No I am Doyle
1 Angry Lawyer
The following is a small part from the story I am trying to get published. PLease tell me what you think... it is still in the rough draft form.
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For a late fall evening, it was quite warm. Outside, the multitude of insects serinaded the falling sun. Animals were always atracted to areas rich with mystic energies. Smoke drizzled upwards from the brick chimney of the wooden house that Myka Scrye spent his nights apprenticing in the ways of Spellcraft. The scents of herbs had saturated the pine walls. The main room was lit by a cold lamp, one powered by enchanted stones that reacted to the available light. Teacher and student sat at opposite ends of a large oak table. Thick clothes clung lightly to both, proof that the humidity lingered. In front of Myka sat a large, thick, crystal orb. A gray mist swirled lazily in it's circumference. It was used by most masters of the spell to assist their pupils in honing their minds to their magics, allowing control over the energies they would one day wield and bind into spells.
"Now Myka, if this is done correctly, there should be many colors. All as beautiful as you can imagine them to be. As you become more atuned with the magics, you will project thoughts and images." Donald Oladrick had seen many students come and go over the years. All had failed to impress him as much as this young child. To him, a twelve year old should not be able to use the spectrum orb with any real proficiency. Usually, students a few years older than he had been able to get more than a flicker of translucent color. As Myka placed his hands on the enchanted orb, he knew that this was different.
As Myka touched the opaque ball, bright flashes of strong color filled the device. Startled, Myka brought his hands back. A smile and a chuckle came to Oladrick. Myka looked up at his teacher, not sure what to think.
"Did I do it wrong?" He was afraid to touch the sphere again.
"Quite the contrary," Oladrick said, with a friendly shake of the head. He had become accustomed to his lack of suprise at the latent talent this child displayed, "You did just fine. Try it again." Myka placed his hands on the glass. At first, nothing happened, then the device began to brighten. This time more slowly. Light filled the orb completely. Myka looked at Donald and laughed. His consentration lost, so went the light. Before it had dimmed completely, the child regained his focus. The illumination became rich once again, flickering only momentarily. As it held it's glow, Myka's face contorted. He was trying to force a change. Again, the light flickered.
"The only thing you are going to accomplish, is to give yourself an anurism." It was a common mistake amoung those who were either only learning or had no idea of how magic was created, to try to physically force the changes. "Let it flow," he said calmly, "change on it's own. Your hand should be a subtle one." He tilted his head upward, pushing his spectacles back. He kept his downward gaze on Myka. "Magic can never be forced. You can only..." The ball strobed blue. "let it..." A flash of red. "happen." The white gave way to a brilliant purple, which swirled in the glassy ball for moments, before changing to a lush green, like the color of leaves in the summer.
Myka laughed his great laugh of triumph, loosing control of his dewomer for only a moment. This time, it held.
"Excellent job." The master mage kept his elation in check. He had great pride in Myka, and not for anything he had ever taught him. Only twelve, Myka Scrye was a brazen prodigy of the arts. His student had accomplished spells in the last two years that had eluded himself till he was nearly fifteen. Not that Oladrick was a slouch of any kind in the ways of spellcasting. Quite adept himself, many a teacher had spent years praising him at the Academy of Manique in the Jersey Territorial Province. For Myka, however, Oladrick knew that a private setting was needed to keep the Scrye boy from stagnating into a state of mediocrity. The orb went black, as pitch, as Myka was wracked with rough, wet coughs. "Here, child." Oladrick quickly placed a clean rag out for the child to catch the excess in.
Except. As always in life, there were excepts. For Myka, there was his illness. Terminally ill, it was believed that Myka would never see the age of eighteen. He would never get to see the brilliant future he had in store. At first, his illness had presented itself as tuberculosis, a disease all but forgotten in the Americas. It's mystic nature was soon discovered, an origin that granted it resistance. Those medical sciences that has survived the great purge of technology so many centuries ago were implamented, but it resisted. The clerical magic of the Catholics would have cured it in no time, and still, it resisted. Experimantal ideas were brought into play, yet the disease remained, poisoning the child with it's waste toxins. The best anyone had managed was a foul concoction, an elixer meant to prevent many of these painful coughing spells. It simply bought the child comfort in his final years.
