#irathient | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wispstalk · 3 months

Note

8. rules

prompt from this list paired with a character suggestion from @druidx - this one features Baurus.

Baurus, at times, misses the Imperial City. The bustle of it, mostly, the swirling motion of commerce, the cacophony of the bells and half-a-hundred languages tossed around like cargo at the waterfront, and sometimes even the smell. He expected the hermetic rhythms of life in Cloud Ruler to chafe at him; braced himself for it on the trek north.

He could not predict the extent to which he took the amenities of city life for granted. Namely, the abundance of healers. Cheerful apothecaries with their tailor-made remedies, gentle hands at the temple coaxing wounds to seal.

For such things now they must rely on the Hero of Kvatch. Martin Septim, former priest, is a healer, but he has too important a role to play to be bothered with such trifles. Tanis Irathi is competent, but he is also a tyrant. A fortnight ago, the Grandmaster assembled them all to review reports on the Mythic Dawn’s movements. Baurus might have coughed a few times as Jauffre spoke, only to dislodge an itch in his throat. Afterward, Irathi — pacing the barracks like a captain dressing down his crew on the foredeck — forbade the Blades from catching disease.

He foists upon them bitter preventative tonics and sneers when they grimace at the taste. He sees someone sucking a cut and demands they sit for a healing, all the while relaying tales of rotten battlefield wounds that make even stalwart Captain Steffan go green around the gills. He nudges aside whoever’s on cooking duty to upend a mortar full of foul-tasting roots into a perfectly good soup, to make it more “fortifying.”

Irathi takes a scorched-earth approach with any malady. Baurus must admit it’s effective, and not entirely irrational. The Hero and his apprentice are the only residents of the temple with true freedom of movement — they cannot afford to fall ill, even for a short time. Baurus, too, would like to think that any miasma creeping up the barren mountain slopes would quail before his stern resolve.

—

Baurus is on cooking duty, crisping up fat little brook trout for breakfast. This is not the White-Gold Tower, there are no cooks or scullions here.

The heir pads in and mumbles out a greeting. He looks drawn, the pouches under his eyes darker than usual. He ladles up some tea from the pot boiling over the fire. Muffles a wet racking cough in his sleeve. Spills half the tea in his convulsion, curses. “Please, your Grace, let me.” Martin ignores him, mops up the mess, shuffles out.

He feels like a tattle-tale, but one look at Jauffre’s face tells him that the Grandmaster shares his concern. This cough could be the first sign of ruin to come, like the untimely reddening of the skies before an Oblivion gate bursts up from the soil. The end of the world precipitated by a cold. They are not healers, and thus find it easy to spin every little sneeze into a deadly portent.

And worse, Irathi and Coradri are due back in a week’s time. If he returns to discover the Blades keeping watch over a bedridden man, they will never hear the end of it.

Jena helps him locate Irathi’s cache of elixirs, jumbled at the bottom of a kitchen cupboard. “They’re not labeled,” Baurus says with dismay, examining the murky contents of a glass bottle. When he shakes it, some ominous dark sediment swirls and clings to the glass.

“He only just learned how to write. Look, they’ve all got cords with different knots, maybe that’s the trick.”

Jena is sharp like that, noticing things even her fellow Blades miss. There does seem to be a system to the neat and pleasing sailing knots tied around the neck of each bottle. “We don’t have time to decipher some secret string language. And I’m not drinking out of random bottles to see what’s what. I might poison myself and then what use will I be?”

“He’s a healer. I don’t think he makes poisons, even to sell.”

“What does he always say?” Baurus prompts, and they recite together: “A fine line between medicine and poison.”

—

When the Hero and his apprentice are not around, Baurus takes up the mantle of errand-boy. Bruma is only three miles away as the crow flies, but as the man creeps upon the treacherous ground, it’s a good two hours of hiking. One way. Too far to sprint back if something happens. Tree cover down on the shanks of the mountain, obscuring the view. It makes him uneasy, being outside the range of a useful patrol, but even Jauffre agrees this needs doing.

