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| An Enchanting Afternoon; for mairead! <3 | |
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| Topic Started: May 12 2017, 08:19 AM (175 Views) | |
| Phaedrus | May 12 2017, 08:19 AM Post #1 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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11 AR, Post-Wyld Hunt The stadium thundered with a dull roar. Two mages circled each other, both their hands lofted in casting positions. One blasted a crackling beam of ice from their hands -- the other countered with fire, and an explosion of steam obscured them both. They stepped out from the fog, circling each other like predators. Surely they must be on the verge of collapse. It was so hot. The necromancer took a sip of his drink and fanned himself, though it hardly did anything to dispel the muggy air. The pigpen of sweating bodies around him didn’t help, either. He blew out an irritated little sigh, tossing his braided hair over his shoulder and tugging at his tunic. Today he was dressed rather flamboyantly in purple, and despite the thinness of the cotton, he found himself suffocating. Nailah help me. The Coliseum was the buzz of Mondragon -- every local and tourist he'd bumped into had insisted that he go—it was great fun! Splendid! But in truth he'd been avoiding it, tried to ignore its monolithic presence. It loomed like a temple to bloodthirst. Somehow the excited way people talked on bloody battles and one instance of dismemberment hadn't thrilled him in the least. They had assured him that deaths were rare, and only free men were allowed to participate; he'd scoffed at that, brows threatening to disappear into his hair. But at length, he'd decided to go. When in Angkar, after all. But he refused to watch the sword fighting and physical matches — even just the distant clang of steel had sent a taut shiver down his spine, made his hands twitch with bloody recollection. He'd had his fill of battle. So instead he'd deigned to watch a mage's match -- in no small part with the hopes of learning something -- and sat hunched forward, frowning. Another flare of magic exploded across a ward; people stamped their feet as the ice mage froze her opponent's boots to the ground, causing him to keel over. The announcer roared, announcing a touch. Grumbling, the fire mage picked himself up from the dissipating ice —and slipped on his arse, to the great, raucous amusement of the crowd. Phaedrus licked his teeth, fiddling with the straw of his drink, and set it aside. The pineapple juice went sour in his mouth. Was he supposed to be enjoying this? Tongues of flame leapt around the ice mage, trapping her in a blazing prison. Terrified, the woman shrank in on herself, trying to dispel the heat with her own magic. The fire mage advanced with a great grin, whipping a staff off his back and bursting forth in a whirl; he entered the flames unharmed and landed a touch on her knee, causing her to go down. "AAAAAAND ITS MATCH, FOLKS!" The omniscient narrator boomed. "THIS ROUND GOES TO VADRIC FLAMEBORN! HE'S WON HIMSELF AN ICE COIN!" The defeated mage picked herself up, bowing relunctantly to her opponent; they shook hands and lifted each other's up to the spectators, met with thundering applause. The exit grated open with a groan of wood, and they limped through it, nursing singes and frosty burns. "NEXT UP IS..." He didn't wait around long enough to learn. The necromancer disappeared with a blip of magic, resurfacing in the dim, cooler corridors of the Coliseum. The air was much less stifling here -- he took a deep, relieved breath, shaking his head. Well, seen it, done that. He’d likely not be back again… In truth, he'd come with other intentions in mind. For one Mairead de Latte. A powerful enchanter and a force of genius that had aided in the war. They’d met only briefly, just long enough for him to impart a spell to her — and then the tug of battle had wrenched them apart, embroiling them deep in their own matters and preparations. But she — and her magics — had intrigued him. He'd been surprised to learn of her presence in the Coliseum, and the work she did there — it seemed... rather beneath her. But then, he scarcely knew the woman. Enchanting was hardly his strong suit. He’d dabbled, but after disastrous experiments he’d learned he was much more suited to breaking them than actually forging them. Like a monkey slamming china into a table. Well. If she could enchant an entire ship… likely she could help him with this. The necromancer’s hand crept to his pocket, fingers brushing the cool links of a necklace. The thought warmed him, made a faint smile sprout on his face. Excitement hurried his step. If this works, I can’t wait to see Bast's face… Someone had pointed vaguely at the direction of Mairead’s workshop when he’d first walked in, but now he found he couldn’t exactly remember where. The building sprawled in spiraling hallways, and he found himself often being distracted by the intricate carvings, pausing to stare at the blocky bas-reliefs. A war god snarled at him, lofting up swords and heads; one mighty foot crushed another god?