(no subject)

A mad thing, a sad thing, that a boy, a child really, of a mere ten or eleven years can be made into a threat to a man full grown. Pure and simple insanity, and yet the basic truth. And Ioann had hardly any idea of it at all. None really, with that idiotic idealism of his homeland, carefully cultivated by and continued within the rest of the family. What a pity. Aleksandr does so hope that he won’t have to kill his young cousin. That would be such a waste of potential, a blow to Breliven indeed. But it simply will not do to have him here. No, not at all, not one bit. Ioann must go, and quickly. The only question, in the astringent last part, is going to be a question of how?

Word Vomit, day two

In the lands of Glence, family linage is determined through the mother’s line. What a strange and foreign way of thought, to the nobles of the wizard-lands, that someone would trust a thing as important as blood heritage to the meager bonds of the marriage bed.  The wizards have only a passing interest in the institution to begin with, a particularly formal alliance between members of a royal house, but with none of the religious clout that more primitive lands adhere to. Nor such a silly thing as bed room morality.
 
Heritage is simple, if not self evident by the manifestations of one’s blood. A mother can know what lies with in her womb, a father can be fooled. Sometimes, mothers are tricked as well, but those are rarer, and so the standard rule applies among the high families. And should a wife violate the marriage contract, that is her prerogative, for a contract can be violated by either side, and each must deal with the repercussions of their own indulgences, if they have the power to get away with such acts. The child, however, will always be hers. The man should feel grateful to be included into a noble lineage, that the blood of his blood will mingle in the deep magics and pass on to future generations of rulers.
 
There is no shame in being borne out of wedlock, no tragedy or insult, though the husband would do well to be slighted at his exclusion from the blood pool and the father greatly honored that a wizard would chose to carry his seed to term and claim it as her own. After all, among the wizards of Glence, there is no such thing as an accidental birth. No, rather, among the highest borne, reproduction is a careful hobby, a dedicated plan, not to ensure for one’s self or one’s child a throne, but to promise it to one’s grand son or great grand daughter.  It takes time and patience and careful lobbying and courting. And love, oh love, has nothing to do with any of it.
 
Ioann had the virtue of being born with his mother on the correct side of the equation, giving him a direct link to the linage of Larodan, and his magic proof enough of his Breliven heritage. Fyador, the grand-nephew of Pyotr, the High wizard of Beliven, had been wed with all due formality, and some affection, for all that mattered, to Polina, who was the daughter of Isabella, a cousin to the High wizard of Loradon, and thus of fine royal blood. Through their alliance, and the blood that runs warm in his veins, Ioann was born to bear the burden of blood from two royal lines.
 
Ioann, and his infant brother Mikhail,  are the reslt of careful planning and breeding by the patriarch of the family. But Pyotr had made his will well known, several years before, when the young boy’s invitation to court was declined in favor of furthering his healing training. The life mage is pegged for the future role of Master Healer, which would deny him, once in place, from ever being in contention for the Heirship. What little Aleksandr had seen of that happy nine year old had filled him with familial pride. Would that things had stayed the same.
 
Politics shift quickly, even for those as long lived as the Brelivens, and Vanya, the decrepit old fool, longed for home more each passing day. Stepping down from the Heirship should have left the field open for Aleksandr, who had been raised at court in constant preparation for his place as Vanya’s due replacement. Who else from Breliven knew the place so well, had the proper conections, how could they dare to imagine that this mere slip of an untried boy, not yet even possessing a cloak, could ever be better suited. Does not the royal blood of two great houses flow through Aleksandr’s veins as well as Ioanns?
 
Aleksandr was not so luckily breed, for while his father s well known to be of Haitor, such a parentage was completed without the binding contract of a marriage alliance that would compel his father’s family to accept him as a member of their own. He is but one step in a grand plan, so that he might possess, and pass on, the blood of his father and the firey magic of his father’s blood. In the subtle ploys of the court, his mother was highly lauded for her clever tactic, but for a boy grown into a man, he was a part of a politic system from which he could barely hope to suffer any gain.
 
