"After speaking with him for nearly a day and a night, I chose to travel with him across the world to this great city of Altdorf, to this very college, to beseech the brother magisters of this Golden Order for the opportunity to prove myself worthy of being accepted as an apprentice to their college. And now, some forty cold winters later, I am here to teach you the facts and practices that you will have to accept and adhere to if you wish to survive with sanity and soul intact as long as I thrive as a Magister in the service of this different nation's great and noble emperor and avoid the fires of Sigmar's Templars. I do not anticipate that many of you will succeed."

—Haqiqah al-Hikmah, Arabyan Magister Lord of the Golden Order

---

That morning, the Horn of Sigismund sounded in the deep of Altdorf.

It was a somber sound, so loud and deep it reverberated across the stone walls of every building in Altdorf, the most illustrious city of man. Emperor Sigismund IV won a great victory at the Battle of Grimgrill Dale, aiding the Dwarfs in 1695 IC. After the battle, the Dwarfs gifted him a runic horn called the Horn of Sigismund, and after his death at the hands of a Wyvern that crashed into the Imperial Palace during Grimgor Ironhide's siege of Altdorf, the horn had sounded every year on the anniversary of his death. A reminder of how vulnerable the heart of the Empire truly is to some. However, to most others, it merely signaled the beginning of Pie Week.

It was the first day of Erntezeit at Altdorf, which brought mixed feelings to the apprentices of the Colleges of Magic. On the one hand, it was the first day of Pie Week, an excuse for halflings to bake pies, and the Empire as a whole adopted it for its own to feast and party. It meant lectures were short, and a myriad of food, drink, and fraternization that was normally discouraged was allowed (to a point). On the other hand, exams were next week, and while lectures were halved, assignments were not. An unfortunate complication, but no mage, master or apprentice, worried about it on the first day.

Between the eight towers of the orders of magic and mysteries, there was a vast courtyard of limestone. Students and professors traversed it everyday, hustling and hurrying on errands or congregating in groups in deep discussion. At the center of the courtyard was a large, domed structure called the Magisterium, a building of three floors where the masters and patriarchs of the orders met, and where the High Patriach of the Colleges and his study presided. Only a select flew students were allowed entrance to the building on normal days, and even then, only access to the ground floor was granted unless they had been summoned by the High Patriarch himself. However, the exception was for events and holidays. A uni-order feast such as those performed on Pie Week were held on the ground floor, and both apprentices, faculty, and patriarchs were welcome to the festivities.

Every twenty new guests, another carver was brought in from the kitchens with another roasted waterfowl. Robust ale and famous riekland wine were brought in casks, a small makeshift stage with live music played a thumping tune, and standing tables to place small hors d'oeuvres, as the Brettonians called it, were located every dozen feet. Apart from the explicit rule of no spellcasting, for wild magic or the accidental daemon possession was a bit too uncouth, or the sad forbidding of touching beyond dancing, there was very little oversight amongst the crowd. Men and women from across the breadth of the empire and even beyond had crawled out of their studies, apartments, and mystical dens to attend. Contrary to popular belief, there was no age limit for what made an apprentice at the Colleges. The majority were in their late teens or early twenties, but anyone with the desire to learn how to control their talent, or unwilling to face the wrath of the Empire's Holy Inquisition of Witch Hunters, could and would be inducted into the College at the apprentice level.

It was eleven in the morning, and Malcador had big plans that night. He was to go out drinking with Friedrich and a few other lads of the order while they met with a few acquaintances outside of the Colleges, something that was not normally allowed. An apprentice was not granted leave to exit the Colleges unless given strict permission, but Pie Week was an exception, and to say they had a two day bender planned did not quite do justice to what happened last year and what would more than likely occur this year. Still, he couldn't be gone for longer than those two days. He needed to complete his assignments. He was an apprentice still, but in his twenty third year of life, he had given enough time and energy that he was about to ascend to the rank of Acolyte, if he kept his more ravenous proclivities in check and completed his lessons and assignments on time and in good order. Most did not become acolytes until their twenty fifth year, and many did not see true Wizardhood until their forties. He expected to be a ranking Wizard by his thirtieth year, and even considering his more unscrupulous activities, he was expertly good at performing them in moderation, and things were going according to plan.

He wore a special set of robes for the occasion. Most celestial apprentices bore simply white robes, perhaps with some silver thread and light blue hem to accentuate. In contrast, Malcador was clad in robes cut in the elven design. A white robe with constellations near the hem of the sleeves and bottom in light cerulean, under a deep blue surcoat, a leather belt with a crimson rube at its center, a prize he had won at a contest three years prior, successfully indicating the astrological importance of an obscure comet called Malfieus's Hermetis by judging its trajectory.

Truthfully he had merely wanted to be granted the perk of not cleaning the gutters or rooftops of the tower and accompanying structures, but he had kept the belt and to his delight, found it was quite valuable. His long black hair was fashioned in handsome waves that framed his lean, striking face, a visage both studious and wry in countenance.

Malcador has just walked in, hoping to verbally spar with rivals and make the occasional good impression while he consumed his fill of meats and cheeses, before he would make his exit and plan for the night. If he didn't go, Friederich and the others would have his head. Luckily, he foresaw no reason why he would not be available that night.

“Emmaline!!!”

There were wizards and then there were wizards, Emmaline Von Morgenstern thought with a sigh. Albrect Wallenstein, or Albrect the Magnificent as he preferred to style himself, was in the second category.

“Get up here girl!” he roared again. Emmaline carefully added a sprinkling of iron filings to the potion she had bubbling on the alembic, then read the spidery looking words from the open spellbook, all but dislocating her jaw in the process. The golden shimmer of Charmon rushed up around her and the glassware rattled alarmingly, the greenish fluid in the glass vessel turned distinctly blue and the glass frosted over. Emmaline finished the incantation in something closer to a yelp and slammed the book shut. The glassware settled down and the fluid gained something like the color the book suggested it would. Emmaline gave it a skeptical glance, unused to such apparent success.

“Emmaline, get that plump ass of yours up here!” Albrecht yelled. Sighing, Emmaline headed up the stairs, deliberately taking her time just to spite the old fool. Like many senior magisters of the Gold Order, Albrect lived in one of the many interconnected towers which overlooked the Reik. Such towers were reserved for the most senior of the Gold Wizards and how Albrecht had inveigled himself one did not bear thinking about. Probably won it at cards, Emmaline thought sourly as she climbed the spiraling stairs. She passed the library with its floor to ceiling book shelves and comfortable chairs, then passed Albrecht's dusty and unused laboratory, much larger and better stocked than the small laboratory she was permitted to use. Finally she reached the top level where Albrect made his lair. It was a single open chamber dominated by a massive fireplace flanked by more book shelves. A large four poster bed stood opposite the fireplace, alongside a large copper tub with intricately carved claw feet. Albect was in an overstuffed chair by the window, a book in his lap and a peevish look on his face.

“What took you so long,” Albrecht grumped. He was an old man, although as with many wizards this was at least partially an affectation. Bald and liver spotted he made up for his lack of hair with a rather magnificent beard of a white so snowy Emmaline doubted it was natural. He was a big man, probably muscular in his youth though long since gone to seed, and his face had a wisdom and nobility it certainly didnt deserve. Emmaline had seen him rouster all night with high priced courtesans, and outdrink the most veteran blades of Altdorf’s Street of a Thousand taverns. He was a born deceiver and the most dissolute man Emmaline had ever met. Those shared attributes probably went a way towards explaining why Albrecht had selected the then eighteen year old Emmaline Von Morganstern to be his apprentice. Well her name hadn’t been Von Morganstern then. Albrecht had entered it that way in the College records to make her sound more noble than her lowly background would suggest. Like the Tower, the fact that he had secured her as an apprentice was something of a wonder. Emmaline was possessed of great beauty, with a heart shaped face and plump full lips. Her blue eyes, blond hair, and almost overly generous curves, she might have served as the picture of Reikish beauty. It had been the despair of her parents when her considerable magical abilities had manifested and their hopes for a rich marriage had been comprehensively scotched. It was the looks rather than magical talent which had attracted Albrecht who had immediately began a comprehensive education in the arts of debauchery and petty swindles which separated many a noble from his coin. Of magical education there was little, save for the occasional drunken lecture on the nature of Charmon and access to an extensive collection of spellbooks.

