The Hermit, The Tower, The World (Vol.2 Complete)

20th of Inandyl - 3rd Ivora

It was back to the grind on Ivora and Calas sighed heavily in the early morning air. Ivora always sucked, but now he had an added bonus of anxiety to go with it. The theories he came up with regarding Vesa and Fara's little trap were not pleasant, but none of them seemed very likely.

He was too used to family feuds back in Horora where loosely veiled threats like this usually ended in violence. Or death. Calas had to keep reminding himself that those kinds of things didn't happen here at Court. Needless to say, none of his theories really panned out into anything practical.

Calas dressed for the chill outside but packed a bag with the usual sleeveless shirt and light cloth pants. Bag over his shoulder, he set off for the Great Hall in the blush of early dawn to pick up breakfast before heading upstairs to the Faculty Lounge where he normally met with Blackclaw.

The brawny professor was already eating at his desk which seemed surprisingly less cluttered today than at the end of the term. Calas surmised that Blackclaw must have done some serious paperwork yesterday. He gave a silent prayer of thanks for not being stuck with having to grade any of them this time around.

As per routine, Calas dropped his bag by the wall and sat cross legged on the floor to eat his own food brought from downstairs, as there was no other place to sit. All the other chairs in the room either belonged to another professor or were so filled with junk that it wasn't worth the effort of cleaning off.

They ate in silence until Blackclaw was finished and started talking about tasks for Calas for the week. In addition to normal calisthenics and sparring, there were rosters for first-years for him to review. This was par for the course now as Calas had had the pleasure, or displeasure, of working with all of the scribes who came to Court specifically to study under the war hero professor. Unfortunately, most of them were stuck with Calas instead.

"And all the staff scribes are required on Velron afternoon to clean up for the emissaries from Erwick. There is a dinner the Dean has had scheduled for some time with them in the evening, so make sure you are here after lunch." Blackclaw added on with utter boredom in his tone.

Calas shot the Professor a frown, but only half meant it since he was thankful that the first term paperwork was done and gone. Still, preparing for events was drudgery.

"And don't give me that look." Blackclaw interrupted Calas' brooding. "You agreed to this when you became my student aide."

Rolling his eyes, Calas muttered under his breath. "Like I had a choice."

"Would you have preferred the alternative?" The professor eyed him critically and Calas knew the question was a dare.

He shoved a spoonful of food in his mouth which prevented him from replying with something incredibly stupid. Calas owed the battle scarred professor quite a bit for sticking his neck out for him after the incident last year. Thankfully, the scribe he mauled in a haze of Paragon infused rage had made a full recovery, but was no longer studying at Court.

Calas figured that fact and that Blackclaw had interjected on Calas' behalf, confirming that the event was an accident, were the only reasons he was still at Court, at all. Why, in all the desert sands, the well respected professor kept Calas at Court by vouching for him, was still a mystery. The fact that Calas was made a staffer to the professor was less of a mystery. Calas was to be watched for his remaining tenure here at Court.

That part didn't bother him so much. He was used to not being trusted. It only made it more challenging to slip away unnoticed, which he always found a way to do thanks to his natural affinity with shadow magic and the practiced mana manipulation through his tattoos. He tried not to use the mark of Orendell, though, as even after five years, the outcome could turn deadly. Not to mention it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Blackclaw's voice brought him back to the topic at hand. "Until the weather gets a bit warmer, all the extra sessions for the break will be held in the training hall instead of the pitch."
Calas nodded solemnly, swallowing the last of his food. "Anything else?"

"Not currently. The Dean is still finalizing the other event dates for the rest of the break so I will keep you posted." Blackclaw had already shifted his focus back to the papers on his desk and Calas stood with his bag in hand.

He stopped before leaving as he remembered the promise he made yesterday. "Oh, I have something on Isharil, so I will need to leave the training hall a little bit early." He deliberately made it a statement, but he still waited for the professor's response all the same.

"Not a problem. Just leave a note on the training hall door." The professor didn't even look up.

