Lesson Plan

[Zook Murnig]

"Elohim Elyon!" whispered the Canaanite, drawing his hand across the air before him. Gathered energy rushed from him, and into the spell, his words guiding and mind giving shape. As his foe's arrows rained, they dissolved into the quickly forming ooze the magician had called from the ether. A fine spray of wood and steel particles barraged Caduceus as he shielded his eyes on the far side of the already-disappearing barrier, and the sulfurous scent of the reaction filled his nostrils.

Still, his opponent had grown accustomed to the working, and the archer had been waiting for it to pass. When the opportunity arose, seconds after her original volley, one final arrow was loosed, and lodged in the conjurer's chest with a sickening squelch. As the magician looked down at the oaken shaft, still quivering as it stuck in his heart, he knew the battle was over, was lost, even before his limp form hit the grass.

---

Bleary eyes opened again some time later, to the vision of pale arches supporting the ceiling of the Ai'Brone infirmary. The general bustle of this forever-busy facility could be heard from all around, and one voice in particular seemed directed to him.

"The young master awakes," it said. "Quiet, still, sir. This will sting for a moment." His eyes focused on the man standing over him, speaking. He wore the orange robes of the Citadel's monks, and was busily dabbing at the remains of his wound with a small, moistened cloth. Each brush brought sharp agony, indeed, but quickly faded before the next touch brought new, lesser pain.

Craning his neck, he could see the pale flesh of his chest closing cleanly, the muscles and tendons reforming as the skin knit itself together over them. The monk's bare head still hovered over him, lips forming silent entreatments to his god. When the cenobite had finished his work, he bowed his head slightly and excused himself to tend to one of the many other patients.

Taking the discarded, and now repaired, robes from the marble bedside stand, he pulled them on and left into the main halls of the ancient temple of battle, the Citadel.

[Melancor]

"Watch out!" Since the battle had begun Silvan had been at the edge of his seat; it was the first time he had ever visited the Citadel, and to his amazement the rumors didn't dissapoint. The two had been going at eachother for a while, both of them displaying an amazing skill in their own respected crafts. On one side the archer's perfect aim seemed to have surpriced the mage a couple of times, on the other, the mage had been especially crafty in avoiding any damage. From the very first second he was caught; both mastered skills Sylvan had only begun to understand: the archer's cool calculative aim, but more importantly, the way the male manipulated the liquid.

"Watch out!" he repeated. By that point Sylvan had already yelled the line more than a dozen times, almost sure the mage would hear him through the roaring sea of voices; in such an evenly- matched fight the dear misses had be plentiful.

He didn't hear him however.

The female was keen, and after cathcing onto the mage's rythim she had managed to strike a perfect blow. "Aw crap!" Sylvan saw the mage fall, and soon enough a couple of monks hurried to him, the victor, arms high, ecstatic over her win. For a second he wondered if the arrow had been real, if the citadel played by some simulation rules, unwilling to believe someone had been killed before his eyes, him being an expectator to it.

"Nasty injury!" Sylvan said outloud to a man he'd been sitting next to throughout the fight "He's not going to die is he?"

The man turned to him, a bewildered expression on his face, "You've obviously never seen a fight before, boy!"

Sylvan ignored the comment, ashamed that perhaps his loud entusiasm had ousted him as a novice to The Citadel. "Where are they taking him?"

"To the 'bron infirmary I guess. That's where all the loosers end up anyway!" this last part the man shouted, the other men arround them agreeing with a voicterous laughter, "Shit don't die 'ere, boy, just gets shat on'gain!"

A slight frown formed on Sylvan's forehead. The mage had lost, yes, however he'd fought with a passion he had rarely ever seen in other magic users. And to Sylvan, who'd been told his true abilities laid within the water, the way the man had used it had all but rousted his curiosity. These men, who seemed like nothing but brutes, where at fault for under appreciatng the skill of thought in battle. Especially when he felt they would have treated the woman otherwise had the outcome been different.

"But you see," taking notice on Sylvan's silent cpntradiction the man continued, "we do look kindly upon them' new fighters... why don't you try me, see how good yerself is! you'll learn all you need to know!" the man let out another thunderous laugh. The challenge was ill received, there was nothing Sylvan would like to learn from this man. After all his intentions seemed all the more dubbious. However... a thought crossed his head, "No thank you," Sylvan responded jokingly, "did you say the infirmary? where is that?"

The man laughed one last time at his reaction, "It is that way, son!" The man stood up, pointing in a general direction to his right, "That place should suit ya', oh an make sure you don't hurt youself while you're there, nanny, you might just die!" Sylvan joined in the joke, laughing along the croud he stood up, and after excusing himself with a slight nod he walked into the hall.

After some time of walking around in circles, asking directiosn for a number of strangers, all pointing in different directions, and reading dozens of labels and signs, he was still determined. Sylvan had to find that man. He turned a corner, "Ai'Brone" finally read a sign in the distance just above an open cross way. After stoping a moment to fasten his arch and his belt he began walking quickly down the hall. Distracted by his target Sylvan failed to see where he was going.

He bumbped into someone's shoulder. He'd been walking so fast for a second he worried the person would fall. Instictively he strecthed his arm, and with a sinsere apologetic tone he asked for pardon, "Oh sorry! My apologies, "After noticing his clothes a sense of familiarity made him raise his gaze to the person's face. It was the mage, "You! I've been looking for you, I saw your a moment ago, I was very impressed," Sylvan stopped a second to reconsider, "Are you all right?"