(open) & i may not see the future,

[civicbooty]

Who: Aymeric and Francel and Solas in closed prompts; whoever wants an elf goodboy who likes ethics discussions and long walks on the beach in the open prompt!
When: mid to late May.
Where: the Coven, the Haven.
What: magic, ruminating on politics, rich boys probably putting mattresses on the floor, etc.
Warnings: gore, actually, but it's fine, everything's fine,



♞ practical magic. (the coven, open.)

[ Every day, without fail, Aymeric can be found at the Coven, diligently working on his magic. He's progressing slowly, in part because he's chosen no straightforward discipline: often he has an object in front of him on which he'll cast a spell; then he'll wait a little and touch it lightly with his fingertips. Many times he'll only purse his lips or frown, but other times, he'll yank his hand back as if burned (and he might be).

He also practices shielding magic, as best he can — he may turn, sometimes, and ask the nearest obvious newcomer if they wouldn't mind throwing something at him, yes really, harmless or otherwise. He's wearing armor; it's fine. ]

♞ walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut. (moving in, for francel.)

[ The house, the witches assured them, is perfectly safe. Yes, it did once belong to a family who succumbed to the Cwyld, but that's no reason for alarm, of course, they said; get a tea table and some chairs; get a fire started in the hearth, and it'll feel just like home.

It feels nothing like home, though, even after he and Francel have dusted all the rooms and carried in a few pieces of inexpensive but solidly-built furniture. Aefenglom is much too warm, for one thing.

By the time night falls, and there's nothing else to bring in or to clean, Aymeric has shed his armor in the house somewhere, poured two glasses of water, and coaxed Francel out to the covered front steps with them as a remedy for the house's stale air.

No one, at this hour, will see Francel's emerging scales.

The twin moons are bright overhead. Aymeric settles on the top step, allowing Francel space, and stretches out his dusty legs, looking pensively up at the sky. He takes a long, cool sip before he speaks. ]

I've wondered, I must confess, how much they truly know of that lesser moon. Folly, I suppose.

♞ a strategy discussion. (tea, for francel & solas.)

[ It still hasn't occurred to Aymeric to use his watch more often — or almost ever — so he's delighted when he runs into Solas by pure chance a day after they've moved into the Haven. They can't offer much in the way of hospitality, but they do have tea, and a table, and chairs, just as the witches suggested, and Aymeric extends a prompt invitation.

The house is too large for two people, though not as luxurious as some of those nearer the center of the city. The yard is a tangled mess of weeds, and thick ivy has smothered all but the windows on one side of the house. Part of the quaint carved wood detail above the covered porch has a sizable splintered hole in it, as if it was struck by something heavy, and a massive scrape mars the faded paint on the front door. The towering pale wall that separates the inner city from the outer is starkly visible, here, through the other homes.

Aymeric slows as they approach the door. ]

Francel has been reclusive, of late. I've no doubt he'll be glad of your company, but if he appears reluctant, pray forgive him.

[ He pushes it open, stepping into a clean but empty narrow foyer split by a staircase, and raises his voice: ]

Francel?

(note/the wildcard option: prose is always okay. for any other ideas/whatever, feel free to pm me or hmu on plurk at elegiae ♡

unrelated note that a reference to the parliamentary records building is now undermael college because I didn't see a question on the faq until right now,,,)

Comments

[fordola]

...It did.

[ Her reddened eye almost seems to gleam. Even without the power behind it, she remembers the pain. The suffering. All she's endured, to be treated like common rabble by most Garleans. It cost her everything. ]

...And now 'm one of the Alliances' prisoners. 'cept now I'm... here.

[civicbooty]

[ It was not intended to be sympathetic; she had, he surmised with neutral interest, been looking for sympathy, and decided it was there. With the crisp dismissal he'd once afforded heretics, he agreed: ]

And now you are here, by some act of celestial clemency. I hope you've a mind to be kinder to these people than you were to your countrymen.

[ No more needed to be said. He swept back his hair again, turning to leave. ]

Pray excuse me.