Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School (117/?)

Grand Concourse of Learning. Betreyan’s Hall. Local Time: 1155 Hours.

Professor Vanavan

Music blared behind the hall’s heavy-set doors, marking the end to a class that felt as if it had barely even begun.

So sudden was this passage in time, that I could even attribute its anomalous pace to the involvement of chronomancy.

The involvement of which… wouldn’t have been so out of place, given the weeks’ preceding events. 

My eyes turned to the source of the past week’s blights.

The purveyor of crisis upon crisis.

The very reason why this morning’s class had felt so… brisk.

The Blue Knight.

It was her lack of involvement in today’s class that had restored a sense of equilibrium and balance, a state of normalcy to the morning’s lecture.

And it was likewise her incessant involvement that had brought about a week of veritable chaos, and the scrutiny of both forces and interests outside of our control.

A silent war waged in the crossroads of academia and noble intrigue was well underway.

A war, which while ostensibly started by the earthrealmer, was one which she was not privy to.

As the battles were fought not with steel nor fists, but with words and ink.

A battle which I would continue to fight. If only to fulfil my oaths and promises, to a being I had both successfully managed to analyze yet woefully failed to predict.

My eyes quickly glanced down at the unfinished letter sitting beneath the pile of homework, a nearly-finished rebuttal to the Inner Guard Captain Anoyaruous Frital, as she continued to push forth for an investigation which was soon to proceed into its next phase.

A phase which would necessitate the involvement of an indisposed party.

A party which was now in the process of—

TOO-TOO-TOOOOT!

CLINK-CLINK-CLINK!

=====

Grand Concourse of Learning. Betreyan’s Hall. Local Time: 1200 Hours.

Qiv

“Class is dismissed! You may all be excused for lunch in the grand dining hall.” The professor spoke softly, or at least, that’s what it always felt like when the man was up against anything marginally louder than a stray whisper. 

I silenced those thoughts as quickly as they arose however.

As in spite of my… personal reservations on the man’s character, this did not detract from his place within the de-facto hierarchy, and his natural position as a Crownlands-born elf.

Authority and rank. Title and birthright. Both inalienable aspects of the greater game which one simply could not ignore, not even for a character as weak as his own.

As character alone hardly spoke much for an individual’s capacity if Ping and Booker were of any indication.

The former of which now stood up promptly, corralling his own cohort, as I did my own, as we slowly filed out of the hall.

Though irrelevant to the growing games of Academy intrigue, I couldn’t help but to focus on the newrealmer’s… strangeness on this day.

A strangeness which began the moment I laid my eyes upon her homework, and one which continued on throughout the course of the morning’s lecture.

I could however attribute the latter to the newrealmer’s gradual attunement to the social decorum of Nexian academia. As even beings with the thickest of skulls had the capacity to learn and adapt, if only to survive within hostile new environments.

Though it was the former that had truly lodged itself within the back of my mind.

And not for any real concern over the content nor quality of her homework. 

No. 

Instead… my concerns lay with the medium through which they were delivered.

Her words.

Or more specifically, her handwriting.

And her apparent mastery over Nexian calligraphy. 

Utilizing high script, sans abbreviations, sans simplistic reduction, with not one apparent use of shorthand even when it was socially appropriate.

When combined with her newrealmer status, and the purposeful lack of meaningful time to prepare what would otherwise take the most gifted of scribes decades to master — her few pages of homework served not as a passing oddity, but a window into a baffling mystery.

The simplest solution to this debacle — that she merely used a bespoke enchanted pen — was preposterous.

As even ignoring the apparent ‘shielding’ of mana granted by her armor — thus relinquishing any and all ability to interact with enchanted items — there was still the matter of intent behind her script.

Yes, each and every letter was perfect.

But the fact that each and every letter, of each and every word was written in highscript? With all of the flourishes and serifs that came with it?

This… was near obsessive degrees of penmanship.

Which could only imply that she had either been specifically trained, or held some form of impregnable iron-willed discipline. The likes of which were only comparable to the zealous intensity of Ping’s piety. 

But perhaps I was merely overthinking things.

Perhaps this was simply just a question of practiced skill.

Perhaps there really wasn’t anything more to ponder.

But when one factors in the newrealmer’s proclivities for the eccentric… it became merely another aspect of her being to be wary of.

As… whatever it was that lay beneath that armor, was a dormant threat lying in waiting.

A sleeping dragon whose capacity for the impossible was only rivalled by their discipline.

Even if that discipline seemed lacking in much of their social interactions.

“Lord Ratom?” A voice suddenly brought me out of my reverie, a soft, high-pitched, purposefully inoffensive voice.

