Bonnlyn couldn't help but note how relieved Verity looked as the class's focus once more shifted from her, even as William opened his mouth again.
"Of course, Instructor. My thanks for your patience and forbearance. On the topic of aether output, a mage may continually produce raw aether in limited quantities so long as they have the stamina to do so. In that regard, with unlimited stamina, a mage would be capable of producing an unlimited amount of raw aether." He coughed before continuing. "By contrast, a mage's ability to output refined aether is strictly limited by how much of the substance they have retained within their soul. Their capacity is the limiting factor. And while that capacity might grow with age and experience, it is still comparatively limited and can be expended very quickly."
"Hmph," the Instructor grunted, clearly unhappy that she couldn't find fault in his explanation. "Correct. Which leads onto the next topic. How does raw aether become the infinitely more useful refined variant?"
Her tone made it clear the question was rhetorical and thus served as a dismissal to William who slumped in his seat once more.
"The conversion of raw aether into refined aether is a process that occurs while a mage sleeps," she explained. "Which also happens to be the moment where a mage may actually meet their patron. Some scholars suggest this is no coincidence. For it is only in the land of dreams, where reality distorts and the boundaries between our world and the void weaken, that a fae can interact with a mage."
As the woman's explanation continued, Bonnlyn noticed that Verity was giving William a thankful look, which he returned with a wry smile before turning back to… whatever it was he was doodling. Completely missing the way both Marline and Olzenya were now glaring at him.
For her part, Bonnlyn was glad the guy had managed to get the old coot off her teammate's back for a moment, though she would also confess some curiosity as to what the boy was sketching.
Damn short body, she thought as she tried to casually lean over to look.
It was a design document of some kind. For some kind of suit with… a long pipe attached?
Or was it a rope? She pondered as she saw the way the object bent and twisted as it emerged from the suit's head, before attaching to some kind of machine.
Is it supposed to be some kind of maneuver-suit?
She supposed it wouldn't be too peculiar for the man to have an interest in that sort of thing. This was a military academy after all, and they'd all be learning how to use the things soon enough.
Hell, it'd be stranger if he didn't have an interest.
The thought made her smile. If he really did have an interest in designing suits, she had some experience on that front. Perhaps they'd have an opportunity to collaborate together?
And then collaborate on some other things too.
That's a big ass helmet though, she thought. Like a giant fishbowl. The fabric looks incredibly thick too. Those gloves would make wielding a bow-gun almost impossible.
Still, she had her answer. Curiosity sated and spirits buoyed, she turned her attention away from the wildly impractical looking design her teammate was working on and back to the board.
"Though to call what occurs there a 'conversation' would be perhaps too generous a descriptor." Instructor Harlen continued. "Dreams, after all, are not a place given to deep conversation or even basic causality. Again, many scholars suggest this is no coincidence, given the alien nature of the fae. It is entirely possible that the chaotic nature of a dream environment is more hospitable to them than the 'rigidity' of our home reality."
She paused. "Either way, the ability to navigate such an environment is ultimately what divides a mediocre mage from a true master. The ability to lucid dream. To retain those contract terms and recite them in their sleep, ensuring that their patron acts as we wish them to act when we call upon 'our' magic."
Her eyes once more roamed to Verity, who wilted under the woman's gaze. "Those incapable of retaining their wits in their dreams will often find themselves awakening to find that they have a contract to summon entirely the wrong element. Earth instead of ice. Or, in the wrong format. An earth wall instead of a launched shard."
She tapped the board once more. "A patron cares not. While they are, for whatever reason, bound by 'laws' of their own, they have not a care for the whims or hopes of their contractors, only the letter of the contract. Even if that will likely mean the death of said contractor upon their awakening."
This time she smiled, her gaze roaming over the nearest collection of red-clad students. "Which is why I'm sure many of you are in the habit of reciting your contracts before you sleep. To hopefully ensure some degree of recall and cognizance in a time where neither comes easy."
The smile faded as she once more regarded the entire room. "That is what this class shall teach. Meditation. Mindfulness. Awareness. The general sharpening of wits to allow each of you to properly form your contracts."
Her eyes narrowed. "Though I am sure I'll have more success with some than others."
-------------------------
"Ugh, this shit is too tight," Bonnlyn complained as she tugged at the hem of her black – or perhaps dark grey - gambeson. "I can't hardly breathe."
William hummed distractedly, unable to turn his gaze away from the brunette girl that had been staring him down from across the duelling arena.
Oh, he'd certainly expected to encounter his fiancée at some point in the foreseeable future, but he hadn't thought it would be this early.
She was a third-year after all. It wasn't like they'd be sharing classes together, and just about the only place she might have been able to seek him out was the cafeteria.
He'd figured he'd get at least a week before she realized he wasn't going to seek her out – to complain or reconcile.
Unfortunately for him, he'd failed to take into account the idea that the duelling area held dozens of arenas, all of which were available to the academy at large to practice in.
Even when a class was taking up a portion of the grounds.
Fortunately for him, it seemed that the Blackstone girl was dutiful enough not to interrupt the Instructor's lesson just to stride over to him to hash out some personal business.
At least not yet, he thought as another bout came to an end, the two first-year combatants sheathing their practice blades as the Instructor stepped forward to critique their form.
Finally turning away from the woman who would ideally not become his future wife, he regarded his dwarvish teammate.
"I can see that," he hummed dryly.
And he could. For while he wasn't going to make any kind of general statements about typical dwarvish bodyshapes, they did come with a certain… reputation.
The word short-stack comes to mind, he thought.
A descriptor the criteria of which Bonnlyn more than fulfilled. And something the armorer who'd created her outfit – probably a human or an elf - clearly hadn't properly taken into account when creating her suit.
Dwarves weren't exactly rare in Lindholm, but they weren't exactly common either.
So yes, if the thing had been made with a very short human or elf in mind rather than an actual dwarf, it was all too possible the thing was just a little 'tight' around the chest.
"It's supposed to be tight," Marline said offhandedly as she watched the next pair of fighters step into the arena. "Because it's supposed to deflect incoming blows. Two massive bulges in the front would instead drive an incoming slash or thrust into your chest instead."
Well, he supposed a noble would know that.
Even if she was wrong.
"Perhaps, if she were wearing a metal cuirass over the top." He pointed out. "It's a gambeson though, which is supposed to absorb a blow rather than deflect it."
"Yeah," Bonnlyn grunted, flirtation forgotten. "And it's all a moot point anyway if it's so tight that I can't feckin' breathe."
Rather than rise to the bait, Marline just shrugged, continuing to watch the fights.
No, she left that to another member of their party.
"Inelegantly put, but I suppose ultimately true. It's possible her outfit truly is too tight. These are mass-produced kits after all." Olzenya sighed, tugging at her own slightly worn gear with a general expression of distaste on her face. "The idea that some plebeian got the wrong measurements – or thought they knew better – isn't beyond the pale."