It's hard to tell time at night in Sylvania, because of the perpetual overcast. But it feels near to midnight, if only because it seems darkest. A fat candle sits at one end of the altar, providing a bit of illumination for the Kadie witch sitting next to it, rocking a swaddled baby in her arms.

Trying mostly to be discrete, and generally failing since he's the only thirty foot long, six armed albino around, Qing slithers to the edge of the clearing and remains there for the moment. He's occasionally murmuring to the Kadie walking alongside him, short three or four word sentences. The pair of pale blue wisps that often accompany him trail and orbit, ignored as they chase each other or dance. Whatever he may think of the proceedings, the Rokuga remains a respectful distance away from the altar.

Beside the senior Mage is Morgan, dressed in his witch's best in preparation for the ritual. His hands are full with ritual implements, such that a few poke out from the sack he's holding: candles, what might be an incense burner, the top end of a ritual dagger and others besides. He whispers back to the mage beside him, but his eyes are focused on the child in his mother's arms.

The still unnamed wizard who was caught destroying the lives of people who he deemed 'tainted' walks slowly through the shadowy trees. For someone who was able to commit several atrocities in the name of trying to save a tainted land, he seems so tired and old; tattered robes of his former service in fighting the monsters of Bosch. Following a few feet behind him is Natasha. She's dressed in her own aged robes from when she was a formal mage of spirit. She says nothing, but her expression and demeanor speak on their own. Her chin is set, her eyes are narrow, and her movement deliberate. She has the air of a woman daring the world to challenge her authority.

Isolde looks up, and raises an eyebrow at Morgan for bringing Qing along, but doesn't look particularly upset. "I'm glad you all came. Because of the need for haste, things are likely to be a bit rough. Even Morgan has not met with the spirit of the land since he was very little. But we have three witches, which should be enough for an… informal invocation." She looks to the worn human, and asks, "What is your name, sir?"

"Does it matter? the human asks. "Your child may find it simpler to deal with my death if I bear no name and therefore, be less than a person."

"But you are a person," Isolde points out. "You will be saving a life, and setting its course."

Morgan shifts uneasily when his mother raises her brow, glancing at her until her addressing the elderly human man gives him some measure of relief – what little may be had, in a situation like this. He turns now to watch the man speak, his lips a thin, narrow frown.

The Rokuga looks on impassively. It's dark enough that his glasses are off, hints of dark red under the shade of his hat.

"As you wish. My name was Albrekt," the human concedes.

"Come have a seat, Albrekt," Isolde requests, hopping down from the altar-stone. "Natasha, Morgan… I'll need you here too."

"Albrekt," Morgan whispers under his breath, so that only Mage Qing might hear. "I know the name of everyone who has died in my village. One more. I pray, just one more tonight." He glances Qing's way, then bobs his head respectfully before stepping forward. "Here, mother."

Qing nods back at his apprentice wordlessly, remaining where he is as Morgan goes to join the others.

"As you wish," Natasha says and now steps forward to join Isolde near the altar. The human now has all the chance in the world to simply … run, and he does not. Instead, he follows Natasha as she approaches the altar. When she stops, he continues on and then sits down on the edge of the altar.

Isolde hands the unnaturally quiet infant to the man. "Hold her," she says simply, and then holds out her hands to Morgan and Natasha. "We must hold hands now, and no matter what occurs, do not let go until I say it is safe. And Mage Qing… I trust you to not use anything you learn here tonight."

"I have faith in Mage Qing," Morgan says, quietly, as he steps forward and takes his mother's hand, holding his free one out to Natasha. "And you as well, Natasha."

The pallid serpent makes no reply, though a brow ridge lifts almost imperceptibly.

The elder human gently takes the infant from Isolde and cradles her in his arms. Meanwhile, Natasha extends her hands outward from her sides. One lightly closes around Morgan's and the other closes around Isolde's. "Thank you for your faith, Morgan," the Khatta says.