After a few minutes, his fit had finished. Myka brought the bloody rag away from his face. He looked up with a slight smile. Oladrick could tell that the pain had yet to subside. Still, Myka's hands went back into place on the crystal.
"Are you sure you want to continue?" The master's voice was etched with concern. As if to respond, the colors flowed and merged in the device. Oladrick knew that he did this to aleviate his apprehention. He could only smile. Of course, any child of Mallory Scrye would be brave. He went to the cold box, opening the wooden door. The hinges creaked loudly. The mystical cold emanated from the enchanted appliance. Magic had replaced so many of the comforts lost to man after technology had been abolished. He for one, didn't mind a bit.
Oladrick pulled a sealed jar and a small leather pouch from the chilled box. From the shelf, he took a porceline mug. Walking back to the table, he set the pouch down. Myka looked at him with typical childish disdain for medicine. He swished the dull green contents of the jar around as he chanted a few words. The glossiness of cold quickly faded as the jar heated in his hand.. Oladrick poped the lid, steam vented outwards. He poured a generous amount into the mug, then replace the seal and set the jar on the table.
"Now drink all of..."
"I know, I know." Myka was not pleased. Taking his hands away from the crystal that was holding his interest fast, he took the mug. Myka wrinkled his nose at the smell, wafting the steam with his other hand. "I think that this stuff'll kill me first." Oladrick could only chuckle.
"Drink," he kindly ordered. "Or I fear your mother will have both our heads." Myka took another sniff, and pretended to wretch. "It would help greatly, I believe, if you didn't take the time to smell it."
"I can't help it... it smells like a cat's butt," he protested. Oladrick bellowed lightly.
"And so I believe it is made from it, and yet... drink." Myka swallowed the rank potion, stopping from time to time to complain of the terrible flavor and the chunky consistancy, and how the man who made it was most certainly standing outside laughing at him. Oladrick returned with how magic was not always pleasant and was never meant to taste good, and how this batch was drafted by himself, and how, yes, he was finding amusement at all the unnessesary quibbling.
That duty finished, Myka set himself down at the table to practice with the orb some more. Satisfied that everything would be fine without his presence for a while, Oladrick excused himself to the front porch with the leather pouch, his pipe, and his thoughts.
-
-
For a late fall evening, it was quite warm. Outside, the multitude of insects serinaded the falling sun. Animals were always atracted to areas rich with mystic energies. Smoke drizzled upwards from the brick chimney of the wooden house that Myka Scrye spent his nights apprenticing in the ways of Spellcraft. The scents of herbs had saturated the pine walls. The main room was lit by a cold lamp, one powered by enchanted stones that reacted to the available light. Teacher and student sat at opposite ends of a large oak table. Thick clothes clung lightly to both, proof that the humidity lingered. In front of Myka sat a large, thick, crystal orb. A gray mist swirled lazily in it's circumference. It was used by most masters of the spell to assist their pupils in honing their minds to their magics, allowing control over the energies they would one day wield and bind into spells.
"Now Myka, if this is done correctly, there should be many colors. All as beautiful as you can imagine them to be. As you become more atuned with the magics, you will project thoughts and images." Donald Oladrick had seen many students come and go over the years. All had failed to impress him as much as this young child. To him, a twelve year old should not be able to use the spectrum orb with any real proficiency. Usually, students a few years older than he had been able to get more than a flicker of translucent color. As Myka placed his hands on the enchanted orb, he knew that this was different.
As Myka touched the opaque ball, bright flashes of strong color filled the device. Startled, Myka brought his hands back. A smile and a chuckle came to Oladrick. Myka looked up at his teacher, not sure what to think.
"Did I do it wrong?" He was afraid to touch the sphere again.
"Quite the contrary," Oladrick said, with a friendly shake of the head. He had become accustomed to his lack of suprise at the latent talent this child displayed, "You did just fine. Try it again." Myka placed his hands on the glass. At first, nothing happened, then the device began to brighten. This time more slowly. Light filled the orb completely. Myka looked at Donald and laughed. His consentration lost, so went the light. Before it had dimmed completely, the child regained his focus. The illumination became rich once again, flickering only momentarily. As it held it's glow, Myka's face contorted. He was trying to force a change. Again, the light flickered.
