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[semicharmed]

[ Matt can't really tell the difference between Gale's forced enthusiasm and the regular kind, but even if he could, there'd be nothing to stop him from projecting. In either case, the solution is the same: Impress him with magic!

And Matt can, at least, tell that Gale expected more oomph out of that clap. He smiles ruefully at him and says, ] Let's.

[ Matt's magic doesn't require words, as such. Not out-loud ones. What it requires is his focus, an intention to north-star the casting, and the architecture to produce the right notes. Matt inhales, one eye on his notebook and the other on the tabletop, as ribbons of golden light weave themselves into a copy of the design on the page. He compares--a few ribbons wriggle into a slightly different shape--sets the kyanite and honeysuckle in north and south positions. Dabs the anise laboriously onto various spots in the pattern, then onto the inside of the gloves' puffy wrists. The spell circle closes; everything gleams. The words in Matt's mind are part memorization, meant to get him out of his own way. Then such a knower has every pleasure he wills upon the earth, and holds great powers in the grasp of his lotus-like hands. And in part, as he intimated to Gale, they're a simple question:

Who are you?

The answer is somewhere between a vision, a leaf-green whisper, and a smell: hawthorn trees on Saltburnt's snowy grounds, a strange mossy plant climbing their trunks in broad, irregular rings. For a moment, Matt's eyes flicker with verdant tendrils.

Then he blinks, breathless, and seems to come back to himself. ]

[corporeity]

[ It's a fascinating thing, to witness another cast, particularly when they've learned so differently from yourself. For Gale, magic is as simple as breathing, as thinking, as talking. With a hushed word and flick of his wrist, his question is answered, an enchantment born of a brew, so potent the mere thought of it tempts the orb.

In contrast, the ceremony of Matt's endeavour intrigues, seemingly complex for being different from his own approach. Indeed, Gale watches Matt venture elsewhere, eyes vacant, then brilliant green — perhaps this is the way of it, for one whose body is vital to the casting, an invariable physical component, a ceding of one's person to the spell. Fascinating, to be sure. Gale finds he does not envy him, having already given so much of himself over to magic, to Mystra. ]

Are you quite all right?

[semicharmed]

[ It's outside, Matt's about to blurt--which would be pretty cryptic, so it's probably for the best that Gale's question breaks across his thoughts like a pebble to the surface of a pond. ]

I'm great, [ he says, sincerely. It seems to be true: Matt's got a bit of a bounce in his bearing, a light in his eyes that comes not from any mystical plant communion, but the exhilaration of spellcasting. It falls somewhere between the neat pleasure of solving a puzzle--things fitting into other things--and the awe of prayer.

Just as his own ritual strikes Gale as complex, there's only a handful of spells Matt knows how to cast as quickly as Gale can. So he's slightly uncertain as he adds, ] Did you do your thing? I wasn't supposed to wait for you, was I ...? [ A sheepish smile. ] What'd you learn?