999999/The Master's Instruction

The Master's Instruction
Date of Scene:	30 October 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Loros instructs Sir Bedivere in the fundamentals of magic.
Cast of Characters:	303, 346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The invitation had been simple enough. It hadn't been surprising, for the Wizard had cautioned his newest pupil to be ready. Although Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí couldn't say how he should make ready, the violet-eyed knight had nonetheless spent some time before the hearth-fire, staring into the flames and seeking that famous calm of his. Arturia would have sensed his unrest no matter how he tried to hide it.

It was with an offering of tea, spices, and even incense that Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí had descended the hill. Owing to the clear but bitingly cold weather, he'd dressed in his warmest commoner's clothing and wrapped in his mended cloak of office; holes and ragged tears meticulously stitched up. He bore no sword.

He'd been silent, for there wasn't anything he'd needed to say to his companion. It was rare that they'd needed words, anyway.

Now, in the changing light of the evening, he stands before Loros' tent, regarding its rich fabric somewhat speculatively. It seems unlikely that fabric so fine would hold up against the wind and weather, but hold up it has – it's still here.

And so, with a nervous look at his companion, he waits.

Saber (346) has posed:
The knight's unrest was quietly matched in his king, the deceptively petite woman at his side. She was the entire reason for the endeavour he was to undertake, and that knowledge added to her sense of uneasiness. Yet, the Servant Saber needed a Master, one who could endure the massive demand of magical energy she required. No matter how much she wished to avoid it, the task before Bedivere was a necessity if he was, in his mind, to properly serve his king.

And, he had said in no uncertain terms, that he would do anything for her, and not simply as her knight and marshal. Arturia had merely wished that he hadn't needed to put that to the test.

All she had been able to do was remain silently at his side, lending what spiritual strength she could. Even his obvious – to her, at least – unrest was unnecessary for her to know how troubling the situation was to him. She knew him, and as such, understood how the very subject disquieted the silver-haired knight. He had turned his back on such things so long ago, embracing the knighthood of Britain in its stead, if only to stay at her side and hope for a glimpse of her true expressions. In a way, this undertaking was the price of that wish.

The flaxen-haired knight accompanied him down the hill; even if had not been necessary – their bond of Master and Servant the very thing which demanded strengthening – she would have done so, regardless. Arturia would not force her lieutenant to undertake this all on his own. He had pledged that he would never leave her side again, and she had pledged the same. It was small wonder the villagers had assumed an altogether different sort of relationship, but one that they had gone out of their way not to correct for the sake of their morale.

That aside, there was also the simple matter that the Wizard unsettled the knight-king as much as he did her knight, and not the least of those reasons had been that she had faced him in battle. Loros would not attack them there, but the disquiet nevertheless persisted. He was not a being to trifle with.

Arturia did not miss that nervous glance. Though she remained silent, her hand reached out just enough to lightly touch his in subtle reassurance.

Loros (303) has posed:
For all the richness of its color, when one approaches closer it becomes clear that the outer layers of the tent are in fact much harder wearing than expected. Heavy waxed canvas is well anchored by thick cables bound up against long iron spikes sunk deep in the earth at the edge of the forest. This close, it's also possible to see that the tent is more of a low pavillion, extending back into the forest in muted colors that blend well with the winter-bare trees all around it.

In front of the tent's entrance is a small clearing around a circle of stones about an area of blackened ground and muddy ash, small chunks of blackened wood visible amidst the muck. A tripod of black iron stands above the abandoned fire pit, the hook from it devoid of pot or cauldron.

Despite the grey overcast sky overhead, there is a hint of light and warmth spilling from the slightly open flap of fabric at the opening of the tent. As the pair make their way inside, they find themselves in a small vestibule like area where there are hooks on the cloth for wet cloaks, and racks for muddy boots and personal weapons or tools. Light is cast from above by a crystal sphere about the size of the head of a child filled with a soft golden glow. Passing deeper into the tent, the area opens up.