Calas gave a nod in acknowledgment, but before he could leave, Blackclaw grabbed his attention by looking up from his papers.

"Calas," he started, staring him square in the eye. "It is break. You should enjoy it, too. You are still a scribe here."

He smiled weakly at the advice, giving a slow, disbelieving affirmation before leaving the Lounge for the training hall.

***

The morning session went by quickly even though only two others showed up for about an hour each. It wasn't totally unexpected, given the break and the Masquerade. Calas took the rare lull to focus on his own magic and physicality. The routine of his martial warm ups never failed to focus his mind which made mana manipulation that much easier.

Even before he knew how to use the magic inside of him, Calas had had instructors since his youth. Before his more formal training with one of his family's contract for hire, a half elf by the name of Temulun, Calas had a bad habit of getting into trouble with all the urchins of Horora.

They were mostly fist fights over food, which Calas would always give to his scrappy, starving friends. His mother was appalled to find out that he had been sneaking out in dingy clothes to go play with what she called street rats. Unfortunately for her, that never stopped Calas.

He moved on from warm ups to forms, blending magic and martial skills. The mana inside him thrummed with a churning power throughout his body and the tattoos that moved beneath his skin. Blending shadows and light, Calas created barriers through the bear on his back, cloaks of shadows through the panther, and concussive orbs of inky blackness through the snake.

The wolf on his left accentuated his senses, which he kept active by rote most times as it gave Calas an expanded awareness of his surroundings. The light that streamed through the windows was crisper. The scent of old, polished oak and ancient stones and mortar filled his nostrils with each deep, heating breath.

The only ink that was not active was the large sinuous dragon that took up most of his back. To call it a dragon, though, was misleading. The creature was serpentine in nature and more of a symbol than any known beast, real or mythical. Whatever it was, wherever it had originated, it was now the symbol of the Duskwood Syndicate, but no matter how much he tried, Calas found it impossible to work magic through the thing.

Once he was satisfied with his own practice, Calas calmed the surge of mana through his body to a trickle, a drip, and finally, it ceased its pulse within him. Only after he stopped did he notice the sweat he'd built up. It was the chill in the air that brought his attention to it and he cleaned up before changing clothes.

After closing the training hall, Calas headed down to the city proper to pick up a small gift for Vesa. Trap or no, she said it was her birthday, but it was difficult to choose something knowing absolutely nothing about this person. Well, very few things.

He inferred from their brief encounter that she was bold, confident, informed, and looked damn fine from the front and back. After long deliberation, he found a decent set of clip-on jewelry for her horns. Girls always liked that kind of stuff, or so his sister, Korinna, always told him. He decided to trust her judgment on this one.

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The rest of the day was filled with study and reading. Birds of prey were one such subject that he was focused on currently. It was more out of necessity than actual interest on his part as it was a particular lesson of Orendell's lately. Other topics intrigued him more, to be honest.

Since enrolling at the Midnight Court, Calas had found an unexpected passion for all the different types of magic of the world; how they developed, how they were used, the process or philosophy that made them thrive, and anything and everything else about them.

Like one of his first year partners, that cute and feisty little mouse who mentioned she does something called "weaving". He regretted that he never got to really ask her how that worked during the term.

Did she use mana like thread in a loom? Or was it more like a canvas method for tapestries? If that was the case then how did she really make those air knives? He recalled them being quite sharp and he rubbed at the spot one had grazed his cheek last term and made him bleed. He couldn't recall a first year scribe who could do that.

Calas stopped when he realized he was grinning openly. It was difficult not to with the picture of her pouty, angry face in his mind. Deep blue eyes and hair the color of the desert itself, the mouse Serea was a rare gem indeed.

Not that he would likely ever see her again. It was a pleasant daydream though, much like the rest of his time here at Court had been. Since there was still a bit of daylight, he spent the rest of his time in the Library that day looking for books on "weaving".

