merri & wolfe
“It’s not for everyone.” Wolfe was leaning forward, elbows against his knees, as the audience stirred at the sight of the arriving combatants. He still spoke easily, breezily; despite the change in their status, it was hard to unsee Merrion Priddy as the eager-yet-distracted young black mage he’d taught, once upon a time. “Our guild is an interesting one in that regard. Half of us coop ourselves up in the stacks, armed with quill and parchment, scholarly academics. And then the other half…”
He shrugged, splaying one hand helplessly, gesturing to himself: broad shoulders, the tell-tale scrawl of scars climbing their way up his neck, healed nicks across his cheek and bridge of his nose and one at his temple, evidence of an injury that almost took the eye. “Battle mages. Fieldwork, different specialty. It’s no better, no worse.”