“I was in the basement working on potions,” Emmaline responded defensively. Albrecht grunted and made a dismissive gesture.

“Make sure you don’t set anything on fire,” the elder wizard said with evident disinterest.

“Take this to the Magisterium, it needs to be filled with the Master of Scribes,” Albrecht instructed, gesturing to a series of scrolls on a marble side table. Emmaline’s face lit up and Albrect rolled his eyes.

“I suppose you may enjoy the festivities after you are done,” he grumped.

...Apprentice Emmaline Von MOrganstern has made only modest progress owing to her youth and inexperience. While she possesses considerable strength my attempts to help her improve her control have not yet borne fruit. Her frequent breaches of curfew are part of her rebellious nature which has not yet been corrected by my strenuous attempts to impose discipline…

It went on in that vein. Emmaline pouted as she read Albrecht’s rather unflattering report on her progress. Once she had returned to her room off the library, it had been the work of a second to unseal her master’s scroll with a hot knife. She muttered a spell and waved her hand, dissolving the ink with ease. Ironically it was one of the few spells Albrecht had bothered to teach her, a useful trick for the various frauds he committed. Emmaline took a quill and ink from her desk and penned herself a rather more glowing testimonial in an exact duplicate of her master’s hand. Once that was done she resealed the scroll and headed out, winding her way through the series of laboratories, foundries, and alchemical halls which formed the grounds of the Gold College.

The Magesterium was a riot of activity. It was rare to see apprentices, even of a single college, gathered in any numbers but Pie Week was an exception. Acolytes, apprentices, even master wizards were eating and drinking. In theory spells were discouraged, but here and there apprentices couldn’t help showing off. Emmaline watched enraptured as a young pyromancer set his drink on fire with the tip of his finger, another young woman with wild hair, snapped her fingers and convinced a rat to dance. Nor was her own arrival unremarked, two apprentices of the College of Light collided with each other in their enthusiasm not to take their eyes from the young Gold Apprentice, prompting laughter from an older sorceress in the purple robes of the Amethyst College. Emmaline snatched up a goblet of white wine from one of the tables and tossed it off in a single swallow. She tucked her forged papers into her pouch and took up a plate which she promptly piled with ham, pickles, cheese, and fruit. Turning she bumped into another apprentice, the collision knocked the plate from her hand and food flew into the air. With a desperate swipe she managed to catch everything except an apple in a precarious tower on her plate. The newcomer neatly snatched the apple out of the air and rather insouciantly took a bite of it, the ripe fruit crunching.

“Hello.”

The festivities were as he expected. Despite the air of faux aristocracy the mages tried to associate with themselves, there was a boorish quality to the atmosphere, and his keen eyes detected more than a few open displays of magic from the increasingly drunk students. Malcador hid a smirk when Voltivar the Grey, a well-to-do master wizard snuffed out the flames of a bright apprentice with a deft flow of magic, and pulled him by his ear out of the Magisterium. A few of the students danced together, but most were content to eat or speak in their cliques, a few students laughing uproariously. He wasn't put off by the state of affairs, it was actually quite entertaining. Even nobility were not as noble as they pretended to be, but the constant anecdoche of magician apprentices was something he could do more without.

In the corner he saw Louis DuPont, an apprentice that ran from his brettonian homeland, not too keen on being given to the Lady and disappear without a trace as all males with the talent were. The Amber apprentice smiled wondrously with his light blonde hair and fair features as he joked with Morgan, a red headed apprentice from Wissenland with a penchant for death magic, but with too much apprehension to embrace it. Brown haired Ianara of the Light Order danced just to the point of scandalousness with Voltivar's prized pupil, Ailin, while the old codgers back was turned. Scandalous because, whilst not a master, she was no longer an apprentice either.

A few uncouth Chamon lads were trading insults with a pair of Bright apprentices who had gone over to refill their wine cups. Tall Barten of the Amethyst awkwardly walked around, clearly without a place or group to sit, but still enjoying the warm rolls enough to not complain too much. Across the way, Malcador spotted Friedrich, Hofferman, and Gustav. They were chatting with one another and a pair of girls he recognized as Jestain and Malerie, both from the Amber order. Malcador briefly had the idea to go over there and ruin his friends chances with them so they wouldn't be too distracted for tonight, and smoothly went to grab a cup of wine before he collided with something. Immediately he realized it was both solid, yet comfortably soft, and a flash of golden hair obscured his vision before he realized it was a woman.

An unfairly gorgeous woman.

He snatched the apple out of the air as she impressively caught everything on her plate before it became bedlam, and he held out the fruit for her to take in a gentlemanly fashion. She whipped around at him with what he thought was petulant indignation for a moment, before she saw him present the apple to her, and the woman studied his face. Usually he was far more smooth, but in such close proximity and unprepared, he caught the full brunt of her beauty, not to mention an impeccable view of her decolletage. Intellectually, he realized she was studying him because she also found him fetching, but every lout knew that wasn't enough when it came to flirting.

"Sorry I'm in your way, I've a bad habit of being somewhere I shouldn't," He said with a sly grin, tossing the apple in the air briefly before holding it out again.

"No harm," She said, plucking the apple out of his hand. "I guess we have that in common, herr..."

Her dress was beautiful, the blouse embroidered with flower motifs and leaving little to the imagination, her dress clinging to her shapely legs. The green astride her shoulders gave her much needed modesty, or else a master might kick her out as well. He fixed his hair, and absently realized she was a few years older than him. "Zauberhaft, but you can call me Malcador. I haven't seen you here, before."

"Is that so surprising?" She asked, and he had to concede the point. He only knew a handful of people out of the thousands inducted. There were hundreds at this party he had either never seen before or had only seen in passing and with no name attached.

Malcador chuckled, and gave her a small bow. "Don't think I'm too forward, but I was present when Lucrezzia Belladonna visited the Colleges two summers ago, and as far as I'm concerned, next to you she looks like the Duchess of Parravon." He said, and she snorted a laugh. He gave an insouciant grin that promised fun. "So yes, I'm surprised."

He detected a small flush of her cheeks and when she failed to hide a smile, his grin deepened, but she glanced behind her shoulder for a moment. "Well Malcador," She placed a hand on his arm, and he felt a spark where her fingers touched. "I've certainly bumped into less pleasant men, but I have to go."

"I can't even buy you a drink?" He asked as she glided passed.

"It's free!" She laughed.

"I can't even get your name!?" He called, but she was already sashaying away. He realized with undisguised pain that she was giving him a show with her hips as she exited. When she was gone, he groaned and took that wine he had yet to grab. Malcador would try and sate his desires in town, but he knew it was a temporary thing. He would be thinking about her all bloody week! He downed the wine in two, massive gulps, and went to find a chair.

"Sigmar's balls..."

Emmaline had visited the Master of Scribes only once before. She had been brought to his parchment filled hall on the day of her induction, her head still spinning from the speed at which she had been plucked from her life and thrust into this unfamiliar world. The place appeared unchanged a long room filled with floor to ceiling shelves. Thousands of rolled scrolls were thrust into niches, organized in no manner she could determine. Large codex lay on wooden plinths, chained to the walls with rusting chains to prevent their removal. Every now and then brown robed scribes entered the hall from side doors, scooped up a niche worth of scrolls and vanished back to whence they had come. The whole place smelled of ink, old parchment, and the faint salty odor of the sand which was used to dry the ink. Enough of that sand was scattered underfoot that it rose to knee level in an agitated cloud. Emmaline passed the ten foot tall statue of an idealised scribe taking the scroll of writing from Myrmidia’s hand. This scribe had rather less pimples and ink splotches than any she had encountered but she supposed none of the flesh and blood type were as tall as a small building either. The Master of Scribes sat at the end of the room behind a massive oak desk atop a plinth. Two huge braziers burned with bright clear whale oil behind glass, giving the place an odd stink which made Emmaline wrinkle her nose as she climbed the short steps to stand before the desk. The Master of Scribes was a cadaverous looking man with large wire frame spectacles. Rumor had it that he had been one of the Light Wizards whose power had been drawn away into the celestial choirs. He had thin watery eyes and a slightly palsied hand that, none the less, lifted and drove down a stamp on a series of documents with all the assurance of a blacksmith pounding hot iron.

