View Full Version : The Subtle Body (Solo)
The Subtle Body (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbhAf62wfgE)
2901
“Shall we write about the things not to be spoken of?”
Shall we divulge the things not to be divulged?
Shall we pronounce the things not to be pronounced?”
Julian, Hymn to the Mother of the Gods
Touches and connects to the history in Of Trees & Stars. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23532-Of-Trees-amp-Stars-(Solo))
Sequel to The Vociferous Hunger (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23922-The-Vociferous-Hunger-(Closed)&highlight=The+Vociferous+Hunger).
Oliver watched the old man move slowly across the slate tiles, each footstep an aeon in time that the boy did not have spare. When he crossed the halfway point, he could only help but tut, make a mocking wave motion in the air to urge his tutor on, and slump back into his rickety chair in despair.
“It’s already mid-morning,” he said longingly. They had been ‘in learning’ since sunrise, and no doubt, like yesterday, they would be here long after sunset to no avail. He was beginning to regret seeking out tutelage in Radasanth.
“Oh codswallop,” the old man said, turning suddenly, as if brought to life. His eyes flashed, and his heart sounded it is rhythm in the small study. His long red robes, edged with gold and as exuberant as the rest of the house’s décor flicked up and bellowed beneath the force of an unseen wind. “The youth of today are merrily impatient, quick to tire, and they possess none of the…”
“- charisma or stamina of my day,” Oliver nodded, he had heard this three times this morning already. “You have said as much, Pastel, and you’ll no doubt say it again. I have all the patience in the world with advanced arithmetic, sorcerous analogies, and the strain of carrying the cosmos on my shoulders.” He set his hands firmly onto his knees. “I do not, however, have the time or patience to listen to your prattling tales of your childhood.” Oliver had tried to work out when that was, but from the man’s pristine white beard and long, flowing eyebrows, age had lost all meaning for him decades ago.
Christopher Pastel was one of the city’s most prominent sorcerers. He was part of several echelons of several secret societies, Roecrucian, Golden, and hermetic in design. Magical practitioners from three continents, elf, man, and Fae alike hunted him. It was often deep in meditation or seminar with some young upstart mage or another. This individual, sat before him with a heart black and a wit sharp, on the other hand, was something new entirely.
“Think yourself an expert, do you?” he said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. He held out a palm, flattened it against Oliver’s direction, and conjured a small force sphere into his fingertips.
“No,” he replied, raising his own hand to reach out with sorcerous tendrils for the ether that powered the cantrip. He tugged at it, shook his head, and waited for his tutor’s response. The spell faded.
Pastel smiled weakly. “Tearing apart a spell like a bull in a carnival is not finesse, nor is it the style and approach I wish to teach you.” He leant forwards on his long, gnarled staff with both hands clutching it just beneath the golden rest two thirds up. The crozier atop its shaft glowed with the light of the glow stones that lined the walls in erratic, disorganised patterns. “Tell me, young Oliver, why you are here again?”
Oliver sighed, “I can’t tell you much.” This was truthful enough. If he began to speak of witchcraft, and all he had done with it, the angels would begin to hear him, and watch him more astutely and with much more malice than they likely did already. Heaven forbid he attempted to perform a ritual of any sort. “I simply wish to learn how to control, and to develop the sorcerous gifts I was born with. It is nothing more and nothing less.” He was certain this simple lesson was going to turn into a rhetorical debate about thermal dynamics of fireballs and the occultism inherent in Corone.
“That is a reason I can understand,” said the sorcerer. He grinned. Oliver had learnt to distrust old men who showed their emotions so readily. “All young things crave power, above all else.”
With a slow stride, Pastel made his way to the eastern wall and the bookcase that stood there. Neither of the pair needed to pay attention to the other, the sense of congruency they had developed in little time at all was unnerving. Respect and admiration cycled between them, constantly keeping them working together like clockwork. When Pastel extended a skeletal digit, retrieved a red bound tome clumsily, and turned around, Oliver was already there waiting.
“Allow me,” he said politely, taking the book from his mentor’s grip with a bow. He stepped back, let the old man walk to his wing back chair, and then stood attentively before him. “Though you’ll have to guide me to the page you want read.”