Taking a deep breath first, Isolde says, "If this were a normal invocation, ritual and location are all we would need. But we can't do that on short notice, so I am going to invoke the spirit by name. You all know that names have power among spirits, so I urge you to never utter it aloud after this night, and only refer to the spirit as You Know Who. Do you accept this, and promise not to call upon him on your own?"

"My mother has taught me to be a good judge of character." Morgan even smiles a little, although the expression is pained and his face tight with worry. He then turns to his mother and nods. "Of course."

"I have always followed the rules of your village out of respect for its people and traditions. I did not break them then, nor do I intend to break them now," Natasha answers Isolde's question. "I will repeat nothing I have heard tonight."

"I will begin the invocation then," Isolde explains. "We will each introduce ourselves, and call to the spirit – just follow my lead," she whispers, and then calls out in a surprisingly deep voice, "By the Covenant, we three gather: The Maiden, The Mother, and The Crone. I am The Mother, Isolde Nightshade, and I call you to me, Sunlight-Through-Wind-Stirred-Leaves."

"I am the Maiden, Morgan Nightshade, and I call you to me, Sunlight-Through-Wind-Stirred-Leaves," Morgan calls out in a crisp, confident voice. Mage Qing knows Morgan to be subdued or distracted in some things, but never magic; never when it matters.

"I am the Crone, Natasha; leader of the people of the roads," Natasha says in even-tone, one that hints it should never be questioned. "I call to you, Sunlight-Through-Wind-Stirred-Leaves."

The grass stirs, and ripples in waves towards the altar. The leaves of the trees rustle and whisper, sounding like… laughing children, and people haggling over vegetables, otters barking and mothers singing lullabies. And then the spirit comes. It flows in from every direction: from the forest, the fields, the ground and the sky. A warm, almost parental pressure. And power, barely held in check, practically straining at a leash – and Isolde is holding the leash. The three witches begin to rise up, until they're hovering a foot above the ground.

Morgan sucks in a breath, but he doesn't stir from staring straight ahead with a look of determined concentration. It seems even meeting the spirit who had watched over him his whole life is not enough to distract him from his task; that, or the weight of the event has frozen his expression as well as his neck.

Qing's bone white robes rustle, pulling against him with the tug of the breeze. He has moved very little, but his posture has subtly changed, head a little higher, alert. His forked tongue flicks.

Natasha is quite familiar with the power build in rituals, so the surge that she feels is not entirely unexpected, but the mix of different spheres is a bit of a surprise. This is seen through the raising of her brows and the folding back of her ears. She says nothing upon the matter, though.

The wizard on the altar, though, his head jerks upright at the building power around him. He seems … surprised, as if he expected to feel taint in it and finds none.

"The People and the Land are One," Isolde recites. "As they put their lives and love into the land, it responds with a spirit. The spirit is bound to them, and they to it. The longer the land is cared for, the stronger the spirit will become. Do you understand now, Albrekt, what it means to be Sylvanian? What you are feeling now, is Stonebarrow itself. All of the people, all of their loves, hates, dreams and wishes. It can protect, or it can destroy. The duty of the witch is to maintain the balance, keep it under control, and see that the power is not abused."

That last part seems directed more towards Natasha and Morgan. "When you settle the north, Natasha, you must care for the new spirit that will grow there, from the hearts of your own people," Isolde says.

"The spirit twists the people in the land of Bosch and it seems to spread and corrupt," the old Wizard says. "But … this is different. It feels different. It flows different," he concedes.

"I … I think I understand?" The young Kadie sounds a little nervous, glancing between his mother and Natasha, then staring forward again. He takes a deep breath, and exhales.

"This spirit flows from the people," Isolde explains. Each deep breath seems to draw in the spirit, too, leaving Morgan with a slight buzz. "Where the people suffer, the spirit is weak and the dark things prey upon them. Where they turn away, or seek the darkness in themselves, the spirit will turn against them. And powerful mages can sometimes steal the spirit, turn it back on itself, and create a legion of the undead. This is why it's always important to have a witch."

"The spirit created from the hearts of my people, from the young, Liliana and Djivan, would need to be watched over," Natasha admits. "I cannot promise I will succeed, though, only that I can try."

"Mmm," Morgan utters quietly, taking another breath afterwards.