“Approach,” the Master of Scribes bade her in a dusty voice. Emmaline had been waiting for nearly an hour and she eagerly stepped forward, laying the scrolls Albrecht had written and she had improved, down on the desk. The old man plucked each of them up and broke the seals, quickly glanced over them and then stamped them before sliding them into a series of wooden cubbys beneath his desk.

“All in order, you are Emmaline Von Morganstern, apprentice to Albrech Theobald Wallenstein of the Golden Order?” he asked disinterestedly.

“Uh.. that is yes, I am Emmaline,” Emmaline admitted, her mind already heading back to the crowd of apprentices and the free food and drink. Albrecht didn’t let her socialize with the other students much and the Gold apprentices she did know were a rather stodgy lot.

“Very well, your master has written highly of you and suggests you may be considered a second year apprentice, yet there is no project on file for you. I assume you will be presenting it at the usual time?” the old scribe asked in a bored voice.

“I uhh.. Yeah of course, the usual time,” Emmaline replied, having no idea what the project was supposed to be or when it was supposed to be presented. She was caught by her own lie in forging Albrecht’s papers and couldn’t very well admit she didn’t have the vaguest idea what he was talking about.

“Very good, you may go,” the Master of Scribes declared. Emmaline nodded and headed back out of the room, wending her way back towards the Magesterium. She was sure whatever this project was it probably wasn’t a big deal she thought as she entered the chamber and helped herself to a flagon of Moot cider. Maybe she could pry the information out of Albrect, tell him she had been talking to the other apprentices… her eye fell upon a group of young wizard enthusiastically discussing something that, judging from their raucous laughter, wasn’t Gorhman’s Seventh Cantrip. Malcador, the apprentice she had seen earlier was there, enthusiastically chattering away. Perhaps he might be able to give her the information he needed. Smiling, she picked up a piece of cherry pie and headed over to the circle.

“You have never seen a girl with…” one of the other apprentices was saying as Emmaline approached, he fell silent and blushed slightly as it became clear she was heading for their group.

“Well don’t stop on my account,” Emmaline encouraged, giving Malcador a companionable smile, “a girl with what?”

Malcador smiled widely. Not just because the woman had come back after he was certain he'd not see her for some time, but also seeing Gunter caught red handed in a misogynistic joke made it all the sweeter.

"Yes, do continue Gunter." Malcador crossed his arms, oozing smugness. He gently nudged the buxom blonde. "He's always so funny, watch."

Gunter was stricken, and then he gave an incredulous look at Malcador for this social betrayal. Malcador snickered quietly, and Gunter just threw his hands up. "You have never seen a girl like a Nulner girl. They say you can't make heads nor tails of them. Their head in the ground, their ass in the air-"

"What they don't tell you is they're tits deep up their own ass." Malcador finished for him, and Gunter gave a frustrated groan as there was an accompanied by a chorus of laughs. There were a few Nulners at the Colleges, but most went to their own, lesser school located in the city state. Altdorf citizens and Nulners had an intense rivalry, but Gunter was not privvy to where the blonde came from, so he redirected the joke to be about Nulners. Malcador simply freestyled the punchline.

A few of the men in the grouping were Malcador's longtime drinking buddies, but others were from an assortment of other orders. Adelmo, a manicured, effete apprentice of the amethyst order that was more bluster than substance, indicated the newcomer. "I suspect this is a friend of yours, Mal?"

Malcador did not recall they were close enough for Adelmo to use a nickname, but he decided to let it go. He glanced at the beauty, an open question on his face. "Yes, this is...-"

For her part, she slipped her arms around his left. "Emmaline Von Morganstern, his... 'friend'" She said, coyly.

"Ah, I see. You do get around, Mal." Adelmo snickered.

"He does?" Emmaline asked innocently.

"I take some small offense to that," Malcador remarked, but there was a light heartedness in the air after he had dismantled Gunter's ruin of a joke, and soon they were trading. Emmaline did not leave his side, and Malcador was not about to be pulled apart. Eventually the group disippated into smaller clumps, and both of the attractive apprentices glided away. Emmaline giggled. "The look on your face when I showed up again was priceless," she admitted.

"Well, I certainly didn't expect you to come back," he said with a guilty smile.

“Well you know, paperwork is fascinating and all but it can hardly compare with Pie Week.” Emmaline laughed, “it is a shame we only get to do it once a year.”

“We get one Pie Week yes, but what about Second Pie Week?” Malcador asked as though asking a question of his master.

“Pie Fortnight?” Emmaline suggested with a grin. Malcador laughed.

“That might lead to a shortening shortage,” he quipped. Emmaline giggled.

“The economy might crumble,” Emmaline suggested, “leading to a collapse of the public crust?” It was Malcador’s turn to chuckle.

“So how come I haven’t seen you around before now?” he asked, as they paused to listen to an Araybian looking apprentice play an odd tune on a flute. As he did so a length of rope rose from a basket and swayed back and forth as though it had a life of it’s own.

“My Master doesn’t let me out much,” Emmaline admitted. That wasn’t strictly true, Albrecht probably let her out into the city more than most apprentices but usually because he had something for her to do. He preferred that she didn’t wander the college unsupervised, and only occasionally took her to visit other wizards, usually when he wanted them distracted.

“Well who can blame him,” Malcador flirted as they ambled along. The pair of them parted briefly as a celestial wizard with an aristocratic sneer marched between them, on the way to something far more elevated than a rabble of apprentices amusing themselves. Emmaline bowed slightly as he passed, then bounced the heavy coin purse she had lifted from him on her palm.

“Did you just…”

“Well he obviously didn’t see that coming,” Emmaline said smugly, dropping the purse into her satchel with a satisfying clink. Malcador, with vastly more experience with the prognosticating celestial college snickered in amusement. Doubtless the theft would be blamed on one of the Shadow College apprentices.

“I can blame him,” Emmaline said, “but not today. What do you say we get out of here and safely dispose of this purse? If he knows any Golds he might be able to track the coins, best make sure they are widely dispersed.”

Malcador hadn't expected the thievery, but it didn't perturb him. He quite liked surprises.

He sidled up to her, whispering conspiratorially. "I know just the place," he said, and took her by the hand. The pair exited the Magestarium and soon were out of the Colleges entirely. The streets, albeit not empty by any stretch, were not the immense cacophony of activity is was the usual. It was just after lunch, and those that hadn't eaten their feasts in the comfort of their home were now leaving the taverns, and many were going to settle down for a nap or a more leisurely activity. Even those of the city watch had bread crumbs on their lips or were snoozing soundly. Of course, you could fill whole villages with the numbers of men and women who were still out and about, but Malcador was used to twice the volume.

Eventually they made it to Grandmarkt district, the passing clouds above barely obscuring the overbearing sun. It wasn't quite summer yet, but spring had fully come, and even on the short flower gardens made from government subsidies along the stone walkways, the flowers were in bloom. In the Grandmarkt, the festivities had begun to die down, but there was still a great crowd laughing and drinking and feasting on pies. A number of halflings were among them, one laying atop a table, his paunch in the air and snoring loudly. Malcador guided her past the ruin of the festival, and together they entered a large, three storied establishment called Hammerhome.

"What is this place?" Emmaline asked after Malcador knocked on the door. An eyeslit opened, and Malcador made a small sign with his hand, before the slit closed, and the reinforced door opened.

"Well, on the surface it's a club, of sorts." He told her as they walked in. Immediately they were greeted with the sweet smell of cooked cakes and mead and spiced wine. There were carpets with Arabic embroidery on the floor, and the lamps were lit with camphine to keep the scent from being overwhelming in the enclosed space. There was a dining hall, a resplendent chandelier above that glimmered with a thousand facets of light, the display was lost on the mostly empty hall, save for a few couples in rapt conversation. Malcador led Emmaline to the stairwell, but instead of ascending, he opened a large door beside it.

The doorway led downstairs, and they stepped down the wooden, almost rickety steps until they were met by the sounds of rolling dice and the groans of the myriad of losers. Malcador and Emmaline bore witness to a full room of nothing but gambling and drinks, from cards to knucklebones to Sigmar Save Me. Waiters hustled passed well polished and study tables as men and women cheered and fell over in disappointment.

"You're not likely to see any firstborn noblemen here, but second sons and middling merchants that want to rub shoulders with them congregate here, as well as some of the more lucky commoners." He explained quietly. "The take is good, if you win. Just don't piss anyone off too much."