The canvas floor is replaced by one of slate, clearly laid down with intent – the space seems larger than it should, but remains within the bounds of reason – clearly this is layout and lighting, not more magic. Other tied down flaps lead deeper into the pavillion, but here is where the Wizard has obviously prepared for his student. Most of the space is clear, devoid of distractions, or really much of anything at all. Chalked into the floor are two circles. One is fairly large, big enough for two to stand in without quite being in arms reach of each other. The other is separate, and within it sits a comfortable looking wooden chair. In the corners of the room are the sources of light and heat – great iron braziers – but instead of coals each holds a cat sized lizard like creature that seem almost to be made of living fire. One raises a head sleepily as the guest enter, flicking a tongue of incandescent heat out before settling down.

In the center of the circle stands Loros himself. His jacket and his Knife are nowhere in evidence, and he bows slightly. "Greetings to you both. I have endeavored to create a safe enough space to begin teaching you the most fundamental of skills a Mage needs." Inclining his head to each of them in turn, he reaches up with a hand to tap the silver eye sigil on his tie pin.

"To See."

His own thoughts regarding the two are masked in formality and calm, and it's very clear he's taken steps to reduce the unsettling impression he always gives.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When he feels her hand touch his, he automatically curls his own around hers, squeezing faintly as though to reassure her without words that he's alright. As alright as he's going to be, anyway. He lets his hand fall away, lifting it to pull his mended, mantled cloak more securely around his shoulders.

With a deep breath, the knight starts forward.

He studies the interior of the tent with interest, from the firepit and empty tripod to the vestibule with its pegs and racks for muddy garments. HIs cloak he unhooks and hangs on a peg; his boots are left on the rack, for it would be impolite to track mud into Loros' domain, wouldn't it?

The empty wooden chair is looked at in blank puzzlement. What on earth is that for? The braziers, however, earn a long look. Did something just move? Oh gods, something did move, and the knight startles so badly he almost crashes into Arturia, with a half-stifled yelp of alarm.

Only then does he notice Loros. The knight flushes, dropping his gaze in what might be embarrassment. Must he react like a wide-eyed child to such things? This man is easily Merlin's equal, if not better; such things should be expected in his realm.

"Greetings, Wizard." Bedivere bows low, then, offering the parcel; fragrant, smelling of tea and incense. It's nothing too lavish, but just enough to be a suitable offering from student to teacher, in keeping with the old ways. "I have brought a gift."

The tie pin, when indicated, is studied closely. To See isn't something he himself had personally learned to do. Then again, he's not a magus, is he? Not even a filidh; untrained, and unworthy of the title.

Half a glance is cast to Arturia, wary but resigned. He looks back to Loros a moment later, jaw set.

"I am ready," he says simply, swallowing against a dry throat. "Tell me what I must do."

Saber (346) has posed:
It was not unlike the tents her armies set up on campaign, though this one was brighter by comparison. Those of Britain's army had displayed the more muted forms of the kingdom's colours, though some bore the colours of a particular officer. She had heard the sounds as she passed by the pavilion in the evenings, those of the camaraderie of men who remained uncertain that the next sunrise might be their last. Though she despised war – particularly the endemic wars the violent warrior culture of the Saxons frequently visited upon them – it was a regrettable part of her era.

Yet, Arturia's apprehension had little to do with those memories. This was the proverbial lion's den, and they were stepping into it. As a Servant, there was very little she outright feared; at least, when it came to her own personal safety, but Bedivere's was another matter entirely. As illogical as it was – the wizard heeded the same old laws and would not attack them – she could not help but be wary.

But then, she had good reason to be wary. The lair of the Caster of the Fourth War had been sickening beyond belief from what she had heard.

Fortunately, Loros's temporary workshop was more practical, almost mundane by comparison. With care, she gratefully set her cloak on one of the provided pegs and left her boots on the rack below, noting their surroundings not entirely unlike the way her knight did. Once done, the knight-king resumed her place by her Master's side, only for him to nearly collide with her in alarm over what seemed like salamanders. While not practical as familiars for magi in the modern era as they were quite obviously magic in nature, mages of other worlds were under no such strictures.

