faderift | Like a moth to a candleflame [Closed to Myr]

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Like a moth to a candleflame [Closed to Myr]

WHO: Myrobalan Shivana & Newt Scamander
WHAT: Myr and a rifter magical human disaster vs. a bunch of angry moths.
WHEN: Late Cloudreach 9:44, post Mage Strike and Rifter Arrival
WHERE: An unfortunate storage room in The Gallows.
NOTES: Mentions and descriptions of angry moths. For the Research division assignment here.

Newt couldn't help but find himself delighted at his latest assignment for the Research division of the Inquisition. Moths! Angry moths, apparently, destroying perfectly good and innocent books. Any work that he can do involving creatures of any sort gets him excited, these days, cut off as he is from his work on magical creatures back home.

He has a partner for the assignment, which excites him because, if he needs a partner to investigate moths, surely they most hold some sort of danger? Perhaps they breathe fire, or have sprouted fangs in unusual places. (It would hardly be the most surprising aspect of any creature he's studied before; he's seen plenty of unusual things in his time.)

He takes his wand with him, even as he knows well how unreliable his magic is as of late. He'd rather have it with him than not, no matter how useful, or not, it turns out to be.

He reaches the door to the storage room in good time, he thinks. He wonders if his partner is already inside, and decides it can't hurt to look, just in case. He opens the door.

Moths. So many moths. A whole army of moths, it would seem, all of them fluttering like mad about the crates of helpless books.

"Merlin's beard," he exclaims quietly. A smile tugs at the corners of his face. This ought to be fun.

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So this one's another mage, Myr notes to himself with quiet delight, on sensing the spell. No small number of their rifters are--and it's always a pleasant surprise to meet another of them, with a different take on magic than Thedas' native children. Though now's definitely not the time for Myr's usual barrage of questions about all the hows, whys, and wherefores of spellcraft. Instead he leans against the wall outside the door in curious silence, attentive to the noise so many massed wings make as they flutter altogether. Certainly like nothing he's ever heard before--

"That many?" His voice is awed, a little hushed. "Makes sense why the Provost'd send two of us, in that case. Let me think--we're certainly not going to kill them, right?" While some moths are a beekeeper's bane, and others a librarian's, he's never had much animus for the fuzzy creatures so long as they're not stealing honey. It seemed a shame to go in there spells blazing to get rid of them.

"Might be we could lure them out, with the right spell. I've one for persuading stinging insects but I don't know about moths. Or there might've been something in the crates to get them in there in the first place, along with the books--if we could find it and carry out, they might go with it, mightn't they?"

"No, I don't see why we would have to," Newt agrees, heartened greatly by Myr's response. He knows, working for years with various potions and spells, that parts of creatures are certainly useful; Merlin knows that he's made use of many himself over the years. But the idea of hunting for and killing creatures outright, well. That idea sits much less well with him. "They only seem harmful to the crate of books, from what I understand. And they really are lovely. I've never seen any moths quite like them."

He smiles as he agrees, liking Myr's suggestions very much. Some of the moths are drawn to the light of his wand, allowing him a better look at them as he speaks. "Luring them out would be a good start, I think. I would be relying on your magic for that, I think, though. Mine isn't as reliable here as it would be at home; I wouldn't want to risk setting anything on fire."

Some of the moths seem drawn to Newt, as he starts to sweat slightly with the effort of maintaining his Lumos spell. Their wings tickle his face, and he giggles.

"Sorry, they really are very friendly - "

And then, as if spurned by some invisible force, a whole group of moths all at once dive bomb him, wings and feelers and all kinds of other limbs pressing to his face.

"Merlin's Beard!" Newt shouts, arms flailing as he falls on his ass beneath the pressure of all the moths.

Myr's oath as the moths go for his clothing is substantially less printable than Newt's.

He follows it with a sharp word that shapes the Fade into a barrier around both of them; it won't push off the moths that've already attached, but keeps the rest of the fluttering mob from joining the press. He makes a vain effort at removing the first of them with his hands--cringes back from how the delicate bodies compress under his fingers--then lifts those same stained fingers to draw through the air and the Fade, invoking another spell.

This one takes longer--long enough for the moths to make inroads on his cuffs, his collar, his hems--and without the use of his staff, the field of thickened time that bubbles into being around them isn't nearly so large or powerful as it could be. But it doesn't need to be; it only has to trap the assailing moths and slow them to a halt. That should make shaking them off much easier--though before he does that he offers a groping hand in Newt's direction to help him up off the floor.

"C'mon--this won't hold for long and we'll need some other way to contain 'em, quick enough." There's a note of strain beneath his usual cheer; he's not the best with the field and holding it takes effort, especially if he wants to do anything else. "Just shake them loose, if you can--"

Newt struggles for a few moments, the wings of the moths fluttering rapidly against his face. They seem drawn to his sweat, for some strange reason, and even as he wants to move them aside, part of him also wants to wait and observe (well, as much as he can observe with so many moths on his face) to see what the creatures do.

