Mastery of One is Mastery of All
It was a...well, not a hot day, really, those didn't happen this far north (though in fairness it hardly got as cold as often as some would like to imply) but a warmer day as Archmage Charoth sat on a stone overlooking a small depression in the topside forest, his legs dangling off the wind-hewn rock; though the rest of the view was covered, choked even, with a great, long lasting pile of snow, the rock was cleared--and as his staff lightly glowed it was not hard to tell what had melted the water. Straight across from him, crouched quite leonine, Lightningclaw simply ignored the cold and the snow, helped by the gift he had presented to her as a gift for her hospitality: ignoring any of the obvious gifts as either potentially insulting or redundant by virtue of living among the Dwarfs, it had been an earring with a jewel of Caledor's Repose that lightly burned with Aqshy, in case of the deepest storms. For his part he had switched into simpler, even thicker robes, as well as a hood. In his right hand he held a small cup, filled with still hot Qulfi, its scent filling the air with dark, bitter, and invigorating scents.
And between the two of them their apprentices stood, motionless, waiting for the order. Daraval finally cracked and dressed in warmer clothing as his master suggested, a long, dangling-sleeved robe of night blue over an amber brown under robe, with gloves of brown and boots of blue, all made of thick silk and leather. His wand is nowhere to be seen; instead he is unarmed, simply waiting, utterly motionless. Charoth's Windsight sees as Daraval gathers the Aethyr and is slightly relieved that he seems at least, finally, to have cracked how to deal with the indirect presence of so many Runesmiths strangling the Aethyr, if not directly in their presence then when they are far enough away. He looked at Lightningtouched and she looked back and a moment later nodded.
"Begin."
And with that Thunderkissed immediately moved, the snow launched out of the way of her wings with a great clap of thunder that rustled the trees for a hundred feet in every direction and yet managed not to knock them over, her claws, plain and not touched by magic, sought his apprentice's flesh. They were sharp, they were hungry, they were keen and they would have certainly bit into his flesh, perhaps not have maimed or killed but he certainly would have been done with the sparring.
And found nothing but mist as Daraval moved himself, tossed himself, through time and space a dozen feet behind her and launched a small ball of fire, really not even enough to hurt an elf but for their pride. Of course they would have singed Thunderkissed's feathers past the point of uselessness until they were molted, and so taken away some of her mobility. If she had blocked like his student expected, instead of sending a blast of ice straight at the ball. It melted, of course, but it also by rights dispelled the fire, kept it from her.
He sipped at his drink and watched the two stare each other down again, and then he felt it, his apprentice reaching into the Winds and drawing out the Azyr, which was pleasing since not so long ago the Ghurbrain would never have reached for anything so "transcendental, detached, and shiftless." He was further pleasantly surprised that his apprentice managed the shaping, not impressively in a white room sense but compared to where he had been at the beginning of his training it certainly was. Call it another five years, ten tops, and he would be ready for his final belt, and to begin learning the secrets of Qhaysh.
Of course, that did not keep Thunderkissed, born of Azyr, molded by it, touched by it, immersed in it by birth and by training, from unweaving the bolt of electricity--not even really lightning--long before it could touch her. But then he grasped his student's mind as Daraval slammed as much Ghur into his flesh as he could, followed by Chamon; not enough to gain a Mark, to damn himself from the higher mysteries and be left lessened (and as much as the Branakroki had proved the ability of those touching a single Wind, to him at least, to lose the ability to touch all of them would be nothing but a lessening, like one of the Dwarfs born without a beard or one of the Brana without wings) but enough that, as he raced at the griffon, whose eyes widened, his flesh nails had become hard and iron-shod and his hair long and shiny as metal.
Not the lesson Charoth had intended to teach; but it was a good lesson for the Archmage. His student could still surprise him.
The Griffon was likely still stronger than his student; but not so much stronger, now, that as his clenched fist slammed into her beak (though he pulled the punch, fortunately for everyone involved) she could ignore it. She swiped at him with her own hard claws, but he danced past all those swipes to strike her again. She screamed, and he was tossed aside, landing hard--and she was plainly mad at that point. Charoth tensed, but looked to the elder Griffon for guidance and she was still only watching, though her claws were sticking into the ground.
Then the skies began to crackle, and lightning struck the trees, and at that point he decided somebody had to do something. So he snatched the spell still burning on his apprentice, an impressive melding together of both the Bestial and Heavenly Winds, and snuffed it as he had so many daemons, hoping that the other Griffon would follow suit on her apprentice. And indeed soon enough the sky stopped its localized storm, as Lightningclaw took the storm into herself.
Charoth leaped down with a sense of ease he did not feel to the still magic saturated field, trying to avoid the still burning bits of grass and rapidly melting snow that was becoming steam all around him. He approached his apprentice with purpose, drained the cup before it could get cold. What would the boy think? Would he rage that his master had kept him from a proper victory? Accept the umbrage that was coming his way as well as the lecture, but let it fester? Seethe to cope that he had been put on the backstep, magically, by someone who could wield only one of the Winds, compared to his seven (eight, if you were willing to accept that acceptable-at-best bit of lightning work as wielding Azyr)?
Instead, Daraval was smiling, sweating as he looked at the griffon, his robe lightly singed by its brief but eventful encounter with a living thunderstorm. "That was the best fight I've had in some time, Thunderkissed. The living storm was quite something."
"It was...an experience," the Griffon said in a voice that seemed calmed from where her eyes had said she'd been not even a minute ago as her master also approached, looking even less happy than he was. "I did not expect you to come racing at me swinging your bare hands."
"Most of us would be too smart for that, good lady." Charoth cut in, interrupting the two before they could indulge this any further. "But you tell an apprentice he is gifted one time, and he decides that means bad ideas are suddenly well within his grasp. This was meant to teach you patience, Daraval; that you are a mage of Ulthuan, not a brawler born of Khaine's blood." Well, that, and try and force him to pick apart her Azyr casting rather than running to Ghur--again--and risk an Arcane Mark, branding his soul as surely as the Daemons were, but that was...slightly too much, at this point; call it coddling the boy, but that thought weighed heavy on his apprentice, and warding the boy off from spell-casting--period--for risk of it was not a superior situation to the Mark itself. "I expected more thought from you."
"And you," Lightningclaw said, her voice not quite as dismal as her face suggested--though perhaps that was simply him not quite reading her right yet, "you were meant to show foresight. To know where he was going, before he knew, and then dispatch him; instead you almost blasted aside this forest with your storm."
"It is clear," they said in unison, "that you require more instruction. To that end,"
"You," Lightningclaw said to her apprentice, "will be enchanting a dozen axes under the watchful gaze of myself and a Master Runesmith to ensure quality." The griffon blanched but said nothing, though her claws dug channels into the soil. That...would be quite some time to work under the shortfolk and their perfectionism.
"As for you," Charoth said, "you will be taking one of the glass spheres I have brought, and notating the position of the stars and their movements over the next six months." Boring work, the closest thing to a new development the influence of the False Moon, the Hell Moon, the Husband of Slaanesh, upon the stars and even that was not so terrible unless it actually fully shone--and if it did, well, they both had bigger problems, like the beastmen sure to follow. Daraval sighed, hunching his shoulders in defeat.
"Yes, master. It will be done."
More elf and bird adventures.
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