You love your colleagues. Every morning, at least one of them makes the same stupid joke “Oh sorry, the alchemy lab is THAT way”, and point you in the direction of kitchen. You really, really love this joke. You have laughed at it 5,347 times, and you will laugh at it 5,348 times tomorrow. The worst part is you really are a fantastic chef, you’ve enjoyed mixing things together for as long as you can remember, and now the most complicated dish you’ve made for yourself in the last few years is a piece of sliced bread. You were once reprimanded publicly for being three minutes late for work, as a dozen of your co-workers walked in even later than you did the same day without a word. You know you are going to be pushed too far one of these days, and they really should have seen the consequences of harassing an alchemist coming.
Alteration:
The most well adjusted of the magical fields. You have to be, you wake up one morning after a miscast and your vision is reversed so everything looks upside down, or you weigh less than a single Septim, or everything you see has an unhealthy shade of blue to it. You are adaptable, just like your school. People confuse you with Illusion a lot, but at your core you couldn’t be anymore different. You keep seeing something out of the corner of your eye, but when you look it’s gone. You tend to respond to that issue by slipping just a small spike of liquid courage into your morning coffee.
Conjuration:
You are the most popular with the younger mages, the most disrespected by senior staff, and absolutely hated by everyone else. It’s obvious to you why, when you really boil it down, your job is to COMMUNICATE with other people, and the entrenched magical bureaucracy cannot accept the idea of a mage with social skills. That’s what you tell yourself, at least. You don’t hate your job, but you thought you’d be farther along by now. Most Conjuration experts such as yourself would have run into some desolate locale by now to join a cult, but that’s not what you want. You want to be more than the stereotypes say you are going to be, but facing the stigmatization of your field, you don’t see a way out. Then you start to spiral, you’ve spoken to beings from a hundred different planes of existence, but half of them want nothing more to outsmart you so they can break their binding and inflict a cruel fate onto you. That’s your “coworkers”. Meanwhile, the other conjurers are getting ready to bolt into the night. The archmages know where your path leads, and they push you away due to it. At least you can make that one Alchemist laugh with that kitchen joke.
Destruction:
IT IS A GREAT DAY. Everyday is great when you are the BEST school of magic. A surprising number of your colleagues scowl at your chipper mood, but it doesn’t weigh on you AT ALL. Because you are the BEST. And you know they know it. After all, they aren’t Destruction mages. They can’t be the BEST without the BEST school of magic. Why? It’s quite simple. You have never had a cold cup of coffee in your life, nor have you ever burned your mouth on it. Your ice cream has never melted on you, and it’s never given you brain freeze. Today is a great day, and you are living your best life.
Enchanting:
Fear is the best motivator. Your underlings have learned this well.
Illusion:
You had the same dream last night, as you had yesterday, the day before, and for as long as you can remember. You are sure it will be the same one tomorrow. The oppression of the dream has made the days blend together, but you still put on your robe and wizard hat and head into work for the day. You are usually a bit late, but thanks to Illusion magic no one notices, or you make them not care. Your colleagues offer you a weird sense of respect, and you usually end up grouped with the Alteration magisters. Not that you’re complaining, but they should really know the fundamental differences between the two schools. Outwardly, you are charming (it’s literally a spell you know after all), out of sight when there’s trouble (another spell of yours), and whenever a coworker loses something you can retrieve it quickly. You are doing well, but you can’t shake the feeling of falseness to everything in the waking world. Not like the dream, nothing feels realer…
Mysticism:
You were technically supposed to be fired 200 years ago, but no one in the faculty has the nerve to inform you of this. You cut off the only person who tried by telling him “I have an important meeting with Magnus about the current flow rate of your Magicka” before vanishing in a flash of light. Then you just had to quietly slip a cursed item to stunt their magic on them, and no one tried again. You are actually an amazing magister, but you have learned the best magical abilities are the ones that don’t require you to cast anything.
