when they tell you you are made of stars, tell them you know.

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, Petrana de Cedoux, Benevenuta Thevenet & Galatea Lourdes + SPECIAL GUEST: YOU.
WHAT: A Wintermarch catch-all.
WHEN: Wintermarch.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Somewhere for me to put planned, closed threads! Hit me up on keanuleaves or libbitybibbit#8828 if you desire one.

Comments

[overharrowed]

"Hello," he says, with a smile that's not quite sheepish, but a little self-conscious. "I hope I'm not intruding. I had some ideas, after the fire, about some potential upgrades to your home's security when you're ready to return. I suppose I could have made an appointment by crystal, but I thought it might save some time to simply stop by."

He feels, inexplicably, a bit relieved to see her looking relatively well. If he lingered over the feeling, he'd probably suppose that taking on the responsibility for someone's safety is a bit easier than putting the responsibility down again. But he chooses not to linger over it, dismissing it as a not terribly relevant feeling to dwell upon.

[elegiaque]

The surprise is more pleasant than not, then, and Gwenaëlle opens the door wider to let him in; she's unattended for the evening, other than by Hardie sleeping curled around a small boot-wearing nug, also asleep. A brazier warms the room, and there's seating enough that no one has to sit awkwardly on a bed while they discuss whatever it is that he has in mind—magic, she presumes, and that in itself makes it intriguing enough to hear out at once.

Magic isn't, still, something with which she has great familiarity or comfort, beyond what she's grown accustomed to of Morrigan—and it's rare that mages besides Morrigan have much to say to her on the subject of magic, particularly.

Mostly, she doesn't ask. It isn't the same as not being interested.

“What did you have in mind? I assume it's fire-related. Or...?”

[overharrowed]

He comes in, pleased enough at her interest; he doesn't sit, however, before she does. Manners, after all. "Yes. Well, fire-related in that fire is the trigger -- heat, more specifically, but enough heat that it's unlikely to be caused by anything other than fire, unless you're having a problem serious enough that anti-fire measures are a secondary concern."

Because it's Kirkwall, and you can't totally rule that out.

"It'd be glyph-based, I think. Usually the glyphs most people are familiar with are set off by someone stepping into them or by an expenditure of magic, but I don't see any reason why a sufficiently high concentration of heat wouldn't suffice. Obviously, ideally you'd want to put the fire out; secondarily, if that's not possible, you'd want to contain it." Before he gathers too much momentum, he looks back at her. "I'm not sure how much detail you're interested in, but given that it's your home..." He's happy to go on, he just doesn't want to bore her.

[elegiaque]

“What did you intend for the glyphs to do when triggered?”

A question, to serve as answer in itself to his—she doesn't seem to think it needs stating explicitly that nothing is going to happen in her house she doesn't understand for herself. It wouldn't be true of everyone (for some, they would simply not allow the idea at all, she's sure), but it is true of her and she's a good deal more interested in hearing his answers than she is in assuring him of that.

She has quite a bit in common with her uncle, even if none of it is blood.

[overharrowed]

"My first thought, of course, was ice. But it's not necessarily the best answer. You'd probably stop the fire, but you'd end up with a terrific amount of steam, and property damage would be likely. Better than an out-of-control fire, but not ideal. Instead, I thought perhaps smothering it would be the way to go if..."

Abruptly, he freezes in place, not with actual ice but abruptly and unnaturally still. He doesn't appear unconscious; he doesn't fall. It only lasts a second, two at most, before he abruptly shakes his head as if to clear it.

"...I could... Sorry. I'm sorry. I think I need to sit down a moment."

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle pauses—

“I don't know why you weren't already sitting down, Enchanter,” she says, but the tone is unusually even for such a habitually sharp woman, regardless of her choice of words, and her expression a little too careful. Knowing, even; patient in a way that he's not before had cause to see.

It's recognition, the strange thing in her large eyes, and pretending that it isn't is the kindest thing she knows how to do.

[overharrowed]

Julius does move to sit, then, and for a man so characteristically unflappable, he looks shaken. If she knows what it is, well, from his manner he may not.

"...my apologies. I was saying -- I think a modified force cage to act like a sort of containment. The way you smother a small blaze with a blanket?" He sounds a bit uncertain, but reaching back for something concrete is his first instinct. They have a business relationship (mostly), so business is the paradigm he scrambles to find.

[elegiaque]

“Could you explain what a force cage is? What it does?”

It isn't that she isn't interested in the answer and how it might apply to how he intends to modify the spell he's talking about—she is, and any opportunity to get a mage to tell her about magic and the way it works is a valuable one not to be overlooked—but perhaps if he didn't seem so in need of a clear point of focus, she might be going about finding out a different, less delicate way.

But if she doesn't draw any attention to her newly-careful handling of him in this moment, maybe he won't, either, later. He can pretend nothing is happening, and that no one noticed whatever it is that isn't happening.

(She considers and then discards the idea of mentioning this in her next letter to her uncle. It isn't, she decides, any of his business.)

[overharrowed]

"It's called 'crushing prison' in combat, which sounds, I confess, very dramatic." He runs a hand through his hair, absently. "The basic idea is you create a cage of telekinetic force and crush it progressively tighter around a target. But a smaller version, more tightly woven, might be capable of cutting off air to a blaze if I could get the mechanics correct. I think. There might be a better way to go about it, but that was my most promising idea."

Whether he honestly doesn't notice that she's being careful of him or whether he's just grateful she's letting him pretend to be fine is not totally clear.