Memory is the heart of Ieza's discipline, the art she sacrificed so much and more than once to master. To remember what was never hers to know has been her greatest longing since childhood, and while she once expressly pursued knowledge lost to history, a memory from a distant world is just as challenging and just as enticing. And under these alien moons, that power is only further augmented, the initial transfer requiring little to no praxic effort.
The experience could be nearly as thrilling to Ieza as it was once to Harry. It is still terribly provincial-looking, Harry's school, with the only nearby settlement being the sleepy town of Hogsmead. Nothing like the Academy, which sits bold as brass in the midst of Calith's Old Quarter, its astrolocus peeking out over the roofs and gables of townhouses and mansions. But it is a magnificent structure, and one that calls to Ieza's own lifelong love of obscure and magically constructed castles, the very precipitation for her academic pursuits and the culmination of her troubled career.
And to fly- sweet Charity, to fly!
Indeed, it is only because Ieza is able to impose the rigors of her discipline that she is kept from being swept up in the memory's vividness. Instead, she captures it in a glass globe within her mind, holding it at arm's length, existing as much without it as within it, her experience analytical instead of purely immanent.
Sadly, this very measure of control produces precisely the trouble that Harry predicts. In seeking to understand, she stifles the pure feeling, and when she extends her hand once more, the memory floating in her mind and between her praxic fingers, and gives the command - 'Up!' - the result is… underwhelming. The broom gives the most grudging of twitches, less levitating than simply leaping no more than two inches off the ground, before falling gracelessly back into the underbrush.
Ieza frowns at the truculent broom for a moment, betrayed. She then looks up at Harry, her expression clearly suspended between hope and disappointment, her pale eyes beseeching.
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The experience could be nearly as thrilling to Ieza as it was once to Harry. It is still terribly provincial-looking, Harry's school, with the only nearby settlement being the sleepy town of Hogsmead. Nothing like the Academy, which sits bold as brass in the midst of Calith's Old Quarter, its astrolocus peeking out over the roofs and gables of townhouses and mansions. But it is a magnificent structure, and one that calls to Ieza's own lifelong love of obscure and magically constructed castles, the very precipitation for her academic pursuits and the culmination of her troubled career.
And to fly- sweet Charity, to fly!
Indeed, it is only because Ieza is able to impose the rigors of her discipline that she is kept from being swept up in the memory's vividness. Instead, she captures it in a glass globe within her mind, holding it at arm's length, existing as much without it as within it, her experience analytical instead of purely immanent.
Sadly, this very measure of control produces precisely the trouble that Harry predicts. In seeking to understand, she stifles the pure feeling, and when she extends her hand once more, the memory floating in her mind and between her praxic fingers, and gives the command - 'Up!' - the result is… underwhelming. The broom gives the most grudging of twitches, less levitating than simply leaping no more than two inches off the ground, before falling gracelessly back into the underbrush.
Ieza frowns at the truculent broom for a moment, betrayed. She then looks up at Harry, her expression clearly suspended between hope and disappointment, her pale eyes beseeching.
"Not such a bad start, is it?"