Word vomit, day two, bonus round
Nov. 2nd, 2011 12:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notafirewithinHis 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.
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.