- Messages
- 101
- Character Biography
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Four months had passed since Dal had been given the opportunity to prove himself as a Squire. Four months with a regular routine of physical exercise which bordered on the masochistic. Masochism which was enabled to further heights by proximity to those who could heal and bolster his body's recovery times to the ardours he placed unto himself. While Dal had always been one to aspire to a strict regimen, this unique monastery in this corner of the world allowed him the diet, the manpower, the equipment, and the respite from his mercenary contracts to perform, so he might reach new heights of achievement and conditioning. He had the hunger for success. And yet, his appetite to become great was denied satiation.
Time was running out before he was finally judged worthy. If he might swear oath. Or remain as he was, squire. And there was a deep refusal, even at the first mention of that fate, of remaining a simple squire in Dal's mind. And to Dal, he thought that without the ability to summon magic as the others did so readily, he would be a liability. Someone to be pitied. As if he were someone to simply hand arrows to archers instead of drawing back his crossbow in turn and releasing volley when commanded.
Magic. That unknowable mystic ability to change what was possible. This was what Dal failed to enact in the world. And it was driving him to points of exasperations. It drove him onto greater heights of physical endurance and strength, his pursuits in exercise becoming more challenging as he encountered failure after failure to conjure a single damn thing.
The training was intense and successful where his arcane ability failed to ignite within him.
It was not merely muscle which became stronger and more adept, for he paid good mind to lift the heaviest thing that could possibly be hefted, but his mind became more learned for his application towards the scholarly. Yet, such pursuits, while they broadened his mind on the ideas of magic, were not enough to imbue him with the ability to draw upon that wellspring that seemed to Dal to come so easily to others.
He applied himself with serious and dour mindset, adopting the same traditions which had guided him to being a consummate professional as a mercenary. No smoking. No gambling. No distractions. It was like old times in many ways, but only he was far less alone. Which in itself was a help and hindrance. Some might call him rigid. But, he called himself committed. And so it went.
Another encounter within the library, the source of the knowledge that was being granted freely, yet denied by his own inability to calling forth what was required.
“I'm telling you Parshen, none of these books are working,” Dal had said, his mantra to the librarian. And once again, he was handed another collection of books with a frustrating calm.
“Try these,” Parshen said.
Books which Dal proceeded to read studiously while pumping iron and chewing on roasted chicken. Hungry bites with eyes that didn't look at the meat, only the written word, re-reading sentences over and over until committed to memory. He often took to cooking meat while reading, and eating meat while reading, and going for long walks with weights upon his shoulders while reading. The body was being tested as much as his patience. He was pursuing anything to give him the edge on an all too blunted weapon. In between reps he recited what he had learned. All rote memory. No triggering of the arcane within his blood.
His mind was slowly understanding concepts like laylines, arcane winds, various theories on mana, yet, for all his rote ability to recite these training manuals, no spark of power was granted to him. No flicker of the life magic that would set him able to perform in those moments of crisis. No hint of any other element at his fingertips.
Always the fear of being a liability amongst such a proficient group of warriors did lurk within his mind. The elation of physical training kept him confident in his skill in violence, kept himself with some semblance of composure. But the gnawing of doubt and the building of exasperation was growing pressure within him. With blade, he knew his own worth. With his frame he knew that he could best many, and receive a beating and continue for another try to those who were swifter than he with blade. But always he had to rely on others to bolster his bruises towards natural hue, he always had turn to others, in his mind, like a wounded puppy, to attend his injuries. To say, no, I can't, when he wished he could render the arcane his weapon. His armour. The perceived humiliation was growing day by day as he became more exasperated with his own mind.
And it grew to a head.
A slammed fist within the library and upon the reading desk, a rising to his full stature and a tirade followed from the usually composed Dal.
“Why isn't there a...a something to drink, some food to eat, and then, it appears! The power. The power to summon...any fucking thing! Instead of being so damn useless in this field. I have read, what, fourty, fifty fucking books on the subject and do I get a single cantrip, a single gesture which fucking works? No. Just, try these books Dal. None of it helps me grasp this! Give me a tree to lumber, give me a weight to carry, a trial and then congratulations, you've got it! Instead of this. This wall I can't climb. I can't deal with this. I'm going for a walk. A long one. Useless! Absolutely, and completely, without merit this entire time of reading this magic stuff when nothing helps and I'm just a warrior who can't-”
He breathed. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at the impression he had made on the wood. He placed fingers across them and huffed.
Parshen was approaching to tend both the desk and Dal.
