livia winces, but before she can say anything, you continue. "Thankfully, I managed to get them to talk to me about their problems, and they agreed to work with me to put together a tax proposal for the Weaver-Governor."
"... what?"
You give her a brief overview of the cap-and-trade system.
"So, for weather magic, let's say there's… ten spells that can be cast each year without harming the environment. I don't know the actual numbers; that's what the [Druids] are going to figure out. But we'll say ten for our example. The government makes it illegal to cast the magic without a permit, then issues ten - and only ten - permits, and then lets businesses trade the permits to each other. Businesses that actually need weather magic to function will pay through the nose for it, while businesses that didn't will find alternatives. Of course, some businesses might not be able to afford alternatives, so there will need to be an economic impact assessment, which is what I'm going to teach them how to do - "
"Stop," Livia commands. "You got… [Druids]... to agree to a formal tax proposal? Instead of just assassinating weather mages? [Druids] agreed to this. [Druids]."
You shrug. "It wasn't that hard. They were talking about how if it fell through they could always do something called the [Rite of the Jaw]." No one had ever explained what that was to you, actually.
Livia's brow furrows. "I… don't know what that is," she admits. "But it sounds bad. Make it not happen."
"Well, there's just one problem," you say. "The [Druids] are willing to play ball, and the city technically hired me to work with them, but… I don't actually have any authority. Someone in the government will have to actually approve the proposal."
"So get someone to approve it," Livia says. "Like Paisa. She's gonna be at my Tenth Level celebration!"
"And Paisa is… ?"
"The Weaver-Governor. She's nice; she gave me a book on the history of Nerrhavia's Fall at my last birthday party! I guess I could ask Papa, too. He's on the Council."
You don't know why you're surprised to find out that Livia's incredibly wealthy, noble father is a member of the city's 'ruling' council. And that he's close enough to the Weaver-Governor that the woman's attending a party for his daughter.
"That would work," you say.
"And you can have the [Druids] do the pitch at my party! Or, wait, no, [Druids] smell funny. You'll tell the Weaver-Governor about it. And they'll see what good work my [Slave] is doing and that I'm not just a little girl any more!" she says excitedly, very much like a little girl. Which she is. A [Slaver] little girl who's planning on taking credit for the work of her [Slave], which is you, but still a little girl.
And like a little girl, she's absolutely focused on this idea now that it's occurred to her. "You'll have to spend all your time with the [Druids]. You can't mess this up! No other teaching jobs until this one's dealt with. And if you do well, I'll give you a reward!" she says, reaching out to pat you on the head, like a dog.
She's not even trying to insult you. And you could object, or shove her hand away, but… what would be the point? For now, you are little more than a dog to her. And you only have value as long as you can perform tricks… like introducing environmental tax regulation into a medieval fantasy world. You just have to figure out how.
Why couldn't you have tried to learn something easier, like the cure for cancer?
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There is, however, one trick that you would desperately like to learn.
Magic.
The stuff of stories and legends and wonder. The ability to impose your will upon the world directly, to make the impossible into reality. You'd been seven when you first read Harry Potter, and remember feeling disappointed with the world when no letter came on your eleventh birthday. You'd known it was a story, of course, but…
But that was another time in another world. Now you're in one with magic. You've seen enchanted items, fantastic creatures - and one spell. All under awful, horrifying circumstances, but the memories are still tinged with that edge of wonder.
Could you do that? Wield magic like the dreams of your childhood?
So you turn to the [Druids], who have a primal, magical connection with the natural world. You have to spend almost all your free time with them, anyway, lest [Master's Will] start nagging at you from the back of your mind. So at the end of the week, as the four of you are walking through the orchards that surround Shakobar and inspecting their water usage, you ask the [Druids] if it's possible for you to do magic.
The [Druids] do not share your childlike reverence for the subject.
Arsha grunts and scratches at her ass. "Feh. Maybe. Some people can. Some people can't. It's sort of random."
"Not entirely random," Bek is quick to point out. "Aptitude is commonly inherited by children, though not always."
