dead heroes

As a magical laboratory, the room was filled with all sorts of components, alchemy sets, and ingredients. Cabinets of glassware and books lined the walls and several desks faced the podium about where she stood. When Aloys' gaze finally settled on her, he could not help but gape, eyes flicking about every detail of her countenance and fashion. She did not look like the Orlesian paintings of her - darker skin, darker hair, darker eyes, like she were sculpted from the very mud of the earth. He felt suddenly jolted by the egotism of homeland. Of course she would look like Arlathan. Like squirrel cradle and bear hole. The Elven homeland, carved out of nature instead of built over it, had taken quite some getting used to for the city boy. Particularly, the mud. It got into everything.

Aloys took her command as an invitation to step closer, half because he trusted her to dampen whatever misfired spell he conjured, but also, to get a closer look. She was ancient, like Elgar'nan, but he'd seen so few of the Elvehen to truly know their look. He stole little, furtive looks at the slant of her eyes and the thickness of her eyelashes, as he ambled closer.

His right hand - his good hand - lifted palm up.

If you wish, he began, but please, be prepared, he grimaced. An embarrassed redness seeped into his cheeks as he concentrated on the magic within him. He closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He would try to make a mote of fire, the classic orb of light used to light the dark pathways. He reached inside where something stirred within him, a well of sorts, with water that moved and shifted as he reached for it. He drew it close, feeling its cold, slimey wetness gather in his palm. Whenever he touched his magic, it felt wrong, like touching a snake or eating purple flowers felt wrong. He stuffed the fear away because she wanted to see - his brows furrowed nonetheless - and, then, he snapped the fingers of his right hand to summon his intention.

Pain seared his skin as green sparks zipped about every which way, like an explosion of toxic glitter. He stepped back, but they fizzled out as soon as they appeared. A pinching, hot sensation lingered where each on had hit his skin, and welts began to form. He looked at her, shock and fear pulling at his eyes. It had never failed this terribly before. Would he be deemed hopeless? Told to stuff it away and never practice again? He hid his freshly injured other hand in his pocket.

Oui... yes, this happens. Is it all right? he managed with a quiver in his voice, now looking at the ground.