Dal made swift exit to avoid whatever Parshen had to say and inadvertently slammed the door in his departure, so incensed he was at his own frustration, leaving a mountain of books and a damaged desk in his wake. He proceeded to walk silently, his face a scowl, not making eye contact with those who he might encounter, when usually there might be a simple nod of respect. Clouded by his own frustration, he was absorbed by his own failure and gritted his teeth at his own inability. His own failure in his eyes.
Time was running out before he was finally judged worthy. If he might swear oath. Or remain as he was, squire. And there was a deep refusal, even at the first mention of that fate, of remaining a simple squire in Dal's mind. And to Dal, he thought that without the ability to summon magic as the others did so readily, he would be a liability. Someone to be pitied. As if he were someone to simply hand arrows to archers instead of drawing back his crossbow in turn and releasing volley when commanded.
Magic. That unknowable mystic ability to change what was possible. This was what Dal failed to enact in the world. And it was driving him to points of exasperations. It drove him onto greater heights of physical endurance and strength, his pursuits in exercise becoming more challenging as he encountered failure after failure to conjure a single damn thing.
The training was intense and successful where his arcane ability failed to ignite within him.
It was not merely muscle which became stronger and more adept, for he paid good mind to lift the heaviest thing that could possibly be hefted, but his mind became more learned for his application towards the scholarly. Yet, such pursuits, while they broadened his mind on the ideas of magic, were not enough to imbue him with the ability to draw upon that wellspring that seemed to Dal to come so easily to others.
He applied himself with serious and dour mindset, adopting the same traditions which had guided him to being a consummate professional as a mercenary. No smoking. No gambling. No distractions. It was like old times in many ways, but only he was far less alone. Which in itself was a help and hindrance. Some might call him rigid. But, he called himself committed. And so it went.
Another encounter within the library, the source of the knowledge that was being granted freely, yet denied by his own inability to calling forth what was required.
“I'm telling you Parshen, none of these books are working,” Dal had said, his mantra to the librarian. And once again, he was handed another collection of books with a frustrating calm.
“Try these,” Parshen said.
Books which Dal proceeded to read studiously while pumping iron and chewing on roasted chicken. Hungry bites with eyes that didn't look at the meat, only the written word, re-reading sentences over and over until committed to memory. He often took to cooking meat while reading, and eating meat while reading, and going for long walks with weights upon his shoulders while reading. The body was being tested as much as his patience. He was pursuing anything to give him the edge on an all too blunted weapon. In between reps he recited what he had learned. All rote memory. No triggering of the arcane within his blood.
His mind was slowly understanding concepts like laylines, arcane winds, various theories on mana, yet, for all his rote ability to recite these training manuals, no spark of power was granted to him. No flicker of the life magic that would set him able to perform in those moments of crisis. No hint of any other element at his fingertips.
Always the fear of being a liability amongst such a proficient group of warriors did lurk within his mind. The elation of physical training kept him confident in his skill in violence, kept himself with some semblance of composure. But the gnawing of doubt and the building of exasperation was growing pressure within him. With blade, he knew his own worth. With his frame he knew that he could best many, and receive a beating and continue for another try to those who were swifter than he with blade. But always he had to rely on others to bolster his bruises towards natural hue, he always had turn to others, in his mind, like a wounded puppy, to attend his injuries. To say, no, I can't, when he wished he could render the arcane his weapon. His armour. The perceived humiliation was growing day by day as he became more exasperated with his own mind.
And it grew to a head.
A slammed fist within the library and upon the reading desk, a rising to his full stature and a tirade followed from the usually composed Dal.
“Why isn't there a...a something to drink, some food to eat, and then, it appears! The power. The power to summon...any fucking thing! Instead of being so damn useless in this field. I have read, what, fourty, fifty fucking books on the subject and do I get a single cantrip, a single gesture which fucking works? No. Just, try these books Dal. None of it helps me grasp this! Give me a tree to lumber, give me a weight to carry, a trial and then congratulations, you've got it! Instead of this. This wall I can't climb. I can't deal with this. I'm going for a walk. A long one. Useless! Absolutely, and completely, without merit this entire time of reading this magic stuff when nothing helps and I'm just a warrior who can't-”
He breathed. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at the impression he had made on the wood. He placed fingers across them and huffed.
Parshen was approaching to tend both the desk and Dal.
Dal made swift exit to avoid whatever Parshen had to say and inadvertently slammed the door in his departure, so incensed he was at his own frustration, leaving a mountain of books and a damaged desk in his wake. He proceeded to walk silently, his face a scowl, not making eye contact with those who he might encounter, when usually there might be a simple nod of respect. Clouded by his own frustration, he was absorbed by his own failure and gritted his teeth at his own inability. His own failure in his eyes.