Post by Marto Copperkettle on Oct 24, 2021 5:24:56 GMT
Marto’s cornflower blue eyes light up. “Are you serious? I mean, you’re sure you can teach me?”
“I have never tried teaching magic before, only music. But we are kin. Perhaps you will pick it up as quickly as I. We’ll never know unless we try, right?”
Marto grins. He shifts so his knees are bent and his legs are folded underneath his body. “I will be a good student, I promise!”
“Then here is your first lesson, one you must remember: A word once given cannot be broken.”
“But that’s not related to magic,” Marto says, brow furrowing.
“Ah, but what are words but one of the core foundations of magic? If you are willing to throw your words about without thought your magic will be careless too,” Merla says, raising an eyebrow.
Marto thinks about that. He was eager to learn, but did he really know what he was asking of his long, lost sister?
For years he has wondered if working at the lumberyard would be all he would do. When he was old enough, and to ensure Marto didn’t become a burden upon their parents, Burton had put an axe in his hands and told him idle hands are a devil’s tools. But though he had learned all he could about running a lumber yard – and had felled more than his fair share of trees in his life – Marto did not feel it was his calling. So though his hands were busy, his mind would wander to other things.
It started out with stories about the fey. When your older sister goes missing what would one do except try to find out everything you can about the one thing your parents tell you to not go looking into? Then it evolved to finding out more about the Planes and what sorts of magic the great wizards in the cities of Faerûn could do. Marto had never dared to try magic on his own. If Burton found out there would have been no end to the amount of trouble he would be in.
Which was why, now, after being reunited with, or rather meeting Merla for the first time mere days ago, the two Copperkettle children were gathering in secret. Merla was clever, could read people like a scholar could a dissertation, and so she did not have to be told that if their family found out what he really wanted, they might put a stop to what has barely begun.
“I think I understand what you mean,” he replies. “But I have read that not every spell requires words. Some are cast merely through symbols or materials, right? And what about an arcane focus? You surely have one.” He looks around her stately rooms in the Four Fair Winds. “Your harp, I presume? What should mine be? I’m not great with a guitar, but I don’t see myself performing in front of crowds of people.”
Merla smiles and he flushes, realising his words carried him away in his excitement.
“First we should see what, if any, innate magic you can do! Let us start with something simple.” Merla takes out a piece of copper wire and hands it to him. “Now hide your mouth, like so, and, whilst holding that wire, point to me and try to whisper a message, whilst drawing this somatic shape on your leg.” She demonstrates a complicated arrow symbol.
“On my leg? Why there?” Marto asks.
“Because it will be easier to begin with writing – or drawing if you’d prefer to think of it that way – the symbol on a part of your body where your hands normally rest, rather than trying to trace the symbol in the air when you’re not familiar with the pattern.” Marto raises an eyebrow at his sister. She holds up her hands. “Trust me, I’ve seen even the fey mess up this simple spell to the detriment of the caster as well as the receiver. I don’t want Mama and Papa finding out you’ve gone def for a day.”
Marto’s eyebrows shoot up disbelief. He was really out of his depth if that was the case. Should he even be trying to learn magic? Maybe it would be better if-
No. He wanted to do this. Marto has been wanting to learn magic since the first story he heard about the fey when he snuck into the tavern of the village. He was much like his sister in that way, though he didn’t know it until he met her. Marto was curious about the unknown – and the more he was told not to do something, the more likely he would want to do it.
“Trace on my leg. Got it.”
He begins to practice tracing the somatic shape on this leg over and over until the movements become second nature to him – like the helf and swing of the axe in his hands when he is in the forest, felling trees.
Up. Diagonal. Back. Up. Down. Around. Down. Up. Diagonal. Back. Up. Down. Around. Down. Up. Diagonal. Back. Up. Down. Around. Down. Up. Diagonal. Back-
Marto was no longer in his sister’s plush rooms in Daring Heights. Instead, he finds himself in a thick forest full of pine, fir, larch, poplar, and spruce trees. The tall behemoths creak and moan as if they are speaking to one another as Marto feels his heart quicken, sensing something or someone watching him, waiting to see what he will do next.