“The first one, my dear boy,” he slumped into the piece of furniture with a crumpling motion, “it is where,” he shifted his weight, “most books begin.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow wistfully, and then rolled his eyes. He had walked straight into that one. With chagrin, he turned the cover, and read the title inked onto the first page. He had to be acquainted with the source material before he dove into reading aloud blind, and unprepared. Some books, or so he had been warned, did not take too kindly to being read. The letters were ornate, perhaps centuries old, and mysterious. Through the layers of flourish and artistry, Oliver made out the words The Sorcerers’ Apprentice – Edifice and Artifice in Mysticismm.
“It reads; The Sorcerers’ Apprentice.” He said quite flatly. The notion of being a pupil had not quite set in. In the Coven of Albion, you were a student eternal, but respected by your peers for the eternal journey through life. Outside of his home, however, everything reminded him of his in superior status. He felt coldly about the ideals shared by the magical community of the island – he felt bitter towards the echelons of power not achieved.
“Go on,” Pastel said meekly. His cold, glimmering eyes watched his student keenly. His red robes still shone, even though they were no longer quite as near to the largest of the glow runes that hung overhead. It was clear, to Oliver at least, that the man sat before him on a throne of power was more than capable of ending his life. The reverence of that fact alone drove him to clear his throat and read on without complaint.
“Chapter One, the beginning of an apprenticeship.” He turned to the first true page, where the calligraphy went from gold and red to simple, stoic, and robust black. The lettering was the standard type font of most books produced in Corone, but it still amazed Oliver how it was so clear, perfect, and delicate. “From the first day, to the last, the apprentice should know three things about his time within the low echelon.”
“Before you read on and turn the page,” Pastel interrupted, pressing the digits of each hand together pensively, “what do you think they might be?”
Oliver looked up from the pages of the book and froze. His thoughts raced. Sweat beaded onto his brow, and rolled in waves down the spinal channel. The loose fitting and lightweight folds of his clothing offered little protection from the heat of interrogation. He might have known the answer, had the question been related to the laws and traditions of witchcraft, but here and now, he was ignorant at best. For a while, the room seemed to spin. He rested the book in the palm of one hand, and flicked his matting hair from his eyes. Pastel watched him squirm, but made no gesture that indicated pleasure or impatience with the boy’s contemplation.
“There is no need to worry so much about it.” He said, finally. Oliver relaxed immediately, the tension in his bones dropping like a waterfall’s deluge over cold stone. “I was merely eager to see if you had preconceived notions about the Order of things.” Pastel shook his head, “do not be so hard on yourself young man.” He nodded glumly, “read on, and let your day’s lesson begin.” He rolled his hand, signalling Oliver to continue, and then sat back with his hands folded across his lap to listen with hairy, bat like the one ears pricked.
It took Oliver all of five minutes to detail the three principle mandates of an apprenticeship. By the time he had finished, closed the book, and set it onto the table by Pastel’s chair, his head was feverishly close to exploding with questions. He had expected rigid rules of tests and trial, perhaps simple legislation to govern conduct, but not that.
“They are the same three rules that under pin the witch craft principles.” He said, flatly, and without remembering decorum and grace. Pastel frowned. “How can that be?”
The sorcerer’s bulbous nose twitched, as if he smelt something intriguing. “I can smell fear,” he said. “I am curious as to why this upsets you so?” he leant little forwards to crane over the rim of his wiry, seemingly impractical spectacles. The frames caught the light of the runes and glowed with flame for a brief moment.
“I always, always, always thought that sorcery and witch craft were entirely separate approaches to the magical conundrum.” Everything Oliver knew as a child hinged around the exclusivity of the two. The very reason his father fled from Albion when he was a young child, long before he has to know him, was this. A sorcerer could not remain in Albion, and a witch could not survive in a world ablaze with wild, ‘uncivilized and reckless’ magic.
“Separate and exclusive can mean different things to different people.” Pastel shrugged. “By all means, they are separate in so much as they are performed by different people, for different reasons, and draw their traditions from varied histories.” He paused, for dramatic effect. The glow stones hummed and the wood in the room creaked, as if under duress by the man’s mental presence. “They have identical origins, however.”