—warrior?—victim?—and a wall of skulls loomed behind it, a grotesque motif. Coldness seeped through his chest and he tore away, the eyes of the god branded into his mind. His head pounded, felt like it’d float off. Above, the dim roar shook the stone, an ever-present buzz of violence. As he walked, the temperature began to pick up again — how? why? how was it possible that it was even hotter than outside? — and the necromancer resumed fanning himself, grimacing. The sounds of hammering now joined the occasional swell of cheering, resonating from the various workshops. There were so many doors… devils, would he ever get out of here? Slowing to a stop, Phaedrus frowned helplessly down the hallway. Perhaps I should go back to the entrance, find someone… Clucking, the necromancer made to walk back, but a flicker of movement caught his attention — he turned to see a woman emerging from one of the doors and rooted in place. A shock of short black hair tumbled around her face, streaked with blue; two blades glimmered at her hips, unmistakeable, but it was the eyes that did it. Her sharp look cut through his memory, sparking with a knife-edge intelligence. Speak of the bloody devil. “Ah!” The necromancer planted his hands on his hips, brows shooting towards his fiery hair. Relief suffused through his voice. “Miss de Latte! How fortunate. I was just looking for you.” He offered a smile, a short, crooked thing. Hopefully she is not terribly busy. Devils know how the enchanting system works here. “I’m glad to see you in happier circumstances.” The shared memory of the war hung between them, and his smile limped on, wounded. “I have a... proposition for you, if you are not tied up. But first: how are you?” It was rude to be all business and no pleasantries, after all. She looked well. Well, perhaps well wasn’t the right word — indeed, had anyone been well after Maeidaigh? But she looked better. Her eyes were no less hawkish, but he was happy to see them marked with less intensity, some of the exhaustion and wanness smoothed from her face. Edited by Phaedrus, May 12 2017, 08:25 AM.
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| Mairead | May 13 2017, 12:45 AM Post #2 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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“Ah!” The necromancer planted his hands on his hips, brows shooting towards his fiery hair. Relief suffused through his voice. “Miss de Latte! How fortunate. I was just looking for you.” Mairead snapped out from her reverie at the voice of a man talking to her. The familiarity of the voice struck her first, followed by - she glanced at the speaker - the look of copper red hair, neatly tied in a braid. A well-dressed man, she looked with silent approval. War is one thing, but bad grooming will not be tolerated! Phaedrus, she remembered his name from the brief meeting they had, the day before meeting Baqi. She had obtained a Phaedrus Coin from him, responsible for enchanting her flying ship with Warding magics that helped the Sotoan side in the war, before different businesses pulled them apart again. She had been intrigued by the necromancer, though did not expect to meet him again. "Greetings, Phaedrus. How may I be of assistance to you?" she replied civilly. "But first, won't you please come in for some tea?" She beckoned him toward the interior of her workshop. A finished kitchen knife sat on a table, to be naturally cooled further after leaving the water minutes ago. Oddly, for a forger's workshop, scrolls stacked at the side of her room. An anvil, hammer and several mullets stood next to it. At the corner of the room, unobtrusively, sat a single sack of raw materials that remained unused in the war effort. Mairead looked with dismay at the state of the workshop, for it was wholly unprepared for a visitor. She hoped the cake would be enough... |
