You’re not going to leave now, when Asotil is probably only an hour or two from arriving. He explicitly told you he was going to get his schedule shifted by six hours, and that he was going to meet up with you and travel back.
Even if he got reassigned to another road or something, there would still be an Imperial Legionnaire patrolling this one. When they come by the town – apparently six hours later than normal – you will be briefly sad that they’re not Asotil, but you’ll still travel with them.
And on the off-chance that every Legionnaire was suddenly recalled for an emergency or something, you’d still like to ensure your safety by traveling with someone else. Maybe the textile merchant or Dagon cultist have a reason to go to the coast?
You really don’t want to head out on your own. Not when overconfidence has screwed you so many times.
It’s still not much of a meter when you can’t tell how much it’s changing, but you straighten up the magicka bar a bit and make it a clothing-coordinated shade of blue.
You’d make a better one, but you’re pretty sure all your imagination-juice is currently going toward this extremely vivid snake you keep adding things to.
You still have sweetrolls! In fact, ten hours of eating sweetrolls and giving them to everyone who walks past has only taken you about halfway through this 24-pack.
You could run into town and get some real food, but you’re worried straying from the rock for too long will cause you to miss Asotil. Also, you kind of feel like you deserve this sickeningly sweet fate for buying five pounds of sweetrolls. It’s a complicated feeling.
Anyway, let’s learn about zapping things.
Part One. Introduction.
Lightning is the art of friction.
It is the broil of clouds against the night sky. It is the crackling drag of fabric against fabric. It is the slow burn that drains our power as we pull magicka through the fibrous aether, and to wield the spark as your weapon is to embrace and unleash the friction that the unenlightened mage laments as his detriment.
Some among the scholarly elite contend that the destruction mage’s reliance upon emotion is “brutish.” And I confess, when it comes to the sting of angst that ignites a flame spell, or the cold focus of frost, I find that my field’s detractors and I begrudgingly agree. To call forth the echo of thunder, however, is not to regard emotions as your weapon, but as the terrain upon which you fight. It is to draw your unformed energies through the tangled conflict of thought, allowing whatever change the burn of friction may inflict upon them.
Oh good, it’s flowery bullshit. You were worried something meaningful might happen today.
Trying to learn a bunch of new magic skills all at once might be biting off more than you can chew, yeah. Especially trying to learn them over the course of twelve hours, and without sleep.
To show the flowery metaphor book how dumb it is, you imagine up a big clump of magicka and, as per its suggestion, drag it through what you can only assume is a giant mess of overthinking that surrounds you.
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