Fireside Fluff #5: Lessons, Lectures, and Limits

What is Fireside Fluff?

Fireside Fluff is a recurring segment in which your humble author presents an original work of fiction set in the Kings of War universe. Each segment contains one chapter in the ongoing story. So pull up a chair, fill your mug with some heady Dwarven ale, and settle in for a tale quite unlike any you’ve heard before…

First time readers, welcome! Please start the story at the beginning:

Lessons, Lectures, and Limits

Over the next few weeks, Freya settled into a comfortable, if taxing, routine. With the excitement of the ordeal behind them, life at the Convent of the Word returned to normal. Days were spent completing the various mundane chores required to keep the convent in order. The sisters rotated through the tasks according to a rigorous schedule set by the Abbess. Cleaning and dusting each of the buildings, washing laundry by the lake, tending the garden in the courtyard, working the farm, preparing meals, gathering food from the forest, patrolling the grounds, and, on occasion, assisting Marion herself on a special task, were but some of the duties assigned to the sisters.

Work was broken up by meals, training sessions in the morning and afternoon, evening sermons from the Abbess, and scattered moments of leisure time throughout the day. Sunday was reserved as a day of quiet reflection and provided the only true respite from the otherwise demanding schedule. The convent didn’t require a strict curfew because most nights the sisters were overcome by exhaustion and keen to turn in early.

For Freya, however, sleep had to wait. Each night, as her sisters drifted off, Freya slipped quietly out of bed and ventured into the woods. Lessons with Drustan ranged from thirty minutes to several hours, and the erratic sleeping pattern was taking a toll on her body. Freya tried to sneak naps when she could, but even so, her limbs were growing heavier, her mind cloudier, and her demeanor more irritable by the day. Adding to her frustration were the lessons themselves. Three weeks in and Drustan had yet to teach her any magic. Instead, she was bombarded by lectures in ancient lore.

Drustan droned on and on about the nature of the Celestians, the Shining Ones, the Wicked Ones, and the Green Lady. He delved deep into the history of the land and the eternal struggle to maintain the balance between the forces of order and the forces of evil. This was the Druids’ sacred mission, of course, one that Freya would soon take up as her own. What’s more, his discourses followed a twisting, indirect path. He interjected his stories with philosophical questions at odd moments, demanding immediate responses and not giving Freya any inclination as to whether he approved or disapproved of her answers.

Needless to say, it was a trying exercise. After three weeks, Freya seemed to be approaching her limit. She sat on the ground and struggled to keep her eyes open as Drustan swayed back and forth, expounding upon the Time of Ice.

“As the land was coated in a hard frost, Winter extended her chill grasp and tipped the scales in favor of evil. The three noble peoples, weakened though they may be, were confronted with a profound question. How does one find light in the darkness?” Drustan paused expectantly.

Freya, meanwhile, had succumbed to the soft patch of moonlight on the forest floor. She was slumped over and snoring gently.

“Harumph!” Drustan exclaimed, his wooden body shaking with annoyance. “And here I was thinking you had respect for your elders. Awake, child, while the night is yet young!”

He pounded his staff on the ground several times and Freya jolted awake. She brushed hair out of her eyes and mumbled a half-hearted apology. “Forgive me, Drustan. It won’t happen again.”

“I should certainly think not! There is much to learn before entering the sacred order of the Druids, and we are woefully pressed for time. We know not when the Lady will call upon your service.” Drustan’s words held the tone of a mild rebuke, but they only served to heighten Freya’s aggravation.

“And how, exactly, can I be of any service to the Lady if you haven’t taught me magic?” Freya demanded. “I am exhausted, Drustan. I know that you mean well, and I am sure your teachings on ancient lore are all very important, but I just thought… well… I just thought you’d be teaching me more.”

“Hmmmmm…” Drustan replied, putting a hand to his chin and receding into his thoughts. In the moment, she instantly regretted speaking so brazenly.  Freya shifted nervously about, hoping she hadn’t offended the ancient creature.

Drustan broke the silence with a long sigh, shaking his head. “No, no. My child, you did not offend me.”  Drustan reflected for a moment. “Your point is salient, and we shall commence your instruction in the magical arts forthwith. Does this appease you?”

Freya nodded emphatically.