"I know you," the sky whispers to Natasha, in a blend of dozens of voices. "You bit me, but swallowed the Dark Man when you did."

"I cut away his touch from the realm of the spirit, the source that he drew upon to kill and control; the source he sought to live forever. I undid the fabric that bound the sphere of spirit around him; making him vulnerable for the first time in decades. I sought no harm to anyone but the one who tortured me, and killed so many others. I was prepared to give my life to finally end him," Natasha both thinks and says out loud to the sky. "Those are the reasons for my actions; the choice to my fate I leave to you."

Something glints through the trees, and glowing golden eyes seem to watch Qing, as a dragon-headed river spirit slides between the trunks. Other spirits are out there, not a part of Sunlight-Through-Wind-Stirred-Leaves, but related. Spirits of the land.

The Rokuga eyes them in return, arms crossed except for his top pair. He fingers a rough crystal lens in one hand, thoughtfully. His wisps circle his hat.

"You will be an interesting witch," the voices reply to Natasha. "Our child Wings-Of-Shadow however, is becoming a crafter, it seems."

Through the whispering wind, Morgan keeps his gaze fixed and forward. His expression never quite losing its tenseness, frown only deepening. When the spirit mentions a 'Wings-Of-Shadow,' though, his focus flickers and gaze shifts downward.

"Morgan chooses his own path and way. It is not my place to interfere," Natasha says.

"Enough chit-chat," Isolde interrupts. "We have called you here to fix an oversight: feel the emptiness in the child, Carly Pickle. Feel the need for redemption in the man, Albrekt. He would offer his spirit, to save the child and set her upon the path of a witch."

"Is it your wish to save this child?" the wind asks as Albrekt is raised into the air. "A true desire, and not merely an act of contrition or remorse?"

The corners of Qing's mouth crease slightly.

"I sought to save this land from corruption, from the damage wrought by the wars," Albrekt answers, "I was willing to sacrifice everything to do it. I … also chose to sacrifice others in the quest. What did it gain? A failure. If I could not save the land, then I choose to save this child. Perhaps she will be able to do what I could not, in a way that did not harm others as mine did. Even if they were demons." If nothing else, he still holds to his belief that fighting demons was not wrong.

"Very well," the leaves whisper, and the man and child are whisked upwards into the air. The overcast parts, letting the light of the Procession shine down like a shower of silver. The pair is soon lost to sight.

"The stuff about needing a broomstick is a myth," Isolde asides to Natasha.

The young black Kadie shakes from his focus to gaze upward, witch's hat sliding back on his head almost to the point of falling off, if not for a timely adjustment from his tail. His expression softens upon seeing the glittering light of the Procession of Souls that reflect in his black eyes. Whatever he sees, it seems to calm him a little.

Perhaps age beat a sense of awe from Natasha, or perhaps she is just good at hiding it. She looks skyward as the pair disappear; her expression set solid, almost cold. It isn't until Isolde's comment that she makes a sound and it comes out as a snort of amusement.

The temptation to see beneath the surface is strong, but Qing turns his lens over in his hand a few times, then lets the arm hang with the lens wrapped in his fingers.

Time passes, as the three just spin slowly above the ground, until finally something returns through the air. At first it seems like Albrekt is coming back, but it soon becomes clear that it's only the man's tattered cloak. It comes to a stop in the middle of the trio, with little Carly wrapped up inside, squirming about and finally opening her eyes.

"Mage Qing, would you come and take the child please?" Isolde asks. "We can't let go of each other's hands just yet."

"Ah," breathes the young man as the child comes in to view, alive and well. Whatever thoughts had occupied his mind seem forgotten as the squirming baby girl flits full in to view. For the first time in a while, he smiles genuinely. He even leans forward a little, which earns him a grabbed nose.

"Why is it that demon-bonded girls like you so much, Morgan?" Isolde asks.

Natasha smiles, but it rings of sadness more than happiness. What she is thinking, though, is anyone's guess.

