Talk of roses and rivers is surely preferable to talk of skulls and serpents. That such symbols might serve as a neat way of covering up a deeper, more subtle malevolence is a suspicion best left to the most paranoiac of minds. Whatever the reality, she does seem, at this instant, more interested in intellectual discussion than in the subjugation of the world under a lineage of pure-blooded magic users. So maybe it's not entirely clear which house she'd have been sorted into.
"The material parsimony paradox is one of the most vexing," she agrees, with a breathlessness that is probably due to excitement rather than respiratory distress, "I've always suspected that it has something to do with the complexity of the element you're trying to produce. You can conjure fire without too much difficulty, but creating even just a pile of wood has always proven an insurmountable challenge. Water is also a pure element, while making even a simple pastry involves a remarkable amount of distinct material, as any baker can tell you."
The joke about the ambient humidity doesn't make her laugh, but she smiles and raises her hand to her mouth as if she were hiding a guffaw, an outward acknowledgement that a joke has been made in the absence of actual involuntary cachinnations. It's a weirdly coy gesture, a courtly one in fact, somewhat at odds with her otherwise direct manner.
Directness prevails as the lesson begins, however; she observes with a focused intensity that is predictably startled at the simplicity of the operation and its attendant invocation. But she's not such a snob that she demands all her power-words be composed in the polysyllables of long-dead languages. Even if she were, she's far too busy being visibly delighted at the sight of the broom springing to life. She actually claps her hands, like a small child who has just had a silver coin plucked from behind her ear; and, to be fair, this is just about as inexplicably and properly 'magical' to her as sleight of hand would be to a youngster.
When he sets the broom back down, however, her face falls, not into misery so much as trepidation. What, she wonders, if it doesn't work for her? He's tried to prepare her for that eventuality, but the disappointment would still be crushing, a tutorial turned into mere display. She steps forward, lifts her hand, and hesitates.
"Is that all?" she asks, doubtful, "just- the word? Should I... be visualizing anything? What change am I willing in the world?"
no subject
"The material parsimony paradox is one of the most vexing," she agrees, with a breathlessness that is probably due to excitement rather than respiratory distress, "I've always suspected that it has something to do with the complexity of the element you're trying to produce. You can conjure fire without too much difficulty, but creating even just a pile of wood has always proven an insurmountable challenge. Water is also a pure element, while making even a simple pastry involves a remarkable amount of distinct material, as any baker can tell you."
The joke about the ambient humidity doesn't make her laugh, but she smiles and raises her hand to her mouth as if she were hiding a guffaw, an outward acknowledgement that a joke has been made in the absence of actual involuntary cachinnations. It's a weirdly coy gesture, a courtly one in fact, somewhat at odds with her otherwise direct manner.
Directness prevails as the lesson begins, however; she observes with a focused intensity that is predictably startled at the simplicity of the operation and its attendant invocation. But she's not such a snob that she demands all her power-words be composed in the polysyllables of long-dead languages. Even if she were, she's far too busy being visibly delighted at the sight of the broom springing to life. She actually claps her hands, like a small child who has just had a silver coin plucked from behind her ear; and, to be fair, this is just about as inexplicably and properly 'magical' to her as sleight of hand would be to a youngster.
When he sets the broom back down, however, her face falls, not into misery so much as trepidation. What, she wonders, if it doesn't work for her? He's tried to prepare her for that eventuality, but the disappointment would still be crushing, a tutorial turned into mere display. She steps forward, lifts her hand, and hesitates.
"Is that all?" she asks, doubtful, "just- the word? Should I... be visualizing anything? What change am I willing in the world?"