Bismarck's (attempts at) Dailies

It was impossible to tell if it was day or night in Carnastre. The crystals in the ceiling looked like a field of stars always, and it made it feel like they lived in an eternal night. Alaric had been down here for one week, but it felt far longer. He sat on a bench overlooking one of the canals alone, silently contemplating the water. All water in the city came from a number of crystal clusters located low on the walls, some seemingly infinite wellspring of pristine, clear water, perfect for all their needs in the city. Alaric looked down at his hand and snapped his fingers, and they sparked with orange flame.

Water was practical magic. Earth, air, light, all practical. Fire was not. Good for lighting a match in a dark room, maybe, or setting a stove alight. But fire had one use beyond that. He snapped his fingers again and another spark flickered, larger than before. He frowned. If he had been born with magic, he would've been sent to military school as soon as it manifested and he would've spent his childhood drilling instead of at regular lectures. He would've been trained to use his magic to all its terrifying potential, honed into a weapon, pitted against other 'recruits', likely carted off at a young age just like him, kept in cages all their lives, trained to kill at a word and never ask questions. He couldn't imagine the things Helga had seen; he could see it in her eyes sometimes, some lingering terror there that sent chills to core, to his very soul.

He could not say he appreciated skipping all of that, however. He could not say he appreciated having magic at all. The things the others had said, even Isidor... fire was a weapon. It would be used as a weapon. He would be used as a weapon if they gave him the chance. They dodged the question when asked, changed the subject, avoided speaking of magic altogether. The Arsenal Mages were feared, not respected. He was no Arsenal Mage, but who else had magic in the Empire? Alaric's face hardened and he tapped two of his claws together, watching tiny sparks fly off.

There was a clanking noise and he turned to see Rusty approaching. The towering automaton was holding something in one huge hand. It stopped a few paces behind him, beeped, and offered him something wrapped in a cloth package. Alaric took it with a nod and unfolded it to reveal a large meat bun, fresh out of the oven, the scent filling his nose instantly. Rusty crossed to the other side and sat on the bench next to him. 

There was something ironic in this moment, Alaric knew, but for the moment the cynic inside of him was content to let him enjoy it. He sank his teeth into the bun with a grateful nod, to Rusty, whose tiny head nodded in turn. They both turned their gaze back to the canal in a comfortable silence.