faderift | when you've gone about things all wrong,

WHO: Myr + YOU! (With starters for Herian, Vandelin, and Newt.)
WHAT: Bees, glyphs, knight-enchanting, just plain Chant(ing), and other things relevant to Myr's interests
WHEN: Early to mid-Solace
WHERE: All around the Gallows & Kirkwall
NOTES: Will be added as needed!

i. when the day begins to break // the Gallows courtyard

With the height of Kirkwall's summer cresting hot and muggy, Myr's made even more effort to confine his conditioning to the early morning hours. He's up and out before dawn to run laps of the prayer garden (much smaller than the courtyard, but fewer people there and the obstacles don't change day to day); after that, staff-sparring or grappling with whoever might be about, or barring a live opponent, a session with one of the dummies.

Then, magic: Today, he bends all his focus to a knight-enchanter's disruption field, throwing a rippling bubble of slowed time over a secluded corner of the courtyard. A footstep overheard, a voice--at the sound of someone approaching he'll toss a sunny smile their way, and a request: "If you've got a moment, d'you mind stepping inside there? Promise it's harmless; you'll just slow down a bit."

ii. in the things & the way they could have been // the library

Thursday evening, Chant discussion group. In light of recent concerns over the rifters, Myr'd opened the floor to talk of spirits--something he'd never have done on his own, uncomfortable as he is on the subject, if it hadn't felt like an inspired necessity. Tonight's discussion lingered long over Senior Enchanter Baden's treatise, with particular attention to how mankind's darkest desires intertwined with with the spirits' needs to lead them both into destruction. Not an easy topic to cover, not by a long shot, but--there was no true acrimony behind any of the arguing and no one had stomped off in a huff this time, so it went well enough.

Thus it's with a quiet sense of relief that he lingers as the rest of the group files out; he's usually the last to go, since it's his pledge to the archivists that gets them the study room every week and they expect the door locked when it's not in use. But today especially he needs a little bit of extra time to process what's been said and tuck it away--

Though he'll not be averse to anyone who wants to talk a little more privately on anything that came up in discussion.

iii. don't forget son when he's out on his own // Kirkwall alienage

Like many city elves born to the alienages, Myr's no precise idea when his nameday falls in the year. "Mid-Solace" is the closest he remembered from the little celebrations his father and Ben threw for him; he'd chosen the fifteenth himself much later out of a love of symmetry. (That it happened to coincide with the nameday of the comely Imayn--whose eye he'd been striving to catch at the time--was a nice bonus.) It had since stuck there, celebrated informally in Hasmal's Circle right up to the year of the rebellion.

After that--

After that he hadn't felt much like celebrating another year's survival, nor had anyone else. It still feels a little wrong to do so, even though the Inquisition's been a boon in other ways--but it is his thirtieth and that requires something to mark it.

He brings honeycomb and wildflowers to offer at the vhenadahl, that little bit of paganry even his father embraced. (The Maker, Iolan had said, had made the People as they were and given them to the lives they now led; He would not begrudge them their traditions, so long as it drew their hearts back to Him in the end.) He kneels at the foot of the great tree to make his gift of them; remains there, after, in quiet prayer to the Maker and His Bride, asking guidance for the coming year.

And then, as quietly: "I hope you can hear me, Dad. I know the Chantry says otherwise--but you'd always believed the Maker kinder than that, and I want to, too."

iv. wildcard

(Surprise me! Or hit me up on Plurk or Discord if you'd like a specific starter.)

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"They're lovely!" Newt says he approaches, studying the creatures with obvious admiration in his voice. They seem so bright and lively, bursts of color in summer. He feels warmer all the more for watching them; that they happen to share Hufflepuff colors comforts him in a way he won't be able to explain to anyone else besides Tina.

He brightens further when Myr offers to let him assist with the inspection.

"If you don't mind?" He asks. "I would be honored."

He moves cautiously closer to the bees, unable to contain the glee he feels out of his expression and tone.

