faderift | [OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

WHO: (open) Myr and everyone; (closed) Myr, Vandelin, and Kit
WHAT: Some days in the life of a busy blind mage as he settles in.
WHEN: First part of August
WHERE: All around the Gallows.
NOTES: no one here but us elves

i.

Myrobalan had hardly put his request in to Casoferrazza before the harried seneschal had given him his approval and chased him off again. The man's haste to get the mage out of his hair had been a little alarming, but Myr isn't about to question what small blessings the Maker dealt out to him.

He places the first of his glyphs on the door to his double room and builds outward, weaving a network of sound and magic he can follow like a spider does the strands of its web. One glyph by every room he needs to know, a matching pair at the end of every major hallway. They're only active when he's close, glowing green and chiming softly in an assortment of different tones; otherwise, they fade to near-transparency and fall silent.

Still, they're a fairly obvious indicator of where he's been and where he hasn't in the three days it takes him to map the length and breadth of the Gallows, measuring his steps and marking what he needs to find again.

[OOC: Myr will be everywhere but the inside of the templar quarters and the upper levels of the mage quarters; feel free to encounter him anywhere but the dungeon.]

ii.

It's been no more than two weeks since the Hasmal contingent arrived and Myr's already out of sync with the waking life of the Gallows.

It isn't something that troubles him much any longer. His gutted Circle had grown used to him being awake all hours of the night and asleep much of the day, or elsewise--he contributed as much as they all did to their survival, so what of it?--so there had been little reason try and repair his schedule.

Besides, it's afforded him certain opportunities for peace and quiet he couldn't have otherwise. He'd marked how some of the more dedicated templars (and at least one knight-enchanter) were up well before dawn to attend to their own conditioning in the courtyard; how it rang with blades or hurried activity at all other hours of the day and into the torchlit evening.

The second hour after midnight, however, sees it standing empty, and Myr slips out into the darkness as gladly as a man going to meet a lover. He takes a moment to stand without the door of the mage tower, muting the glyph there so he can enjoy the velvet silence of the night. Then he begins to pace the courtyard in a regular grid, marking obstructions as he finds them. It isn't so hard like that to locate the space others have cleared for their own practice and bound it in his mind.

Only once he's sure it will be large enough for his own needs does he strip to the waist, folding up his light robe and laying it aside outside one corner of the practice area. Then he retreats back across cleared space, staff in-hand, counting his steps to the center where he stops and crisply salutes an imaginary opponent. The ritual gesture flows easily into the first of the forms, the patterns of attack graven into his muscle-memory.

Out here, unwatched, in the predawn darkness, he becomes for a little while the creature he was meant to be.

iii. (closed)

While they're harder to notice when Myr's not nearby, the locator glyphs aren't invisible at rest. They won't be so hard to follow back to their source at his room in the mage tower, where the glyph on the door gleams faintly in mute indication of the mage's presence.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

They're griffons. How could they not be distracting?!

Myr's expression is rapt--would be wide-eyed if he had them--as Inessa relates the story. "A spell kept them alive all these years?" he asks, awed. Hopefully someone took that down; stasis magic like that wasn't in the standard repertoire he learned.

"And you're flying with them now?" For a moment his heart yearns after a griffon's wings--who wouldn't want the freedom of the skies, having known only the ground all his life?--before he quietly, gently squashes that idea. He knows enough of how little he likes heights now to know it would be a tremendously stupid thing to try flying. "Do you...could I visit them sometime?" The question's almost shy.

"...Also, you can't just say a thing like that and not follow up; now you've got to tell me their names."

"I fly with one of them, yes. And...I believe it would be possible for non-Wardens to visit them. If you follow my instructions on how to behave with them, as long as you're in my company or another who has bonded with them you will be safe enough." That part is important; if he doesn't listen, doesn't take advice on what will put the griffons at ease, then his life will be a short one. Griffons don't mess around.

Then she sighs. "The name of my mount is Potato, for instance. I have tried to rename her, offering names of great heroines of the past and such...but 'Potato' she will be, forever and always. There is also Flea, Burp, Butterball, for instance. And Buttons, our 'mascot' since he possesses but one wing."

"Ah." The warning dampens his enthusiasm only slightly, though he's lived long enough around dangerous things--like other mages--to recognize one when he hears it. "When there's a convenient moment, then--I'd like that very much."

He'd like even more to be able to see them, but that's no longer in the realm of the possible. Being near a piece of living history will be enough.

...A piece of living history that someone went through some trouble to give ridiculous names to. He's got to smile, despite Inessa's obvious dissatisfaction with the situation. "I don't know, I think Potato's not any worse than Crookytail," he says, teasing. "But doesn't sound so appropriate to a griffon if she's not very small and brown and lumpy."

