nexus_sages | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

James T. Kirk absolutely loves marketplaces.

It's not necessarily because he's looking for anything, per se, although he does often keep an eye out for interesting books to add to his collection, or maybe a bottle of some kind of exotic alcohol, or some kind of pointless alien gizmo with which to annoy Spock with its purposeless existence. No, he just loves the sheer diversity each bazaar brings to the table.

No two markets have ever been alike, in his experience. Sure, it's not quite as exciting and mysterious as exploring deep space, but it's something of a microcosm of the same, all sorts of goods and cultures thrown into close quarters, and one never knows what one might find just down the street.

His shipboard gold uniform may stand out a bit in the crowd as he meanders along, a faint smile on his face as he leans in to examine someone's wares on display, just enjoying being out and about in the fresh air.

[OOC: Retconning Jim eating bacon in this thread. Hadn't fully considered some of the elements in his backstory at the time.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Feh," comes the dismissal of that argument, "you know full well that his complaints while working are a different creature from his complaints while idle. I know this, and have not even met your friend."

Mmm, that soup is tasty. And the akh tastes about as much like a cinnamon roll as it smells. The foam even kind of tastes like white roll icing. "You might," he answers, "and I shall take it that you just did. I might, in turn, ask how detailed an explanation you would like, and whether in the specific mechanics of the one spell, or in the overarching philosophy of that branch of magical study."

He starts to say something like 'there's more than one kind of healing spell?' but stops himself before he actually verbalizes it, because duh, of course there is. "I guess more of a general sort of thing. Are there limits to how much magic can do to fix somebody up?"

"There are. Spells of healing are, with few exceptions, drawn from the Restoration school of thought--the root ideogram translates literally as 'return to the previous state.'" Uh-oh, Jim, you've gotten an academic going on a subject he knows and likes. This could take a while.

"That, in itself, suggests some limitations. Restoration cannot allay congenital conditions. Further, there exists a threshold mortal magic cannot surpass; Restoration cannot return the dead to life, although there are spells within its purview which return the undead to their properly restful state."

Never fear, for Jim is actually quite interested in the subject. He doesn't have any kind of medical background besides the field first aid training required for all Starfleet officers, but he has perhaps too much firsthand experience on the other end of the problem.

His mocha has mostly cooled enough to drink, so he sips at it in between bites of muffin, listening attentively. "Is there any kind of time limit involved in how soon the magic has to be applied for it to work? Like if someone has a scar from an older injury, would it fix that?"

"An old injury that has healed is also beyond the reach of recuperative magics," Shade-Seeker admits. "The body has established a new base-state from which it departs and to which it seeks to return--such a time limit is not precise, I grant, but that is in part because injury and recuperation tend to vary so much between individuals. But that was a very good question."

That makes sense, and jives pretty well with how dermal regenerators work, so Jim easily accepts that and nods. "What about severity? You said it can't bring back the dead, but there's one hell of a sliding scale between a papercut and death."

"If the patient is not dead, then recovery is a question of magnitude--a potent mage may cast a great spell, to heal grievous wounds all at once, or an apprentice might cast simple cantrip after cantrip, but with sufficient time and magicka, that apprentice could restore the same patient just as fully as the greater mage." He pauses for another mouthful of soup before taking a slight tangent. "Of course, there are other maladies than injury, and many of these require particular spells to set right, which demand a certain threshold of aptitude. So while potent mage and apprentice might both in their own time heal a patient badly wounded, the apprentice would be harder-set to tend a victim of poison or fever."

He nods a little as he listens, sipping at his drink. This whole magic thing still sounds kinda crazy to him, but at least it seems to follow consistent rules that make sense.

There is, however, a term that Shade-Seeker used that catches his attention. "Is magicka another word for magic, or does that mean something else?"

"Magicka refers to the specific, quantifiable amount of magical energy a mage has in reserve. Just as one might exert themselves physically to the limit of their stamina, so too might they exert themselves magically to the limit of their magicka, and with similar remedy."

"A power bank, basically." That's something relatively easy for him to get his head around. A ship's power can be regenerated, but isn't unlimited, especially if you're using it faster than the dilithium crystals can generate it. "You mentioned earlier that everyone in Mundus can use it to a degree." He's still not clear is Mundus is the word for the whole world in which Tamriel exists, or if it's their term for the universe, or something like that, but it hardly matters at the moment. "Do people have a fixed amount of magicka, or is it something you can build up, like working out to bulk up muscle?"

