Felix Caelus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
conjuredskies) wrote2018-08-25 11:56 pm
conjuredskies) wrote2018-08-25 11:56 pm
Playing with Fire (Prompt for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nexus_crossings)
There’s more than one way to call a daedra.
Proper, respectable mages do little summoning at all these days. Gone are the days of pacts between mortal rulers and the Lords of Oblivion, or the Imperial Battlemage consulting otherworldly powers on the Emperor’s behalf. Aside from the shadowy College of Whispers, conjuration is usually the purview of rogue mages. It annoys Felix that his school is so attractive to amateurs and thugs, but their example is instructive. Rogue mages, secluding themselves in the countryside, tend to use a garbled mix of approaches: bullying and commanding lesser spirits, then working their way up to summoning greater powers… and inevitably trying to order about a being they have no power to bind.
Felix likes to draw more from the witch and the cultist’s attitude to spirits. It’s a humility and perspective you need, to face a Daedric Prince and survive. But there are benefits – overlooked by most – to treating lesser daedra with a degree of respect. Anyone can rattle off a summons and call up some familiar or elemental, compelling their service by brute force. Calling the same one every time, developing a kind of rapport and understanding, that takes practice and talent… and some small reciprocation on the daedra’s part.
It’s about learning how to be in control without being imperious. Understanding that though the daedra are immortal, there are things they fear; that though they are inhuman, there are things they yearn for. Mindfulness. Give and take. Being friendly.
Hence why Felix is out here, in the wilds of Skyrim. It’s cost him a couple of days and a handful of small fictions he’ll have to keep up on his return. He’s stacked a few rocks into a very small shrine and offered the usual tokens: the life energy from a chicken, a bowl of burning salts, a single lit candle. He stands at the heart of the ritual circle he’s prepared and opens the way and utters a name.
Magdra Indis.
For a second the world around him flares purple and black. The atronach spins into being before him, incandescent and graceful. He feels the thread that connects their minds spring taut and even so, she – it, but just try not to ascribe femininity to a being with that form - is all but inscrutable.
“Miss me?” he murmurs, though he knows better. Would she even notice a few months of mortal time? Why should it concern her that he hasn’t called on her?
Can she even tell that he’s changed?
He closes his eyes to the delicate face with its mask of searing flame in place of eyes, the obsidian horns curling back either side of her head. Heat presses against his face. Her will presses against his mind. Here in the circle their connection is stronger than any normal hand-tossed spell. He can feel every push and pull of her attention; the hunger of a being that never eats; the careful balance between an ancient will and he who’s given her form.
He still understands so little. But there are impressions, turned to images as his mind attempts to interpret them. Flame racing over unfamiliar ground. Licking at the wind, questing for something it can leap to. Probing. Seeking. The taste of poor fuel, slow and thick and cold.
Frost magic, he thinks. Death magic, lingering beneath his skin. In his bones. His hands. His hair. He’s marked. He shuts his eyes tighter and sucks in burning air and he manages to shut the thought away. The bright, consuming presence in his mind is a lifeline. Felix wraps his will around it and opens his eyes again to meet her shimmering stare. Tugs a mask over his mouth and nose to keep out the inevitable ash. He sweeps a hand at the clearing around them and translates the concept as best he knows how.
A gift.
Her restlessness is immediate. Felix bows to her, extends his hand. Shall we dance?
He marked the circle as wide as he dared. They whirl around it, never touching but for the invisible line between them. She skates above the ground and scorches trails of flame beneath her delicate feet. Clawed hands toss fire as she twirls and somersaults and dashes with abandon. Felix steps and turns in and out of her wake, led and leading, casually avoiding sparks and billows of smoke as the destruction elemental consumes the greenery around them. With every step he’s remembering. How to hold his mind in tune with every whim of the joyful wildfire. How to follow smoothly when she chases a sudden breeze.