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| Phaedrus | May 13 2017, 09:55 AM Post #3 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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There was a brief moment before recognition lit her face. The necromancer smiled to see she didn’t seem terribly busy — or at least had time for him, at any rate. “I’m looking to get something enchanted,” he explained. “Nothing quite so… complex as last time, of course.” He shook his head, tucking a flyaway curl behind his ear. But first, won't you please come in for some tea? “Tea sounds lovely.” He meant it. He’d not had a strong, proper cup since Orl’Kabbar — and even then the milk was of poor, thin quality, the water dubious even after being boiled twice — no, truly, he’d not had a good cup of tea since… Madrid? Unfathomable. The revelation shocked him. Since he’d been in Angkar, he’d taken to sipping a grassy, local drink known as yerba mate, and the occasional coffee that sent him jittering and rambling across Mondragon. Nothing quite replaced a good ceylon, though, or an earl grey... Phaedrus stepped inside the workshop, eyes flickering around curiously. The sight of a single, glinting kitchen knife sent a memory squeezing his chest — but he looked away, fixating instead on the curious stack of scrolls. He wanted to stroll over and pick through them, but surely that would be rude. As he walked towards the table and sat, the forge belched a new wave of heat, air shimmering around it. “Devils. How do you all not expire in here? It is so… hot.” He fanned himself, leaning back in the chair. “I’m not used to it. It’s nothing like the dry heat of Ashoka. I feel like I am perpetually in a bath.” |
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| Mairead | May 13 2017, 08:42 PM Post #4 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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"Devils. How do you all not expire in here? It is so... hot." He fanned himself, leaning back in the chair. "I'm not used to it. It's nothing like the dry heat of Ashoka. I feel like I am perpetually in a bath." Mairead nodded as she banished the forge fire. She thought for a moment, then pulled her Brass Blades out of her hips to expel cold air into the room like they were common utility tools and not deadly weapons of war. She stuck the Blades in an empty vase to continue cooling the room down, while shutting out the heat outside by closing the door. Soon, she got a kettle boiling on the other side and then had an Earl Grey, with hazelnut cakes, prepared for her guest at the table. The simple tasks soothed her nerves, and she carried them out rhythmically. She cast a glance at Phaedrus who was looking at her finished kitchen knife and the scrolls, first a look of curiosity for the latter, and then a look of 'something else' for the former. Did he spot a flaw in her work? 'Perhaps a burr?' she thought, her nerves returning slightly as self doubt rose, and she quickly attempted to repress it, for they led to other, unwanted avenues. 'Calm yourself, girl, you did well, look at how far you've come, stop talking down to yourself. What would Alessa say?' "I'm looking to get something enchanted," he explained. "Nothing quite so... complex as last time, of course." He shook his head, tucking a flyaway curl behind his ear. Phaedrus's cultured voice broke her from her reverie. Oh, an enchantment job. Well, that would put her in familiar territory. She felt her nerves calm immediately, a welcome change. A smile crept up her face as she glanced at his yellow eyes, beneath neatly-clipped red eyebrows. He gave an odd aura, one Mairead could not put a finger on; it felt a bit like Shell. Something was off. However, his outward disposition seemed friendly enough. "Show me what you've got?" she finally asked. |
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| Phaedrus | May 13 2017, 11:29 PM Post #5 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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A blissfully cold breeze stirred the room. A stray curl fluttered by his cheek, and the necromancer breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods.” Well, that was certainly useful. His eyes wandered to the curious Brass Blades, vaguely amused as she stuck them in a flower vase like they were a deadly pair of petunias. Phaedrus lofted his hands into a casting position, deciding to aid in the endeavor of cooling the room; the temperature plunged around his fingers, and the forge fire leapt and struggled as energy realigned itself. The workshop had cooled significantly though, made it… livable. Almost. The soothing sound of a tea kettle started up on the fire, whistling like an old companion. Soon enough a steaming cup of tea clinked before him—earl grey! Had she read his mind?—and to his delight, a plate of little cakes. “Thank you.” Phaedrus pinched one between his delicate fingers, excitedly taking a little nibble. Ah, hazelnut. The tea was far too scalding to drink yet, so he splashed some milk into it, stirring in a liberal amount of sugar. He returned her smile, tapping his teaspoon on the rim of the cup to keep it from dripping everywhere. Show me what you’ve got? “Oh! Yes,” the necromancer started, setting down the spoon and cake. In his teatime excitement he’d nearly forgotten what he’d come here for. “Yes, right, um…” he slapped around in his pockets before finding it. “Here.” Phaedrus drew out a necklace of fire opal and intricate iron. Its links clinked as he laid it on his palms, inviting Mairead to take a closer look if