Oliver narrowed his gaze and began to pace back and forth across the slabs of the study. When he reached the eastern wall, he pressed a hand against the bookcase’s middle shelf and leant on it for moral and physical, and perhaps spiritual support. The grain of the wood beneath his whitening fingertips was comforting.
“Which of the three laws perturbs you, exactly?”
Oliver pushed away from the bookshelf. He turned. He shook his head. “It’s not one in particular, Maester. They all perturb me.”
Pastel traced a sigil of eldritch power in the air with his index finger of his right hand. It formed a glowing red pattern before it turned black. For a moment, the room smelt of lavender, and then it faded into nothingness. He smacked his lips and returned to his pensive position with fingers pressed firmer together than before. Oliver had no inclination to ask what the sigils purpose was. He doubted he would understand, even if he did.
“In order to come to understand something in life that is difficult, we must look at it objectively.” He looked long, and hard, into his pupil’s eyes. “Read the first rule, and tell me what you think when you do.” This was a challenge, Oliver knew that much. Much of their previous days’ exercises had been physically orientated. They had jostled with minor cantrips, shown one another some small facet of their power, and learnt the basics about detecting and reading sources of magic. The illusion of an entirely practical education was now firmly shattered.
“Must I?” the youth questioned. His exasperated tone did nothing to shift Pastel’s gargoyle like stillness. A short silence undid his reluctance, and he walked across the room, soft foot wrappings scuffing over the stone, and picked up the tome once more. This time, the red leather and iron clasp seemed to weigh a hundred times more than it once did. This time, Oliver Midwinter felt truly alone in the world.
“You do not have to do anything you do not wish to do whilst you are under my roof, Oliver.” Pastel smiled. He sighed. He shuffled. “However, not doing so will only make me question you further.” He raised an eyebrow in a manner that condescended, yet also calmed the youth’s anxiety.
“Well put,” Oliver replied, his mouth curled into a wry and defeated expression of defeat. He balanced the book open on the correct page in his right hand, and began to orate with his left as he spoke the first of the three rules inscribed onto the page in inks more expensive than Oliver dared imagine. They were gold leafed and glittered, luxurious and indulgent. “A sorcerer must never embody the chaos of mana itself, he must ebb and flow with it, not become the winds of misdirection.”
“Your immediate response to that would be?”
Oliver rested the book on his hip, like an absent-minded librarian, and let his thoughts overwhelm his better judgement. The first thing he thought of, as the tension rattled in the multitude of pots and bottles lining the chamber’s many shelves, was the Threefold Law. In witchcraft, the emphasis was on the responsibility of the wielder, not on the observance of a man of his resources. Magic would hurt you if you abused it. No amount of rhetoric could disguise that simple fact.
“Be wary of how you use magic, in whatever form, because it is just as dangerous to the sorcerer, as it is to his enemies.” He said. His voice was full of conviction and academic distinction, the sort of voice that gave great speeches and sedated wars. All it appeared here, however, was an old man keen to test a new generation.
Pastel nodded slowly. He raised a finger to Oliver, pointed, and smiled. “That means you, young man, should always be careful of how you wield the talents gifted to you by whatever Thayne or devil you perceive the powers around you to be born of.” He pushed himself out of the battered old chair with the sort of venerable awkwardness most octogenarians managed to use as a weapon, and when he was upright, he dropped his hands to his sides.
“It is much like the Threefold Law.” Oliver said. He was fishing for a response he was unsure he would get.
Pastel nodded. “Yes, yes, each discipline in the grand echelons of magical practice will call it by a different name. Each will dress it up in ritual and rhyme to try to make sense of it in their mind’s eye. It is the same, though, mark my words.” He clapped suddenly, and all the flames and runes aglow in the chamber wavered. The light pealed and roiled, and then settled again. Oliver flinched. Every bone in his body tenses, and his muscles wrapped tightly around a shaking skeleton.
