well, I can make this work

[guillotine]

Who: Nel Zelpher, you! (And Solas.)
When: roughly mid- to late-May
Where: Haven, the Aristocratic District, various other districts...
What: Free-for-anyone neighborhood cookout, sketchy odd jobbing, Nel scaring a home intruder out of his wits, and a quest for a super wilde pumpkin. (Three open prompts! The wilder quest w/ Solas will go in a separate comment.)
Warnings: Violence, food with ulterior motives, nudity
*Prose or brackets a.o.k!! If none of these prompts work, you can also PM me to discuss a wildcard.


I. "free" food

There are no flyers or signs pointing to the event, but word of mouth might carry neighbors or passersby to the tables lined up before a pretty majestic garden. Three people hustle and bustle down the lot with wooden plates and utensils, bowls, pots; as the day is temperate with a forgiving sun, not much is being done to provide shade for the food on display.

Fruit tarts, fresh spring rolls, cold noodles some might recognize as soba, and rice that fills your mouth with sweetness are each set out in absurd portions. Two Monsters—a shaggy-haired Turnskin woman and a strapping male merrow—are in charge of ferrying back and forth between the castle-like mansion this production is situated in front of. Off to the side is a short, red-haired, knife-wielding witch in a sleeveless tunic and trousers, all dark and worn. The sun hardly has time to reflect off of her blade, a constant blur while Nel neatly and professionally brutalizes bite-sized slices of fish. These are combined with the sweet rice into layered ovals which fit comfortably into the palms of most, and should someone come near to take any for themselves, she gives a decisive nod without a single hiccup in the cutting of her knife.

“No charge, no surprise enchantments. Dig in.”


I.a. take a minute

It’s nearly dusk when the last of the debris is cleaned up. The pretty lane, restored to its untouched glory, now only hosts what stragglers stayed behind to lend a hand. One or two are collapsed onto a healthy lawn; others mutter and shake hands with Nel and the hired Monsters.

She cracks her neck audibly, with an awful snapsnapsnap that makes the Turnskin cringe as she trudges downstreet in the opposite direction. Then, seeming not to care who sees her so graceless, she throws herself onto a free patch of the garden’s long and feathery grass. “Parched.”

Nel twists a little to fix a tiredly assessing stare onto yourself. “You know, we do have some of the pear tarts left.”


II. pay me

Ingratiating herself with local residents across each district takes up as much time as her study of the Coven’s brand of magic. Nel never outright asks these new acquaintances to spy, just to share what comes their way in terms of news and gossip; in exchange, they receive a favor, or labor, or what monetary compensation she can spare. She’s careful not to offend or go after more than what they’re willing to give. So early in the formation of a network, she can’t afford to alienate people who have no reason to like a strange outsider.

That’s a lot of words to explain why Nel can be spotted (maybe even recognized) taking odd and odder jobs across the city. One morning she’s a runner, only trusted with business-oriented letters and packages of no real consequence to the senders or recipients—the next day sees her in long skirts and a maid’s stark uniform, toiling in the manor of some high-flying aristocrat. In areas where she would prefer not to be remembered, such as the manor, a plain black scarf pins back and hides the bright hair that would otherwise make her more memorable.

What’s it gonna be? Are you slow to move aside when a fast-moving woman bolts past? Did you bite it and hit the gutter, poor thing?

Take a fancy to the market and find a super sale on some item, only to have a sour-faced maid steal it out from under your nose? Even better, are you a manor guest—or snoop, without invitation? Funny how this meek servant pops up in the corner of your eye more than once. It’s not impossible that you’re being followed, even if you’re not inside its halls but prowling the hedge maze outdoors.



III. Aefenglom Woman Terrifies Home Invader, Naked and Unafraid

[ A certain young man, reasonably bitter over having his estate seized and redistributed, knows now his terrible mistake.

Nel Zelpher sleeps lightly in a tiny servant’s room on the mansion’s second floor, her window open a crack for sound to filter through. Even if that weren’t the case, a huffy aristocrat tripping over rearranged furniture in the dark is not a practiced sneak. She appears at the landing of the staircase as he curses and hops on one lordly foot, and a few things happen in quick succession.

One: he sees the dark silhouette of a lady, the gleam of her eyes, and the outline of a machete-sized blade in each fist. He realizes she’s in the buff.

Two: Nel sees him. He turns and bolts for the front door. ]

No, son of a— get back here, cretin!

