- Messages
- 182
- Character Biography
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Spellbook under his arm, Alistair groaned as he left his first lecture for the morning. Elemental had been about as interesting as watching grass grow and the Professor had grilled him hard on his aerokinesis. Leaning against the arched doorway of one of the college's many corridors, he yawned, glad to have it over and done with. He was doing all of his assignments and studying every rune, but when it came to casting the spells, he struggled to focus because he was practicing techniques he just wasn't interested in. He couldn't wait until he got his healing degree so he wouldn't have to study elemental magic anymore. At least he had conjuring next, that was something to look forward to.
"That Professor was such an arse," he thought, "I like Professor Sparhawk better," grumbling to himself, he pulled his feet down the corridor.
Blowing a tuft of hair out of his face, Alistair scratched his backside and sighed. The lecture had been long and he had been sitting down for the whole time. He wanted to go for a walk and maybe get something to eat. He wondered if Selina Altas was around.
Mages chattered in the dining hall around the corner, the chirp of birds echoing from the courtyard outside. Wrapping his arms around his spellbook, Alistair walked down the corridor, scaled a small flight of stairs and turned into the dining hall. He could smell stew and freshly baked bread from the cookhouse. After quickly ducking to his dorm, he put his book away and fed his cockroaches. Clutching his robes, he ran down the stairs, waved to a few of his colleagues and turned into another corridor, where the cookhouse was nestled in an archway.
Alistair grabbed a bowl of stew and some bread with butter, then carried them into the dining hall. He hadn't eaten since he had woken up and was starving.
Tray in hand, he stood in the entrance of the dining hall and looked around. Walls of stone curved into archways crowned his head, their wooden beams exposed. A candle sat on every table, bathing the faces of the young mages in a yellow balm.
It was too early for mead, so Alistair grabbed a cup of barley water. Walking between tables, he found one where nobody was sitting and sat down. Placing down his tray, he stirred his stew around and took a gulp, chewed, swallowed and washed it down with some barley water, welcoming the refreshing taste. His robes brushed the floor, the light of the candle reflecting in their rose gold trimmings. He dipped some bread in his soup, ate it, and set it aside, then held out a hand and tried to remember the spell he was being taught in his conjuring unit.
Maybe he could try it out without reading from a spellbook.
Going over the runes in his mind, Alistair looked up to see somebody approaching.
"That Professor was such an arse," he thought, "I like Professor Sparhawk better," grumbling to himself, he pulled his feet down the corridor.
Blowing a tuft of hair out of his face, Alistair scratched his backside and sighed. The lecture had been long and he had been sitting down for the whole time. He wanted to go for a walk and maybe get something to eat. He wondered if Selina Altas was around.
Mages chattered in the dining hall around the corner, the chirp of birds echoing from the courtyard outside. Wrapping his arms around his spellbook, Alistair walked down the corridor, scaled a small flight of stairs and turned into the dining hall. He could smell stew and freshly baked bread from the cookhouse. After quickly ducking to his dorm, he put his book away and fed his cockroaches. Clutching his robes, he ran down the stairs, waved to a few of his colleagues and turned into another corridor, where the cookhouse was nestled in an archway.
Alistair grabbed a bowl of stew and some bread with butter, then carried them into the dining hall. He hadn't eaten since he had woken up and was starving.
Tray in hand, he stood in the entrance of the dining hall and looked around. Walls of stone curved into archways crowned his head, their wooden beams exposed. A candle sat on every table, bathing the faces of the young mages in a yellow balm.
It was too early for mead, so Alistair grabbed a cup of barley water. Walking between tables, he found one where nobody was sitting and sat down. Placing down his tray, he stirred his stew around and took a gulp, chewed, swallowed and washed it down with some barley water, welcoming the refreshing taste. His robes brushed the floor, the light of the candle reflecting in their rose gold trimmings. He dipped some bread in his soup, ate it, and set it aside, then held out a hand and tried to remember the spell he was being taught in his conjuring unit.
Maybe he could try it out without reading from a spellbook.
Going over the runes in his mind, Alistair looked up to see somebody approaching.
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