Grulmar took a deep breath and stretched his arms, circling with his shoulders and then wrists, all the while sucking in the cold air of the Midden. His mind already wondered through the streams and when he found the right one, he tapped into its power. He felt a tingling over his skin as a shield formed around his body and he took another deep breath. Come on, ya can do it this time. It's all about balance, remember? Right timin' and all that. Nothin' but practice. He closed his eyes, vizualizing his targets, his mind drawing the picture of the room, the positions of his targets. He felt Magicka flowing through him, he felt how the bandolier was pressing against his right shoulder and ribs on the left side of his torso. He felt cold sweat on his forehead, going down, between bone protrusions in his eyebrows. Alright. Seven targets. Two knives. What are ya waitin' for?
His hands moved to his chest, to the bandolier and knives sheathed there. When he felt the ring-handles in his fingers he outstreched his arms, letting the knives fly, already moving, spinning around and when he heard how the blades hit their targets he reached into streams, and the knives were pulled back to his hands, being immediately thrown again, at another two targets. He then rolled over his shoulder, extended his arms, pulling the knives back into his hands, but this time he used the Magicka to push against them, propelling them forward like if they were shot from a crossbow. Now pull and push. Easy peasy. The knives flew toward him, he took a step to the side, twisting his arms to change the direction, pointing behind him to the last target.
But he was too slow, missed his window and he felt the knvies hit his wrists and growled in pain. “Shit!” he yelled when the knives ringed on the stone floor and he began rubbing his hands, his eyes checking if he haven't lost fingers or got cut, but it seemed the shield spell did what it should. Still hurts like gettin' slapped by a big stick…
“You are really getting quite good at this. I am impressed,” said a voice behind him and Grulmar jumped in fright, turning around quickly, only to find the big Altmer standing in the doorway, pipe in his mouth and smoke coming out of it. Grulmar's nostril widened when he smelled that awful stench of moon sugar that made his guts twist around his spine. Once a junkie, always a junkie, the Orc thought when he felt the need again.
“Not as good as I would like to,” he murmured, rubbing his wrists.
“Well, the dummies certainly think otherwise,” the Altmer pointed with his pipe at the dummies made of straw, barely holding together from all the knife cuts and stabs Grulmar inflicted - with an angry determination to rip them apart with his knives. But they were still holding together. Somehow.
The Altmer was leaning against the wall on the doorstep, looking around the room, his blazing eyes scanning and remembering every tiny detail - as they always did. There wasn't anything special about the room though. Grulmar had no idea what it was before, but there was a forge standing near the wall oppossite to the entrance, with several alcoves around, and only one leading deeper into Midden.
“You certainly know how to pick a spot,” Äelberon chuckled. “Let the torture commence!” Grulmar sneered at that. Damn Mer knows me far too well. The Altmer's fingers then twitched and Grulmar saw the knives slowly raised from the ground and he frowned. He's barely movin' his hand...is he doin' that with his mind? “It is an interesting way you are using this spell. Never met a mage using it to throw knives. I like that.” The knives suddenly began to dance in the air, then turning on each other, and Grulmar frowned when they started...fencing.
He looked at Äelberon, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. The Mer puffed on his pipe, his eyes narrowed in concentration, but otherwise his hands didn't move even a little. “How do ya do that, Shiny?” Grulmar sighed, once again being put back to his place by someone more skilled. Once again he felt like poor imitation of a mage, mere dabbler in arcane arts, charlatan. Bungler...
Äelberon shrugged and his pipe went from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Oh, that, my lad, is Mysticism.”
Grulmar angrily waved his hand, drawing energy from the stream of Magicka, pushing against the knives, which blasted them away. “Explain,” he growled, as the metal loudly rang against the stone walls, and frankly, even he was taken back by the anger in his voice. Why was he so angry? “Does that mean that Mysticism doesn't follow the same rules as other schools?” he added, trying to sound more calm, though he wasn't entirely sure he was doing a good job at that.
Äelberon's eyebrows raised in...surprise? Warning? Confusion? How the tusk I'm supposed to know what that means? “Yes. And no. It is complicated. One of the toughest concepts I have ever learned.”
“No shit,” Grulmar murmured.
“And I am not even very good at it. The Archmagister from the old Tower?” The Altmer blew out a gust of air. “I am nothing next to him.” Äelberon's fingers twitched again and five gold Septims flew from his pouch, whirling in the air, reflecting the light of torches on the wall and Grulmar was for a second completely dazzled by the play of light and shadow. “Mysticism is a School of Magic - or was more precisely. While it is a School it is much...older,” Äelberon explained, his deep voice barely audible, right at the edge of Grulmar's perception, which made him take a step closer. The coins then began circling in a spiral, completely capturing his attention, but his ears were sorely focused on the Altmer's enchanting voice. “As with all other Schools there are rules. Same set of rules. But still a little bit different, more…” He let out a chuckle. “Chaotic. You do know that Schools are only a superficial construct of magic, right?”