"I can try," she said devilishly.

"Let's see if we can take a bit more gold, today."

Do not use magic to cheat at cards. Albrecht had drilled this lesson into Emmaline early on. Nothing was as likely to rile up the peasantry as cheating them at the gaming table. Sure you might be able to reanimate a corpse and make it do your bidding, but cheating at whist? That was just evil.

“And Capons, the lady wins,” the croupier declared as he turned over the last card and whisked away the house's stake. Emmaline gathered in her coins to the cheers and moans of her fellow players. Of course just because you didn’t cheat didn’t mean you had to lose. Emmaline took another drink of the excellent wine which the bartender assured her was from Brettonia but might just as easily have been from Foregate for all Emmaline could tell. She probably wouldn’t have been able to tell even before her second glass, and that was several glasses back by now.

“Just as well your master doesn’t let you out much, you’d bankrupt the place,” Malcador observed. He knew she wasn’t cheating but he looked a little suspicious none the less.

“It is about all he is good for,” Emmaline grumped, waving down the offer to be dealt in for another hand. This gained her several hard looks from people wishing for a chance to win their money back but she ignored them with the lofty dignity of the moderately inebriated.

“Not a pleasant master?” Malcador asked. Apprentices, by and large, didn’t speak much of their masters so it was a point of familiarity that Malcador broached the topic. It was all too easy for an irritated master to make life impossible for his apprentice, though rarely were apprentices simply turned out. Half trained wizardlings were not something that generally ended well for anyone involved.

“He has his moments, he can do this thing with… well never mind,” Emmaline replied, then made an expansive gesture. Malcador put a hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the portrait on the wall she had been addressing.

“...said I was…” she paused and hiccuped, “...lazy and undisciplined..me!” She flopped down onto a divan with a jingle, running her hands through the gold coins with obvious pleasure.

“Didnt tell me anything about this project I am supposed to do… not even when it is supposed to be done by…” In her pleasant state Emmaline didn’t immediately notice Malcador start.

“What…” she asked after few long seconds of silence.

“You… havent done your apprentice task for the year… like… not even started?” he asked, sounding aghast.

"No..." She said, pouting. The desired effect was ruined a bit when she hiccuped, but to Malcador it only made her cuter. He had imbibed in a bit of wine, but had neglected to go all in like Emmaline. He knew no matter what, he'd have to walk her home. And unlike what he had been planning, it likely wouldn't end the way he wished. Malcador wasn't a virtue of morality by any stretch, he was a handsome lech used to finagling his way through life when his good looks and wit couldn't hack it. But he also wasn't one to take advantage of a woman when she was drunk. Of course she would sober up in a few hours, but he would be out on the town by then!

"And if that's the case, then why did you want us to go out here?" He asked her, his quick mind summing up the answer before she even spoke.

"You..." She went, idly playing with the pond of gold in the pouch she cradled. "You seen smart, and I wanted to semduce you... to help me..."

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Gods be good. "You got a little too drunk to do that, Emma."

"I'mb usually better at it." She admitted. "Been a weird day."

Malcador paused, contemplating his next move. It wasn't evening yet, so he still had some time, but should he help her? He looked at her, and immediately realized with amazement that he would. Grand idea, old boy. He scratched the back of his head as he considered their options. She was gorgeous beyond belief, but even though he "Emma? Emmaline?" He said, and she perked up curiously. He looked defeated. "I'll help you, we have a few hours before I get busy, I think. And we'll need to work fast. I'll walk you home, and then I'll get my supplies and spellbooks. I'll come over to your place, and then we'll work on it as long as we can. Alright?"

"Yes!" She squealed, and planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek.

An hour later, Malcador had led her to her room, as much for her safety as to make certain he knew where it was himself, then the celestial mage ran out of the Chamon tower. As he descended the winding, metallic steps, he garnered a bunch of incredulous looks from students and staff. A few calls of "Are you lost, Skygazer!?" chased him, but he ignored it. He made it to his own tower, and with relief, he realized most of it was still deserted. No questions on that end, he thanked Sigmar for. He grabbed his mortar, pestle, alembic, calcinator, as well as his tools of measurement and his spellbook, along with a few common components. Sulphur, and the like.

He practically sprinted back. Shallya knows how desperate he was to get this done quickly. Luckily he received less jeers when he arrived back, likely because with all of the equipment, he seemed more like a helper than an interloper.

That or everyone was getting too drunk or stuffed to care.

To Emmaline’s great relief Albrecht was out when she returned. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time she had come back to the tower drunk, but she was pleased to be spared his anger or his advances. Heading up to her master laboratory she unlocked the potion room and went in. The room was filled with vials of every imaginable shape. Some were in delicate crystal balls, others in recorked wine bottles, some were in vessels hammered out of inert metals or fashioned from painted Tilean pottery. There were no labels but she knew what a few of them did. Lifting an old brandy bottle from the shelf she took a long swig, the surprisingly sweet liquid dancing over her tongue. Immediately some of the fog of wine began to dissipate. She collected a few other potions and stuffed them into her pouch before heading downstairs in time to hear a knock at the door. For a moment she froze, worried that Albrecht might have returned but then rationalized that he was unlikely to knock at the door of his own tower. She pulled the door open and tugged Malcador in, a little charmed to see he had brought alchemical equipment. What did he think the Gold College did? Well maybe he just thought she was a particularly poor representative of the Alchemical College.

“Fancy,” Malcador observed, looking around the relatively luxurious tower, his eyes lingering on some of the more sybaritic artwork that Albrecht hung on the walls. The Gold College was fabulously wealthy and though much of that wealth and though ALbrecht somehow managed to be perpetually skint his tower was still impressive.

“It isn’t much, but it isn’t mine,” Emmaline replied with a snicker and then grabbed Malcador’s hand and led him down the stairs to her workspace. The basement lab wasn’t quite as impressive as Albrecht’s but it was very well stocked by any standards. Emmaline flopped onto a couch, and lay bonelessly. The potion she had imbibed had rid her of the worst of the wine’s effects but she was still pleasantly warm and tingly.

“Ok so basically your project has to be something that reflects on your college… I know Borvis created some kind of new charcoal or something,” Malcador suggested. Emmaline made a disinterested sound. She had met Borvis Gerkel once and had disliked the fat apprentice immediately.

“Can’t we do something more fun?” Emmaline implored, batting her eyelashes at Malcador.

“I guess we could do some kind of enchantment, I know a little bit but…”

Emmaline sprang to her feet at the mention of enchantments. She ran upstairs and returned a moment with a heavy tome bound in leather. An ornate key plate was built into the front cover. Emmaline pulled a pin from her hair and spent a few moments working the lock until it clicked open. Triumphant she laid it on the table between them. Malcador turned the pages and whistled.

“This is pretty advanced stuff,” he admitted, a finger following the flowing script inside.

“Is your master ok with you using it?” he asked.

“Totally fine,” Emmaline breezed with a toss of her head.

“I mean, it is just the fact that you had to pick the lock to get in suggests…”

“Oh please, if it was meant to keep people out it would have a WAY better lock,” Emmaline rationalized.

“Brechtnow’s Cantrip for the Manipulation of Fate…” Emmaline read, leaning close to see the page Malcador had just turned, surreptitiously pressing a full breast against his arm.

For someone who appeared to be a lower ranking student, her master's quarters in the tower was ornate but somewhat meretricious to Malcador's sensibilities. However, the student herself was more than appealing, and he whispered the alchemical symbols along the text as he read, his breath warm on her slim neck. Flirtation aside, however, he did have a professional sort of interest in what the grimoire contained. Particularly what Emmaline had spoken aloud.

"This seems dangerously close to my own order," he said, and chuckled to himself. "Then again, there's always a bit of overlap between the schools." As he spoke, Emmaline drew her face even closer, almost touching his cheek with her own. Overlap indeed.

"What are we going to enchant, exactly?" She asked, turning her head, soft golden hair bouncing against his face. "If we use something in here, Albrecht will-"

"Bitch and complain?" Malcador grinned. She laughed and nodded. He bit his tongue gently as he thought, and then nodded. "Can you spare one of the coins you won tonight? I know it's not your first choice..."

