#DRYDALOGIST

[recitedemise]

"Oh? I'm curious to hear what these 'magical academic advantages' would entail."

Wendell may possibly read him to the bone. For heaven's sake, he's an admired academic and has proven himself a sharp, keen eye! Yet, Gale hopes nonetheless, clinging to the thought that his myriad of covers will not be blown. However, he's only but a fool, a shade whose hope wastes in dug-deep trenches, and the offhanded question rolling easily off those lips? Gale frazzles. Take care, he tells himself, or Wendell, this guest, will discover him completely.

Still, it's harder than he thinks, smothering his worries as he quietly ruminates. He'd spoken correctly, of course, with one's entry into Cambridge not at all a tell of one's acceptance here. One must harbor some spellcraft, dancing lights, mage hand, or a crackling fire bolt. They're a campus, after all, whose focus on magic has kept them hidden for years and years. It's a quality she'd liked, his mentor, his goddess, and his now-distant love. Gale thinks of her here, how he captured her eye like a rhinestone waiting for a scavenging magpie. A shadow takes his face, something he's fighting to pass as casual. But, gosh, like all things about him from his pride to his rambling, his ache, regret, reads bold as flame. "Likening gods to faeries is as novel as it is daring, but all things considered," he tries, "I suppose there are far wilder comparisons that came before. True enough, to win the interest of the gods, one must first come to capture their attention. It varies, of course, but even excelling at magic would be cause enough. Still, though difficult as it is to wrest their gaze, upholding their favor would prove all the more challenging. Correct if I'm wrong, but disappointing the Folk is a dangerous affair." Wronging them, wronging her, his dear leady of mysteries... "Likewise, there are more pleasant things to be than be spurned by a god."

What an interesting thing to say! Righting himself, Gale can declare the very same for Wendell. Mustering his calm, he turns back to find stray flecks of a croissant buttering up that mouth. It makes him look -- young, innocent in a flavor that's at odds with his getup. It makes Gale smile, a playful furrow cropping into the line of his brow. He stirs his coffee and raises his mug. Sipping at it, that sharp arabica sharpens his tongue. "Right. And do you normally broach conversation asking colleagues who so stun your senses if they're of a kind beyond our own?" he teases. "Believe me, I'm not as interested in 'treats' as I am in lavish, succulent meals. That said, I'm not entirely sure I can show you my specialty without a very dead subject to work with. I'm, um, tenured here teaching courses on necromancy at the moment." A punishment, really. "Admittedly, it's not the most favored branch out there these days, but were one to ask me, there's not a field of magic not worth the study. Make no mistake, though, I'm very capable of teaching any school that comes my way." Any school. Here, Gale looks up, a scant wag of his finger conjuring a veil of some shimmery borealis. It waltzes soft between them, curling around their legs and tickling the back of Wendell's trousers. It smells deliciously cold, arctic, winter, and clinging like sugar to the wet of his gums. Gale feels a need to deeply impress, doesn't he? He takes another sip. Wizards, as they say, and their hubris. "I find I'm able to enchant just as the Folk would. Hypothetically speaking, were I to keep this up, how soon can one expect a thesis on Gale Dekarios?"

It's for the best that Gale doesn't bring up the twinkling. Bambleby would never let him live that down, the smug bastard. Oh, he's very well aware of how handsome he is. Just as much so, he's aware of how his own magic is stirring, as if it's comfortable amongst those capable of similar feats. If only it were so simple.

Now his mind wanders to magical preparatory schools with a parallel education pipeline to what he's used to seeing from the mortals who end up in his lecture hall. "Hypothetically there can therefore be those who didn't quite meet the acceptance criteria for Baldur's Gate at Cambridge. What I mean to say is I should be paying more attention to magical academic advantages." Not that he particularly cares if his students show minimal academic integrity. "Now, what must one do to draw the interest of a god? I imagine it must be like faeries. Give them an offering? Prove yourself worthy of their attention?" Let's hope Dr. Dekarios didn't want to quickly change the subject.