The mage seems surprised for a moment, but after a second or two of deliberating, he pockets the lens in his hand and glides toward the center of the clearing, making his way through the gathered witches to stand over the child. Reaching down, he gathers her up, oddly gentle for how hard his bony hands look. Four cradle the baby carefully, while the last two pick up the empty robe that fluttered to the ground, and swaddles her in it. One of the symbols for spirit is left on top of the old, folded cloth.

"I'll talk to Gammer Radish over in Splotch about seeing to the girl's education," Isolde says. "You can let us down now, Sunlight. I'm not a young girl impressed by being flown about anymore."

"Maybe we're alike," Morgan replies, unable to extricate his nose until Mage Qing liberates it by taking the child. "Or, maybe people who are different just long for others who understand them." he smiles a little more as his teacher shows such gentleness with the child, looking less like the new, quiet, distant Morgan and more like he used to be.

The three witches feel the ground under their feet once more, and Isolde indicates that they can unclasp their hands now.

Natasha's hands release and draw back. Soon they find solace within the sleeves of her worn robe. "We are all different, Morgan. We are the sum of our memories. Like the spirits of these lands we are shaped, and are shaped by, that which touches us," she says. "For good or bad, though, that is our choice. We have one thing few spirits have ever possessed. Free will."

Qing looks on with the girl in the crook of his arm, her head rested against the crushed cloth of his own robe. "It was a curious ceremony," he murmurs. "Would that I could have examined the child. I had not heard about her until now, or the particulars of her case."

The great spirit begins to grow diffuse, spreading out once more to fill the land and trees and people. Little Carly immediately starts crying in hunger of course, once the soothing presence is gone.

"She lacked a spirit, Mage Qing," Isolde says. "It is a rare affliction. Such children must be spirit-bonded to survive." The witch watches Qing closely as she explains it.

"And it must be a living spirit, not some crafted thing," she points out.

"I thought I felt a wise lecture coming," Morgan remarks, leaning back and wringing his hands as he grins at Natasha.

"That seems very curious to me," the mage says evenly. "As I imagine many people have successfully survived infancy without a spirit among the worlds of the exiles, or Abaddon."

"Sylvania is different," Isolde says, a bit pointedly.

The witch then points to Morgan's bag of paraphernalia, and asks, "Did you bring a bottle of milk, or at least the necessities for making tea?"

"These lands are odd, as are their people," Natasha notes, "There is a greater connection; perhaps due to what they have both suffered over the years. And it also bears one more curious mark, the Light of Nala touched these lands and some of its people. So … there is much to learn here."

Qing tugs the brim of his hat lower between thumb and forefinger. "Clearly. Its rampant spirits are free to tamper with births, causing anomalies like Morgan's or defects. My heart is rent to learn of this… disciplined manipulation could prevent this."

"Of course," Morgan insists, in tone of having expected just such a question. He places the bag down, then digs around until he produces a tea kettle and a bottle of milk. Clearly, those years of babysitting have engrained a sense of child supplies in Morgan's brain.

The Rokuga barely seems to notice the arm holding Carly slowly rocking, trying to soothe her. He waits there patiently as Morgan makes preparations.

"Did I just get called an 'abnormality?'" The young Kadie inquires to Natasha in whisper, low enough to suggest he's not about to ask that with his mentor right there.

"And did I not fix it with disciplined manipulation, Mage Qing?" Isolde asks a bit icily. "Give him the bottle, Morgan. He's got extra hands."

"The wizard who just gave his life thought to manipulate it, by killing anyone who was touched and harnessing its remains to try to erase this land. He killed children, family men, anyone who was tainted," Natasha notes to Qing. "So … careful manipulation can go too far and wrong. Those who live here are a better judge than either of us; we can learn from them." She then says quietly to Morgan, "Yes, you were."

The temperature between the two elders seems to be rapidly dropping, Qing's own tone becoming cold. "A fix on the whim of one of your roaming, random entities, and one that would not have needed to be affected with prevention and control." His head angles toward Natasha, nodding slightly. "Of course. All magic should be controlled, and by those who are qualified to do so. You know as well as I do that the Warders of Blitzheim are neglecting half the discipline for rote ritualism."