"Well, you need to smelt some iron to make a sword," She said, reciting an old chamon idiom. She reached into her pouch and pulled out one of the crowns. "We need to be careful, they're mostly gold, but they have some impurities, technically 95% gold." Malcador plucked it out of her hand and flicked it into the air deftly, catching it before their eyes.

"I'm impressed." He said. "See? You do listen."

"When it comes to gold, I am without equal." She said, holding her head high as if she were a prized stallion. He grinned again, not for the first time noticing her bosom on full display at the motion. When both redirected their attention back to the book, Malcador flipped the page until he found the section for the hermetic practices. He placed the gold coin on the page, next to the alchemical symbol for gold.

"I know you likely know this, but I want to say it plainly so we're on the same page," he remarked. "So in theory, gold is most closely associated with the sun, yes? And spells, though they can last centuries, can wither. We don't have the books for any dwarf runes, and elven texts are scarce on the matter. But I think together we can ensorcle this gold coin into a coin of luck, and while the sun is yours, the sky is mine, and so they're linked. With an admittedly advanced dwimmer or incantation, I can bind the coin with the sun relatively easily, and it can gather strength from it."

"We can turn it into a ring," Emmaline said, lips parted and eyes shining. Malcador glanced at her, to tell her that could work, but found himself dumbstruck by the sheer lust in her eyes while staring at the coin. It was one of the most erotic things he had experienced in months, and he had to rein himself in before he began to ignore the lesson and use it to his carnal advantage.

"Exactly, and when the ring is under the sun," He said, lifting the coin betwixt his fingers. "A domain we both share, it regains strength and continues bringing good fortune, and it should allow it to remain so for the entirety of its existence." Of course, Malcador could combine a few weaves and spells to make it a bit less soft than usual gold, though Emmaline likely could as well. Still...

"The idea has promise," He teased with an air of nonchalance, playing the coin between the back of his fingers. "Shall we proceed?"

In the back of his mind, he knew they needed to begin now. He had to be gone before the sun dipped below the horizon, as comfortable as he was in this golden tower with her.

Emmaline was rarely enthusiastic about spell work, it was a little bit too much like actual work to her lights but given the pleasant company she found she was almost looking forward to it. For a long moment she stared at the dancing gold coin, physically restraining herself from snatching it and pressing it to her skin. With a mighty effort she pulled herself away and forced herself to look over the grimoire to see what needed to be done. It was somewhat similar to the enchantment of pomanders, something she had done a few times under Albrecht’s direction though considerably more complicated and involved.

It took Malcador almost an hour to lay everything out just so. The coin rested on the enhancing table, at the center of a complex diagram drawn out in essential salts Emmaline had pilfered from her masters stores. A pair of small, rather impure diamonds and several pieces of glass marked intersections and vortices and a trio of braziers smouldered lazily with the smoke of bitter herbs.

“Ok we are ready,” Malcador announced as he made a tiny correction to one of the lines with a protractor and a leaded blade that resembled a straight razor. He was clearly impressed that Emmaline had access to such tools and, she suspected, a little disdainful she made such limited use of them. In truth he had done much of the work while Emmaline looked on, but the final step had to be a joint effort. If she showed up with a project that was entirely of the Celestial wind it would raise questions to say the least.

“Alright,” Emmaline replied, idly wishing she had brought a bottle of wine or brandy now that the effects of her earlier indulgence were beginning to wear off. She took her position across the table and spread her hands.

“Let us begin.” They both began chanting softly, Emmaline reading from the book, Malcador working from a series of passages he had transcribed onto parchment. In Emmaline’s magical sight the golden wind of Charmon began to swirl, coming down the tower as though it were a funnel which drew it from the ether. She thought she could catch reflections of blue in the metallic glow but couldn’t be sure. With careful word and gesture she directed the flow of the wind to Malcador who began to channel it into the coin. Almost at once the essential salts began to pop and crackle and the braziers gutters to low blue flames. Emmaline continued to chant, the power flowing down into her and across into the other apprentice in ever increasing amounts.

“Slow down,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, somehow contriving to continue his own incantation.

“Emma, not so much,” he repeated more insistently, sweat beginning to film his brow.

“Emma stop it!”

Emmaline tried to comply but the torrent of energy was strong and growing and she couldn’t safely dismiss it. It began to pour into her like a waterfall and Malcador’s incantation grew faster and more desperate as he attempted to redirect the raw strength of Charmon. Emmaline began to glow softly, her hair stirring like cobwebs blown by an invisible wind. The ambelic he had brought exploded and one of the braziers began to bounce up and down, skittering across the table like a living thing. The popping of the essential salts grew more intense and then flared into light like burning magnesium. Both apprentices were shouting now, their careful hand gestures desperate and dramatic. Golden light poured into Emmaline and she felt herself lift from the ground, molten gold pulsing in her veins, making her skin and eyes shimmer. She screamed out the words of the spell over and over as books leaped from the shelves and all three mirrors in the room frosted, then shattered in an avalanche of tumbling glass. Malcador raised both his hands then pounded them down on the table. The coin, glowing white hot by now, leaped six feet into the air, spinning before Emmaline’s eyes like a childs top. Flakes of red hot metal flew off in smoking arcs as the coin hung unnaturally in the air. The coin twisted and flowed in the air deforming into a whirl of blazing white metal, twisting itself into a spinning ring which tossed away the impurities of its debasement with contemptuous ease until it shone pure and terrible. . With a final scream Malcador finished the spell and Emmaline felt the power of Charmon come through her like a bolt of lightning. The ring hammered down onto the enchanting table with a sound like a gun being fired. Despite the tremendous speed of the impact it didn’t bounce but lay still and smoking as Emmaline wilted and Malacador sagged back, burning scraps of his notes floating in the air around him. The artefact glowed with the heat of its forging, a golden circlet entwinted with intricately etched serpents of a style Emmaline didn't recognise.

“Wow,” Emmaline gasped, then collapsed onto the couch in a graceless heap.

Papers and debris floating to the floor like rain as the winds of magic dissipated into harmlessness. Behind a tossed desk, Emmaline could hear a short groan, as if someone was moving from a spot that had been midly uncomfortable. Over the lip of the desk, a hand appeared, and it grasped the desk. Malcador's striking visage, now looking like he spent the night on the floor, rose into view. He was still rather good looking, but his mane of hair was disheveled, with bits of paper in it.

"Well, that was rather more recalcitrant than I initially imagined, but..." He spied the ring, now perfectly glinting in the light. He blinked, his grey eyes catching the small serpents etched upon it. He didn't remember adding that to the ritual, and if Emmaline's magic had without her will, it could very well have been the work of something beyond their world. A daemon, worst case scenario. As rare as it was after being trained, there was always the possibility of a mage being possessed and used as a window for daemons to work their mischief and even violence. He doubted a god would take notice on their work here but... who knows?

He grunted and lifted himself up, dusting off his robes. Damn, his best elventhread ruined, at least until he could get them properly washed. He'd have to change into his older, more crimson robes of common weave. He glided over to the central table, somehow still smooth of looks and gait despite his unkempt appearance. Carefully, the handsome sorcerer picked up the ring, and immediately felt a small burden. It wasn't that they had increased the mass of it, but there was a weight to its spirit only a mage could sense. Still, it wasn't unpleasant. Like the weight of a gilded belt before you placed it on, seemingly nonexistent once worn.

Briefly he wondered about the wisdom of presenting it for inspection. The spellcasting had been somewhat obstructed. There was no telling what side effects it would have, but he knew, the way she had looked at it, it was going to have to do.

He strolled over, and then lowered himself to a knee, not worrying about scuffing the robes any longer. "T'was unorthodox, but I think we have a winner," he said, gingerly taking her hand and sliding the ring into her finger. The band glinted brighter, as if ensconced by an inner flame for a brief moment. He gave her a surreptitious wink, not letting go of her hand, rubbing with his thumb. "Hmmm, it needs a flashy name. We want it to be mysterious, and something good... how about the Chrysos Aurea? It's sexy, sleek yet bounteous, commands attention. They say an item always resembles its creator, after all. Yes, it suits you perfectly."

He gave her a wolfish grin, sly but hungry. But then his eyes went past her shoulder, and he saw the sun beginning to set out of the distant window. His look turned to resigned frustration. "Ugh, if I stay my friends will throw me into the reik." He began to rise again.