“As long as you understand it will be okay.” The sorcerer added, before he produced a small wand from within the folds of his ample robes, and settled it at ease in front of his chest. “Read the second of the tenets, and let us see if learning extends beyond lucky estimation.” The grandiose stature of Pastel grew, as if magic were extending his limbs and gravitating the room around his body. Something, Oliver could sense, was at work in the room and he could not surmise quite what.
“Okay,” he mumbled, as he brought the book up to chest level and scanned the page to find the place where he had left off. He cleared his throat of the dry phlegm and nerves that scrabbled for his air, and began to read.
Oliver Midwinter had always been a curious child. Ever since he had first discovered his sorcerous talents, at the relatively young age of six, he had been captivated. The fact that anyone could possess such power was wondrous enough in the village of Albion. For Oliver to possess such talents, however, was even more exciting for the villagers.
Ever since the first Midwinters settled in the valley three generations ago, the village council and the village’s coven had become matriarchal in nature. Magic and politics belonged to women, leaving artifice and exploration, and much of the traditional labour to the men.
Men who displayed magical proficiency were bereft, ignored, and in cases where they practised their craft openly, they were exiled or worse. For one of the Midwinter clan to develop such skills, then, caused a great uproar the day Oliver first extinguished a blazing heart with his skill. Whilst the clan had foreseen that his Awakening would occur, they could never have foreseen the shape it would take. Through augury and conditioning, they prepared themselves for a revelation that took them by surprise all the same.
The first Grand Moot in over a century occurred two days later. The word went out to all the Midwinter clan, and each one of Albion’s coven called to the hearth and home of the valley – Caroline Haven. From thatched row cottage and Clifftop altar they come, in their hundreds, jabbering excitedly about the prospects of change and the virtues of upheaval. Many of them were scared, terrified, even, and many more were bewildered that it was happening at all. They were excited at the prospect of a male warlock – a true, unblemished, and unbiased practitioner of an art form denied to them.
More so, the people of the valley, even those non-magical in professions, were excited at the prospect of a male witch. This was a child born scattered by the union of Creed and Calamity and of sorcerous blood. When the Grandmother, leader of both the coven and the Midwinter family proper emerged from the Moot, she addressed the villagers at the heart of Albion. Beneath the old clock, she spoke of decisions and deraignment – of malady and ailment. Beneath ribboned maypole and celebratory air, she proclaimed the Gideon Tenet. This would become the Fourth Law to the previous three, which tied magic together; order and myth united in ritual.
Male witches finally had a home in Albion, regardless of their heritage. Be they of sorcerous or pagan origins, they, and all men dwelling here, were free to magic and its practice. They would abide by the same laws and punishments as women, and be much stricter bound to the watchful eye of the Grandmother. One-step out of line would warrant a punishment worse still than any defined by law. Men remained, for all intent and purpose, unequal within Albion culture.
They would hold no sway over politics or further law making progress. Despite this, the villagers welcomed the edict, of both genders, and with that, civil war-esque tension began to divide the Midwinter family.
It was a small victory for equality in the valley.
When Maria Midwinter, Oliver’s mother, left Albion eight years prior, she did so against the Grand Mother’s wishes. Brash, beholden to her own stubborn ideals, and naive, Maria ignored the warning she received that her actions would one day result in Albion’s fall. The day of the Moot, that warning came full circle. She was long gone for Radasanth, the capital city of Corone; she vanished.
Since a very young age, Maria’s thirst for knowledge above all else drove her to consume books at an alarming rate. By eight, she was intellectual and quick-witted far beyond her peers. She was equal to the elders at the very least. By fifteen, she was a master of Circle magic and healing poultices, so much so she fell into the Coven three years younger than tradition normally allowed. Her rite of passage was complete, and her passage into infamy became legend.
When Gideon Lath entered the valley of Albion, aged thirty, Maria was by then twenty-five. Acting as village healer, she encountered the stranger in the town hall, asked to tend to the strange legions and bruises. He appeared close to death atop the red cliff tops of the village, sprawled over a rock and smothered in blood from creatures from nightmares dark. He told her the story of his adventure, and as she nursed him back to health, she became enthralled by the lack of success her magic had on his maladies.