How to keep his balance…
He’s soaking with sweat and his eyes burn with smoke and it’s nearly hard to breathe. He’s dancing on air with fire beneath his feet. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. And Felix can’t imagine why he ever stopped.
Proper, respectable mages do little summoning at all these days. Gone are the days of pacts between mortal rulers and the Lords of Oblivion, or the Imperial Battlemage consulting otherworldly powers on the Emperor’s behalf. Aside from the shadowy College of Whispers, conjuration is usually the purview of rogue mages. It annoys Felix that his school is so attractive to amateurs and thugs, but their example is instructive. Rogue mages, secluding themselves in the countryside, tend to use a garbled mix of approaches: bullying and commanding lesser spirits, then working their way up to summoning greater powers… and inevitably trying to order about a being they have no power to bind.
Felix likes to draw more from the witch and the cultist’s attitude to spirits. It’s a humility and perspective you need, to face a Daedric Prince and survive. But there are benefits – overlooked by most – to treating lesser daedra with a degree of respect. Anyone can rattle off a summons and call up some familiar or elemental, compelling their service by brute force. Calling the same one every time, developing a kind of rapport and understanding, that takes practice and talent… and some small reciprocation on the daedra’s part.
It’s about learning how to be in control without being imperious. Understanding that though the daedra are immortal, there are things they fear; that though they are inhuman, there are things they yearn for. Mindfulness. Give and take. Being friendly.
Hence why Felix is out here, in the wilds of Skyrim. It’s cost him a couple of days and a handful of small fictions he’ll have to keep up on his return. He’s stacked a few rocks into a very small shrine and offered the usual tokens: the life energy from a chicken, a bowl of burning salts, a single lit candle. He stands at the heart of the ritual circle he’s prepared and opens the way and utters a name.
Magdra Indis.
For a second the world around him flares purple and black. The atronach spins into being before him, incandescent and graceful. He feels the thread that connects their minds spring taut and even so, she – it, but just try not to ascribe femininity to a being with that form - is all but inscrutable.
“Miss me?” he murmurs, though he knows better. Would she even notice a few months of mortal time? Why should it concern her that he hasn’t called on her?
Can she even tell that he’s changed?
He closes his eyes to the delicate face with its mask of searing flame in place of eyes, the obsidian horns curling back either side of her head. Heat presses against his face. Her will presses against his mind. Here in the circle their connection is stronger than any normal hand-tossed spell. He can feel every push and pull of her attention; the hunger of a being that never eats; the careful balance between an ancient will and he who’s given her form.
He still understands so little. But there are impressions, turned to images as his mind attempts to interpret them. Flame racing over unfamiliar ground. Licking at the wind, questing for something it can leap to. Probing. Seeking. The taste of poor fuel, slow and thick and cold.
Frost magic, he thinks. Death magic, lingering beneath his skin. In his bones. His hands. His hair. He’s marked. He shuts his eyes tighter and sucks in burning air and he manages to shut the thought away. The bright, consuming presence in his mind is a lifeline. Felix wraps his will around it and opens his eyes again to meet her shimmering stare. Tugs a mask over his mouth and nose to keep out the inevitable ash. He sweeps a hand at the clearing around them and translates the concept as best he knows how.
A gift.
Her restlessness is immediate. Felix bows to her, extends his hand. Shall we dance?
He marked the circle as wide as he dared. They whirl around it, never touching but for the invisible line between them. She skates above the ground and scorches trails of flame beneath her delicate feet. Clawed hands toss fire as she twirls and somersaults and dashes with abandon. Felix steps and turns in and out of her wake, led and leading, casually avoiding sparks and billows of smoke as the destruction elemental consumes the greenery around them. With every step he’s remembering. How to hold his mind in tune with every whim of the joyful wildfire. How to follow smoothly when she chases a sudden breeze.
How to keep his balance…
He’s soaking with sweat and his eyes burn with smoke and it’s nearly hard to breathe. He’s dancing on air with fire beneath his feet. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. And Felix can’t imagine why he ever stopped.