she so wished. He’d deliberated on it for ages, roaming the marketplace and clucking at jeweler to jeweler; he’d thought to get her a gold necklace—after all, gold went with nearly everything—but with a jolt he remembered it would likely melt. So instead he’d wandered about and asked a fire mage where on earth he’d gotten a channeling circlet, and what it was made of. The man laughed and swore by iron, so he’d scurried to find that, and finally… The opals were a nice touch. He’d thought it fitting, for the gems seemed to glow with an inner flame, sparking in the light. I hope she likes it… “It’s a gift for my girlfriend.” Phaedrus cleared his throat, laying it on the table between them. “She is—uh—due to her nature, she is rather... susceptible to water.” He wondered how to put delicately that she was a fire elemental. “I was looking to turn it into a water ward, one that would protect the entire body… do you suppose it’d be possible?” The necromancer bit his lip, picking up the cup of tea and wrapping his white fingers about it. |
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| Mairead | May 14 2017, 03:25 AM Post #6 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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(mood music: howl's moving castle) "You may help yourself to my books. This may take a while," Mairead nodded to the scrolls, empathetic of a boredom of one who would have nothing to occupy himself while she was engrossed in work. Sitting opposite the man, the forger girl picked up the necklace, turning it around her fingers delicately. Iron, good. Was he attempting to give it to a fire-based being, for if so it would be well-chosen, having a high melting point compared to .. most other metals ... and it being a ward from water would make sense. She tried to separate the deluge of thoughts into bite-sized components, organizing them coherently. Her mind took her down avenues of enchanting the opals with a magic that would deflect water. She would have to shape them somehow, to make the spells permanent, or the magic would have faded in a week. Something told her the teardrop shape would be beautiful-looking aesthetic-wise. She did not possess existing Coins with abilities that would deflect water, for the moment, though her trained mind easily picked out components of spells like a chef would mentally select food to make a recipe of a finished dish - but for Mairead, a finished spell instead of a dish. Warding. She would definitely need her Phaedrus Coin for warding spells. She had, she turned her mind around, ice magic from her personal Ae Coin, the one that enchanted her Brass Blade with Ice element. She could turn any water thrown at her into harmless ice. If it were a fire elemental Phaedrus wanted to gift the necklace to, the ice would not harm her, and would guard her against physical projectiles and blows. It would take melding two powers into one, and they would require synergy. All this was mostly theoretical, though, and Mairead would have to consult her books to be sure. Her mind turned to glyphs. They would have to be engraved into the opals to hold the enchantment. Ice - A cognate of frozen water, water missing a third component. And (frozen) water, ironically, would defend the wearer from (liquid) water. Protection - Guard. the glyph came to have a meaning of longing, evoking protection of a loved one who would fight for the wearer. Taking a sip out of her Earl Grey cup, her hands fluttered over her scrolls, picking one out of the dozens. A quick scan found her the information she was looking for. Certainty empowered her, if just a bit more. She emptied her pouch, selecting a the green Phaedrus Coin and her silver Ae Coin. She proceeded around the room, gathering tools. Jewelry-shaping tools, carving tools, a clamp; then sat down to work. The Coins levitated above the necklace, as if in a spinning dance. Mairead sung as her hands worked, copying their magics to fill into the engraved letters. It was finished. "Step back, please," said Mairead, indicating to the bookshelf. When her guest was safe, she proceeded. Experimentally, she tossed her cup of tea over the necklace, and side-stepped as the tea turned to icicles and was repelled across the room like bullets from a gun. The necklace, and its surrounding, remained completely dry. She whispered a key word to switch the repel off, then emptied Phaedrus' cup on the necklace again. This time, tea slid harmlessly off, without pelting the room with projectiles. Shyly, she handed the man the finished product to inspect. The day had been long, and hot. A good bath, yes she needed that. She turned to Phaedrus, again impressed by his impeccable dress sense, and said. "I would head to the bath house now, if you cared to join me. It is just down the corridor outside, near the springs." Edited by Mairead, May 14 2017, 07:57 AM.
