M
malina
Guest
Original poster
Fortune tellers, street magicians, palm-readers - there are many who claim to be well-versed in the magics of this world, O Master. True magic, gen-ui-ine magic, is rare and nigh-uncontrollable. Real magic cannot be wrong in the way a caravan witch can be. Ah, you don't believe me. I can see the gleam in your eyes, O Master. Do you really believe Young Nan to be a witch? Well, I've seen her crack vases and claim it on ghosts. No magic's in Young Nan, O Master, save for her remarkable ability to remain at her work.
...
Ah, so she told you that, did she?
You may try yourself, if it please. The very next time the traders come in to town, go seek out the old women claiming to be seers. Aye, they will study your grubby palms with most scrutiny. They may even pull out their finger-bones and their hookahs - mystic smoke, hah! But cut through their vague premonitions and ask them, what will I do on the fourth hour of the next day? You will find them hard-pressed for an answer - a real answer and not one of their excuses.
Real magic does not deal in such prophecies. Your life is yours to master; no magic can dictate where you walk. It is a rare, an exceedingly rare thing; a curse that won't be found in dirty merchant camps. I myself have met with only two gen-ui-ine witches in my life. The beggar in Dornwoad Keep was one, until the plague took her. The other I met on the road to Eskendale - and nearly paid my life for it. Listen well, O Master, for here is the truth: magic is a thing borne of birthright. The seventh child of the seventh child is destined to receive this bane; many do not bear it for long.
I have had it heard that magic is a selfish creature. It feeds on both love and hatred. Envy and sorrow; joy and fear. Feed it too much and like any other beast, it is wont to break free.
...
Ah, now you begin to understand.
Yes, O Master.
Magic is not for the weak. I have heard of witchbabes consumed in a ball of fire; unable to control their rage. Witchmen drowned in their own blood for a lover. Even those in the mountains are not entirely safe; solitude brings both fear and sorrow. Many a witch, I have had it heard, has awoken to find themselves a frozen corpse. Killed with their own tears, I'd imagine.
But such stories are not for young ears. Go now. Go seek out Young Nan and be-witched by her little tricks. Believe in her silly palm-readings and teacups as you did before. We will speak no more on such matters.
But! O Master, beware. Real magic should be avoided as one would the snake.
...
Now go. I must to the gallery, I'm to be expected by your father.
...
Ah, so she told you that, did she?
You may try yourself, if it please. The very next time the traders come in to town, go seek out the old women claiming to be seers. Aye, they will study your grubby palms with most scrutiny. They may even pull out their finger-bones and their hookahs - mystic smoke, hah! But cut through their vague premonitions and ask them, what will I do on the fourth hour of the next day? You will find them hard-pressed for an answer - a real answer and not one of their excuses.
Real magic does not deal in such prophecies. Your life is yours to master; no magic can dictate where you walk. It is a rare, an exceedingly rare thing; a curse that won't be found in dirty merchant camps. I myself have met with only two gen-ui-ine witches in my life. The beggar in Dornwoad Keep was one, until the plague took her. The other I met on the road to Eskendale - and nearly paid my life for it. Listen well, O Master, for here is the truth: magic is a thing borne of birthright. The seventh child of the seventh child is destined to receive this bane; many do not bear it for long.
I have had it heard that magic is a selfish creature. It feeds on both love and hatred. Envy and sorrow; joy and fear. Feed it too much and like any other beast, it is wont to break free.
...
Ah, now you begin to understand.
Yes, O Master.
Magic is not for the weak. I have heard of witchbabes consumed in a ball of fire; unable to control their rage. Witchmen drowned in their own blood for a lover. Even those in the mountains are not entirely safe; solitude brings both fear and sorrow. Many a witch, I have had it heard, has awoken to find themselves a frozen corpse. Killed with their own tears, I'd imagine.
But such stories are not for young ears. Go now. Go seek out Young Nan and be-witched by her little tricks. Believe in her silly palm-readings and teacups as you did before. We will speak no more on such matters.
But! O Master, beware. Real magic should be avoided as one would the snake.
...
Now go. I must to the gallery, I'm to be expected by your father.