"Everyone in Mundus has the potential, I should say," Shade-Seeker corrects himself, "but most have little and do not choose to exercise it. You surmise correctly, though, that even a small talent may be exercised into something greater. There are tools and potions which can offer temporary assistance in that regard, as well, but those fall more properly in the studies of Alteration and Alchemy, respectively."

Jim smiles a little. Shade-Seeker knows a lot about this stuff, to the point where he reminds Jim of a couple lecturers at the Academy. "This whole magic thing sounds really complicated. Are you a teacher?"

"Complicated only begins to describe it," Shade-Seeker agrees with a chuckle. "Nominally, I am the Archmage of the Mages' Guild in Cyrodiil, but I would be the first to admit that I earned that position in the field, not rising through the academic ranks. Still, I was ever a scholar at heart, and when the invasion ends I may hope to take it up properly."

Jim is starting to think he's going to need a map sooner or later. So many places that he's not familiar with, and no ship's sensors to give him a nice digital view of the layout either. But either way, he raises his eyebrows a little. "Nothing wrong with a field promotion if you're the most qualified for the position. That's how I got my job, too."

A map would probably help.

At Jim's remark, Shade-Seeker tilts his head slightly, lifting a single finger. "Ah, but that qualifier, 'most qualified,' becomes the sticking-point, does it not? Does a relative newcomer, journeyman-at-best of all but alchemy, truly merit elevation above more experienced, skilled, and powerful mages, simply because he fought necromancers when they did not? Was not the old archmage's demise conveniently timed? And were his final words, to me alone, truly what I have reported?" He lowers his finger, tilting his head the other way and admitting, "these are the questions on some of my colleagues' minds, now the shock has begun to fade. I have the position, but now I must earn it."

"Sounds familiar," Jim agrees, a little wryly. His meteoric rise to the captaincy wasn't precisely the same, of course, but there's quite a parallel there anyway. "Was it the promotion itself that shocked 'em, or was it in the middle of a crisis?"

"The middle of a crisis," he answers. "The Guild had outlawed necromancy, and was under attack by a cabal of necromancers. They had killed our people, defiled our important places, and some among our ranks had proved themselves traitors. The Archmage gave his life to place his soul in a gem that would shield my mind from the necromancers' influence, that I might confront them." He bows his head for a moment, out of respect.

Wow, that sounds nuts, and Jim's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. But he feels that maybe now isn't the best time to ask questions about how the shit that works, because Shade-Seeker looks pretty torn up about it, and it's understandable why. "Brave of him," he says instead, with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

"It was," Shade-Seeker agrees, collecting himself. "In the end, my battle with the self-styled 'King of Worms' was... underwhelming. I ask myself whether he, too, was only a minor mage, and had spun a few potent tricks into power and position, or whether he was too much a mage, and when his great spell failed where it had worked before, he had nothing on which to fall back."

"Was it pretty recent?" Jim would assume so, if Shade-Seeker's colleagues have only just recently started asking questions about the legitimacy of his rank.

"A few months," he answers, "during which we have been awash in daedra, so we are still some distance from normalcy--one hopes."

"Good luck with that... it's been a year since my promotion and I'm still having to prove myself all the damn time." It's frustrating, but he's been trying not to let it get to him. After all, he isn't going to slack off if his naysayers ever eased up the pressure.

Of course, once again, he has questions. "I'm not familiar with 'daedra.'"

"Thank you. I do not mind proving myself--I must earn my place in my own eyes, as well, after all. I simply strive to be aware of it. Envy, ego, and poison politics nearly destroyed the Guild once, after all."

Shade-Seeker gives a slight nod at Jim's unfamiliarity. "The word seems uncommon, outside of my own world. The daedra, broadly speaking, are the quasi-divine spirits who did not participate in the creation of the world--opposite the Aedra, who are the gods and their servitors who did."

That... sounds absolutely bizarre. But Jim recalls something that Shade-Seeker said earlier, and tilts his head slightly. "They're the ones invading?" he asks, taking a guess at the clues that've been dropped here and there along the way.

Oh, Jim, you haven't even dipped a toe in the parts of Tamrielic lore you would find weird. You're still imagining their sun is a big ball of burning gas like yours. "They are, yes. The daedra lord of conquest and ruin seeks to annex the world. I count among those who stand opposed."