“Magic is the essence of nature, the life-force suffused in the elements all around us. Places such as this forest, unmarred by the so-called advances of civilization, are practically thrumming with magic. Those with the gift can access that power, and channel it into spellcraft. Observe.” Drustan lifted his staff above his head with both hands, holding it parallel to the ground and spinning it counterclockwise in a slow circle. He gave Freya a mischievous wink, then brought the staff swiftly down, pointing the tip at her midsection.

Freya let out a gasp as a torrent of air struck her with enough force to send her stumbling backward several feet. Her heel caught a gnarled root and she landed unceremoniously on the forest floor. Her pride was a bit wounded, but she was otherwise no worse for the wear.

Drustan let out a chortle of amusement while Freya recovered. “I’ve never heard you laugh before,” she observed sourly.

“And I’ve never seen you fall on your posterior before,” he retorted with a grin. “That,” he continued, “was a simple wind blast. In its weakest form, I should say. Well suited for foolish pranks, but little else. Imbue it with enough power, however, and you can create a proper gale.”

“And how did you do it?” Freya asked.

“An excellent question. You see, all magic is divided into four elements. Each of these elements, in turn, are linked to different emotions. Nature allows you to wield her elements, but an offering must be made. Air is connected to joy, such as the humor shared between close friends, or the wonder that comes from gazing upon the stars. Water is connected to love, not the fickle desires of the heart but the bone-deep kinships we share with those we hold closest. Earth is connected to determination, such as the honor that comes from holding true to a promise, or the sense of duty a mother feels in protecting her child. And fire is connected to passion, be it from the pursuit of art or the righteous fury one feels when encountering something that clashes profoundly with their moral compass.”

Freya mulled this over. “So, the bigger the offering, the more powerful the spell?”

“Oho! You are a quick study indeed,” Drustan remarked. “The offering is a release of built-up emotion, worked into the spell itself. When properly channeled, emotions can transform into potent forces of creation or destruction.”

“Are Druids consigned to being emotionless and cold, then?” Freya inquired. “The Abbess always tells us that emotions are a weakness that needs to be mitigated.”

“On the contrary!” Drustan assured her. “An ignorant observer might conclude that wizards are devoid of strong feelings because they remain impassive in all circumstances. But, they are masters of emotion, capable of containing their reactions. This creates a pool of potential energy to be worked into spells. It gets used up and replenished over time. They must experience the full range of emotions on a regular basis in order to be able to cast spells.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Freya admitted.

Drustan waved an impatient hand in the air. “Think of it this way. Every time you experience something funny, you can either laugh or restrain your laughter. By restraining it, you store up emotion that can be transformed into an air spell. The more you have stored up, the stronger a spell you can cast.”

“But, you can’t just bottle up all of your emotions. Isn’t there some sort of breaking point?” Freya countered.

Drustan inclined his head. “Each of us has our limit. Holding in too much emotion can cause you to go insane. Literally. It happens every now and then to aspiring wizards. As with all things, there must be a balance. Wisdom comes with age, making it easier to control your emotional responses and expanding the amount which can be stored. Thus, the older the wizard, the more dangerous he or she becomes. You would do well to remember that.”

Freya thought back on the ordeal when she had cast magic to help her defeat the Abbess. She was feeling intensely determined to succeed and had unintentionally wrought a minor earth spell. She remembered the streak of blood on the grass and the way it seemed to pulse with an odd light. “Drustan, can blood be an offering?”

The old forest warden seemed apprehensive. “Ah… yes. Blood sacrifice can be used to enhance the effects of a spell. But, it is dangerous. Something to be used in only the direst of circumstances. Come, I have an assignment for you.”

He beckoned for Freya to follow and led her away from the clearing towards a dense section of underbrush. “Do you see this sapling, over here?” He pointed to a young oak tree, green and slender, with few leaves, that rose maybe ten inches from the ground. Freya nodded. “Store up your determination over the next few days. Return here, shape it into a spell, and use the offering to animate the sapling.”

Freya’s eyes gleamed. “Consider it done. But, Drustan, how do I, you know, actually cast a spell?”

“Complete this task and I shall teach you,” he answered opaquely.

Without another word, Freya set her jaw and turned back toward the convent, walking with confident, purposeful strides.