Episode 3: Local Lessons

The Riverside Ward building loomed before the academy students like a fortress of normalcy, its brick facade and manicured lawn concealing the magical maelstrom within. Houston Turner felt his Teton Theurgist tag pulse against his chest as they approached the glass doors, each throb matching the dimensional ripples emanating from inside. The post-tournament potluck was mandatory, Professor MontClaire had insisted, but nobody had mentioned it would feel like walking into a spiritual hurricane. 🌪️

"Remember," Professor MontClaire said, adjusting her own sensible cardigan, "this isn't just a social gathering. It's a crucial test of your cultural integration. The ward members have graciously agreed to evaluate your progress, so please..." She paused, searching for diplomatic words. "Try not to mention the funeral potato experiments."

Leif Smith hung back from the group, his hand pressed against the building's brick wall. Through his Quartzite Quaestor connection, he could feel the structure's foundations extending far deeper than any normal building should. The basement wasn't just concrete and rebar – it was anchored to something ancient, something that predated even the pioneers. Crystalline veins of power ran beneath the parking lot, converging here in patterns that made his geological senses reel. 🏔️

"You feel it too?" Patrick Cain appeared at his side, the Oracle's eyes unfocused as prophecy and proximity overwhelmed his senses. "The building is... aware. Not alive exactly, but definitely paying attention."

Inside, the cultural assault began immediately. The relief society room had been transformed into a battlefield of casseroles, each dish positioned with military precision along tables that followed no earthly geometry. Yuki Tanaka stared at the layout, her Jello Journeyman tag growing warm as she recognized the pattern. "It's a map," she whispered to Klaus Zimmerman. "The food is arranged like a map of the valley."

"Any local wizard worth their funeral potatoes knows that ley line!" Professor MontClaire's voice carried across the room as she greeted Sister Henderson, but her attention was clearly divided between social niceties and academic observation.

The blessing of the food should have been simple. Brother Rawlings stood at the head of the table, hands clasped, voice steady as he began the familiar prayer. But as the words flowed, Leif felt the Quartzite Quaestor within him respond to something else entirely. The prayer wasn't just words – it was creating actual, measurable resonance in the geological substrate. Each "amen" from the congregation sent ripples through the ley lines, and when the final "amen" came, Leif nearly gasped at the surge of power that flowed up from the earth. 🙏

"Interesting reaction," a sweet voice said beside him. Leif turned to find a small woman in a pioneer-print dress observing him with sharp eyes behind hexagonal spectacles. "You must be one of Professor MontClaire's special students. I'm Auntie Mabel Skysong, and I've been so curious about your... unique perspectives on our traditions."

The way she said "unique" made it sound like a disease.

The potluck line moved with the inexorable force of tradition. Houston watched in fascination as ward members navigated the casserole geography with practiced ease, somehow knowing exactly which dishes to sample in which order. When his turn came, he reached for a serving spoon only to have Auntie Mabel materialize at his elbow.

"That's Sister Martinez's green bean casserole," she said, her tone suggesting he'd nearly committed sacrilege. "We always serve it after the funeral potatoes but before the ham. It's the proper order."

"The proper order?" Houston echoed, dimensional senses tingling. There was something about the sequence, something that went beyond mere tradition.

"Of course." Auntie Mabel's smile could have curdled milk. "Some things are done certain ways for very good reasons. Speaking of which, I heard some concerning rumors about experiments with funeral potatoes at your academy."

Patrick's Oracle abilities, already overwhelmed by the concentrated spiritual energy of a hundred ward members, suddenly sharpened to a painful point. He saw Auntie Mabel not as she was, but as she could be – a guardian, a gatekeeper, a force of tradition so powerful it could literally hold mountains in place. His Oquirrh Oracle tag burned against his skin as the vision clarified: she wasn't alone. Throughout the room, other ward members watched the students with the same evaluating gaze. 👁️

"We were just trying to understand the local magical properties," Klaus said, attempting damage control. "Professor MontClaire says integration requires—"

"Professor MontClaire says many things," Auntie Mabel interrupted. "But saying and understanding are different matters entirely. You can't understand our ways by dissecting them like laboratory specimens. Some knowledge comes only through proper participation."

Leif had wandered away from the confrontation, drawn by an increasingly urgent pull from his Quartzite Quaestor senses. In a quiet corner where the Primary room connected to the chapel, he found what called to him – a display case containing what looked like ordinary rocks. But these weren't ordinary at all. They were samples of original Oquirrh quartzite, placed here when the building was consecrated. And they were actively communicating with something.

He pressed his palm against the glass, and suddenly understood. The rocks weren't just memorial stones – they were anchors. The entire ward building was a massive magical construct designed to pin something in place. Following the resonance patterns, his enhanced senses traced the connection from these stones through the ley lines, across the valley, all the way to where the Teton Mountains sat in their impossible new home. 🗿

"You see it now." Professor Bumblethwaite's voice was quiet, defeated. The geography professor stood in the doorway, looking haggard. "I've been trying to reverse the translocation for weeks, but every attempt fails. Now we know why."

