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When designing Fenestra, I noticed it had no magical universities. I really mean ânoticedâ, rather than âstipulatedâ, or âinventedâ.
People think that if anythingâs possible at the start, then itâll all be possible later. Options âAâ, âBâ, and âCâ are each possible, so perhaps we might select option âAâ, and later âBâ. But the fact that âAâ is possible, and âBâ is possible, does not mean that âA & Bâ is a possibility.
Writing fiction can feel a little like this, and fantasy probably does better following this trend than any other form of fiction. When detective novels surprise you with a crazy crime, itâs interesting; romances should never go smoothly. But a fantasy novel front-loads the wonder, and then has to cache it out in terms of a real plan. And all this goes doubly for fantasy RPGs, otherwise adventures commit the ultimate crime: âbecause a wizard did itâ[a], which makes the world cheap.
Fenestra has mostly fallen out of a single question - âhow would you farm in a world of wandering monsters?â, but other elements were born fully-grown from impure extrapolation.
Mana comes on the wind.
A windy day will bring enough mana for a full conversation with a candle, while staying indoors and drawing the shutters closed will barely let you say âhelloâ to the darkness. Whatever mana flows through the wind heads towards the largest vacuum. A witch who can store and channel massive amounts of mana will create a massive mana-sink once she casts all she can; all mana on the wind will flow towards her, leaving nothing for anyone else within shouting distance.[1]
From this simple idea, we can extrapolate the following:
Nobody could open a university under these circumstances; every morning the first student to cast would remove all spell-casting potential from the area for the next few hours. So how could a witch possibly teach another?
They must swap knowledge, work together, and teach each other. Even very strange people, doing very strange things, eventually touch on a wider community to learn all they can. So if they must remain together for a while, they would be best doing so in smaller groups.
You enter a town, with the air acrid and dry from the lack of mana. Others canât feel it, but you know from the dryness on your tongue. You cannot regain your power here.
Of course, once the tiniest flecks of mana return to the wind, any casters in the area will find mana flowing towards them, and whoever used up the mana to cast spells must stop, as they cannot regenerate any. Only one caster at a time can occupy an area and remain effective.
The conclusion comes as certainly as sugar and tooth pain.
âThis town ainâtnât big enough for the both of us.â
Cities mean civilization, so witches must remain savage to feel the full potential of mana - the farther from company, the more they have for themselves.[2]
Nobody could hunt a spell-caster faster than someone who feels every spell cast nearby, from the drain of mana. Of course, knowing that someone nearby has cast a spell doesnât tell you where they are, but a witch who hunts other witches could narrow down the possibilities in time.
Mana flows towards the largest vacuum. When a witch has none, she will regain it quickly, but she can never regain her full power until she remains alone, without another spellcaster in the area.
And the same must apply to dragons.[3]
Any spell cast in a new area holds the possibility of pissing off some ancient and strange creature, who doesnât want a little witch wandering territory, sucking up all the magic. This goes doubly for the deep forest.
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[1] Lightning has started to flash just outside my window, and I couldnât ask for better writing weather.
[2] Bats are freaking out - Iâve never seen them move like this. My desk is shaking a little, and the sky sounds like mountain falling.
[3] Fucking hellâŠ