Applying Exotic Metaphysics (Alien, 21.2)

Goranthir was young, for an elf. While the dunmer grew up quicker than their altmer cousins, that was more cultural than anything. Altmer tended to be kept home and trained slowly over time, cramming extra training and education for decades. It was one of the reasons behind their reputation of being long-lived, though the truth of the matter was more due to ample access to restoration magic- on top of powerful control of one’s magic- tended to keep one young

It was kind of what I vaguely remembered from Earth’s education system, come to think of it, where even graduates were still seen as children.

Despite his culture and upbringing, though, it seemed his mother didn’t see things the same way. He’d been pushed into adult society a little early.

I quickly did the math- it hasn’t been that long since the Warp in the West… Goranthir could even be young for a human.

“I- I’m not certain this will work, Lady Marlia.” He said, unsure. “It takes me a little, um, longer to learn a new spell.”

“I am a Magister in Cyrodiil’s mage’s guild, prince.” I responded. “This is a spell that touches on mysticism, and you have everything you need in order to cast it.”

He swallowed, and nodded. “Yes. Of course. Thank you for your guidance.”

He turned to the other Altmer, waiting for the duel to start.

“Are we ready to begin, your highness?” His opponent asked. “Or shall we wait a few more moments for your ancestors to respond to their call?”

“I am ready.” He responded.

“Good. Administrator?”

The restaurant’s proprietor- apparently the judge- stood back and began to count down. At the last moment, magic surged to life. The opponent’s hands were instantly filled with lightning and frost. With one hand, he raised the fistful of lightning and released an unfocused blast of it.

Goranthir responded with a fistful of Creatia. He’d been caught unawares, unable to get his spell off in time. The creatia was physical enough to matter, though, and the lightning started boiling it out of the air as he held it up, as if to ward off the blast.

From his other fist, he let out a hiss and thrust a familiar into existence. The creature- a yowling lynx of some kind- leapt forward, only to get blasted with a frostbite spell.

Goranthir spasmed, the lightning finally punching through his fistful of creatia- and with a second, explosive blast of frost, he was blown off his feet.

“The honorable victor is Careril,” the Administrator said. Over half of the altmer cheered politely, though there wasn’t the rambunctiousness I’d seen in more human- let alone nordic- groups.

I knelt down with a healing spell, pushing energy back into Goranthir.  He shook out the last few spasms of electricity from his nerves, and I warmed him up. He took a deep breath, and I pulled him to his feet. He brushed off his tunic.

“I’m not fast enough,” He says.

“You are.” I responded. “You had the speed. You know he’s going to focus on shock first, to eat at your Magicka control, then something stronger to destroy your shields."

“Right.” He says. “And he wouldn’t double up on Shock, lest a resistance spell nullify that.”

“Yes.” I said. “You almost had it. The Creatia formed. You pulled it from Oblivion. You just didn’t actualize it.”

“I’m just- not sure what form the spell should take.” He says.

“Like I said. It’s mental. You need to enter a mindstate. You know what you need. You know how it feels in your hand. You’ve trained for years.”

He took a slow, deep breath, and nods. “Very well.”

I could almost see him quailing in place, and something about him reminded me of Martin when he was younger. The same sort of lacking confidence.

“Stand tall, Goranthir,” I hissed. “You’re not just the son of your parents. You’ve got a legacy of your own, one that’s just waiting to be written. Take pride in every step you take towards that legacy. This is one of those.”

He glanced at me for a moment. He didn’t understand what I meant, not really- but he stood straighter.

“Remind yourself what it is to draw a sword.” I said. “... In fact… Close your eyes when the duel starts.”

“What?”

“Trust me,” I said. He hesitated… and then nodded.

The second round of the duel began. Goranthir closed his eyes for a moment, hand at his hip- where his scabbard would be if he was wearing it.

“Begin!” The Administrator called. Careril, his opponent, instantly threw out a blast of lightning.

Goranthir was slightly faster. A bound Sword came rippling out of oblivion, the aetherial matter shaped into a perfect rendition of an aldmeri saber.

I admit… even I was a little impressed. The sword caught the stream of lightning, the fake metal acting just like how the real stuff would. Conjuring a blade that real wasn’t easy.

The opponent switched to a blast of frost- and before it could even strike him, Goranthir took a quick step forward- and drew a second saber out of the air, creatia forming it into a blade as he slashed the frostbolt apart.

Only then did he open his eyes.

A blade in each hand, he slowly stepped forward. Unsteadily at first, and then faster, as his opponent started belting out more spells- each of which Goranthir was more than prepared for. He really wasn’t a bad swordsman- and that was even comparing him with the experts I’d seen, in Mournhold and Cyrodiil. He was a little slower, a little less certain, but he was cutting spells from the air.

And beyond that, he was dual-wielding.