Malcador awoke slowly, and then all at once. There was something off, something he could not quite grasp. He jerked out of bed, his heart skipping a beat as he realized the placement of the sun, which was almost as disturbing as there being a sun at all. He should have awoken at first light! He swiftly ran to the window, not caring he was as naked as the day he was born. He whipped the curtains open, and a quick glance at the glaring sun told him it was nearly 9 AM.

There was a scream, and laughter, and Malcador looked down to see a small group of sorceresses pointing up at his naked form. He closed the curtain immediately.

The astromancer was back in his own quarters. After his tryst with Emmaline the previous night, she had kicked him out so Albrecht wouldn't come down in the early morning and see the two of them wrapped around one another like wrestling snakes. She had given him a lingering kiss with her sheets wrapped around her when he made it to the door, promising more soon, and he went home in the dark with naught but his trousers and boots on, the rest of his clothing and effects clustered in his arms. He was so exhausted he stripped his pants off again and fell onto his bed, damning the consequences of the day. Thinking about sharing a bed with Emmaline had made it all worth it.

But now he had twenty minutes to make it to the Chaple of Sigmar before the next service began.

Usually he was meticulous about his appearance, but he took no time in brushing his hair or adjusting his clothing. He donned his most basic acolyte attire and ran out of the tower before Master Belmond could inquire upon yesterday's activities with any penetrating questions. Members of the Celestial Order were expected to be loyal and unquestioning to their masters, even beyond other students of other schools. Any false move and at best he could be sent to clean the gutters in the perilously high alcoves of their cyclopean tower. At worst, students have been expelled for any considering to disobey a question by their specific master.

Malcador made it to the bottom of the stairs of their apartments, one of the many slimmer buildings of living connected to the main tower of Astromancy. Even in the wan sun, the Astroglobe at the top of the tower was the largest in the entirety of the world, and it glinted brightly.

"Oh Malcador!" A girlish voice called from the apartments next door. The debonair acolyte turned. His studious air was gone, replaced by apprehension. He recognized the voice. Posing out of the window three floors up like a mermaid out of water, Jessibel the Azure looked down at him with a smirk. She was a bit older than an acolyte should be, much like Emmaline, but her hair was dark and it was likely by choice. The woman did not wish to return the estates she would be bidden to once she graduated.

"I haven't the time!" Malcador called up to her.

She only laughed. "There was a point a year ago you would given anything to speak to me. Could you have a new item of interest? Is that why you came back last night half naked?"

"I came back because I was out drinking." He said as he turned away, knowing the story was a weak one. He couldn't let Jessibel find out about Emmaline, or the entirety of the colleges would know it by the end of the day.

"That better be a lie, or we'll have more than words for you." Another voice remarked. Malcador was struck white like a ghost when Gunter, Heinrich, and Grigor stepped out of the crowd. The three young acolytes looked pissed in a way only a young man who had not gotten laid could be.

"Compatriots, I have to go!" Malcador remarked, holding his hands up. "If I don't make this errand I'll be strung up by the balls!"

"That's a start." Grigor remarked dryly.

"Where in the wastes were you, Zauberhaft?" Gunter asked acidly, eye twitching from an illicet substance, likely opium from Cathay. "We waited for two hours, and then did our best to scavenge during the night. They were expecting us as a group! We weren't even allowed in the Gong and Tackle!"

It was an exquisite venue you had to make reservations for. Anything amiss and they would grant it to someone more trustworthy. The girls in there were supposed to be beyond beautiful. Malcador doubted they were as tasty as Emmaline's bosom or rump, but he could imagine it was disappointing to his mates. Plus, and they would never admit this, Malcador was the smooth one. He could get women to join all of them, and without him, they were three intelligent but less than charming individuals.

"Look, it's only the second day of the week. I'll be able to make it up to you, but as of now I have to go!"

Malcador began to run, and he heard their cries follow him across the courtyard as Jessibel cackled.

“Emmaline!”

Emmaline sighed and clambered out of bed and reached for the wine decanter beside her bed. It lifted with the peculiar sticky feeling one got when lifting an unexpectedly empty vessel. The curtains glowed with the effort of holding back the morning light and the clammy interior of the tower was beginning to warm. Emmaline sighed and set down the decanter before climbing out of bed.

“Emmaline!” Albrecht roared from upstairs. Emmaline threw open a chest and dragged out a soft robe of white fur that she had stolen from a noble she had helped Albrect scam. She slipped it on enjoying the soft feel of it against her skin. After a moment's thought she tugged the golden ring from her finger and placed it in the chest. A smile tugged at her lips, there was no question it had brought her luck the previous night. The ring would need to be exposed to the sky, particularly the night sky, in order to maintain the enchantment but she could handle that later.

Her somewhat threadbare modesty covered with luxurious fur she ambled up the stairs to her master's chamber. Albrect was laying in his vast four poster bed glaring balefully at her. He was naked beneath his blanket save for a silken night cap. The old wizard had been a handsome man once and was still surprisingly muscular, perhaps the better to run when his various schemes invariably went awry.

“What do you have to say for yourself?!” he demanded. Emmaline’s stomach dropped but thanks to Albrect’s lessons she had plenty of practice at concealing her emotions. He knew about Malcador. He was going to tear a strip off her hide at the very least and while she didn’t think he would expel her she didn’t want to imagine what other punishments he might come up with. She vacillated for a few seconds, trying to come up with some kind of excuse.

“Where is my breakfast girl! Are you trying to starve me?” the old wizard demanded. A wave of relief flooded through her and made her feel giddy. He didn’t know anything, Myrmydia’s tits it was a miracle he hadn’t tumbled her last night. Or was it? Had the luck ring protected her then too? Emboldened her even?

“I’ll get right to it,” Emmaline told him and all but skipped out of the room.

There were several kitchens scattered throughout the college. While there had been some efforts to centralize things over the years, competition and rivalry between the colleges and even individual wizards meant that each college had at least one kitchen. The Gold college had three each named after the head chef. Marcel’s was both the best and the closest to Albrect’s tower and was nestled in a trio of large sub basements, one of which had been converted to a bakery and another to a cold store. The public facing room was the working kitchen. It was a cheerful place with a trio of ovens along one wall. The opposite wall was dominated by a row of copper bound oak barrels. Metal taps had been driven into the wood dispensing ale, oil, and wine. Above the barrels were shelf after shelf of spices and condiments carefully labeled with scraps of parchment describing their contents. Bundles of dried herbs hung beside smoked and dried meats. Wheels of cheese wrapped in wax paper were stacked beside sacks of salt and flour, giving the whole place a unique and pungent scent. As might be expected the place was a flurry of activity as the underchefs tired to conduct both the normal business of the place as well as meet the demands of pie week. A dozen pies sat on a central table while Alisha, the pastry chef, brushed them with lemon juice and sprinkled them with generous helpings of granulated sugar. Another underchef was rolling out pastry while simultaneously trying to keep control of half a dozen pots that simmered various fruit compotes to create fillings.

“Emma?” Marcel called as he emerged from the cold store carrying a haunch of bacon. He was a handsome man with salt and pepper hair and he took some pains to keep himself fit despite the constant need to taste his own cooking. The chef looked her up and down and arched an eyebrow. Emmaline arched any eyebrow and then realised that a thigh length fur coat and not much else was probably not the best choice for running errands. She didn’t quite blush but plowed ahead anyway.

“Breakfast for two please,” she told him. Marcel nodded, he set down the haunch of bacon and then picked up a stick of chalk which he used to mark two tallies on a large slate.

“For you and Magister Albrect?” he asked over his shoulder as he began piling sausages, stewed tomatoes, bacon, and fried strips of potato onto a pair of wooden plates. Emmaline crossed to a brass jug and poured coffee into large ceramic mugs before adding sugar and cream.

“Of course, who else would it be for?” she asked. Marcel shrugged and set the plates onto a wooden carrying tray which he set on the bench for Emmaline to pick up.
“Oh I don’t know, one of the scullery maids reported a half naked apprentice wandering the halls last night?” Marcel suggested. Emmaline felt her stomach lurch again and managed to dump half of the sugar bowl into her mug.

“I don’t know anything about that, sounds like I missed a show,” she covered, cursing herself for a fool for the second time in what was still a very young day.