The apothecary is owned by an old Nord woman, tiny and withered as a winter apple, whose eyes sparkle out of her spectacularly folded face. She grills him on the symptoms as she pulls jars down from her shelves.

Witbane fever cooking the heir’s brains, collywobbles leaving him too feeble to hold his reed pen, fluid settling in his lungs to drown him in his sleep, parasites sapping the strength from his limbs. Death death death. “A wet cough,” he says.

He returns to the temple, armed with sachets and clinking bottles and a list of instructions. The apothecary’s handwriting is tiny and wavering. This happens as one ages; the mind starts to go and the limbs cease to obey and the act of putting words to paper demands a shrinking focus. Uriel’s penmanship was like that. Martin’s, from what Baurus has spied, is a cramped but fluid scrawl.

The heir is in the great hall when Baurus arrives, a blanket around his shoulders, painstakingly throwing kindling in a basket. Baurus rushes to his side. “Please, Your Grace…”

“I’m perfectly capable of building my own fire,” the heir snaps, “and stop calling me that.”

“Of course, but—”

“For gods’ sake, it’s just a cough, I haven’t lost a limb or something. And I’ll be back to the Xarxes in a day or two.”

Baurus is no healer but he knows all the folksy maxims. Starve a fever, feed a cold. Lots of liquid. And lots of rest. For instance, no lugging of heavy loads. No reading of accursed, dream-haunting books. No enduring of icy quarters, because you’re loathe to use up firewood that must be hauled up on the backs of mules, and you cannot reconcile the spendthrift habits of your rural past with your future as an Emperor.

“That’s not—” Baurus splutters. “Martin, just give me the damned basket.”

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. He drops into a hasty bow, words of apology bubbling up in his throat, but the heir only blinks at him in bemusement. “Fine,” he says, and hands it over.

The Emperor’s quarters are indeed frigid, the bed unmade, blankets tossed in fitful sleep. The Xarxes sits unopened on the nightstand and Baurus moves it to the desk, gingerly and discreetly.

He props his blade across his lap to shave tinder from the wood, a base use that would send the swordmaster who trained him into a conniption. Sparks the nest of shavings in the hearth, feeds it sticks, gets it roaring. Hangs a little pot to boil water. The heir, watching this laborious process, threatens to intervene with a simple fire spell. Baurus is no mage but knows the mental strain of casting will only impede rest. He positions himself before the hearth to box Martin out.

The tea steeps. Baurus ladles it out and hands it over and nods at the Martin’s murmured thanks. Then he pulls a stool up by the bedside to supervise recovery. He is captain of the Blades, personally promoted by the previous Emperor. Bodyguard, guard of the body. If duty calls for him to play nursemaid, then nursemaid he will be.

Martin arches an eyebrow. “So this is how it’s going to be, eh?”

“This is how it’s going to be.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Tanis,” Martin gripes, but smiles a private smile behind his cup.

#tes oblivion #martin septim #baurus #ray writes #prompt fill

25 notes · View notes

multiversetravelingjournalist · 7 months

Text

Language Construction Kit and The Art of Language Invention. A personal comparison

First off, this is not an Essay by definition of my high school. This is a rambling thought dump from a man who still feels novice in the craft of artificial languages. that said, I have recently read both Mark Rosenfelder's series to (somewhat) completion and David J. Peterson's book. I will say again that this is a personal opinionated take rather than an objective critique. I also invite both authors and readers to give their opinions as well. That said, let me compare.

The Language Construction Kit (LCK) was the first book I read on the subject of conlanging. at the time I was even more of a Novice so most of the terms flew over my preteen head. but after exposing myself to linguistic material of all types, I can say for certain that it is a good explanation of the technical terms one would stumble across in their research for inspiration. not only that but it being the first in a series of (so far) four other books means overall that there is a lot of ground to cover. those other three being the Advanced Language Construction (ALC), Conlanger's Lexipedia, and Syntax construction. However, it can be inconvenient to need all four books to experience the full range of advice the author has to offer (especially if one relies on Library Loan-outs, like myself).

