“Now students,” spoke the Basics and Fundamentals of Sorcery teacher at the front of the enormous classroom, “Binding spells are not to be used liberally. They are a serious sort, one that binds a creature to your will, and because of this there are a host of moral considerations that dictate how they are to be used. Today, we used these spells for binding the souls of lesser animals, Lesser Minor nature spirits, the barbaric souls from the Nether dimensions… and if the binding’s strength permits it, one can even bind one of the Feared to their will.”
A student raised his hand. “Can it be done to a human?” The teacher looked uncomfortable. “It has been done. Centuries ago, when the magic in Venivia was unchecked and rampant, it was common practice for the great sorcerers of the time to have human servants bound in this way. However,” he looked darkly at the boy, “it is strictly forbidden now for obvious reasons. And the structure of the spell used to bind humans is now locked away in the Restricted Archives.”
Another student, a broody-looking young man with an expression of constant discontentment, shot his hand into the air boldly. “Can it be done to a god?”
The teacher laughed. “Sure, if you have the skill to craft a binding for an immortal and the inhuman amount of power needed to etch it into reality, then it is possible. Theidrech the Abstract drew out the layout of such a binding spell twenty years ago, the Theoretical Deity Binding Spell-structure, that most agree would probably work. But the spell would require power amounting to ten times that of every known sorcerer in the world combined. No, what would most likely happen is the deity would destroy the binding and smite you within a second, if anyone were foolish enough to try it.” he stated matter-of-factly, “As it were, Theidrech the Abstract was actually cursed by the ruler of the gods Lord Domus himself as a punishment for such work against the gods. The whole thing was quite-“
The large wooden door at the back of the room crashed open and a Superintendant rushed in, flanked by two guards of foreign allegiance.
“There he is!” shouted the superintendant triumphantly, pointing to the broody-looking man towards the front of the class, “There’s the Prince of Greater Cadmill!”
The student muttered violent swear words and stood, throwing off his damn billowy sorcery robe. It was quite bothersome. Prince Cadmill the Fifteenth whipped out a worn-out relic of a spear head, the wooden shaft long since rotten off and the iron chipped and rusted. As the guards rushed down the aisle towards him he swung it to the side and at once a wave of air tore through the space in front of him, knocking the guards off their feet and whipping a storm of parchment into the air. He dashed out the door, briefly wondering if he should say any final thoughts to the classmates he had become acquainted with. He decided not to; they didn’t seem to like him and he didn’t particularly like them either. His week or so at the Venivian College of Sorcery had not been as productive as he had hoped; he was no prodigy at magic. He found that his intense memorization of spell layouts were all for naught, as he was barely able to spark a spell into action. Prince Cadmill finally stopped running through the dark and elegant sloping halls of the University when he passed the Archives. It was not all for naught, the Prince reasoned. After all, he learned quite a lot.