"Roving, random entity," Isolde repeats with narrowed eyes. For a Kadie, she has remarkable restraint.

"Er," utters Morgan, who looks between the three most influential and powerful people in his life: his mother, senior witch, and life-long teacher; Mage Qing, his newest teacher and a man of no small power; and Natasha, the leader of his friend and lover's band, also of no small power. "I'm going … tea … I'm tea … Tea going to … make now. And the milk! The warming milk. Yes." He retreats with his bag to kneel nearby and begins a fire!

A few moments of silence pass between Qing and Isolde, the tension in the air almost electric. At length, Qing speaks again. "Caroban, the Collegia, and the Guild Halls would see that this be maintained, both amongst traditionalists and rogues. But… I acknowledge that their reach and shelter is limited. You do as you must, I suppose."

"What you saw was neither roving, nor random. You are aware as am I that the will of people can create spirits, for good or bad. What Isolde has done was invoked the collective belief of the people of their town to save a dying child. It may be shrouded in mystery and rituals of its own, but at its core it was the tapping of untamed sources, the people of their town, to save one of its own. Fundamentally no different than the crafting of a circle and the support of several apprentices to channel the magic into the circle," Natasha actually lectures. "What this has shown me is that a town witch is a focus for the innate forces its own townfolk generate. What you witnessed was their way of doing a ritual circle, nothing more. The Guild could learn from this as an alternate way and means of focus, Mage Qing."

And … Natasha continues. "We were the circle," she explains. "Each of us representing an aspect of the cycle of life. We were the focus, the same as a chalk outline. Our words formed the runes and directed the power that gathered. Different means to similar ends."

"Witchcraft doesn't apply to Magery," Isolde insists. "You can't just walk into a town and harness the power of its spirit – you have to be a part of it first."

Morgan, meanwhile, huddles next to the relative safety of the growing fire he has created, hanging the kettle on a folding brace he also brought with him. Once it's filled with water, he takes to holding the bottle over the fire manually, letting himself feel the temperature rather than leave things to observation alone.

The Rokuga's tone is not nearly as chilly toward his colleague, but it is stiff. "It is quite fundamentally different, Mage Natasha. It would be relatable if she were formulating it herself, but that untamed source is fully formed and left to its own devices when not in use. Where was that witchcraft at the birth of Carly here? Where was it when Morgan was born? No method, nothing." Qing dusts roughly at his robe, settling again. "The kindest way I can think to describe it is that of established religion and the parley of so called holy men, a blurry line that we cannot always cross."

Qing hesitates. "But… I do admit I have been unfair. In a certain way." He stops to let the others go on.

"It is NOT left to it's own devices!" Isolde snaps. "You are a very infuriating man; has anyone told you that before? You weren't even aware of You Know Who until it was focused in this one place tonight, where you? And what do you know of power, anyway? The spirit of the land isn't something to be used up to power some silly spell! The whole point of being a witch is to not use it! Because it comes from living people. People you protect. Not some lump of chalk that a random, roving entity happened to infuse with some energy on a whim."

Once the milk is to his liking, Morgan stands up and almost tip-toes around the perimeter of the group over to Qing, where he holds his hands out. "I'll just take Carly to get fed," he offers in a nervous, apologetic tone.

"It is all a matter of degrees, Mage Qing. A lesson all of us needs to learn and remember is to watch without putting blinders on how to see the world. And before this devolves into pointless yelling, let us all agree that we are different. That does not make us wrong. If there were no differences, no experiments, no attempts to see the world in new ways, none of us would grow. Our knowledge would stagnate," Natasha offers. "One of the greatest ways to heal wounds is through understanding… Not yelling. Not force."

"So, I kindly ask all you you, Isolde included, to calm down," Natasha finishes.

Isolde actually smiles at Natasha's argument, and gives a little nod. "Where you paying attention just then, Morgan?" she asks her son.