Restoration:
You didn’t think Restoration would be like this. Restoration is supposed to be the most noble, honorable school of magic possible. Instead, it is the most profitable. People are expected to tithe small fortunes to have the simplest healing spells cast on them. You’ve seen the desperate and downtrodden turned away because they weren’t born wealthy enough to have someone cast a very low effort spell onto them to cure all their ailments. You’ve seen the middle class become destitute to afford your services. The wealthy need not worry though, they either have the coin necessary or the reputation to get treated for free. You regularly get reprimanded for “forgetting” to collect the gold for your services, but they can’t get rid of you with the increasing shortage of healers.
Thaumaturgy:
You collected a paycheck for about thirty years before people realized that
Thaumaturgy
This work, penned in England by an unknown author, is a distinctive collection of selected passages from works on magic and various occult arts that describe everything from speaking with spirits, to cheating at dice, to curing a toothache. The book also includes a section of Latin prayers, litanies, and other magical charms that seem to stick more closely to mainstream religious practices.
You know what fantasy writing needs? Working class wizards.
A crew of enchanters maintaining the perpetual flames that run the turbines that generate electricity, covered in ash and grime and stinking of hot chilies and rare mushrooms used for the enchantments
A wizard specializing in construction, casting feather fall on every worker, and enchanting every hammer to drive nails in straight, animating the living clay that makes up the core of the crane
An elderly wizard and her apprentice who transmute fragile broken objects. From furniture, to rotten wood beams, to delicate jewelry
A battle magician, trained with only a few rudimentary spells to solve a shortage of trained wizards on the front who uses his healing spells to help folks around town
Wizarding shops where cheery little mages enchant wooden blocks to be hammered into the sides of homes. Hammer this into the attic and it will scare off termites, toss this in the fire and clean your chimney, throw this in the air and all dust in the room gets sucked up
Wizard loggers who transmute cut trees into solid, square beams, reducing waste, and casting spells to speed up regrowth. The forest, they know, will not be too harsh on them if the lost tree’s children may grow in its place
Wizard farmers who grow their crops in arcane sigils to increase yield, or produce healthier fruit
Factory wizards who control a dozen little constructs that keep machines cleaned and operational, who cast armor to protect the hands of workers, and who, when the factory strikes for better wages, freeze the machines in place to ensure their bosses can’t bring anyone new in.
Anyway, think about it.
Construction wizards to turn back time to root out wood worm and strengthen old buildings.
A wizard tailors who transmutes cloth into fully made clothes without seems and leaving behind no scraps
A wizard who works in public transit, timing out teleports with detailed schedules, time magic, and enchanted communications, sending dozens of people to far away cities for a day or work or leisure
A team of wizard gardeners tend to trees grown far outside their native range, and ideal climate, encircled with runes and fed potions to grow none the less
A wizard sits in their office in the aqueduct, re-casting the spells that allow its precious water to flow to the city uphill
A wizard fisher casts water repelling spells on the sailors and the stairs, keeps the hoist on the anchor from rusting, casts balls of heat that keep everyone warm below decks. Their real job is to herd fish together so they can be caught in single huge nets, and keep them cold as the boat returns to land.
There are so many possibilities outside of “stodgy academic who wears ugly robes” and “Very good holy man who helps everyone and the fact they’ve never had a job is never brought up” and “evil wizard toiling away on great evils in his evil tower in the evil country.”
Wizards who come out and ward your home for you, like the magical equivalent of a home security system.
When I was a kid, my mom was a judge and my dad was starting his solo practice, and they both worked full time. There were four of us kids between the ages of one and seven (the Just Us League) and no decent daycares nearby, so they hired a nanny. She had three almost-adult children, and on days when she couldn’t work, one of her kids would substitute. The oldest kid was named Bob, age 18, and he had just finished army basic training when this all went down. Bob did not have the good sense god gave a rock.
I have an older brother, Jake, who was seven; then me, Hellen, age five, then Seth, age three, and my little sister Gin would have been one. It was late August, and we were at our nanny’s house, though she was gone for the day. Bob was in charge.
Bob should probably not have been in charge.
Bob tried keeping us entertained with board games and tag and movies. Gin took a nap. Eventually he decided to get creative, and sat us down in the living room with a game and vanished into the garage. There was a smashing sound. And then some saw noises. And then some hammering. And then we saw him going around the house to the back yard through the windows, though we were too short to see what he was doing. And finally, he yelled to us to come out into the driveway.