“Categorization of spells so that they could be learned more easily,” Grulmar murmured and found himself nodding, still watching the coins.
“Exactly! Many do not understand this, good, very good, Grulmar. Well, Mysticism is both that and yet not that at the same time. It is more...primal, closer to the roots.”
“Roots?”
The coins were then stacked on each other, then divided again, rotating in the air and Äelberon continued. “What are you imagining when you draw on Magicka?”
“Streams,” the Orc answered absently and then blinked in confusion, snapping his attention to the Altmer instead of the coins, his mind becoming clear again. “Wait. What am I imaginin'? You mean it’s not true?”
The Altmer smiled softly, the coins flying back into his pouch and his eyes acquired a certain weight behind them. “There are many truths. Truth is subjective. What you see is… one of many techniques on how to draw Magicka.”
“So ya see something different?”
Äelberon nodded. “But let us try to follow this image. If you see Magicka as streams and with all other Schools you draw from them, then try to imagine Mysticism as...a place where those streams begin. An enormous storm, clouds heavy with snow, water, acid, possibilities, lightings that are emotions, winds that are images. And the storm is constantly shifting, changing. The Mysticism School draws power from that.”
Grulmar frowned. That doesn't make much sense. Yes, Schools have to originate from somethin', but from Mysticism? “What ya are describin' sounds like somethin' that is very difficult to imagine. So ya say that Mysticism is the origin of Schools?”
Äelberon furrowed his brow in thought. “Maybe. Maybe not. Ah, I see that you are frowning. My obtuse answers are not what you expected and that is getting to you.” He sighed. “But that is because the answers to your questions are not that simple. We are talking about Mysticism. They do not even teach it here much anymore, only really for crazy old birds like me, but a very long time ago, there was just magic. No Schools. And it is Mysticism that is the closest thing to that. So there is Mysticism and Mysticism. The Psijics call it the Old Way, others may call it Mysticism and for someone else it is just purely magic, or magicks.”
“Don't get me started on the Psijics,” Grulmar grimaced and scratched back of his neck. His head was beginning to hurt from all this mumbo-jumbo talk, which actually wasn't getting him any closer to understanding what Mysticism was or how to cast spells from that School.
“You read Mysticism: Unfathomable Voyage and Fragment: On Artaeum, eh?” the Altmer puffed on his pipe and his eyes then seemed to look through Grulmar, through the walls, to a great distance only those eyes could see. “Hmm, let me remember, what does it say…? Ah, yes.”
‘Mysticism seems to derive its power from its cunundrums and paradoxes; the act of experimentation, no matter how objectively implemented, can influence the magicka by its very existance. Thus, the Mystic mage must regulate himself to finding consistant patterns in an imbroglio of energy.’
“And:”
‘The more patterns are found, the clearer the remaining ones become. Until, of course, they change. And then the journey begins anew.’
“I hate how ya remember everythin',” Grulmar murmured. “But all this seems like bullshit to me. How can ya learn somethin' and then...unlearn it?”
“Like un-saving people?” the Altmer chuckled and Grulmar recalled their argument in front of Cornerclub in Windhelm - which seemed like ages ago. “But I think you are taking this from the wrong end of the rope, son. Mysticims is not just a tool for how to cast spells. It is...more spiritual in its nature. Devoid of logic. Understanding of the unstable truths. Order in chaos.” Äelberon puffed on the pipe again and he tapped with his forefinger on his chin. “When was it? Rain's Hand? Hmm, yes, Rain's Hand, the section on the further side from the entrance…”
All Schools of magicka are dangerous to the uninitiated. A simple fireball spell from the School of Destruction can cause great harm when cast by a novice, not only to others but to the mage himself. The School of Mysticism by its very nature forces the practitioner to divorce his mind from logic, to embrace a temporary sort of insanity, which one might argue is very like corrupting one's soul.
“I would also like to argue that the mage who said it, Magister Ulliceta gra-Kogg of Orsinium, was trying to defend Necromancy and in the end it was revealed she was a Necromancer herself. But that does not mean that there is not an ounce of truth in her statement. Temporary sort of insanity, divorcing the mind from logic. Now I remember some other little bit, hmm.” Äelberon's fingers then circled in the air, like if he was drawing something. “Ah, 2920, Sun's Dawn, Book Two. Sotha Sil - who was apparently a member of Psijic Order - said:”
There are layers to understanding all things. The common man looks at an object and fits it into a place in his way of thinking. Those skilled in the Old Ways, in the way of the Psijic, in Mysticism, can see an object and identify it by its proper role. But one more layer is needed to be peeled back to achieve understanding. You must identify the object by its role and its truth and interpret that meaning.