"What is the difference between an Elementalist and a Diabolist?" Master Artheus inquired, his question slapping Malcador like a whip. The apprentice had just made it up the immeasurably long, winding stairway to bring the newly fashioned lens to the observatory. The Celestial Colleges were known to be the most strict in the entirety of all the Colleges of Magic. There were many reasons and rationalizations, but Malcador could only speak for his own master. He was a strict intellectual and perfectionist, and he demanded the same of his own students. It had made Malcador one of the sharpest students in the Colleges, but it had also been utter hell to go through.

"A Diabolist summons entities from the realm of chaos, daemons, to do their bidding." Malcador said with bated breath, refitting the lens with deft twists of his fingers as Artheus grilled him. The older wizard, black haired with sweeps of silver along his sideburns and goatee, turned from his morning bookkeeping to stare at Malcador. "It is forbidden by Imperial Decree to do so unless under strict supervision by no less than three wizards of sufficient rank. An Elementalist summons Elemental spirits."

"Are Elemental Spirits not from the realm of Chaos?" His master asked quizzically. "Why is one loosely outlawed and the other only beholden to the more mundane edicts of the magical arts?"

"Yes and no. The magic itself is derived from where all magic comes, and the infusion is based in the realm of chaos, however the spirit is not a spirit as we otherwise might view it, such as a chaos entity or an aberration. A...A spirit in this case is the collective memory of an element, without true thought. It is essentially granting a portion of an element an artificial mockery of sentience, whilst being totally controlled by the caster. They cannot rebel or perform deeds not dictated by the summoner." He was glad he had not been out drinking. His hangover would have him cleaning gutters for a week.

"Can an Elemental be considered a familiar?" Artheus asked, crossing his legs. The room around him was tall, before curling into a dome at the precipice. The bookshelves were tidy and neat, yet the wizards large desk was a mess of papers and tomes of various arcane purpose.

"No, master."

"Why?" He asked quickly.

Malcador swallowed, trying to think. "Er because... because they are temporary and have no soul. A familiar needs to be an animal, whom you have spirit bonded with, or more popularly a homunculus who, um, a wizard has created and infused with a portion of their soul. The latter has grown more popular as the other method is considered antiquated, and the great mage Teclis stated that it has the potential to be corrupting in a manner."

Master Artheus granted him a tight lipped smile, pleased. He was strict, but he did give favor when it was called for, and he knew it was Pie Week. The academic questions would last only so long, as would the errands.

"Good, now one last question and you may be on your way, Malcador." He said warmly, though his eyes were as cold as ice. "Why did you come back last night half naked, three hours after curfew?"

Malcador was stricken as if shocked by lightning. Had Artheus divined the reason? Could he lie? No, no if Artheus had divined it, Malcador would be mocked for the act already, and then supremely punished. He had already gotten in trouble with his trysts before. It was ironic, none had been quite as delectable as Emmaline had. It would be divine punishment to have him be separated from her now of all times. No, his master could rightly guess he was out drinking, and had merely gotten too drunk to return on time. Malcador let his gaze fall to the floor, and his hands fell to his sides. "I should have confessed of my tardiness, master." He said with a sigh. "I had gone out gallivanting with the lads, and had lost my senses with strong drink."

After a brief pause, Artheus snorted. "You truly thought I would not have noticed. You truly must have been drunk." The wizard stood up, and went to inspect the immense telescope, inspecting the contraption with a practiced eye. "You can clean lavatory for that, for a week! You shall also recite the next question and answer session in elvish, and for every word you mispronounce or misspeak, it shall add a day to your gutter cleaning duties. If it happens again, I just might think of finding another apprentice..."

"Yes Master." Malcador remarked, bowing his head.

"Now you can run another errand for me, and be quick about it. I am done using Master Oswald's scepter, you must deliver it back to him before noon. If your tardiness causes that delivery to be late..." He let the threat hang, before the looming consequences abated. "Then you can have some pie and leisure time."

Evading her master during his hangovers was a skill Emmaline had long mastered. Albrect could drink more than any man Emmaline had ever encountered and functioned perfectly well even under a prodigious load of drink but he was no more immune from liquor's revenge than any other. After she had bought him his breakfast she regaled him with tales of her evening. These tales were completely invented, a fact of which Albrect was well aware, and the master wizard questioned and picked at her tales trying to expose some falsehood or inconsistancy. It was training of a sort, for Albrect was as much a grifter as a wizard and in that respect he had selected a good apprentice. Emmaline wondered how that had come to pass Gold Wizards frequently bid on promising apprentices when they were presented, offering their own wealth against dues, or even paying the College for the privilege of a particularly promising apprentice, an investment they were happy to wring out of their students for the most part. What Albrect had paid for her she did not know, but her part in his various scams and schemes must have made him a neat pile of gelt over the past year or two.

"You are using too many generalties girl," Albrect grumped as he finished his eggs, sopping up the soft yolk with a crust of bread.

"I had been drinking," Emmaline replied defensively.

"And yet you were so articulate when we spoke last night? Tsk tsk," Albrect chided. Emmaline blushed at the thought of what she had been doing during that conversation.

"Fine, you may go, I shall expect you to bring dinner before you lose yourself to wine," Albrect gave in, issuing an impressive belch before shoving his plate away.

"Tomorrow I may have time to teach you something... I suppose I should do something," he grumped. Emmaline nooded eagerly.

"I have scrolls for you to deliver, be gone," he waved his hand. Emmaline fled enthusiastically, eager to get out of the tower. SHe went downstairs and retrieved the ring of luck. She had hidden it behind a lose rock, wound about with a few simple wards. She shivered with pleasure to hold it and resisted the urge to put it on only with an effort of will. Instead she strung it on a leather cord and slipped it around her neck, nestling it between her breasts so she could still feel it against her skin.

The Colleges were bustling with activity as Emmaline hurried across the campus. Part of her was tempted just to toss them into a bush and be done. Sigmar knew most of Albrect’s mail was the polite minutiae of college life and Emmaline very much doubted anyone would miss it. Unfortunately, there was no way of telling which of them might be part of some complicated scheme which he would have her hide for disrupting. Her fingers toyed with the ring on its cord as she rounded a corner and all but ran into a trio of mage apprentices.

“Hey! Watch where you are going!” one of them snapped, reaching out to shove at Emmaline. She skipped back and flicked him in the nose, sending him staggering back clutching at his face.

“Hey!” one of his companions yelled, looking more outraged then worried. Then his face clouded with confusion.

“Aren’t you the one who was harassing Mal?” he asked. Emmaline recognized the man, Gunther was it?

“Pfffft, he wishes,” Emmaline replied, rolling her eyes. She tried to push past but the three men were spreading out to block the path.

The scepter was stylistically gnarled and misshapen. Many mages of the colleges had their staves and scepter's custom made to be carved and laminated with the appearance of a bonafide bough they made themselves. It was a conceit many had but few voiced aloud. Malcador did not see the harm in it, but it was hard to hold it casually without gripping it in both hands, he was not quite sure how to keep it in his grasp without using it as a walking stick, and if anyone saw that, Master Oswald would be perfectly happy to turn him to a slim frog. At least the legends of a frog actually being a handsome man would have some merit, but he had no desire to be the stand in for an apocryphal fable.

He had to slink down an alleyway to use a shortcut, knowing time was of the essence. He had to dodge a pile of human refuse on the street, wondering why, for all of their knowledge and magic, they could not find a good way to get rid of something so basic as bath water and human waste. He sprinted across a street, running right past the departing figures of two professors speaking on the more esoteric philosophies of light verses the absence of darkness, before he found himself in another alley. He was beginning to breathe more heavily, growing more tired during his dead run, until he heard a familiar voice up ahead.

"I don't think you understand, woman." Gunter replied, deceptively calm. Malcador heard a small gasp, and he recognized it immediately from hearing it in far more pleasurable terms the night before.

Emmaline...

He stopped at the edge, hugging the corner. He peered out, and his heart sunk when he saw his three 'comrades' surrounding Emmaline, the golden haired woman looking small in comparison to them. Gunter continued: "You cost us the first night of pie week. That's the night when all the pretty birds are out. When everyone is out for fun."

"Lot of krowns spent last night waiting on Malcador, lot of disappointment at the end of the night." Heinrich remarked.

"Don't worry, we're not going to hurt you." Grigor said, lightning playing on his fingertips. "We'll just give you something you'll not forget anytime soon..."