His attention falls to the tree trunk in front of him. It is hacked to pieces recklessly, a dark, sickly sap oozing from it’s centre with pine needles littering the floor at his feet. Marto stumbles back, suddenly scared, knowing this tree all too well.
It is the last tree of the forest that had been by his hometown. The same forest that had stolen his sister away.
“No. I-... You- It can’t be-”
The tree groans. Branches snap. A presence begins barrelling down upon him from above. The fear and an unsurprising amount of regret scrabble up to clutch at Marto’s throat as he tries to move his feet but they are tangled in roots. The other trees around him – all from that forest he and his family felled in the name of their lost sister – cry out in remembered agony. Marto, still clutching his lumberjack’s axe in his hands, hefts it up, strong arms bunching and coiling in a familiar and practiced move, when every muscle in his body suddenly freezes.
“Are you so sure he can… Look at him, frightened as… chased by a pack of…”
“…you expect of mortals? Not all are…”
“…doomed to repeat…”
“I would not… sister defied Fate herself… the same bloodline.”
“…Realm of Fey now.”
“Which is why…”
“…be sure?”
“No, we can never… powerful. All that potential…”
“He listens…”
Marto’s vision suddenly goes white.
Images flash across his mind. A forest, vast and more ancient than the one that Merla walked into. A celestial being with wings like trees descending down from the heavens. A darkness seeping through the cracks in the fabric of a reality that is and yet is not familiar. His sister, singing as she rides on the back of Astra into battle against shadows, her blade and song a beacon of brilliant light. A peaceful clearing with a small stream winding through it, surrounded by the lushest of green, dappled gold light everywhere. A cold, biting wind that saps the very air from his lungs as he struggles to keep his shield up. More and more. Visions of things that were; of countless battles; of musicians singing and folk dancing; of mothers crying and friends laughing; on and on and on the images dash across Marto’s eyes until he no longer knows what is past, present or future.
Until he collapses to his knees on the forest floor.
The world has gone still. Nothing moves. Nothing speaks. The only thing Marto hears is his ragged breathing and his pounding heart.
Then he feels a hand placed on his shoulder. A warmth begins to spread down through his body, slowly stopping the uncontrollable shivering that has overtaken him. As this familiar comfort reaches the tips of his toes, Marto begins to cry with relief.
A voice, strong yet comforting, speaks directly into his mind.
“Your journey has only just begun, young one. The forest needs your help.”
Marto knows the one who speaks to him is someone important yet his mind cannot make the connection as to who it could be. Instead, he tries to focus on finding his voice.
“I am a lumberjack. This forest is the very one I cut down. How can I protect it when it no longer is?”
Soft, golden-red hair brushes the side of his face as the figure leans in closer to him.
“All forests are connected. Look, child, do you not see?”
And he does begin to see. Marto did not know how he missed it before, but the tree he kneels before is not the same as the one he cut down four years ago.
So then why does the tree look like it is dying?
“Help the forest. Protect it. Before it is too late.”
Marto frowns, still not convinced he is the right person to be protecting a forest. He starts to turn towards the person – the female – speaking to him when an unexpected and intense wave of lethargy makes his vision go blurry. He is falling, falling, falling…
With a jolt Marto wakes up, gasping.
His covers are tangled around his legs, bare chest and brow covered in sweat, and he feels an ache in his arms as if he’s been in the forest all day, swinging his axe. Blinking, he looks around and recognises the strange yet wonderful rooms his sister gave him whilst he has been staying in her new Court. The sun is already rising above the horizon – a more common occurrence now that it is autumn on the Material Plane – but even though he has seen it a dozen times before, Marto knows it will be no less wonderful to witness than the first time.
But the dream won’t leave his mind. It’s not the first time he’s had it. But it is the first time he has heard others speaking. Who were they? Why was that one woman so familiar to him?
Realising sleep is no longer possible, Marto swings his legs out from his tangled sheets and stands up into a full body stretch that has his spine popping in all the right places. He rolls his shoulders, tilts his head to one side, then the other, and goes over to the alcove where a small fountain serves as both fresh drinking water and sink, to splash some cooling water over his face.
