findsthesun | Practice! With Wellard

Tavi takes a breath. "In my world, we have... we call if furycrafting, others would refer to it as elemental magic. Fire, wind, water, earth, metal, wood. It's... something like having a spirit partner associated with an element, and usually it takes some kind of manifest form."

"Knights Terra are the powerful furycrafters of earth. They can work with earth and stone itself, almost as a living creature, and it will do as they wish."

The look now is curious, Legolas knows only about river rafts and small boats.

"Where is it that you plan to sail?"

It will do as they wish.

"Magic in truth," Legolas says quietly, voice cool and expression unreadable. It is only that nothing feels 'off' about Tavi that keeps him from reacting with instant anger.

Well now.

Tavi had felt the relaxed air, the openness between them--it getting all shut off is an instant warning sign to the diplomat in him, and not for the first time he pities his mother for the years he hid his emotions from her.

"We've never called it that. The Canes--who use... certain blood rights to create and control magic--and the Marat, who have none, call it sorcery. We never have. It's not... magic, to our minds. No spells, no ritual castings. It's crafting. There are spirits in the land--wind and earth and all the rest, and they work with us. It's the only way we survived and carved out what land we have."

He leans back, sipping his wine again. "Everyone--every human, every Aleran--is born with an affinity for one or more elements. The high houses have all of them, and in incredible amounts. The country way is the way I prefer, certainly. There are... distinct spirits, in many ways. Some even have personalities. They can be passed on, generation to generation, father to son, to help us survive." He smiles faintly. "Those are the average furies. The Great Furies--the great spirits of the land--go a little further. Kalus, the fury of the volcano Mount Kalus, was bound for many years, and my grandfather woke him once. It was easily one of the two hardest decisions he ever made.

"Furies tend to be well-matched to their humans. Angry, vicious people will have vicious and heartless furies, no matter what shape they take. On the other hand, one of my dearest friends, Max: he manifested a lion of water, but a gentler beast when not protecting something I've never known." He pauses then, not sure whether to reveal the secret of the strength of the House of Gaius to this man he barely knows. "The greatest of the furies, though..." he says at last, slowly, "they're independent. They don't just bond with humans on instinct. They grace us with their choice. They choose the house they live with, the ones they trust with their power, to care for the land."

He waves vaguely. "The Marat worship the One, and others I've known in this Bar revere different deities of all sorts. We don't worship the furies, although anyone with sense respects them. But we swear by the great furies, because they are the land--and the land kindly allowed us to survive. It is by its grace and goodwill that Alera is what it is today." His eyes are bleak. "The land itself arose to purge a race of devourers which nearly overran us, not so long ago."

He remembers Alera Imperia before its destruction. He remembers his grandfather.

And, quite suddenly, he grins. "Honestly, we don't understand it very well ourselves--it's just how life is. Especially in the country. The land helps us survive, and we revitalize and maintain the land. Perhaps we call it crafting because we take something raw and unbridled and try to fashion a living work of art from it."

He realizes, suddenly, that he's talked a lot--but he doesn't often go into such detail on such short notice about his home and his own furies. But he sensed that emotional void--and in his experience, Alera fills herself fills that.

"Maybe one day I'll introduce you to her. The one I work with, when I need the aid."

As if Ivan had a hand in timing, this is now when the wait rat shows up, with the Dorwinion for Legolas and a refill of Wellard's tea. And because the rat at least does know the appetites of young human men, there is a plate of bread, cheese and fruit as well- And Wellard is more than happy to share it with Legolas.

Of course, this all serves nicely to postpone his reply for a few moments.

"The sky."

Legolas listens to this as he did before, except that this time he does not look away.

Only when Tavi finishes does he blink, and that slowly. He nods his head sideways in a slight acceptance.

"In Arda," he says, musical voice quieted like muffled bells, "there are many things that Men call magic. The healing some can do, our knowledge of the forests, the skill with which we craft weaponry, or the hate that our weapons have for yrch," and there is the first hint of emotion--a strong distaste with which he says the word, like he does not want it to linger in his mouth. "I rarely pay attention to it."

He takes a sip of the Dorwinion, slowly, to think. "What we call magic--the only thing we call magic--is that which is used to make things do what the maker wishes. It is against life, and growing things. It does not destroy to feed itself, it destroys to glut its undying hunger."

Tavi nods slowly. "I... can see why it would carry some troubling connotations, then." He purses his lips.

"That's far closer to the Canim's blood rituals, I think, although it isn't exclusively that. But... yes. Our crafting is just that: crafting. For creating things--enduring works of stone to live in and protect ourselves with, blades which don't lose their edge, for shooting with unparalleled accuracy, for creating heat in the dead of winter, for healing..." And he smiles a little. "For flying, even."