The serpent squares his shoulders while Isolde spars back. "Wasn't I? I am aware of much more than you might guess, witch." Rather than reach out to deposit Carly on Morgan, an arm uncurls to try to take the bottle from him abruptly. "As a witch, did you not just use the spirit of the land? Supposedly? I have no need to use your spirit for anything. It is for us to wring order from the chaos in this air." He looks out over the edge of the clearing, face hard… but when he looks back again at Natasha's words, it's smoothed again, somewhat. "Mage Natasha's point that your circumstances are special holds true, however. You live in a place saturated with unrestrained spirit energy, and there has been little formal knowledge brought here to defend your people from it, to have it serve them. I cannot fault you for dealing with it in the ways you must, without the tools to do so otherwise."

"My, what a well phrased backhanded compliment," the witch replies.

Qing pauses, then offers, "If it would please you, I could set up wards that should keep your town safer, if not absolutely. I would not charge you for this." It sounds very diplomatic to him, at least, wince-inducing as it may be to all the witches present.

"A kind offer," Isolde says, a bit too sweetly. "But then what would Amelia have to keep her busy? Or Gunther. For their sakes, I must decline."

Morgan, who had been waiting for Mage Qing to get around to noticing him – not an uncommon event by any means – makes what can only be described as an 'eeee' expression when Natasha tells his mother to calm down. When his mother turns to him, he practically jumps! "Oh, um. Er … " He stammers as he tries to gather his thoughts now that they all fell out of his head with the shock. He looks down, eyes widening as he noticed the bottle has been pilfered, then he looks up again he pauses to listen to Qing speak, then practically blanches.

The Rokuga doesn't take his eye off Isolde when he takes the bottle and tests its temperature on his wrist, then carefully shifts Carly into a more upright position to be fed. "As you wish, town elder," he replies, perfectly seriously. His formality and air of superiority are slightly dented by one hand wiggling fingers over Carly to get her attention, then stroking the top of her head while the other slips the bottle to her.

"Well!" Morgan steps back, "I guess I'm not needed here, I'll just see about the tea, and then I'll be going … " He takes another step backward, inwardly praying people have forgotten about him again.

"Morgan… " Isolde says, turning on her son. But her expression softens, and she says, "You did well tonight, for your first meeting with a real spirit."

"You two … stop … right now," Natasha says rather sharply. "The unrestrained magic in this land is our fault, Qing. All of us in the College. We developed the arts the Necromancer Lords learned, took, and twisted. We helped feed that accursed Necromancer Queen from Aeztepa. And then we abandoned them to deal with it on their own. They developed their own arts to then survive. Had I not spent the past decade or more living here, I would have agreed with you. But after having to live with the consequences of what we taught and allowed to be twisted, I've learned a little tolerance for the actions of others to counter it. So if you wish to lay blame, lay it on the College. Lay it on me. Lay it on yourself. But do not lay it on the victims. The history of the College is riddled with our own follies. If we don't learn to see them, learn from them, and grow. We are doomed to repeat them. And those who suffer?" Natasha points at the child in Qing's arms. "I am through here," the Khatta adds stiffly, turns, and walks towards the woods.

Qing flicks his tongue. "Yes, you did, Nightshade, and I don't mean this facetiously. You were calm and focused. I hope you took the opportunity to examine what controls were in place." He eyes Natasha. "I hardly blamed the situation on them, Mage Natasha. But ambition caused the Necromancer Wars, not tools. Very well, then. If we won't be -sacrificing- any more people today, Morgan,I will see you for your lessons at the usual time."

The young man cringes in a way that suggests he was expecting to be verbally skewered, but uncurls his tail a little when his mother doesn't annihilate him. "Oh." He straightens a little. "Uh, thank you. Mother. Thank you mother. And, and you, Mage Qing. You Know Who was very … Very." He smiles, albeit briefly, as Natasha's words followed by her exit melt it from his face. "Good eve, Miss Natasha … " he whispers, most likely unheard by its target.

"I've never been called 'Wings-of-Shadow' before, though," the younger Kadie adds, in distracted, murmured afterthought.

"Names are important to spirits," Isolde reminds. "So don't be surprised if they give you fancy ones. I've got a spirit-name too, after all." Hat, she thinks. Natasha needs a proper pointy hat. I'll have to see to that.