21st of Inandyl - 3rd Emder

Calas was back in the training hall early Emder morning as there was no meeting with Blackclaw. The training room was bustling though, and Calas was busy helping those who asked or needed it. Whether it was spotting or sparring, he lent a hand to those who took combat and martial seriously.

Over the past year, he had gotten to know quite a few of the scribes known colloquially as the combat junkies. Much like the urchins of his youth, this particular group tended not to care about backgrounds and primarily focused on who they could beat in a fight.

Naturally, respect came from skill in dealing violence and Calas had had plenty of experience in this. His uncles made sure he had been exposed to the worst kinds of brutality that the Syndicate had to offer. It was a part of his education that they took great pride in. After all, Calas was the scion to lead them one day. Supposedly.

It was because of this training that most in the junkies had to defer to Calas regardless of their personal feelings toward him or his family. For some this meant a begrudging respect, but for a surprising many others, their attitude was more akin to friendship. An odd sort of comradery.

One such creature, a golden scaled Drakari male called Dazaid, made it a habit to spar with Calas. Daz was a descent martial partner when they were in class together, but during breaks, combat was the furthest thing from his mind.

"Last night was so rad, Cal, you should have been there." Daz started, jumping on his toes to build heat.

"What makes you say that?" Calas asked, not using any stance at all. He waited for Daz to strike.

"It was fun! You do know that word, right? Fun?" True to form, Daz threw a lunging punch which Calas casually sidestepped.

"Hmm. Fun. Fun…" Calas mulled it over as he avoided a flurry of blows from Daz with his hands in his pockets. "Doesn't ring a bell."

Daz ended his barrage with an upper cutting round house that Calas had to jump away from. "Figures. You should join us tonight."

"What for?" Again, Calas reset his stance to casual disinterest and waited for Daz to advance.

"To have a bit of fun? Come on, let loose, Duskwood!" Daz rushed in with a feint, but Calas didn't flinch until the real blow came his way.

"Where's it at, this time?"Calas asked, tilting his head to avoid Daz's fist.

"The Rooster, of course." Daz replied, feinting once more with an alternate jab and sweeping for Calas' leg instead.

"Sounds like a rowdy one then." Calas stopped his sweep halfway, his own foot connecting with Daz's shin, forcing him back a step. "What's it for?"

Daz reset his stance, still dancing on his toes. That insufferable grin split his face and he shrugged. "It's for the end of term celebrations, but there are still raffles for free drinks."

Calas stood up straight, half his attention on Daz, the other on which one of his bookies from the Club would be there. A raffle didn't sound like something Jem would be interested in as there wasn't hardly any cut for him at the end. Then again, profit was profit, and regardless of the percentage at the end, it was still a larger number than zero.

Daz lunged for him finally, lulled into the false sense of inattention that Calas had been feigning. Calas side stepped him easily, followed up with a playful kick to his scaly ass, and sent Daz flying to the floor. Calas smirked at Daz who glared back, picking himself up, with a similar, competitive grin.

"I thought this was just a friendly match, Cal." Daz started, a feral glint in his bronze-gold eyes as he closed the distance between them.

It was Calas' turn to shrug, an unconcerned posture accompanying his expression. "It's still friendly, Daz, but I'll be damned if you don't fall for that move every single time. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn't give you the chance to correct your errors?"

"Aren't you a peach!" Daz intoned in a far too enthusiastic voice before sending a low thrusting punch toward Calas' stomach.

Calas, finally forced to engage with him, blocked the blow which had considerably more force behind it than the ones before. Daz followed up immediately with a hook from the other side which Calas deflected, sending Daz turning in the opposite direction.

He came around with a rising kick, intended for Calas' face. Calas avoided it by shifting his weight to the back foot, but Daz was spinning around again with a kick from the other foot directed straight at Calas' chest. Having seen this before, classic Daz, Calas caught the Drakari's foot with both hands before it impacted.

They both froze. Not that Dazaid had intended to stop his momentum as Calas could feel the tugging of Daz's foot in his grip as he tried to get free. Calas glanced up with a devilish smirk to see Daz who gave him a worried one.