“The rest is all grom,” the Altmer laughed at his own joke, though Grulmar's face probably explained he didn't get it. “Oh, sorry, son. Grom. Dreugh's vomit. Literally, very disgusting.” Äelberon explained and then waved his hand. “Just read the book.”
“What in Sheogorath's cheesy toes is Dreugh?” Grulmar shook his head in confusion and violently scratched his temples with both hands, closing eyes so hard it hurt, gritting his teeth. “And how the tusk is this goin' to help me cast spells that reflect or absorb spells?”
The Altmer raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side. “You alright? Well, I just told you. It is about going deeper, letting go of the control. You have to look for patterns in the storm without actually focusing on looking-”
“That's absolute bullshit,” Grulmar shouted at the Mer. Äelberon frowned and then chuckled.
“And well how do you know it is bullshit if you have not even tried it yet?” The Elf smiled. “Well, go on try a spell. I can teach you a basic one to get your started.”
Grulmar narrowed his eyes and he felt the urgent need to scratch his forearm, feeling that annoying itch there. His fingers twitched, eager to start clawing into his skin, bringing a relief to his mind. But he forced himself not to. “Ya think this is a joke?” the Orc snapped at the Altmer, who raised his eyebrows. “I came to ya askin' for help and…” he growled and then his words trailed into nothingness, the muscle under his left eye twitching. “Wow. I understand now.”
“Understand what, son? Gru, you do not look well--” The Altmer’s hand began to glow gold.
“It was never yer tuskin' intention to really me teach.” He exploded. “Ya just came here to mock me. Humiliate me. To put me back to my place. Stupid Orc, right? Of course, what did I expect from shitty tusker like yerself? Snobbish Old Mary. Ya are all so unbelievably selfish, always carin' only about yer tusking arses first, shittin' on those below yer status! Can't let that little piece of shit know too much, eh? How would that look if he was more capable than gold-ingots-shittin' Ser Shiny the Saint, huh?! Go tusk yerself!” he continued with his outburst, literally screaming with the last words, saliva spouting from his mouth. His breath was crackling in his throat, chest raising in quick successions, his hands shaking... He had enough of that bullshit.
The Altmer’s eyes stared at Grulmar for a few seconds and then looked about the room. “Wo los het?” He asked, almost angry. Äelberon then frowned after a few seconds and mumbled “nid, nid gein.” The dragon eyes found Grulmar again. And then he laughed. “Gold-ingot-shitting? Really? I wish! Would give Jorrvaskr some fucking coin.” The humor quickly faded though to a look of annoyance. “Motagiik, so this is your answer when you fail a spell, eh? To get pissed at the teacher? Blame me for being a snobbish Old Mary.” The silver brow lowered. “Do you know what I had to overcome to even be ALLOWED to study magic in the Isles? You think you are the only one to have ever been called a pig? A goblin? Dusken dog, Grulmar, that is what I was called. Not worth wiping their boots, only fit for the docks. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I worked my arse off, taking everything my teachers had to offer me. You have talent, son, but I will not put up with this shit from you. I do not deserve it.” He pointed his finger at Grulmar who was opening his mouth to snap back at him, but he didn’t let him. “Furthermore, magic is not like that, you dumbarse. It takes patience to really understand it, especially Mysticism. When you grow up some, Grulmar gro-Largash, perhaps you will be able to learn it, but right now? You are either so crazy from your own mental demons or, more than likely, so utterly fucked up on magicka potions that you cannot learn anything even if I spoon-fed it to you.” He nodded. “Aye, I know. I am not stupid.” The frown morphed into a scowl. “ Xarxes’ arse! Is that all you have been eating and drinking? You tread a dangerous path, youngling and you clearly do not want my help. That is unfortunate, because I can help you.” The eyes flashed with a senserity that Grulmar had to avoid, remembering the Windhelm prison. “I can help you, son, because I know you are suffering.” The old Elf then turned away. “But she is right, I cannot make you want my help. I learned this after the Forge.” He nodded his head. “So I take my leave of you, Grulmar. And pray on your fate.”
“Tusk ya and yer lessons! I’m done with that! And I’m done with you!” Grulmar shouted after him as the big Mer disappeared behind the turn of the hallway. The Orc then leaned against the wall and slowly collapsed on the floor, sitting on his arse, head in his hands.
“As am I. May you find peace.” came the reply from the Midden and Grulmar growled. He reached for a vial with his shaking hands, almost spilling out the blue liquid. He downed the vial with one big gulp and then leaned his head against the cold wall. He felt tingling all over his body, bright stars of blue color were flashing behind his closed eyes and his breath became stable again. He opened his eyes, looking at his hands that were calm again and sighed.
“Tusk ya all,” he whispered into the empty labyrinth of Midden.
Sources used in this Lesson: Mysticism: The Unfathomable Voyage, The Black Arts on Trial, 2920 Sun's Dawn
Comments
Aelberon is so cool though)))
It even uses the same ingredient as skooma.