Challenge Beyond Our Means

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The central courtyard of the Arcane Society is a large and sprawling affair within the heart of the city. Soaring marble pillars reach upward to the sky, four sets of three, evenly spaced apart as the massive columns form a rough circle, each trio of pillars warding a particular direction. Carved into the smooth stone floor within the center of the atrium is a massive circle within the ceiling itself, which opens always to the stars, in honor of Eluna, the Goddess of Light Magic. Taara, the Goddess of the Dark, is given no such honors.

The central courtyard radiates outwards into paths, leading through the exotic gardens of the Society. One extends to the Library, another to the College of Magic. Another path leads off to a small, rather plain looking building between the two colleges, most likely the dormitory for the students, and yet another for the famous Cafeteria. Numerous magi can be seen walking back and forth most hours of the day and night here, with familiars or other odder creatures roaming about, most of them in the latest styles, as dictated by Madame Gelfure, the a more social head than the Society has had in most of its history. Myriad scents and aromas can also be sensed, some delightful, others repugnant, others quite colorful as apprentices and magi alike go about their experiments. Arguments are not unheard of, and even the most "dignified" of magi might be seen from time to time, in a pique of anger, waving an agitated hand to teleport the disagreeable person to the top of the nearest tower.

EXTRAS: +view

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Craft A well kept golem in plate and apron. 41s 7h

Albain Dark-haired blue-eyed young man 3m 43m

Svarshan Be a brightscale! Chomp a demon! 0s 1d

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Dining Hall <DH> Out <O>

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An unexpected arrangement is to be found in one corner of the courtyard; several wood and hay practice dummies are propped up on stakes driven into the dirt, and a fellow is aiming a dragonspitter at them. The mana chamber on his firearm is unusually exposed, letting it's soft blue glow illuminate his upper body in the dim evening light. His other hand traces an invisible diagram next to the firearm, culminating in a flash of blue from the muzzle as a bolt of force slams into the stuffed target with a thump.

"See-see," chirps a small and large-eared figure. A gobber merchant stands to the side, having found and used the opportunity to sell a number of his works. "You hit, is simple, fire--Kaboom!" The wirey fellow gestures with quick hands, miming an explosion, the thing sure to happen as soon as the dragonspitter finds his target. A number of passer-by have stopped to watch the practice (and the entrepreneurial merchant), some with features more curious than others. One of them wears a thoughtful scowl. A reptile stands there, his tail resting heavily on the floor and a pack beside him. That has clawed legs sticking out of it. And, "Noisy," he says.

"Yes, yes," the merchant agrees, not perturbed at all.

Albain leans his head to glance into the breach of his weapon, as the barrel hinges out. No smoke, no debris, nothing inside at all to suggest that anything was fired from it at all. "Have you broken it yet?" calls a female voice from an overlooking window. "No." Albain calls back, prompting a reply from the woman above. "Cast a proper spell through it then!" she retorts. With a shrug, Albain locks the barrel back into place and goes to fetch a book near one of the dummies.

As the gobber continues his talk, Svarshan scowls. In fact, the more the gobber talks, the more he scowls. And then, well. ...Albain fires. And he stops scowling. He looks at the weapon a while, thoughts rolling through his mind, clearly. And then jabs a claw towards the barrel of it as Albain gets up to head towards his books. "That...weapon. Yours did not smoke. His do," meaning the jabbering gobber. "Why?"

Albain almost reaches his book before he's spoken to, earning a slightly surprised look from the pistoleer when he realizes a Sith-makar is addressing him. There's a moment lost as he sizes up Svarshan and the goblin marchant, before his response comes. "The difference is not in the weapon; I am sure mine is not much different than what he has." he begins, tilting his weapon as he holds it harmlessly pointed downwards. "What you just saw was me channeling arcane energy through the mana chamber, and focusing it out. I'm a wizard, of sorts." he adds with a lopsided smile.'

The eyes narrow and Svarshan scowls at the item in question. Thoughts, then. He stares at the firearm a while before he speaks, though he seems almost, to start to speak several times. And eventually, settles on, "Why?" The word encompasses several things, several questions pushed into that single word, that word filled to bursting.

Craft had heard about the conversation, and it's not long before the golem, covered in dark metal and wearing an apron over his platemail, finds his way to the crowd, watching with eyes that glow the same soft blue as the barrel. Slung across his back is something rather similar, in shape if in nothing else, to the skilled eye it means one thing, artificer.