"Now, Cal…" he started nervously, "It's still friendly. Isn't it?"

Calas hummed as if thinking the question over. Then, shifting his weight, Calas pushed on Daz and his foot, and sent him to the ground once more. Daz groaned. Not in pain, but in defeat.
Calas was there a moment later and offered Daz a hand up. "Definitely a friendly match."

Daz took his hand and rose easily to his feet with the help. "Thank the gods for that. I would hate to see you in an unfriendly match, Cal."

"So you have said." Calas teased and turned to walk away.

"You should join us tonight." Daz proclaimed, grabbing back Calas' attention.

"At the Rooster?"

"Yeah! There is a group of us combat junkies going. You should come, too." Daz patted away the non-existent dust from his pants as his normal endearing smile shifted the scales that outlined his too human face. "What do you say?"

Calas frowned before he could stop himself, the only tell to the pang of guilt he was hiding. "I don't think so, Daz."

"Aw, come on, Cal, it's break for the love of the gods. Please don't tell me you are spending it in the Library, again."

"No." Calas said quickly, "I am actually going to a party tomorrow, so I think another one might be too much for me."

"A party? Really? Which one!?" Daz's face lit up with anticipation.

Calas shook his head, why had he said anything. "Not sure that it's an Arcane Club event, just a private invite from a girl named Vesa. You know her?"

"Vesa," Daz poked at his forehead in thought. "The name doesn't sound familiar."

"Hmm." Calas thought of all the times Dazaid had talked his ear off about the girls he had met over the past year. He figured Daz knew just about everyone at Court by now, which meant he needed a certain kind of information. "She's a tall, purple Infernai. Bright purple eyes, jet black hair, and curled black ram's horns. Curvy."

"Hell-o, I don't know her, but I definitely want to now." The Drakari's expression shifted to sly. "How private is this invitation, Cal?"

"It's not like that, Daz."

"Not even a little?" He gave Calas an insufferable smirk.

Calas gave him a scathing look in return. "It's a birthday party and no, I'm not coming with you tonight."

"Fine. But you know I'm going to keep asking until you finally go to one with us."

Calas rolled his eyes. "Sure, sure. Just make sure everyone knows that the hall will be closed early tomorrow."

Daz went rigid, performing an over exaggerated salute to him before finding another partner to spar with. Calas shook his head at the retreating Drakari, but couldn't help but chortle. For some reason, Dazaid was adamant about getting Calas to party with him and he was so annoyingly nice about it that Calas could do little to stop him. It doesn't mean he would actually give in to those requests, but he wasn't about to stop Daz from trying either.

The rest of the morning flew by and that wasn't the only time that Daz came around to spar. No, the over-enthusiastic Drakari was full of energy today and challenged Calas another three times. Coincidentally, Daz found himself on his ass three more times, too. After the last time, at the end of the session, Calas made sure to post a sign that the training hall would be closed early tomorrow so everyone knew.

After closing up, he cracked open one of the only books he could find on the subject of weaving. It was the only book he could check out of the Library as the other two volumes he found were in the Silent Archives and literally chained to the stacks.

This particular tome, "The Empires of Eld", was written in a middle dialect of the common tongue, but it didn't take a massive stretch of imagination to decipher its meaning. At first he was disappointed. The first few chapters were mainly a historical summary of the plains and valleys to the north west of here, on the border of what is present day Mesym and Batesian.

It was dry. Very dry, but Calas forced himself to continue for as long as he could. The distraction was necessary to prevent him from over analyzing what might be in store for him tomorrow. Especially since Daz, the overenthusiastic party-goer, didn't know anything about this party or the host, it made Calas even more suspicious of what could happen.

It wasn't until the fifth chapter that he was rewarded with tidbits of the peoples that originally settled in that area and their affinity with mana-dense environments. Unfortunately, it was too late to go much farther. Calas sighed with frustration as he marked the page and fell asleep soon after.