Personally, I favor the Lexipedia because it is the only Rosenfelder book that my Library owns (for now). showing me the full range of semantics and meanings to make my conlangs' vocabulary unique. a close second would be the Syntax Construction Kit, for the one list that shows all the different ways grammar could be marked on a language. The LCK and ALC are also good for going through the overall basics of ones own conlang. however I have found sources online that cover some of the subjects in the same way. still nice to have around for a check list though.

The Art of Language invention is the second book I have read on the subject. What feels to me like a personal exploration of language creation from a creative view rather than a technical one. also covers things I feel are missed in the Rosenfelder series, one of those subjects being grammatical evolution which personally interests me. the book also goes over some (hopefully not dated) real world references as examples or inspiration. Such as explaining the creation of words from old ones like calling a pizza topping that falls off at the last moment a "DiCaprio". Or how a certain hotel has lead to "-gate" deriving as "a scandal associated with the word". I feel that these references work for approaching unusual features in a language in a way that makes sense. the conclusion at the end is also inspiring for comparing language construction to art, in that art can have many genres. Naturalism being used for paintings and certain conlangs leading to the questions of what a cubist conlang would be like? then asking if a popular piece of media had its own (sets of) conlang(s). I am glossing over most of it.

The biggest strength of the Art of Language construction, though, in my personal opinion, would be that of the four chapters dividing the book, each one ends with an example of the author's own process of approaching said subject from their own works. The phonology of Dothraki, the Vocabulary of Irathient, the Grammar of High Valyrian, and the Writing system of Castithan. reading these sections makes me feel that I too can find a way to approach whatever obstacles arise from my own works.

That is all I have to say, each book has its strengths and weaknesses, but I consider all of them to be useful in the self-education of conlanging. I do recommend them; I also recommend searching through linguistic sources mentioned in the books as further education.

Thanks for reading, and till next time... ;).

#review #mvtjournalist speaks #Conlang #constructed language #books and reading #conlanging #conlangs #books & libraries

17 notes · View notes

autisticslp · 3 months

Text

Alright Defiance folks of Tumblr, I need some help. Every year I do a themed birthday party and next month will be my long awaited Defiance themed party. Right now my only plans are that the cake will say Irisa and Nolan’s one rule in Irathiant, we’ll wear our best space western apparel, and there will be music. Any other ideas for decorations, games, crafts, or whatever?

#I told my spouse I desperately want a letter opener with seeming is being in castithan on it as a birthday present but we’ll see 😆#Defiance is my absolute favorite show #defiance syfy

1 note · View note

erraticrandomficwriter · 11 months

Text

Syfy Defiance Plot Bunny

Species: Irathient/Castithan

OC Name: Alita Nolan

FC: Sofia Boutella

Possible Fic Name: Broken Mirror

Summary: Alita was an orphan when Chris Nolan found her. Her parents were deemed a casualty of the war but in truth they were killed because of their union. Alita's Castithan father wed her mother, an Irathient. These two races did not approve of their union and took matters into their own hands. They would have "dealt with" Alita as well if Nolan and his unit didn't come across them.

Fast forward to present day where Nolan, Alita, and her adoptive sister Irisa end up in a town called Defiance. If they thought their lives were interesting before, they ain't experienced nothing yet.

#Syfy defiance #Alita #Syfy defiance plot bunny

1 note · View note

444names · 2 years

Text

greek islands + hindu deities + french forenames BUT excluding "e" and including "t"