Albain opens his mouth to answer, but then his mouth takes on that quizzical 'oh' look like he just realized something and doesn't have an answer. Finally he unhinges the barrel again and tilts it around to give a better view of the glowing blue mana crystal that's partially exposed. "I did not have the benefit of a tutor in magic, so it took me seven years before I was able to cast a single spell. And I would never have achieved that if not for this; the mana chamber. It was exactly what I needed, a device to focus mana. Most students of magic develop a way to do so without aid; I made do with what I had." he explains, slowly rotating the weapon, causing its glow to illuminate his face.

Svarshan follows the movements as Albain turns the firearm. As he does, an odd look crosses the reptile's face...almost like a grimace. Just not quite. "I..." he starts to say. And from somewhere, remembers his manners. "Svarshan Kotharrventin, of Am'shere and the Father Dragon. I came here..." and he pauses, evidently perhaps not very good with words. It takes him a while to choose them, to sort through them, and he falls silent as he does, with a distracted nod towards Craft.

"Ah, forgive me." Albain replies, holstering his unloaded weapon and stepping forward. "Now I'm making the same mistake everyone around here does; assuming everyone understands our eldritch ramblings. Gods know I am baffled often enough myself." he explains, offering his hand up to the imposing reptilian. "Albain de Corveaux, from Rosalia. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Craft considers the demonstration. "Magic's an energy, there's many ways to channel it," he agrees in his even, metallic voice, and steps forward, gingerly reaching a hand to slightly turn the weapon to get a better look at the mana chamber, eyes narrowing to points while he considers it. "You are an artificer?" he wonders, attention turning to Albain's eyes.

"Ah, forgive me." Albain replies with an apologetic smile. "Now I'm making the same mistake everyone around here does; assuming everyone understands our eldritch ramblings. Gods know I am baffled often enough myself. Albain de Corveaux, from Rosalia. Pleased to make your acquaintance." he explains and introduces, letting Craft have a closer examination of his weapon. To all appearances it is an unmodified dragonspitter of excellent craftsmanship. He shakes his head at the question. "Not truly, no. Outwardly I do appear to straddle the line, but aside from using a dragonspitter over a wand, I am in fact a wizard."

"I am...not used to. Seeing it used that way." It takes a while and the words come slowly, with difficulty. Svarshan speaks as though there may have been damage at one time, though that damage does not seem to be to his vocal cords. And, "I have...been to Rosalia. It is..."

"Nice," is the word he settles on. And he pauses after that, though the eyes on Albain are curious and alert. Studying him as though he were some sort of puzzle.

Craft gives a nod to Albain's explanation, and then turns to Svarshan, the eyes dimming again. "You should see a healer," he remarks, matter of factly.

Albain regards the Sith just as curiously in return, assessing him carefully when he speaks. The compliment to his homeland is ignored for the moment when he hears Craft's statement. "Something ails you? Something of the mind or tongue?" he inquires. "Forgive me if I overstep."

The reptile starts, and then snorts. There's as much self-depreciation in the gesture as there is humor. "A mistake," is all he says. And then he pauses after that because...words are hard to form. And, "I would. Like to hear of. Rosssalia, sometime. It hasss..." he looks to Craft, and back to Albain. "Been years." An almost-smile. "I traveled. With a...Myrrish family. Once." Many, many years ago that says. And the effort of all these words looks exhausting.

Craft, in his normal, frank manner just asks, "Mistake?" He'd probably raise an eyebrow if anything other than his jaw seemed capable of movement on his face.

Albain listens patiently as Svarshan speaks, eyes blinking as if piecing something together in his mind, but still paying close attention to the reptile's face. "A mistake." he ehcoes, though as less of a question. "A curse? No, maybe..." he ponders aloud, before wincing. "Hmm, the possibilities all point to things you would probably not want to be forthcoming about." he concludes.

"The Dragon does not challenge. Beyond our..." and he settles on 'means' after a moment of contemplation. And Svarshan reaches down and hefts the bag he'd set on the floor. It looks as though it has a heavy weight to it, which he settles on his shoulder easily. And, "I ssshould go. It has been good. Good to see you. Both. Craft. Weapon-Mage."

Craft nods his head to the reptile, then looks back to Albain. "I did not know it was possible to use a normal manachamber as a focus."

"Farewell, Kotharrventin." Albain says in return, his tongue able to pronounce the draconian word correctly the first time. His eyes linger on the Sith for a time as he wanders away, before focusing on Craft to answer. "And I am glad that I did not know more at the time, or I would never have tried it. It proved instrumental; before I was stumbling in the dark." he answers.

"In the Sssshadows of the Wings of the Ancestors," Svarshan returns. It sounds a benediction, a departure, and he hefts the pack and heads down the way. Behind, the gobber-merchant has hold of a young mage, with red, curly hair. Who looks ready to turn him into a toad.

Svarshan goes OOC.