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| Phaedrus | May 15 2017, 04:30 AM Post #7 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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You may help yourself to my books. This may take a while. She might have very well opened up a candy store. Phaedrus finished one of the tiny hazelnut cakes, brows lifting as he took a sip of tea. Already, things were shaping up to be a splendid afternoon. After the mad bustle of Mondragon and the feverish press of the Coliseum, it was nice to decompress. The necromancer found himself relaxing into the chair, crossing one leg and enjoying the scent of bergamot that wafted from the cup. For now he was occupied enough by teatime, content to watch Mairead flit around her workshop -- laying out some tools there, plucking out scrolls with her deft fingers. Parchment rustled. Another tea-cake disappeared. Eventually his curiosity got the best of him, and the man set down the half-empty cup, rising and strolling over to the bookshelves. "How did you get into the business of enchanting?" It was always interesting to know what paths people took in the realm of magic. Often enough it revealed quite a bit about their desires, their natures; each spell and how they used them was like a thumbprint of their being. Elementalists tended to be interested in the natural world and its laws... enchanters were more of the technical sort, often tinkerers and fiddlers in youth... necromancers, well. Often disturbed, rarely pleasant. He thumbed idly through the books, tracing their spines and pulling some out at random. He opened it and frowned -- it was written in a language he couldn't discern at all, a script of eldritch runes. "What's this?" There were a few diagrams peppered throughout the book -- it seemed to be enchanter's instructions, machines all rendered with a careful, thin quill. Phaedrus examined it for awhile before reshelving it, careful to put it back in its place. A few more minutes passed as such -- book after book as inscrutable as the first -- till at last he found one in Common. "I've never seen some of these scripts before." Ciphered, perhaps? He wondered where she was from -- how she came to know these languages. Bast would know, probably. She had a proper library in her head. A clanging sound broke him out of his mind. Phaedrus looked up to see the woman at work, intrigued by the coins hovering like ghosts above the necklace. From a distance he could see her etching letters into the stone, working with an artisan's delicateness. She began to sing softly, the cadence of the song reminding him of something Bast would croon; the forger had a pleasant voice that carried through the workshop, peppered by the steady clink-clink-clink of her tools. The necromancer sat back down at the table, flipping idly through the book. It was a text on forging -- rather dense -- and the various conductors for enchantments. The list of metals and jewels were extensive, along with the melting points and tools needed to shape them. Eventually the clanging stopped. Step back please. It was done. The necromancer shot up in excitement and reshelved the book, crossing his arms and leaning against the shelf. He bit his lip, hoping it'd work-- An icicle shot from the ward and shattered on the wall. Phaedrus jumped, eyes widened a fraction. The mental image of holding hands on a gloomy day and suddenly being impaled with a hundred spikes sprouted in his head. "Er," he began. Not exactly what I had in mind. She quickly rectified it, though -- whispered a word he couldn't quite make out. His tea was sacrificed, but for a worthy cause -- this time it slid harmlessly off, and he couldn't help but crack into a grin, running through the possibilities. No more disasters in the rain. No need for an umbrella. She won't have to worry on her travels. She can go on a boat. Oh, hot springs, surely she'd like those, right? We can go swimming together. Or share a bath... "Excellent." Phaedrus beamed at her, taking the necklace in his pale hands and turning it about. He could feel the magics humming in the stone, absently tracing them with a finger. Below, he could feel the etched runes, though they were hardly visible. I can finally get revenge for the time she pushed me into a fountain. They'd been cheated of a proper splash war. Another spell of giddiness ran through him, cracking through his usually debonair demeanor. "Oh, I hope she likes it. I mean, I think she will. It's been a problem for so long." Now it was his turn to look shy and flustered, cheeks hot. The necromancer gave it another once over before sliding it back into his pocket, shooting Mairead another smile. "Thank you. How might I pay you?" He had half a mind to run out and give it to Bast right then, could hardly wait. But no. It needed further testing, still. And he had quite a few questions. I would head to the bath house now, if you cared to join me. It is just down the corridor outside, near the springs. The mention of a bath broke him out of his thoughts. The room had heated up again, slowly, hot with the fires of her forge. He felt like a sticky mess himself, and by the look of her sweaty hair and the time she'd spent hunched by the flames, surely she did too. "Ah! Yes. We can test it even further." Hopefully it won't freeze anybody... The necromancer grabbed another tea cake to eat on the way, and they ambled out into the hall, moving--thank the gods--away from the heat of the forges and into the cooler corridors. The roar of the crowds started up again, humming in the walls. "What was that word you said back there?" Phaedrus took a bite of the hazelnut cake, eyes flicking in Mairead's direction. "Good to know there's an impaling option." He shot a cheeky grin at her. |