“How disgusting.” Careril called. “You’re breaking the rules on which this duel is based! That is not sorcery!”

“Isn’t it?” Goranthir asked. “These are conjured blades, after all.”

True to his word, the swords flickered and vibrated for a moment. Goranthir focused, and the two blades stabilized again.

The elf glanced at the administrator, who didn’t say or do anything- and then, in desperation, pushed his hands together, magicka surging as he prepared a powerful blast of destructive magic-

Goranthir shot forward, and with an upward swing, sent his opponent’s hand flying into the air. For a moment, I’d thought he’d sliced the elf’s hand off- but no. He’d knocked the hands apart. Loose magicka poured from the open hands- and then the blades were at his neck.

“The honorable victor is Goranthir,” The Inn’s owner said. He nodded to the owner, and let the spells vanish in a handful of sparks.

The two went back to their positions. I handed Goranthir a mana potion, which he accepted.

“I don’t have as much magicka as most,” He says. “But this… this spell suits me. Thank you for teaching it to me.”

“No problem,” I responded. It wasn’t even a proper spell, not really. The sorts of bound spells I used, mostly, required a lot of math. Specific, exacting spellforms. But Emylee had shown me that belief- the mystic aspect- could do a lot with a little. All Goranthir had to do was hold a clump of creatia and believe it was a sword… and it would do.

“Do you think you’ll need advice for this last round?” I asked.

“... He’s likely going to try something to counter bound spells,” Goranthir responds. “That’s how these duels are supposed to go. Counter the opponent’s previous victory.”

“Banishment.” I responded. “It’s an Adept-ranked conjuration effect. And we’d have seen an atronach if he was good enough to banish things properly on his first try. It’ll take him longer.”

“So he’ll be struggling to cast it.” Goranthir responded. I nod. “... Then I know what to do.” 

The third round began.

This time, beginning at opposite sides of the room… Goranthir didn’t even take a step forward.

Both began their conjurations at the same time. Careril, I could see- had his fingers twitching, muttering under his breath. He was using the old mnemonics, where each finger motion had been embedded into his mind as a sort of mental command.

Goranthir wasn’t even wielding his swords. Instead, he drew only one blade, this time with a longer handle. He focused all of his will into one blade. He held it in both hands, brought it up… and threw it. The blade whistled through the air.

His opponent barely abandoned his spell and leapt out of the way. The blade dug deeply into his shoulder, and he fell.

“Healers, to Careril!” The Administrator called. “Noble Goranthir, you have proven yourself the victor!”

“Many thanks, administrator.” He nodded, a half bow- and then turned swiftly to leave.

“Not sticking around?” I asked.

“Of course not.” He hissed. “My peers, who I had thought to be allies, left me to duel alone. I will not be paying for their drinks any longer.”

“I see,” I responded.

“You are more than welcome to join me,” He drawled. “I will be ascending to a higher tier of the city.”

“Sure thing.”

=====

“... A shame.” Goranthir said, looking at the abandoned floor of the tower. The inside of the building was hollow. “There used to be quite a good kitchen here, two years ago. My sister and I spent many mornings enjoying their goods.”

“You have a sister?”

“Rinnala.” He responded, a half smile on his face. “She turns thirteen this year. She is all that I am not. Clever and skilled. As mischievous as a scamp sometimes… But then again, they are some of her greatest allies in the palace. It was a rebellion she'd led against the cleaning staff that has her grounded to her dorms for the fortnight.”

“At that age, she’s already summoning scamps? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It would be, if she hadn’t bought their loyalty.” He says. “That is, Mother used her connections to purchase some kind of strange ritual from Divayth Fyr.”

I knew exactly what kind of ritual that was.

The two of us continued to walk, as Goranthir and I talked about his history and past. For the most part, I just smiled and nodded, as the streets started to get more and more scarce.

Eventually, Goranthir stopped. Then glanced around.

“... This is too quiet.” He said.

Stepping from the alleyways- one from behind, and one from ahead- figures in gold stepped forward. Tall elves in white masks and red robes. Sparking traceries of spirals and runes covering their dress. Some flickered out from under invisibility or chameleon spells. Illusions broke.

I’d been expecting them, of course- I could smell the magic.

“Who are you?” Goranthir asked, eyes darting between the figures standing around us. “I’ll have you know, I’m not merely the son of this city’s king, I am also fresh from an honor duel.”

“They’re not here for you,” I responded.

They were all looking at me.

“You have not been subtle, Marlia of Scourg.” One of the elves told me. “You wear his amulet, but you are not Mannimarco’s descendant.”

Goranthir suddenly jerked his head to me.

I stretched, popped the fingers of both my hands, and grinned. 

“Who said I was trying to be?” I asked. “Get ready to run, prince. This is going to get messy.”