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Dominating the center of the Dueling Theatre is a large glass dome, inside of which lies the main dueling piste, the field where duelists go head to head for the entertainment of the masses. The glass is designed to be one-way, so that the crowd can see in, but the duellists' side is left foggy and opaque to prevent distraction and interference. Depending on the type of match, the field will either be left bare or filled with various obstacles like magical plants and steep rubble. Large sets of collapsible bleachers surround the dome, which when folded serve as smaller pistes for practice. Four small antechambers serve as locker rooms for each team, each denoted by their house's sigil carved into the door.
Devon shot a glance behind him as he was pushed backwards, the edge of the piste just behind him. Uh-oh, that wasn't good.
He quickly (so, so quickly) weighed his options, and in a slightly uncharacteristic move, decided to be cautious, moving forward in the time that Tristan was preparing his next move.
“I guess transfig is alright,” he said, rolling one shoulder as he spoke, his tone settling back into that easy rhythm he defaulted to. “But I don’t know, it kind of messes with my head if I think about it too long. Like… you’re supposed to just accept that it’s something new now, but it’s not really, right? Like, if you turn a teacup into a quill, does that actually mean it stops being a teacup? Or are you just… forcing it to behave like a quill for a while?” He squinted slightly, not at Tristan, but at the idea itself. “Because if it still is the teacup underneath, then what are you actually changing? And if it’s not, then where does the teacup go?”
He huffed out a quiet breath, shaking his head once as if to physically dislodge the thought before it went any further.
“Yeah, no, see, that’s what I mean. Headache,” he added, though there was a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth now, more amused than frustrated. He couldn't help but chuckle at his friend's optimistic view of "changing the world". "I guess you kind of are, yeah. Your dad's a wizard, right? Did he ever do magic at home when you were growing up?"
As frustrated as the challenger was, Devi was still able to make him laugh. He was right about all of that being confusing, but Verona’s emerald eyes had gotten accustomed to that confusing paradox. He didn’t really care to think about that kind of stuff anymore. Magic was incredible in every sense of the word. It wasn’t there to be fully understood, but used.
“You’re overthinking it, man! Even if a quill was a teacup before, the important part is if you are able to write with it or not, right? As long as tea doesn’t come out instead of ink, what it was before doesn’t really matter anymore. As far as the writer is concerned, he’ll be focused on the essence of what he’s writing, not the essence of the quill.”
Tristan hesitated for a second as he saw Devi move forward. A familiar uneasiness had come over the boy, which quickly faded away with his friend’s follow-up question.
“Dad prefers the quill over the wand. I rarely ever saw him do any magic, appart from a few special moments. Sometimes, his office was cleaned up a little quickly when Mom had been asking for days. Mom told me once that he used to do it more before, but that was before they had me.”A lot of things were different before that.
“There was always a bit of magic back home, but…” The young wizard stared at his acacia wand for a moment. “ Nothing like this”
“FLIPENDO”
Never like this.
Another strong burst of magic left the tip of his wand as Devi slid back from the impact.
“What about you? Do your parents use magic a lot?”
"Dad was a wizard,” Devon said, though there was a slight delay before he added anything else, like he was deciding how much of the rest was actually worth explaining. "I started living with my Grandmum Marion when I was pretty young though, so I don't remember much of that. There was probably magic, I think he had a gremlin or something, too. I dunno. Mum was a muggle, so's Marion. So this is all pretty new to me."
Devi didn't love talking about his Mum or Dad, but Tristan was his friend and deserved an answer. Pretty boring answer though, Devi thought.
"See, you've got the brain for transfig, mate. Thinking about that makes me want to throw up," he joked.
"Flipendo!" The spell came out rushed, the motion a little sloppy, his focus still half on the conversation rather than the duel. The result was exactly what you’d expect from that kind of split attention, but Tristan dodged it so expertly when he impressively [insert thing Tristan does next post here].
Devon blinked once, then let out a short, amused breath.
“Yeah, alright, fair,” he said, already resetting his stance, grip tightening just enough this time to suggest he might actually try on the next one.
“Must have been hard. I can’t start to imagine not having my parents around”, he lied. “But we do have one thing in common, you’re right about all of this being new. We’ve been here for months, and I’m still not used to it. There’s magic everywhere! Well, almost everywhere.”
The bloody full moon came to the forefront of his thoughts. Tristan had stayed far from that place these last few months. Spent most of his time studying and some of his time exploring. The castle grounds had more than enough hidden secrets to look into. Maybe he’d go back eventually if Raizel was there. Maybe he’d bring Devon one day as well, but he didn’t really want to dwell on that idea too long.
“I can always try turning your wand into a barf bucket if you want.”
The next spell came towards him fast, but the aim was off. It was headed a lot lower than it was supposed to. In a last minute effort not to get hit, he jumped forward with the spell soaring underneath him headed where his feet were just a second before. The ground came faster than the spell, but somehow, the flying duelist managed to tuck his head in to flow into a roll.
The roll led into kneeling knight posture with Tristan’s wand resting on Devi’s chest.
Tristan, breathing hard, looked up at his friend and parted drooping hair away from his eyes with his free hand. A small smirk painted his face.