Adityayini Adopoti Agnisti Agousatros Agrapouts Alaiatalki Alatitiko Alitri Alokati Alyntia Amatron Amutha Amuti Amutsos Anati Anfratrick Angatilio Aniatala Anistolos Anistria Antia Antith Antoi Antorgio Antos Antzo Arasti Aristric Armatrick Artakia Artis Arusti Asita Aslatu Astitalo Astouda Astria Asvaratri Atalo Athina Athioth Athoi Athéri Atmos Atrinos Audiatmoni Aumati Aurichriti Aurtia Avatippat Ayapatari Balanoît Baptia Basitaksh Bhamakiti Bhant Bhanta Bhantar Bhasvathnu Bhatrita Bhatros Bhuta Bhuvatu Bratisi Bratmick Brihatia Buddhayuta Béathéo Chatros Chrisianti Chryothas Clémythi Céanti Dammavatos Damélista Dharpat Dhart Dhati Dhuranta Dhurt Dritra Durutal Faddhanti Faditi Farati Faristria Fartha Flokythi Forthri Framanta Franti Frastri Frati Fratiagni Fratra Gannistoi Ganti Gatal Gavithi Gaéta Gaéti Gaétipa Ghanta Ghatisi Gilianti Gisto Githi Glanisti Grabhata Griantinis Grihant Hanthoi Hatiko Hatin Hriant Htrica Hugrishtra Huratri Huvathonti Ikavdomyth Ingathos Iotina Irathi Irrtinatia Issaphath Itamahatra Ithamia Ithéo Ithérisi Itisti Itrathois Jacalamuta Jachamanti Jachastos Jangaéti Japatri Jochritha Josfoti Julictos Justrisi Jyonti Jyoth Jyoti Jyotistri Kalatho Kalauptam Kalithydos Kaloustos Kammati Kamélista Kandithia Kanta Kanti Kantilos Karmati Karuta Kastros Kastypa Kastéph Katha Katin Katrigi Katrisi Khosfoti Kiont Kithandoul Kopaumant Kopoudita Koussanti Kronathadi Kytha Kythi Kythin Kytho Kythugalo Kythuvasa Kythyamos Kytikunar Kytina Kytisi Kytta Laguptali Lavakant Litala Lolicto Loulati Lucathéo Lucatros Ludrita Lynti Magontiago Mahurt Mairapti Maiti Makti Maktin Makyntikas Mangaéti Manikatri Manoît Manpistia Manyaiti Maraktiba Marath Maratrios Markouti Marti Martra Masonta Masopati Matala Matanto Mathar Mathara Mathashis Mathatr Mathia Mathirès Mathos Mathri Mathria Mathéra Matia Matistéph Matranouss Matusa Matzo Mavahati Mavita Mhanarnatu Miliothos Miontzo Mistros Mitalos Molistépha Mookatopon Mouistokli Moutra Murianisti Murti Mutalauli Mutard Muthi Mutikunoi Mutros Myromatr Mytha Mythodi Natho Nathro Natri Natza Oistéphili Othakida Othaël Otiantia Otikoisia Paritra Pasta Pasti Patal Patalani Pathanis Pathanisi Pathila Pathizo Pathoin Pathos Pathéo Patia Patiko Patikori Patipsos Patis Patmic Patos Patra Patrannati Patria Patrina Patro Patrofada Patroma Patza Patzo Paudatros Paxavitros Pidati Piontia Pistéphis Pithanos Pitoki Pitri Plaitronga Pougont Poutsos Pratia Pritorya Pront Psylioti Psythio Puritris Rahutr Rantikon Rantisi Rashtri Raskatis Ratil Ravatric Ravithria Rhivita Ritamman Rochant Régontor Safonisti Samaktikas Sappatinck Sarakitr Sarathrisi Saristri Sartathéo Sarvathi Sathisou Sathri Satimhar Satmil Satri Savantikan Savat Schatrin Shapati Shavithi Shisti Shistoki Shita Shmata Shtritros Sicatzara Simnatros Sitakaroni Sivati Skalynti Skararanti Skarti Skyth Skythizo Soliathoni Sonimonti Sopoustros Sourt Sovati Stala Stiloussa Stinès Stitoras Stittoufos Stoli Strakatri Strakios Stranu Stria Stric Stypa Stéphikas Surastrina Suzafolynt Svatros Sythi Sython Talia Talki Thaki Thakita Thalos Thandha Thanti Thanu Tharasafos Tharja Thasa Thatha Thathodi Thillonira Thilos Thistri Thivichos Thivis Thnar Thoba Thomandram Thoni Thonisi Thravi Thria Thrya Thymilos Théra Théri Thérès Tiamançoi Toutria Trayincléa Trilios Trinni Trinos Trinou Trisi Trisianu Trisic Trith Trizardhi Tsona Tsonos Tvakio Tvali Tvanlos Tvason Ugratithos Umavayuti Ussat Valairrti Vantianti Vastina Vathnu Vathryana Vatmikaël Vatra Vatrictos Vatrinna Vidaswatha Vishavata Vithodouta Vithya Vithyali Vithéli Vititari Vitrava Vitri Winnistria Yanfrati Yanti Yvouthio Zarmant Érictos

