Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse stepped onto the packed-sand floor of the training ring, scanning the other end for a spot as far as possible from Severa Montreal. Even at this distance, he recognized the way she carried herself: precise, controlled, a predator in repose.

Maybe if he just carried on doing his thing in silence, she’d leave him be. Nine out of ten times, it worked.

He carried the glass bottle of water carefully, uncorked it, and let a few droplets fall onto the sand. Slipping on his Thaumaturge’s Throwmitts, he watched the water ripple.

Fabrisse settled on the far side of the ring, careful to keep his distance. He raised the glass bottle slightly, watching the water inside as it lay still. He pinched his fingers, recalling the delicate water pattern underneath the surface of the bottle.

He aligned his breathing with the pulse of the water, synchronizing his intent with the natural oscillations beneath. Slowly, he wove his mental thread through the ripple, connecting his aetheric energy to the pattern like tuning a fragile instrument. Then he chanted:

“See, wait, speak.”