“It’s a bit early,” he muses to himself aloud, turning towards the wide open windows to watch the sunrise. “But I could always get a head start on my studies.”
“I have never tried teaching magic before, only music. But we are kin. Perhaps you will pick it up as quickly as I. We’ll never know unless we try, right?”
Marto grins. He shifts so his knees are bent and his legs are folded underneath his body. “I will be a good student, I promise!”
“Then here is your first lesson, one you must remember: A word once given cannot be broken.”
“But that’s not related to magic,” Marto says, brow furrowing.
“Ah, but what are words but one of the core foundations of magic? If you are willing to throw your words about without thought your magic will be careless too,” Merla says, raising an eyebrow.
Marto thinks about that. He was eager to learn, but did he really know what he was asking of his long, lost sister?
For years he has wondered if working at the lumberyard would be all he would do. When he was old enough, and to ensure Marto didn’t become a burden upon their parents, Burton had put an axe in his hands and told him idle hands are a devil’s tools. But though he had learned all he could about running a lumber yard – and had felled more than his fair share of trees in his life – Marto did not feel it was his calling. So though his hands were busy, his mind would wander to other things.
It started out with stories about the fey. When your older sister goes missing what would one do except try to find out everything you can about the one thing your parents tell you to not go looking into? Then it evolved to finding out more about the Planes and what sorts of magic the great wizards in the cities of Faerûn could do. Marto had never dared to try magic on his own. If Burton found out there would have been no end to the amount of trouble he would be in.
Which was why, now, after being reunited with, or rather meeting Merla for the first time mere days ago, the two Copperkettle children were gathering in secret. Merla was clever, could read people like a scholar could a dissertation, and so she did not have to be told that if their family found out what he really wanted, they might put a stop to what has barely begun.
“I think I understand what you mean,” he replies. “But I have read that not every spell requires words. Some are cast merely through symbols or materials, right? And what about an arcane focus? You surely have one.” He looks around her stately rooms in the Four Fair Winds. “Your harp, I presume? What should mine be? I’m not great with a guitar, but I don’t see myself performing in front of crowds of people.”
Merla smiles and he flushes, realising his words carried him away in his excitement.
“First we should see what, if any, innate magic you can do! Let us start with something simple.” Merla takes out a piece of copper wire and hands it to him. “Now hide your mouth, like so, and, whilst holding that wire, point to me and try to whisper a message, whilst drawing this somatic shape on your leg.” She demonstrates a complicated arrow symbol.
“On my leg? Why there?” Marto asks.
“Because it will be easier to begin with writing – or drawing if you’d prefer to think of it that way – the symbol on a part of your body where your hands normally rest, rather than trying to trace the symbol in the air when you’re not familiar with the pattern.” Marto raises an eyebrow at his sister. She holds up her hands. “Trust me, I’ve seen even the fey mess up this simple spell to the detriment of the caster as well as the receiver. I don’t want Mama and Papa finding out you’ve gone def for a day.”
Marto’s eyebrows shoot up disbelief. He was really out of his depth if that was the case. Should he even be trying to learn magic? Maybe it would be better if-
No. He wanted to do this. Marto has been wanting to learn magic since the first story he heard about the fey when he snuck into the tavern of the village. He was much like his sister in that way, though he didn’t know it until he met her. Marto was curious about the unknown – and the more he was told not to do something, the more likely he would want to do it.
“Trace on my leg. Got it.”
He begins to practice tracing the somatic shape on this leg over and over until the movements become second nature to him – like the helf and swing of the axe in his hands when he is in the forest, felling trees.
Up. Diagonal. Back. Up. Down. Around. Down. Up. Diagonal. Back. Up. Down. Around. Down. Up. Diagonal. Back. Up. Down. Around. Down. Up. Diagonal. Back-
Marto was no longer in his sister’s plush rooms in Daring Heights. Instead, he finds himself in a thick forest full of pine, fir, larch, poplar, and spruce trees. The tall behemoths creak and moan as if they are speaking to one another as Marto feels his heart quicken, sensing something or someone watching him, waiting to see what he will do next.