Sighing, he admits, "It can be... misused. Horribly so, and has been. But that isn't about the power, but the user. Fundamentally, the land protecs us, and we give it... companionship, perhaps, in return."

And then, after a pause: "...Yrch?"

"You are the most gracious of rats," Legolas tells Ivan when he brings the wineskin and full glass, as well as the cheese and crackers. "It is a welcome change from old water and cram."

Ew, cram, says his face eloquently.

Then, after Wellard speaks and he's swallowed the sip of wine that he'd taken, he laughs delightedly.

"Is the sea not big enough?"

Legolas laughs slightly.

"Not a pleasant topic of conversation, Tavi," he says, grin still on his face. "It is enough to know that they are many, and foul."

Tavi makes a face.

"I know the type. We had that, disgusting, bug-like creatures called the Vord. They produced this... wax, croach. Nearly destroyed three or four races all at once before we stopped the queen."

Or rather, before he stopped the queen. But he'd never take credit for it.

"The sea is only part of the world- and a flying ship isn't limited to just the ocean. Or limited to... anywhere." He waves a hand in the air, grinning.

"Even if we do have to be careful as to what people see her- but there are plenty of places in the world for us to go to."

"Well, I would hardly expect you to be talking about the First, seeing as you were not there, and neither were the grapes." Glorfindel retorts glibly. "The Second, perhaps, but even that has the obvious difficulties."

Namely war, more war, and Legolas still not being alive. Oh well."

Legolas's smile stiffens.

"As I said," he replies, "not a pleasant topic of conversation."

"Just try not to make enemies with the Eagles," he tells Wellard, gravely. (Well, gravely if it weren't for the spark of mischief in his eyes alongside the starlight.) "They might be jealous."

He eats a slice of cheese and apple.

Tavi gets the point, and changes the topic. He is a diplomat.

"You've mentioned the forest several times now. What is it like to live there? I have to admit the only forest near my childhood home was..." He pauses. Covered in croach, to be exact, but he won't bring that up again. "...Untraversable. And I haven't had particular occasion to spend time in the forests of other regions of Alera."

After a moment's thought, Tavi decides he really ought to fix that. His next vacation, maybe.

"... How do you mean, Mister Legolas?" Wellard looks at him, puzzled.

"I wouldn't think they'd be much more of a worry than the gulls and seahawks and other birds were, with a regular sailing ship."

Legolas tilts his head at Wellard.

"The Eagles? Do you not have them...in your world?" he uses the term awkwardly. "They have wingspans of a hundred feet or more, in these after-days."

Wellard blinks, staring at Legolas, and slowly shakes his head.

"... Albatrosses have... maybe a ten or fifteen foot wingspan, and they're the largest birds I've ever heard of. Even the seahawks don't get that big."

"I was thinking that perhaps you'd found it from the future," Legolas says, after a moment. "If we are at the end of Time."

"Do not worry," he tells him, kindly, "they do not carry off people."

He might be laughing at Wellard's face, a little.

"... I would hope not. That would be something more like what a dragon would do, if such things exist in your world. They... They officially do not, in mine." He shakes his head, and finally takes a sip of his tea.

"There are stories, occasionally. Myths and fairy tales. But nothing that I can recall about giant eagles."

"Dragons are less likely to carry people off, and more likely to burn them where they stand," Legolas replies, thoughtfully. "The one I know of prefers to take away cattle and horses. Men and Elves are, perhaps, both too small and too likely to cause hurt."

Then, cheerfully, "You shall have to start some myths about Eagles. They are not fond of dragons, if that helps."

"'Tis mostly a beech wood," he says, "though there are large stands of oak trees. I should say it is much like living elsewhere. We have homes on the ground and in the trees, except the palace which is below the ground. We live in peace, except when that peace is invaded. We have feasts and dancing at times."

He shrugs, slightly. "We trade along the river with the Men of Dorwinion and Lake Town and other places." Then, a quiet laugh. "There is a reason Men call it Mirkwood, and the Elves of Rivendell call it Taur e-Ndaedelos. 'Tis not an easy place to navigate, if you do not know the way of it."

Then: "Has Alera many forests?"

"The few I've heard about on my own world- and a world rather close to mine, they weren't that bad. Some were even helping to fight in a war we're in, in the time I'm from." He smiles, a bit wryly.

"Though I'll still keep my eyes out for giant eagles. Afterall, isn't there a Roc to match up with the Kraken? And there is a Kraken." Wellard pauses, then takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"Or there was. But it did still exist."

"I do not know Rocs or Krakens," Legolas replies, cheerfully, drinking more Dorwinion and eating more cheese and apple. "What are they? Or were they."

Practice! With Wellard

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