#444names #444 names

0 notes

dedalvs · 1 year

Note

G'evening, Sir, I was wondering if you have the full translation of Kalagyi Anaila Kaziri, the song from the Defiance series soundtrack (season 1)? Tried to look it up, but the only note I found was Bear McCreary saying the lyrics contained spoilers, but it's been a few years now...

I believe it's here. As a reminder, you can find all the work I do here. I don't even bother with HTML or CSS: I just dump. It's organized by show, season, type, etc. All the songs I did for Defiance are there.

#conlang #language #Defiance #Irathient #Bear McCreary

15 notes · View notes

flamequil · 6 years

Photo

Gotta start new accounts with the identity stuff.

#overwatch #identity #defiance #irathient #natsume yuujinchou #mar

2 notes · View notes

steampunkpnq · 7 years

Photo

A quick snap of Mr.Parker and myself at #eccc we were only there one day, but it was a Hella awesome day! We got to meet so many awesome peoples and fellow makers! 👍❤🖒#irath #irathient #defiance #alien #syfy #sfxmakeup #pnw #smoothon #silicone #leatherwork #parkersandquinn #cosplaybyquinn

#parkersandquinn #smoothon #defiance #alien #eccc #irathient #syfy #pnw #leatherwork #silicone #cosplaybyquinn #irath #sfxmakeup

8 notes · View notes

wispstalk · 11 months

Text

intermediate conjuration

prompt from the @nirnwrote discord server- 'who are you' from this list

The practice hall is the only pragmatic thing about the Arcane University; its walls are lined with targets and leather dummies instead of bookshelves and enchanted curiosities and splendid Ayleid tapestries. Unornamented flagstone floors with a few cushions scattered around, a shelf of basic restoratives for magical mishaps, and polished metal sconces with runes that will hold a magelight for hours. It feels more like an armory, or the common hall of a barracks. Aside from the gardens, it is the only place in this school where Tanis Irathi feels at home.

He came here thinking to rope one of the other apprentices into a practice duel; what is there to learn from casting fireballs at steel plates? He looks among the throng of chattering students for a likely opponent, until he catches sight of Anaht.

They often see each other in the Archives, but he had forgotten that she teaches from time to time. So this must be a class. She squints at him and waves an elegant enameled claw as if to shoo him away.

"This is a conjuration class," she says flatly.

He smiles and shrugs and pulls up one of the cushions to rest his bones. He’s not going anywhere. Only an hour ago he made his breakneck ride from Skingrad, apparently victorious, although the book he was sent after doesn’t exist.

Raminus was apologetic for the lie. In truth Tanis hadn’t minded all that much: the necromancers had hardly given him a fight and he is accustomed to taking orders. But he will allow the Mages’ Council to think their errands an imposition— so long as they keep showering him with expensive enchanted trinkets in reward for his dedication.

But the Master Mystic had told him he was now free of duties and could return to his studies, and he remembered that he had come here to do just that, so he probably ought to, even though he’s not exactly sure what to study. As Anaht calls her students to attention, he reckons this is as good a place for him as any.

“Welcome to Intermediate,” she says, delicately stressing the word, “Conjuration. Most of you have completed Master Traven’s prerequisite readings but I do not think a little review of the concepts would be out of line.”

He sneers at her; she glides smoothly into her lecture without acknowledging him. A quick scan of the room shows ten other students, all garbed alike, their sashes embroidered with the twin hands that mark the rank of Evoker. He shares their rank, but he won’t be caught dead in the sash or the secondhand robes— they’re itchy and mothball-scented and the cheap blue dye washes him out. His own robes are dark and dramatic, enchanted to augment his magicka reserves and cut in a crisp Altmeri style for ease of movement. Combat, riding, running like hell. The fabric doesn’t bunch around his scabbard and the sleeves aren’t as likely to catch fire.