The circles are given the same sort of mild regard. Simple things, not the elaborate tracings magi used for things such as summoning Servants. But then, such complexity was necessary for the thaumaturgy which had replaced True Magic, or the massive rituals Casters could perform. For teaching the fundamentals of magic, such things were likely unnecessary.

In turn, Arturia bowed respectfully to the wizard. The formality of the matter, strangely, did give her a peace of mind. While such a thing might have unsettled or disturbed others, the little blonde drew a sort of refuge from it. That had been the only world she had known for fifteen years.

"Good health to you now and forever," she hailed. Though the strange quirk of the multiverse translated it into whatever language Loros spoke, the words themselves were an old Welsh greeting: Iechyd da i chwi yn awr, ac yn oesoedd.

Jade eyes flicked to Bedivere, and she easily caught the subtle changes in expression. First, the resignation that this was a necessary endeavour; as he was now, he was not an adequate Master. But following that had been the same fire she had seen over fifteen years ago, when he was a young knight-aspirant determined to serve her as a Knight of the Round Table.

Loros (303) has posed:
Reaching out, Loros accepts the offered packet, bringing it closer to his face as he inhales deeply with a slow smile spreading over his face as he picks apart the various scents. "A welcome and fitting gift, and appreciated. As for getting started..." Half turning, he hands the packet of spices, incense and tea off to... thin air? The packet is taken and whisked off through one of the curtained entrances leading deeper into the tent, as if some sort of unseen servant was available to assist the wizard.

"To begin, then. Lady, if you would be seated in the chair," Loros gestures towards the chair set in the smaller circle, "I would appreciate it if you'd take care not to scuff the circle. The same for you, Bedivere, but if you'd step into the larger. A circle is the simplest of symbols. A clear delineation of space – and in magic, it can serve as a boundary. I know you are both familiar with more... complex ones, but these should serve to put a boundary on the Sight of someone newly trained. I do not think it would be good for you to gaze directly upon your King without a touch of experience first."

As he waits for the two to follow his instructions, or not as they will, Loros himself actually steps away and nudges one of the curtains aside. In moments the curtain drops again and he turns back holding a small glass sphere glowing ever so slightly.

"Once the circles are... hm. Active, I suppose is the best term, although they'll hardly serve to contain a Servant, or much else. In any case. Once they are active, we shall begin."

Loros himself steps into the larger of the circles, opposite where the pair are already standing. A thread hanging from the apex of the tent is looped around the sphere he returned with, dangling it just at eye level for Bedivere.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight cants his head slightly to one side, regarding the circles with evident interest. He is familiar with such things, if only through the intervention of the court wizard; though those used by Merlin had been far more elaborate and complex. These are simple by comparison – little more than skeletal outlines.

He steps into the circle as asked, though he looks wary and uncomfortable as he does so. Maybe Bedivere expects something to change, or something to be somehow different. Or, maybe he expects some kind of discomfort.

Nothing happens.

For a moment he seems nonplussed by that, but Loros is still explaining. His attention turns back to the Wizard, for it would behoove him to pay attention. These are the kinds of things that could be damaging if he doesn't follow directions, and he is nothing if not a mindful pupil.

Slowly, he sinks down to one knee, though it's more of a crouch than a kneel. There is only one to whom he would bend the knee, and she is to his side, not before him.

"I understand." His head bows, slightly. He raises his head, then, faded violet eyes fixing on the sphere hung from its thread, at eye level to him.

Probably he'd knelt down so he doesn't fall flat on his rump from shock at whatever it is he might see.

...Smart man.

He reaches down to touch the ground just shy of the circle's barrier, and focuses on... well, he's not sure what to focus on. He's never activated his magic circuit, although he undeniably has them, or he would be unable to support a Servant.

A frown crosses his face.

"I... do not know what to do." He seems self-conscious about admitting this, looking down. "I have never before done this."