So there might be a genetic component to it? That sounds… mundane. Disappointing, almost, like midichlorians. And you certainly have no magic-using ancestors that you're aware of. "How would I find out?" you ask.
"Fuck if I know," Arsha answers. "Tharos?"
The Hemp [Druid] is already rummaging through the pockets of his robe. After several moments he withdraws a fist-sized hunk of… quartz? Some sort of translucent crystal. Its surface is smooth and gently curved, like the carapace of some giant insect, save for a handful of tiny crystalline protrusions.
"This is from a Crystal Light," he says. "A type of monster out in the Glass Straights. They draw in sunlight through their crystal carapace, and use magic to focus and direct it. Alchemists pay quite a bit for these shells because - well, that's not important right now. What is important is - "
He looks at the crystal… and it begins to glow. First deep within, and then radiating outward through the facets of the shell like blood through veins. It's not very bright, but the light is a pure white, like nothing you've seen since you came to this world. Tharos looks away, and the light begins to dim.
"They hold light on their own," he explains. "It just takes a tiny bit of focus and magic to get them to light up. If you can do that, then you've enough magic in you for spellcasting."
You take the crystalline shell from him. It's warm in your palm, like it's been lying out in the desert sun all day, even though you know it was in Tharos's pockets until just a moment ago. You inspect it from several angles, unsure of what you're supposed to do.
"You just need focus and will," Tharos explains. "Put your attention on it and will it to happen. Want it."
You turn your gaze to the crystal. Want it? Oh, he has no idea. Magic is a dream from your childhood, and an ember of hope, long banked and left to gutter, begins to blossom in your heart. If you have magic… surely there's a spell to free you of your class? To break your chains. Maybe even to send you home.
You focus on the crystal, letting everything else fade into the background. You can see the hairline fractures within that serve as arteries and veins for the light it channels. Feel the heat of its contained power. It almost vibrates in your palm, humming just beyond the edge of your hearing, and as you continue to stare you can almost taste the burnt sands that polished its exterior and made it a vessel for harnessing light.
And you want to use that captured brilliance now. Even more than freedom and home, at this moment, you want this. Magic.
And -
Nothing happens.
Your grip tightens. Your focus redoubles. It's a simple thing you want. Light.
And -
Nothing happens.
You can taste copper at the back of your throat. Your hand begins to shake. Come on. Just… light.
And -
"Roger. Roger. Roger!"
The voice cuts through your focus, and you reel as a wave of dizziness washes over you. The crystal tumbles from your slack fingers, but Tharos catches it before it can hit the ground. He is less considerate of you, making no effort to help as your dizziness sends you to your knees.
"What… what?" you ask, your voice strained.
"Magical exhaustion," Tharos explains. "You burned through all the mana in your body."
Mana? You have mana? "Then - "
"Sorry," Tharos says, not meeting your hopeful eyes. "If you don't have enough in you to light this up, at your age? I doubt you could even manage a Tier 0 spell."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. And they drain the last bit of energy from you, a piece of life and hope that had been the only thing keeping your head up. You slump, eyes downcast. "Ah," you say. Of course it was too good to be true. "So. No magic for me."
Bonk
The pain in the back of your head cuts through the black misery. You curse, clutching at your head, before looking up to see who hit you.
"Stupid," says Bek, waving his yellat staff at you. "You can't make a dead shell glow, so you have no magic? You trust this fool so easily?"
Tharos bristles at the insult. "He barely has any mana. There's no way - "
Bonk
This time it's Tharos's turn to be smacked upside the head with the yellat staff. His scorpion, Snips, makes absolutely no effort to defend his master from the other [Druid].
"Are you a [Druid] or a [Mage]?" Bek asks. Tharos opens his mouth to answer. Snips obligingly scuttles to one side of the Hemp [Druid]'s head, making it easier for Bek to smack him with the staff again. "Think before you answer for once in your life! Do you have a brain in that cloth skull of yours or not?"