And yet, he had such hopes, for he learned from his mother to be shrewd and from the court to look out only for himself. Raised far from his homeland, he was free from the careful education that ensures the loyalty of the blood line. He has been exposed to the intrigue and court dramas, the plotting and planning and ploys, and the dark underside of the shimmering court, with all its eyes lurking for a mis-step and a sudden opportunity.
 
Beneath it all, in the place where he does not wish to look within his deepest heart, Aleksandr shies away from the profound truth that threatens his careful façade of indifference and desire for power. Should they ask, should they call for him, he would pack up and go home, tail between his legs, and scowl on his face. But his heart would rejoice. For, as all can attest, Aleksandr is a proper Breliven, and they are bound to their land by more than ingrained loyalty or family feeling. It calls to him, calls to his blood across all the distance and all the years. He might have been born at court and visited his homeland but a handful of time, but his soul can not forget that profound and earth sustaining feeling of rightness that filled him to the brim and over flowing when he set foot across the invisible line that casts Breliven apart from the rest of Glence.
 
He can almost justify his plotting as a favor to the naïve boy that they had dared to send as an interruption to his goals. Ioann doesn’t have to die, no, to be sent back in shame would be enough. He merely needs to be removed. Good and gone. Miserable and homesick, Ioann was unprepared for life at court, and Aleksandr feels no true compulsion to help him. Better to let him fail, or succeed and find the place to horrible to bear. Let him merely get his cloak and be gone. No Healer has ever won the high throne of Glence. No healer would ever want such a bloody and ruthless thing.

Word vomit, day two, bonus round

His new bedroom felt very…. Odd. Ill fitted. A lush bed, laden with blankets and quilts, all of the finest quality, lacking the draping curtain common to Breliven beds that could be pulled to keep out drafts of cold air on a winter’s night. The University-Court had no need of such measures to ensure that each persons room remained comfortable. There was magic enough for all of that. Like wise, the thin carpet on the floor was there for appearances, for glory, for a demonstration of wealth and sophistication, not to keep bared feet from freezing on a stone floor some early morning. There was row upon row of books and scrolls, and a desk that will soon be his sole domain. Ioann drifted over to investigate the desk, letting his new servant follow him into the room, to deliver his bags and begin organizing his wardrobe and supplies. The unfamiliar presence of a servant was both comforting and discomforting, for Ioann longed for the abundant company of home, but wanted a peer, not a minion.

Turning his attention to the desk, the boy lightly touched the collection of feather quills, and let his hand move over to a glass one, sharp as a needle, and a metal one after it, and then a bone one, each just as sharp as the first. A dozen different inks shimmered in their glass jars, though the largest was a simple black. The drawer revealed an abundance of both parchment and paper, as well as cloth and hides and fine sheets of wood and metal. This desk was made for students, what ever kind they might be, though he noticed there were more inks in shades of green than any other. He would have to familiarize himself with his new supplies and equipment, and then personalize, so that everything will be where he can reach. No one else ought ever to be handling this desk, nor anything it contains, unless give explicit permission. Not even the servants, he was given to understand, would dare to lay a hand upon his work without his personal consent. They wouldn’t dare. Not that he was all that threatening.

But they weren’t afraid of him, not really. Just a student, hardly a threat. They are afraid of who he will become and what he represents. He is one of the very few faces of Breliven, and so granted special privilege and power in the court of Glence. He is a wizard, and one of the higher ones, claiming royal blood on both sides of his lineage. And soon, in the way that years are reckoned among those who strive toward immortality and eternal youth, he will be among the powerful elite by worthy of his own blooded power. Who would dare to be the incompetent and disgraceful twit that interfered with the work of such as he might become? He might wreck vengeance, though that seems a most distant thought to Ioann, or they might ruin some careful spell that might have become a cure to a serious malady. Healers have a kind of honor, even among the wizards, for all they are unprone to throwing fireballs or lightening strikes.

And of course, one should never underestimate the possibility of bobby-traps. Poisons can be very unpleasant. And healers can be very…. Discrete.