"I can imagine it would be entertaining to invite the brightest minds to your fine establishment and surprise them with your talents." Wendell figures he likely should have kept the question to himself, but it seems Gale is utterly amused by it. "It is a normal question in the field of dryadology. One can never be too sure..." Would it be stranger if he'd expressed his firm belief that Gale is mortal? Brought up his lack of faerie blood? Perhaps the strange questioning is the best path to take. "You think you have what it takes to render me speechless? My, it seems I'm in for a treat, aren't I?" His croissant doesn't quite render him speechless, but it does render him pleased by its lovely flakey exterior combined with the just out of the oven warmth. Or perhaps it has rendered him speechless because he's stuffed it in his mouth. Had he been any less graceful of a being, he would have likely spit its buttery goodness out in reaction to the following comment. "I'll take that as a compliment, though I'm sure there are Folk whose love of good tailoring outpaces mine. I am happy to hear my writing evokes a sense of familiarity with my subject matter. It's good to know that I may keep my job. But enough about me when there's so much to learn about your magical university. Is there a particular magic you specialize in?"

[recitedemise]

Everything's gone topsy turvy. Suddenly, the skies are the oceans and the seas are the stars, and mortals, mere men, can fashion spells. Still, Gale would bandy nonchalantly, the whole rocking of one's world like butter on toast. He must manage this often, rendering minds into whirlwinds and gone-rogue carousels, but any shock from his colleague goes entirely unnoticed. Instead, this whisper of...something has more his mind. Very much so. Peculating, there's some brew — decadent! — drip-drip-dripping off a farther way in. Sure, he can wick fires with a word and keeps his chest full with his nasty rotting, but that whisper of magic is a feeling he knows. Wendell, in contrast, boasts something different.

Very different... It's odd. It almost feels a bit like he's bathed in stars.

"Both," Gale answers, reasoning it but a consequence of his very late night. He needs a potent ristretto and preferably, perhaps with a buttery, flakey bread, now. "Though Baldur's Gate may not quite hold the prestige like that enjoyed by her more lauded peers, entry through her doors is still an immeasurable honor. That said, unfortunately, it isn't exactly enough to have the 'magic touch.'" Oh, Gale. Is twinkling your fingers really necessary? "To stand in her halls, one must do a great deal more than acknowledge one's abilities. Those who would come here to learn have earned their right to be here. Her instructors will endeavor to see them through."

"That said, I may have enlightened many in my time, but to be asked whether I'm mortal or not is admittedly a new one. If you don't mind my saying so, you will find no great objections should you seek to acclimate me. Please. By all means." Smiling, he wears half-bashful and half-cocky like a three piece suit. With Wendell back at his side, at the very least, they trot once more to the waiting café. "I don't know if I could ever show you something you could convincingly play oblivious to, but I may yet have ample tricks up my sleeve to render you speechless," he says. Fixing his cup at a self-serve station, he charms a cold croissant to a delectable freshness. "Try it. I'll save my show stoppers for later. As for now, I'm admittedly wrangling my words myself. Reading your work, I must say, your knowledge on the Folk is surprisingly...intimate." Stirring the brew, its bitter fragrance wafts in the air. "Had the Fey a penchant for tailored trousers, I might've thought you among their ranks."

Wendell does truly appreciate the enthusiasm exuding from Dr. Dekarios and would be returning it tenfold, had he not found reason to question his entire worldview. Mortals with magic? No, that cannot be possible. That goes against everything he's ever believed in the thirty (plus or minus) years of his existence. Is he so sure that Gale isn't Folk? Well, no, seeing as he can tell these things and there's not a single drop of faerie blood in him. At least, unlike the other professor, his emotions are highly veiled. Internally he's completing all sort of mental acrobatics to try to come to some scientific reason behind mortals having magic, yet outwardly the only sign may be a raised brow and an uncharacteristic quiet.