But the flood of moths suddenly stops, for which he is especially grateful. He tries to move the moths aside himself, but they do possess such delicate frames, he's reluctant to pry them off any harder than trying to remove a sheet of thin paper.

He takes Myr's offered hand gratefully as he pulls himself to his feet once he manages to shake off the moths on his face. It only occurs to him after he rids himself of them that they've been biting and sucking on his skin; the sensation of multiple stinging wounds hits him rather all at once.

"Thank you," he says, grateful as he glances at the barrier currently surrounding them. "This is impressive magic," he adds.

"Merlin, but they are...friendlier than I expected to find. What if we set them loose outside? Away from an enclosed space?"

One stray moth has managed to alight on Myr's blindfold without his noticing; it's begun chewing on the edge of it, rasping away with its little mothy mouthparts. He's too focused on his spellwork to take note of the weight or the noise, only releasing the field once he's sure Newt's safely out of trouble. The moths immediately flutter free, bouncing off Myr's barrier with increasing vigor as they struggle to get at the mage and wizard within; the elf frowns a little to hear it.

"Determined little buggers, aren't they?" he mumbles. Then, louder: "No trouble--and thanks, yourself. We ought to talk about it sometime--I'd be glad to know more of your own magic."

Newt's questions require a little more thought, and Myr reaches back for his staff as he thinks (and the moths tick ceaselessly off his barrier), mainly for the security of having it in hand. "We might rid ourselves of the problem entirely that way," he ventures, slowly. "So it's not such a bad idea, but I'd worry they may light after someone else. Maybe if one of us goes on ahead and clears the way? We could get them down into the little side garden beneath the mage tower--shit!"

The calm he'd had for the earlier moth attack dissolves entirely as the moth on his face puts one little mothy foot on his eyebrow, alerting him to its presence--and that sound of chewing finally makes sense. He jerks a hand up with a knight-enchanter's alacrity, swatting the moth off his face with force enough it reels drunkenly through the air before crashing to the stony floor at their feet. "--damn. I think I hurt it."

He feels a little bad about that, that much is clear from his tone, even as he's probing with worried fingers at the damaged edge of his blindfold. ...Damn, damn, and double-damn but that feels severe; hopefully Newt's not in a position to look him in the face and notice all the scarring.

Better to get them moving before that can happen. "D'you--d'you want to go on ahead that way or shall I?"

"I'd love to discuss it, too," he agrees readily enough. "I'm very curious about the magic of this world, myself."

"The side garden, yes!" He exclaims, nodding. It's a very good idea, he thinks. Less of a chance for moth mayhem, that way.

Newt notices the moth that seems to have attached itself to the fabric folded around Myr's face. He notices, too, the way it seems to be chewing through said fabric. Before he can intervene, Myr reacts, swatting the moth away. Newt quickly makes his way over to the creature, wincing a bit at the sight of it on the ground. There's really not much he can do for it, sadly.

"They do seem fond of us, no?" He observes. "I wonder if it is our magic that attracts them."

"I can go on ahead, if you like," he says turning back to Myr. He notices some scarring on his face, but he doesn't ask of it; he has scars enough of his own to know not to pry, and, besides, now isn't the time. "I can clear the way and you can follow?"

Newt's no-nonsense focus on the problem at hand is--unbelievably calming, and forces Myr right out his moment of heart-clenching anxiety; there's no time for that right now. Besides which, handing him a problem involving magic is a fantastic way to get his mind off his own troubles. He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and puts a smile firmly back on his face.

"That may be our best bet," if Newt's clearing the hallways, there'll be no one around to notice Myr with his blindfold half-off, "and now that you've said it, I'd not be surprised if it is our magic they're after." Thump, thump, thump go the moths against the barrier, still vainly trying to get in for a meal. It's getting a little tiresome. "In which case I might not need to be so particular about what I'm casting to bring them after us. We'll just have to keep other mages--and maybe rifters?--out of the line of, ah, migration."

So they don't get distracted and go haring off after a new target. On that note--and a hunch--Myr begins speaking softly, winding his free hand through the air as if collecting threads of silk. He's not so great an improvisor he can change the spells for calling bees on the fly, but he can bend his will and the Fade toward moths--

And gradually, the great scale-winged constellation moves away from bothering Newt to cluster against Myr's barrier alone. Looks like now's the time to make a break for the garden.

"I'll see if I can do that while I'm clearing the way," Newt offers. "Though, it may not work. My magic...doesn't always work the way it should here. But shouting at people to run usually works, I think." Well, depending on the situation, really. Sometimes people need to actually see the monster made of smoke chasing them before turning tail.

The moths beat out a desperate sort of rhythm against the barrier, and Newt can't help but feel poorly for them. Perhaps when this is over they might be able to study them? And see if they can at least bring them back proper to their natural environment.

Newt takes the moths flocking to Myr's barrier for a cue, nodding.

"Right," he says. "I'll lead the way. Lumos!" This spell, at least, he usually never has trouble with, and it flickers to life as he begins to run towards the garden. As he makes his way outside, he begins shouting and gesticulating for people to get out of his way. Surprisingly, it actually somewhat works.