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| Mairead | May 19 2017, 07:23 PM Post #8 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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"How did you get into the business of enchanting?" Mairead was selecting a tool when Phaerus popped the question. Not breaking her razor sharp focus, the enchanter replied automatically without looking at him, as if she had answered the question multiple times before. "My skill is not my own, but gifted to me. I only borrowed it. There is not much to choose to do, but follow the path that was already set for me." "Of course, the Path full of difficult people and difficult things, but much better than the lost situation that came before. I was at the end of the rope, with no hope left but one ... " Alessa, her guardian angel, was a cosmic scholar of heavenly objects, an extra-terrestrial genius if you will. They used to share a body. Alessa had the confidence, and the abilities. When she left, Mairead had just the abilities remaining. She looked at a sketch of an engraving she was about to make critically. No, now is not the time for that. Not yet. The necromancer was helping himself to her books. She caught phrases about scripts. In any occasion, Mairead would have chuckled, but given her strict disposition at work, a stony expression was all she showed. The enchanter found herself immersed in water in a communal style stone pool. Gargoyles mounted on walls spouted water above her and her new companion. Bodies walked about the bath house, dressed in nothing but togas and, for foreign visitors, bath robes. Normally, Mairead would have minded her modesty, but long tradition had soothed her of that need, and she had forgone covering up. Plus the bubbles made ... stuff ... not too visible, and she kept her eyes up as a rule. Feeling her muscles relax, she cast a glance at the necromancer. "Your Coin has been full of the strangest magics. How do you come by your skills?" |
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| Phaedrus | May 22 2017, 04:35 AM Post #9 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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There is not much to choose to do, but follow the path that was already set for me. He frowned at that. How very... fatalistic. "Is there?" He loathed to believe paths were so set in stone -- that ones fate could be decided by another, laid out in chess pieces. Then, how many were victim of circumstances? He had been, once; Alloces took everything from him, even his mind, in the end. Thought of the lich churned his stomach. The necromancer scratched at his neck, cleared his throat. "I don't know... I am one to believe there are other paths. They are scarcely pleasant, rarely easy, but they exist." He toyed idly with the books. He did not believe in anything so grand as destiny, guided by fate or the hand of a god. To imagine the universe had decided his path already filled him with disgust -- then why bother? Choice is all we have. Free will is the most basic of dignities. Phaedrus listened as she went on, abandoning the book in favor of contemplation. I was at the end of the rope, with no hope left but one … The enchanter trailed off. He found himself with more questions than answers, wondering what it meant. “Ah,” he said, a touch sadly. He tore his eyes from her back and back to the leather of the tome, the peeling gold paint on its spine and the well-worn edges. The necromancer noticed she hadn’t answered his question about the languages, lapsing into a stony expression. “I understand…” *** The bath was a welcome relief. Once again, he found himself surprised by Angkarian modesty. That is to say, they have none. Even in Soto, baths shared by both men and women were rare — usually for lovers or bacchanal festivals, and certainly frowned upon by polite society. In Ashoka, this would’ve gotten someone hanged. He kept his trousers on, at any rate. Normally he’d have no such qualms, but it felt… improper. To his shock Mairead did not care a whit, stripping past her skivvies and sliding into the bath. Phaedrus averted his eyes, waiting till he heard a splash of water to even turn around. In the past this would have been a welcome development, but… Murder. I’d be murdered, wouldn’t I? Phaedrus folded up his tunic and slipped the enchanted necklace into a tiny rift, not wishing to test it just yet. Bath first, magical experiments later. He dipped his toe experimentally into the water, then lowered himself all the way in, sighing at the blessed coolness. A froth of bubbles lapped up to his chest, and the necromancer pressed his back up against the wall of the bath, elbows resting on the hot stone. Much better. He kept his eyes up, giving Mairead a lopsided smile when she gazed his way. Your Coin has been full of the strangest magics. How do you come by your skills? The smile wilted on his face. “Oh.” Phaedrus scratched the back of his head, clearing his throat. The necromancer grimaced. "Not by choice." His hand trailed through the water, sloshing the bubbles about. Need he go into detail? "Much like you... a man laid out a path for me.” Flick. Off went the bubbles, and the necromancer slipped his other arm off the stone, sinking further into the water. “Had I decided, I never would have touched such a thing. I don’t believe I would have studied magic at all.” Phaedrus laughed—a scoffing, wry thing—water sloshing about his chest. No, indeed. He often thought on what he would have been — of course, with the wisdom of hindsight — and liked to believe he never would have lifted a finger in the direction of necromancy. Would I have been interested in the Arcane at all, really? He probably would have ended up a playwright, a poet, a… what? A mummer, a philosopher? Historian? A baker? Yes, perhaps that. “Such magics come at a terrible price. They are strange, unnatural… I loathe to use them, really.” He hadn’t needed to. But Maedaigh’s conquest had broken the promises he’d made to himself, the loose, unspoken pact… Unpleasant thoughts wormed through the comfort of the bath and the warmth of the sun striking his hair. He found himself wishing for another tea-cake, agitation tightening his muscles. Edited by Phaedrus, May 22 2017, 04:37 AM.