Which he hopes not. What a sad griffon that would be. "What rascal named them in the first place?"

"That would be Maja, who oversaw their needs since Weisshaupt. I suppose she took inspiration from Garahel...a true shame, since Crookytail's original name was Thunder. Far more appropriate for a heroic griffon, I think." She admires Warden Garahel, but that's the one thing they would disagree on, forevermore. "And Potato is rather streamlined and light grey, so the name is not very fitting as it is."

But it is what it is. Inessa's resigned herself to the odd names -more or less- preferring to focus on the fact they are the first of what will hopefully be many more griffons in time. "The griffons tend to be most settled after their evening meal, so perhaps then?"

"But if they choose the names they'll respond to, it sounds like Crookytail didn't even think he was a 'Thunder,'" Myr replies, with a grin to show he's teasing. "Though I'm glad to hear Potato doesn't live up to her name. She sounds lovely."

He'd at least seen enough pictures of storybook griffons he can cobble together in his head what a streamlined, grey one might look like. It's not a bad image. "Certainly! Tonight? What time do they get fed?" It may mean forgoing his own bed for longer than he'd like...but griffons.

It's worth it for griffons.

The teasing gets a small huff of amusement out of her, along with a small smirk that of course Myr won't see. "It usually happens around seven in the evening, so I would give...perhaps a quarter-hour after that? Unless you prefer to hear them enthusiastically tear apart their dinner, which I personally do not. Afterward, they're open to grooming and that's when I find them more agreeable. Buttons in particular tends to demand attention, since he will never have a rider." Poor Buttons and his one wing; they feed him like a royal, but it's not exactly compensation.

A swift mental calculation yields that yes, that's well past when he'd prefer to be asleep, but damn it, it's griffons. "I'll be there," he says, fervently.

The thought of Buttons' particular plight dims his smile. "...That's a shame about Buttons, though. Why couldn't he? Even with only one wing, he could surely run. Or--at least have someone who's there just for him, whether or not he can be ridden. If it's that important that the other griffons are bonded, why leave him out?"

It's personally galling to think of poor Buttons' life being defined entirely by not being able to fly. Small wonder, too; he'd heard enough of that kind of talk about himself.

Edited 2017-08-14 08:50 (UTC)

Why, indeed. Garahel huffs softly in agreement, prompting Inessa to bend down and stroke his head briefly. Her tone is thoughtful as she straightens up. "Are you volunteering? It would be interesting to see whether or not such a bond might happen with him. Maja's focused on him as much as she can, but...it's hardly the same."

A griffon who can't fly and an elf who can't see; stranger pairings have happened...in theory, anyway. Even if riding is out of the question, it would still warm her heart to see Buttons receive the kind of bond that several of his clutch-mates have gained.

"I--uh. Me?" It clearly had not occurred to Myr, for all his impassioned defense of Buttons' right to have a friend, that he could do such a thing; he gawps at Inessa for the few seconds it takes to let that offer sink in.

Let it never be said he won't stand for his beliefs, though, even if he's surprised into doing it. "If he'll have me, I'd be--I'd be glad to. He deserves it." A note of excitement creeps into his tone despite his own best efforts to throttle it; there's no saying any of this will work out, but-- He gets a chance to befriend a griffon. A griffon. That's absolutely worth attempting.

Edited 2017-08-14 16:39 (UTC)

"There's only one way to find out, isn't there? We'll see soon enough." He may not be able to see Inessa's smile, but there's warmth in her voice nonetheless. Garahel follows up with a happy bark, his tail wagging evident as he slaps it against the ground. A gesture from Inessa has him getting back to his feet, though. "I should wear out Garahel so he won't be restless while I'm away. The rookery is no place for a mabari, as you might have guessed."

The mabari lets out a contented huff, not a bit fan of those giant feathered beasts anyway. He does lean lightly on his new elf friend for a moment, as a way of saying it's been nice meeting him.

He starts as Garahel brushes up against him, but drops a hand to the mabari's back in an awkward acknowledging pat. If he's going to try making friends with a griffon--a bigger and pointier beast than a mabari--it is perhaps a little silly to be anxious about a dog. And besides, Garahel's been nothing but polite.

"I can imagine," Myr replies, having recovered both his smile and poise. "I'll finish up the rest of these," he gestures toward the nearest glyph, "that I'd planned for the day in the meantime."

"It's been good to meet the two of you in person. Don't tire her own too much, Garahel," he adds, to the mabari.

[OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

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