Saber (346) has posed:
The Servant canted her head slightly and eyed the circles with mild interest rather than apprehension; indeed, Loros was quite correct that she was much more accustomed to the much more intricate circles of their world's magecraft. Yet, those elaborate constructions served much more demanding functions, such as summoning the type of magical familiar necessary to fight a Grail War. For such a simple thing as basic instruction, such intricate circles would be a waste of time.

Without anything in the way of ceremony, Saber left Bedivere's side, stepping into the circle without so much as grazing the carefully drawn circumference. With an equal lack of ado and yet with all the usual regal grace of someone who had presented the image of the perfect king for over half her lifetime, she seated herself in the chair at the centre. Her demeanour reflected nothing in the way of apprehension, though less out of a confidence in her class's famous nigh-immunity to magic than simply a reliance on the wizard's word. He was, after all, as bound to his oaths as they, though less out of a conscious choice, she suspected.

Then again, in the multiverse, rules had a way of being contorted.

She nodded slightly; Loros was not mistaken. To open his sight and behold a Heroic Spirit would surely blind him. The wizard was certainly taking some needed precautions, which was a strange sort of reassurance. Even still, she kept her marshal in her peripheral vision. He was handling it well enough – for her sake, naturally – though this was proving to be a very different sort of test than the knight was used to. But that was another price they had to pay for the life they now had.

"I am ready at any time," the jade-eyed knight said simply, with her usual calm.

Loros (303) has posed:
"Why should you know what to do if you've never done it before or seen it done?"

Loros tilts his head slightly to one side as he stands in the circle opposite Bedivere, a bemused smirk on his face. A hand is raised as he regards the knight, and then he snaps his fingers. The circles, simple chalk outlines that the are, suddenly seem to be more real. More present, a manifestation of the reality so faintly echoed by the symbol. A boundary for magic, to contain and protect. Not that the barrier is strong enough or even designed to stop student or Servant should they desire to get out.

"A warning, Sir Bedivere. I am going to teach you Mage Sight. I am not going to teach you the Sight that I and probably Merlin share. There will be no visions, nor oracular hints or glimpses of Fate. Nor do I suggest you pursue such. Also, try not to look directly at me once we get going. I am almost certain you won't care for it."

Chuckling softly, he stands just inside the barrier of the circle and folds his hands behind his back. "That said... either close your eyes or focus them on the spark of light in the middle of the glass. A simple thing, made with simple patterns. Clear your mind of anxiety. Of distractions. Focus. I've seen you fight, this is not... entirely different. Shut down everything that does not matter to the task at hand."

As he begins to instruct, the teasing tone of before fades. There is a cadence to the words, a confidence and a hint of practice and repetition. "Imagine an eye in the middle of your forehead, closed for your entire life. I can See it even now, waiting for you to Will it open."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Well, that's a fair enough point. Bedivere doesn't argue when he's chided about doing things he hasn't done before. That much is certainly true. At least he has the means to learn these things, though, for which he's both apprehensive and grateful – it will allow him to be a more efficient Master. As he'd confided to Arturia, it would go badly if she had need of her full strength for the peoples' sake, and found herself unable to draw on it.

Bedivere blinks a bit, raising his head at that snap of the fingers. He looks around; left, then right, as though he were trying to focus on whatever minute details might have changed.

"That is no deterrent to me, for I have no wish to learn such Sight, even were you willing to teach it." Bedivere cocks his head, glancing back to his teacher and regarding him with arched brows. "There are some things I would prefer not to know, that are meant only for the Lord God to know, and not His children. Master Merlin has some knowledge of such things, but I could not say if he is happier for it. I am confident that I would not be. I prefer to learn things in good time... I do not trust such power."

Anything that's too good to be true, whether it be a source of power or a convenient vision, is suspect in his eyes. He is a proponent of hard work and effort, believing more in the payoff of that than the instant finger-snapping power granted by other means; it is, perhaps, part of why he harbours such mistrust of Merlin and his phenomenal cosmic power. (Of course, part of that is because Merlin is an incorrigible prankster, which is probably the least likely personality archetype to get along with the solemn and serious Bedivere, but that's neither here nor there.)