"I don't mind in the least; you'll make it that much easier," Myr replies with a grin. "And even if not--how could I turn anyone down who appreciates them so much? Here--"

He reaches out in Newt's direction, feeling for whatever's nearest of the other man--an arm will do--so he can lay a fragment of glyph upon it. This is not someone to worry about, in a magical thumbprint the bees can recognize. So much less of a hassle than smoke. "That should make you safer around 'em, though it's not foolproof. You'll want to be careful as you can and not too loud; sudden movements or noise can upset the bees, and they're not shy about telling you you've gone wrong."

The warning's punctuated with a grin, but it's serious all the same. "And before we start, you'll want to tie up your cuffs," he holds up an arm by way of demonstration; there's a ribbon wrapped over the sleeve and glove, sealing them against wandering bees, "both shirt and pants, so you don't end up with any curious trespassers in your clothes. There's twine and extra ribbons in the bucket."

Said bucket sits a little away from the hives, market with a quietly chiming glyph and full of all a beekeeper's various and sundry tools--and ribbons, and twine.

"Once you've done all that--you can come take the top off this box."

Newt watches as Myr places some sort of magical charm (a gylph, he thinks it's called here) upon him, very much fascinated by the gesture. Also appreciative.

"Understood," he nods. "I'll be careful." He's not really a careful sort of person except when it comes to creatures and nature. Then, he does take care. Except that, with his history, it can still go all terribly wrong.

Still, he's optimistic. How much trouble can he get into with bees, really?

"Alright," he says, moving to grab some ribbon and twine. He takes a moment to make sure both his shirt and trousers are tied in the way Myr demonstrates. If any of the knots loosen, he doesn't notice.

Once that's accomplished, he makes his way over to the box, moving to lift the top of it. He moves it carefully, not wanting to startle the bees.

There's an awful lot of trouble one can get into with bees, and Myr has--and has caused--more than a few horror stories. (Comes with being a creation mage and knowing exactly how to summon stinging insects to his aid.) Hopefully today will involve none of those--certainly, all seems perfectly well as Newt lifts the top off the box. Bees cling to the bottom of it and others climb out onto the rim of the hive, but there's a certain contented languor about their motions to show they're not at all concerned by this disruption of their world. Even the ones that climb on to his hands and sleeves do so with nothing more than curiosity; what IS this giant creature that's suddenly appeared?

The humming that fills the air grows a little louder and Myr smiles to hear it.

"Right. Put that aside somewhere safe and let's start pulling the frames. You'll want to be careful they haven't built between them; if you see any little bridges they've made, leave 'em in place and tell me where they are.

"First thing, though, before you do--take a deep breath and tell me what you smell." It's an odd request but there's a definite reason behind it; Myr suits action to words for himself and steps closer to the hive to get in a good sniff of it. (Honey and sun-warmed wax; a hint of fermentation and a scent like bread baking; and of course all the scents of a meadow on a summer's morning. Exactly what he'd expect and is glad to experience.)

The day fills with the humming of the bees, a gentle, calming sound that makes Newt smile to hear it. He can't think of a better way to spend a day; tending to and helping with creatures of any sort brings him the most joy, especially in such a tumultuous world and time.

He watches as the bees bustle about, delighted by them all. It's such a kindness, for Myr to let him help with these bees, and he's very grateful for it.

"They're lovely," he says, watching them closely for a few moments more before placing the top of the box somewhere safe.

He arches his eyebrows at the request but, admittedly, it's not the strangest request he's ever gotten.

"Alright," he says, leaning forward to do so. He inhales deeply before exhaling; the scent he finds nearly overwhelms him. If sunshine has a scent, he thinks this might be it. The warmth of it sends him into a sort of lull; his grin widens and grows lopsided all at once.

"It smells like...yellow," he says. "If that makes sense? It's wonderful. I feel like we should be surrounded by flowers."

He moves to start pulling the frames a moment later. At first, all is well; he is careful and slow in his movements. Then something or other slips; he manages to anger the hive, somehow.

And the next thing Newt knows, he has a bunch of angry bees flying about his face.

when you've gone about things all wrong,

no subject

@ii i'm sorry for being slow on this one!

I've been slow myself, so no worries!

truly, my spirit animal is the snail

No worries! The cutest snail though. <333