[Mkguild] Marks's Story - Part 4 revised (3/3)

[Prof]

He nods.
“Indeed, but excuse me if I return yours with a counter question first: What is
the last thing you recall?” 
 
He’s
passing the ball back to me. No fair, although helpful to sort out my thoughts.
So, what happened? I remember I got a hold on the first strand of earth my
mental tools could seize. 
 
“I
really did it, right?” I ask, beaming probably bigger than ever in my life. A
grin I reduce to a tight-lipped smile, after Kindle recoils from me by almost a
foot. The display of an entire mouthful of sharp, feline teeth can be
unnerving, all the more if you’re a rodent. More restrained I try it anew:
“Well, it worked?” 
 
“Erm, it
worked, kind of. The definition is rather strained, though. You knocked
yourself out with that stone. “
 
“It did float, I knew it!” No doubt, my
triumph-laden expression confuses the mage to no end. 
 
“Float?
The crack when it collided with your forehead was loud enough to be heard at
the other side of the valley. I was seriously afraid you killed yourself! We
have to thank Eli you have such a thick skull.” 
 
I raise an
unsteady hand to flick one of my fuzzy ears. “According to a certain healer, and
I quote her: ‘Everything between those lugs is solid bone, not even the expected
hollow space’. Hits on my head don’t hit anything vital.” Aww, poor Kindle,
gallows humor is wasted on him at the moment, so I change subject. With his
help – more good intention than actual support, after all, he’s a scrawny
little snack… mouse! I was about to say mouse! – We’re managing it to lie me
down on his more comfortable divan. 
 
“Your
opinion, Kindle. What do you think?”
 
For a
time he’s crossing his arms and looks to the ceiling, then nods. “You have a
strong affinity for the earth element. It’s awful early and unprofessional to speculate,
but you could be a more specialized user of the magic arts; perhaps of southern
tutelage.”
 
Can’t
help it, I have to smirk and also show my fangs again. “Southern, eh? You
realize that, from our point of view, practically everything is south?”
 
“Well,
then the possibility of me being wrong is slim”, he giggles. “Kidding aside, do
you know about the difference between the magic traditions of the northern and
southern parts of our world?”
 
“Now I
know there is one.”
 
He
sighs. “To make it short and very simple: Northern tradition is mostly generalist, the mages of the south are
more specialized on certain aspects of magic.”
 
“Ah, now
I follow. Someone like Dustin’s ‘firefoxy’.”
 
“Fire-what?”
 
“A
little, gray, grumpy, flame throwing fox mage he knows.”
 
“Oh,
that one.” Enthusiasm certainly looks different. “He is a special case. In
every definition of the term.” 
 
We call
it a day at this point. We have much achieved and I need to recover from the
hit I took. I shall see a physician and inform Kindle when I’m ready to
continue our session. And the mage insists I see a healer first. At least it’s
an excuse to visit Kiba. 
 
*****
I close
the door to my room and lock out the noise from Dustin’s bubbly household. As
much as I would’ve liked to spend more time with them, exhaustion kicks in
hard. Tired enough to not even discuss with Kiba, after he demanded, I have to
wait at least three days until my next lesson in magic. 
 
Placing
the candlestick on the nightstand, I fall onto my bed, with a pleased, heart
deep sigh. Questionable tactical decision, now it’s harder to remove belt and
kilt. The thought of standing up is crossing my mind, but leaves unnoticed. After
some struggling my sparse clothing rests beside me; my gaze falls upon the belt
pouch. There’s a notebook that demands attention, but for one time I choose to
ignore it. Gods, I’m tired…
 
A good dozen of them had made it through the
breach. I don’t know what they had expected. Surely they hoped for weak
resistance, believing our forces too far stretched to allow reserves. 
 
Well, my brothers and I are standing here to
prove them wrong... 
 
Bleary
eyes are still not able to look straight, but my hand is already searching
where I left my stuff earlier. Retrieving book and writing utensils a series of
well-known motions, it practically works by itself. The candle is still lit and
had only devoured three hours’ worth of wax by now. So much for sleeping. 
 
Forgotten
is the crushing tiredness that forced me down. A nervous, giddy energy makes my
body shaking in eagerness to bring down to paper, what occurred to me in sleep
– again!
 
This
time, though, I’m able to keep most of it. 
 
Pensively
I read through what I’ve written during the last two-or-so hours; several
pages, filled with my awful, haste-driven handwriting. The gaps in the
descriptions are gaping holes to me. No, still no clue what my human face once
looked like. And the academy, what was its full name or mine, damn it?!
 
I bury
my mouth in a pillow to stifle a cry of frustration. Calm down, Mark! You made
great progress today, don’t be so bloody stupid. See the glass as what it is:
Half full instead of half empty! And it is, I mean, that’s totally awesome!
Suddenly there isn’t just a stranger with no past, protagonist of so many tacky
adventure stories. My memories are coming back. 
 
Oh, I’m
surely grinning like an idiot now. It’s a small miracle I’m not jumping around,
screaming like a donkey. I’d like to, though. Oooh yeah, but I don’t want to
wake my hosts up. Tomorrow is early enough to break the good news to them,
maybe reinforced with research in the library. 
 
Tomorrow
is tomorrow. Now I’m in the mood to
visit the Deaf Mule. Gods, listen to me, I can’t stop giggling. Screw it, I
don’t care! Let them look at me funny, I hope they will have more reason to,
when I’m coming back from the tavern. 
 
With a
bounce unthinkable a few hours ago I jump out of the bed and toward the drawer.
My good kilt, the one made from dark blue wool seems proper. 
 
