Clink, Clank, CRASH

“Maybe not, but it would be a marked improvement. However–…” He let his gaze wander along the crowd, trying to distinguish Dust’s form among the masses. To no avail.

“It doesn’t look it, but I am here with someone. In the interest of our continued friendship, I believe it is paramount I remain available to be talked to and to be fed the occasional caramel when so desired.”

He gasped, hand to his chest, and chided her with a poor – very poor – mimicry of high class diction.

“Pray, keep yer slander to yerself. A lady of my standing does not swoon.”

“Pfft!” Dust scoffed and let Brielle go, hands moving to her hips. “The national Nordic past-time is drinking mead and talking about past conquests both warlike and carnal while not actually doing either.” She wagged a finger, then got a catlike smirk at Brielle’s wink.

“Oh, now that is very tempting.” There was something both soft and sleek in her look, eyes lidding. It really was tempting. She was a pretty thing, and not at all shy. But of course, she couldn’t indulge like that with anyone who didn’t know her secrets. “But I shouldn’t, dear. I’m going to wake up utterly hungover, and furthermore it’s going to be in the home of a guest who might be annoyed if I go missing.”

If she goes missing? There’s a brief bit of confusion--could Dust know she was in the company of an assassin?--before Brielle realized she meant something far more innocent. “I’d never dream to take you from your guest. But...

For a moment it seemed the Breton took the teasing to heart. She froze in place, mouth agape, looking very much like her partner had just insulted her profession, her honour and her mother all in one go.

Then, without warning, she cackled - moving to try and catch Brielle up in a proper dance, dipping her backwards if she allowed with something closer to a leer than a smile. “No no, darling, we do other things with flailing limbs when we’re in our cups.”

“Do we?” Brielle laughed, letting herself be dipped and moved about. “I know it’s the national Nordic pasttime, but how much fun can you have when you’re sloshed? I’ve half a mind to think it’s all invented in the morning to make up for the headache.

To be surprised to hear that a large portion of students abhorred calculations, must mean she didn’t get to communicating beyond people in her field much. But to be stunned by the news that magic was an exact science, that was the real kicker.

What? Did she think all great mages of the past, whose groundbreaking insights and formulas were still taught today, just handwaved it? How did she figure the study of magic was communicated peer-to-peer, across generations and language barriers? To write it down and describe it, you needed mathematics, physics and metaphysics. It wasn’t all philosophy. No, you didn’t need to be good at your sums to cast a fireball, but if you weren’t, you’d never go on to publish a book or make history.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the world’s full of fucking idiots.”

“Yes, well, and I was one of the ignorant til a moment ago.” Brielle mused. “Still am, obviously--I wouldn’t know where to start--but you aren’t, and that has some intriguing possibilities.”

“So do I, after I’ve skinned and butchered them. Guess that makes me a lady, too. Hold the fuck up–” He put his tankard down, and put one foot in front of the other. Arms out, a little bob of the knees. “How’s that for a fucking curtsy?”

He raised a brow. There was nothing peculiar about the Dwemer as an example. If understanding of the fundamental laws of the various fields of knowledge they busied themselves with was what brought on their demise, the majority of the academic world would’ve ceased to exist along with them. Or perhaps it had, and they had all transcended. Him, her, and everyone else here. In which case he couldn’t but conclude that transcendence wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“Everything can be described with mathematics. That’s what it’s for, but keep it to yourself, huh? I don’t need you spreading panic among potential students. As much as I loathe teaching, my income does depend on it.”

“Why would that chase students away?” Brielle was aghast at the thought. No, finding out magic could be predicted in mathematical equations was a miracle, a revelation. No one had ever thought to mention this to her in any time she’d complained about the unpredictability of enchantments, and yet here this altmer just casually dropped insight and then requested she not share.

“That, my dear, is at the heart of all dancing. More often ‘n not ‘s a random flailing of limbs and twirling, but it’s fun. And that’s all that really matters.” A grin and Dust moves to give a little twirl, then stomps her foot. “It’s all about feeling. Letting body and heart lead. I think ‘s why people love it so much, when they give in to it - why we don’t do it often.”

“Dust.” The titular Breton beamed in return, turning as they reached the stomping grounds to take Bri by the other hand. “D’you know the old Bretic dances, dear? I could teach you! Honestly I’m a little in m’cups, but I remember the important things. Oh, your hair is beautiful. What’s your name, hm?” And without waiting for an answer Dust began to try and lead in a merry little jig.

Brielle had kept herself sober enough--she never liked over-indulging at parties to begin with, not very Nordic of her--and so it was more amusing to watch the little Breton try to lead her in a spirited step. “I’m Brielle. Lovely to meet you, Dust.”

He waved that addendum away with an off-hand gesture. No, it wasn’t a bother. To him, anyway, but she may soon regret she even asked.  

“The flow of various types of energy, to name one. The properties of light, or optics, the mathematical underpinnings of which few bother to learn, which is why enchanters can charge outrageous prices for their work.” He paused, for the duration of a sip of his drink. “The Dwemer,” he continued, “concerned themselves with sound and its propagation through various media in the way theory of magic these days is focused on light. None of which is of particular importance in the everyday application of magic, but it would make one a better mage if they bothered to–…”

Another pause, to think of better phrasing but nothing came to him within the time span he allotted himself, “…give a fuck, if you’ll pardon my language.”

Brielle didn’t even address his cursing, as if she would mind, instead looking to parse what he’d imparted. Mathematical underpinnings? In magic?

A first-class moron, is what he wanted to say. He didn’t. No matter his opinion on his student, he would not ventilate it in public. Opinions could change overnight, but a reputation couldn’t shake a blow quite as easily. He considered it part of his job to–… well, not so much protect his student’s reputation, but at least to have no hand in making it worse.

“Currently?” He snorted, and a sip of his drink to alleviate the bitter taste of what he was about to say. “Parlor magic. I do what I can, to make it serve as example for the underlying theorems and paradigms, but I have long since accepted that will always be more for my own entertainment than the hope that it’ll stick.”

Oh. He taught magic. Of course he did. Only a great amount of training could keep her face from screwing up into a grimace, whether or not the mer could see it. And here she thought they might have a productive conversation.

He narrowed his eyes in thought. What? So, she was a locksmith and a clockmaker? Well, he supposed the latter wasn’t a viable profession in a province where thanes had less to spent than the average courtier in the Imperial City before the Great War, and where putting food on the table outweighed obtaining some wondrous mechanical bauble to show off at dinner parties. Here, people looked at the sky, or used an hourglass. There would always be a need for locksmiths, though.

“I teach.” Gods. Could he have said it with any more bitter resignation? He looked down into his cup with a quiet little scoff. “An uphill battle.”

“Skewer,” he echoed, even as his eyes narrowed and he contemplated just what she could’ve meant with ‘technical’. “Or bash. Beyond that, you’ll have little audience.”

What was she, then? An architect? A builder? A shipwright? He knew what she wasn’t, though: A siege engineer, because nothing skewered or bashed quite as thoroughly as ballistae and catapults.

“What do you do?”

“For a job, finicky work. Better locks, timepieces, things where you fit tiny bits together to make as perfect a mundane mechanical machine as you can.” She laughed lightly. “Hard to wow a crowd with something that small, and it’ll be a while before anything bigger is ready to be shown off.”

Race: Breton/Bosmer

Gender: Female

Date: She gonna hit on y’all