>>5330795>>5330484>>5330371>>5330347>>5330338>>5330204>>5330202>>5330201>>5330200>>5330121>>5330113>>5330110The first spell you gain control of is almost more of an augmentation to an existing one: whereas before you could channel mana to set the earth to <tremoring> with a stomp and an invocation, now the same gesture—couples with a few flourishes of your hands, can erect a spire or block of stone—even a full <Wall of Stone>, with focus. The strength of the material seems at least partly dependent on the nature of the rock beneath your feet, but the text suggest—and the Novice confirms—that it should be possible to form stone even from loose loam or fine sand with focus and effort. The strategic opportunities abound, delighting your inner tactician!
The second spell, however, is entirely novel. You were drawn immediately to the name, which seemed so serendipitous to your legendary elven blade: the <Moonbeam>. You struggle but briefly with the gestures necessary to cast it, and the idiosyncrasies of aiming it. The spell is not a projected beam of force from none’s hands, but rather involves calling a radiant ray DOWN, as if from the sky above; it works even in these dark caverns, requiring no actual moon light to speak of, but the distances and trajectories involved mean you miss the rocks you are using as target practice more often than not… Until an idea strikes.
You focus the magic, and at the same time take a deep breath, filling your fire-lung with oxygen. You make the gestures, tilted ninety degrees, and aim you hands forward rather than down, and you exhale at the same time. A strange, unsettling tingling follows the flow of mana from your mana-rich organ, out of your mouth and in the direction you point. The Novice yelps as you BREATHE a ray of concentrated white light, which sets a targeted rock to shimmering… And then, a moment later, explodes it into glittering shrapnel.
You both just stare at the result.
“You are a freak of alchemy, Dragonborn,” the Novice says. “Too weird to live.”
“Much too rare to die, though,” you note. “And too powerful to slay.”
“Thanks to my tutelage,” she sniffs.
“Yes,” you readily acknowledge.
She freezes, taken off-guard again.
“Let us have some food,” you propose, taking a seat. “I am exhausted.”
She joins you, as does Glowie—back from being shown her ‘quarters’ for the weeks ahead by a cadre of trusted dark elves.