Some of them throw surreptitious glances to where he lounges in the back of the room, apart from them. Who is this black-clad interloper, those eyes say, this pretender in our vaunted halls? He knows the whispers that trail after him: Raminus’s running dog, they say, he struts about armed like a common soldier, not a serious scholar at all. He lets it roll off. The ranks mean little to him. Better to be a dog on a long chain than spend his days in a crate. Squinting at yellowed pages ’til his eyes turn square.

“Every year,” Anaht is saying, “I get a crop of students with heads full of silly ideas. Many skilled conjurers have befriended their conjurings, you might say. Put those notions aside. You are not skilled and they are only your allies so long as your bindings hold. They despise you for it. First and foremost you must be an iron-willed tyrant.”

One student raises a finger with a look that says she’s dying to argue. Anaht, unmoved, raises a staying hand.

The sound that comes from her gives Tanis a jolt. He jumps to his feet, joints loose and ready to spring. Her smooth deep voice is unlike a dremora’s growl but he recognizes the harsh words of her binding. He knows all too well what’s coming.

A shimmer of light resolves itself into a snarling scamp. A few appreciative oohs sound through the crowd until it hurls itself at Anaht— then stops short, as if choked by an invisible leash.

Tanis realizes he has reached across for the hilt of his sword. He lets it go.

“Iron-willed tyrant,” she repeats. A few nervous titters. The scamp slinks to heel, its shoulders hunched in obeisance and its eyes burning with hatred.

Anaht produces a bundle of scrolls on sheepskin palimpsest — they are economical, those Archivists — and raises them for all to see. “You will all pair off and use these scrolls to summon scamps of your own. Your object is simply to hold them in place with the strength of your combined wills. Do not let them run, do not let them flee back to Oblivion. Maintain your bindings until this magelight” — she casts a fat yellow orb into the air — “burns out.”

She slips among the pairs and passes out her scrolls. “If your focus slips it will try to kill you.” Her bejeweled tail twitches and chimes with a hint of amusement. “So attend closely. None of my students have died yet. Do not embarrass me.”

Tanis is the odd one out. Anaht crosses toward him, her scamp trotting along behind. “I have no scroll prepared for you, since you did not bother to register—”

He says, “You don’t think there are enough of those fucking things running around?”

“I am a conjuration expert. Since Traven took half my curriculum off the table, this is what I have.” She spreads her hands. “Are you only here to tell me what an irresponsible wizard I am for teaching such dangerous arts? During a crisis, no less? Spare me.”

“Those things are easy to kill,” he says with a wave of the hand, then glances at the scamp as if it might have taken offense. “It’s the big bastards I don’t like.”

He pulls aside his collar so she can see the ring of scars around his shoulder, the bite from a daedroth that had picked him up and thrown him into a death roll as if he weighed no more than a rag mop.

“Ah. A defensive approach to education. It is a wonder that Traven has not laid claim to you yet.” She throws a half-glance back at her students to make sure none of them are dying. “Nevertheless, he is the Master Conjurer and writes the prerequisites for conjuration study. I would advise you to read them before coming to my class. As flip as I may sound, it is indeed dangerous.”

He gives a dismissive wave and speaks a binding— or rather coughs it out in that harsh and alien tongue— and a dagger flashes into his hand. Anaht regards him with bright eyes, and he grins. After all the tumult in their long years of friendship, he does still enjoy earning her approval.

“Who are you, Tanis Irathi?” she says softly. "The longer you are here the more I wonder if I ever knew you at all."

The dagger vanishes with a flourish of his wrist. He tells her of the day he spent at the temple, bored out of his wits, conjuring daggers for hours in the courtyard until they came easily to his hand. He was thinking of the Mythic Dawn cultists that hunt him like jackals— how they’re fucked if he disarms them, how they leave themselves open for precious seconds while they draw their weapons from thin air. There had to be some advantage he wasn’t seeing.