When Gideon revealed the source of his injuries, Maria knew at once that her kindness had put Albion, if not the island entire in grave danger.
All the children in Albion knew the legend of the Pool of Tomorrows. In the grounds of what would become the Midwinter home, there rests a large pond-like tributary. It was once a trickle, then a torrent, and then a sea. Some might call her a lake, but its immensity warrants grandeur. It began to absorb all the magic set loose in the valley, as the people of the lost tribes became the people of Albion. It began to see things inanimate objects should not. It began to see things of which gods could only dream. In time, it parasitically grew, giving Albion its verdant heart, and it began to swell life into the barren valley until it swayed with nature’s song.
The progenitors of the Midwinter line discovered the pool’s unusual attribute, quite, or so they say, by accident. When the sun shines directly onto its surface, a witch will see skeins and visions of what could one day be. Nothing that is seen is ever as clear as one is lead to believe, and the reactions of the individual to his perceived fate may very well alter the course of history and undo the vision witnessed in an ironic twist of destiny. Thus, the pool leads and manipulates, as much as it enlightens.
If one were to look upon the pool as it reflects the light of the moon, however, another stark reality appears. In the howl of night’s betrayal, the pool displays certainty, unavoidable events, and inevitability. Things seen in the harvest moon are especially ensuring, definite moments in time’s long march. Nothing one does will avert them.
Nothing one could do will upend the result. It reflects a man’s nightmares and excoriating truths in a dreary forewarning.
If one were to look upon the pool at the zenith of a midday sun, or during a true full moon, the portent abilities of the waters manifests stronger still – it will grant omniscience, god like understanding of the days to come, to anyone who ventures near. During these sacred times, the people of Albion, cannot venture anywhere near the pool, or indeed, even the grounds of the house. Only the Grand Mother could look, if she wanted to, though she never does, fearful of the maddening fractures she suffered with if all her life lain out before her.
The punishment for breach of this law is the most cruel, and by far, the most unusual to be delivered by the creatures that guard the supposed Rule of Three. These divine, morally sound principles are supposed to safeguard all from harm, even criminals – they are undone for only one reason; this crime is it. When Oliver Midwinter started to long for his father, he became overwhelmingly curious to know where he was now. He wanted to learn the truth about his exile. When his family became busy, his curiosity caused him to sneak across the still dew-laden lawn to the edge of the pool.
He cried.
At that exact moment, Maria’s vision of Albion’s fall at Gideon’s side came true. With images of her soon to be husband in her mind, she saw their son’s mistake; she saw the end. She saw Oliver stooped over the quicksilver flow, his sorcerous blood boiling, and she too did what came natural to men in times of tragedy.
She cried.
She could do nothing.
She saw the beings known as The Angels in the common tongue descend over the future of Albion. She saw her mother, much older and withered, and her sisters, in immutable bundle of auburn curls, fold beneath golden scythes and lacklustre songs of torment and omen.
It was all Gideon’s doing.
Unable to change certainty, destiny, and the past, Maria bade her husband farewell in secret. She refused to tell him why she was leaving, only that she must. The scar Maria’s grief caused on he, and all the villagers was potent, lingering, and painful. Blaming Maria’s departure entirely on Gideon, the coven convened another Moot, and swiftly decided to cast him out of the valley – forever. As a man, Gideon had no say in the matter, and no power to dispute the verdict. He was powerless to prevent his fate, just as seem in the Pool of Tomorrows.
When Oliver looked into the pool however, the future he saw was entirely different t the one witnessed by his mother. He did not see Albion’s end. He did not see his own fall.
What he saw, was Silence.
He saw irrevocable, unending, and world-destroying null.
Oliver’s luck swiftly ran out. After three hours of in-depth semantic discussion, his brain was at breaking point. He could attest no more ideals. He could argue no more points. He could stomach no more ‘learning’. Disgruntled, he set the book down with a start.
“Ah, there we go.” The old sorcerer spoke furtively. His matter of fact tone did little to appease the boy’s tension.
“Pardon me?” Oliver asked, foolishly. He closed the tome, slumped into the rickety chair that become a second home of late, and waited.