He shifts his weight in his crouch slightly, focusing on the sphere as bidden. He has to squint a little at first, for suddenly the sphere seems much brighter; somehow clearer, sharper. More... grounded, as though it knows it's a sphere and is completely, immutably rock-solid in this knowledge, this being.

He glances back to Arturia, clearly disturbed at this. Witchcraft. It had always disturbed him on some level, particularly because Merlin had been his introduction to such things – quite possibly the worst exposure to it one could ask for. The old man knew his craft, but he was also the least likely to be concerned about introducing someone gently. His wisdom had never led the king astray, but he used his phenomenal cosmic power to amuse himself, almost always at the expense of others, somehow.

I have my doubts about this, and I wonder now if this was not as wise as I had thought, originally. He doesn't speak out loud, an apprehensive glance to Arturia all he really needs to convey his point. Surely it is not too late to consider another means. I do not like what I see in his eyes, but... I would not ask Master Merlin, either. Bedivere sighs an almost imperceptible sigh, forcing his eyes back to the sphere. No, perhaps this is the best way. The only way. Ah, God help me. I do not think I am going to like this.

"Hmm." It's a quiet sound, thoughtful. He stares at the sphere until his eyes hurt, but that's not the way to go with this. It's a matter of willpower more than the physical, of spirit over body.

Bedivere frowns when nothing seems to change. And Arturia might see, then, the change that comes over him – the stubborn persistence of that lanky knight-aspirant of years past; the sheer determination and willpower that had never failed him before.

Pattern and light...

Well, we are committed now, he 'says' to Arturia, glancing back sidelong at the jade-eyed king. It would be a breach of Ingenuitas to quit now, once committed... would it not?

Slowly, it resolves itself to him, though how long it takes him, he couldn't say. It could be moments. It could be hours – possibly is, for he has never done this before, and no matter how keen his perceptions or clever his wits, this is not the same as learning to do something physical.

Hours, then, perhaps. His eyes sting as though it may be. A silent test of will, of untrained novice against the barrier of inexperience.

But he is determined, and he prevails, eventually, no matter how long it might take. His joints ache and his bent leg has begun to fall asleep below the ankle, but he doesn't so much as move.

"I see it," he murmurs at length, in a tone of wonder. "I see it."

Saber (346) has posed:
The King of Knights was sorely tempted to quip that it happened often enough with her own tutor, the wizard so lauded throughout even the multiverse. However, few knew even a fraction of the truth, and even to Arturia herself, Merlin was largely a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Just the way he liked it, really. But what she did know beyond certainty was how annoying the snow-haired old prankster was.

She regarded Loros blandly; awen was in many ways the primary function of the filídh from whom Bedivere hailed, the seer-bards who were called upon by the kings of the Dál Riata to sing their poems of the future. Yet, when the silver-haired knight had left behind his heritage to serve in Camelot, he developed a wariness over such things. Perhaps due to his need to distance himself from that past so as not to threaten her rule, or else the mischievous advisor to the king had made him wary over the years. Fortunately, becoming a proper master did not necessitate mastering the divine poetic inspiration to peer into the future.

She did, however, tilt her head slightly at the excited magical energy of the circles surrounding each of them. A dampening, no doubt; and she found herself grateful that Loros was taking that precaution.

The petite knight caught Bedivere's apprehensive glance and the meaning behind it easily; she had been surprised that it had taken this long for the marshal to baulk from uneasiness. Merlin certainly hadn't helped his perception of the magical reality of their world, but rarely was much good accomplished with it...at least, not without a steep price. The proverbial stakes always seemed to be higher when dealing with supernatural aspects, a trait she had become thoroughly accustomed to as a Servant.

Think of it as being blind, and then learning how to see for the first time, she offered as a reassurance. Perhaps thinking of it merely as hidden natural sense – which it actually was – might help.