“Yes, Lord Rostarion?” I replied politely.

“Are you feeling well?”

“Why yes, I was merely…” I paused, my eyes locking onto the newrealmer’s sudden jolt in the midst of her stride, as if she was suddenly taken over by a ghost or a spirit. “... pondering a few matters.” 

The small furry mage shot a look towards the ragtag group in question, his eyes leveling if only for a moment, relaying the true thoughts behind that inoffensive facade.

“They are no threat to us, Lord Ratom. I can guarantee you this.” He stated in no uncertain terms beneath a veil of secrecy.

“Practically? Yes. They seem to be learning their place. Refusing to compete in the accumulation of points even when they very well could. However, it is not the matter of practical competition which concerns me.” 

This answer brought about the raised brow ridges of Airit and Uven, the latter of which seemed to have woken through their perpetual daze if only for this subject matter.

“It is the… unpredictable and enigmatic nature of their newrealmer compatriot that I am most concerned with.” I stated in no uncertain terms.

“A weakfielder who works primarily with parlor tricks.” Airit responded with a dismissive chuff. “Believe me, Lord Qiv, even the enigmatic have their limits. We have already witnessed this during the House Choosing Ceremony, where the newrealmer barely even participated when she had the chance to; a tell-tale sign that she is capable of nothing else. In short, I believe this newrealmer is no different from those overly-ambitious candidates that have come before her. For despite all of her bluster, she is nothing more than a fire that burns bright, but just as with any bright flame, there will come a point where it snuffs itself out.”

“I suppose so.” I acknowledged with a nod, not willingly dismissing the fiery response of the Shatorealmer just yet.

“I know so.” She followed up with a sly grin, her eyes locking not on the newrealmer, but on her tainted partner. “The only class which the newrealmer excels in — physical education — will soon be her downfall. For the first of the specialized gauntlet shall start, and depending on the professor’s inclinations, it may very well begin with the gauntlet of flight. Her brutish inclinations may have served her well for the duration of the introductory challenges. But when it comes to the gauntlets which hedge on these natural latent gifts, we shall soon witness the beginnings of her burnout. This shall leave only the tainted avinor as my only meaningful challenge. And I will be more than happy to disprove her so-called ‘greater’ status.” 

There was a venom to Airit’s voice that I rarely observed, which prompted me to both clear my throat, and deliver her a stern glare. 

“I understand the temptation, Lady Airus. Emotions, most notably those stemming from undue scorn, elicited by an even greater unearned slight, are powerful motivators which can overpower even the most disciplined of minds.” I began, eliciting a narrowing of the shatorealmer’s eyes. “But I cannot in my good conscience allow emotion and emotion alone to govern your actions.” 

“So you would shield the avinor from my earned vengeance?”

“I would shield us from the repercussions of pursuing a course motivated entirely by emotion and bias.” I countered. “Do not forget, Lady Airus, that this rivalry between your kind and the avinor is but a Nexian ruse. The colloquialism that is Lesser Avinor, was one given to you by a third party. It is, and has never been, one willingly endorsed by the Avinor proper.” There was a pause, as I allowed Rostario to followup this explanation, reinforcing my claims with fellowship and numbers.

“It is an unfortunate slight which purveys all diplomatic endeavors, but it is one that should be ignored, Lady Airus.” The inoffensive rodent surmised. “Allow the tainted one to make her own blunders. For no amount of learn-ed decorum, nor self-restraint, will prevent her taint from becoming the crux of her eventual downfall.” 

“Lord Rularia’s group… is a house of cards.” Uven finally chimed in. “A tainted bomb on a short fuse, an eccentric newrealmer with more fire than she has fuel to maintain it, a mercenary prince who struggles in polite society, and a petite minister whose ambitions have far outstripped his capabilities; Nexian as they may be.”

“Lord Rularia has truly miscalculated his goals at Transgracia. But I cannot blame him. For his calculations were based on what had previously been an assured investment — the personal approach to overlordship of a newrealm. It just so happens however, that this newrealmer candidate has proven to be anything but typical of the norm for newrealms.” I shrugged. “But I digress, the man will become but a casualty of his own ambitions. Though if we play our hand correctly, we may still be able to salvage something of a bond, if only with the Nexian wishing to flee his sinking vessel.” 

I shifted my path following that speech, turning back towards the classroom. “Ensure our table is prepared for lunch. I need to have a word with Professor Vanavan.”

=====

The Grand Dining Hall. Local Time: 1205 Hours.

Thacea

The sudden jolt and shuddering of armor amidst a purposeful stride… was both peculiar and gravely concerning.