The study seethed. Heat intensified. Pastel furrowed his brow several times and each time, he mellowed his expression. Oliver tensed each time his mentor seemed like he was going to speak. The scent of lavender and chamomile began to permeate the chamber. The boy suspected either flatulence, or the distinct trail of hidden magic furiously at work.
“You must be aware, by now, that you have gone beyond the point of learning anything.”
Oliver blinked.
“That is not true.” He lied. If he had told the truth, he would have gotten up, bowed, and left for whatever remained of the day.
Pastel smiled. It was the first genuine expression to form on the old man’s face in days. He seemed, in some sick way, to be enjoying the thrill of the debate.
“Listen to me, Oliver. You are young, by all means, but in so many other ways, you are old.” He raised a bony digit to the door. “Whilst you are so aggrieved, tired, and beleaguered, there is nothing I can do for you.” He dropped his hand to his lap. With a long, dusty sigh, he slouched back into his chair noisily. Something creaked beneath his effluent robes, and Oliver was certain it was not wood.
“You expect me to believe you, when we have not yet discussed the third tenet?” he asked, eyebrow rose, and his own finger raised to point at the book. They were overwhelmed with the rhetoric of the second to advance, as he might have liked. In some small, strange, and curious way, he had enjoyed having his wits tested.
Pastel could only smile brighter still. “Something tells me you will be too curious to leave it at that.”
Oliver rose the moment he realised his master was trying to stand. He scooted across the floor, heavy, battered, and well-worn boots scuffing over the cracked flagstones. His good nature carried him to the sorcerer’s side, and his manners hooked his arms and cupped the man’s underarm to help him rise.
“Spare your pity boy,” he chuckled. There were groans in between each syllable. He pushed Oliver away once he had enough advantage to not fall over, and room to swipe with a free hand.
Oliver pulled a face. He flicked his hair from his eyes, straightened his vestments, and folded his hands dutifully over his front. He retreated, as commanded, and bowed.
“I was only trying to help you, Pastel.”
With a gruff repeat of his gesture to the door, the sorcerer walked over to the cluttered table strewn with all manner of magical ingredients. He began to work on something only dreams could depict. He ignored Oliver’ attempts to help, and eventually, the boy grew tired of dismissal.
He approached the door. “Good bye, then,” he mused. There was a long silence, broken only by wax seals breaking around jam jars, and pestle and mortar grinding peppercorns to dust.
As Oliver cupped his hand about the door handle and turned, he craned his ear, just in case. There were no parting words in kind, so he pulled the door, slipped out into the corridor beyond, and returned to the world he knew nothing about to find himself.
Pastel stopped, rose erect, and smiled. He nodded with appreciation at all the boy had said and done during the afternoon.
“He has a subtle mind, that one,” he slammed the pestle down, and cracked the mortar in turn. Sparks flew through the air. “One day soon enough, he will have a subtle body.”
I have long wanted to see the world beyond Albion’s borders. Ever since I was a young child, I dreamt and wrote of it. I have pondered what the sun looks like shining down on Scara Brae, and questioned what it would be like to travel the open road with no responsibilities tying me down to one time, person or place. When you are younger, you always expect these dreams to come true. As I tread the lonely path east to the tall and ruined walls of the island’s capitol, I wonder where I would be now if I had dreamt of something else. What would I have become if I had dreamt of something less fanciful, and something that carried less of a cost?
It is in times like these that we find ourselves. That was the greatest lesson the tragedy of Caroline Haven taught me. Though I lost my family, friends and distant relatives to the scythes and screams of the accursed angels, I found something else I had not bargained for. I found freedom.
With a heavy heart, I have slowly come to accept that what happened has passed. I cannot bring them back from the dead, though I know the ways to cast a circle that would tether them to life. It is infuriating knowing the ways to change the world but ultimately denied the permission to use them for a good cause. The greater cost to me has not been the emotional scars, nor the heavy burden of responsibility I have placed upon myself to right my wrongs, but the loss of the one thing that made me feel alive.
I have lost the Creed.
