Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotional Incompetent [A Magical Academy LitRPG]

The cranecrow shrieked. The smaller raven cawed back, just as irritated. But the wind-surfing idiot was herding them both, swooping in figure-eights, arms flapping to maintain his own chaotic balance.

"Tom? What is he even riding?" Dubbie mouthed.

Tommaso passed overhead again, carving a messy circle above the valley and yelling, "Turn around, bird! You forgot to pay tuition!"

The cranecrow shrieked again but curved reluctantly back, the wind buffeting too fiercely to resist. The raven swooped in from the side, reinforcements on the return leg.

The valley air turned electric.

Fabrisse's eyes twitched. "No. Nope. I'm not letting Tom be the reason I finish this quest."

He cracked his neck.

"I'm herding him your way!" He shouted over to Fabrisse. "Catch him!"

How? Fabrisse thought. How can you herd a bird with wind and get it down at the exact altitude for me to catch it?

But he wasn't about to argue now.

With both arms out like a conductor, and way more flair than necessary, he carved a rising spiral into the air, catching the cranecrow in the eddy. Airflow tightened in bands around its wings, pressing it down.

The creature cawed and screeched, but the currents carried it anyway. The wind cushioned it in delicate layers of green and blue sparks—one under the chest, one nudging the spine, one bracing the wings—and soon it was gliding lower, lower, almost as if choosing to descend.

He swatted the notification away. Really, the worst time to be detecting skills. I'll have to find a way to turn off skill detection during tense moments later.

Because of his interaction with the glyph, it showed him the main section. The word [Profile] flashed over his eyes, and he realized he still had three additional attribute points. He promptly opened [Profile].

There was no time to use Spectral Appraisal on the beast.

My STR is only 8, but surely I'm stronger than a crow.

"Fabri! Dubbs! It's coming!" Came Tommaso's shout.

Fabrisse held his breath. The cranecrow was practically skimming the air in front of him now—six meters, five, four. Any higher and it'd clear his head. Any lower and it'd clip the scrubby ridge.

He shouted, "Move to my right, Dubbs. Maximize our chances." He did not know if Dubbie had followed his words.

But right now, if he just raised his hand, there was a real, stupid, one-in-ten chance he could catch the damn bird clean out of the air.

I need to catch it fast. I have to put them all on DEX.

No. This is bait. I have every chance to catch it again. But I won't have any chance to redistribute.

He needed those points to go into RES and SYN.

Fabrisse swatted the glyph away.

The cranecrow swept overhead like a feathery missile. He tried to guess its trajectory. No good. He left it to intuition.

He threw his arm up, fingers snatching at air and wing.

For a heartbeat, he had contact.

Then it twisted—slick and sinewy—and slipped through his grasp, one feather shearing off in his hand. But the brief grapple was enough to knock the creature off its precise glide. It wobbled, teetered, and skidded through a gust, spiraling lower uncontrollably.

"Dubbs!" Fabrisse shouted.

Dubbie, now to his right, surged from under a boulder like a goblin in ambush. From behind a scrub-laced outcrop, Dubbie soared, arms raised, her oversized paper lantern already torn open and messily padded on the inside with grass. With the grace of a collapsing tent, she jumped and slammed the lantern down over the cranecrow's head like a reverse fruit trap.

BOFF.

The bird thrashed. She held on, legs swinging as she was nearly lifted with it—until the extra padding and sheer awkwardness of the setup tangled its wings inside.

A small object vaguely in the shape of a glowing Stupenstone flew out of the lantern as the cranecrow thrashed one final time. It launched itself in the direction of Ilya's raven who was swooshing in. Ilya's raven frantically plunged to dodge the Stupenstone, and its beak accidentally pecked Fabrisse's forehead for no particular reason.

"Ouch!" He dove to the grass, clutching his head. His elbow hit the ground at a weird angle.

Fabrisse lay in the grass, cheek stinging, lungs on fire, and his left boot mysteriously missing. Somewhere behind him, Dubbie was still wrestling the lantern, now hopping in a frantic circle as the cranecrow inside attempted a prison break with sheer rage and talons.

Tommaso drifted overhead again, upside-down this time, windboard spinning lazily beneath him like a broken weather vane. "We did it!" he yelled. "I think! I'm also bleeding slightly!"

Fabrisse groaned. "You are not allowed to narrate my victories anymore."

He stared up at the sky, letting his eyes unfocus. The clouds drifted by with infuriating serenity. All this for Air Thaumaturgy Mastery. So not worth it.

Then something caught his eye—a soft, chalky glow peeking out between blades of grass just a few meters away.

The Stupenstone.

Fabrisse blinked. "Okay. That's worth it."

Now that he thought about it, the Eidralith had been rather nice in terms of quest giving. It had only given him quests he had either thought of doing already (apart from stoning Cuman; that was just pushing him towards dark desires) or quests that tied directly to what was happening around him. It would be a concern if it actually gave him a quest that demanded him to slay 15 Clucklebeaks, but so far none of that had happened yet.

He rolled onto his side with a grunt, crawled forward, and scooped the glowing stone into his hands. It was warm. It felt like potential.

And then he froze.

"Oh no," he whispered.

Because somewhere, out there in this endless field of ridges and scrub, was the other Stupenstone. The one he'd used to throw at the glowing one.

Which meant now he had to go find a rock. In a valley. Full of rocks.

"You gonna lay down there forever, dude?" Tommaso peered into his vision with a stupid grin, blocking half the sky view.

Fabrisse buried his face in his non-bruised elbow and let out a long, ragged sigh. "Curse me and my rock obsession."