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memshare; a porxie
You're standing in the Inn at Journey's Head, but unlike the last time you were here, your heart feels light. What you seek to do today has the potential to change so many lives, to save those not only here in the First but in your own world too. If you can truly master the magicks that Beq Lugg has been teaching you... how many lives will be saved from senseless death?
Your first task is to sculpt a porxie, the shape for the familiar to take. Art has never been your finest pursuit, but you're determined to see this through, to do the best you can and when you've completed your work...
Well. You don't need your brother's laughter to tell you how bad your sculpting attempt has proven. "Yes, yes, I'm not artist. Very funny!" you snap at him, arms folded self-consciously. Certainly he could have done better; Alphinaud took his art very seriously when you both studied at the Studium, but this must needs come from your own hands.
Thankfully, your words have the desired effect. Alphinaud schools his face, very carefully looking away from you and your sculpture. Beq Lugg beside you bids you pay no mind, which would be helpful if their next words weren't to describe your work as "a grotesque parody of reality."
"You're not helping," you grumble, though you feel your frustration transitioning into what is almost a pout. But they continue speaking, assuring you that the quality of your sculpture isn't what matters so long as you can believe it to have a porxie's shape in your mind's eye.
Belief is a little easier to come by. At Beq Lugg's urging, you close your eyes take a deep breath, holding both hands out before you and touching the reserves of aether that flow through your body. As you speak the words of the incantation, you let it flow down your arms, focusing on your goal with every fiber of your being as you painstakingly fill the porxie sculpture with your aether.
"With flesh of clay I bid thee rise
On wings of dreams to touch the skies.
What once was idle fantasy
I call forth to reality."
The aether you've infused into the clay comes to its full saturation, and the glow that surrounded your hands as you worked grows to a blinding light. From the light there's a burst of air, and when everything clears the clay you'd so carefully turned and prepared and molded is gone--and in its place is a living, breathing porxie. It bounds up into the air, spiraling back down to eye-level before beginning to hover, flapping its ears to stay aloft.
You've done it--this is but the first step to save those who might be lost, but it's the most important step of them all. You're nearly giddy with the rush of magic and promise; if this works, this will change everything.
-21:18 - 24:15-
Your first task is to sculpt a porxie, the shape for the familiar to take. Art has never been your finest pursuit, but you're determined to see this through, to do the best you can and when you've completed your work...
Well. You don't need your brother's laughter to tell you how bad your sculpting attempt has proven. "Yes, yes, I'm not artist. Very funny!" you snap at him, arms folded self-consciously. Certainly he could have done better; Alphinaud took his art very seriously when you both studied at the Studium, but this must needs come from your own hands.
Thankfully, your words have the desired effect. Alphinaud schools his face, very carefully looking away from you and your sculpture. Beq Lugg beside you bids you pay no mind, which would be helpful if their next words weren't to describe your work as "a grotesque parody of reality."
"You're not helping," you grumble, though you feel your frustration transitioning into what is almost a pout. But they continue speaking, assuring you that the quality of your sculpture isn't what matters so long as you can believe it to have a porxie's shape in your mind's eye.
Belief is a little easier to come by. At Beq Lugg's urging, you close your eyes take a deep breath, holding both hands out before you and touching the reserves of aether that flow through your body. As you speak the words of the incantation, you let it flow down your arms, focusing on your goal with every fiber of your being as you painstakingly fill the porxie sculpture with your aether.
"With flesh of clay I bid thee rise
On wings of dreams to touch the skies.
What once was idle fantasy
I call forth to reality."
The aether you've infused into the clay comes to its full saturation, and the glow that surrounded your hands as you worked grows to a blinding light. From the light there's a burst of air, and when everything clears the clay you'd so carefully turned and prepared and molded is gone--and in its place is a living, breathing porxie. It bounds up into the air, spiraling back down to eye-level before beginning to hover, flapping its ears to stay aloft.
You've done it--this is but the first step to save those who might be lost, but it's the most important step of them all. You're nearly giddy with the rush of magic and promise; if this works, this will change everything.