His attention falls to the tree trunk in front of him. It is hacked to pieces recklessly, a dark, sickly sap oozing from it’s centre with pine needles littering the floor at his feet. Marto stumbles back, suddenly scared, knowing this tree all too well.
It is the last tree of the forest that had been by his hometown. The same forest that had stolen his sister away.
“No. I-... You- It can’t be-”
The tree groans. Branches snap. A presence begins barrelling down upon him from above. The fear and an unsurprising amount of regret scrabble up to clutch at Marto’s throat as he tries to move his feet but they are tangled in roots. The other trees around him – all from that forest he and his family felled in the name of their lost sister – cry out in remembered agony. Marto, still clutching his lumberjack’s axe in his hands, hefts it up, strong arms bunching and coiling in a familiar and practiced move, when every muscle in his body suddenly freezes.
“Are you so sure he can… Look at him, frightened as… chased by a pack of…”
“…you expect of mortals? Not all are…”
“…doomed to repeat…”
“I would not… sister defied Fate herself… the same bloodline.”
“…Realm of Fey now.”
“Which is why…”
“…be sure?”
“No, we can never… powerful. All that potential…”
“He listens…”
Marto’s vision suddenly goes white.
Images flash across his mind. A forest, vast and more ancient than the one that Merla walked into. A celestial being with wings like trees descending down from the heavens. A darkness seeping through the cracks in the fabric of a reality that is and yet is not familiar. His sister, singing as she rides on the back of Astra into battle against shadows, her blade and song a beacon of brilliant light. A peaceful clearing with a small stream winding through it, surrounded by the lushest of green, dappled gold light everywhere. A cold, biting wind that saps the very air from his lungs as he struggles to keep his shield up. More and more. Visions of things that were; of countless battles; of musicians singing and folk dancing; of mothers crying and friends laughing; on and on and on the images dash across Marto’s eyes until he no longer knows what is past, present or future.
Until he collapses to his knees on the forest floor.
The world has gone still. Nothing moves. Nothing speaks. The only thing Marto hears is his ragged breathing and his pounding heart.
Then he feels a hand placed on his shoulder. A warmth begins to spread down through his body, slowly stopping the uncontrollable shivering that has overtaken him. As this familiar comfort reaches the tips of his toes, Marto begins to cry with relief.
A voice, strong yet comforting, speaks directly into his mind.
“Your journey has only just begun, young one. The forest needs your help.”
Marto knows the one who speaks to him is someone important yet his mind cannot make the connection as to who it could be. Instead, he tries to focus on finding his voice.
“I am a lumberjack. This forest is the very one I cut down. How can I protect it when it no longer is?”
Soft, golden-red hair brushes the side of his face as the figure leans in closer to him.
“All forests are connected. Look, child, do you not see?”
And he does begin to see. Marto did not know how he missed it before, but the tree he kneels before is not the same as the one he cut down four years ago.
So then why does the tree look like it is dying?
“Help the forest. Protect it. Before it is too late.”
Marto frowns, still not convinced he is the right person to be protecting a forest. He starts to turn towards the person – the female – speaking to him when an unexpected and intense wave of lethargy makes his vision go blurry. He is falling, falling, falling…
With a jolt Marto wakes up, gasping.
His covers are tangled around his legs, bare chest and brow covered in sweat, and he feels an ache in his arms as if he’s been in the forest all day, swinging his axe. Blinking, he looks around and recognises the strange yet wonderful rooms his sister gave him whilst he has been staying in her new Court. The sun is already rising above the horizon – a more common occurrence now that it is autumn on the Material Plane – but even though he has seen it a dozen times before, Marto knows it will be no less wonderful to witness than the first time.
But the dream won’t leave his mind. It’s not the first time he’s had it. But it is the first time he has heard others speaking. Who were they? Why was that one woman so familiar to him?
Realising sleep is no longer possible, Marto swings his legs out from his tangled sheets and stands up into a full body stretch that has his spine popping in all the right places. He rolls his shoulders, tilts his head to one side, then the other, and goes over to the alcove where a small fountain serves as both fresh drinking water and sink, to splash some cooling water over his face.
“It’s a bit early,” he muses to himself aloud, turning towards the wide open windows to watch the sunrise. “But I could always get a head start on my studies.”
