Imagine how an arcanist would have done. Word around the tables is that nothing can outmatch the raw power of an arcanist. Magicks come and magicks go but none can argue the true origin, the untamed and sought after accolades afforded to the arcanist are awe inspiring, breath taking and heart stopping. None of the bluff heated artistry shown by the roaring inferno that is fire in all its sweeping splendor. No certainly not. Lacking in the uncertain, contrasted rigidity one moment and cooly flowing the next of that which is frost. Of that there is no doubt. We discuss instead the penetrating allure, the super natural appeal, the overwhelming base draw that defines the very essence of coarse magic unleashed with unbridled anticipation perhaps even crudely savage faculty. One could hardly imagine how a logical mind could even begin to compare such wonder to mere ... well let's be polite and call them elemental pastimes. Surely compared to the arcanist a cryomancer or pyromancer are simply playful children peering longingly at the table of adults. Sitting at the small table off to the side reserved protectively if condescendingly to ensure they feel like part of the bigger family even if not truly contributors to the whole. A pat on the head. A reassuring nod. A gentle nudge off to the side and a knowing wink from their betters. The arcanists.
Burbling and ever present the water elemental hovered near the sleeping mage who tossed and turned on her pallet. The ever shifting form of its features displayed no emotion and the inexperienced eye would not notice how the soft spray of its existence would harden at times as if clenching in its own form of anger.
The ever present voices were taking their toil on Frya.