However, I garnered no more from Emma’s visage as to this sudden… misstep from her opaque lenses and featureless face.

It was only after we’d sat down that I focused my attention towards her, but only after the application of a privacy screen and the arrival of our meals. 

“Emma, are you feeling alright?”

=====

The Grand Dining Hall. Local Time: 1205 Hours.

Emma

Shift up, shift down, right arm, left arm, turn, then sync, aaaand sharp left, and—

“FUCK!” I ‘fell’ down into an infinite chasm, or at least, I felt like I did. As I found myself waking up in the worst ways possible — through one of those ‘sudden fall’ dream sequences that always came out of left field no matter what dream you found yourself in. 

I had barely enough time to recover from that before I thrust into a mini-nightmare in waking reality though, as I felt both arms and legs, and my whole body moving autonomously against my otherwise groggy will.

However, unlike that… body-snatcher nightmare sequence with the null, this automatic movement lurched to a slow and gradual halt the moment the EVI detected Operator Mechanical Resistence, or OMR.

The gradual return of bodily autonomy, and the transfer of motor privileges, occurred over the course of seconds, as the EVI tried its best to follow the meticulously-programmed motor function transferral processes. 

Practically speaking, this meant that each and every movement felt sluggish at first, a preventive measure against operator error; preventing an operator from simply falling face-first into the dirt upon rousing from unconsciousness.

This was because you had to really fight against the armor to regain control. With every movement of every joint feeling as if they were caked in a thick layer of oobleck, instead of the industry-grade variable-resistance-lubricant they were always swimming in. 

In short, it felt like I was being forced through one of those in-armor exercise programs where artificial resistance was added to mimic weight training.

All of this was to say: it felt really weird.

Especially since all of this was happening just as I was thrust into the world of the waking.

In the middle of a walk.

But thankfully, I was trained for this.

“Your controls.”

“My controls.” 

Despite it being something that was very much not recommended in typical operations, this in-field bootup sequence was something that the LREF’s Rangers pioneered as part of their tactical training regimen.

Complete malarkey. Was what Aunty Ran usually called it.

But then again, that was the TSEC marine in her talking.

Interbranch rivalry always did end up boiling down to pointing out the weirder aspects of each branch’s unique ‘tactics’. 

It was the easiest thing to joke about after all.

Makes sense why the long-range pleasure-cruise forces decided on it. What do you think they do for their Long Patrols other than sleep? Of course they’d be the ones to pioneer sleeping in armor! 

“Emma?” Thacea finally spoke, pulling me out of my daze as I found that I’d auto-piloted onto our usual table for lunch. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, yeah! Don’t worry, I’m just a bit tired from last night.” I managed out through an awkward chuckle, as I instinctively moved to rub my eyes.

Only to once again bonk my armored hands against the metal of my faceplate.

It was small moments like these that made things really frustrating.

Because while haptic feedback was available on every part of my body covered by the undersuit, this left the face and eyes tantalizingly out of range.

Just don’t even think about having an itchy nose. I sighed inwardly.

With the group’s concerns satiated, and with everyone now talking amongst themselves, I soon focused instead on the more pertinent task at hand — catching up on class.

“EVI, give me the SparkleNotes version of Magic Theory class please.” 

“Acknowledged. INTSUM (Intel Summary) is as follows… 1. There exist 29 distinct forms of mana.”

“Yeah, that fits in line with what we know.” I noted, grabbing a nutripaste tube in the process. “Except for the mystery ‘plus one’ type that we need to get to the bottom of. Continue?”

“2. Each form of mana corresponds to an elemental form of magic. ‘Elemental’ is disambiguated as ‘fundamental’, and not limited to the classical elements of wind, fire, earth, and water.”

“Ah. Classic Vanavan — semantics upon semantics.”

“3. The origin of all elemental mana is pure mana, henceforth designated as ‘Type 1’, also referred to by VANAVAN as ‘Primavalic Energies’.” 

This finally caught my attention as I began adjusting myself within the core of the armor.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have slept in this morning’s class after all. Keep going.”

“4. Type 1 mana is derived entirely from the primavale. Purportedly — the Nexus’ unique disc-like shape is conducive to the natural flow and cycling of primavalic energies.”

I… had no response to that, as I watched as an annotated version of the Nexus’ supposed shape — a flat disc — was shown to me on the HUD.

“5. All mana, but primarily Type 1 mana, emerges through the ‘bottom’ of the Nexus, through its geological layers, and through discrete openings known as manawells.”