Tharos glowers at Bek, but doesn't answer beyond rubbing at his injured head.
Bek turns back to you. The old [Druid]'s eyes peer into yours, and for the first time you notice the depth to them. Brown like the earth, flecked with gold like the sands of the Great Desert. "You've taught us some of the ways of the city," he says. "Of law and tax and order. So now it is my turn to teach you some of our ways, then. Of nature, and the world beyond the borders of civilization. There is more wonder in the creatures of the desert than could be dreamed of by all the Archmages of Wistram. But words are less than dust. I trust what I can touch and see, so that is what I teach. So I say to you - [Through My Eyes]/[Seeing is Believing]."
He thumps the staff against your forehead, gently this time. Your eyes cross for a moment, and when they focus once more you can see… colors. Lights you have no words for, crisscrossing through the air around you. Hues that hurt to imagine, greens beyond green and reds beyond red and they blend together into a tapestry so vast that you cannot comprehend a single thread of it.
"Look at me," commands Bek, his voice firm, grounding you, pulling your attention back to the earth. And when you look at him you see the light within him, radiating out with every breath. But it's more than a fog or mist, it's… a connection. One that binds him to the air. From the air to the other [Druids], to you, to the olive trees - and from the trees to the earth. A spiraling web of connections that blur at the edges until you struggle to tell one thing from another. Only Bek's voice grounds you, keeping your attention from wandering so far that it might never return to your body.
"You see it," he says. "Connections. What [Mages] call magic is… so much less than this. Than true magic, which is more than words and skills and spells. I have seen true magic, and its secret is this: that all things are connected."
He thumps his staff against the dirt, and a wave of color radiates outwards. The olive trees surrounding you bristle, their branches shuddering - until above him, a clump of ripened olives loosens from the branch. It falls into his outstretched hand, and the [Druid] bows to the tree. At no point did the mana within him stir to shape a spell. He called on no skill. He said no arcane words. And yet… what else can you call that but magic?
You ponder that as your enhanced vision fades and the ethereal colors blur back into reality. You look to Bek, who pops one of the olives into his mouth before tucking the others away.
"Luminous beings are we, huh?" you ask. "Not this crude matter."
He bonks you with his staff again. "No. We are not that light. We are the bridge between it and what you call 'crude matter.' We are both. We are neither. But above all, we are more. That is magic. That is why I listen when you speak of law and tax, because they are the connections that bind the people of cities just as much as dirt and wind bind the trees and birds of the fields. I am not familiar with them. But I will watch and learn. As will these two fools," he says, gesturing to the other [Druids].
You rub at your head. "That… but… how do I… ?" you trail off, unsure of how to even put your question to words. Things are connected, sure. But how does that knowledge let you do magic?
"Feh," says Arsha. "Look to your class, idiot."
"There are more ways than a class," Bek says. "Animals and people can perform magic without a class. I have seen it."
"But it's easier," Arsha says.
"Yes, but consider - "
Thus begins a long, pedantic tangent between the two on edge cases of magic use in nature. None of which sound applicable to you. But…
You look down at your hands. Where you once held a spark of magic gathered by Melanhir. Where you failed to kindle a tiny light in Tharos's crystal.
Look to your class, huh? What does the magic of a [Teacher] even look like?
You suppose you'll have to find out.
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So what is the magic of a teacher? Is it the lessons you teach and the way they polish your students? Is it the love of knowledge you share and the curiosity it fosters? Is it the wisdom of experience that lets you soothe their hurts and guide them? Or is it something else entirely?
[ ] The lessons you teach and the polish they grant
Focus on the idea of a Teacher as one who imparts lessons and refines the knowledge of their students, shaping them into something more.
[ ] The love of knowledge you share and the curiosity it fosters
Focus on the idea of a Teacher as one who shares a love of knowledge and encourages their students to find their own path
[ ] The wisdom of experience and the empathy it provides
Focus on the idea of a Teacher as an experienced mentor who helps students through troubled times and eases their hurts
[ ] Write-in