Losing the right to wield the ancient rituals of witchcraft has been a bitter loss for me. At first, I struggled. I whispered the ancient calling rites in my sleep, only to wake from a nightmare to the sound of white wings beating with disappointment. They watched me closely at first, hoping I would succumb to mortal temptation so that I too would meet my end beneath their terrifying forms. It was the smell of lavender and almonds, their scent, which kept me on the road to salvation. Whenever I came close to falling from grace again, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of their ever-watchful presence.
In the stead of witchcraft, I have found myself focussing on the other half of the gifts given to me by nature, ancestry and luck. Sorcery is a sceptical type of magic amongst the villagers of Albion. People do not trust magic, not fettered by tradition, semantics and ritualistic nuances. They trust the people that possess such an affinity with the natural conjuration of ether less still. My mother had always encouraged me to explore my natural affinity with the elements, but when she died, they suppressed and were lost in the limelight of becoming a witch. My grandmother was less understanding than my mother was, and twice as stubborn.
On Sundays and nights when all the chores were tended to and my elder siblings were drinking wine and talking about life in the living room, I would be high atop Caroline Haven’s bell tower deep in study. I would call the winds into an updraft about the dusty brickwork, snatching leaves from the silent lawns so that they danced like sprites prancing alongside the hooves of the Wild Hunt. Within a heartbeat, I would cast away the skies and conjure flickers of fire into my palms to keep the chill night air at bay. I learnt from books borrowed from the village’s mystics that the flame was an extension of my own heart, a glimpse of my inner being given power. I wondered then what the wind represented, delved into the mystery of my dual nature – sorcery was my mother’s gift to me, and I vowed never to take it for granted, even if it was scorned and unappreciated by the coven of Albion and its set in stone ways.
Plot ~ 15/30
Story ~ 6/10 – You did well to develop a story. It had a definitive beginning, middle and end, and creates a growth point for the character. This thread didn’t do a whole lot else, to be honest.
Setting ~ 3/10 – Well, hey, it could have been worse. You had a setting, I suppose? It wasn’t clearly defined, and I shouldn’t have to go back through previous threads to get a clear sense of where the thread takes place. This thread could very well have taken place just about anywhere and very little would change.
Pacing ~ 6/10 - You started way too slow, although I suppose this was most likely intentional. Still, I needed more out of Oliver and Pastel. It just seems like they are just simply going through the motions, as were you, as you wrote this thread.
Character ~ 18/30
Communication ~ 6/10 – They communicated, and I did give you a small bonus here for the nice little interaction with the magic sphere and tendrils. Still, just like above, I need more out of the characters. Their interaction was for the most part dry and bland.
Action ~ 4/10 – So at times you did well to bring about some form of action and movement, but this thread was never about either of those things. That hurt you here as it just never developed past a kid and his teacher reading books.
Persona ~ 8/10 - It makes me laugh to see such lackadaisical action and communication, and then turn around and commend you on such quality personas for both characters. Pastel with his pragmatism and sage attitude, and Oliver with his youthful exuberance constantly miffed at the pace of his elder teacher.
Prose ~ 21/30
Mechanics ~ 6/10 – The thread was well-written from a technical standpoint, and it is clear you have vast experience with writing. Still, there were various times where I got caught stopping to re-read a line or two because of a typo or misused conjugation of verbs(or too many commas!).
Clarity~ 8/10 – You did well clearly defining just about everything, from reasoning to purpose, in this thread. It made it easy as the reader to actually enjoy the thread. It just wasn’t extraordinary for me, but it was well done nevertheless.
Technique ~ 7/10 - Your technique was actually solid, and was well executed. The big point for me was it was so dry it seemed to lag at times. You utilized a lot of elements of the language well, and that is the reasoning for your higher score here.
Wildcard: 8/10 - Although your score will suffer mightily for the sluggishness of how the story developed, I feel you deserved credit for sticking to your guns and going with something against the norm. Not everyone can write a worthwhile read about a kid and his teacher reading a book, but you managed to do so quite well. I enjoyed the thread and look forward to more from this character in the future.
Total ~ 62/100
Oliver Midwinter receives 800 experience and 115 gold.
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