Chapter 46: It was imperative that Cuman got stoned
“So you’re going to stay for the next three months?” Fabrisse asked before shoving the last piece of pie into his half-stuffed mouth. He balanced his pie tin on one knee, while Tommaso sat cross-legged beside him, absently flicking sparks between his fingers.
“Yeah,” Tommaso said. He wasn’t eating any pie. He didn’t even like pie.
They were slouched in their usual spot, a semi-forgotten maintenance balcony halfway up the east tower overlooking the glowvine-lit atrium below. It was just high enough to discourage surprise visitors or to practice pyromancy tricks without accidentally burning anything down. Someone, years ago, had dragged two mismatched chairs and an old sigil-console up here and declared it furniture. Probably Tom.
Fabrisse claimed the sturdier chair.
“Are you guys even allowed to take a vacation that long?” Fabrisse asked.
“I still have work to do. There have been bizarre fire resonance phenomena inside the Synod, and I’ve been sent back to have a closer look.”
“What phenomenon?”
“That’s classified,” Tommaso gave him a toothy grin.
“Oh. You’re keeping secrets now that you’re a magus?”
“Speaking of secrets, I should be asking you.” Tom nudged him with his elbow. “The Chosen One, huh? What’s your ultimate spell, dude? I know you can conjure an entire ballroom full of illusory chickens now. Spill it.”
“Well . . . I have this one.” He took out a Stupenstone from his satchel. “Turn around.”
Tommaso chuckled and obliged.
Fabrisse raised the Stupenstone, muttered a few choice syllables under his breath—most of which probably weren’t magical—and released the spell.
A bolt of shimmering force zipped through the air.
And he missed.
The spell zipped past the pot, just grazing the wall behind it with a harmless fizz.
Tom turned back around just in time to see the wilted plant wobble from the near miss. “Huh. Not bad. Though this is what you’ve been spending time on? Where are the obligatory fire spells?”
“I haven’t learned them.”
“How did you pass the exam?” Tommaso furrowed his brows.
“You need a 50 to pass. 50% of the test was theory. I scored a 48 in theory.”
“You passed on a technicality?”
Fabrisse shrugged and shoved the now-empty pie tin under his chair. “It’s not a technicality if it’s in the rules.”
“Then how much did you get for the actual spellcasting portion?”
“Seven. Lorvan said my form was acceptable.”
Tommaso let out a long, slow exhale and rubbed his temples. “And you’re supposed to be the Chosen One.” He paused for another second. “Look. Final year subjects won’t be like that. The theory itself gets harder and they won’t let you pass without a sufficient cast. Maybe we can transform whatever knowledge you’ve accumulated into practice. You don’t keep that old notebook with you anymore?”
“At home. It’s so tattered it can turn into dust if I touch it too hard.”
“What about your lucky charm?” Fabrisse had once found a shard of lunarglass hematite. That rock was aether-reactive and could resonate with aetheric channels during incantation.
“I left it with Dubbie.”
“You’re kidding,” Tommaso snorted. “It actually offers a boost to your Inner Resonance, so you should bring it along with you. Dubbie doesn’t even practice Thaumaturgy. You, on the other hand, need some help.”
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Speaking of help . . . He had a quest which would run out in two days. During those two days, he had to throw a rock at Cuman’s face. It was imperative that Cuman got stoned.
“I know this might be a long shot . . . But do you know of any way for me to improve my rock flinging in two days?” Fabrisse asked sheepishly.
“Rock flinging, huh?” Tommaso put a finger on his chin. “I have just the thing for you.”
| You have equipped the Thaumaturge’s Throwmitts of Misguided Bravado] Description: SYN + 3; RES + 2 Also passively increases your likelihood to pick fights you probably can’t win, if your FP drops to lower than 30% of the total amount.
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