"We gave them the tools, we share in the blame, Mage Qing," Natasha says as she disappears into the shadows. "And as for the man sacrificed? He killed hundreds. He faced a death sentence no matter what. He chose to at least make his death a chance to atone for his actions. It was his choice, not ours."

The young witch slash mage suddenly blinks. "Oh, um, y-yes Mage Qing. Lessons." His tail sinks; evidently, he has idea about how that's going to go after tonight.

"What the man did was irrelevant," the other mage hisses, his tone academic. "That it was necessary to use someone in that way to repair this spirit damage is. I shudder to think how they may do this when they run out of convicts." His four cradled arms reach out to carefully offer both baby and bottle to Isolde.

The witch takes them, and doesn't reply to Qing's rhetorical question.

Morgan, meanwhile, has turned back to the two left with gaze flicking back and forth – a bit like one might do if presented with two aggravated animals and wasn't sure which will attack first.

As she rocks the baby, Isolde notes to Qing, "I didn't need the man's sacrifice, but it was a safer option, and made him feel his life at least had some worth at the end."

"So … " Morgan keeps looking between the two, "How about some nice, soothing tea? Very soothing."

"Yes, thank you Morgan, tea would be lovely," Isolde says.

Qing turns on his coils. "Not that he could have been redeemed in any other way. I see your point, but I disagree strongly. And I would challenge you to attempt this sort of thing in Bosch."

Morgan takes the out with all due haste, heading back and pouring three cups, which he quickly returns with and distributes. "The tool you spurn today may be the tool you need tomorrow," he offers, quite neutrally.

"Bosch? It's not my territory," Isolde notes. "This is. And Sylvania isn't Bosch. And I have to wonder, Mage Qing, if you are misplacing your anger from some other event upon this one. This child will live, and become an important protector. Can you not be happy for that, at least?"

The snake is quiet for a moment, then nods. "I can, at that. I am glad that there was a chance to overcome the twist of fate she was dealt." His voice becomes tight. "But it was dealt by this very land, untamed… were I to lose her because none of you would defend her, I would never… never forgive you." For some reason, the strident way he says 'her' doesn't really sound like he's talking about Carly.

Morgan, who had been listening and sipping his tea, pauses in mid-sip at the mage's meaning-filled emphasis. Mage Qing can see the comprehension reflect in his apprentice's eyes, at least until he looks away.

"Do you come from a tamed land, Qing?" Isolde asks softly, as she sips tea. How she manages to hold Carly and the bottle in one arm is one of those motherhood skills, no doubt.

"I did," says Qing, leaning back into his coils, arms crossed. He looks down, his eyes hidden. "At its height, the Nagai was the shining jewel of the Savan. Orderly. A culture of ancient heritage, its mages peerless. Oh yes. We controlled the land, bent it to our will, and based upon it a civilization unparalleled. It was not our desire for order that fractured it, made it the chaotic collection of city-states it is now. Ambition and greed… aggression on the parts of Nagai and outlander alike… the death of our patriarch… these dealt it a staggering blow." He looks up again. "I hear news, every so often. Even now, the Nagai strive to return to our days of glory." His heart doesn't sound as much into this point as it did the others, though.

The young apprentice's tail sinks, a frown crossing his face, as he listens to the aging man relate the sad tail of the fallen state of his homeland. "I had no idea," he admits, head shaking. "It seems like such a waste. To be honest, I thought Nagai was a legend until you came and told me tales of it. Cities that extend as far as an eye can see, do they really exist?"

"Sylvania was once a united nation, I'm told," Isolde notes. "Before the Wars. Maybe it will be again, someday."

Qing has produced his lens again, turning it over in his hand thoughtfully, with little purpose for it now. "They do, young Nightshade. The city of Nagai, what was the heart of our Empire, still reaches to the golden sun with its countless ziggurats. The streets still teem with colors, our banners stream in the hot wind, and the Emperor's palace shines above it all, a mountain of marble that we made, a symbol of our might." He nods slowly at the elder Nightshade, finally reaching up and pulling his hat off. He looks up at the Procession, where spirit, child, and warder had been swept up above the trees, his broad, smooth head and red eyes allowed a rare moment to be bare in the forest's dark. "Perhaps it will, Isolde. Perhaps it will." Mercifully, he doesn't attempt to sketch out just how it should be done, most of the ire drained out of him for now.