Malcador pulled back into the alley, his heart racing. He was amazed at the surging emotion of protectiveness he felt for Emmaline at that moment. He knew they were just trying to scare her, but even the fear was more than he would allow. All at once, his desperate rage turned to calm, and out of the alley, the three mages that towered over Emmaline spun in his direction, but it was too slow. A light as bright as a firework burst in front of their eyes, and they cried out in surprise and alarm. Emmaline was less effected, but still blinking from the immense illumination when a hand took hers and pulled her away, running down the road and past a stout tower. The next alley they entered, her eyes were adjusted enough to see Malcador materialize in front of her, hugging the wall and glancing behind them to see if they were pursued.

"I think we lost them," he told her, and breathed a sigh of relief. "What the hell are they thinking, trying to scare a woman like that?"

He turned to Emmaline finally, his face slightly red from the exertion, and also slight embarrassment of performing what was essentially his equivalent of a heroic rescue. "If we're seen together, there might be hell to pay but... " Malcador shook his head, a defeated smile on his face. "So, want to grab a drink later?"

"Later?" Emmaline asked before producing a tin flask and unscrewing the cap. She took a drink and passed it to Malcador who sniffed at it's contents.

"Smells like fruit juice," he complained.

"Vodka and lime juice, kind of a tonic," she explained. Malcador put the flask to his lips and took a sip, his lips tightened out the sour bite of it but he didn't comment beyond passing it back to her. Emmaline screwed the cap back on and tucked the flask back into her satchel.

"I'm uhhh sorry about my friends, they are a little irritated at being stood up," Malcador told her. Emmaline made a beckoning guesture to the other apprentice to follow as she continued across the interconnecting courtyards.

"Well if they through out every apprentice who is unpleasant I would have the place to myself," she quipped.

"One hopes not quite to yourself..." Malcador grinned and Emmaline blushed, her pale cheeks turning rosy.

"Mmmm," she rejoined wittily as they passed into the Jade College and through a series of rather overgrown gardens. It might have been the imagination but it seemed like the gnarled trees paid rather too much attention, their leaves rustling where no breeze blew. Squirels and other small wildlife scuttled about with no fear of humans. Every now and again some student decided to zap one with a spell, it never ended well for them.

"So where are we going?" Malcador asked as Emmaline stepped into one of the large towers and began to climb the curving stairs. Malcador followed behind at a distance to put his eyeline level with her rump, which she found she didn't mind. She might have even swished her hips a little more than was strictly necessary. They climbed several more flights of stairs and passed along some mostly dissused corridors. The Jade College was large but its members frequently prefered the wilds and Taal Bower to dwellings of stone. This area seemed largely to have been give over to storage, with forgotten crates an ancient chests all but bursting from the unused chambers.

"Scrolls to deliver," Emmaline replied guesturing to her satchel as a pair of jade acolytes hurried past, heading down and out towards day two of the Pie Week festivities.

"Think anyone would notice if you were a little late?" Malcador asked and caught her around the waist sweeping her through a door into an ancient and, from the dust, unused chamber. He pressed her up against the wall and kissed her thoroughly.

"You brute!" she giggled before kissing him back, her arms going around his neck.

"I really am," Malcador admitted, his kisses begining to trail down her neck when the sudden sound of voices caused them both to freeze in place. The voices appeared to be coming from an adjoining room, probably another dusty and half abandoned store room like this one.

"...ambassador Clodfot wont be in town very long, it isn't a big window to snatch the gold," a voice was saying.

"I don't care about the gold, I just need him to vanish, the tension will give my cousin the excuse he needs to snatch those lands!"

"Well I do care about the gold Scmidt, I've spent too long and risked too much to abandon it now, if the little half pint gets knifed in the bargin fine but I expect to be buying myself an estate with enough docile women to ruin me!"

Malcador's eyes cut up towards Emmaline's, rather a comical aspect from his position and they both turned towards the door. Horatious Clodfot was the ambassador from the Moot, in town for the festival and Emmaline had no desire to be close to anyone plotting to do harm to such a towering (metaphorically) figure.

"If we just slip out no one will be the..." Malcador began. Emmaline's foot caught on a loose paver and she tumbled forward to strike a suit of armor. The ancient visor snapped down with a clang and the suit toppled over. Malcador made a grab for it but clolided with Emmaline and the armor crashed down and shatterd a crate, that spilled a half dozen pots from its broken timbers with an almightly clatter. One of the pots rolled to a stairwell and tottered on the edge before going over, banging noisitly and making Emmaline wince with every step.

The voices in the next room were dead silent.

Emmaline and Malcador stared at each other in shock, then leaped to their feet, coliding again as they did so. Malcador grabbed Emmaline and half dragged, half carried her out of the room, running back down the stairs they had just ascended as fast as their legs could carry them.

It was odd how many times Malcador's life was saved by finding refuge in a broom closet.

He had whisked Emmaline off down the stairs and through two hallways, beginning to walk more casually past a servant going about his day, before he quickly turned a corner, opened the door and shoved Emmaline in there before joining her. He closed the door behind them, and when Emmaline began to protest, he shushed her and recanted a small incantation that would seal any noise they made and kept it within the confined space. It was the irony of the gods none of this was to have any fun with her.

The soft glow disappeared from his hands, and just as he finished, there was a light above the both of them Emmaline had quickly conjured for convenience. When he looked at her, it seemed like she had done it out of habit. Her eyes were full of distracted worry. He knew how she felt.

"What do we do?" She whispered, hands dragging down her face.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"You're the smart one!" She insisted. When he glanced at her incredulously, she flung her hands out. "You've got all high marks, right?"

"Well, yes." He admitted with a bit of arrogance, before brushing his pride away as if he grabbed one of the brooms to do it. "I'm good at magic and arithmetic, not this sort of thing! Besides, you're smart too!"

Emmaline held up his coin purse in her hand. "Why cunning is a bit different," she said, and before he could protest, she handed it back to him. After he took it, Malcador began to think. "No one saw us, at least, that we know of. That gives us a small advantage." The dashing mage shook his head, exasperated. "Maybe we should tell someone..."

Emmaline shook her golden head. "I can't tell my master, he won't believe me! And even if he did, he would say it's not his business."

"I can't tell mine either. He would look into it, find no evidence, and then ask me why I was in that part of... Oh Sigmar save me, I still need to make it on time." He gestured with the scepter, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was caught off guard with Emmaline grabbed the front of his robe and pulled him closer, though it was to emphasize her words rather than a kiss.

"I can't get in a large amount of trouble again, Mal! Do you understand!?" She asked with pleading eyes, before tears brimmed and she pressed her head into his chest. They dissolved all thoughts of consequences for the moment, and he let the scepter fall into the brooms as he drew his arms around her, stroking her hair. His entire association with Emmaline Von Morganstern was driving him up the wall, but he found it was not entirely unwanted, despite the risks.

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen." He promised, and found he fully believed the statement, despite his lack of knowledge on how to keep said promise.

She sniffed and drew her head back, albeit still clinging. "What if... What if we don't tell anyone?" She asked hesitantly, a small catch in her eye. "What if...we let it happen?"

He looked at her, and the self-preservation in the logic, despite the death of the Ambassador on their hands, made Malcador tempted to agree with her. Not only that, but he found himself growing aroused at Emmaline suggesting it, and realized there was something immensely wrong with him. Of course, most things Emmaline did caused that reaction, but he had to draw the line somewhere. "No, we... Look, if we let it happen, and someone finds out we knew, we wouldn't get in trouble. We would be on the chopping block."

"Honestly, I was hoping you would disagree with me," she confessed, nodding. "Ranald fuck me, so what do we do?"

Malcador licked his lips. "We... Let's finish our chores. Let's stay together as well. Rumors we can handle, right? We'll think on who we can tell, and then we'll discuss it again tonight, yes? They wouldn't kill him tonight. It's too soon from a plotting stage."

"True, and they're likely to be more careful now that they know someone heard them." She reasoned. "Still, getting involved is even riskier than not, but we can't just let it happen, right?"

"Why don't we tell someone anonymously?" Malcador temporized. Emmaline blinked, and smiled, clearly glad to find a solution that sated her guilt while also giving them a scot free way out. She poked his nose with her finger playfully.

"See? I like that big brain of yours, among other parts of your anaotmy." She teased.