[ She clears the stairs in two strategic leaps, tucking and rolling to soften the impact. The sound of metal hitting the floor behind him puts a new spring into the man’s step, and when the pursuit leads them to the estate’s sprawling garden he’s almost sobbing with fear. Nel bears down on him with silent and grim inevitability.

It’s pretty late. Maybe you're one of her housemates. Maybe someone’s out for a walk on the nicer part of town where naked folks aren’t supposed to charge out and chase shrill men with paint-stained hands. Maybe that someone is or isn’t you, but either way, this is heading in your direction… ]

Comments

[guillotine]

[ The ice formation Solas is folding and encouraging into life might be enough to sidetrack many actual novice spellcasters, but outside an initial admiring side-eye, a rapid wrist-flick scorches the stray wisps out of existence. No fire is manifested, only the weaving and throbbing of superheated air. ]

Queen's... oh, isn't that interesting?

[ Slow delight curls her mouth up at the sides, not yet a smile. ]

Chess it is, but unless your version of it has fewer than three pieces, I should introduce you to something simpler. Seeing as how we lack a board and have a pumpkin.

[veilfires]

[He notes her solution with satisfaction. Left without the tools they’re accustomed to, with a little wit they’re yet able to improvise much from mere heat and cold.]

A board simplifies things, but is quite optional. [If you’re smart enough. Smug little asshole, Bull remarks in his head.] But as our version of chess has sixteen pieces, I’ll defer to your idea.

[guillotine]

[ Nel's head warps like a carnival mirror through the residual heat wave, but once dissipated, the keen interest is written plainly across her glittering violet eyes and tilted chin. Solas is too much the god to feel as an insect pinned for inspection would, probably. ]

Then I need to ask you how you picture yourself.

[ She paces a half-circle nearer, stopping short as if on a leash. ]

Are you a warrior? Runologist?

Thief?

[veilfires]

[He meets her gaze with an unshifting mildness. If she’s interested enough to want to know him, he’s intrigued by that in turn, and a little gratified. As this is an interrogation, he gives a fuller answer where a single word would have sufficed.]

Of the three? I am more the Warrior than Runologist. Runologists may be your world’s equivalent to mages, but elven magic is not so sublunary as runecraft

[Runes are the province of the dwarves, he does not say in full – an admirable art in its way, but a crutch to make up for a tragic lack of true magic.]

[guillotine]

[ An interrogation always proceeds smoothly when everyone understands their position in it. As gratified as Solas is by her interest, Nel finds herself appreciative of his willingness to entertain it. Her eyes crease in a smile that lives too briefly to touch her mouth.

Sublunary. Something which belongs to a mundane world. Nel's countenance darkens under a new, patriotic severity. ]

Moving on from your estimation of my people's art. What do you see of yourself in the Warrior? Honor?

[ After all the hushed and roundabout talks they've engaged in since the night they met and died in Dewaint Forest, 'honor' is not the ideal she expects him to prize above others. She doesn't anticipate being wrong... but cannot discount the possibility of it. ]

[veilfires]

[Indifferent to any patriotic severity he’s being affixed with now or ever, he does move on.

He is too much the traitor for honour, he knows and regrets. But he remains true, in intent if not in action, in one respect – he is still a protector, so he rewards his interrogator thus:]

Duty. Guardianship. I have mentioned my world is in mortal peril.

[They're both fighters burdened with great responsibility; he need not belabour the point. His hand not involved in casting is tucked behind his back. He’s watching her, not their sled, crystallising off to the side. Frost is crystallising as well, unnoticed, on his coattails.]

[guillotine]

[ She thinks on that.

Approval of his priorities is a two-sided issue when so much can be excused under the guise of duty, and once again she and Solas enter another scenario of knowing, too well, these excuses. Nel's hypocrisy (she is a tool, the weapon, the red hand Her Majesty's subjects are permitted to see so that the queen remains pure) prevent her from truly holding the answer in contempt. ]

You did. I've been compared to the Thief piece, myself.

[ Ah. His coattail is turning white at the edges. Should she...? Eventually.

Content to let the problem compound on itself until he recognizes it, a cruel and callous boot braces on the sled's edge to test the solidity of his fledgling cast. Whether it's ready to hold up under pressure is besides the point. ]

[veilfires]

[The sled holds fast when tested, he’s pleased to note. It's a sturdy and material piece of conjuration, glassy and white, suited to holding pumpkins and Nels alike. As such, he draws the magic into its finishing phase: Nel's magic would be useful here to polish off the sled.

As he does, he flips the interview.]

Have you? The Thief does move with equal parts cunning and grace.