The conspiracy-theory-grade diagram continued, showing what looked to be something superficially analogous to the geomagnetic field lines of planets… except this was more fountain-like than anything, as this mysterious primavalic energy flowed up and through the Nexus’ flat disc, and out through distinct points encircling the center of the disc. 

“6. Each ‘manawell’, owing to its location and nature, has a natural inclination toward one distinct form of mana. As primavalic energies have a tendency to take on elemental form as they travel through the Nexus’ geological layers.”

An example of this was quickly shown on screen, as Vanavan quickly drew the same fiery volcanic realm we saw in the souvenir shop, denoting it as an infernium realm positioned at the edges of the crownlands that was formed as a result of its rich abundance of type 2 mana.

“7. There are at least 28 major manawells within the Nexus, all of which are positioned around the crownlands. Each with a specific inclination towards one of the 28 forms of elemental mana. Though each manawell still exudes an equivalent degree of type 1 mana.”

“Right…” I acknowledged warily, wrapping my mouth around the oral induction port as I slowly chewed on the semi-solid babyfood.

“8. In contrast to this, adjacent realms derive their primavalic energies through the tears naturally present in their skies, thus limiting them to a less refined and less reliable source of mana.” 

My eyes narrowed at this, as I shot a gaze towards Thalmin, remembering what he had to say about his realm’s local cosmology, and their beliefs on the skies.

“9. Vanavan notes that the first of the elemental energies being that of flame, correlates with the rise of some of the first naturally inclined beasts — the dragons. Future classes will cover each specific form of mana as classes progress.”

…

I simply remained silent as my eyes went up and down those points, realizing that the class had gone from 0 to 100 real quick, especially when considering how introductory the last class was.

Beyond the class itself though, its contents seemed to have just reaffirmed Ilunor’s outrageous claims. 

Hearing it from the Vunerian was one thing, but hearing it from Vanavan of all people somehow hammered home the reality of the situation.

That the Nexus, at least from the perspective of their own narrative, was in fact a literal discworld in a bottle.

A bottle that seemed to contain an endless source of magical energy.

I… had to take a moment to process all of that.

As I ate in silence, once more leaving the armor to auto-pilot as I wiggled about inside of it, or as much as I could anyways.

“So… I’m assuming you actually sense the mana coming from your skies?” I finally blurted out, my question aimed towards both Thacea and Thalmin, who both looked to each other curiously, before turning towards me with a raise of their brows.

“If you are referring to the seepage of pure mana into our realms, then yes, Emma.” Thalmin admitted. “We can actually visualize it in a way, though it’s… difficult to describe considering how you can’t—”

“It’s fine, I just wanted to quickly double check Vanavan’s claims.” I justified, shifting my gaze once again back towards the man’s insane illustrations.

What the hell is going on? I thought to myself, before once again being brought back down to earth by the arrival of the elven waiter.

“Ah, thank you.” Thacea acknowledged, reaching for one of the glasses awkwardly positioned on his serving tray. 

“Allow me.” I interjected, reaching for one of the glasses in an attempt to play the chivalrous knight… just as another student nearly crossed paths with my swing-around. 

[A74 LORD TELEOS LOPHIME]

The red-scaled fish man glared at me for that perceived slight, his two golden pupils glowing softly in the afternoon sun.

“Sorry about that—”

“I request that you pay more attention to your surroundings. Your bumbling actions very nearly resulted in me being soaked.” The man hmphed aggressively, but in a way that felt more akin to one of Thalmin’s growls, rather than one of Ilunor’s squealing hisses.

“Again, sorry.” I managed out meekly, just as the man turned to leave towards his table of three.

“Still not enough sleep, earthrealmer?” Ilunor shot back dismissively.

“No, no. I’m just… still trying to process what the heck the Nexus is all about.”

=====

The Grand Dining Hall. Local Time: 1245 Hours.

Teleos

“This newrealmer is a frustrating beast.” I began, my hands drumming up against the white tablecloth of the dining table.

“And yet you seem to halt my attempts at serving her the proper justice she so deserves—”

“I am halting you from dragging our peer group through unnecessary conflicts, Ilphius.” I shot back coldly, causing the serpentine female to recoil.

“You will address me by my titles for you have yet to have earned the right to—”

“Lady Seleat, please.” Etholin managed out through a tired breath. “Teleos is correct. We cannot and should not blame the earthrealmer’s successes for our own failures. We simply were not able to accrue the necessary points in order to achieve third-house status.”

“We put in our all.” Ilphius hissed. “So much so that it drained Daltor of his energies.” 

“And yet we failed.” I acknowledged wiith a shrug.

