"Illusions are the province of demons and spirits of the Fade, messere, and they meddle with the mind. We don't study them in the Circles for that reason." It's a testament to Myr's belief, or perhaps his equanimity with life as a Circle mage, that he says that with particular conviction. They might be useful, but there's also a danger in dabbling in them. "It's not an unknown art, though--but you'd be better off talking to an apostate about it."
As if they all to a mage know every art forbidden in the Circles. Oh, well.
He goes still at the injunction to hold on, head canted curiously toward Sarkan as the wizard speaks the illusion spell again. What's he holding on for, he wants to ask--and then the prickling feel of unfamiliar magic winding through his own spellcraft renders the question void. He breathes a hasty word to renew his own spell, reinforcing the shape he's holding in the Fade with an act of will. Keep the channel steady, let the waters of the dreaming world leak across the Veil into the waking one...
For a single shimmering moment, Sarkan's illusions seem to take root in the spellbloom's verdant mist. Branch and bloom, vine and verdure overlay themselves on the mana font--a new patch of garden surrounding the bench and the mages upon it-- And then the Fade snaps back against their efforts, snuffing both spells with a mana-devouring pop of backlash.
"Andraste's tits!" Myr jerks backward in pained surprise, nearly tumbling off the bench before he can catch himself. The ache of the failed spell's quick to settle in between where his eyes had been; he mutters another oath, reaching to rub at the bridge of his nose-- And pausing. "--that almost worked for a second there, didn't it?"
FINALLY have some headcanon! and spell interactions!!
As if they all to a mage know every art forbidden in the Circles. Oh, well.
He goes still at the injunction to hold on, head canted curiously toward Sarkan as the wizard speaks the illusion spell again. What's he holding on for, he wants to ask--and then the prickling feel of unfamiliar magic winding through his own spellcraft renders the question void. He breathes a hasty word to renew his own spell, reinforcing the shape he's holding in the Fade with an act of will. Keep the channel steady, let the waters of the dreaming world leak across the Veil into the waking one...
For a single shimmering moment, Sarkan's illusions seem to take root in the spellbloom's verdant mist. Branch and bloom, vine and verdure overlay themselves on the mana font--a new patch of garden surrounding the bench and the mages upon it-- And then the Fade snaps back against their efforts, snuffing both spells with a mana-devouring pop of backlash.
"Andraste's tits!" Myr jerks backward in pained surprise, nearly tumbling off the bench before he can catch himself. The ache of the failed spell's quick to settle in between where his eyes had been; he mutters another oath, reaching to rub at the bridge of his nose-- And pausing. "--that almost worked for a second there, didn't it?"