Morgan's gaze follows the old mage, up to peer at the endless sky and the Procession, that flow of souls, high above the mortal world. "I … I'd like to see Nagai, some day," he admits. "Wouldn't it be grand, mother … ?"

"It… sounds impressive, but busy," Isolde says. "I prefer to stay where I am, where I know all of the people and they know me. I'm not young and adventurous anymore."

Morgan nods slowly, then blinks, glancing at his mother. "You were adventurous?" Evidently, he'd never heard this side of her mother before. "Really? Were you as well, mage Qing?"

"Adventurous, no. But I suppose adventure found me. I was a scribe by trade, in my younger days. I have seen much since then." The snake looks contemplative, looking over at Morgan. "You could see Nagai," he hisses. "You've reached a point in your studies where you need more resources and tools to work with and to grow, and you will not find them here. As your master, I could bring you to Caroban on my next trip. From there you could see many places and meet new people."

"I … I couldn't?" A string of conflicted emotions cross Morgan's face as he seems to really consider the idea; surely, he's never been offered the chance to leave Stonebarrow before. Excitement, then his ears splay in fear, he opens his mouth nervously, perhaps to inquire further, but hesitates, looking uncertain as he glances at his mother. "Right?"

Isolde's face is unreadable, but she seems focused on Carly for the moment. "You will be coming back, after your 'training' won't you?" she finally asks.

"I … " The young Kadie just doesn't seem to know what to say, now. He looks down, in to his tea, watching his reflection with an unreadable expression. he may not even have an expression to portray, having arrived at a place he had never expected to be, well beyond knowing how to react.

Qing speaks up, his voice slightly roughened. "Of course you would, Morgan. Wherever you end up settling, you will still visit your ancestral home if I have to send you back myself. See the world, but don't forget your roots."

Morgan nods slowly, although if he comprehends or not is anyone's guess. "I … I," he takes a deep breath, then exhales, offering more clearly, "I need to sit down. Down, and … And think, about … About that. This. I just … I don't know." And quite as he suggested, if rather abruptly, he plops himself down right where he is, putting his head on his hand.

"You will not forget that you are also a witch, will you?" Isolde asks calmly. "Fyodr Dunklestein, who made the Sealing Boxes, was a witch and a mage. There is value is embracing both, I will admit."

The spirit mage drops his lens back into a pocket once more, and adjusts his guild ring slightly. "There is time, yet. Think it through carefully. There are reasons to stay home too. Ultimately only you are going to know what feeds your mind and soul."

"I couldn't forget that," Morgan insists, in a tone suggesting it may well be literally an impossibility. His mother being what she is, witchhood may well be sewn in to his brain. He nods slowly, the motion seeming to be more to comfort him than carry a meaning, then he suddenly blinks. "W-wait, wasn't … Isn't Fyodr a man?" He glances at Qing and nods vehemently. "Yes, yes, I'll definitely need some time."

"It isn't easy for men to be witches," Isolde says. "But they can be mages or wizards while still clinging to witchcraft as well. Maybe it helps them to do so, being able to dominate things like a mage."

"Now I feel awkward," Morgan admits. Odd, he'd say so now, given the whole last hour would have been incredibly uncomfortable. "Amelia was always the one who wanted to dominate things."

"She just… has issues with subtlety," Isolde claims.

"I used to sew her buttons," the young male Kadie murmurs. "Bandage Zahn's knee."

"A witch is connected to the community," Isolde says. "But is there not a Mage's Guild Hall in Justininople? That is not so far away."

"I've never been to Justininople … ," Morgan mumbles, sounding a little lost now.

"You could indeed begin there," Qing agrees.

The snake begins tying his hat back on. "It only depends on what you want to see."

"I've head it has … " The young dark colored Kadie finally looks up, " … lots of clothes?"