Jake and Seth and I trooped out. Bob had both hands behind his back. He stepped up to Jake and revealed what he had in his right hand.
It was a wooden sword. It was clearly made from what appeared to be parts of a chair’s legs, cut down and nailed together. He presented this, and announced, “You are Sir Jake, the strongest knight!”
He stepped up to Seth and presented what was in his left hand. It was another wooden sword, smaller than the first, also crudely made out of chair legs. He announced, “You are Sir Seth, the bravest knight!”
At this point, I was practically vibrating in place, waiting eagerly for my sword so I could use it to whale on my brothers, as god intended me to do. I was therefore understandably disappointed to be presented with the business end of a garden hose and told, “You are Miss Hellen, the Water Fairy!”
“No,” I said. “I want a sword.”
Bob was confused. “But you get water magic! Magic’s great!”
“No.” I repeated, holding the hose. It had a spray nozzle set to jet. “I want a sword.”
“Magic’s great. Magic’s better than a sword.” Bob insisted. “You’ll see. Wait here a moment.”
And then Bob ran around the side of house and vanished.
We stood in the driveway. Jake and Seth poked each other with their swords. I spritzed them idly with the hose, trying to decide which of them would be easier to steal a sword from.
And then we heard a quiet wooshing noise, and smelled smoke.
We turned. As we watched, a line of fire rushed around the corner of the house, consuming a path of gasoline poured into the dry August grass.
We paused and considered this for a few moments. I raised the hose and sprayed a jet of water at the fire. It went out. We glanced at each other. Then we took off running, following the trail of fire, spraying as we went.
The fire led in a path around the house to the back yard. As we turned the corner, we saw Bob, clad in a bathrobe and holding a curtain rod, standing in the center of a large ring of burning grass. He cackled manically. “I am the FIRE WIZARD! Your puny swords are useless! Nothing but water magic can defeat me!”
I promptly blasted him with the hose. He spluttered. The fire did not go out.
I turned the hose on the fire itself, spraying a section close to us so that it would extinguish. As soon as there was enough room, Jake charged forward, brandishing his chair leg sword with a battle cry. Seth, always happy to be included, followed. They ran into the circle and began beating Bob around the kneecaps with their swords. I kept spraying.
Eventually, Bob the Fire Wizard was brought down and all the fire was extinguished. Seth and Jake continued to work on bruising Bob’s shins, and I quickly discarded the hose to lend my fists and extremely pointy elbows to the cause. Bob lay in the smoldering grass, probably regretting using such sturdy chair legs.
Once we’d all tired ourselves out and lay panting in a heap, Bob decided it was time for the moral of the story. “You see, a sword is nothing compared to the power of a little girl with **magic**.”
We thought about this for a few moments. Bob nodded wisely. Jake and Seth nodded back.
“I still want a sword.” I said.
there’s a lot of people in the tags and replies expressing several concerns, which I will address:
“Where was Gin?” She was sleeping in a crib on the sunporch. We did this a lot–played outside while she napped–because we could hear her if she woke up and started crying, but were less likely to wake her up. She slept through the whole thing and was totally fine.
“You can’t put out a gasoline fire with water.” At the time, my little kid brain assumed that any flammable liquid was gas, but in retrospect it could have been almost anything. It very well may have been something other than gasoline. All I know is I could extinguish it with a garden hose.
“What did your parents say?” A lot of swear words at a very high volume.
“Did you get a sword?” Yes. Lots. Here are a couple of them, and also my pet ringneck dove, Arson. You can see how this all may have had some lasting effect on me.
We have a civilization run entirely on tiny plates of rock inscribed with runes that channel energy to do our work, manage our money, make writing and music and imagery appear at the gesture of a finger. If that’s not magic to you, you’re wrong. Just because we understand a thing does not make it less wonderous.
Another shoutout to the demons and monsters that lived under your bed/in your closet and actually obeyed all the arbitrary rules you invented to keep yourself safe, like “if light is touching me at all I can’t be harmed” or “if I’m stepping on carpet I am untouchable” or “if I move my hand in a particular pattern while I walk, I’m off-limits during my voyage through the dark house to the bathroom”.
That was really considerate of them, especially given how biased in your favor those rules were.