He's developed a list of about a dozen questions to ask Gale once he's complete with his theatrical introduction to the campus, most of which are more personal than relating to the school itself. Perhaps it's for the best that he saves them for after the tour. "Is admission into Baldur's Gate by invite only?" he asks, suddenly appearing completely at ease with it all. "Or do your students already know they possess abilities prior to application?" Wendell's gaze travels from hearth to ceiling, taking in every detail of the entry - at least, every detail remotely magical. Thank God for the café. He's going to need at least two cups of coffee in the next hour to be able to process all of this.

"Were you expecting me to notice this quickly, Gale?" he asks, a hint of mischief sparkling in his dark green eyes. "I've found those who have never been around inexplicable things will remain oblivious as long as possible." He strolls over to a large velvet chair by the fire and sits down with a plop, delighted to find it to be as comfortable as it appears. "I've seen plenty of enchantments when dealing with the Folk, but never any strung together by..." Dr. Bambleby trails off, his gaze snapping back to Gale. "You are mortal, aren't you?" He stands back up again, only to take two large strides over to the hearth and squat before the fire, staring into the flames themselves as he attempts to discern their magic. Once he's satisfied in his appraisal, he returns to Gale's side, eager for the next part of the tour. "I've simply never encountered magic outside of what the Folk are capable of."

[recitedemise]

Please. There's no reason to be humble here! Surrounded by brilliant mages and pretentious scholars both, it's pride not modesty that's more the currency. As it were, this man is brilliant, dripping a cultured demeanor of lacquered class. Truthfully, Gale will not be made to deny his genius, but similarly, he's not at all the wherewithal to deny his glee. See, he's always been readable, complex but wonderfully Dr. Seuss in transparency, and taking his hand, it practically buzzes off his skin. To think! The voice of fae studies here on these grounds! Gale only hopes he can impress him, too, but as Wendell's greeting pitters to a whisper, he watches and supposes he likely has.

True to form, the wizard preens a twinge like a peacock.

"Oh! Well, I'm pleased to hear it, especially when one considers how our humble campus lacks in the exalted pedigree held by Cambridge," he teases, "but it's no small wonder what with Baldur's Gate's secrecy. To those not permitted, we would seem but a normal institution of normal means. Yet, to those that are, there will wait only wonder that'd greet them in these halls. Prepare yourself, Mr. Bambleby." He swaggers. "We will enchant you." My. Gale leads him in, the doors opening to reveal high, cobbled walls of exceptional masonry. Immediately, a hearth greets the pair, crackling its embers to smolder the chill. The quaint campus café awaits them but a few strides farther. "I wasn't expecting you'd be perplexed so soon. Haven't you made your whole career absorbing yourself in the illusive?"

Everything about Wendell's own appearance is easy - from the way he carries himself with his shoulders back and hands in the pockets of his black tweed peacoat to the easy smile ever-present on his lips. He by no means considers himself to be the celebrity of the day. No, in his experience such guest lectures are contained to a handful of students already studying dryadology and their professors. To hear that Dr. Dekarios' students are eager to hear him speak, despite not having a connection to the study themselves, is... a first. "Is it? Your university president must be more open-minded than most. It's an honor to be here to corrupt the minds of your oh so willing stu-."

The handshake is distracted, at best. Out of the corner of his eye, Wendell catches sight of the glimmering phantom hands reaching for his luggage. That's not something he's used to seeing out in the open at a university and what he finds even more perplexing is that the cabbie doesn't seem to notice at all. "Ah, yes..." He turns his attention back to Gale, the crease in his brow evaporating almost immediately at the mention of food. "Thank you for the helping hand. I'm never one to turn down a nice meal after an arduous journey." To be fair, Wendell would consider any journey arduous. He's simply not enthusiastic about the traveling part of travel. "I would also very much enjoy a tour of your university. I find it perplexing that I hadn't heard of Baldur's Gate prior to your correspondence. It seems lovely thus far."