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| Mairead | May 25 2017, 06:35 AM Post #10 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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"Much like you... a man laid out a path for me." Mairead wondered what sort of man had laid down Phaedrus' path. It appeared necromantic powers was a topic that brought him distress. Instinctively, she navigated her thoughts to the silver lining, like it always did in distressing situations; a built-in mechanism created and ingrained into her by society to smooth the imperfections of the human state, even if it meant destroying an ugliness, the warts and all, that made a human beautifully whole. It was on her lips. The words: but your Path led you to your beloved, didn't it? It would have been a clean response. But an inner voice interrupted. Hope follows healing. She had seen the cheer wilt from the man's face. Would it do, to break social rules, and probe deeply into what one wouldn't typically probe into with strangers? Phaedrus seemed kind enough in their interactions. But she had had it with high society. "We all have broken hearts to mend," Mairead said helplessly. "My own love, or were they an utter stranger, is waiting, or not waiting, in my home dimension. I do not think anybody cares, that I am my own person, not a reincarnation of someone whose memories I don't even have. "In my time here in this dimension, I have met a faerie, a dead girl, and a possessed armour. I have sensed brokenness in them, that made me want to reach out, to stop their hurts so my own -- that was felt from them -- would stop too. I have failed to do so, in all of them, I bet, and may have made it even worse for some of them. I am selfish. I am unselfish… Her head had turned to face the gargoyle opposite now. "When I enchanted your necklace, one of the glyphs says 'Guard' -- to protect. A second glyph could be added to make it mean 'to guard a loved one'. I have felt it suited you; I do not know why, but it is a lovely word." She was unused to expressing emotions openly. Her moistened face had dried a bit now, the water, or perhaps water with tears mixed in, trailed down to the bath. She kept her gaze fixed to the gargoyle, though had long stopped seeing it. A warm hand reached out to grasp Phaedrus' shoulder. Perhaps it would comfort. Or perhaps he would stare at her like she had gone mad. |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 12 2017, 10:10 AM Post #11 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The woman’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, back into reality — the warm sloshing of the bath, the vague chatter of birds and jungle creatures, the leering stares of the gargoyles overhead. He willed himself to focus, to be present, for the love of Nailah, dredging himself out of that unpleasant swamp. As she spoke, his own thoughts faded. Phaedrus sat up a tad straighter in the bath, lifting his brows in surprise. Home… dimension? What did she mean? As in… another plane? His mind wandered back to the eldritch tomes he’d seen in her study — the crabbed, inscrutable text, an alien ink world at his fingertips — and his mouth wilted open some. Possessed armor? Could she have—? In his mind he saw twin horns — heard Glede’s grating voice — flashed unpleasantly back to the inn room in Etruria, strung up with a madman’s notes and maps… the tense, painful conversation they’d shared on the beach—son of a whore, he’d called him. The mixed feelings bunched his guts like sour wine. Phaedrus pressed his lips together. She’d given him a lot to digest. His mind chewed on it, put its dozen questions on the back burner. Conversation marched on, as it always did; he found himself at a loss for words, floundering like a trout on land. Comfort had never been his suit… “Oh…” a sad start. The necromancer pushed his hair behind his ears, blinking at the woman. She reminded him of Ylsa, in a way — they shared that same desire to heal the wounded, pick up all the people the world forgot and set them right again. The guilt was plain on Mairead’s face — he could see it in the furrow of her brow and hear it in her voice. “No good deed goes unpunished.” He tacked on a faint smile, though nothing could really soften that aphorism. A horrid phrase, but one he’d found to be true. “We can’t fix one another, I’m afraid.” As I have learned. The necromancer frowned. “Nor can we suppose that someone can come along and fix us.” How long had he toiled, waiting for that someone? Else that something, some divine favor or creature or home that would fill him, lift him up? As if one person would have made it all go away. As if