And Newt's off. Myr gives the rifter mage a generous head-start--he'll need it, to get other people out of the way--before following after at as good a clip he can manage without running into something. The spellbound moths bob along behind him, not held so tightly one or two don't wander off to investigate the glyphs on the walls--before returning in a leisurely way to the rest of the pale-winged mob, skirling along in its wake.

Between the spell and the shouting, Newt's making himself very easy to follow, and Myr blesses him for it. Not that the garden's particularly far away--and not that Myr doesn't know the route--but holding two spells at once like this is distraction enough without having to remember his way down to the garden as well.

They reach the outdoors in short order and none too soon; the barrier's begun to flicker and the moths are wandering further and further afield from following Myr--though it's only once they reach the garden proper that he dares to release the second spell, and with it a weary sigh. Too much all at once, for certain. "Well," he starts, stops. Takes a deep breath and leans against his staff. "--Well. We've got 'em out. Now what?"

Out in the fresh air and sunshine, no longer attracted by the insistent tug of a spell, some of the moths begin to disperse and investigate their environment. The rest, unfortunately, are still knocking against the barrier like Myr and Newt are porch lights.

Newt probably could have a found a better way than making a scene, but at this point, people generally tend to react better to loud noises and flailing hand gestures, in his experience. He ignores the odd and skeptical looks he gets; he's received so many of those over the years, it's rather second-nature now to brush them off like annoying insects.

It probably doesn't help, though, that he has his wand held out, a glowing knife, for all that the people around them can really see.

He hears Myr follow behind him soon after, which he appreciates as the appearance of the moths certainly helps to hurry people along. Several people scream at the sight of them, and Newt tries not to sigh over them. Honestly. They're moths.

Newt takes a moment to catch his breath once they reach the garden. Myr releases the magic holding the moths, and he watches as they begin drifting away. Well, some of them.

"I don't suppose there's a way to create a lasting barrier to keep them contained in the garden?" Newt ponders, eyeing the moths beating against the barrier. They certainly do seem drawn to Myr and Newt in particular.

"Is it our magic, you think?" He asks as the question occurs to him. "That draws them to us?"

"Not easily," Myr says, sounding sorry as he does. "They're work to create and maintain, and I think the permanent sort require lyrium to fuel 'em. Or a very dedicated mage who's only doing that with his life."

Having caught his breath, he straightens from off his staff and reaches up to adjust his slipping blindfold again. At least it's not in danger of coming apart the way he thought it was for a bleak moment back in the hall, but-- Well. Worry about that when there's not a more interesting problem at hand.

"I'd not be surprised if it were. Might be worth asking the Provost if the others they've attacked were mages--that'd give us another point to draw from." And the thought of them being drawn to mages gives him a moment's pause as a thought ticks over. "D'you think, if we moved away from them enough and I brought down the barrier a little while, you could grab just one of them? I've got an idea I'd like to test out."

"That is a shame," Newt comments, shaking his head sadly as he watches the moths. Even as fond as he is of the moths themselves, he can't imagine any mage wanting to dedicate themselves to a life of maintaining a shield for the creatures.

"I'll make a note of that," he nods, reaching into his pocket for the spare piece of parchment he'd slipped into it. "Once I have a quill in hand," he adds sheepishly a moment later. Well, he did leave in rather a rush to escort the moths.

Newt considers the possibility. "I think so. Shouldn't be too difficult to catch a hold of just one," he says. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"Might be we could find another enclosed space to keep them in, though, that they wouldn't mind too much. As long as they've air and food, they'll be all right, won't they?" Animals--outside his bees--aren't Myr's forte, though he's got some ideas of the basics of keeping them.

He smiles then at Newt's abashed moment. "I've a pencil with me, if you want that once we've got our new friends a little more settled." And not trying to eat them, or their clothing, or whatever it is precisely these odd moths want so much they'd keep bouncing off the barriers with such zeal.

"But right--here we go." He takes a large step back, then another, making a beckoning gesture to Newt to come along with him. It's only when the sound of moth impacts on the barrier have dropped off noticeably that he stops in place and lets go his hold on it (with no small relief). Straightway they've got moths coming at them--but at enough distance Newt should be able to grab one of the nearer ones before the whole flock arrives to wreak sartorial destruction.

"It's worth a try," Newt nods confidently. He doesn't know these particular moths; they seem unlike any he's ever dealt with in his work and travels back home. But at least providing them with shelter and food seems as good a place to start as any. "And it would provide a place where we might observe them as well, to better understand them and their ways."

"Ah, I would appreciate it," he says gratefully. "I tend to leave in a rush quite a bit, and I'm always forgetting something."

Newt follows at the gesture, waiting for Myr to let go of the barrier. As soon as he does, the moths come flying at them, determined as ever. Newt reaches forward and grabs one as gently as he can but with a firm enough grip that he doesn't have to worry about the creature flying off.

"Got you, you little bugger," he says.

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Like a moth to a candleflame [Closed to Myr]

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i somehow deleted the notif for this out of my inbox like a total champion

No worries! Happens to the best of us. <3.

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