"The ward buildings," Leif breathed. "They're not just community centers. They're..."

"Anchors," Bumblethwaite finished. "A network of spiritual architecture designed to hold the mountains in place. The question is whether it was built in response to my accident, or whether my accident was somehow... expected."

Back in the cultural hall, the potluck had reached its social crescendo. Houston found himself cornered by Sister Peterson, who was explaining the thirty-year history of her famous funeral potatoes while his dimensional senses screamed warnings about the magical density of her casserole dish. Yuki had been recruited to help serve dessert, discovering that the Jello molds weren't just color-coded by flavor but by ward boundary alignment.

It was Patrick who noticed the shift first. His Oracle senses, finally adapting to the spiritual overload, caught the moment when evaluation became judgment. Around the room, ward members exchanged meaningful glances. Notebooks appeared. Scores were being tallied.

"Students," Auntie Mabel's voice cut through the chatter like a spiritual sword. "We need to discuss your recent activities regarding our sacred foods."

The room fell silent. Even the children seemed to sense the gravity of the moment.

"We've been patient," Auntie Mabel continued, her hexagonal spectacles catching the fluorescent light in ways that seemed almost hypnotic. "We've tolerated your presence, your questions, your attempts to catalog and categorize our ways. But when you begin experimenting with funeral potatoes – mixing them with your foreign magic, using them to enhance your disc golf performance – you cross a line."

"The funeral potatoes revealed the ward boundaries," Houston said, surprising himself with his boldness. "They helped us understand—"

"Understand?" Auntie Mabel's laugh was like ice cracking. "You think consuming our traditions gives you understanding? You think you can take our sacred recipes, our community bonds, our very essence, and reduce it to magical theory?"

Professor MontClaire stepped forward. "Auntie Mabel, surely knowledge and tradition can coexist—"

"Can they?" The matriarch's gaze swept across the students. "Your Professor Bumblethwaite tried to apply his knowledge to our mountains. Look what happened. Now you want to apply your foreign magic to our foods, our customs, our very souls. Where does it end?"

Leif felt the Quartzite Quaestor stirring within him, responding to the rising tension. Through the building's foundation, he could sense the entire network of ward buildings across the valley beginning to resonate. Whatever was about to happen, it was bigger than just this confrontation. 🌐

"Perhaps," he said carefully, "the question isn't about understanding or tradition. It's about why the mountains can't be moved back."

The room went deadly quiet.

"What did you say?" Auntie Mabel's voice was dangerously soft.

Leif met her gaze steadily. "The ward buildings. They're holding the Tetons in place. The question is: are you doing it on purpose, or is something else using your network?"

For the first time since they'd met her, Auntie Mabel looked genuinely shaken. Her hand went to the pioneer brooch at her throat, fingers trembling slightly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"But I do," Professor Bumblethwaite said, stepping beside Leif. "The translocation wasn't random. Something here called to the mountains. And now something is keeping them here. The question is whether you're the guardian or just another anchor."

The lights in the cultural hall flickered. Every casserole dish on the table began to emit a faint glow. The Jello molds started to vibrate in harmonic frequencies that spelled out warnings in colors the human eye shouldn't be able to see.

"This meeting is over," Auntie Mabel declared, but her authority seemed shaken. "Students will return to their academy. And they will cease their experiments immediately."

As the wizards filed out, Patrick's Oracle senses caught one last vision. In it, Auntie Mabel stood alone in the empty cultural hall, tears streaming down her face as she whispered to the darkness: "I'm trying to protect them. Can't they see I'm trying to protect them all?"

Outside, Professor MontClaire gathered her shaken students. "Well," she said with forced cheer, "that was certainly educational. Though not quite in the way I'd hoped."

"Professor," Houston asked, "what happens now?"

She looked back at the ward building, where lights were beginning to go out one by one. "Now? Now we've learned that there's a difference between studying a culture and threatening it. And we've discovered that the real mystery isn't how the mountains got here."

"It's who wants them to stay," Leif finished, his Quartzite Quaestor senses still reverberating with the power he'd felt in those anchor stones.

As they walked back to their bus, not one of them noticed the figure watching from the ward building's window. Auntie Mabel clutched her phone, already composing messages to the other ward matriarchs across the valley. The students thought they were uncovering mysteries, but they had no idea what forces they were about to unleash.

The mountains loomed in the darkness behind the strip mall, patient and immovable. And somewhere beneath the earth, the anchor stones pulsed with purpose, holding fast to secrets that some traditions existed to protect, not share. 🌄

The local lessons had begun, but the real education was yet to come.