Casting a spell with intent to harm is a witchcraft crime in the city of Fluer, attainting the guilty with the status of a witch-- an ontological malefactor who is declared, as the easterners say, vogelfrei, that is, free as birds. Free for anyone to hunt, free for anyone to bait, and in general blessed with a life of complete and utter freedom. This legality is hammered into the skulls of every student in the Academie, by the proctor-knights of the university, who's general role of hunting down maelfactors makes it quite clear that anyone who contravenes this law will enjoy their status for about three seconds, before they incinerate the wrongdoer in a flash of flame.
This law ends at the city boundaries, for the simple reason that the Academie is quite apathetic about some wizard earning their trade by incinerating companies of slack-jawed yokels with malicious intent. Therefore, you open the shutters of the room in your palace where you contain the spell fulminata, drawing out the white-blue lightning and modulating it as per best practices through an arresting medium-- in your case, a pine tree made up of copper wire.
Once again, you manifest a bright flash of lightning through the medium of your index and middle fingers pointed at the squire. Enough power to make him seize up and dance like a puppet, falling over in a rictus deadlock, but not enough to kill. At least, you think it's not enough to kill.
The squire hits the floor with a thud. You turn your sparking fingers on the knights, in a lowered position. The air is tense, not helped by the occasional crackling. "Well?" you say, "does anyone doubt my credentials?"
No sooner have you said those words did the squire pick himself back up, seemingly no worse the wear but for some charring around the breast of his padded doublet. His right cross catches you quite slack-jawed, tippling you onto the floor.
Some cheer, adulating the squire for his fortitude. Others groan, disappointed that you would be taken down with such a cheap shot.
You see the world as if through the bottom of a beer glass, but your mind is steady and sharp. The pain doesn't deter you, not enough for you to cast fulminata a second time from the ground.
Another flash, another crack. You can see the squire's hair stand on end, turning him in appearance somewhat similar to the puffball of a dandelion. You stand up, carefully keeping him in your sights, two fingers still arcing with electricity, with the aid of a handy barstool.
It doesn't keep him down. What did their ancestors get? Five draughts of trollskin? Did they practice infant exposure to storms and come back alive? You're getting sick and tired of him, you think, as he spits into his hands and smooths down his hair. "Very well," he says with some dignity, "I retract my words. You are certainly no thief, as I have seen from--" he breaks off into a coughing fit here-- "your spells."
"Apology accepted," you reply stiffly. The gawkers are disappointed. It's a poor day with poor entertainment if someone isn't spitting teeth, but instead have used higher faculties to defuse tensions.
"However," he says, withdrawing a dagger, "it is churlish to reply with magic against a mundane opponent. An insult! I'll lesson you in steel for that!"
"You ought know when you're beaten, kid!" you snarl. "In fact, I give you leave to beg for talismans and protective spells from your family, because the next one is going to come out hard. You'll be lucky if you remember how to chew your food."
A tall, weatherbitten knight stands up, hand on his sword belt. "I don't recommend it, orc," he says, using that old ancestral insult. "I won't interfere in this dispute, but I swear to you, anything you start, I shall finish."
Before you even have time to process that threat, your own countrymen jump into the fray. "Oho!" a sea-tanned fisher shouts, "defending the sprog? Afraid that he'll lose? Let them fight, damn you!"
"The chivalry of this land," another takes up the thread, "are indeed a spineless bunch. They say they like a scrap, to spill some blood, but every time an occasion rises they make their excuses!"
The squire and you share a moment of intense, shared embarrassment. You do not need any spell to know what he is thinking, because he's thinking the exact same thing as you: that there would be nothing better in this world if the sun would politely incinerate you where you stand and spare you the fate of being the conversational ball.
Or, considering how he's rapidly reddening, he might be thinking he'd really like to kill you and avenge whatever slight on his honor you construe.
Your arm is getting a bit shaky after pointing at the squire, and he doesn't seem too hot either.
The argument seems to be ramping up to a head-- steel has been drawn, the mercenaries have carefully backed themselves into a corner with a window-- when the door bursts open and a voice with all the cheer of summer yells "INNKEEPER" loud enough to make the rafters shake.
Your control is good, but it's not that good. You instinctively turn and lose control of the spell, unleashing yet another arcing blue flare.
"The hell did I do to you?" Aimee d'Agevine asks the silent tavern. Her cuirass is singed, but not particularly damaged. Good enchants, you suppose.
Before you can similarly instinctively apologize, the squire pushes in front of you. "By god, woman! There's an affair of honor going on. You should know better than to interfere!"
"Oho! In the middle of a packed tavern? Butt out, squire, and pick your fields with a tad more care." He flushes, but there's no shame in acceding to a chivalric superior. You watch him run off with relief. Your savior (and target) turns towards you. "Well? Let's get a drink."
Do You?
[]- Yes
[]- No
not the best update but w/e
