The library kept by the New Archives here in Velas saw its final day, Arrell. I walked past its corner today, and it was gone, vanished. Does that make you happy? That their presence in this place was destroyed?
I'm sorry, teacher, the quill and ink make me bitter on days like this. The storm has grown strong today, and though I never visited that library, I went out of my way each day to walk past it. It felt like I was helping.
Though your scholarship dismisses their pattern magic as more luck than skill, I believe that their "semioticians" are miracle workers, though they do not know it. Their unlikely effects are not magic at all, but are His Holy Intention, reaching into the world and re-arranging it just so. The way I understand its working, the Orcs wait for the proper alignment of circumstances, offering a tap or a pull, here or there, until the world and its sacred inhabitants address each other just so. Once the arrangement is complete: A miracle. Does that not sound like ritual, like prayer to you?
Because of this, the archives are filled to the brim with records: How much rain fell on Rosemerrow this year? How many doves with black wings were spotted above the Southern Barrows? How many priests walked by our libraries in the last week?
So, every day, I made my steps from the church to the Garden District a little longer, a my path a little wider. I walked past it, gave the archivist at the door a nod and a smile, and went on my way.
I wonder now how many of their "spells" I was part of? Will a hard rain, six months from now, bear my imprint? A conjured mound of gold and silver reflect my face? What beauty have I helped create? 'Tis His will, regardless, and I am blessed to contribute to the spectrum of his light.
This week on Winter In Hieron: A Combination of Notes
You are as naive as your faith is strong. Their magic is vulgar, not holy. You would know that if you'd seen it, if you'd felt it. Or perhaps you have. Consider, Alyosha, the possibility that your ritual pacing was the final component part not of a vivid creation, but of a plain and simple erasure.