"The only thing you are going to accomplish, is to give yourself an anurism." It was a common mistake amoung those who were either only learning or had no idea of how magic was created, to try to physically force the changes. "Let it flow," he said calmly, "change on it's own. Your hand should be a subtle one." He tilted his head upward, pushing his spectacles back. He kept his downward gaze on Myka. "Magic can never be forced. You can only..." The ball strobed blue. "let it..." A flash of red. "happen." The white gave way to a brilliant purple, which swirled in the glassy ball for moments, before changing to a lush green, like the color of leaves in the summer.
Myka laughed his great laugh of triumph, loosing control of his dewomer for only a moment. This time, it held.
"Excellent job." The master mage kept his elation in check. He had great pride in Myka, and not for anything he had ever taught him. Only twelve, Myka Scrye was a brazen prodigy of the arts. His student had accomplished spells in the last two years that had eluded himself till he was nearly fifteen. Not that Oladrick was a slouch of any kind in the ways of spellcasting. Quite adept himself, many a teacher had spent years praising him at the Academy of Manique in the Jersey Territorial Province. For Myka, however, Oladrick knew that a private setting was needed to keep the Scrye boy from stagnating into a state of mediocrity. The orb went black, as pitch, as Myka was wracked with rough, wet coughs. "Here, child." Oladrick quickly placed a clean rag out for the child to catch the excess in.
Except. As always in life, there were excepts. For Myka, there was his illness. Terminally ill, it was believed that Myka would never see the age of eighteen. He would never get to see the brilliant future he had in store. At first, his illness had presented itself as tuberculosis, a disease all but forgotten in the Americas. It's mystic nature was soon discovered, an origin that granted it resistance. Those medical sciences that has survived the great purge of technology so many centuries ago were implamented, but it resisted. The clerical magic of the Catholics would have cured it in no time, and still, it resisted. Experimantal ideas were brought into play, yet the disease remained, poisoning the child with it's waste toxins. The best anyone had managed was a foul concoction, an elixer meant to prevent many of these painful coughing spells. It simply bought the child comfort in his final years.
After a few minutes, his fit had finished. Myka brought the bloody rag away from his face. He looked up with a slight smile. Oladrick could tell that the pain had yet to subside. Still, Myka's hands went back into place on the crystal.
"Are you sure you want to continue?" The master's voice was etched with concern. As if to respond, the colors flowed and merged in the device. Oladrick knew that he did this to aleviate his apprehention. He could only smile. Of course, any child of Mallory Scrye would be brave. He went to the cold box, opening the wooden door. The hinges creaked loudly. The mystical cold emanated from the enchanted appliance. Magic had replaced so many of the comforts lost to man after technology had been abolished. He for one, didn't mind a bit.
Oladrick pulled a sealed jar and a small leather pouch from the chilled box. From the shelf, he took a porceline mug. Walking back to the table, he set the pouch down. Myka looked at him with typical childish disdain for medicine. He swished the dull green contents of the jar around as he chanted a few words. The glossiness of cold quickly faded as the jar heated in his hand.. Oladrick poped the lid, steam vented outwards. He poured a generous amount into the mug, then replace the seal and set the jar on the table.
"Now drink all of..."
"I know, I know." Myka was not pleased. Taking his hands away from the crystal that was holding his interest fast, he took the mug. Myka wrinkled his nose at the smell, wafting the steam with his other hand. "I think that this stuff'll kill me first." Oladrick could only chuckle.
"Drink," he kindly ordered. "Or I fear your mother will have both our heads." Myka took another sniff, and pretended to wretch. "It would help greatly, I believe, if you didn't take the time to smell it."
"I can't help it... it smells like a cat's butt," he protested. Oladrick bellowed lightly.
"And so I believe it is made from it, and yet... drink." Myka swallowed the rank potion, stopping from time to time to complain of the terrible flavor and the chunky consistancy, and how the man who made it was most certainly standing outside laughing at him. Oladrick returned with how magic was not always pleasant and was never meant to taste good, and how this batch was drafted by himself, and how, yes, he was finding amusement at all the unnessesary quibbling.
That duty finished, Myka set himself down at the table to practice with the orb some more. Satisfied that everything would be fine without his presence for a while, Oladrick excused himself to the front porch with the leather pouch, his pipe, and his thoughts.
-
