"Yes, messere Dragon," Myr affirms. "The same. I managed not to come to grief while putting my glyphs up, as you can see." His smile takes a turn for the wry, there.
Briefly, he considers the situation before him; Sarkan's voice is lower-placed than he'd expect from someone standing, implying the existence of the bench. He reaches to tap it with his staff, nods once, and closes to feel out a seat for himself. Once he's settled, he picks the thread of their conversation back up smoothly: "I could feel the magic, at least, though not the edges of it. It smelled real enough and you had the bees fooled, so I'm disappointed I couldn't see it. Illusion's not something we learn much about in the Circles."
He leans his staff against his shoulder to free both his hands, stretching out his fingers and murmuring under his breath as he works through a spell of his own. It's not a long or a complicated one, and in short order he turns both palms to the ground to release the magic. An eddy of green mist collects around their feet and the legs of the bench, shimmering; at the center, a single lotus-like blossom--not solid enough to fool men nor bees--unfolds its petals of pale viridian light. More important than the spell bloom itself is the restorative effect it's got on a mage's reserves of energy--at least, for mages tied to the Fade. Myr's not so sure whether it'll work for a rifter, but he's interested in finding out.
"That's the best I can do," he remarks of his handiwork, "and the flower's only really a marker for the spell's focal point. Most mages do without it, but I always liked having them." And maybe he ought not to bother now with the extra work now that he can't see it anymore, something in his tone seems to say. But so it goes.
taking some liberties with spell effects here for rule of cool
Briefly, he considers the situation before him; Sarkan's voice is lower-placed than he'd expect from someone standing, implying the existence of the bench. He reaches to tap it with his staff, nods once, and closes to feel out a seat for himself. Once he's settled, he picks the thread of their conversation back up smoothly: "I could feel the magic, at least, though not the edges of it. It smelled real enough and you had the bees fooled, so I'm disappointed I couldn't see it. Illusion's not something we learn much about in the Circles."
He leans his staff against his shoulder to free both his hands, stretching out his fingers and murmuring under his breath as he works through a spell of his own. It's not a long or a complicated one, and in short order he turns both palms to the ground to release the magic. An eddy of green mist collects around their feet and the legs of the bench, shimmering; at the center, a single lotus-like blossom--not solid enough to fool men nor bees--unfolds its petals of pale viridian light. More important than the spell bloom itself is the restorative effect it's got on a mage's reserves of energy--at least, for mages tied to the Fade. Myr's not so sure whether it'll work for a rifter, but he's interested in finding out.
"That's the best I can do," he remarks of his handiwork, "and the flower's only really a marker for the spell's focal point. Most mages do without it, but I always liked having them." And maybe he ought not to bother now with the extra work now that he can't see it anymore, something in his tone seems to say. But so it goes.