(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

[veilfires]

[He puts no stock in their own estimation of their abilities. Though it is outside their experience, their curiosity is most agreeable and natural: elves are by their essence beings of magic, however apart from themselves they may be. And he believes any dreamer, elf, mage or no, with due effort and self-cultivation, could achieve much.]

Anything is possible. So much of the dreaming is unknown to the Coven: never-mind the otherworld. And spirits are, above all else, malleable. It would be unexpected if the spirits of this world were as the spirits of my own.

[He laces his fingers together, gently resting on the edge of the table.]

Consider the Fae. Though they are not spirits, they are beings delicately entwined with magic in a realm of dreams. Imagine if they were once spirits, who as ages went by formed bodies until they created a new people and society. That is not impossible.

Perhaps spirits of ages past have left their mark on Talas in the form of Monsters. Spirits thirst to experience life. That can mean the desire to change: to inhabit bodies, and feel the physical sensations of life and the joy of imagination. They might create new bodies, or, more often, possess a mortal and transform it as two merge to be one. [He doesn’t deliver this in the tone of it being a terrible fate. It is merely a fact of nature, which can be good or terrible, neither or both.

He looks inquisitively at Francel, to be sure his speculations aren’t causing undue distress.]

[haillenarte]

[they're not — or, at least, he is not precisely afflicted with distress. at first, francel wonders whether or not the spirits of solas's homeland can posses the dead — but then solas gets to his speculation on what monsters are, and the young lord frowns.

two souls joined in the same body as one?

if he is a dragon in this world, then what does that make him?

he wishes, not for the first time, that he could simply tear the scales from his skin, clip the claws from his hands, but he knows that such self-mutilation would be pointless and accomplish nothing. in any case, this is only a theory that solas has proposed. as calmly as he can manage, francel drains his cup of tea and sets it back upon his saucer.]

...I used to say that I would sooner die than become a thrall of the dragons. I suppose I should not have spoken such words aloud.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric lays a reassuring hand on his arm. ]

You are not a thrall; a thrall has no mind of its own. I have seen nothing to suggest you are changed. [ A comforting lie; he's not well acquainted with Francel, and wouldn't know. With gentle humor: ] Solas is presenting a theory founded upon the knowledge of his home; it is not a certainty. When I mentioned the second moon just this past night, as I recall, you laughed.

[ Possibly this is a self-own. ]

[veilfires]

[Solas, who is not the sort to indulge in comforting untruths, does not put faith in Aymeric’s judgement on how changed Francel has or has not been. Nor can he trust himself to know if he himself has been changed by this world. He remembers with amusement and affection the Inquisitor’s point on this subject. If it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?]

The manner of possession I allude to is not thraldom: it is more... peaceful symbiosis.

Many times I have witnessed its dark inverse. The unheralded destruction as wreaked by abominations... [Dryly:] Take heart, Lord de Haillenarte. That is more bloody, and invariably involves less tea parties.

[He continues apace, as Francel is not exactly distressed, and, well, he's just gotten warmed up.]

In my world, spirits served as a catalyst of creation. Perhaps it is so here, and thus the native Monsters were formed.

[He thinks this extends to himself and the other newcomer Witches as well as Francel and the Monsters, so he adds:] Perhaps curious spirits watched us as we crossed through our mirrors, and wished to make sense of us. With benevolent intent, they sought to fit us into the order of this world. [Or perhaps not! Still, he takes comfort in such contemplation, and he’s known stranger things to happen.]

[haillenarte]

Would that benevolent deeds always followed benevolent intent.

[this, again, could be taken as a jab at aymeric, the young lord seems content to absorb the knight's reassurance. even in front of solas, their guest, he leans ever so slightly toward the touch, as though halfheartedly seeking comfort from the lord commander.]