The cold
tiles beneath my paws sparking (or re-evoking) another recall, letting me pause
on my way to the door. The one about this grandmaster who gave me water, who
called me brother master. About him, attuned to the solid rock under his bare
feet. A strong affinity to rock you said, Kindle? I somehow know what to do.
It’s exactly like the painful experience with the piano. Only this time my
clumsy fingers won’t be required. 
 
Finally
an art my body will not stand myself in the way. Kiba said I have to wait, but
I can’t, I have to try it out or it will rip me apart!
 
I close
my eyes and focus on the stone all around me, going through the mental routines
which flowing, one by one, back to me. At first it’s weird, the longer it goes,
though, it’s like slipping on an old shoe (would be rough on those furry paws,
but I guess you get my picture). I start to sense the hewn granite on floor and
walls on a level I cannot define (again this magic-versus-mundane thingy), its
age, its hardness, its portly weight. 
 
Slowly,
slowly it becomes a part of me. I feel heavy, but not the heaviness of
exhaustion, more like accumulating bulk, together with the additional strength
it brings. With the power comes coldness. Well, that’s a little unsettling.
Stone is the opposite of warm, living flesh, but does it have to feel so
uncomfortable? And a slight at first, but rapidly increasing numbness climbs up
my legs.
 
Wait,
what?!
 
With a
start my eyes are open. I would have stumbled around for a few steps, because
with concentration equilibrium left me likewise. Emphasis on “would”, since My.
Legs. Don’t. Move!
 
It’s
like my paws are bolted down to the tiles. Doesn’t matter what I’m trying, I
get not even a flinch, like everything below my hip turned… to… stone.
 
Merciful
gods, I didn’t, did I? Relax Mark, breathe. Panic won’t do you any good. All
right, with a moment of relative calm I realize that the numbness is still creeping higher!
 
Serenity
gets kicked out of the estate, as I let loose the most embarrassing, girly
scream everyone will ever hear from me again. Somewhere on the way I’m running
out of air, just in time to hear the patting of little feet, nearing swiftly. 
 
Dustin,
of course; wide eyed, bed headed, fluttering nightgown, knife in his clenched
fist. After noticing I’m alone and no monster jumped out from nowhere, he
assumes a less stressed posture and lowers his weapon. “Sheesh, Spotty, what
happened now?” And because he is Dustin, he simply has to ask: “Don’t tell me
you’re afraid of spiders?” He does it with this annoying smile, dancing on the
edge between provoking the urge to laugh alongside and the wish to slap him
 
I don’t
think of either one, arms now frozen, too. “No time for jokes, get Kindle!” I
bark, returning his perplexed expression with a more urgent: “The mage, quick!”
 
Argh,
no! I can’t move my jaw anymore! 
 
“Hllllp!” 
 
________________


So far for part three, and here's the promised preview. 

We're somewhere after the beginning of part 5, the scene openes in the great library of the Keep. 


*****


I’ve
never met him before, but who else could he be?
 
He sits
alone on the gallery, you can tell by instinct he isn’t interested in company –
and that he doesn’t belongs here. A stranger, mysterious and exotic – guess
that’s a big thing to say, minding where I am, but I will not take it back. 
 
A big
man, easy six and a half feet, wide shoulders, athletic build, strong but not
bulky. The calloused hands of a fighter, rough facial features. So far nothing
special, it is not the frame, more the details. I have difficulties to estimate
his age; older than mid-thirty, sure, but how much? Time has curved enough lines
into this face to say maybe 40. Alas, he is definitely too young for white
hair, which he is sporting. Even the short trimmed full beard and eye brows are
immaculately white. His complexion is too dark for an albino. If I only could
see his eyes. Ah yes, this I should mention.
 
He’s
wearing glasses, circular lenses made of a dark kind of quart, held together by
silvery wire. They’re all the time on his nose, regardless of daytime and
illumination. I’m wondering if there is even one person here who’s really seen
the color of his eyes. 
 
These
dark lenses are like shields that are shutting out the rest of the world, body
language matching: reserved, dismissing, and not interested in socializing. A
big “Keep away!” sign on a high, glass shard crowned stone wall. 
 
Believe
me, I would never think of approaching him, weren’t it for this crest, stitched
on the left chest side of his doublet in golden yellow thread: 
 
An opened
book in a circle, behind the book a tower.  “To defend lore” that’s its meaning, I know it by heart now; spent an
entire night just researching this tidbit. The sigil of “The school of the
ancient monastery of our revered father Anselmo, dedicated to preserve and
spread lore and sciences”, also known as the Anselmo Academy. Destroyed in 702
CR during the turmoil of an uprising, as a result of badly chosen alliances. My
alma mater, my lost home and he might be a link to this important part of my
all too fragmented past. 
 
Cautiously
I step nearer, thinking about how to address him. Snap, I have no clue, feeling
like I’m about to disarm a spring loaded trap. One false move…
 
Don’t
say a word. I know I probably would dally very much longer, would he not size
initiative. Vigorous he’s closing his book - the sudden loud “clap!” startles
not only me – and looks up to direct the eye-less stare of these damn glasses
to me. 
 
The much
abused phrase of the awkward silence hits it square in the face this time.
Awkward for me. Every idea about how to begin this conversation fell out of my
paws and shattered on the ground. And he is just gazing at me, word- and
emotionless. Then, he tilts his head a tad to the right. “Do I know you?”
 
Not an
unjustified question, Metamor changes lifelines and appearances, although no
one I would’ve expected at first. “You might” is my reply. “I very much hope
so.”
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