He makes a face at the thought of having to be a mage now--he's never wanted to be a mage; the profession is nothing but a consolation prize for those who couldn't pass the entrance exam to a Shaping academy--but lets it go without comment. It's the only option he'll have if he wants to do any research at all, and what would he do with himself if he couldn't do that? He can't fathom it. He wouldn't know himself.
--what kind of research can he do if he can't Shape anymore? What good is he with no reserves of essence, nothing to work with, no way to replenish it? If these people have a source of it, he can make himself useful, but if they don't--
No. That doesn't bear thinking about. Don't think about it. (That's what being a mage is; crippled as if by the loss of a sense, forced to make do with near-nothing, forever bumping up against an impassable ceiling. That's what he is here.) And yet--everything is relative. She seems so giddy about it, so thrilled to be freed from the confines of her world's draconian law that she doesn't notice or care about the ceiling.
"What have you written on?" he asks her. His curiosity is genuine, for all his moping despair. He always wants to read others' work.
no subject
--what kind of research can he do if he can't Shape anymore? What good is he with no reserves of essence, nothing to work with, no way to replenish it? If these people have a source of it, he can make himself useful, but if they don't--
No. That doesn't bear thinking about. Don't think about it. (That's what being a mage is; crippled as if by the loss of a sense, forced to make do with near-nothing, forever bumping up against an impassable ceiling. That's what he is here.) And yet--everything is relative. She seems so giddy about it, so thrilled to be freed from the confines of her world's draconian law that she doesn't notice or care about the ceiling.
"What have you written on?" he asks her. His curiosity is genuine, for all his moping despair. He always wants to read others' work.