[guillotine]

[ Nel's eyes crease in acceptance of the flattery, even if she can never take any without suspicion of the ones providing it. She refrains from coquettishly asking if he thinks her graceful— not very cunning, that. ]

I suspect they weren't being complimentary. I'll remember the first place your head went, though. Thanks.

[ His creation only suffers from a slight malformation, a consequence of new magic crossbred with how ice naturally likes to form in ridges and spikes. After turning the shape over in her mind, along with what they need from such an undertaking, off goes a dark leather glove. Her bare palm caresses a larger knot of ice putting too much weight to one side of the sled.

It hisses and drips a steady beat. ]

There's no fundamental difference between the ways we can move across the board, but there is order to how we're removed. Thief kills Runologist. Runologist kills Warrior.

Warrior takes Thief.

[ Knot smoothed to a non-issue, she uses her lashes and bangs to hide surveillance of Solas's partiality to that thought. ]

[veilfires]

[Flattery perhaps, but only where it’s due. The skillset of a thief or rogue is hard-earned – Nel’s own have been honed by a life of martial effort and discipline. That’s worthy of notice and appreciation.

Nel’s hand anneals the ice with a hiss. With an answering twist of his fingers, Solas harmonises the ice structure already tempered by her superheat. Cold steam rolls off it. A sled is revealed, well-formed enough that it as grooves along the base to make it easier to drag.

He clicks his tongue, taking craftman’s satisfaction. It would all be more impressive if the end of his cloak didn’t look as though it had been been dragged through the snow.

Their spellcraft has outpaced their chess game, but the fun was always in the conversation. And – reflecting on it – it is fun: the magic, the wordplay, the posturing over nothing. There’s exhilaration in how unexpected that is. From the sled, he looks back to Nel with an easy toss of his head and a smile.]

Then before I get excited about taking anyone, I’ll remember that you’re as much the Runologist as the Thief.

[guillotine]

[ There it is again, that grin where her lips don't move from their firm line but the skin around her eyes crinkles. It is somehow friendlier than any of her forced microexpressions.

Nel likes Solas, likes his company and the ease of it. For now, that's acceptable. For now, their mission is the same. ]

You will last longer, won't you. Riddle me this, then, since you're a clever man.

[ She turns to survey the extremely dead, monstrous pumpkin that taxed and taught them in one big burst of effort, hands clasped behind her backside like a drill sergeant. The single glove dangles from her dripping fingers. ]

How the hell are we getting that thing onto the ice? And what will you do about your poor cloak?

[veilfires]

[- He tries not to be pulled up short, but he swivels automatically to check his hemline. He comes out of it smoothly, with a practised sweep of his staff.]

Ah – a minor byproduct of the conjuration. [As if she were asking for a scholarly explanation. It’s a valiant show of indifference – he even believes it himself. It’s only belied by the tips of his ears turning pink. Moving firmly on -]

We have already made our method elaborately magical. [He spins his staff in an arc, and sets about casting the next spell.] Let’s not draw the line at levitating a giant pumpkin.

[In his voice is an invitation - shall we?]

[guillotine]

[ Despite nodding, the weight of her smirk is slow to leave him, as are her eyes on the color his ears have turned. A scarf pulled up to Nel's chin serves its true purpose when she ducks to hide the amusement in it.

He affords her no time to say wait, stop, just a minute. Already the energies gather and fluctuate around him. Tutting, she darts to his side— more flustered than she would like, in some kind of turnabout. ]

Clever and... courageous. Take what I have?

[ The wind spells she's tried have, to date, resulted in uniform chaos. It chafes her pride to avoid trying again with a witness around to remember failure, but her palm settles over Solas's left shoulder; reaching for his hand calls to an echo of a forest she'd rather not recall. ]

[veilfires]

[Tactics 101: sudden, decisive action can avert greater catastrophe, and also minor social embarrassment.

Their magic synergises somewhere about his chest. Nel has a thundering, raw power that likely requires great discipline to wield – likely, he suspects, chaotic when manifested into something free-flowing like wind – but Solas’ is quiet. His first sense was the sense of being so insubstantial he could float away on a breeze. To transmute a material object to be more air-like befits his nature.

They’re in duet as the pumpkin levitates. It floats as easily as if it forgot it was supposed to stay on the ground, the subtlety which is Solas’. But surrounding it and giving it power is Nel’s magic, like a lashing whip, sending its vines into a dramatic whirlwind about it as it rises.

Floating zombie pumpkin is go.]