there was some magic arrow, some cure-all… But no. Nothing had filled that void. How could it, when it was so flighty, so impermanent, could leave at any moment? Phaedrus rubbed his eye, sighing. The water sloshed about his chest as he flicked his hand out with a shrug. “But it is admirable to try. After all, it is safer to do nothing, to care for no one—but then, what sort of existence is that?” He’d tried it. And, surprise, nothing came of a fallow field. “All deeds are selfish in the end, aren’t they?” A wry smile quirked his lips. "We all wish for something. We help the poor because we were once poor, and so we help ourselves. We wage war to save our homes, our identities, our values. We spoil our lovers because we want them to stay. All of our choices are some manifestation of ourselves—what we cherish, what we want, what soothes us. It assures us we are still ourselves.” He drummed a hand on the rim of the pool, eyebrow quirked. “It is paradoxical, isn’t it? We act for others because we are selfish. We act to preserve that image of ourselves… as a goodly person, a devout priest, a good father, whatever it may be. And is that wrong? I think not. We all need to believe in something. The danger lies in supposing that image we hold of ourselves is always true.” And he was rambling. It had been on his mind often, in the empty spans of time he had to think. The winecask of his skull had drained, left it with too much room for rumination; tea did not obliterate his brain like liquor did. He was stuck in it like a prisoner, had to scratch off the days to keep himself from going mad. It did not matter how many people surrounded him; he was always alone with himself, forced to meet eye-to-eye like a cell mate. Here I am, that phantom mocked him. Here I have always been. Something broke in her voice. The woman turned away, but he could see the tears shining on her cheeks, heard them in her words. Phaedrus frowned, drumming his fingers nervously on the stone and glancing away. Oh, devils, oh no… He never knew what to do when people cried. Offer a… hug? Pat ones hand? The nudity added an entirely new layer of complication, and the necromancer felt helpless as the woman went on. He forced himself to lift his eyes from the water, blinking. “That would be…” Very kind? Thoughtful? “…splendid.” A faint smile came to his face again, and he looked at the woman in sympathy, scratching the corner of his nose. “Thank—“ Unexpectedly, he felt her hand on his shoulder, and jumped. Even after all these years, he still flinched when he was touched. Had never gotten used to it, not really, though he assured his panicked mind that the water was warm enough — the sun hot enough — the climate agreeable enough to warm up his skin to a living temperature and not the dead, tepid thing it often was. She needn’t know. The necromancer tried to relax, sinking into it like a reluctant cat. After all… it seemed she needed comfort more than he did. With a quiet swish of his fingers, he plucked a bit of cloth from the air — pulled out a handkerchief in its entirety, offering the frilly thing to Mairead. “Ah… here.” A tad ridiculous, given they were in a bath, but… He had no idea what else to do, fell back on old habits. There was no tea to make, no scones to offer, and he itched with the panic of uncertainty. “Are you so sure no one cares?” The necromancer frowned, chewing his lip. She had mentioned reincarnation. Again, his mind went back to Ylsa — the conversations they’d shared over tea, the serene smile on her face as she spoke on past lives… “I know someone like you,” Phaedrus coughed. “She is… well, she’s lived many lives. And as it happens, she did not remember the others right away. She had to learn her memories anew with each body.” Hellish torment, to be sure. He could not imagine suffering it again and again... “Perhaps… ah… yours will come? In time?” The necromancer shrugged, pausing. “Even so… with each life, she has found people that care for who she is in that moment.” Phaedrus measured carefully, lifting his golden eyes to her. His words were beginning to tread too close to his own experience, and a familiar discomfort wrenched his guts. A sigh ruffled the drying strands of hair about his chin. “It is a horrid thing, to be so far from home. How did you—end up here, of all places?” His curiosity got the better of him. He’d read about planeswalkers… had brushed with a few… but none were so human as Mairead. He did not sense any odd auras from her — to all his knowledge, she wasn’t a daemon or tiefling or some other eldritch creature. Edited by Phaedrus, Jun 12 2017, 10:17 AM.
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