Wordlessly, Arturia nodded as Bedivere reached his conclusion, an inevitable one given their own code of chivalry. Aye. This is something we must see through...but I remain at your side. I will not permit any harm to befall you.

Then, finally, the breakthrough. The jade-eyed knight permitted a slight, reassuring smile. Not a bad start.

Loros (303) has posed:
"Yes, you do," observes Loros in a quiet voice.

"Hold to that sense of wonder, of astonishment. That is the truest gift of magic." He chuckles softly. "And because you're going to come to hate what comes next. Or perhaps not."

With a gesture, a rippling pulse of magic reverberates through the circle holding both Loros and Sir Bedivere. While not particularly forceful or strong, it is enough to distort and shatter the Sight of the student.

At which point Loros utters one of the most dreaded words an instructor of any skill can speak, and in that disciplined, slightly disinterested tone only the best use.

"Again."

It is not until the third or fourth time that Sir Bedivere achieves sight that Loros finally relents, taking a step back with a grin. "Good. Hold onto your Sight as long as you can, and carefully glance down at your forearm. Do not look in my direction, whatever you do," he admonishes. "But I want you to see your own magic, your own circuits. Once you have seen that, I suspect you will be ready to take a break."

With yet another gesture, the circles ripple and their faint glimmer fades as the power drains from them. "I expect you to practice when you can. Do so in private, and whatever you do, don't try this on Merlin or your King until you have a much firmer control. If you are uncertain, ask. Once you have mastered the Sight, I will teach you to tap and move mana about."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Blindness and sight. That seems to be an analogy comfortable enough to the knight, something he can accept for the time being – nor is it too far from the truth. It's simply another means of sight, albeit one with very specific focus; focus that he's never before used.

He allows himself the tiniest smile as he regards the sphere; but suddenly, that vision is snuffed out. The pale-haired knight's expression falls. In truth, he had been expecting that. His instructors in the knightly arts were hardly more sympathetic, and in fact had always pushed him harder perhaps because they knew of his hidden reserves and his potential. So it was then, and so it is here. He will be able to learn these things, but he needs the motivation to cast aside his wariness over the Otherworldly. Proving himself has always served him well when a little extra determination was needed.

Again.

Bedivere flicks a brief glance toward Loros, then Saber, as though he were gauging the situation. He looks agan toward the sphere, lacking in its ornamentation, bland and plain as a bare incandescent lightbulb... and so the knight calmly rolls up his sleeves, shifts his weight on his haunches in the centre of his ring, and tries one more time.

Again.

It takes less time every time he makes the attempt. He's no expert yet, and it will take practise, but these are the fundamentals that will serve him well, and once learned, the kind of thing that will not be easily forgotten. Eyes half-focused for their focus on the Otherworldly, he obeys the Wizard's direction, lowering his gaze to his left hand—

—and draws in a sharp breath, not from pain or discomfort, but from shock.

Knotwork dances along his arm, blue-white, humming with power and possiblity. It forms not the angular, circuitry-like design of modern magi, but something older; something more elegant. The patterns dance and shift along his arm like living vine, weaving itself into ever more complicated arrangements, yet never quite losing its cohesion.

Bedivere stares for a moment. It's all he can do, though to his credit, he doesn't let go of his Sight in his shock, instead facing it solidly – with that same expression of wonder.

"This..." His voice slurs a little from his concentration at maintaining the Sight, but at least he can speak this time. "This is in me?"

Finally, almost reluctantly, he releases the Sight. His eyes turn to Loros as he listens to the instruction. No... trying this on Merlin or even Arturia would be foolish. Perhaps she may fool the senses into seeming human, but he knows she is not; he has seen firsthand the terrible power she's capable of wielding. She had done so as a human, but never before to the same degree now...

"I understand." He bows his head, obedient, before climbing to his feet. "I will practise, and I will return." A simple promise. "Thank you, Master Loros."

It wouldn't do to be rude, after all. With that, once they've finished their business, he'll turn to go; waiting only long enough for Arturia to join him. Then it's back into the pouring rain to return.

After all, the knight has much to consider, now...