He badgered the priest into teaching him. Martin was less than pleased, but all the same, he brought out the Daedric lexicon and told Tanis the way of speaking accursed blades into existence. He leaves the priest out; suspects he oughtn’t burden Anaht with Imperial secrets, oughtn’t shatter the illusion of escape he finds in the University.

“They’re fine weapons,” he concludes. “But I noticed I wasn’t getting the same one every time. I called up one that was everything I want in a knife: perfect balance, slim and sharp, good heft in the hand but light enough to be fast. Next time it was a bit heavier, a bit wider grip. So I spoke the binding again but I added: give me that hairsplitter back.” He conjures the dagger again and gives it a few slashes through the air. “So here she is. Hairsplitter. Every single time.”

Anaht’s nictitating membranes slide over her eyes in irritation at his theatrics, but her tone is pleased. “Yes. That is often a sticking point in Daedric conjuration— you are given whatever Oblivion sees fit to grant you, unless you learn the finer points of the language. Subtle inflections, much like Jel. You and your talent for tongues. Let me draw you up another scroll and—”

“No need.” He speaks the binding, exactly as she had. The words are ash and sulfur in his throat and something in his mind wrenches — he hears Anaht let out a parallel yelp of surprise — and all at once he is doubled over, nauseous and staring at the flagstone, while somehow also looking up at his own face.

“Vaxei kuuda,” Anaht mutters— roughly, cocky son-of-a-bitch. A hand clutches his arm before the vertigo can lay him out on the floor. “Never mind what I said, you have not changed at all. Attend me closely: you are seeing through the scamp’s eyes as well as your own. My scrolls are designed to circumvent that. Experienced conjurers can shut it out with the mental discipline that they learn… from the prerequisite studies. You will have to make do with closing your eyes.”

It helps with the dizziness but only just. His eyelids are squeezed shut but he still sees, from a height of about three feet off the floor, his own swaying form and Anaht’s tail quivering with amusement. “I hate this,” he says.

“This is the least you deserve! You stole my scamp.”

He swallows, forcing his mind into a feat of triple acrobatics: conversation, holding his focus, trying to push out the intrusion of that creature’s awareness into his own. “What?”

“You spoke its true name. Exactly as I did,” she tuts, and says again, “You and your talent for tongues. I’m taking my scamp back.”

Another wrench. The strange double vision clears, resolves to blackness. He keeps his eyes screwed shut and takes slow breaths until the nausea fades and the rawness in his throat ebbs away.

“So you see,” Anaht concludes as he opens his eyes, “there is a point to the prerequisites.”

Saxhleel don’t laugh, not in the way he’s used to, but he knows the body language well enough to understand he’s never going to live this down. The scamp is cowering now, stealing looks between the two of them as it creeps to hide behind Anaht’s skirts.

All the other students are gaping at him, their own scamps banished back from whence they came. Save for one pair who is determinedly holding their binding in place, perhaps in hope their instructor will offer a scrap of praise for their relentless focus.

“The prerequisites. Xhu-xhu, deelith,” he mutters, and straightens his sweat-soaked robes.

“You won't weasel your way out of proper study with flattery,” she hisses. “You will come to private lessons on the second floor practice room, Middas evenings, at sundown.”

She claps him, a little too hard, on the shoulder, and turns to her students with a bright and cheerful posture. “Meet the newest member of your conjuration cohort. I do believe we have a savant on our hands, who is well-accustomed to the danger of the art, so you should all know my standards will raise accordingly.”

A few groans at this. The practicing pair of students both turn to shoot him scrutinizing glares, and the light between their hands wavers, and the scamp breaks free of its bonds. Screams erupt as it rampages through the practice room, chittering and flexing its claws after the fleeing mages, hurling fireballs that catch on their stupid dagged sleeves.

"Oh, put that away," Anaht says, and swats Tanis with her tail. "This is a conjuration class."

Tanis, throwing an exasperated look into Anaht’s smug one, sheathes his iron sword and calls up a dagger.

#some self indulgent magic headcanon stuff #tes oblivion #arcane university #hero of kvatch #oc: anaht #oc: tanis #ray writes

32 notes · View notes