"Tighten up that line! I've seen boulder piles make a better formation"
Bevil tries to lose himself in the militia drills as Georg runs through his usual list of inspirational taunts, but he just can't slip into the right mind set. Down the line, the Mossfelds are merely going through the motions. They like brawling well enough, but lack the discipline to improve their sword work.
"Keep your weight off your heels! Don't grip so tightly! West Harbor would be safer with a pack of grannies wielding knitting needles!" Georg finishes his rant and sighs theatrically. "Enough! Take a break and when you get back out here, I want to see some actual effort!"
The lines break apart; nobody pays much heed to Georg's ribbing as they stretch their arms and legs and retrieve water bottles. Bevil carefully inspects his bottle before drinking from it, as the Mossfelds seem to be looking for trouble.
The three brothers are in a close huddle, speaking in angry tones that carry farther than they realize. Bevil tries to ignore it, but when Amie's name comes up, his feet shuffle over of their own accord. Everyone in the militia knows about Webb's plan to ask Amie to walk out with him, and all have heard him explain how a 'timid bookworm' is a 'sure bet.' Bevil, however, is fairly confident Amie will turn him down. At least he hopes she will.
"She said she had to study?" Wyl asks his brother in a disgusted tone, and Bevil grins because it seems Amie already has turned him down. But his mouth tightens as Wyl continues, "Why that Luskan-bred-"
"Hey!" Bevil finds himself interrupting. "Don't talk about Amie like that."
The Mossfeld brothers predictably turn their growing outrage on Bevil. "That's funny," Wyl drawls in phony confusion. "I thought we already taught you a lesson about butting in on other people's conversations."
"Guess we'll have to teach him again," Ward replies.
"Yeah, sometime when Georg isn't around." Webb adds. "Maybe over by the well." The three brothers snigger and Bevil shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't forgotten the way Ward dangled him over that well years ago, and obviously neither have they. "You can even bring your little Luskan friend to watch."
"Wherever her parents might have been from, Amie's a harborman like the rest of us," Bevil argues. He's heard the rumors that her parents were Luskans - you'd have to hide out in the Mere like Summer not to. And he's pretty sure that before hostilities between Neverwinter and Luskan erupted into open war, nobody out here would have cared enough to comment.
"What kind of harborman stares at musty books all day long? We're gonna destroy you two and the swamp monster in the Brawl this year..."
Bevil grinds his teeth, but he doesn't tell them not to call Summer that. Because it's his fault. As a child, he came up with the genius plan of bragging to the other children about how his friend was a powerful swamp monster. Summer, with her strange yellow eyes, looked different enough that they actually believed him and were impressed... At least for a short time. After that, the nickname stuck. And though time has erased its potency as an insult, Bevil still feels a bit ashamed of his part in it.
Wyl smirks at his reaction. "It's no wonder you're so uptight, Bevil. Spending all your time with a girl who wouldn't know what to do with a man without reading about it first... and another, who more than likely has moss growing down there. It's no surprise you haven't gotten anywhere with either of them!"
Bevil launches himself at the trio. By the time Georg intervenes he can't open his left eye, the fingers of his right hand feel broken, and his breakfast is trying to make a reappearance, courtesy of some prodding by Ward's boot. But Wyl's nose is starting to swell in a satisfying way. There's no trace of Georg's normal good humor as he dismisses them, watching to make sure Bevil and the Mossfelds leave in different directions.
Bevil finds Amie by the stream, her practice spot of choice since the small incident with the burning hands spell. Her brow furrows in concentration as she slowly, carefully pronounces each word of the spell, index finger pointing at the stream. As she finishes, the air between her finger and the stream crystallizes, ice forming in place for a moment before it falls to the ground and melts. A small circle of ice in the stream lingers longer, slowly drifting as it dwindles.
"Almost ready for the Tourney of Talent?" Bevil asks when it seems safe.
"Bevil, I didn't hear you," Amie turns to face him, but since she's still pointing her finger, Bevil steps aside. Amie chuckles at his reaction and flashes her palms at him. "It's alright." Bevil relaxes as she continues, "I've been casting this one pretty consistently, so it should work great for the festival as long as they don't mind me freezing something... Oh! What happened?"
His mind conjures up various magical disasters before he realizes she's just noticed his swollen face. If only she found him half as interesting as her spells... "Oh, nothing. Just militia training."
"Again?" Amie protests. "You should speak to Georg about easing up. And maybe see Brother Merring?"
Bevil has no intention of discovering what kind of choice words Brother Merring would have about starting fights when you're outnumbered three to one. "Maybe later."
"Alright. Well, since you're here... Mind if I cast a spell on you?"
"Sure," Bevil's mouth proclaims before his brain can catch up. Hells, not again... "Er, you don't mean that one, do you?" He glances downstream, where the chunk of ice has melted away.
"No, of course not! Just move over a little, away from the tree... Perfect. Ready?"
Bevil squeezes his eyes shut. Does he have a choice? "Ready."
Amie begins to speak, words that have no meaning to him but are suddenly of great interest all the same. When she stops speaking the world seems to spin, but he doesn't dare open his eyes to check.
"It's alright," Amie says, and he can tell by the tone of her voice that the spell was successful. He opens one eye, then the other, and checks himself over, finding everything still in place. He looks at Amie.
"You... shrunk yourself?" Bevil asks, confused.
Amie laughs. "I haven't shrunk; you've grown. Look around!"
Bevil does so and is surprised to find that she's right. He's almost half again his regular height, and he takes a moment to thank Chauntea that his clothes have grown along with him. The branches of a nearby tree, previously out of reach, are now nearly at eye level. And... is that his old toy soldier? Wyl tossed it up here years ago, and no amount of rocks could knock it loose again. He could probably grab it if he...
The world spins again, just a brief twist that doesn't last long enough for him to lose his balance. He's back to his normal height. "That was impressive, Amie."
"I'm hoping to do that one for the Tourney of Talent as well. If you don't mind, that is."
"I heard Summer wishing she was as tall as a tree just the other day..." Bevil protests out of principle, though they both know he'll do it.
"Have you seen her today?"
"Saw her heading out into the Mere again, with that crossbow. Seems to think if she can shoot a perfect score at the archery competition, Daeghun will be proud of her." Bevil rolls his eyes at the notion of Daeghun showing any sort of feeling.
"Really, Bevil... Daeghun can't be all bad. Tarmas seems to respect him."
Bevil sighs. It's a familiar point of contention between them - one he is happy to steer the conversation away from. "So what do you think of our chances for the Cup this year? Maybe we'll break the Starling Curse at last."
"It sounds like Summer will take the Archery Competition for us. We might be out of luck for the Knave's Challenge, though. You've been training for the Brawl, but... we have to beat the Mossfelds. They won't be pleasant to face." An understatement, but - being Amie - she doesn't bring up her own recent problems with them. "Hopefully I'll get all my spells right during the Tourney of Talent."
"As if that's not a certainty," Bevil teases, and grins at the blush that blooms across her cheeks.
"Well it won't be, if I don't practice. Let's try that transmutation spell one more time?"
Bevil bites back a groan, wondering how he didn't see that coming. "Alright, but please... can you call it something else?"
"Of course. Now... prepare to be enlarged!"