(OOC: I hope it's not sinful to post with a character that hasn't been approved yet, I just wanted to get IC answers to some questions that I can hopefully work into the next draft of his history, ie. “He once asked a priest and was told...”)
Armen, now 13, kept his hands folded in front of him and ignored the growing urge to move. He tried to look as respectful as possible before his elders, acutely aware both that he was on holy ground, and that his mouth was about level with the top of the nearest elder's cane.
"Each creature that then sprang forth was a part of Faeterna as the elves were, and so had intelligence and magic. Pieces of bark fell to the earth and became the tough dwarves. Drops of sap became a race that no one remembers and is now lost, though their fluid nature made their magic strong. Twigs became the wiry goblins. Buds became humans, weak but full of potential. A branch fell and broke into pieces, each piece becoming a ss'tiss."
“Leaves became elves, right?” He piped up, excited by the connection.
And I suppose the squirrels became misharr, he added silently. The story of the magic tree had always seemed funny to Armen, though he stopped just short of asking himself whether he believed it. He wondered, not for the first time, how deep its roots went, and what they had become.
Armen liked thinking of himself as a bud, but thought the story probably didn't refer to humans quite as weak as him.
"You don't travel much, I guess," the second man told him. "It's more common in Mirg, maybe, among the tribes. When they come to civilized countries, they act more civilized. But those tribes," he frowned and shook his head. "They use magic," he whispered. "I've heard it's quite common."
The comment about magic being “quite common” blew right passed Armen. Another word instead was stuck in his head.
Travel. Armen had never thought of it before. His mind held onto it, turning it over, toying with it like a shiny new trinket.
“But you had another question, lad, a very important one, I think. If you are having trouble with magic, you should confess to a priest immediately. It's very important; you should not try to deal with it yourself. We have elders who can help you if we know what the problem is."
Oh gods oh gods oh gods. “An important question!” He knew.Armen wished he was back at the orphanage, or on the street performing for tips, or even slaving away at the drudgery of an astronomy or drawing lesson; anywhere but here. His usually quick mind was now racing faster than he could keep up with, running through the possibilities. Could they see the sweat? Maybe their eyes weren't so good. Anyone could sweat a little under the early afternoon sun. Right?
He stood, looking as innocent as he could; certain that he was broadcasting waves of guilt to the three men before him; certain that they could read his mind far more clearly and directly than he could read theirs; certain that at any moment the evil inside him would unleash a torrent of fire that would incinerate not only these innocent men but the whole temple, maybe the entire quarter of the city.
Checking his imagination, Armen turned to his memory. Littered among the words to every sermon he'd ever heard, the books he'd paid attention to while copying or illuminating, and the faces and names of everyone he'd ever met, were the memories of rumors, and more recently, feelings he'd picked up about magic. The latter were far more vivid.
First, there were Sister Elenka's endless sermons on vigilance and righteousness, about how we have to always stand up for what is good and banish evil daily from our lives, and how the wrym will constantly tempt the weak minded to sin. It seemed that he could feel her emotions for as long as he could remember, certainly more than the last two weeks; but then when Elenka got to preaching everyone felt something.
The thoughts he had picked up in the two weeks since his awakening, whenever common people were talking or thinking about magic, were frightening. There was hatred, fear, and confusion on the emotional level. Below that there were words like “witch”, “evil”, “demon”, and “wrymspawn”; and below that there were images of people running, breathless and terrified, people being burned or hung from trees, grand trials where the accused had no chance of acquittal.
Armen had no idea if these things were memories, wishes, or just rumors and wild flights of fancy. They were totally beyond control, bleeding across the psychic space into his little mind, which soaked them up like a sponge and burned them along with all the other little details he'd picked up, into the indelible record of his life.
Thankfully, he was saved by the appearance of a fourth man, this one older than the other three, and looking, Armen thought, both very weak and very strong at the same time.
The man spoke of his travels in the Dwarven and Delphae lands.
"Now now, you must understand, the dwarves see things... a bit differently than we do here in Korresh.
That was as much a marvel to Armen as the mention of travel.
See things differently. Armen knew that Sister Mary and Sister Elenka often disagreed about how to discipline him and the other children or how much study time was appropriate compared with how much prayer, and Sister Mary had even argued with a priest to allow Armen to perform his acts on the street corner for extra money, but he had never dreamed that it was possible for a whole race of people to disagree with the church about something and big and important as magic.
After the older man bowed to signal he was done speaking Armen had a decision to make. He turned back to the three other men, focused on the priest in the middle who was now eying him expectantly. The church could teach him how to control his powers, Armen was sure of that, but could he trust them? For the last two weeks Armen had been doing his best to tune out and ignore the sea of thoughts and feelings that floated through his head, but now he did something he never thought he'd do: he listened to it.
With no training there would be no “tuning in” to a specific person. From the around him he felt no anger or violence, but a mix of concern, uncertainty, and, yes, fear. Even deeper though, he felt that same underlying prejudice that he felt everywhere; though admittedly it was likely as not coming from the other townsfolk in the square, and not the priest. Still, a nagging doubt tugged at Armen's mind.
Sure they could teach you, but what if there's someone out there who could teach you better?“No sir”, he said to the priest.
That's it, a fearful voice said inside him.
It's not just something that happens to me anymore. I willingly used dark powers on a member of the clergy of Dargotten, on holy ground, and lied about it.“I watch the fool-you shows on the street corners from by bed at the orphanage”, he continued, “but some of the men I see out there can do amazing things, make cards and coins and rabbits appear like nothing. I was scared, is all, so I wanted to know more about magic. Thank you.”
If none of the men continue the conversation, Armen will bow respectfully and leave as fast as he can.
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