This… garnered yet another glare of ire from the snake.

“How can you be so calm about—” She paused, as a crooked smile formed across her visage. “I see. I see it now. It is less about your Academic position as it is your… vague goals for your time here at the Academy, isn’t it?” She hissed playfully, before turning to the Rantolisrealmer. “And you. It is more about earning business partners than it is about learning anything fruitful.” She tutted. “Perhaps I truly am the fool here then. A fool… for wishing to do well in school.”

=====

Grand Concourse of Learning. Betreyan’s Hall. Local Time: 1645 Hours.

Qiv

The majority of class was once more marked by rather elementary topics meant to raise those of lesser adjacencies to the standards of those with learn-ed intent.

The demonstration of both pure mana and its conversion to its infernium form, as well as several back and forths between myself and the brutish Ping, resulted in the destruction of several drapes which the professor seemed to acknowledge as being an unspoken rite of passage.

Auris… earned more for his bullish nature.

A fact that both baffled and infuriated me, especially as that mindless beast shot me a dismissive  glare.

Our back and forths had increased following the conclusion of the House Choosing Ceremonies, as the announcement for Class Sovereign rapidly approached.

Though without the black-robed professor, only his eternal majesty knows exactly when this would take place.

Once again, another frustrating development from an ever aberrant year.

However, my efforts quickly shifted as Professor Vanavan now approached the assignment of this week’s homework.

As this would prove to be the only and most viable point for me to address that growing itch at the back of my mind.

“Professor, if I may?” 

“Yes, Lord Ratom?”

Our prior conversations during lunch had preempted this exchange.

So I needn’t say much to prompt him for this next act.

“I wish to propose a point of contention, towards the apparent… abberencies present in Cadet Emma Booker’s homework.”

This brought about a few murmurs, as the professor nodded warily, grabbing hold of the papers in question.

Papers… which themselves were quite distinct from the fine silken reliefs found on Nexian standard documents.

“Cadet Emma Booker, would you mind addressing this?” 

The professor clearly kept the point of contention vague, so as to keep the newrealmer on the backfoot.

“It’s… my assignment, professor?” She responded, clearly agitated, confused, and very dearly underprepared for this assault. “Is there a problem with it or—”

“Merely an observation with regards to the medium by which your answers were delivered.” The elf continued, once again causing the newrealmer growing confusion, if that animalistic cocking of her head was of any indication.

I could only wonder what manner of creature lay underneath that armor; that material overcompensation for civilized decorum.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Professor.” The newrealmer acquiesced. 

Music to my ears.

“It is with regards to your peculiar use of High Nexian, Cadet Emma Booker. For there is… an anomalously high degree of calligraphic skill on display within these pages.”

“Erm, thank you?” 

“It is as much a compliment as it is a question of the authenticity behind its authorship. Now, I do not doubt the content within, as any could simply reference texts from the school’s library to do so. No, I wish to simply confirm the legitimacy of its authorship, by requesting that you write today’s assignment up on the board in the same High-Script as you have done on these pages.”

I expected a moment of hesitation to appear on the newrealmer’s response.

But there was none to be had.

Instead, she simply stood up, requested that she approach the front, and promptly arrived next to the professor.

From there, she was handed an enchanted pen.

Which she promptly declined.

This… elicited a series of gasps from the class, as she now took to the blackboard’s ladder, and began relaying the professor’s words into written form verbatim.

It was then… that I saw an artist’s hand at work.

As each and every stroke of her five-fingered hands, and each and every twist of her wrists, were nothing short of perfect.

So much so that not a single discrepancy seemed to exist between each pen-stroke, even as the multi-pronged serifs and infamously complicated characters were requested at the behest of the professor.

In fact, she went so far as to approach the dreaded five-headed dragon that was Filch, in such a way that I’d hazard to even tackle myself.

Moreover, this perfection wasn’t merely an act of prolonged perfectionism.

No.

It was being done… at the pace of the professor’s speech.

…

“And that is all for this week’s assignments.” The professor spoke proudly, but managed to blink in confusion as the newrealmer actually transcribed those words onto the blackboard.

“You needn’t have added that, Cadet Emma Booker.” 

“Oh, sorry. I can start over if you’d like—”

“Nono! This is… quite alright. I appreciate your enthusiasm and your academic integrity. Moreover, I wish to express that it was never in doubt. Merely that I wished to see your calligraphy in action.” The professor continued, garnering a silent nod from the newrealmer as she left the front of the class.

Just in time for the band to enter through those heavy-set doors.

As if to serenade the earthrealmer’s small victory, inflating it to something far larger than it should have been.